The Ones We Choose

by Julie Clark

  “They’re back east.” I bite my tongue, trying not to dwell on this half-truth. This isn’t the time or the place to explain things.

  Liam wipes his mouth with a napkin. “How’s Miles surviving that?”

  “Not well. I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned it to you.”

  “We don’t really talk much. I help him sometimes with his homework if I’m over at Henry and Rose’s and he’s there. I tell him about games I’m working on.” He shrugs. “It’s pretty one-sided.”

  “Thanks for helping him on his science fair project,” I say. I pop the last of the wrap into my mouth and look around for a napkin.

  Liam hands me one and says, “We’re taking it slow.”

  I hesitate, thinking I’ve found my opening. But Liam reaches for the skillet, turns on the water, and starts to scrub, and my words dry up, fluttering away like leaves in the wind.

  —

  As we walk back to the car, Liam bumps his shoulder into mine. “I had a good time. I’m thinking about going to their Italian night so I can learn how to make pasta.”

  “Sounds fun,” I say.

  I wait to see if he’ll invite me. But he’s just making conversation, and my stomach sinks.

  He unlocks the car and holds the passenger door open for me. I slide in, tucking myself in the corner of the seat. The ease I felt earlier has vanished, leaving only the minutes ticking down toward the evening’s end, our time together nearly gone.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” He looks at me with a half smile that reminds me of sleepy mornings and hot coffee and a time when it was easy to be in love.

  —

  When Liam pulls up in front of my house, I say, “Can you come in for a little bit? I need to talk with you about something.”

  A look of uncertainty passes over his face, as if he’s not sure he wants to risk it.

  “Please,” I say. “I just need you to hear me out.”

  He cuts the engine and follows me to the front door.

  I pay Gemini and thank her for staying with Miles. “Do you want something to drink?” I ask Liam when we’re alone again, hovering in the door of the kitchen. “Beer? Water?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” He stays perched on the edge of the sofa, as if he might pop up and leave as soon as possible. I walk past the spot next to him that I wish I could take, to the chair opposite him. As I lower myself, my knee accidentally knocks a pile of mail off the coffee table and onto the floor.

  I’d tossed the stack there earlier, not giving it more than a cursory glance. I’d been too excited at the prospect of seeing Liam to look through it. But when I pick it up off the floor now, one envelope catches my attention, or rather the postmark on the envelope catches my attention. Rockaway, Long Island. Jackie.

  I flip it over, but there’s no return address, so I tear it open just as Liam says, “I’m glad you invited me in. It’s fun to watch you open your mail.” I look up, relieved to see a smirk on his face.

  “Hold on,” I say. “I think this is from Jackie.”

  Liam watches as I pull out what looks like a photocopy of a genetic test. My eyes leap to the top, where I read Aaron’s name. “Oh my god,” I say. I quickly scan the results. There at the bottom are the words: less than 27 CAG repeats, negative.

  Negative. Aaron did not inherit the Huntington’s gene from his father, and with less than twenty-seven repeats, Miles is safe too.

  “What is it?” Liam asks.

  Relief surges through me as I look up at him, tears welling in my eyes. “A gift.”

  Confusion flashes across his face. “What are you talking about?”

  The worry that’s been following me floats away, as if it was no more than a bubble. I can see the path in front of me now. Once I break down the wall, I’ll finally be free to tell the story. Because that’s all it is. A story, with a beginning, middle, and now, an end.

  “Aaron was Miles’s donor.”

  Liam recoils, clearly not expecting that. “What? How do you know?”

  “I found out by accident.” I tell him how Aaron sought me out for advice about Huntington’s and his desire to keep his past a secret from Jackie.

  “Wait, Huntington’s?” Liam asks. His eyes dart toward Miles’s room, and I hold up the genetic test.

  “Aaron didn’t have the gene,” I say.

  Liam looks confused. “I think I need you to start at the beginning.”

  I take a deep breath and tell him everything, from the chemistry between Miles and Nick through Jackie’s discovery and departure. I even tell him about the DNA test I ran. If I want things to be different, there can’t be a penalty box. Or any box at all.

  When I’m done, Liam looks at me, the warm glow of the table lamp illuminating his tired eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this when it was happening?” he asks.

  This is the moment, the one in which I either step forward and let him all the way in, show him my uncertainty and fear, or I continue to pretend I have everything under control, with all the answers in my pocket.

  Which is it, Paige? my father’s voice asks.

  “I didn’t learn most of it until after we broke up. But the truth is, I was scared.” I curl the genetic test between my fingers, unable to see the judgment—or rejection—in his eyes. “I never wanted you to think I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You didn’t trust me.” His words are flat, which worries me more than if they were infused with anger.

  “I couldn’t trust you.” My voice cracks, but I push on. “I didn’t know how.”

  Liam shakes his head. “So why now? What’s changed?”

  I set the paper on the coffee table and look down at my empty hands. “Everything,” I say. “Who I am. How I see myself. And how I see you. I know it might be too late, and maybe you don’t want to put yourself through this again. But I’m done pushing you away, pretending I always know the answers. I’m tired.” He’s not going to believe me. He’s going to lecture me and then get up and leave.

  He shakes his head, frustrated. “What does that even mean?”

  I don’t have an answer. “My dad told me the best thing I can do is keep coming back. So that’s what I’m doing.”

  I hold my breath, knowing it will crush me if he walks away.

  “Your dad?” he repeats.

  “I was able to get to know him, and learn some things.”

  “Like?”

  I shift in my chair, itching to touch him, so I move to the couch and sit next to him. “I hung on so hard to the belief that he could never change, which made me think that I couldn’t either. That my flaws were something I had to live with, no matter the cost to you or to me. But I don’t want to believe that anymore.”

  His voice grows softer, the anger ebbing away, replaced with regret. “How do I know that the next time things get hard, you won’t turn away from me again?”

  “You don’t.” My voice is no more than a whisper. “But I want the chance to show you.” I study his face, the planes of it so familiar I want to run my fingers along them. “We can make a timeline,” I continue. “Sit down with Miles and explain that we’re going to do more together, that you’re going to be a permanent part of our lives—if that’s what you still want.”

  Liam gives an impatient sigh. “Don’t do this because it’s something I want,” he says. “It has to be what you want too.”

  “It is,” I insist, taking his hand and squeezing, hoping he’ll believe me.

  He shakes his head and pulls away. “You’ve said these things before, Paige, and then nothing’s changed.”

  “This time will be different,” I say. “I promise.” I think back to the call I made the other day and what I’ve been avoiding since that first disastrous therapist at age sixteen. “If there’s one thing these past several months have shown me, it’s that I need to make peace with my past. The time with my dad made me realize it’s not enough to box up the pain and shove it into a cor
ner and consider it dealt with simply because it stopped muddying up my everyday life. I’ve found a therapist who specializes in childhood trauma, which is what I think happened to me. I have my first appointment next Tuesday.”

  I steal a glance, relieved to see his expression soften. “I think that’s a good first step. And it’s not that I don’t want to believe you; it’s that I can’t. Not yet.” Liam looks across the room, his eyes catching on something, and walks over to get a closer look. “Look at this,” he says, bringing it back to me.

  It’s the Rubik’s Cube, solved. I take it from him and turn it around, and he sits on the couch next to me again. The fact that he’s just inches away from me makes all my nerve endings tingle.

  We sit there in silence, my mind pinging through one topic after another—anything to keep him there a little longer. “I’m sorry I messed things up,” I say. “I was afraid. I’m still afraid. But I’m going to stop running.”

  Liam takes the Rubik’s Cube from me and places it on the coffee table, on top of Aaron’s genetic test. He looks at me, and I search his face for any hint that he’s forgiven me. But there is none. Maybe a softening in the eyes. And perhaps he sits a little closer on the couch. But I’ve said my part. I’ve laid everything down in front of him, and the only thing between us now is my honesty. I hope it’s enough. I have to believe that it will be.

  —

  After he leaves, I pick up the printout again, reading it slowly and savoring the words. My eyes snag on the date of administration, and my breath catches in my throat. November 10. The day Aaron died. Did he schedule the appointment early in the morning? I imagine him in a sterile waiting room somewhere, anxious about what the test would reveal about his future, maybe worried about getting to work on time. If only he knew none of it mattered. That just a few hours later, he’d be gone.

  A sob escapes me for everything we’ve lost and for Aaron’s final gift to us all. Miles won’t have to face the horrific reality of Huntington’s, and neither will Nick.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, and hope somehow he can hear me.

  I search the envelope for a note from Jackie, some explanation why results that should have come weeks ago are only now arriving. Did she withhold them from me? But then I think back to that morning in November, the beginning of a nightmarish two months, culminating in Jackie’s abrupt departure. I imagine somewhere in there, an anonymous envelope arriving and sitting in a large pile of mail, waiting to be sorted and forwarded. Or an email sitting in Aaron’s now-defunct in-box. Regardless, I’m grateful she had the courtesy to let me know.

  But her message is clear. With a negative result, neither of the boys carry the Huntington’s gene and therefore won’t need to rely on each other. Not now or at any time in the future.

  Jackie is leaving everything in the past, including Miles and me.

  I carry the envelope and test results into my bedroom and pull out my ACB file. I flip through it one last time, tucking Aaron’s genetic test in the back and pushing the folder far into the corner of the closet shelf, where it belongs.

  * * *

  INTEROFFICE MEMO

  From: Dale Whipple, CEO American Cryogenic Bank

  To: All ACB staff

  Re: New Client Protocol

  With the advent and accessibility of direct-to-consumer genetic testing, we can no longer guarantee anonymity to our sperm and egg donors. Please make sure all participants understand this during their intake meeting and continue to reinforce it throughout the screening process. A waiver will be added to the donor paperwork. Please make sure it’s signed and dated.

  Likewise, make sure parents using donor conception fully understand that their children’s DNA will identify that they are not the biological parents, and they should strongly consider disclosing the use of a donor as early as possible.

  Please direct them to our website for resources on talking to children about gamete donation, which should answer any questions they might have.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Five Months Later

  I sit across from Bruno and Jenna in the student union, cups of coffee between us and students filtering around us.

  I turn to Jenna. “Are you ready?”

  She looks nervous. I remember that feeling well, the terrifying leap into publication, throwing my name out there for peer review, which could result in either a parade or a bloodbath. “Relax,” I tell her. “You’ve done the work. Your findings are solid.”

  We’re publishing what’s happened with Scott Sullivan’s inhibitor gene. Or rather, Jenna’s publishing it, and I’m mentoring her through the process.

  “It’s just a first draft.” She pushes a folder toward me.

  “I’ll read it and get back to you soon.” I tuck it into my bag and stand, gathering my trash. “I’ve got to pick Miles up from his new friend Eli’s house. Tonight, we’re going to his first concert at the Hollywood Bowl for his birthday.”

  Bruno looks impressed. “Who are you seeing?”

  “The LA Symphony performing Star Wars.” When Bruno raises an eyebrow, I say, “What did you expect, Justin Bieber? Miles is still Miles.”

  Bruno cringes. “ ‘Justin Bieber’? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  —

  The day of Miles’s birthday party is a typical late summer day, bright and hot. I haven’t heard from Jackie since she mailed me the copy of Aaron’s genetic test, but that doesn’t surprise me. I’d mailed her an invitation to the party several weeks ago, addressed to her mother at the library. We never got a response. Every couple of weeks I drive past their house to see if they’re back or to make sure she hasn’t put it on the market. But it’s always locked up, curtains drawn, unoccupied. I’m trying to practice acceptance. There may be nothing I can do about it now, but I’ll never stop hoping.

  I stand on Rose’s back porch and survey the madness. Ten boys, in various stages of undress, tear around the yard, some in shorts and T-shirts, some shirtless in bathing suits, others wearing rash guards to protect against the hot sun. I find it incredible that Miles even has ten friends. Nick did this for him. And Liam. Their friendship has continued to develop, and Liam has given Miles opportunities to reach out to other kids in his class—surf lessons or video game previews at our house—slowly helping him develop the friendships that eluded him for so long.

  And I’ve learned how to include Liam—to truly incorporate him into our lives instead of keeping him separate. It was slow going at first, both of us picking our way carefully through the wreckage and back to each other. But Liam is now a fixture in our lives—and our home—and at the end of the month, he’s going to give notice on his cottage and move in with us.

  Rose corrals some of the shirtless kids over to a table to apply liberal amounts of sunscreen. They wiggle, impatient to return to the game. Hannah and Mikey have disappeared with friends, claiming to be too old for a water balloon party, but they’ll be joining us for a family dinner later. Miles screeches and laughs and careens around the yard, filled with joy.

  I’m relieved to see him so happy. This morning, he’d mentioned how nice it would be if Nick could come today. I wish I could fix this for him, but I’m learning that I have to let life happen for Miles, including hurt and disappointment.

  But for now, Nick seems forgotten. The last of the mothers have left, and I heave a sigh of relief. I’d specifically said drop off on the invitation, and my mind flits again to Jackie, imagining her here, drinking the sangria Rose mixed up for the adults, making snarky comments about some of the other mothers and their perfectly pressed yoga outfits that have never seen the inside of a studio. My therapist, Dr. Sheffield, wants me to start making more of an effort with the other moms, to widen my circle. And while I’ll probably not embrace Trevor’s mom, Isabella, as my new best friend, there are a few others from Miles’s karate class I think might become friends. But I’m nervous, the way I would have been at age twelve, to approach them about socializin
g outside of class. A part of me wishes it could be as easy as it was with Jackie, that effortless connection that seemed to drive itself. But I also understand friendships like that are rare. There’s no guarantee I’ll find another one, and I’m going to have to be okay with that.

  The boys are so loud that I almost miss the sound of the doorbell ringing. I do another head count—ten—and my stomach lurches.

  When I open the door, Jackie and Nick stand on the porch. She looks the same, but Nick seems to have grown a foot. He grins and pushes past me. “Hey, Paige,” he calls over his shoulder, rushing toward the sound of the kids laughing outside. I hear Miles scream his name and smile as I imagine their reunion. I’m certain it’s better than the one I’m having on the porch.

  Jackie stands, rooted to the spot. She doesn’t smile, and her eyes remain covered by sunglasses. She holds a rectangular present in her arms, which she shoves toward me.

  I want to grab her by the shoulders and hug her, but her posture is stiff and uninviting. “I’m glad you could make it,” I manage to say.

  She forces a smile. “Nick really wanted to come.”

  I wait to see if she’ll say anything more. “Would you like to come in?” I step sideways, hoping she’ll walk through the door. Just come inside, I silently beg her. Please.

  She shakes her head. “I can’t. I have a lot to do. We just got back yesterday.”

  “You’re staying?” I ask, unable to keep the hope from my voice.

  “For now. Look, I’ve got to run. I’ll be back to pick him up by four.” She gestures toward the package and says, “That’s not really a birthday present. Nick has a gift card for Miles. That’s . . .” She trails off. “You should open it alone.” She turns toward her car and starts walking away.

  I slip the gift onto the hall table and follow her to her car. When I get there, we stand, facing each other. Jackie wraps her arms around herself.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say.

  She looks down the street and then back at me. “Look. I’m sorry, but I’m still not ready.” I start to say something, but she interrupts me. “I know this isn’t your fault. You’re not the one who did this to me. But you’re the one who’s here. You’re the one who’s going to make me think about it, every time I see you.” She sighs. “I’m not angry anymore. And I forgive you. But I can’t pretend it never happened.”