The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy, 2013 Edition

by Rich Horton

  “Chemistry takes two,” said Ellen.

  He shrugged and continued. “The woman turns, and who do you think it is?”

  “His wife. What did she do?”

  “Told him to go away. Leave her alone.”

  “Poor guy. So now he wants her again, but she doesn’t want him.” She pitied them both. “Or are you saying something else? That he knows her. He remembers.”

  “He knows something. Chemistry, memory, two pods of a pea.”

  “That is such a sad story.”

  Everett felt differently. He took it as affirmation that certain things could never be forgotten. This seemed a fact of life, powered, as facts could be, by the twin engines of love and youth.

  But Stanovic was not finished. There was more to the tale.

  “She told him to go away, but he didn’t. He bought her a drink. Then another. And what do you think happened next? They went home together.”

  “I like that,” said Everett.

  Ellen did too, though she also knew that a woman, if drunk enough, would do many things she might regret the next morning.

  “And now?” she asked. “Are they back together? Is he still forgetting?”

  The results on that, he said, were not yet in. Although the man’s memory, it seemed, was stabilizing.

  “What did he have?” Everett asked. “To begin with? What was wrong with him that needed to get fixed?”

  It was a common question. People were naturally curious. Some found comfort in comparing themselves to others. This, too, seemed natural, though in Stanovic’s experience it was rarely helpful and frequently harmful, and not, therefore, a practice he condoned.

  “What he had is not important. The important thing is that he came to us. And that we cured him. And that for him life goes on.”

  He paused to give this last thought its proper weight, and to allow his visitors to do the same. The story about the man and his wife was useful, possibly applicable, but mostly it was a detour, a digression, a mild indulgence on his part. What happened to one person should not be generalized. The case was extreme and unlikely to recur. It was time to return to the matter at hand.

  “The going on, that is most important. It’s why you’re here. We’re all in agreement on this. Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Everett.

  A moment passed before Ellen nodded.

  Stanovic gazed at her. “You have reservations?”

  “No,” she said.

  “But something else to say?”

  She heaved a sigh. “I wish I didn’t have to do any of this. Not this treatment of yours, not some horrible surgery, not anything. I wish I’d gotten pregnant first. That was my plan. I wish I’d stuck to it.”

  “Pregnancy in all likelihood will trigger the cancer. And it’s a bad cancer. You may not survive.”

  “My mother did.”

  “You mother is different. She has only the TESS gene. You have TESS and more. Pregnancy is a time bomb unless we do something first. Even if you don’t get pregnant, you’re still at risk. But it’s not so urgent a matter. We can monitor you. Watch and wait.”

  She knew all this. She also knew what she was going to do. But it helped to talk it out.

  “I wish I didn’t have to put you through this,” she told Everett. “It’s not what you bargained for. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said. “Don’t even think it.”

  “I wish I was normal.”

  “You are normal. You’re better than normal. I can’t begin to tell you how much better.”

  She turned to Stanovic. “I have one request. There’s a gene for eye color, right? While you’re messing around in my DNA, please change mine to my husband’s. Then there’ll be no doubt whose eyes they’re going to have. Assuming this works.”

  “It works,” said Stanovic. “Children will come. Eye color we can do. But there we stop. It’s unpredictable what happens if you monkey around too much. Maybe you get a super-kid, maybe an imbecile. It’s bad medicine to think we’re smarter than we are.”

  The infusion took place in the company clinic designed for the purpose. She was warned to expect to feel sick for several days. Feverish, achy, under the weather. This was due to the vector that carried the repair sequence, a modified strain of the influenza virus. In addition, she might feel disoriented for a bit. Mentally, a little wobbly and weak in the knees. This was due to, first a down, then an up regulation in various neuronal circuits. A recalibration of the electro-molecular homeostatic mechanism. Typically, the symptoms were mild and gone in a week.

  Ellen surprised everyone, including herself, by not getting sick at all. Nor, thank God, did she forget her husband. Nor her mother. Nor anyone. She felt fit before the infusion, fit during the infusion, and fit a week later.

  Something, though, was different. She couldn’t quite say what. It seemed important but also strangely unimportant. As if something of interest to her, of significance, had lost its power to hold her attention and possibly even affect her.

  This something nagged at her, like a thorn, but every day the nagging grew less. Then one day there was no nagging. The thorn had worked its way out.

  It was a huge relief. Finally, she felt normal again. She felt like herself. It was the self she most loved. The one with energy, who loved to do things. The one who didn’t live under a cloud of apprehension but took pleasure in life.

  One of those pleasures had been on hold for nearly a month. Too much pressure and stress. Being freed of them was like waking from a stupor.

  This waking first happened in the kitchen. Everett was putting away groceries, and she went at him like a cat in heat.

  “I want you,” she growled, backing him against the counter. “I lust for your body.”

  “I can do lust,” he replied.

  She licked her lips.

  He grinned.

  She pressed herself against him, then let herself be lifted and carried to the bedroom.

  The sex was awesome. She let herself go in a way she’d never done, clawing his back, grinding her pelvis against his, screaming when she came. He responded with a low-throated roar, and a millisecond later went stiff as a board and shot himself into her.

  This happened on a Sunday morning, an off day from work for them. After sex they had breakfast. After breakfast Ellen called her mother.

  Mom was different these days. More open, more expressive. The cancer remained in remission. Physically, she felt good. Mentally, like she was living a dream. How could things be better? She was well. Her daughter was cured. She couldn’t express in words how happy this made her. Not to mention the prospect of grandkids.

  After the call Ellen waylaid Everett again. Afterward, she lay in his arms and playfully asked if she was being a nuisance.

  “No way. I love having sex with you.”

  “It’s weird,” she said. “I feel so . . . so driven.”

  “Driven?”

  “Horny. It’s like I’ve been holding all this stuff inside, and now it’s just busting out. It feels so good to let go. I can see how people get addicted.”

  He kissed her on the shoulder. “Should we tell the doctor you’ve become an addict?”

  “I just like it.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  The next time they made love was that night. Ellen had the condom out, ready to roll it on, when Everett said, “How about we do it without that thing?”

  She knew it was better for him. He got more excited. The sensation was heightened. He’d liked it more when she was on the mini-pill.

  The condom, on the other hand, seemed like such a good idea.

  It was a tough decision, but at length she agreed.

  The next time, a day later, she said yes again.

  Her period that month was late. She couldn’t decide whether to say anything—really didn’t want to be the one to raise hopes only to see them dashed—and in the end chose to keep it to herself for the time being. When her period did finally come, she was
glad she had.

  A week later, she saw Dr. Stanovic at a follow-up appointment. He asked how she was, and she said fine. He pulled up her new genome on his screen—new and improved—and went over it with her. He asked his normal battery of questions. He did a physical, after which he pronounced her fit.

  Once she was dressed, he asked again how she was doing. Any concerns? Any questions she wanted to ask?

  She hesitated a moment, then said yes. There was one question.

  “Are there any delayed effects of the treatment? I feel stupid for asking now. I should have asked before.”

  “Delayed effects? Such as what?”

  “I missed a period. It came, but it was late.”

  “Ah.” He nodded sympathetically. “It could be the treatment. A woman’s cycle is very sensitive to change.”

  She realized she’d asked the wrong question. What she’d meant was: could some effects reverse themselves? Could a change change back?

  “Everett wants a baby,” she said.

  “Yes. It’s why we did this. One of the reasons. Now you can.”

  “I think I was pregnant. I think I lost it. I aborted.”

  “This is possible? You and your husband, you’ve been trying?”

  She looked at him, nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how much you want this. But look on the bright side. Soon you’ll get another chance.”

  It was this that worried her.

  He saw it in her face. “No? I’m wrong?”

  “I don’t understand it,” she said.

  “You’ve had a change of heart?”

  Heart? Was that it? It seemed much bigger and all-encompassing. Heart, soul, spirit, self: all of them rolled into one.

  She lifted her eyes to him. “Something like that.”

  His preliminary diagnosis was amnesia. Partial, localized, and temporary, he hoped and guessed.

  Amnesia seemed the wrong word to her. What she had was less like a forgetting than an absence. Something that not only didn’t exist but never had. On no level did the idea of being a mother resonate with her. Her desire for kids was gone.

  Dr. Stanovic was puzzled and alarmed. He ordered a whole new battery of tests and sent her to a panel of specialists. She had scans and other studies of her brain, including a subcognitive resistance study to see if there was a short circuit somewhere. She talked to a therapist. She was tested for pre-partum depression. She had her hormones and pre-hormones checked.

  It was a lengthy process, and she had plenty of time to think. Plenty of questions ran through her head. Was she less a woman, she asked herself, now that she didn’t want children? She didn’t feel that way. She felt as womanly as ever. She couldn’t even honestly say that she’d changed. The desire for kids was absent, but then when had it ever been present? She didn’t remember that it had. In this respect she felt no different from before. Her past self flowed seamlessly into her present self. Nothing had been taken away.

  If it had been, wouldn’t she miss it? Wouldn’t there be a hole somewhere in her life? But in fact, the reverse was true. Something had been gained. She was healed. The killer gene was gone. A weight had been lifted. She was full of energy and gratitude and love.

  One of the things she loved most was being with her husband. She loved seeing him. She loved talking to him. She loved the way he talked to her. She loved making love to him: this had always been one of their great pleasures, and it continued to be, only now the pleasure was tinged with something new. Every time he put on the condom, or she put it on, she felt a stab of guilt, for it reminded her what she was denying him. It was like putting a cap on his dreams, and this made her worry.

  Another worry:

  When she was alone, she was unaware of having changed. The thought never crossed her mind. She hadn’t become someone different. She hadn’t “become” anyone. She was who she was. She felt whole.

  With Everett, by contrast, the awareness was nearly always there. She felt tentative. Incomplete. Duplicitous even. There was a subtle tension in the air.

  At a certain point they talked about it. He had noticed the tension, too. He’d chalked it up to the treatment and hadn’t wanted to pressure her by speaking out of turn. Hadn’t wanted to make her self-conscious. Figured she’d say something when she was ready, like now.

  It felt good to air things out, though she didn’t know quite where to go next. She asked him to be patient with her. She said she was still adjusting. She said she was sure things would work themselves out.

  Everett agreed. He was a positive thinker, a man who didn’t know the meaning of unable to solve or fix or overcome. If today was difficult, tomorrow would be better. And if not tomorrow, then the day after. They’d make it better; there was no doubt in his mind. His optimism was was hard for her to fathom, but it was welcome—it was always welcome—and she came away from the conversation, if not fully sharing in it then willing to entertain the hope that things, indeed, would improve.

  But the worry did not go away. The worry persisted. Her love for him—and possibly love in general—seemed to make worry inevitable. Could this possibly be true?

  She posed the question to her mother, whose answer was yes. Start with the most blissful, heavenly, worry-free marriage, and eventually cracks would appear.

  “Sooner or later you’ll find something to worry about,” she said with conviction.

  “What did you worry about Dad?”

  “Dad? Now that’s interesting. I was thinking about you.”

  “What did you worry about me?”

  “I didn’t ever worry a lot. But I’m your mother. I’m paid to worry. It’s built-in.”

  “Were you paid enough?”

  Her mother smiled. With the weight she’d lost and never fully regained, the features of her face seemed concentrated. The smile looked huge.

  “I was paid plenty. And believe me, I keep getting paid. Paid in love, once in a while paid in worry. They go together. So tell me, what’s this between you and Everett? Is there a problem?”

  Everett? Had she said anything about Everett? Did she need to?

  “It’s not built-in,” said Ellen. “That’s the problem.”

  “What’s not built-in?”

  “I don’t want kids, Mom. I know I did, but I don’t anymore. I don’t want to be a mother. I don’t feel it. I don’t see the need.”

  “You’re recovering from something major,” said her mother, thinking of her own treatment and recovery, which had taken her within an inch of her life. “Give it time.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. It’s not there. It’s not happening. I’ve been with my friends who have babies. I’ve looked at toddlers and kids. I like seeing them. I like that they’re around. But I don’t need one of my own. I don’t want one. The thought, frankly, never occurs to me. It’s so weird.” She paused. “You know what else is weird? I’m happy. As happy as I’ve ever been.”

  “You’re healthy, sweetheart.”

  “Except when I feel guilty.”

  A moment or two passed.

  Ellen glanced at her mother. “There’re aren’t going to be grandkids, Mom. I know how much you would have loved them. I’m sorry.”

  “The treatment changed you,” said her mother. And then, “I can live without grandkids.”

  This was true. Of course it was. You lived the life you were given. What else could you do? The knot her mother felt in her chest was not about that. It was that she didn’t quite recognize the person beside her. As if a new Ellen—new and slightly out of synch, slightly off—inhabited the place where the old Ellen, her Ellen, had been.

  “Are you mad?” Ellen asked.

  “Mad? No, I’m not mad. I’m . . . surprised.” She wanted to shake the girl. She wanted to fold her in her arms. She wanted to distance herself and, for once, be done with the burden of motherhood.

  “I envy you,” she said. “But never mind that. You do what’s right for you.”

  “That’s w
hat you’ve always told me.”

  “It’s what I was told. It’s what I believe.”

  “This was supposed to be right for everybody. Win-win all around. I never told you the story the doctor told us. About a patient of his who forgot his wife. That’s what the treatment did to him. They ended up getting divorced.”

  “Are you and Everett talking about divorce?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “Not yet.”

  “Do you want one?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Does he?”

  “He’s not happy.”

  Her mother frowned. “Are you sure? Don’t underestimate how much he loves you. How worried he was about you. Maybe he’s still getting used to the fact he doesn’t have to.”

  “He wants a family. We used to talk about it all the time. Dream about it. Joke about it. It was, like, one of the most important things.”

  “No one gets everything they want,” said her mother. “Not in a marriage. Not anywhere.”

  “I know that.”

  “You make compromises.”

  “Sacrifices, you mean.”

  Her mother shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s made a sacrifice. But I can understand why it worries you. Usually it’s the other way around.”

  The weeks passed. The situation at home did not improve. Ellen felt a growing distance between herself and her husband. He was making a sacrifice for her, a great sacrifice, and though he said nothing and even pretended otherwise, it was never far from her mind. A second sacrifice would have to be made, and this would be hers, and she dreaded it, so kept putting it off. She prayed if she waited she wouldn’t have to go through with it, that motherhood—whatever that was—would recommence, that the instinct would be reignited inside her. She tried everything she could think of to make this happen. Spent time with friends who had children. Played with these children. Held babies in her arms.

  But no. It was like sparking a fire from ash. The desire was simply not there.