The elevator bumped to a stop, and she exited onto the seventh floor. She again questioned why prewar buildings were considered desirable as the hallway was claustrophobically narrow. The walls were painted a sickly pale yellow. She rang the bell for 7A, and the door was immediately opened by an Asian woman in a black uniform-type dress with a bit of lace around the collar. When Aria stepped over the threshold she suddenly understood the prewar appeal. In sharp contrast to the hallway, even the apartment’s foyer had a sense of grand space with a high ceiling, crown moldings, baseboards, and high-gloss hardwood floor. And then when she was shown into what was obviously the library since one entire wall was bookcases floor to ceiling, the sense of space was even more dramatic, especially with the large window looking out over the expanse of Central Park.
A woman whom she assumed was Diane Hanna stood from the couch where she had been sitting. She appeared well kept for a sixty-five-year-old. She had a relatively slim body and a face that had seen some plastic surgery. Instead of any wrinkles or creases, the skin was pulled tight over the cheekbones and her lips were a bit too full. Although she hadn’t taken a step forward, she had extended her hand in a kind of greeting.
Advancing into the room, Aria took the hand even though it was a gesture she usually avoided. On this occasion she wanted to make the best impression possible. After a brief handshake, Diane gestured to a chair facing the couch and sat back down herself. Aria noticed that the woman’s sculpted hair didn’t move one iota, as if it were glued in place.
“What kind of doctor are you?” Diane asked. Her voice was slightly nasal and seemed artificially restrained.
“I’m a resident in Pathology,” Aria said. Again, she thought it best to start out with the truth. She was still wearing her white coat, so she knew she looked the part.
“Pathology?” Diane questioned. “That’s a unique choice.”
“It seems to fit me very well,” Aria said. “It’s a very intellectual specialty, especially surgical pathology.”
“I suppose,” Diane said, but she didn’t sound convinced.
“Let me tell you something about myself,” Aria began. On the spot she made up an elaborate story of being the child of a married lesbian couple who used sperm donation for her conception and for the conception of her brother. She then said that she and her brother shared a mild medical problem that made them want to find out about their genetic heritage. At that point, she paused to see if Diane was following the narrative and whether she had any questions.
“This is all very interesting,” Diane said. “But why are you telling this to me?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Aria said. “My brother and I hired a genetic genealogy company to see if we could find out about our ancestors, particularly our father. As I’m sure you know, twenty to thirty years ago men who donated sperm were assured that their generosity would remain anonymous. Things have changed today, for the reason I’m talking about. Anyway, after a lot of work, the genealogy company has determined that our father was adopted, so we’ve hit a brick wall in trying to figure out his identity.”
Aria paused at this key moment in her narrative and watched Diane for the slightest sign of comprehension of where the conversation was going. Unfortunately, there was none. Diane stared back as if she was totally in the dark. If anything, she looked as if she was becoming progressively bored.
“Let me ask you this,” Aria said, trying to decide exactly how to drop the bomb. “Do you have any idea whatsoever why I might be telling you my story?”
“No,” Diane said with a shake of her head. “When you called earlier and said you were a doctor at the NYU Langone Medical Center, I thought it had something to do with my husband and I being rather generous donors. Is that why you’re here?”
“Hell, no!” Aria said. The comment so surprised her that she’d not had the opportunity to filter her response. Aria was aware her choice of language often affected older people negatively and generally didn’t care.
“Then perhaps you had better tell me,” Diane said. “My husband and I are going to the opera tonight, and he’ll be home imminently.”
“The genetic genealogy company that my brother and I hired has determined with a high degree of certainty that our father is your son.”
For a few beats it seemed to Aria as if the earth stopped its rotation. Even the birds in Central Park, which had been making a comparative racket, seemed to go silent. For a brief moment there seemed to be no horns blowing or sirens sounding, which were otherwise part of the constant background noise of New York City.
The only change that she could detect involved Diane’s face. Simultaneously her overly pouty lips became compressed to practically disappear, the nostrils of her artificially small nose spread, and her powdered face flushed. By reflex Aria leaned back in her chair to avoid whatever was coming.
“I do not have a son!” Diane snapped while she stood up and glared at Aria, daring her to suggest otherwise.
Although Aria distinctly remembered reading in the Bettinger book in a section discussing adoption that “navigating this minefield of potential ethical issues can be difficult,” she thought Diane was carrying it to the extreme with her response. In contrast, Aria kept her seat and tried to project a sense of calm.
“Did you hear me?” Diane practically yelled.
“Yes, I heard you,” she said. “But I have several family trees that the genetic genealogy company has constructed to show how they have come to the conclusion they have. By any chance, back when you were Diane Carlson, did the name Eric Thompson mean anything to you?”
“Get out of here before I call the police!” Diane raged at this new information. As if Aria needed any help in finding her way, Diane used her extended index finger to point multiple times in the direction of the door leading out to the hall.
“I’d prefer to discuss this situation further,” Aria said, with diminishing hopes Diane might reconsider and be encouraged to sit back down. “I’m only trying to find my father.”
“I want you out of here, and I never want to see you again,” Diane shouted.
“All right.” Aria stood. “Whatever you say, you plastic-surgerized, fake piece of shit. You probably couldn’t have helped me anyway.”
With a strong feeling of disgust, Aria headed for the door.
Chapter 31
May 10th
5:35 P.M.
Emerging from the Hanna apartment building onto a Fifth Avenue clogged with rush-hour traffic, Aria stopped at the curb just under the very end of the blue awning. She needed a moment to take a few deep breaths and allow herself to calm down. Diane’s intransigence to even speak about her adoption experience seemed like the final nail in the coffin of Aria’s commitment to expose Kera Jacobsen’s homicidal-at-worst, inconsiderate-at-best lover. It was particularly frustrating after having spent all afternoon closeted at GenealogyDNA with a bunch of arrested-development nerds.
Gazing at the beckoning park greenery over and through a rising haze of exhaust coming from the slowly passing cars, taxis, and buses, Aria thought she should walk home rather than trying to languish in traffic. Not only would it be more pleasant, walking across town would undoubtedly again be faster.