by Kira Peikoff
He is still aghast. “What are you …?”
“I had to find you guys,” I say simply. It’s the truth.
He yanks Abigail by the arm, and she’s too bewildered to resist. “Dad, what—?”
She doesn’t see his face as he pulls her close, the protectiveness writ large in his furrowed brow. He loves her. That much is clear. She is his creation. Our creation.
But he’s shielding her with his body as if bracing for an attack. After a second, I understand: he thinks I want to punish him for leaving me high and dry. The thought makes me literally laugh out loud. My intentions couldn’t be more different.
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble. I forgave you a long time ago.”
I reach out to shake on a truce, but he recoils from my hand.
“Jesus, I’m not going to burn you.”
My anger rises, but I remind myself that I’m not the only one who was unjustly punished. He’s done hard time in his own way, a prisoner informally sentenced to years of hardship monitoring Claire. He’s been stuck in the wrong life, just as Abby’s been stuck with the wrong mother. What they don’t realize is that I’ve come to set them free.
He narrows his eyes. “I don’t even know you anymore.”
“Nothing’s changed. I’m still Jilly.”
My old nickname doesn’t seem to penetrate his shell of suspicion. How thoroughly has Claire brainwashed him? Is he too damaged to tell the good guy from the bad? But he was always brilliant. Surely a spark of the original Robert Nash must still be smoldering, if only I can reach it.
“Dad!” Abby wrenches herself free. “What is going on? How do you two know each other?”
I address him. “She doesn’t know anything, does she?”
He lowers his eyes.
“Tell her. She deserves to know.”
“Know what?” she demands. “Am I dying?”
“No! No, nothing like that.” He kneels and takes her hand. “This was not how I planned to do this. But …” He licks his lips. “Honey, you’re a very special person … a very unique person …”
I can’t stand to watch him dance around our accomplishment.
“I’m not really your cousin,” I blurt out.
She shrinks away from me in horror. “Wait, what? You’re JH0502?”
“Yep. That was the easiest thing to tell you until I could explain everything in person. The truth is, I’m your—”
“My colleague,” Nash interrupts. “She’s my former colleague. Back before you were born, when I was … a doctor.”
Abby stares at him. “What? You make furniture.”
“Well,” he says, “a long time ago, in another life, I helped infertile couples have children. And I did research in my own lab.”
Abby smiles in confusion, as if he’s telling a joke but forgot the punch line. “I don’t get it.”
“I’m serious,” he tells her. “Long before you were born, I went to medical school at Harvard, graduated at the top of my class, and did a fellowship in reproductive endocrinology at NYU, then opened my own clinic and lab in New York City.”
Abby looks back and forth between us, totally speechless. I can tell she’s starting to believe him, but none of it makes sense yet.
“In other words,” I cut in, “your dad was a pretty big deal. Which is why I went to work for him.”
“Huh?” she says. “You guys worked together?”
He nods. “We researched early human development—how to avoid passing on terrible genetic mutations.”
“And you were our greatest experiment,” I declare proudly. “Your mother carried a fatal defect in her DNA, and we intervened so you would be born healthy—we gave you my mitochondria instead of hers.”
She stares at me, motionless. I can almost see her mind turning over the pieces of this puzzle, attempting to make their extraordinary shapes bridge the gap between all she knows and all she doesn’t. “You … made me?”
“Yes.”
Her lips quiver. “Dad! Is this for real?”
He nods. “And every single day since you were born, I’ve thanked my lucky stars that you turned out to be such a healthy, beautiful girl.”
“Luck had no part in it,” I correct him. “We knew what we were doing. The point is that you and I share my mitochondria—the DNA that is passed from a mother to a child. So that means …” I wait for Nash to cut me off again, but this time he lets me seize the opening. “That means I’m also your mother.”
She lets out a noise somewhere between a moan and a snort. Nash cringes as we watch her digest this news. I want to shake him, to remind him that I’m the one he ought to thank, not his fucking lucky stars.
“You’re joking, right?” She presses her forehead. “This is a really mean prank.”
“It’s true. Our DNA map proves it. We share the thirty-seven genes exclusive to mitochondrial DNA.”
She scowls at Nash. “So, like, my whole life has been a lie?”
“Don’t say that! You have a great life!”
“Then how come you and Mom never told me?”
“Well, we got in some trouble back then,” he says vaguely, “so we kept things quiet. That’s why we don’t go out much. We wanted to give you a normal childhood.”
“When were you planning to tell me?”
“When you were a little older.” His smile is apologetic. “But now you know.”
“So, I’m healthy? But I have three parents?”
Nash winces; he’s afraid I’m going to mention Ethan. But that would only provoke more antagonism on his part, as if things aren’t bad enough. I shoot him an expression that I hope says, Don’t worry, I’m on your side.
Then I crouch to Abby’s level. “I had to find you. Before you were born, your parents came here, and I never got to meet you, but I couldn’t stand not knowing you at all.”
“How did you find us?” Nash demands, in a tone of outright hostility.
I speak to Abby. “I joined MapMyDNA knowing that pretty much everyone was doing home genetic tests, hoping you were too. I checked the site for three years until you finally popped up.”
“What?” Abby cries.
“Yep. When we messaged, I was dying to meet you, but your other mother—she didn’t want me in your life. It looks like she fed you lies and pretended I never existed.”
“That’s not fair!” Nash objects.
“Oh, you want to talk about fair? How about shutting me out of her entire life!”
He falls silent. He knows that he screwed me over, even if it was a passive consequence of his entrapment, not a deliberate choice. And that’s the only reason I’ve forgiven him. After my own three-year sentence, I intimately understand the frustrations of an unjust fate: there is nothing worse than missing out on your own family.
Except if they belong to the woman who stole them.
I cup Abby’s pale face in my hands. “Sweetie, you’re the daughter I never knew. I didn’t even know your birthday, so instead, every May second, I wrote you a card.”
“Why May second?” She frowns. “Wait, isn’t that … 0502 … your screen name …?”
“That’s right. The day we created you, twelve years ago.”
She inhales sharply as I unzip my purse and take out the stack of cards I’ve tied together with a pink ribbon. “I saved them all. For you.”
She slips off the ribbon with shaking hands. The cards scatter at her feet, a colorful bundle of pastel and glitter. I wonder where we’ll be on her next birthday. Together, abroad? My mind flashes to the glory that awaits us once we clear the last remaining hurdles. Then it’s on to international fame, a comfortable fortune, a place in history.
Because once Nash comes to his senses, we can focus on publishing our results in an international journal. Abby will need full-body scans, whole genome sequencing, tissue biopsies, the works. The data must be as comprehensive as my other, private records.
But if we don’t act soon, it will be too late. Foreign
scientists are racing to make our breakthrough, now that other countries have woken up to the depravity of letting fatal genetic defects pass between generations. The U.S. is still regressive, but similar research is under way in China, Japan, and the U.K. No one has managed to engineer a three-parent baby yet, but sooner or later, some team will do it and they will reap all the rewards. Unless we show the world the truth.
Then the dam choking off our lives can finally give way. Nash and I can apply for political asylum in whatever country we’re offered jobs—I’m thinking professorships, funding, our own lab—and we can all begin the remarkable life we deserve. Better late than never.
I can’t wait for my mother to witness my dramatic comeback. I had it all wrong, she’ll tell me. You never deserved what you got.
“Is that why you came to work at my school?” Abby asks, gazing up at me with her indigo-blue eyes—the same color, I notice, as mine.
“I had to find a way to get to know you. Since it’s the only middle school in Garrison, I figured we could meet that way. I wanted to tell you the other day at lunch, but … I lost my nerve. I wasn’t ready yet.”
“All this time”—Nash gapes at me—“you’ve been at her school?”
“Only since March.”
“And you come forward now, right when her mother’s gone to the hospital?”
Without missing a beat, I say, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Bullshit!” He picks Abby up and muscles past me into the house.
“Dad! Why are you being so mean?”
“She’s a dangerous person.” Then he hisses at me: “Stay away from us. I’m going to report you to her school first thing in the morning for fraud.”
I wedge my boot into the door right as he slams it.
“Will you, Michael Burke?” I cock my head. “For fraud?”
His righteous sneer evaporates.
“Great,” I say brightly, “so here’s what happens next. You and Abby come with me. We’re going to have dinner at my house, and then you can go. Is that so bad?”
He stares at me in disbelief.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Don’t be silly! I just want more time to catch up.”
“Seriously, you can’t do this!”
“Do what?” I grin at Abby to show her how unnecessary his stress is.
He mutters a curse I choose to ignore. “One dinner,” he says slowly. “And then you’ll leave us alone?”
“Whatever you want.” I flash him an innocent smile. Later, when he comes to his senses, he’ll thank me for getting him out of this nightmare.
Abby clutches his shirt. “I don’t want to go.”
He glares at me. “Neither do I.”
“Oh, come on.” I beam with enough enthusiasm for all of us. “It’ll be fun!”
ABBY
“Let me just grab my backpack,” I say as Dad starts following Mrs. Miller to her car. “I need my history book for the test tomorrow.”
“You’re such a good student.” She smiles over her shoulder. “Just like I was.”
I still don’t get why Dad agreed to go with her. I just know something isn’t right. Dad had this weird look in his eyes the second he saw her, something I’ve never seen in him before. Like he was trapped.
But why would he be so uncomfortable around Mrs. Miller, everyone’s favorite teacher? I guess she’s not really a teacher, though. All these weeks of her art class, and she was only there for me. Because she’s my … part mom? And he’s a doctor? He’s always making tables and covered in dust. I can’t imagine him working with her in a science lab, creating me from scratch.
It is completely nuts.
But it does sort of make sense, in a super sci-fi way. I’ve always wondered why I didn’t get Colton’s horrible disease. You were born lucky, my mom once told me.
But I wasn’t lucky … I was made. No wonder I can’t remember the last time I stayed home sick from school. I am the healthiest kid I know.
If Mrs. Miller is partly to thank, why is Dad so upset with her? Why did he and Mom pretend she never existed? God, I wish she was here right now.
“Abby!” Mrs. Miller calls from the driveway. “Let’s go!”
I hear her engine rev up and a door slam. My backpack is on the living room floor where I dropped it earlier. I don’t have a test tomorrow. But I do have a cell phone. I’ve been lied to a lot lately, so when Mrs. Miller told us one dinner and then you can go, I’m not sure I believe her. After all, she did fake being an art teacher. And she must have been the one who walked up to our house that night. I’m starting to think she’s more creepy than cool … maybe even dangerous.
Dad never wants to bother the cops, but if he won’t, I will.
* * *
In the car, I sit in the back seat and Dad sits next to her up front, staring silently out the window. She’s as upbeat as she is at school. Except now, her cheerful energy makes my stomach feel like a rubber band stretched too tight.
“I’m so happy you guys are coming over!” She pats Dad’s knee affectionately. “Good thing I bought lots of food. Do you still like your steak rare?”
Dad keeps his eyes on the window. “I’m not hungry.”
“You will be.”
The car zooms around a bend, heading deeper into the woods. The road is pitch-black and tall trees close in all around us, crowding out the sky; we might as well be going through a tunnel. Inside my backpack, I feel the comforting edge of my phone.
“How about you?” Her blue eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “How do you like your steak?”
“Um, we don’t eat red meat. My mom won’t touch it since it made her sick when she was pregnant.”
Mrs. Miller’s face scrunches up. I realize I’ve said the wrong thing.
“I’ll try it, though,” I say quickly. “Why not?”
“What about you?” She glances at Dad, keeping one hand on the wheel. “Deprived of your favorite meal all these years? What a shame!”
He shrugs. “I don’t miss it.”
“Well, everything changes tonight.” Her tone is weirdly excited.
The car rumbles along, turning off the paved street and onto a bumpy dirt path. The familiar whistle of the Metro-North train blares in the distance, so we must be near the tracks; they follow next to the Hudson. The thought comforts me, because otherwise the forest is too thick and dark to tell where we are. I don’t see any other houses either, just a bunch of trees swaying in the wind.
Soon, we make a sharp left and pass a sign that reads CHERRY MILL LANE. A little cottage comes into view. It reminds me of a house in a fairy tale, with its one-story sloped roof and white siding and bright-red door, tucked into the forest. I think of the witch who lived alone in the woods in “Hansel and Gretel.” Didn’t she try to, like, eat kids?
We stop on the driveway. Mrs. Miller hops out and opens my door.
“Welcome!” She reaches out to help me, and her hand closes around mine. Dad hurries around his door and breaks us apart.
“I’ll take her.” He picks me up like I’m a little kid. My backpack dangles off my shoulder.
“I can walk,” I say, but he doesn’t put me down.
Mrs. Miller walks inside, humming, and Dad follows nervously, as if expecting someone else to jump out. He squints at the bushes and looks over his shoulder, holding me tightly.
“Oh, cut it out.” She smiles at us from the doorway, but there’s frustration in her voice. “I won’t bite.”
Dad’s face is blank. That means he’s past anger and on to something worse. He stops a few feet away, hesitating, and her tone switches from annoyance to sympathy.
“You’ve been through so much. Let yourself enjoy a night off—you deserve it.”
“I don’t need a night off. I need to go check on my wife.”
Her expression turns cold. “Is that what she makes you call her now?”
“All right.” Dad shifts me higher on hi
s hip. “We’re going. I’m calling an Uber.” As he takes his phone out of his jeans pocket, I am filled with relief. This is getting so weird. Mrs. Miller is clearly jealous of my mom. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mrs. Miller says lightly.
He glares at her. “Really?”
“All the food will go to waste.” She winks at me like we share a secret. “Come on in, let me feed you.”
I smack his chest. “No, I want to go home!”
“Listen to me,” he whispers, his voice almost vanishing in the wind. “If we don’t go in, things could get a whole lot worse.”
“Why?” I whine. “Please.”
“Trust me.” Then he announces, “We’re coming.”
He slips his phone back into his pocket and marches us into the house, gripping me so I can’t jump down and run away. I spot a number twelve above the mailbox.
As we enter the shabby cottage, my panic comes roaring back. I may not be dying, but I sure as hell don’t feel safe. I wish my mom, or Riley, or someone knew where we were.
Mrs. Miller’s friendliness is dizzying. I want to shake her. My confusion mounts as she proudly shows us through her house, pointing out the Oriental rug she got on sale, the rustic wooden dining table, and the vase of fresh pink lilies on it. The ceilings are low and the place is old and tiny—just a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom—but I must admit, when she lights the wood in the fireplace and the orange flames crackle to life, the cramped space transforms into a cozy room.
“Sit, sit,” she tells us, pointing at the fluffy brown couch in front of the fireplace, while she goes to prepare dinner. Even Dad acts calm as we sit and warm our hands.
In the kitchen, she takes off her blazer and drapes it over the back of a barstool. “What can I get you guys to drink? Hot cocoa?”
