Chapter 7: What He Did Before Monday Morning
I had told him Monday morning.
It was still Sunday.
My attorney's name was Grace Holbrook.
She had been working in reproductive rights law for twenty-two years, and when I called her back, she picked up on the second ring.
"He called the director at Hargrove at seven this morning," she said.
"Asked to have the original consent documentation pulled and held.
Told them there was a pending legal matter and that no records should be released without his written authorization."
"Can he do that?" I said.
"He tried to," Grace said.
"He cannot.
He's not the clinic's client.
You are.
I've already spoken to the director's office.
They've been advised of the forgery claim and they've frozen the records pending our formal request.
Nothing moves without a court order."
"What else?"
"He's retained Kenneth Albright."
I knew that name.
Anyone who had spent time in Boston family court knew that name.
"That was fast," I said.
"He's scared," Grace said simply.
"Scared people move fast.
Albright's reputation is aggressive, early filing, lots of paper.
He'll try to establish Daniel as the children's primary known caregiver before you can establish standing as biological mother.
He'll argue that Patrice's arrangement was legal, that the embryo transfer was—" She paused.
"Claire, I need to know one thing."
"What?"
"When Patrice contacted you eight months ago — did you at any point agree to any arrangement with her regarding the children?
Any informal agreement?
Anything in writing?"
"No," I said.
"We spoke.
Several times.
I sent her money twice when she was struggling, because two children with no support and a man who had stopped returning her calls — I couldn't not.
But we made no agreement.
I told her I needed to understand the legal situation first."
"Good," Grace said.
"The money could be framed as support acknowledgment, which actually helps us.
It shows knowledge and intent without creating a competing claim." A pause.
"I'm filing our petition tomorrow morning.
First thing."
Vanessa had been watching me across the table.
She hadn't moved.
When I lowered the phone, she said, "He called the clinic."
"Yes."
"Last night, after he told me everything — he asked me not to contact you." She set down her tea.
"He said we should wait.
Handle it privately.
I told him I would think about it." She looked at the table.
"I came here instead."
"I know."
"He's going to fight this," she said.
"Yes."
"He's going to try to make you look unstable." She looked up.
"He's very good at that.
He spent two years making me doubt my own memory of things I watched happen in front of me."
"I know what he's good at," I said.
"I want to give a statement," she said.
"To your attorney.
Whatever she needs.
I was there when he said things — about you, about the divorce, about his reasons.
Some of it is in writing.
He sent me messages, in the early months, explaining his version of your marriage.
I kept them."
I looked at her.
"You kept them," I said.
"I didn't know why at the time," she said.
"I just — something in me kept them."
I called Grace back.
"I have a witness," I said.
"She has written documentation.
And she wants to talk."
May you like
Grace was quiet for exactly two seconds.
"Tell her I'll be there within the hour," she said.
