The Offering (31 page)

How fitting that they should hear good news today. And how wonderful that their baby boy might soon nap on Mama Isa's sofa with mine.

At work the next day, I answered the phone and heard a familiar male voice. “Amanda Lisandra, please.”

My hand tightened on the receiver. “Dr. Forrester?”

“You're right—though the laws of probability are against it, after consulting with Dr. Hawthorn I would have to say it's possible you miscarried and became pregnant with your husband's child. I'm not saying the child
is
your biological son, only that the hypothetical situation you presented is quite credible.”

I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Now it's a matter of obtaining medical proof, right? And aren't all babies blood-typed at birth? So if we can find Damien Amblour's blood type, and the egg donor's—”

“It's not that simple,” Dr. Forrester interrupted. “Let's say one parent is blood type A and the other is B. Even with only those two types, their biological child could be type O, A, B, or AB. Blood typing alone isn't going to prove paternity. DNA is the only way to be sure.”

I patted my chest to calm my thumping heart. “Okay—so how do I get DNA results?”

“For a DNA test, you need genetic samples from the child and a parent. The test will either confirm or deny the probability they are related.”

“Any idea how I can get—”

“I'm afraid you're on your own from this point. If you want to continue pursuing this matter, your next call should be to a lawyer. I'm afraid I can't do anything else for you.”

You can't—or you won't?
I didn't speak the words aloud because I suspected he might be worried about me suing him for malpractice.

“I understand.” Even as I answered, I wondered if this was the reason I'd been reluctant to spend Gideon's life insurance proceeds or the military death benefit. Maybe my subconscious knew this day would come. . . . Maybe God knew I'd need the money to put my family back together.

“Thank you, Dr. Forrester.” I smiled, hoping he could hear how truly grateful I was. “Don't worry, I know none of this was your fault. I only want to make sure the situation turns out the way it should.”

“Best of luck to you, then.”

“Thank you.” I almost added that I didn't believe in luck, but Dr. Forrester didn't want to hear my views on luck versus God's sovereignty. But I knew the truth—if God had given me a son, God would want me to raise that son.

And who was I to question the will of God?

T
wo days before Christmas, I managed to snag an appointment with a family attorney who had several offices in the area. According to the ad in the Yellow Pages, attorney Joseph Pippen would do all he could to protect my rights in various family matters, including adoption cases, marriage and property disputes, and paternity testing.

I had a feeling my case could involve everything on his list.

My stomach was a quivering mess as I dressed for my appointment. I had never consulted a lawyer before, never thought about suing anyone for anything. Everything I knew about legal matters had come from watching television crime dramas, and I knew how unrealistic those shows could be. But the Amblours were wealthy, and wealth and power usually went hand in hand. They might be able to influence their local officials, they might even have friends who were judges. They probably kept a family lawyer on retainer and golfed with him on weekends.

So even before I stepped foot into my lawyer's office, I felt intimidated and overwhelmed.

A cheery receptionist in a red Christmas sweater ushered me into Mr. Pippen's office and offered me a cup of coffee. Feeling jittery enough without chemical additives, I shook my head and
took a seat, grateful for an opportunity to look around and size up the man who might be instrumental in assuring my family's future.

The reception area had been decked with Christmas garlands and red bows, but Mr. Pippen's office remained free of holiday decorations. His wooden desk and bookshelves gleamed in the light from a pair of brass lamps, some kind of award featuring a golden microphone sat on the corner of his desk, and a picture of a baseball player hung in a niche inside his bookcase. A baseball glove rested on the top of a short bookcase, adding to the baseball theme, and a framed poster of the 1995 Cleveland Indians hung by the window.

I smiled, figuring the man had to be some kind of a radio host and rabid baseball fan from Ohio. A transplant, maybe even a snowbird who'd flown to Florida one winter and decided to stay.

Joseph Pippen entered with long strides and immediately shook my hand. “Mrs. Lisandra, so nice to meet you,” he said, smiling beneath a thicket of tousled brown hair. “How can I help you?”

He sat in the opposite guest chair while I attempted to explain my case without using anything but factual terms. “I don't
know
that Julien Amblour is my son,” I said, struggling to repress the tremor threatening to creep into my voice, “but the resemblance in the photos certainly suggests he could be. I also have a statement from my doctor saying it's medically possible the boy is mine. What I need, Mr. Pippen, is a DNA test, but I have no idea how to go about getting one.”

The lawyer gave me a bright-eyed glance, filled with shrewdness. “You say Julien is supposed to be Damien Amblour's biological son. So if a test proves otherwise, he's your son by default.”

“And my late husband's,” I added, restating the obvious. “And therefore not related to the Amblours at all.”

Mr. Pippen studied my face for a long moment, then he nodded and tapped a pencil against the legal pad in his lap. “Getting DNA from a French citizen might be tricky. Anytime you venture into international courts, you're playing an entirely different ball
game, with quite a few different rules. The fact that surrogacy is illegal in France only complicates the matter further.”

I closed my eyes, sensing the stealthy approach of discouragement. What did I know about international law? “So this is going to be impossible?”

“Not at all. As my Little League coach used to say, ‘If you want something badly enough, there's always a way to win.' ”

I lifted my head, wondering how far the lawyer would go to help me get my son. If he exhausted every available legal avenue, did he know international lawyers who could be hired to persuade judges with a sizable financial gift? Or maybe he had connections who knew shadowy agents who might be willing to snatch the boy. . . .

I looked away, afraid that Mr. Pippen would see my wild imaginings in my eyes. Ordinarily I'd obey every law and submit to every authority, but this case wasn't about property or intellectual rights, it was about
my son.
And surely a mother's right to raise her own child was God given and inalienable. Because I had done nothing wrong, no nation, agency, or man ought to be allowed to take that right from me.

And time was of the essence. I couldn't ignore the fact that Julien was undoubtedly becoming more attached to the Amblours with every passing day. The longer we waited for an affirmative response from France, the harder it would be for Julien to adjust to his true family.

I turned and met the attorney's gaze head-on. “Do you really think we can win this fight through the courts?”

“I do. But we might have to play hardball, and the process of convincing the other party to agree to genetic testing could take months. On the other hand, if you're right about how much that couple wanted a biological heir, they may not fight your request for custody if a DNA test establishes that the boy isn't genetically related. But I wouldn't bet on that outcome—the child has been with them two full years, and that's plenty of time to establish a
tight bond between parents and child. Mr. Amblour may not feel as strongly about the importance of rearing his biological offspring after living so long with this boy.”

My heart rode a roller coaster, rising in hope and plunging in despair with every point the lawyer made. By the time he finished his summation, I felt as though I'd been hanging on for dear life.

But at least I was still on the ride.

Mr. Pippen pressed his finger to his lips, then nodded as if he'd made a decision. “International law can be complicated, but the passive personality principle states that a court may assert jurisdiction over persons outside a nation's territory on the basis that one of its citizens has been harmed.”

I stared at the man, my head spinning. “Would you care to explain that in layman's terms?”

The lawyer smiled. “No matter who his parents are, this child is an American citizen by virtue of being born in Florida—and our nation doesn't take kindly to people of other nations who deprive our citizens of their rights. If the boy is your son, we would try to convince a judge that the child is suffering harm by being kept from his biological mother, a woman willing and eager to raise him. If that approach fails and he is your child, then what transpired at the Surrogacy Center is tantamount to baby selling. You were hired to carry
their
son; if he's yours, you mistakenly handed over
your
son for compensation.”

I blinked through a fog of confusion. “But Natasha Bray didn't intend to hand over my child. And she took great pains to be sure I was compensated every month for my time and effort, not for delivering the baby. She insisted that no money change hands when the baby was born.

“Doesn't matter. Inadvertent baby selling is still baby selling. Putting a woman's own baby on a payment plan—it's highly unethical.”

He stared into the distance a moment more, then sighed in what looked like contentment. “I think we could put together a
convincing case and persuade the court to order genetic testing. If the child turns out to be biologically related to his French father, the matter is settled. But if he is
not
related to Mr. Amblour, I am sure we could apply enough pressure to convince the court to order the boy's return to Florida.”

Thrilled by his last words, I fisted my hands, but Mr. Pippen shot me a warning look. “This won't be a quick fix. International disputes can take months and involve a lot of lawyers. It won't be easy and it won't be inexpensive. Are you quite sure you want to pursue this?”

I stared at him, amazed that he could even ask the question. “I'm willing to do whatever it takes.”

He nodded slowly, then stood and extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lisandra, and a Merry Christmas to you and yours. I look forward to working on your case.”

Mr. Pippen's warning rang in my ears as I drove back to Mama Isa's:
International disputes can take months and involve a lot of lawyers.

Months? I had already been separated from the child who could be my son for two years. I'd missed his infancy, his immunizations, his first steps, and his first words. If he belonged to me, he should be learning to speak English and Spanish, not French. If he was mine, he should grow up learning how to play baseball and hearing how wonderful his father was, not playing in some circular stone tower.

If he was my son, he had no business living in a vineyard. He should be playing with his sister and building sand castles on Clearwater Beach. He should be watching his new baby cousin sleep in his daddy's oak cradle.

I parked in my usual spot at Mama Isa's, then walked toward the house. The tinny sounds of her old piano seeped through the windows as Marilee practiced her lessons. Not wanting to interrupt, I slipped into the living room and pressed a kiss to the top
of my daughter's head, then went to my bedroom and closed the door.

I needed time to think. To breathe. To adjust to the idea that I might have to wait a long time before my questions would be answered.

I kicked off my shoes and fell back on the bed, then stared at the ceiling, my mind vibrating with a thousand thoughts. If the Amblours lived in the United States, this process wouldn't be so complicated. If I only had some sort of genetic sample from Damien Amblour, maybe I could somehow expedite the process. . . .

A solitary fact, unanchored and overlooked, slipped into my awareness. I
did
have a genetic specimen, but from Julien, not Damien. I had two birthday cards and two different samples of the boy's hair. And I'd watched enough episodes of
CSI
to realize that DNA could be taken from a single strand.

I opened the nightstand drawer and searched for the vellum envelopes. They lay beneath my Bible, safely put away, and as I opened each of them another tidbit from
CSI
surfaced in my consciousness. A hair that had been snipped from someone's head wouldn't work because DNA wasn't found in the hair itself, but in the follicle. I needed a hair that had been once rooted to the head, which meant my options would be limited to the first card, for which Simone had gathered a few strands of fine hair from a sheet or towel, not a barber's drape.

I picked up several hairs and examined them, then turned on the lamp and held them up to the light. After a moment of searching, I felt a smile spread over my lips. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, a tiny lump remained on the end of at least two hairs, and those lumps were genetic gold mines.

I opened another drawer, found a piece of tissue paper, carefully wrapped the hair in the paper, then folded the package small enough to fit in an envelope. I sealed the envelope, then wrote the date and
JULIEN LOUIS
on the outside. Satisfied that the sample was safe, I tucked it back inside my drawer.

Now that I had DNA from Julien, I wouldn't need anything from Damien. All I needed was my DNA, and I'd be willing to pluck myself bald if I couldn't find a lab that would swab my cheek.

I was about to reach for the Yellow Pages when I remembered that I wouldn't have to find a lab. Shortly after Desert Storm, the military began keeping blood samples from every member of the U.S. Armed Forces, ostensibly to help with the identification of remains. In Gaithersburg, Maryland, a freezing chamber contained vacuum-sealed envelopes with two drops of blood from thousands of people, including my husband—and the facility would maintain that genetic sample for fifty years.