by Kira Peikoff
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you.”
“Okay.” I pull my iPad close again. “Whatever.”
* * *
An anxious feeling settles into my chest for the rest of the day. At first, I can’t figure out why it’s so hard to shake. Ethan doesn’t know anything; he couldn’t. There’s nothing to suspect. But then, while I’m in the middle of folding lavender onesies for the new nursery, it hits me.
What if Jillian decides to enter our lives and threaten everything? What if she feels she has some right to the child—either as a parental figure or as a researcher? We have no contract, nothing in writing setting out the terms of our illegal collaboration.
My mind, already prone to worst-case scenarios, conjures up a wicked scene of her knocking on our door and demanding access to the baby. Maybe she’ll want to study the DNA, or worse—far worse—establish her own maternal relationship with the child. Every-other-weekend sleepovers, Mommy and Me yoga, alternating preschool pickups …
Stop!
That will never happen. She has zero rights. The child will never know her. Ethan will never know her. She’s nothing but a ghost from the past.
But still I’m not reassured.
There’s only one thing to be done. I need to see her face-to-face, to make sure we’re on the same page before the birth.
It also isn’t a bad excuse to contact Nash, whom I haven’t seen for several months. Since he’s a reproductive endocrinologist, he followed my pregnancy closely for the first ten weeks, then referred me to a regular OB-GYN for checkups. He’s kept tabs on my health via text—and everything has been perfect—but I do miss our regular visits. I’ve heard of fertility patients who go back to their IVF doctors to show off their baby bumps. Now that I’ve popped, Nash deserves to see my big belly; he made it possible.
I text him my concerns about the nebulous arrangement with Jillian, and he replies right away: Don’t worry, we’ll talk.
A few hours later, he lets me know the three of us can meet next Tuesday. But he doesn’t want to risk his staff asking questions, so instead of meeting at the clinic, we’re going to get together for lunch in the West 80s.
It’s a date, I write back, with a guilty little flutter in my chest.
* * *
When the day arrives, I put on my prettiest new maternity purchase—a turquoise empire-waist dress that flatters my bump. I’m not sure if I want to look good for Nash or for Jillian. Either way, my jaw is tense with anticipation.
“Hot date?” Ethan teases as I straighten my hair, which I rarely bother to do. Icy sleet is hammering the city in advance of a nor’easter, so he decided to come home from work early today—something I hadn’t counted on.
“Yeah, right. I have an interview.”
“With who?” He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, watching me drag the steaming iron through my wet hair.
“Just a source for a story.”
“I figured. Which one?”
Annoyance pricks me, though I’m usually delighted to share the details of my reporting conquests.
“It’s about … an important drug trial,” I lie. “For liver disease.”
“Oh yeah? What about it?”
I think back to a developing story the editors discussed in a meeting last week. “We heard the data might be fudged to cover up safety issues,” I tell him. “An insider is coming to the office with a tip.”
“Cool. Sounds big.”
“We’ll see. You never know.”
“Take my umbrella. It’s brutal out there.”
I look at myself in the mirror again, then kiss him on the cheek. “Will do.”
He rubs my belly as he helps me into my winter coat and boots. “Chinese later?”
“Sure. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”
He kisses me again before I head out the door.
As I walk down the steps of our brownstone, the freezing wind smacks my face. I shove the umbrella head-on into the gust, but it turns inside out.
“Damn it.” Rain slides down the back of my neck, inside my dress.
Struggling to fix the umbrella, I happen to catch sight of Ethan’s dark silhouette in our living room window. He must be watching to make sure I’m okay. I wave to reassure him, then plod heavily down the street toward the restaurant. I don’t want to be late.
* * *
JILLIAN
Sitting across from Claire and Nash at the Tangled Vine, I can’t help wondering if he’s secretly attracted to our very pregnant, very married research subject. Especially when he steals a glance at her cleavage in that dress.
Bitch, I think.
Nash and I have been sleeping together for months now, and it’s starting to feel serious, at least on my end. But he is still resisting a formal label for some reason, and it pisses the hell out of me. Is it really that difficult to call me his girlfriend?
In a swift, almost violent motion, I throw back a gulp of my merlot and set the glass down hard on the counter.
Nash drags his eyes away from Claire to raise an eyebrow at me.
I pointedly ignore him and focus on her. “So did you just want to thank us in person, or what?”
She pulls her club soda closer and attempts what is clearly a fake smile. “Well, that’s one part of it,” she says, in a pandering tone that makes me want to slap her. “I want you to know how grateful I am—”
“We know,” I interrupt.
She shifts on her chair and glances sideways at Nash.
He wastes no time rescuing her. “I think Claire was very wise to call this meeting. We all need to figure out our roles now, before the birth. In fact, we really should have done this from the get-go, but better late than never.”
“The point is, there’s nothing to figure out,” she declares. “I want you both to know how much I appreciate what you’ve done, but going forward, that’s it. I’m the only mother.” Her defiant stare is like an invitation to duel.
I laugh. “Oh God, trust me, I have no interest in raising a kid anytime soon.”
Her brow relaxes. “Good.”
“But you do realize,” I go on, “that we’ve risked our entire careers to do this experiment with you?” It feels good to group myself together with him, on the same side.
She bites down on the tip of her straw. “Yeah …”
“Then are you seriously saying that’s it? We have no right to follow up on our results? To ever see the child?”
She looks me square in the eye. “Pretty much.”
“That’s insane.” I scowl at Nash. “You can’t possibly be okay with this.”
He seems to be struggling to say the right thing. This is like winning the lottery only to find the cash stolen.
“We will know that child,” I tell her. “That I promise you.”
“Excuse me?” she snaps. “My child’s life is up to me.”
“Obviously.” Nash clears his throat. “I think Jillian was just saying she wants you to consider things a little more carefully.”
Claire crosses her arms over her sizable bump. “My daughter is going to grow up to be normal, without her mother sneaking her off to some lab and lying to her dad. Sorry, that’s just not part of the deal. Since I’m carrying this Frankenbaby, I get to set the terms.”
“Frankenbaby, huh?” Nash gives an amused smile.
“We have no idea how she’s going to come out, right?” Claire demands.
“Which is exactly the point,” I cut in. “We have a right to know.”
Her disdain is withering. “I’ll call you.”
“Real scientific.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “We should have screened her better,” I tell him. “This is unbelievable.”
“You’d be nowhere if it wasn’t for me,” she retorts. “You’re welcome.”
He sighs. “This has been a team effort. We can agree on that much, yes?” I wonder if he senses the strange rivalry simmering between the two of us. It’s my baby, too, I want to remind them. So
what if my genetic contribution isn’t as large as hers?
But in the interest of appearing cooperative, I say nothing.
He fixes his gaze on Claire—gentle but firm. “Look, I understand you want us to go away so you can be normal. But this is history in the making. This could help thousands of women like yourself have healthy children. If you shut us out, you wreck that chance.” He pauses. “Do you think that’s what Colton would want?”
At the mention of her son’s name, Claire’s resistance appears to crumble. A faraway look comes into her eyes and she stares off into the middle distance, likely absorbed in some memory. Watching her, I can’t help feeling pity. She may be unreasonable and infuriating, but losing a child is utterly incomprehensible. A tragedy I can’t begin to grasp.
She presses a button on her phone, and the home screen lights up with a picture of a grinning blond boy with an adorable dimple and striking blue eyes.
“He was beautiful,” Nash says, after a respectful silence.
Her voice softens. “Thank you.”
Another silence ensues.
“We would never hurt the child,” I promise. “Her safety and anonymity would always be our paramount concern.”
Nash nods at me gratefully. “Absolutely. It goes without saying.”
Claire opens her mouth to reply when her eyes lock on someone outside; involuntarily, she cries out. I twist around on the stool to peer through the rain-streaked glass, but all I can see is a blur of pedestrians clutching umbrellas.
“Sorry, I have to go.” She slides quickly off her stool and hurries to the door.
“Wait,” Nash calls. “We haven’t finished—”
But she’s already halfway outside, thrusting her arms into her coat and popping her umbrella. We watch her march down the street out of sight.
“Well.” I swirl my wine in the glass. “That went well.”
He sighs. “I don’t know what happened. But I think she’ll come around. And you should really go easier on her next time. We don’t want to scare her off for good.”
“Sure, whatever.” I flash him a sidelong glance. “In the meantime, why don’t we go wait out the storm at my place? We can head back to work after.”
“It’s supposed to get worse this afternoon. I wasn’t planning on seeing any more patients today.”
I pretend to be shocked. “Are you giving me the day off?”
“Only half a day.” He pulls out his wallet and throws two twenties on the table. Then he takes my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
CLAIRE
“Ethan!” I shout. “Wait!”
Hunched under a black umbrella, he stomps down the wet sidewalk away from me. I immediately realize he tracked me on the Find Friends app, that his suspicion must have kicked in when I got all dressed up, which I rarely do.
I stagger in his wake as fast as I can, arching my back at the mercy of twenty-five pounds of belly weight. Whenever we get into a serious fight, he flees. That’s how I know it’s bad. He might escape into his office for hours to get away from me.
But now he has nowhere to hide.
A light at the next block turns red, sidelining him to the curb. I manage to close the gap between us, panting. He acknowledges me with a glare.
“I’m not supposed—to be—out of breath,” I stammer.
“Or lie to your husband.” The bite in his voice could snap bones.
“It was a last-minute thing. I’m sorry.”
The light turns green, and he steps off the curb with a snarl of disgust. I rush after him, grabbing his coat sleeve.
“Honey, I can explain.”
He stops dead in the middle of the intersection. “Are you having an affair with that doctor?”
I utter a high-pitched laugh. “God, no.”
But can I completely deny that zippy little thrill from seeing Nash again? Lots of women fantasize about their attractive male doctors, I tell myself. The power differential is a turn-on, but nothing more.
A yellow cab honks at us and we scurry across the street.
“So why were you with him? And that woman? And couldn’t tell me?”
“Well, it’s kind of complicated.”
“I’ve got time.”
It’s obvious I’m not going to get off easy. A half-assed lie will only magnify my betrayal; he’ll see right through it.
One possible future flashes before me—if I cooperate with Nash and Jillian, it means hiding my ongoing relationship with them, sneaking the baby off to run tests, covering my tracks with Ethan, letting my child be poked and prodded and studied, potentially upsetting her as she grows up. Not exactly what I had in mind. All I want is for her childhood to be happy, healthy, and normal.
But if I refuse them access to her, what will they do? Just let me ride off into the sunset? I don’t think so. Nash seems like a good guy, though I barely know him—or how far he might be willing to go to salvage proof of his breakthrough. As for Jillian, there’s something bitter about her brilliance. She already hates me for some reason, that much is clear. I shudder to imagine what she might be capable of, with my child caught in the middle. How ugly might things get before Ethan finds out the truth anyway?
“Claire?” he prompts. “Don’t even think about bullshitting me.”
The rain is pelting us, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead, let alone engage in the most serious talk of our marriage. As I hesitate, he steers me under the red awning of Swagat, our favorite Indian restaurant on 78th Street. It’s where we went out to celebrate the night I learned I was pregnant again.
“I’m not moving until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Okay.” I tug at the collar of my coat. “I wanted us to have our own healthy baby. That’s all we both want, right?”
He narrows his eyes, unsure where this is going. “Obviously.”
“But I couldn’t risk reliving … everything.” I push away a strand of wet hair clinging to my cheek. “So, I went outside the box.”
The tiny muscles around his mouth tighten. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I went to Dr. Nash for a reason …” I proceed to explain about the mitochondrial transplant he pioneered to circumvent diseases like Colton’s, as Ethan’s face contorts into disbelief. When I finish, his stunned pause and horrified stare send a chill down my spine.
“Bottom line,” I say with forced cheer, “we’re finally going to get what we always wanted!” I grab his limp hand and place it on my belly. “Feel her kick right now.”
He snatches his hand away like I’ve burned him. “Are you telling me this fetus has the DNA of me, you, and someone else?”
“Jillian, his researcher. She was generous enough to—”
“You have got to be kidding. This is for real?”
My voice is sour. “I knew you’d disagree.”
“Disagree? I don’t even know who you are right now.”
“I’m a mother protecting her child.” I clench my teeth. “If you can’t understand that, then I don’t know you either.”
“I can’t even look at you.” He pivots away. “You and that shyster have violated our marriage, my rights, the law, ethics … I mean, holy fuck, Claire—”
“We’re having our own healthy baby!” I scream, nearly in tears.
He backs up like I’m a lunatic. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone off your meds.”
A band of shame squeezes my heart. “That’s not fair.”
“You really don’t get it, do you?”
I can’t keep the sadness out of my voice. “I think it’s pretty clear.”
“Yeah? Let me get it straight.” He ticks his points off one finger at a time. “You agree to a criminal experiment using my sperm, without my consent, to mess with the human germ line, with potentially permanent consequences for our species, and you expect me to just nod and smile?”
I am gutted with fury and disappointment. Sure, we have our differences, but in the back of
my mind, I’ve long suspected his moral preachiness is basically an act to ensure upward career mobility. Disdain toward biotechnology is in vogue these days. But in real life, I hoped his rigid ideas would have room to bend when it came to avoiding our second child’s suffering and death. Turns out my husband is both more sincere and more corrupt than I realized.
“Not only that,” I tell him, “I would do it all over again. But maybe not with your sperm.”
His lips part like I’ve sucker-punched him. He angrily pulls his phone out of his pocket and jabs at the touchscreen.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking up the number for OCI.”
“OCI? Is that a Columbia thing?”
“No, FDA.” He enunciates slowly. “The Office of Criminal Investigations.”
I gape at him. “You wouldn’t.”
His finger hovers over the screen.
“Please.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Let’s just go home and talk.” I bring his fingers to my lips. “Please.”
He squints. His face scrunches up and he rushes around me.
As he stumbles headfirst into the wind, I can see his shoulders quivering. And then I understand his haste: he doesn’t want me to see him cry.
* * *
JILLIAN
We both know the drill. As soon I unlock my apartment, Nash and I head for my bed, wriggling out of our coats and kicking off our soaking-wet boots. As we make out, an irritating visual pops into my mind from half an hour earlier: him and Claire at the restaurant, smiling at each other like I wasn’t even there.
The memory makes me kiss him harder. I shove my hand into his pants and grab his erection, enjoying his moan. There is no way he’s thinking of anyone else now.
That’s when his pocket starts to vibrate. His phone shimmies out, flashing CLAIRE GLASSER across the screen. He fumbles for it as I knock it off the bed with my elbow.
“It can wait. Unless”—I let him go—“you want me to stop …”
He kicks off his pants and flings them to the floor.
ABBY: NOW
When I hear a strange car pull up outside late at night, I immediately sit up and reach for my phone. It’s 12:49 AM. The house is quiet. My parents are sleeping down the hall on the other side of the house, so they probably don’t hear it.
