by Kira Peikoff
“Then I’ll arrange the tests,” Rob says. “I’ve already explained the situation to Mrs. Hendricks, and she’s agreed to have Charlie tested, too. She was completely taken aback about his origins, so now she wants to establish his paternity and maternity. I guess Jillian lied and told her she got pregnant from a one-night stand.”
“Shocker,” I mutter.
I try to push myself up to sit, but a stabbing pain in my lower right side cuts me off.
“Don’t,” Rob says. “What do you need?”
A new body, I think. A lifetime of vacation.
“A stiff drink,” is all I reply.
He cracks a smile. “Well, your IV is full of Demerol, so that’s even better.”
“How long do I have to be here?”
“Another few days at least to monitor you for infection. My guess is we’ll go home over the weekend.”
I perk up. “That’s not so bad!”
“But you’ll need to be in a wheelchair for some time. I won’t lie, it’s going to be a long road to recovery. There will be lots of doctor’s visits, physical therapy, a follow-up surgery … I just want you to prepare yourself.”
My head sinks deeper into the pillow. It occurs to me that I’ve traded a mental affliction for a physical one; I’m not sure which kind is worse.
“But I’ll walk again, right?” I ask. “I mean, eventually?”
“You totally will!” Abby declares, betraying a slight hysteria. “You’re not going to be in a wheelchair forever!” She blinks at Rob. “Right?”
He smiles confidently at her. “Knowing your mother, she’ll by running by Christmas.”
Whatever it takes, I think. Jillian will not steal my legs from me.
“Consider it done,” I declare.
Abby is satisfied. “And what about Charlie? When will we get to see him again?”
“I’m not sure.” Rob shrugs, glancing at Ethan. “A lot will depend on the test.”
“Can I call him? I want to see how he’s doing.”
“Let’s not bother them. It’s a tough time for their family.”
“Please?” she begs. “Just for, like, five minutes? He’s my brother, isn’t he?”
“Oh, just let her,” I tell Rob. Our poor girl has been through enough. I’d do anything to make her happy for a couple of minutes. “He might like to hear from her.”
Rob considers. “All right. You can use my phone outside.”
“Yay!” she squeals.
When they leave the room, Ethan and I find ourselves unexpectedly alone. Standing at the foot of the bed, he gestures to a chair nearby. “Should I … or do you want to …?”
“Go ahead.”
He pulls it up and sits. The silence looms heavy. We haven’t been alone together since the day we broke up—another lifetime ago.
After a bit, the urge to fill the void is overwhelming.
“You could have gone back to the city,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to stay.”
He shrugs. “The cops interviewed me, so I ended up sticking around. I wanted to make sure you’d be okay.”
Again, I think of Charlie clinging to Jillian in terror while she brandished her gun. I can’t imagine the trauma he’s suffering now; and the fact that I can’t comfort him, or even be with him, is its own form of torture.
Ethan seems wrapped up in his own disturbing memory. “I can’t stop replaying it all.”
“I know. At least no one else got hurt. I mean, aside from her.”
“She doesn’t count.” He grimaces. “But let’s not talk about her.”
“Okay.” On an impulse, I switch tracks. “How about the fact that you might have two kids?”
As soon as I say it, my worry spikes. If he is the father of one or both kids, will he try to take them away? I can’t risk going to court and being exposed for who I really am, so he would have all the power.
“Let’s wait and see,” he says. “But don’t get all worked up. I’m not in a position to raise a child anymore.”
I try not to let my relief show. “Oh no?”
“I’m planning to retire next year and travel the world. Remember how we used to talk about living in Florence or Rome?”
“Yeah, but Colton was too sick …”
We both fall silent. The moment is strangely intimate.
Then he says, “I’d still want to be in their life to some degree. Like an uncle or something.”
I smile. “That would be nice.”
“And you …” He trails off. “You and Rob are … happy?”
I consider how to be truthful without hurting him. “It works.”
“That’s good.” He swallows and looks away. “I’m sorry for the way things ended between us.”
“Me too.” Despite my desire to avoid a fight, my voice hardens. “All of a sudden, you’re just, like, fine with him? After what you did to destroy us?”
“I didn’t understand before,” he admits. “I really didn’t get it.”
“Get what?” I want to hear him say it.
“The second I met Abby, everything changed.” He gazes off into space. “I’d always stood by this absolute boundary of never engineering human embryos, but she wasn’t created to be smarter or better than anyone else; just normal. Who knows if she’d still be alive otherwise?”
“Gee, I never tried to tell you that.”
“Well, I had to see it with my own eyes. And now I’m going to have to rethink some of my positions. It’s pretty confusing, to be honest.”
I motion toward my sandbag legs. “I don’t feel bad for you.”
He cringes. “Fair enough. So, can we start over? Be friends?”
I sigh. “It’s not that simple. You ruined us, and we’re still paying the price.”
“Because of the warrants?”
“You mentioned the cops …” My mouth goes dry. “I guess they haven’t made any connections—yet.”
“I actually gave them your fake names in my statement,” he says, to my surprise. “Michael and Lisa Burke, right?”
It’s a gesture of goodwill if I’ve ever seen one. “How did you know?”
“Abby told me.”
“Thank you. For real, that means a lot.”
“You know, I still think of you as family.” He smiles sadly. “I think I always will.”
* * *
A week later, I’m back at home with Abby and Rob, but life is nowhere near normal. Despite my new physical limitations, in some ways, it’s better. I’m not fixated on Jillian invading our lives. I’m not worried about any delusions accosting me. And Rob’s regained his confidence in my mental stability. Instead of his voice bristling with concern, he speaks to me again as his wife. He kisses me like he means it. The footing I thought we lost has been restored.
Best of all, the DNA test proved my hunch: he is Abby’s real father after all. We were thrilled when we opened the letter from the hospital. Not that we needed the validation; we’re a family and we always will be.
As for Charlie, his tests proved that he’s my kid, and—remarkably—Ethan’s. No wonder he looks so much like Colton. Ethan was thrilled; he told me he would consider moving upstate after his retirement next year to be closer to us.
But sadly, I still haven’t set eyes on my boy again. Mrs. Hendricks and I have agreed to take things slow. We don’t want to force a meeting on him before he’s ready.
When I spoke to her on the phone, she reminded me that he had just lost his mother. “I mean …” She faltered. “Well, you know what I mean.”
The anguish was plain in her voice; Jillian was her little girl, despite the disastrous person she became.
“I understand,” I told her, “and I’m sorry for your loss.” No matter the circumstances, the death of a child is a tragedy no parent should ever face.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “And I’m sorry for what she did.”
“Thank you.” I tried not to let the desperation creep into my voice. “I would love to see Cha
rlie when the time is right … but I agree that it’s best not to push him.”
So here we are, in a holding pattern that could last indefinitely.
In the meantime, I feel like an elderly woman with a litany of physical complaints. Confined to my wheelchair, my universe has shrunk to the few rooms of our house I can navigate without going upstairs. I’m sleeping on the pull-out couch in the living room. I need help going to the bathroom and taking a shower. I’m on opioids for the constant pain in my hip. And my stomach issues are severe: you’ve never experienced real bloating until your intestines have been operated on. All I can eat so far is applesauce and tofu.
Abby’s been a champ about my limitations. Without my asking, she’s been bringing me tea in the mornings and doing her homework beside me in the afternoons. While I know she’s happy to be back at school with Riley and Tyler and to join the big end-of-year field trip, I think she’s also eager to spend time at home. Now, she barely checks her phone around me, and she doesn’t run to her room as much to be alone. The past few weeks have infused our relationship with a subtle gravity. Our time together is too precious to waste.
That’s why this morning, a Saturday, I call her over to my couch-bed after she finishes her Cheerios in the kitchen. There are things that need to be said, and I’m done with hiding—if not from the world, then at least from my own daughter. Rob’s out in his woodworking shed, so we have a window of privacy as she climbs up next to me and grabs the remote.
“Cartoons?” she asks. “Or a movie? We never finished The Parent Trap.”
“In a minute.” I shift on my pillows to face her, wincing as the pain flares up in my hip. “We need to clear the air.”
Her face scrunches up in dismay. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, nothing like that. The truth is, I owe you an apology. I should have told you sooner about your history. I’m sorry for keeping it a secret.”
She scowls. “You never told me at all.”
“I know. It was wrong to lie to you.”
“Yeah.” She broods in silence. “You know what sucks? If we’re really being honest?”
“Tell me.”
“That you go all the way to the city for Colton’s birthday every year, but you won’t even come to my soccer games.”
“Oh honey.” Her dejection fills me with an ache that no medication can relieve. “You’ve got it all wrong. Colton gets one day a year. The other three hundred sixty-four are for you.”
She frowns. “How’s that?”
“Getting seen at your school events runs the risk of someone putting two and two together—you know how the moms gossip. And then it would be bad news for all of us. Someone could call the cops …” I trail off, not wanting to animate this worry too much in her mind. “You have no idea how much it kills me not to come.”
“But Dad does once in a while,” she points out. “How come?”
“Because it was my face all over the news. I was the Frankenmom, the pregnant runaway.” I roll my eyes. “Your dad was rarely pictured.”
She gets very quiet. “Do you think I’m a freak? Or, like, some kind of monster?”
I gasp. “Of course not! How could you think that?”
“Because, remember that note? The one that called you crazy? I told you I didn’t write it, but you didn’t believe me.”
I recall the incident with shame. “You’re right. I didn’t. And it’s ridiculous to admit, but I was worried that maybe you inherited some mean streak of Jillian’s. I promise I don’t think that anymore.”
“Oh my God.” Her eyes widen. “It wasn’t Sydney who wrote it. It was her.”
“Are you serious?”
“The permission slip was given out in art class. And she was super jealous of you.”
A familiar mix of disgust and shock overwhelms me. “I knew she was finding ways to cause trouble. This is exactly why I’ve been so overprotective.”
And then my sage child articulates the real point. “But you didn’t stop her, did you?”
“No,” I agree. “I didn’t.”
“Well then?” She raises her eyebrows expectantly, and I catch a glimpse of the teenager she will soon become.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll work on chilling out. I guess it’s inevitable. One day you’ll start driving, and then you’ll go off to college, and eventually I won’t even know what you’re doing. You’ll call home a few times a week if I’m lucky.” I smile to show I’m joking, but it doesn’t counteract my undertone of despair. My other fears surface, too—one day, the world will find out about her and Charlie. Will they be able to stand up to any bullies? To the press? To a lifetime of scrutiny? And what will happen when Abby wants to have children of her own—children who will inherit Jillian’s mitochondrial DNA, too?
“Mo-om,” she groans. “I’m not even in sixth grade yet. You won’t even let me go on Instagram!”
I laugh. She’s right. I can’t problem-solve the future.
“Go ahead. Scroll your heart out. But don’t talk to strangers!”
She extends her hand, businesslike. “Deal.”
“You know,” I say, shaking on it, “I always thought the hardest part of being a mother was protecting you. But I was wrong. The hardest part is letting go.”
“I’ll be fine.” Her smile brims with the invincibility of youth. “Don’t worry.”
“I’ll try.” I blink back my tears. “I just never had a child grow up.”
EPILOGUE
THREE MONTHS LATER
September has snuck up on us the way it always does. The brisk air and the back-to-school shopping are a reminder that the lazy days of summer are winding down. But this Labor Day weekend marks a clean break with our usual isolation. For the first time, we’re hosting a family barbecue.
Abby, Ethan, and Rob are hanging out near the grill, and any minute, I hope, Charlie and his grandmother will be joining the festivities. I’ve waited out the entire summer without properly meeting my son, so I couldn’t resist the opportunity to call Mrs. Hendricks and tell her about today’s gathering. She said she would run it by Charlie—that he loved hot dogs—but that she couldn’t guarantee their attendance.
Of course, just in case, I’ve bought three kinds of hot dogs and an Oreo ice cream cake, because what kid doesn’t love Oreos? It seemed like a good bet in the store, but when I saw it this morning in the freezer, I realized I don’t actually know my own kid at all. I have no clue what he likes for lunch, what his favorite book is, who his friends are. I’m greedy for the intimate knowledge that can only be acquired by raising him day in and day out.
The sun is arcing higher in the sky, a reminder that they’re late—if they’re even coming. Each time I steal a glance at the gate from my lounge chair, my desperation rises a notch. Meanwhile, Abby’s now scarfing down her own hot dog on her way to the pool, and Ethan and Rob are eating burgers at the patio table, presumably talking business.
Last month, Ethan called us with some shocking news. In his capacity as head of the President’s Bioethics Committee, he’s privy to the highest level of discussions about national science policy. Turns out that the new president has been complaining to her staff about how the U.S. is lagging behind China and the U.K. on genetically engineering embryos to prevent heritable diseases. She has decided to not only dismantle the current restrictions but also dedicate a new center at the National Institutes of Health to incentivize research. Rob is interested in being a consultant, and Ethan is working on facilitating the connection for him. Best of all, Ethan’s pulled a couple of strings with his old friends at the Justice Department, who are eager to ingratiate themselves with the new administration, so our arrest warrants have been thrown out.
We’re no longer living a lie. No more hiding out in the house, no more skipping Abby’s events, no more terror if a cop is driving behind us. When the Center for Embryonic Cell and Gene Therapy opens later this year, Rob may commute once a month to DC, and I plan to get involved with the PTA at Abby’s s
chool. I also want to take up my own writing projects again—maybe a memoir, to set the record straight.
A creak near the fence makes my heart leap.
They’re here. Mrs. Hendricks is opening the gate for Charlie. Seeing him across the lawn is surreal—his scruffy blond hair, his tanned skin, his skinny body. I want to stop time and simply revel in the sight of him. He steps inside tentatively, wearing red swim trunks dotted with little sharks. Abby jumps out of the pool and rushes to greet them. I make my way across the grass, leaning heavily on my cane.
“Hey!” Abby squeals, offering him a high five.
He gives her a timid slap in return, but her exuberance is not diminished.
“Wanna try my Slip ’n Slide?” She points to the fifty-foot blue slide we set up on the hill at the edge of our yard. “It’s really fun!”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“Yay, I’ll go start the hose!”
She scampers away as I approach.
“I’m so glad you guys came.” I resist reaching out to Charlie for a hug; it’s not yet my place.
Mrs. Hendricks rewards my restraint with a smile.
“Glad we could make it,” she says. “Actually, he’s been asking about you guys. He wanted to come.”
I kneel down in front of him, barely noticing the sting in my hip. It doesn’t bother me that we’re two strangers starting from scratch, or that it will take time—maybe years—to feel like a real family. In this moment, only joy registers.
“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
He regards me shyly. “Okay.”
“Are you hungry? Can I make you a hot dog?”
He gazes across the yard at the grill, where Ethan and Rob are waving us over.
“That sounds good,” he says. “Thanks.”
“With ketchup and a pickle, no mustard?”
A grin lights up his face. “How did you know?”
