The Ones We Choose

by Julie Clark

  I hurry to clarify. “No blood draws, just anecdotal visits. I want to keep an eye on the situation.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  I can’t explain that the father Sophie’s stuck with is uncomfortably familiar and that I need to make sure she’ll be okay. That I’m haunted by the sound of Sophie, crying, and Scott’s cold dismissal of her. I worry about all the children in our study, growing up with men who view them as appendages instead of people. But the rest of them have mothers to stand between them and the rejection of their fathers. Sophie has no one, just Scott.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But don’t log it, okay?”

  She hesitates before saying, “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  I swipe my keycard and enter the lab, ending the conversation.

  —

  That afternoon, Miles is silent and morose on the ride home from school. When we arrive, he dumps his backpack in the entryway and says, “I’m hungry.”

  He unzips his sweatshirt, revealing a green stain cascading down the front of his shirt.

  “What’s that?”

  He looks down and shrugs. “I don’t know. What can I have for a snack?”

  “Why don’t you go change your shirt first?”

  “What for?”

  To be fair, my request is unusual. I only ever make him change for my mother.

  “Because Liam is coming over for dinner, and you shouldn’t look like a slob.”

  Miles rolls his eyes but knows better than to say anything. He slams down the hall and into his room. I leave him be, losing myself in dinner preparation. But it’s not until we’re seated around the dinner table that I notice his face, pinched and blotchy as if he’s been crying.

  “How was school today?” Liam asks.

  Miles shrugs, pushing peas across his plate.

  “Miles,” I prompt.

  “Fine,” he says, sinking lower into his seat.

  “You don’t sound fine,” I say.

  Miles’s expression is closed off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us,” Liam says.

  “You can’t help me at all,” Miles says to him.

  “Miles, what happened?” I ask gently.

  Miles stares down at his plate and says, “Some of the kids are saying stuff. Calling me flower because of my family tree project.”

  I fight to keep my voice calm, though I feel as if a firecracker has exploded in my chest. “Who?”

  Miles rolls a pea back across his plate with his finger. “Just some kids from class.”

  “Ethan?” I ask, his smug voice from the camping store still echoing in my mind.

  “He’s one of them.”

  “How many?” Liam asks. He puts his fork down and glances at me, concern spread across his face.

  Visions of Miles being teased—at the drinking fountain, in the bathroom—dance in my head, and I have to hold on to the edge of the table to keep from leaping out of my seat and grabbing the class roster, making angry phone calls, one after another.

  “Three,” Miles finally replies. “Ethan, Jasper, and Rory.”

  “Have you told Ms. Denny?”

  “If I told on them, it would just get worse.”

  “Do you want me to call their parents?” I imagine calling Nan and unloading all of my rage onto her, demanding she fix this somehow. At the very least, hold her child accountable.

  “No.” His voice is panicked.

  I take a sip of water, trying to put some space between my anger and what comes next. “It’s just a word,” I tell him, not believing myself. “It doesn’t mean anything. If you ignore it, they’ll stop.”

  I wince, knowing this advice, which is shoveled out by every parent across the globe, won’t help my child feel any better. And it won’t stop it either.

  He shrugs. “I guess.”

  “Are they doing anything else?” Liam asks. His gaze travels between Miles and me.

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  He sighs. “They’re saying other stuff too. That I wasn’t allowed to go to the dads’ campout because I don’t have a dad.”

  Electric rage pounds through me. How dare those kids make up such cruel lies to hurt my son. He’s never done anything to them, and yet they’ve singled him out as a target for ridicule.

  “That’s it. I’m calling Ms. Denny.”

  Miles shoots up, his voice bouncing against the walls of the small dining room. “That won’t fix anything! She’ll keep them in at recess one time, and then they’ll be back outside, saying the same things.”

  “I have to do something, Miles,” I say.

  “Please, Mom,” he begs. “Besides, it’s not like it isn’t true.”

  “What do you mean? You chose not to go. The school didn’t say you couldn’t.”

  He shakes his head, impatient with me. “I didn’t go because I don’t have a dad. It’s the same thing.”

  Fat tears drip from his cheeks to his napkin, wadded up on top of his unfinished dinner.

  “Lots of kids don’t have a dad, Miles,” Liam says gently. “Your mom and aunt Rose didn’t. It’s not as unusual as these kids are trying to make it sound.”

  “Don’t even try to tell me it’s the same,” Miles says, still only speaking to me. “You knew who your dad was. You knew his name and had pictures of him. I have nothing.”

  Miles pushes himself away from the table and disappears into his room, the soft click of his door echoing louder than if he’d slammed it.

  I start to follow him, but Liam puts a hand on my arm. “Let him have a minute.”

  Don’t tell me how to parent my child, I want to say, but I bite back the words and sink into my chair, knowing he’s probably right.

  “He’s angry,” Liam says. “That isn’t a bad thing.”

  I give Liam an incredulous look.

  “He doesn’t want you racing in and fixing everything all the time. He wants to solve the problem himself. So give him the tools to do that.”

  I push my unfinished dinner away. “And what tools are those?”

  “He needs to feel confident to stand up to them. He should learn how to defend himself.”

  “You’re suggesting he fight them?”

  “No.” Liam shakes his head. “I’m suggesting you enroll him in a boxing class.”

  He leans across the table and takes my hand.

  “Look, Paige, I know what it’s like to be the one everyone picks on. I know how powerless Miles is feeling. My dad taught me to box when I was Miles’s age to help me stand up to the kids who called me string bean and made fun of me because I always knew the answers in math but could never kick a ball more than a couple of feet. All it took was one bully—and one well-placed punch—and my problems were solved.”

  I yank my hand away from him. “Are you crazy? I am not going to tell my son to solve his problems by fighting.”

  Liam holds up his hands.

  “Okay. Karate then. At least let him learn how to defend himself. Even if he never has to use it, the other kids will think twice about messing with him if they know he can kick their asses.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. All Miles wants is to read about chemistry and mind his own business.

  “Do you hear yourself? Kick their asses? No, Liam. Just let me handle this.”

  His face hardens. “Got it. Your kid, your problem. As usual.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He stands and picks up the plates. “It means you’re going to solve this all by yourself. You don’t need any help from me. Message received.”

  He carries the plates into the kitchen, an angry clatter of cutlery and glass that makes it clear he doesn’t want to continue the conversation.

  I close my eyes, but I can’t stop thinking about my child in his room, believing he deserves to be bullied because he doesn’t have a father. And it leaves me wondering if ch
anging schools was a mistake. Even though Miles was lonely and bored at his old school, at least he was safe.

  CHROMOSOMES

  * * *

  The most significant scientific discovery of the twenty-first century was the mapping of the human genome—the twenty-three pairs of chromosomes that live inside the nucleus of every single cell in your body. We inherit twenty-three chromosomes from our mother and twenty-three from our father, which then filter through the process of recombination, shifting and churning those genes to create something completely new.

  We like to think we have some control over who our children will grow into, simply by the way we raise them. But the truth is, we don’t know which traits will emerge or be discarded until our kids are living stories, unfolding before our eyes. Genetics is a lottery. Every time chromosomes recombine, you spin the wheel and cross your fingers. It helps to start with a good partner, with traits you’d want to replicate, but that’s no guarantee.

  Miles is a unique combination of genetic material that’s never occurred before, and never will again. Unlike parents who know exactly where each half of their child’s chromosomes came from, I’ve had to study Miles as he’s grown. I know exactly where he got his flat feet and his allergy to cats. But so much more remains a mystery. I wonder what it’s like, to have a stranger living beneath your skin.

  But Miles isn’t interested in the individual pieces. If he were, I could run tests when he’s old enough that would tell him he’ll be tall or that he should lay off red meat after age thirty. Miles wants to know the living, breathing person who made him—a man who is so much more than an accumulation of chromosomes and traits. It’s a biological itch he can’t scratch, and it chases him, no matter how hard he runs.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  School pickup has become an exercise in scanning the yard for enemies. I find myself studying groups of kids lingering outside classrooms and in the hallway, wondering if they are the ones teasing Miles. I’ve just located Ethan, throwing a football, when I hear Jackie calling my name.

  “Thank God I caught you.” She’s dressed conservatively. A small, silver watch replaces her bangles, and the large hoops are gone, tiny diamond studs in her ears instead. Her unruly hair is gathered in a low bun at the base of her neck.

  “You look nice,” I say.

  She swipes my words away. “I need a huge favor,” she says, lowering her voice. “Remember that interview I told you about? My babysitter double-booked and canceled at the last minute. I don’t want to tell Aaron until after I know if I’m even in the running, but I can’t find anyone to watch Nick. Can he go home with you guys? I could pick him up in a couple of hours. Maybe we could all go for pizza afterward. My treat.”

  “We’d love that.”

  “Thank you,” she breathes in relief. “I really owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. I’m happy to help.”

  She envelops me in a tight hug. “You’re different than the other moms here,” she whispers. “They’d smile and wish me luck, and then the minute my back was turned, they’d start talking about how sad it was that I had to work outside of the home. As if that’s some kind of terminal disease.”

  I pull away and smile. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

  “Thanks.” She walks over to Nick and gives him a quick hug, then trots off with a wave.

  “Who wants frozen yogurt?” I ask the boys.

  They both shout, “We do!” and sprint toward the car.

  —

  Later that evening, Jackie and I sit across from each other at Pitfire Pizza while the boys grab the booth behind us, deep in a discussion about Star Wars.

  “So how did it go?” I ask Jackie.

  She drinks her beer. “Pretty well, I think. I swear, Paige, walking through the doors of that office made me feel alive again.”

  I smile. “It’s nice to have something to think about other than your kid’s next meal or whether they’re getting enough sleep. When I’m in the lab, I have to set two alarms, just to make sure I remember to pick up Miles from school.”

  She smiles at the waitress who deposits our pizzas and tops off our water. “I miss that. It doesn’t make me a bad mother to want something for myself.”

  “Absolutely not. In fact, I think I’m a better mother because Miles sees me following my passion. He watches me set goals and achieve them.” I take a sip of beer. “So tell me more about the interview. When will you find out?”

  “The second round is after the CEO gets back from a trip to Thailand.” She leans toward me, resting her elbows on the table. “I don’t want to let myself think too much about it, in case I jinx it. So let’s talk about something else. Tell me more about the study you’re running at the university. What’s it about?”

  “My team has discovered a genetic marker on the Y chromosome that inhibits paternal bonding.”

  Jackie smiles. “Now tell me in English.”

  I laugh. “Sorry. Basically, we’ve always believed in nurture theory—that people will parent their children much the same way they were parented. But what we’re discovering now is that some aspects of parenting are actually genetic.”

  I tell her what we’ve discovered about oxytocin and its role in fathers. “We’re studying a specific genetic marker on the Y chromosome that we now know inhibits the release of oxytocin in fathers.”

  “So it’s inherited?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Instead of assuming these men are just assholes, we’ve figured out a genetic explanation for their apathy.”

  The boys’ laughter floats up from behind us, and we turn, making sure they’re not getting into trouble.

  “What are the men in your study like?” she asks, turning back to me.

  I think about Scott Sullivan. “Broken,” I say. “Though they’d describe their lives as good. They don’t know what they’re missing. It’s their kids who suffer the most.”

  “That’s got to be really hard to watch.”

  I think of Mara Sullivan’s laughing face. “I’ve got a test subject whose wife just unexpectedly died,” I tell her. “Their daughter is five. They were one of the first families to sign up, so they’ve been with me from the beginning.”

  “Oh no,” Jackie breathes. “And the father is . . .”

  “His oxytocin is some of the lowest in the entire study,” I say.

  “So now what?”

  Mara should be raising her daughter, and Sophie should grow up to have more than just a few fuzzy memories of the kind woman her mother was. “I guess he’ll do the best he can, but it’s not going to be easy for either of them.”

  I think about my father, about his inability to show up for even the basic events in our lives. Or even a simple lunch. I shudder at the idea of him raising Rose and me by himself.

  Jackie plays with the silverware, trying to balance her knife on top of the fork. “Can I ask what made you decide to use a sperm donor?”

  I shrug. “I used to date men who weren’t interested in more than a casual relationship, and for a while, that worked for me. I was chasing my own dreams and didn’t have time for drama. But as I got older, my priorities shifted. I’d watch Rose with her kids and ache to hold my own baby.”

  Jackie nods. “I remember that. It felt like everyone in the world had a baby except for me.”

  “Right. But I worked all the time. I didn’t have time or energy to put into falling in love.” I decide not to expand on all the underlying reasons behind that thinking, the ones that are too complicated for an evening of pizza and beer. “So one night my lab partner had a dinner party, and there was a lesbian couple there—very pregnant—and the dinner conversation was all about how they used a sperm bank to conceive. Something just clicked for me. I had a great job with great benefits. I was financially secure and I really didn’t need to wait. I could jump right to the baby. So that’s what I did.”

  “That must have taken a lot of courage.”

  “Not really. I
knew what I wanted, and I knew I could be a good mother. And I am. But—” The image of Miles crying over dinner pops into my head. “Miles has been struggling lately.”

  I tell Jackie about the bullying, how his conception makes him feel different, and that I don’t know how to help him. It’s a relief to lay it all down, and the sympathy in Jackie’s eyes makes it almost bearable.

  “That must be so hard,” she says. “There’s really nothing about his donor you can tell him?”

  “I have a profile,” I say. “But it’s pretty generic. They structure it so that it’s impossible to get any identifying information.”

  “Maybe it would help him to have it anyways.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s just . . . where would we go from there? He still wouldn’t know who his donor was. What if that makes it worse?”

  Jackie tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Maybe he just needs a touchstone. Something he can claim for himself.” She shrugs. “Think about it. You’ll know if it’s the right thing to do.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. Behind us, Miles laughs, and Jackie’s eyes meet mine. “How does Liam feel about the donor?” she asks.

  “It’s kind of a nonissue. I knew Liam long before we ever started dating, so the fact that I used a donor was always something he knew about me,” I tell her. “It wasn’t something I ever needed to disclose.”

  Jackie lowers her voice. “So how often do you get to see Liam? Do you guys get any alone time?”

  I pull a piece of pepperoni off my pizza and nibble it. “Not a lot,” I say. “We grab nights together when we can. The occasional weekend away. And a lot of late-night phone calls.”

  “How does Liam feel about that?”

  “He’d like more,” I say. “We both would. But Miles doesn’t want to let him in, no matter how hard Liam tries.”

  I push my plate away and look out the window. The sun has set, and cars sweep by, their headlights illuminating the dingy tire store across the street. “The hardest part is balancing the two of them, finding ways to include Liam without making it seem like I’m trying to push my boyfriend on my kid.”