Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 Read online

  “I thought they lived somewhere in the eastern United States. I wouldn’t have the first idea of how to find the surrogates who carried Phoebe and Noah.” He paused, perhaps wondering if he should know this detail. “You’re going to see her?”

  “In an hour.” My head and heart tried to connect, to make sense of the conflicts this woman brought into my day.

  “Aren’t you curious?” David stood up, left his desk to join me.

  “Of course.” I extended one hand, kept the other quiet. “It’s just that there have been other claims about blood ties that have been awful fakes. I’m reluctant to be put through all those emotions again.”

  “I know, I’ve watched what it takes out of you.” He caught my hand. “I’d planned to wake up the kids and have a second breakfast with them, but I could join you and Ms. Smithson?”

  “I’m better doing this alone. The kids will miss you. They need this time before you leave.”

  “I thought I’d try to calm Phoebe about the language tests.” He sipped my coffee. “You got this from the kitchen.”

  I acknowledged his taste of the real cream with a nod. “Just remember she’s only seven years old, David. The kids I taught before the depression wouldn’t even know what language proficiency meant.”

  “Different world, Annie. And our girl is a genius.” He paused, tried to smile. “You’re right to remind me she’s young. I’d like to see her spend more time kicking a soccer ball, but there are powerful folks with plans for her future.” I heard resentment under the words although his voice lightened. “If you’re sure you don’t need me, I’ll go eat another bowl of oatmeal, the perfect hot-day cereal. Let me help you carry these to your desk.”

  Alone in my office, work discipline abandoned me once I sent a communication to Magda to change our regular Tuesday morning meeting. Maybe because of our friendship, she stayed at Ashwood after completing her government assignment. Every year she absorbed more responsibility until she managed not only production in the greenhouses, fields, and orchards, but also the logistics of getting our goods to market. David’s father, Paul, brought grain farming knowledge to her team.

  I drank my coffee and ate the berries, but I pushed the oatmeal aside. Like my over-stimulated mind, my hands refused to quiet. On my data pad, I opened a Twin Cities’ news site, forced myself to pay attention to the top ten articles. Statewide elections would be held in two months with no clear leaders among the three parties. Expanded school schedules for urban students posed problems for employers. Rumblings about the closing of a popular feeding station on the north side of St. Paul might cause parents financial problems. A volunteer guard unit departing for South America was short of its required numbers. I read nothing further than the first two paragraphs. My thoughts circled back to the Smithson woman.

  I searched Bureau data about the Smithsons. At least a half dozen intellectual citizen Smithsons with East Coast residences appeared, mostly scientists or engineers. One couple stood out because they were both deceased, leaving behind two sons, one the right age.

  David and I learned after Phoebe’s birth that babies carried by surrogates for intellectual couples were genetically enhanced to build a future generation of even smarter employees for the country’s top global products of consulting, research, engineering and policy development. We never told David’s family anything about why Phoebe spoke and read three languages and displayed a brilliant understanding of advanced math or how Noah, six months younger, began reading before he was three.

  The Bureau managed the educations of these two, an eerie reality David and I found unsettling. The children carried by surrogates would always be financially cared for by the government, which made me wonder about the Smithson woman’s intentions.

  I gave up trying to distract myself in my office and headed back to the main residence to see our kids. David sat on the beautiful wooden bench he’d built, one sleepy boy on either side. He rubbed John’s back while Noah stared without focus at the morning’s bright sunlight.

  “Hey, it’s my three favorite guys,” I said as I reached out to touch the boys. “I think your grandma might like help in the garden today when you’re through with school.”

  Neither grumbled, unlike my brother and me who at this age felt that time to play was what happened after school. David’s children were required to spend a significant part of each day in educational activities. Our son walked an undefined path—not required by law to fulfill any daily labor as were the young workers of the estate, nor to complete the strict education program of his half siblings. A few months shy of John’s seventh birthday, we treated him like Noah’s fraternal twin instead of half brother, and kept their schedules the same.

  “Mom, could we get a dog for Christmas?” Noah’s sweet, high voice bounced off the hallway’s slate floors before being swallowed in the tall clerestory-windowed foyer.

  “It’s only September, Noah. I guarantee that you’ll think of other gifts you’d like by December.” We had plenty of cats working in the barns and outbuildings, but domestic dogs carried some political inappropriateness from the days of the D when feeding starving people replaced feeding pets. The old grandfather clock marked the half hour. “I’ve got to keep moving,” I said. “I love you.”

  Our early kitchen worker crew consisted of six children setting up breakfast under the direction of Amber, a twelve-year-old girl I would love to adopt if laws allowed. Most of our workers came from poor urban families who agreed to estate assignments to improve their children’s lives. When I was living from hand to mouth during the depression I might have thought this the best choice available. In turn, we made a commitment to these parents that their children would be fed, educated, prepared for some future work, and kept safe. Ashwood hadn’t ever failed on that commitment.

  The Smithson woman stood looking at historical pictures of Ashwood hung on the walls of the dining room. She turned as I came in and waited for me to close the door.

  “I’m Clarisse Smithson.” She tipped her head, a city-person greeting. “Thank you for meeting with me.” She hesitated for a second before acknowledging my position. “General Manager Hartford.”

  Her voice, so well modulated that I knew she was university educated, brought me back to my frustration about available day labor. Clarisse was an urban woman not used to country work. Her pants had been tailored for long legs, her shoes purchased for walking on smooth surfaces. The hands she folded on the back of a chair looked irritated after an hour of pulling weeds. A once-expensive sun hat lay on her back, held in place by leather strings. Pulling out a chair, I gestured that she should do the same. She waited for me to be seated, then sat. The morning’s heat warmed the room. “What did you want to discuss?”

  One of her hands inched toward her pants pocket. I wondered if she had written notes she wished to consult. I noticed a small bulge, felt cold fear at the possibility of a knife missing security detection. She drew out a handkerchief, dabbed at her chin.

  “I am Gregor Smithson’s only surviving adult relative.” She stopped. “You are the mother of his younger son who was born in Washington, D.C., when you were in training for the matron program.”

  Before she could continue, I stopped her. “I am not the mother of your brother’s son. I was a surrogate for his parents.”

  She cleared her throat, sat up straighter in her chair. “Gregor died earlier this year, about four months after his wife fell off the roof of their home. There are conflicting stories about why she was there.” I realized she had not shared the woman’s name. “Gregor’s older son was born early in the depression, during my brother’s first marriage. He is in a British boarding school near his mother’s home.”

  “Tell me about your younger nephew.”

  “He needs a home.”

  “You know that I am stepmother to two gifted offspring, so I know the government establishes generous individual annuities for these kids.”

  She sat still, but I noticed she bit her lower
lip before responding. “That’s right.”

  I looked at her, waiting for more information. Her eyes moved around the room. “And?”

  “And my ex-husband stole it. Managed to have the funds transferred to an account in South America before he fled Minnesota. I haven’t heard from him in five months. The financial agency where I worked fired me when it was uncovered that he hacked my security to make the transaction. He left me nothing. That’s why I brought your son here.”

  The story might be true, but I didn’t feel comfortable. “You applied for emergency assistance for the boy?” She shook her head. “You know there is special funding?” This time she nodded.

  “No one is going to trust me with access to accounts set up in his name. All I have is my apartment and a small trust fund set up by Gregor. When my nephew finishes school and his service year, he’ll inherit a handsome fortune. Until then his prospects are poor.”

  “So put the boy in the boarding program for gifted students. Let the government take care of him.”

  Fidgeting, she again removed the handkerchief from her pocket. “He no longer tests well enough for the gifted schools and with one non-intellectual natural parent, he can’t claim a boarding school slot. He’s lost opportunities.”

  I wished David were here as witness. I didn’t think Clarissa would tell her story the same way twice. “So why come to me?”

  “There are lots of reasons. I hoped you might be able to fit me into the Ashwood business office so your son could attend the estate’s exceptional school. Maybe he could even study with your husband’s children and return to the gifted program.”

  As she spoke, her eyes focused on me, her chin steadied. “At the least, I would think you’d want to be sure your son is able to eat three meals a day and be safe. I could continue to provide a home and make sure he is educated if I had a monthly stipend. Gregor’s annuity was meant to make my life more comfortable, not to support two people.”

  “I’d like you to stop calling this boy my son.” I stumbled in my words, wondering what the Smithsons named the boy, yet holding back from asking. “You are his kin. Your brother entrusted you to care for the boy.”

  I thought I saw her facial features change as I spoke, not with disappointment but with anger. “Blood tests show he is not the child of Gregor’s wife.” Her statement stood tall in the room. “In fact, his wife was infertile. Had ovary issues. I have filed a legal request for access to your DNA. That’s what I wanted you to know.”

  Boiling water pouring down my back could not have brought me to my feet faster than this news. “Ms. Smithson, I’m going to have you and the boy transported back to the city now. You’ll both be paid for the day.”

  “That’s it?” She asked the question with disdain. “All that reputation for building a sense of family on your estate and investing in education, and this is the way you respond to the very strong possibility that your firstborn child might not have dinner tonight?” She remained sitting. “You’re a huge fraud, General Manager Hartford. Huge.”

  “Ms. Smithson, you’re naive if you believe you are the first person to come here with this kind of story.” I softened my voice in spite of the sting of her words. “It’s no secret I have no remaining family, so many people have tried to pretend that we are related. Too many.” I activated a page under the table for our estate security. “We have your contact information and will wait for your lawyer’s documents.”

  A knock sounded at the door before it opened. “This is Clarissa Smithson,” I told the guard who wore Ashwood’s security staff uniform. “She needs transport back to the city with her nephew, who is somewhere with the child laborers. Tell the business office they should both be paid for the day, with extra funds to cover meals.”

  She stood and walked toward the door, but stopped. “If you want to know, his name is Andrew.” Our guard stepped aside to give Clarissa Smithson room to exit.

  Before the door closed, I adjusted the room’s monitors to focus on the estate’s business offices, where I knew the boy would be reunited with Clarissa. She did not reach out to him when he walked toward her from the kitchen gardens. Thanks to the high-definition security system installed by Ashwood’s Chief Engineer Lao, I could see sun-brightened red highlights in the boy’s auburn hair. From the back, Andrew looked like my brother as a boy.

  Chapter Four

  Seven twenty in the morning and my sense of well-being hung like a spiderweb spun on a vegetable plant’s greenery. Before sharing Clarissa Smithson’s story with David, I called my most trusted confidant in the Bureau, who also happened to be legal guardian to David’s children.

  “Reyes Milan here. How are you, Anne?”

  He was the first regional Bureau official I met my first night at Ashwood. Then I called him Auditor Milan. His career had taken him to the top of our government with a fancy title, but for me he was now simply Milan. When we were through with business, we talked about our families, about our pasts.

  “Clarissa Smithson cleared our early-morning laborer search today and brought a boy named Andrew with her to Ashwood.” I paused. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “You were a surrogate for Smithsons. East Coast couple, I recall.”

  “Clarissa demanded we meet. Supposedly her brother, Gregor Smithson, and his wife have both passed away. His older son is in England, but his younger son lives with her. She says her husband stole the boy’s entire annuity, which cost her her job.”

  As I moved closer to the core message of Clarissa’s visit, tears formed in my eyes. “She claims the baby I carried for the Smithsons is biologically my child. That Gregor’s wife was infertile.”

  Silence on Milan’s side increased my discomfort. He could hold secrets as long as the ocean held water.

  I didn’t tell Milan about the boy with hair like mine, just broke his silence with facts. “Clarissa wants an office job at Ashwood and an education for the boy, or enough money to support both of them in the cities. She said she has asked for access to my DNA files.” Milan had to hear my voice quiver. “What can you tell me?”

  Milan sounded like his physical profile—middle-aged, unremarkable, and deliberate. In my years of working with Milan, he had delivered devastating or amazing news in the same calm tones used in review of a business plan.

  “You signed the uniform surrogate contract and release at the time you agreed to carry the Smithsons’ baby, so legally you would be held harmless regardless of the aunt’s claims.” Under his words I heard implications. “I can give you the name of a good lawyer who specializes in surrogacy casework.”

  “Milan, what you’re not saying scares me.”

  “In rare circumstances surrogates were impregnated with the father’s sperm, not implanted with a fertilized embryo.” He hesitated before finishing his statement. “The same legal agreement protects both sets of surrogates.”

  “How would I know what happened in that clinic?”

  “If this couple still lived, probably never. The clinic would not disclose if an alternative procedure was performed. If Ms. Smithson’s story about the loss of Andrew’s annuity is true, support compensation is available under orphan protocol.” His voice lowered and I heard his kindness. “Don’t worry, Anne. I’ll have answers in forty-eight hours.”

  “How did you know his name?” The boy’s less-than-genius intellect also triggered a red flag in my mind. “She said he isn’t eligible for the intellectual offspring schooling but is too bright to be successful in regular schools.”

  “I’m looking at his file. She may be wrong about that piece of information, but I’m not free to talk about the boy.”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Thanks, Milan. I’ll need to talk with David. Would you have the boy’s picture in his file?”

  “Anne, talk with David. I’ll contact Maxim Quershi to get involved from the Bureau’s legal perspective, and we’ll go from there. I have to leave.”

  I hung up, stared at the pict
ures Clarissa Smithson examined earlier. I had no pictures from my first year in estate management training, when I missed my deceased family so deeply that I was grateful to be a surrogate mother for one of the intellectual elite couples. The pregnancy filled an emotional hole. The financial arrangement offered the potential that someday I could leave estate management with a nest egg to make marriage and my own family possible. I tried to remind myself of that future dream every day after the baby boy I delivered was carried off to the Smithsons.

  Chapter Five

  Supervisors of Ashwood’s greenhouses waited to use the room. I greeted them each by name, struggling to remain calm while I absorbed Milan’s news. No one stopped me in the kitchen, where kids were already beginning breakfast cleanup. I skirted the big dining room and crossed the central hall to join David, his parents, and the children, who were finishing their meal on the family patio.

  Humidity tightened Phoebe’s curls. No one around the table seemed bothered by the irony of eating hot, heavy grains on a hot, heavy morning. Noah and John, now fully awake and done with their breakfast, played a game that would eventually grow too loud. Phoebe laughed with her grandmother, who drank coffee in spite of the heat.

  “Come sit with us, Mom.” Phoebe still laughed as she sang out an invitation. “You look tired.”

  I touched the top of her head with my lips while I reached for a glass and the water pitcher. “The heat has me worn out already.” I pulled a chair toward the table. “Maybe I’ll just sit out here and let Magda and Grandpa Paul work today.”

  “You could help me study.” Laughter left her small, round face with its rosebud mouth. “I’m scared.”

  David and I tried not to look at each other as her voice squeaked on the last words. I remembered Tia telling me about how her brilliant father’s suicide had affected her as a child. I tried not to see her mother’s excessive drive in this child. If the struggle between nature and nurture played out in our kids, maybe the four adults at the patio table could outweigh the mother who died when Phoebe was only months old.