It’s not as if I haven’t thought about this day a lot. In my plans, I was mentally fetching Mum all of the household objects she needed almost before her needs arose: cushions, high energy snacks, mugs of tea, her favourite blanket for the journey. Belle turned up beaming- a rarity- and together we supported and encouraged Mum’s hobble to the car. She was sweetly puffing, no dinosaur noises. All glowing maternal as I waved her off on her merry way. It so wasn’t Mum. I still can’t conjure an image of the baby. I simply hear the clean wail of a newborn rising into the air, job done, and Mum’s new lips smiling their way home.
“I don’t want you both in the delivery room at the same time,” Mum growls. “Dad’s coming. It’s his job.”
I make an effort not to tense my stomach muscles with Mum’s next contraction. She can do what she likes. She’s done it before.
“I love you both as much as ever.”
Mum closes the conversation with her eyes. No lost points for dereliction of duty. But I stayed! Surely that is worth extra love, trust. We both watch Dad’s car slink into the drive like an apology. He pulls out again to get the perfect angle. Incredible.
I decide to leave them to their adrenaline-fuelled reunion. Stomp out a message on the stairs: I. Know. About. The. Baby. That’s why she wants him there; he’s the only one who knows. But I understand far more than him. I’ve seen the future.
I look out my window and down onto Dad’s head, pretend I’m a bird of prey. Aim, fire! He is clasping her as they approach the car, she has to push him away to manoeuvre inside. Go Mum. Nobody is beaming. No words of comfort as far as I can see. He leans in, withdraws fast and heads around to the driver’s side with an efficiency that is so not Dad. He indicates with care before pulling away- some superhero! He doesn’t glance up at my window, so I’m holding this expression for nothing.
I’m straight on the C.O.F website because a vital detail came back to me on the walk home from the cinema. A detail that allows me to unmask Cliff without him even being here. It won’t take long: I simply need to locate the baby photos of him, posted as part of a discussion by his Mum on difficult teenagers- that’s what he’d said wasn’t it? In the park? He’d made a joke of it. Photos of Cliff unmasked and unknowing. A violation- but that’s parents for you.
These guys really need to get their logo up in bigger text, because at first glance, the Campaign for Original Face site looks like an advert for Ultiface. A sea of expressionless faces in muted 3D, red lettering stamped on each forehead: ‘RebelFace: Teen Range: James Dean,’ ‘NurtureFace: Stage 1: Newborn,’ ‘LeaderFace: Inspiration Range: Mandela.’ Of course a Marilyn takes centre stage: ‘Historical Icons: Marilyn Monroe: Update AdoreMe.’ A child’s face rises above this background, in full 3D. I guess he’s around six, running a bit late for his first Enhancement. An asymmetric dash of freckles, bit of a wonky grin- but to be fair, that can happen with any Update, caught in the split second mid-smile. Point being, he’s an Original. You do stare, I mean, he looks to be having fun in that way kids do, before they understand the expectations of a face. Coaxed into an expression of raw happiness to distract from the irregularity in his features. They’ve even stuffed him in the C.O.F t-shirt: an arrow points up to his face: ‘£20.99?’ Underneath: ‘Priceless Original.’ Poor kid, the prices are a couple of years out of date.
Links to advice on bullying; legal stuff on discrimination at work. This isn’t what I’ve come for. I navigate to the discussion forum, scanning for evidence, for images. I find ‘Words from Our Founders,’ warm and confident, calm and professional. Nothing like Mum’s helpless plea. Her name is Penny; his parents are Penny and Forest Mortimer. A portrait pops up straight off: Forest’s face is trying to impress the camera but he can’t hold it together somehow. The poise in his eyes doesn’t correspond to the gaping mouth; he couldn’t even stop ranting for that vital second. Forest is filling the room again and I’m enjoying him more from a distance, second time around. I want to tell him to silence the banner: Special Offer on Membership. It looks desperate.
Beside him is a woman whose neat oval face comes up higher than his. She has had skin regeneration. An unobtrusive canvas for the face of a Natural; nothing is part-concealed, or emphasized by creases. The second thing I notice is an overlap between her front teeth, her half-smile contained around it. Not Bugs Bunny. Her limbs are aligned, palms opening towards the lens: this is us. Her husband’s front shoulder dips, Forest keeps on coming. Penny is lucky. Her features perch in refinement, but are imperfectly aligned; a nudge, a single Update, is all it would take to blend into the crowd forever. Is that strange for her- to be so close, and yet so different? The plain blue gaze does not belong to Cliff. Penny asks for nothing. Everybody needs something. Her face is a gateway; Forest is a walking performance artist. But where is Cliff? No baby photos remain. Of course he would’ve taken them down. He hides.
Instead, I find this message from Penny:
Ginger, take heart. Every parent of a teenage Original will empathise with your dilemma- myself included. The teenage years can be a challenge for us all, but particularly for an Original who stands out. Try to bolster your son’s self-esteem in other ways, point out his strengths. Ultimately, the question of dating will come down to how accepting he is able to become of his own appearance as he moves towards adulthood- his special (but not easy) status as an Original. Accepting enough to share it with others? Bottom line is, will he take his scarf off in her presence? If the answer is no, never, then you will know that this girl simply is not good enough. Let him come to this knowledge in his own time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My phone rings, it’s Mum onscreen and I know the baby has been born.
“True, meet your baby brother- he decided to make an early appearance in the car!”
I’m being shown a gigantic blotchy face supporting a quivering expression of disgust. Dad’s design sense was always off; I know that car interior and it’s hideous. Kid got an eyeful of clashing shapes and violent hues after perfect darkness. Blood and gore all over it.
“Is everyone alright?” I say. “You and the baby?”
“We’re all fine, fine. Well, still a little shaky. The Midwife got here in the nick of time, Dad wasn’t forced to deliver!” Mum’s lips seem to fit the magnitude of the announcement.
I gaze at my brother’s eyes which don’t seem to let you in. To be honest, he could be a little short-sighted, one eye is squinting harder than the other. His tiny triumphant claws emerge from the yellow blanket. Dark strands of hair swept back and Mum’s hand comically large, cupped around the whole of his head. All of that belly space for such a compact result! I search for myself as a baby, but draw a blank. It’s that first unformed face; I wait to feel something, ownership: this is My Brother. Maybe after he plumps up a bit, I don’t know. Similarities in our birth faces will surface, the hidden genetic heritage that once defined a family.
I put my finger on the screen, a little finger is all it takes to imagine him masked. Look at his eyes now- he is giving me a wink! Maybe he’s heard more than I think from the inside; one parent is an interloper. This boy is a fast learner.
Two fingers unfold from the baby’s fist.
“Look at his hand!” I shriek to Mum, “quick, get a photo!”
The blur of a thumb appears onscreen to the left of my brother and slides away, Dad’s interfering laugh, followed by a grey-black screen and silence. Did he just drop Mum’s phone on purpose?
I deserve some credit for the photo that turns up moments later: baby boy says V for Victory; I have arrived! I send the picture to Cliff, then to Seven:
Say hello to my new baby brother.
I send him to everybody else after that.
..........................................................................................................................................
A brand new person is exactly what’s needed in this situation. Mum eases the baby into my arms, his head flops back alarmingly an
d Mum makes a noise to reassure me, or the baby- but she can’t step away. So here we are, the three of us having a sort-of cuddle in the entrance hall. Mum exudes Mumness from every pore, hyper-alert, tactile obsessive. The SexyFace is doing things you wouldn’t expect, and that’s Mum coming through, the Baby Hunger sated. Dad squeezes past on Mum’s side without an invite, and his being back feels like having to ignore the fact that the corner of the room is on fire. I concentrate hard on the baby, whose face is shut down in sleep.
“He’s amazing. Well done Mum.”
“He just shot out! Caught us all by surprise.”
It is clear that whatever inconveniently timed things he does in the near future, all will be forgiven. A weird compulsion comes over me to tell my mother that I love her.
“The car must be a mess.” I say, gently.
“I hadn’t noticed. Come on, let’s show your brother the house.”
We enter the living room and I take the side of the sofa as far away from Dad as humanly possible, lowering myself slowly. My brother is only light, but my arms have gone stiff because he can’t hold up his own head yet and I try to get comfortable without disturbing him, which involves miniscule alterations. I can feel Dad’s eyes upon me.
“True, there’s something you need to know about your brother.” he says.
Superhero seizes the moment. Mum takes a seat beside me, tucking her legs under. Her face is a tight, her eyes a channel to Dad.
“He’s EMS susceptible.” I say. “But you won’t know for sure until he has the test.”
Dad has been relieved of parental duties once again. It’s amazing what you can get out of by running off. Mum swoops in.
“Oh True, I’m so sorry it should have come from one of us we just kept arguing over the right time, and how to begin...”
I look past Mum’s heavy lashes into eyes full of regret and I get this great rush of compassion and enlightenment towards her like I’m virtually a Buddhist monk.
“It’s absolutely fine, Mum. I’m okay with it. Really.”
I go to lift the baby to my lips, it seems the right gesture, but he twitches in slumber and so I remain a rigid frame. I’m only sixteen and I understand that the needs of a younger person come first.
“How did you find out?” Dad says.
I look directly upon him for the first time, glare at his face, what has he had done? Nothing; he is exactly the same, except for a haircut. I was braced for a change of Mum’s magnitude at least; the sheer familiarity of him makes me physically sick.
“I just put two and two together.” I say
I’m not going to grant him any role in it, tell him about his messages. Give away my sources.
“I’ve had to do a lot of thinking over the past few months...” Dad says.
His eyes are hazy soft where there should be only guilt and he’s perched on the edge of his seat, worming his way back in. My jaw tightens up the side of my face to my temples. Here we go. What right does he have to an audience for this self-pitying stuff? Mum’s only been encouraging him through contact.
“I missed that angry face.” Dad continues. “It always makes me think, is this worth it, what I’m about to say?”
Don’t miss this little bro: it’s your dad in action! Your male role model.
“I left because we disagreed about his quality of life.” Dad chooses each word carefully, as if their correct arrangement is all it takes.
“How noble.”
He pauses to see if anymore is coming out of my mouth. Roll out the excuses. I’ll hold them under as they struggle to surface.
“The chances are your brother will have to live as a Natural. The stories you hear. My gut feeling from the start was that it was too much suffering to knowingly inflict on any human being. On a child of mine.”
“But his feelings changed.” Mum adds quickly.
“I spoke to Ultiface, I thought there might be some hope for the future- developments, and so forth. But that came to nothing. They’re not doing the research because there’s no profit in it. EMS is too rare.”
“But there is a different source of optimism.” Mum’s words gush as if she’s trying to make up for nine months of secrecy in seconds. “Campaign for Original Face put me in touch with a group of EMS parents who campaign for the right to Enhancements for EMS-Naturals.”
“It’s time to get political,” Dad says flatly. “They’re a great bunch of people. We’ve been to a meeting, and we signed up straight away. You see, it’s all down to-“
“I read about it,” I say. “They want the existing loophole in the Security Treaty for medical procedures extended to cover the right to mental health, including Updates.”
I can’t believe she sneaked off to a meeting with him, without telling me.
“There’s hope for a normal future for your brother. That was what I needed to hear.” Dad says. “I didn’t agree with bringing a child into the world in a dead end situation, with so little personal choice...”
Dad’s voice rises a little at the end. He’s expecting me to understand. They both are.
“...I missed you so much, True. I was sick with grief at your cutting me out. But I was also angry with your mother for a long time. I felt she took the decision out of my hands.”
“You signed the consent form.”
“Yes, yes I did. Because I could see how much your mother needed it, wanted it, wanted him. I buried my doubts for her. Straight afterwards, I couldn’t stop thinking: what have we done? We hit a wall. There’s no middle ground, is there? Either the embryo got implanted, or it didn’t. I didn’t want to leave, but there didn’t seem to be any other option.”
People always say he has a kind face. Today it’s layers of self-delusion. Mum goes to scoop the baby up but I cling on, I need a barrier.
“Will you take me back?” Dad says, trying to capture my gaze.
“There doesn’t seem to be any other option.”
Something is missing from this post-battle analysis. Dad clearly thinks he ticked all the boxes: heartfelt explanation; a stunning lack of an apology; resume family position. What about my quality of life? Did you forget that my life had already started? Wasn’t I even a factor?
Dad continues to smile at me, a hopeful kind of smile that asks for a return, so I give him the Smile Blocker. I hold it in place; it’s perfect. I want to watch him flinch worse than Mum, even worse than Seven. I want my sneering face to burn into his brain. This is a face for you, Daddy. But my brother’s eyes snap open and there is a machine-like wail for the end of the world that builds and builds and I’m totally ready to hand him back. Dad has an excuse to cross the room towards the three of us, I’m glad to see he looks on edge. He doesn’t belong here.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Who’s that? It’s you. It’s Daimon. Dai-mon.”
I figure it’s like getting a dog to recognise their own name. Once he starts turning his head to it, Mum is bound to come down on my side. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t me against Dad, it’s simply the right thing to do. If my brother can’t have an inspirational face, he can at least have a name associated with brilliance. Daimon is one of the greatest scientists who ever lived. Plus it sounds cool. Unlike Chester O’Reilly which makes him sound like a carpet, or at best, a furniture range.
Daimon squirms at his reflection in the mirrored toy cube I am holding up for him, it’s hard to know how much he sees. Still, early days yet. Mum reckons that when babies recognise themselves in the mirror it means they have developed a sense of self. This sounds like the sort of thing a big sister should be encouraging.
“That’s you, there you are.”
Get used to those eyes widening back at you, it might be the only reflection you get. I can’t remember my Original face, but I have proud memories of My First Enhancement, of being allowed- no, invited- to transform along with the grown-ups. I don’t know what percentage is real memory, what percentage is created around the photographs of me showing off. I was four and
coming into face awareness, Mum agreed that the time was right. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look that my toddler softness had gone, replaced by the child-like emergence of real features; genetics had taken hold. My First Enhancement Package was the latest thing: a simple restoration of innocence in the roundness of my eyes, a subtle testing of the features; make sure each one is pulling its weight, working in harmony with the whole. Mum reports that I was stoical at the nanobot entry: “sticky prickles.” Most kids cry. Mum is smiling in the after-photos. I got sweets, fizzy balls that made my tight skin feel funny. I pranced around, pulling faces, Dad snapping pictures on his phone. A new face equals extra attention.
“Daimon is a gorgeous boy.”
Daimon has tired of my educational regime, he averts his eyes. They widen at the sound of the front doorbell, but slide shut at the voices of visitors; I shall not be performing at this time. Daimon must get fed up of the succession of strangers’ faces, popping up like puppets for a stare.
“You’ve got a visitor.” Mum says.
Mum glances boldly up into Cliff’s concealed face, and back to me, noting my reaction. (Mum is braver than I was.) She goes to leave, but Daimon wakes himself with a metallic wail, building to the familiar siren.
“It’s okay it’s not you!” I shout to Cliff. “He’s just hungry. ALWAYS HUNGRY.”
Daimon maintains the aura of generalised emergency whilst I do rushed introductions that nobody can hear. There’s a weird frozen moment when we all watch Daimon’s gaping red face and then Mum shovels him up with a well-practised arm and the rhythmic siren fades as they move away. Volcanic outrage leaves a lot to be desired as a greeting and I feel partly responsible.
“Is it a bad time? Of course it’s a bad time. Stupid. I’ll go.” Cliff says
“Stay. It’s not you. He’s like that a lot, don’t worry.”
Cliff is flattened against the wall. I got Forest’s face on my first visit; he gets screamed at by a newborn. My face dents with joy.
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