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  “There’s certainly nothing welcoming about it,” Joanna added. “How do you suppose we get in? Do you see a buzzer, or do you think we have to call on a cell phone?”

  “There must be a video monitor or something,” Deborah suggested. “I’ll pull up to the gate.”

  Deborah eased the car forward and nosed it into the tunnel. The moment she stopped again, a heavy, paneled, windowless door opened and out stepped a uniformed man clutching a clipboard. He approached the driver’s side window, which Deborah lowered.

  “Can I help you?” the guard asked in a pleasant but no-nonsense tone. He had on a shiny, black-visored hat similar to a policeman’s.

  “We’re here to see Dr. Donaldson,” Deborah said.

  “Your names, please?” the man asked.

  “Deborah Cochrane and Joanna Meissner,” Deborah said.

  The man consulted his clipboard, checked off the two names, then pointed with his pen through the gate. “Follow the driveway to the right. You’ll see the parking area. Someone will meet you there.”

  “Thank you,” Deborah said.

  The man didn’t answer but instead touched the brim of his hat. With a screeching sound, the heavy chain-link gate began slowly to swing open.

  “Did you see the gun the guard is packing?” Deborah asked in a whisper when she had the window back up. The guard was still standing off to the left.

  “It would be hard to miss it,” Joanna said.

  “I’ve seen armed police in inner-city hospitals,” Deborah said. “But never at a rural medical clinic. Why on earth would they need so much security out here, especially at an infertility clinic?”

  “It makes you wonder if they’re more interested in keeping people out or keeping people in.”

  “Don’t even joke like that,” Deborah said. She started forward through the open gate. “Do you think they might be doing abortions, too? I’ve seen guards at abortion clinics in this state.”

  “I couldn’t think of anything more inappropriate at an infertility clinic.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Deborah agreed.

  Emerging from the tunnel and rounding a copse of evergreens the women got their first unobstructed view of the Cabot. It was an immense red brick structure, four stories tall with a steeply peaked slate roof behind a crenelated cornice, small barred windows, and a soaring central tower. The tower had larger, multi-paned windows without bars.

  Deborah slowed. “What a shock to see such a huge building sitting out here in the woods by itself. Curious design, too. Seeing the tower up close, I’d wager it’s a deliberate copy of the Uffizi’s. It’s so similar, it can’t have been by accident. If my memory serves me, it’s even got the same style clock, although the one in the Uffizi works.”

  “I’ve seen other Victorian buildings like this around Massachusetts,” Joanna said. “There’s one out in Worcester that’s stone, not brick, and almost as big. The difference is that it’s deserted. At least this one is being used.”

  “The Wingate Clinic must be awfully busy to use this much square footage.”

  Joanna nodded.

  Following the driveway around the right side of the building, Deborah drove into a parking lot with a surprisingly large number of cars in it. Both women were quick to notice that a number of the vehicles were not the usual Honda Civics or Chevy Caprices. One car stood out particularly among the Mercedes, Porches, and Lexuses. It was a burgundy Bentley convertible.

  “Good grief,” Joanna commented. “Do you see that Bentley?”

  “Like with the guard’s gun, it would be hard to miss.” Its metallic paint was gleaming in the early morning sunlight.

  “Do you have any idea how much that car costs?” Joanna asked.

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Over three hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Gadzooks! That’s obscene, especially at a medical establishment.”

  Deborah parked in a plainly marked visitor’s spot. As the women climbed from the car, a porticoed door facing the parking lot opened. A tall, chestnut-haired, white-coated female figure appeared. She waved.

  “Now this greeting is the opposite extreme from what we experienced at the guardhouse,” Deborah said. She waved back as she and Joanna started toward the door some fifty yards away.

  “It looks like Dr. Donaldson.”

  “I think you’re right,” Deborah said.

  “I hope we don’t regret this,” Joanna said suddenly. She was walking with her head down to watch where her feet were going. “I have an uncomfortable feeling we’re making a big mistake.”

  Deborah grasped her friend around her upper arm and pulled her to a halt. “What are you saying? You don’t want to go through with this? If that’s the case, we should just turn around and drive back to Boston. I don’t want you to think I’m putting any pressure on you, because I’m not.”

  Joanna squinted in the early morning sunlight at the slender doctor standing at the clinic’s door. They were close enough now to be sure it was Dr. Donaldson, and they could tell the doctor was glad to see them. A broad, welcoming smile was fixed on her thin face.

  “Talk to me, girl?” Deborah demanded, giving Joanna’s arm an additional squeeze.

  Joanna brought her attention around to Deborah. “Can you look me in the eye and say you’re confident everything will be all right?”

  “Absolutely,” Deborah said. “Like I’ve said ten times: For us it’s a win-win situation.”

  “I’m talking about these procedures,” Joanna said.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. These retrievals are small potatoes. Women undergoing infertility treatment go through it multiple times on top of enduring tons of hormones. For us it’s no big deal.”

  Joanna hesitated. Her green eyes moved back and forth between Deborah and Dr. Donaldson as she mulled her embarrassing medical squeamishness. She didn’t even like getting a flu shot. After a sigh she cleared her throat and managed a smile. “All right, let’s do it.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, you don’t feel like you’re being forced, do you?”

  Joanna shook her head. “I’m all right. Let’s get it over with.”

  The women started walking again.

  “For a minute you had me scared,” Deborah said.

  “I scare myself sometimes,” Joanna commented.

  OCTOBER 15, 1999

  7:45 A.M.

  I TRUST YOUR RIDE OUT FROM

  Boston was without incident,” Dr. Donaldson said as she closed the clinic door behind the women.

  “It was fine,” Deborah said as she eyed a large, unoccupied waiting room. The furniture appeared to be expensive modern Scandinavian, which stood in sharp contrast to the period Victorian architectural details. A large U-shaped receptionist’s desk stood empty in the center of the room. Leather upholstered chairs and couches lined the walls. A generous display of current magazines were sprinkled around on coffee and side tables.

  “I realized this morning that I’d failed to give you directions,” Dr. Donaldson said. “I apologize.”

  “No need to apologize,” Deborah said. “I should have asked. But we had no trouble. We stopped at the local pharmacy and asked.”

  “Very smart,” Dr. Donaldson said. She clasped her hands. “Now, first things first. I trust that neither of you have had anything to eat since midnight.”

  Deborah and Joanna nodded.

  “Excellent!” Dr. Donaldson said. “Let me give Dr. Smith, our anesthesiologist, a call. He’d like to speak with you. Meanwhile, if you’d like to take off your coats and make yourselves comfortable, we’ll get things started.”

  While Dr. Donaldson used the receptionist’s phone, Deborah and Joanna removed their coats and hung them in a cloakroom.

  “Are you all right?” Deborah whispered to Joanna. In the background they could hear Dr. Donaldson on the phone.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Joanna answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re so quiet. You’re not chan
ging your mind again, are you?”

  “No! I’m just unnerved by this place,” Joanna said. “Lots of little surprises like armed guards. Even that furniture out there in the waiting room bothers me.”

  “I know what you mean,” Deborah agreed. “It looks like it cost a fortune but looks terrible in the environment.”

  “It’s weird. Things like that usually don’t bother me. I’m sorry I’m such a basket case.”

  “Just try to relax and think about having coffee in Piazza San Marco.”

  Returning to the main room, they allowed Dr. Donaldson to guide them over to a couch. Once seated, she informed them that Dr. Carl Smith was on his way down. She then asked if they had any questions.

  “How long do you suppose this will take?” Joanna asked.

  “A retrieval only takes forty minutes or so,” Dr. Donaldson said. “Then we’ll have you relax for a few hours to make sure the anesthesia has completely worn off. You’ll be on your way before you know it.”

  “Will we be having the procedure at the same time?” Joanna asked.

  “No,” Dr. Donaldson said. “Miss Meissner, you’ll be first since you’ll be having the light general anesthesia. Of course, if Miss Cochrane would like to switch to general anesthesia, then you two could decide whom you would prefer to be first.”

  “I’m happy with the local anesthesia,” Deborah said.

  “Whatever you prefer,” Dr. Donaldson said. She looked from one woman to the other. “Any other questions for the moment?”

  “Does the clinic occupy this whole building?” Deborah asked.

  “Heavens no. This building is huge. It used to house a large mental institution as well as a TB sanitarium.”

  “So we heard,” Deborah said.

  “The infertility clinic takes up two floors in this wing only,” Dr. Donaldson explained. “We also have a few of the offices in the tower. The rest of the facility is empty except for the old beds and a lot of the old equipment. It’s almost like a museum.”

  “How many people work here?” Joanna asked.

  “We have about forty employees presently, but the number has been steadily increasing. For the exact count, I’d have to check with Helen Masterson, the acting head of personnel.”

  “Forty employees is a lot,” Joanna said. “It must be a godsend to a small rural community like this.”

  “One would think so,” Dr. Donaldson said, “but in actuality we have a chronic problem recruiting help. We’re forever advertising in the Boston papers, mostly for lab technicians and experienced admin people. Are you ladies interested in jobs?” Dr. Donaldson smiled teasingly.

  “I don’t think so,” Deborah replied with a laugh.

  “The only department that isn’t shorthanded is the farm,” Dr. Donaldson added. “We’ve had no problem in that arena since day one.”

  “The farm?” Joanna asked. “What do you mean the farm?”

  “The Wingate Clinic has a large animal farm,” Dr. Donaldson explained. “It’s an integral part of our research efforts. We’re interested in basic reproductive research in species besides homo sapiens.”

  “Really?” said Joanna. “What other species are you looking at?”

  “Any species that are economically significant,” Dr. Donaldson said. “Cattle, pigs, poultry, horses. And, of course, we’re also very much involved with the reproduction of domestic pets such as cats and dogs.”

  “Where is this farm?” Joanna asked.

  “On the property directly behind this main building, which we affectionately call the ‘monstrosity,’ and past a dense stand of white pine. The setting is rather idyllic. There’s a pond, a dam, and even an old mill in addition to the barns, cornfields, hayfields, and paddocks. The Cabot Institution sat on over two hundred acres, with housing for its professional staff and its own farm to make it largely self-sufficient foodwise. Having the farm on the premises was one of the major reasons we leased the property. It makes our research a lot more efficient to have the farm adjacent to the laboratory, not to mention the housing.”

  “You have a laboratory here?” Deborah asked.

  “Absolutely,” Dr. Donaldson said. “A major lab. I’m particularly proud of it, probably because I’m mainly responsible for setting it up.”

  “Could we have a tour?” Deborah asked.

  “I imagine that could be worked out,” Dr. Donaldson said. “Ah, here comes Dr. Smith.”

  The women turned to see a large, heavyset man dressed in surgical scrubs enter the room carrying a clipboard. Just then, the front door opened and a throng of employees swarmed in, abuzz with conversation. One woman headed for the receptionist’s desk while the rest crowded into the hall that Smith had just exited.

  Joanna felt herself stiffen. Seeing the anesthesiologist’s operating room garb made the reality of the upcoming procedure more difficult to suppress.

  After introducing himself and shaking hands with both women, Dr. Smith sat down, crossed his legs, and positioned the clipboard on his lap. “Now then,” he said as he took one of the many pens from his breast pocket. “Miss Cochrane, I understand your preference is local anesthesia.”

  “Correct,” Deborah said.

  “May I ask why?” Dr. Smith questioned.

  “I just feel more comfortable with it,” Deborah answered.

  “I assume you’ve been informed that we prefer light general anesthesia for egg retrievals.”

  “Dr. Donaldson said as much,” Deborah said. “She also said the decision was mine.”

  “That’s very true,” Dr. Smith said. “At the same time, I’d like to tell you why we prefer to have you asleep. Under light general anesthesia, we do the retrieval under direct laparoscopic observation. With local, paracervical anesthesia the retrieval is done with an ultrasound-guided needle. Comparatively speaking it’s like working in the dark.” Dr. Smith paused and smiled. “Any questions about what I’ve said so far?”

  “No,” Deborah said simply.

  “There’s one more issue,” Dr. Smith said. “Under local anesthesia we don’t have the control of pain coming from intra-abdominal manipulation. In other words, if we have any trouble getting to either ovary and have to do some maneuvers to make it possible, you might experience some discomfort.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Deborah said.

  “Even considering the pain issue?”

  “I think I can handle it,” Deborah said. “I prefer to be awake.”

  Dr. Smith glanced briefly at Dr. Donaldson, who shrugged. He then went through a brief medical history with both women. When he was finished he stood. “That’s all I need for now. I’ll have you two get changed, and I’ll see you upstairs.”

  “Will I be getting a sedative?” Joanna asked.

  “Absolutely,” Dr. Smith said. “It will be administered as soon as you get your IV. Any other questions for the moment?”

  When neither woman responded, Dr. Smith smiled and left. Dr. Donaldson then escorted the women down the main hall and into a separate, smaller waiting room. On one side were several changing cubicles with louvered doors and on the other a bank of lockers. A rack of hospital johnnies, paper slippers, and bathrobes was next to the lockers. A pleasant-faced, petite nurse was restocking the patient apparel. Several gurneys were parked by the double swinging entry doors. In the middle of the room were a grouping of chairs, a couch, and a coffee table littered with magazines.

  Dr. Donaldson introduced the women to the nurse, whose name was Cynthia Carson. She in turn supplied the women with sets of the in-patient hospital garb, gave each of them a key to a locker along with advice to pin the keys to their johnnies, and opened the doors of two adjacent changing cubicles. At that point Dr. Donaldson took her leave. A few moments later Cynthia also left, to get the IV supplies. She said she’d be right back.

  “That was a rather hard sell for general anesthesia,” Joanna called out from her stall.

  “You can say that again,” Deborah agreed.

  The wome
n stepped out from their respective changing rooms, each holding her thin bathrobe closed with one hand and clutching her street clothes with the other. They burst out laughing when they saw each other.

  “I hope I don’t look as pathetic as you,” Joanna managed.

  “I hate to break it to you,” Deborah responded, “but you do.”

  They went to the lockers to secure their belongings.

  “Why didn’t you give in and take the general anesthesia?” Joanna asked.

  “You’re not going to start in on me, too, are you?” Deborah asked.

  “The anesthesiologist’s points made a lot of sense to me,” Joanna said. “Especially when he explained about pain from intra-abdominal manipulation. It was enough to make me feel lightheaded. Don’t you think you should reconsider?”

  “Listen!” Deborah said as she slammed the locker door and yanked out the key. She faced her friend. Her cheeks had a sudden flush. “You and I have already had this discussion. I have this thing about being put to sleep. Call it a phobia. You don’t like needles, and I don’t like anesthesia, okay?”

  “Okay!” Joanna said. “Jeez, calm down! I’m the one who’s supposed to be unnerved by this, not you.”

  Deborah sighed. She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I suppose I’m on edge, too.”

  “No need to apologize,” Joanna said.

  At that moment Cynthia reappeared with an armload of paraphernalia, which she dumped on one of the gurneys. In her other hand she had an IV bottle, which she proceeded to hang on the gurney’s IV pole. “Which one of you is Miss Meissner?” she called out.

  “Joanna raised her hand.

  Cynthia patted the gurney’s padded surface covered with a fresh bedsheet. “How about hopping up here on this contraption so I can start an IV? Then I’m going to be giving you a cocktail that will make you feel like it’s New Year’s Eve.”

  Deborah reached out and gave her friend’s arm a squeeze as they exchanged a compassionate glance. Joanna then did as she was told. Deborah came around to stand on the other side of the gurney.