It also, apparently, wasn’t fated, not if I was understanding my brother correctly. I’d always accepted that I wasn’t a spontaneous （if late） flowering of our parents’ love, or even an “accident” （as the term was generally understood） because the surrogacy quashed that notion even if Johanna’s advanced age at the time did not. But I’d always assumed that I’d at least been, well, made at the general time of my birth. Not— Oh.
It was, just …
“You had no idea,” my brother said again.
“No. Shit. What did they do, pick out the three best-looking blastocysts? And throw the dud in the freezer?”
“No clue,” said Lewyn, “but I’m impressed by your use of the word ‘blastocyst.’ Are you sure you’re not STEM?”
“Or maybe they just did eenie meenie mynie mo?”
Lewyn signed. “I wasn’t there. Or I was, but I was just a—”
“Blastocyst. Yeah. Fuck.”
“I’m sorry, Pheebs. If it’s any comfort, I always thought the whole thing was completely awkward and horrible, but on the other hand, not personal, either. It was only about the best chance for the best outcome. And the outcome was good, at least in the sense that they got three healthy babies, and childbirth didn’t kill the mother.”
“That’s a low bar,” I said, but I also knew it wasn’t.
“Drink your wine,” he said, and I did. In the receding shock, it went down well.
“So it could have been me and you and Sally, with Harrison in the freezer.”
“And I would have had a much nicer childhood, yes.”
“Or me and Harrison and Sally, and you’d be a senior in high school now.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“We might as well. Like, it’s on ice. We can get a surrogate. Why not?”
He shrugged. “As I say, I wasn’t present, and I wasn’t consulted. If you really want to go there, you’re going to have to ask Mom.”
“I can’t,” I said, my voice flat. “Because I hate her.”
We sat together in silence. Finally, Lewyn said, “You don’t really. I don’t, either. We’re not the hating type.”
I nodded, reluctantly. I actually loved that my brother could say this and apparently believe it was true. I wasn’t at all sure that could be said of the others: Sally, who had quite pointedly exiled herself, and Harrison, a self-styled oracle of intelligentsia to people in MAGA hats all over the country. They represented the opposite of Lewyn, who had not only come back home but hadn’t left again.
“Actually,” I said, remembering, “this is not what I came to talk about. So maybe we’ll put a pin—you should pardon the expression—in this topic—”
“Ouch,” he said, but he was also obviously relieved to move on.
“And you can tell me what you make of this.”
I handed him the letter from the American Folk Art Museum. Lewyn took it from its envelope and read, frowning.
“What does it mean?” I asked, impatient.
“I’m not sure. This was addressed to Mom?” He checked the envelope and frowned again. It was clearly established that he, Lewyn Oppenheimer, oversaw the Oppenheimer Collection. This had been a consequence of his temperament and affinity, and also of the fact that he was an accredited curator. This was also clearly stated on the collection website and in all publications. Scholars, dealers, and fellow curators at museums all over the world had always dealt with him directly on matters involving the nearly two hundred works assembled by Salo Oppenheimer.