Subject Seven

Chapter Nineteen
Gene Rothstein

The phone call at three in the morning was the first sign that something had gone wrong. Really wrong, as in, even the news of his adoption was considered insignificant by comparison.

Uncle Robbie had been attacked. Gene’s parents were at the hospital while Gene, the oldest at fifteen, was left at home in charge of getting his siblings off to school. He was about to go back to bed for the few remaining hours before sunrise when the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Gene? It’s Dad.”

“How’s Uncle Robbie?” Gene would never admit it to anyone, but he had felt gleeful when he first heard the news of Robbie’s misfortune. But he knew it was wrong. He was a part of the family, after all, even if it wasn’t by blood. Even if people like Revrund Robbie could preach sermons to him about how lucky he was to be loved by people who took him in from the cold. He tried to let go of his earlier anger.

“He’s stable. They’ve got him out of surgery and it looks good.” He could hear the relief in his dad’s voice. Not relief for Robbie, but relief that Gene would even ask. His father understood how deeply Gene felt the betrayal. They had argued for much of the evening. He was probably secretly thrilled that Gene hadn’t sent a letter bomb to the hospital already. “He took a bad beating,” his dad continued, “but there isn’t any brain swelling, so he should pull through.”

He didn’t have to tell Gene about complications. The family of a doctor always understands about things like septic infections and unexpected blood clots. They came with the territory and with the occasional ghosts that lingered in his father’s eyes after a hard day in the emergency room. Marty Rothstein knew his son understood all about that sort of complication, and so he let it go.

“That’s good to hear.” The words sounded sincere but tasted like a lie.

“Gene, are we okay?” His father’s voice begged for a happy ending.

He closed his eyes and swallowed and tried to say something nice, something pleasant, when all he wanted to do was scream and cry and act like a bratty five-year-old. “Give me some time, Dad. Okay? I need to adjust to all of this.” He waved his arms to encompass the whole of the world as if his father could possibly see the gesture or understand how vast the world is when you discover your biological parents never wanted you.

“Just. Gene, please, just remember we love you. We’ve always loved you. We couldn’t love you any more if you were our flesh and blood. You’re our son in every way that matters.”

“I know, Dad. And I love you and Mom. But right now I need to think about everything.”

He knew his father wanted to say more. He also knew his father was at a loss for what to say. They hung up.

Gene thought about his savings account. Every year his parentsadoptive parents, he corrected himself-gave him money for his birthday and holidays, and he put it in the bank and never spent it. Would that money be enough to hire a detective who could find his real parents?

The knock at the door took him off guard. Gene moved in that direction without thinking. It seemed that thinking was almost impossible. All he could do was react to whatever came his way.

By the time he’d unlocked the door, the courier had left. All he found was a package.

He reached down, fully expecting it to be addressed to one of his parents. Instead he saw that the bundle was addressed to Mr. Eugene Rothstein, with a warning that the information inside was considered “personal and confidential.”

There was no return address.

He opened the package and pulled out the single sheet of paper.

It read:

Dear Gene,

I know you have questions. I know your life is conflicted right now. You want answers and I can help you find those answers, but before I do, you have to come to me.

Below that simple statement was a phone number and the handwritten message:

Call me as soon as possible.

Joe.

Gene looked at the paper for several minutes, his heart beating a little too fast and his mind refusing to think things through carefully.

When he finally dialed the number, the phone was picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” The voice was deep and clipped, almost impatient sounding.

“Hi, is this Joe?”

“It is. To whom am I speaking?” Was it his imagination? It almost sounded like the man was smiling through the question.

“My name is Gene Rothstein.”

“Ah, Gene. I was hoping you’d call.” There was a pause and he thought hard about hanging up because whoever the man was, he sounded too cocky, too cheerful. “Listen, Gene, how’s that family friend today? How’s your uncle Rob?”

“I-how do you know about Robbie?”

He looked at the phone number he’d called. It wasn’t local or even one he recognized.

“Gene, I know a lot about you. More than you do, I’d wager. I know that you were adopted, and I know what happened to your uncle Rob last night and, oh, I know so much.”

Gene’s mouth tasted like a dirty penny. “How?”

“I’ll explain that when you get to Boston.”

“Boston?”

“We’re going to have a coming-out party, Gene. You do not want to miss this one.”

“A coming-out party?”

“You’ve really got to stop asking all these questions, Gene.” The voice chastised him, but lightly. “Come up to Boston. Get here just as fast as you can, Gene, and we’ll answer everything we can for you.”

“I-”

“Don’t think up any excuses. Just get here. Take a bus, take a plane, steal a car-I don’t care and you shouldn’t either. Get here. We have a lot to talk about.” There was a small pause. “Got a pen, Gene? I want to give you an address for when you get up here. Get up here quickly because there are other people waiting on you, okay?”

Gene listened and nodded. A moment later he wrote down the address.

“I’ll give you my cell number if there are problems, but the address is for the Stevenson Hotel, off Interstate 95. You get there, you call that number, and we get together. And then I answer some questions for you. Got it?”

“Got it.” He could barely feel his lips move as he talked.

“See you then.”

The phone went dead in his hand.

He didn’t have to think for very long. There were answers in Boston, and he needed those answers as surely as he needed the air in his lungs. Those answers were the only thing that was going to stop him from drowning inside himself.

His parents would have to understand, have to forgive, and maybe, maybe after they did, he could return the favor. But not until he found out what was waiting for him in Boston.