forty-two

Dr. Grovit lived in a modest Victorian home in a historic section of Huntington, a short walk from the town’s bustling main drag. Not unlike the disarray of Dr. Grovit’s medical office, the house’s landscaping was severely overgrown, and there were piles of corded newspapers stashed in a corner of the porch.

The front door was open, allowing us to see through the carved wooden screen door through to the kitchen. Dr. Grovit was seated at the table. He was so still I thought maybe he’d had a heart attack. We entered without knocking and walked quickly to the kitchen. Dr. Grovit’s wife had passed away a few years ago, but her death didn’t seem to warrant the current chaos of the kitchen. The sink was loaded with dirty dishes, piles of papers covered every available surface, and trash overflowed from a garbage can.

“Dr. Grovit,” I said, taking a seat, “what’s wrong?”

He shook his head sadly. “Did Corey remember me?”

“She did,” I said.

“I wanted to tell you myself.”

I looked up at Frank. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t pleased.

“I wanted you to meet with Corey.” Dr. Grovit lifted his head, and I could see he’d been crying. “I want you to find your child,” he said, reaching out to a pile of yellowed papers. He leafed through a stack and said, “I’ve searched through everything I could get my hands on to help you.” Frustrated, he let the loose papers drift to the floor.

“Then why did you dissuade us from talking to Corey?” Frank asked.

Dr. Grovit pointed to an empty glass on the counter. Frank filled it and walked it over to him. “Why didn’t you want us to talk to Corey?” he repeated as he dropped the glass down. Dr. Grovit took a long, slow drink of water.

“The day before you called about Corey, William came by.”

My stomach heaved. “Here? My father was here too?”

Dr. Grovit’s eyes flashed. “Where else has he been?”

“To Corey’s house,” Frank answered.

“Oh my god,” Dr. Grovit moaned. “He must be serious.”

“About what?” I grabbed Dr. Grovit’s hand. “You have to tell us what you know.”

“You must believe me, Constance. Nothing has been more important to me than helping you find your child. Now that you’ve spoken to Corey, you understand that I was more involved in the extraction than I led you to believe. Unfortunately, I still don’t know what happened after the procedure occurred, but I felt confident we could still locate the child. Selfishly, I figured by the time anyone truly understood that I was in the operating room the day of your procedure, it would be overshadowed by the joy of finding your child. Your father, on the other hand, is not as willing to let things go.”

Dr. Grovit took another sip of water and continued.

“Please believe me. I don’t know where your child is, but I believe you’re getting close.” His hands shook and a droplet of water worked its way along the aging creases at the corner of his mouth. “Your father told me that if I gave you any more information about the child’s whereabouts”—Dr. Grovit paused—“he’d hurt the girl.”

Frank sat down next to me, pulled me into his chest, and repeated the only important words from Dr. Grovit’s confession.

“It’s a girl,” he whispered in my ear. I had a daughter.