The Suicide Gene

  “Mrs. Johnson.” A woman in baby blue scrubs splashed with pink baby bottles and blue bassinets hurried after them.

  “Here is your sonogram report. Doctor Brown said you may want the results after you calm down. It gives the sex of your babies.”

  The woman handed her a yellow envelope. No, she didn’t want it, but she watched as her hand rose, and the nurse placed the report in her palm. Her fingers worked their way cautiously around it as if it were a Bassano vase.

  “And you forgot the records you brought,” she said, slipping a second, larger envelope into Emma’s hand.

  “Records?” Emma said subconsciously. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself. I didn’t bring any records.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure these are yours. They have your name on them. You must have had them in your purse. You left them on the checkout counter. We opened them. Thought they were for us.”

  “I don’t remember bringing any.”

  “Mrs. Johnson, it’s your birth certificate. It looks like there is an original in there, too. It’s very old. You wouldn’t want it misplaced.”

  It was as if someone shoved smelling salts in her face, her fingers tightened and her mind sharpened, instantaneously. Her gaze darted toward the manila envelope with her name displayed in bold letters, Emma Kerr Johnson. She lifted it upward, the color draining from her face.

  “Are you sure you feel all right? Maybe you should come in and sit down. Your color—you’re ashen.” The nurse placed a hand on her arm.

  “No, I’m fine.” She lifted her shoulder to shrug her off gently.

  “Emma, are you sure?” Giff put his hand on her. “I think we ought to go back in. You should sit down.”

  “No, I want to go home,” she said. Her gaze never left the envelope.

  He thought quietly to himself for a moment and then turned toward the woman and spoke softly. “Go ahead. She’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

  The woman left apprehensively, turning back a few times to make sure Emma was still standing. When she was gone, Emma raised tear-filled eyes to Giff. He put his arm around her, and she cautiously fumbled to open the file. She fingered the first paper, the newer one, and read through wet eyes. The blurry words of the familiar birth certificate, which she had seen many times, registered in her mind: Baby Kerr born September 11th, 1985. Female. Emma Anne. Parents: Heidi Wadding Kerr and Benjamin John Kerr.

  Her vision cleared, she reached inside, and her fingers gripped the second document. She pulled the crisp paper out delicately, unveiling the record as if it were an old, crumbly masterpiece at an art auction. It stated: Baby McKinney born September 11th, 1985. Female. Multiple Birth. Mimi Anne, sister of Melissa Mae. Parents: Renee Blake McKinney and Mathew McKinney.

  Her hands shook and, although the temperature hovered above eighty, her breath escaped her like a puff of heat against chilly air. Pins and needles ran down her arms and legs to her fingers and toes. Her head pounded. Her sight blurred.

  Giff held on tight, peering down into the envelope.

  “There’s something else inside.” He reached in and removed a legal-sized envelope, unsealed it, and handed its contents to Emma.

  She unfolded the paper, blinked away her blurred vision, and focused on the words. She knew Matt wrote the letter before she peeked at the bottom line. It was a computer note in an unrecognizable font, which, of course, would prove to be untraceable:

  Dear Emma,

  The faded writing on the ribbon that Heidi Kerr found on that stuffed animal so many years ago said Mimi. Mom gave you the name Mimi, the bitterly wished-for child, when she gave you up for adoption.

  Mom didn’t know she was having twins again until she went into labor. Dad took us kids to visit you and Melissa after you were born, and Minnie and Mary were so upset and jealous that Mom thought telling them they could each help her with one of you would pacify them. She said Mary could help with Melissa, and Minnie could help with you. But you were too small to come home right away, so when Melissa came home and you didn’t, Minnie couldn’t stand watching Mary doddle over her, and our grandmother couldn’t bear that our grandfather had asked, after all those years, that my parents name one of the twins Melissa.

  I did not know which twin put the pillow over baby Melissa’s head. I couldn’t tell them apart then, but I know now it was Minnie. I watched my grandmother stand behind her and give instructions. She pulled up the little stool, and Minnie stood on it to lean down into the crib. I was too little and didn’t realize what was happening.

  Because Minnie’s hand held the pillow and not my grandmother’s, the family agreed to cover it up. Mom said she would keep their secret, to protect Minnie—after all, she was her daughter—but on one condition. That you be put up for adoption. She wouldn’t bring you home. She feared for your life. Afraid Mary would retaliate or Minnie would repeat the heinous act if she refused to allow her near you. Our father argued over it, but in the end, they all agreed.

  When I was eleven years old, Mom asked me to make sure no proof ever surfaced that you were a McKinney. So Dad or the twins would never know where you were, never harm you. By then I could hack any firewall in my path, pick any door lock at any institution. Mom never got over losing Melissa or giving you up for adoption. She was utterly heartbroken. Before she took her life, she made me promise to protect you and Mel, always. I wish I had known what she intended.

  Now it’s over. You’re safe.

  Rest assured, Emma, I’ve watched you grow and have seen the results of every stroke of your finger upon any keyboard, ever. I know you. You are nothing like your siblings. You are like your aunt Coleen, who was also raised away from the family. Your adoption was your salvation—the greatest gift our mother could give you. Use it well.

  Live.

  How I wish I could stick around and watch you and your children grow.

  Love always, Matt.

  She saw his name and session reviews spun in her head as if on an old movie reel. She could almost hear the clicking sound of each passing frame: I’m here for one reason and one reason alone, my little sister…I’m here for my sister, Doctor Kerr…I want to protect my little sister from the twins…The twins treat Mel just fine…Anything for my little sister.

  She had been right from the start.

  “He’s my brother,” she whispered, tears dribbling down cheeks.

  Her head danced and her world swirled, but Giff held her up. She recalled her mother inverting her IQ and saying it was 194, while the little Post-it with the MAM—Mimi Anne McKinney—stated what it truly was, 149. And there was no glitch. Mel’s IQ was 116.

  Her life—all of its complex twists and turns–came raging back at her, and she felt like she was watching someone else. Reading a story about a girl she didn’t know, in an intricately long book with a hundred plus chapters. Past words of Mr. Martin, Mr. Espy, and that scrawny little clerk at The Limited boomed and echoed: “like her nieces,” “another brilliant McKinney,” “aren’t these your clothes?” The words rang in her ears, whirling like a powerful wind. She had to concentrate on keeping her balance as the mighty squall destroyed the world as she knew it.

  All the girls in our family are twins, if they are born alone they die. She was not born alone. Melissa was her twin. Identical. But there is no identical twin gene.

  “May Almighty God have mercy on my soul and the souls of my children,” she whispered so low that Giff could not make out her words.

  Finally, everything was crystal clear. Matt had been watching her in church when she saw him sitting in the back instead of with his family. He’d watched her in the halls at school, in the grocery store, on the street. When she began counseling his sisters, he agreed to go in order to protect her from them. He had monitored her computer, fought through every firewall she installed, knew every word she wrote. He had shown up to protector her from Josh. Installed cameras to protect her from Minnie—and Charles Brown. He had kept his word to his mother. Protected her from everyone. Now
it’s over.

  “Minnie is dead,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Minnie McKinney—she’s dead.”

  Giff cocked his head and flashed a confused look. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he’s going away,” she told him. “He doesn’t need to protect me or Mel from anyone anymore.”

  Giff took the note from her and read it again for clarity, then turned toward her.

  He hesitated for a moment and then said, “Open it. The gender revealing document. There’s under one third of a chance they are both girls. Go ahead. One will be a boy.”

  Tears slipped down both of her cheeks. It was odd he gave the statistics, she thought. She took a deep breath, ran her fingernail against the edge of the sealed envelope, and pulled the sonogram results out. It read: Johnson – baby girl A; baby girl B.

  Her shoulders slouched and she nearly collapsed, but Giff caught her. She looked around at the people ascending and descending the medical building steps, temporarily forgetting which direction she was going. Then she regained her composure.

  Now she had the answer to that final question. She and her girls were McKinneys.

  Her eyes rose sheepishly toward Giff, searching for his reaction. How would he feel about her being a McKinney? Timidly, she put her hand in his. It wasn’t long before he reacted, his big hand wrapping tightly around hers.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, squeezing her hand. “We’ll get through it.”

  But he couldn’t help remember the night her mother lay in agonizing pain from her fall, when Emma asked him to find her father’s gun, so she could put her out of her misery. And he thought of the suicide note that Matt found on Emma’s computer. And Mary McKinney’s words about a good twin and a bad twin. Then he looked down at her—the woman he worshiped—and cast those thoughts away as quickly as they came. There was nothing she would ever do to make him stop loving her.

  Emma moved closer to him, her shoulder touching his chest, and they gazed deeply at each other with sad eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Lightheaded but okay. Confused,” she said. “I don’t understand how this is all happening at the same time. My birth certificate showing up exactly when I find out I’m having twins.”

  Giff questioned the timing, too. How could it have been orchestrated so perfectly?

  They thought of him, simultaneously. Knew he had delivered the birth certificates himself. Their eyes searched their surroundings and came to rest on a little park across the street, where people buzzed over neatly-trimmed asphalt paths with their dogs and their strollers as if everything was right in the world.

  They both saw him at the same time.

  He sat leisurely on a park wall directly across from them—Matt, the brother, genius, master game player. He’d made his final move. Dropped that final puzzle piece, game token, card at the doctor’s office in time for her appointment.

  That old adage was true, Giff thought, a man would cheat, lie, steal, or sell his soul to protect those he loved. He remembered the suicide note and the medical waiver, both signatures of Mary McKinney’s forged by different hands, and he realized he and Matt were not nearly as different as Emma believed. He supposed Matt knew that, too.

  He understood then that Matt was leaving, that he’d sent Emma’s suicide note to warn Giff, not dissuade him. He was entrusting Emma to him.

  Emma did not notice Giff lifting their clasped hands and nodding—I’ve got her—toward Matt. She only saw Matt tipping his hat back at him. Giff knew the tip was for him. Matt’s way of tossing his cards down and pushing the chips Giff’s way. The game was over.

  They watched him walk away until he faded from sight. He never turned around. They looked at each other. Giff gave her a short nod, and Emma’s lips turned sadly upward. She nodded back.

  “Did you remember?” she asked him. “What he said about the twins?”

  “I do,” he affirmed, squeezing her hand.

  “Then you know.”

  “I know,” he said. “You could talk those twins into anything—murder or suicide.”

  They knew what must be done, and she knew she wouldn’t have had the strength to do what they were about to do without Giff. How different the moment would have been if she had been standing there with Josh. They would have run home and never spoken of the McKinneys again. Her hand in Giff’s made all the difference. With him, she could do the right thing.

  But of course Matt knew that. The environment and those around you could soften people with the worst of genes.

  They turned and started the slow, painful walk down the street toward the courthouse—to turn Matt’s note into the DA’s office. That letter, along with Emma’s birth certificate and the story of baby Melissa’s murder, would make Mathew McKinney a person of interest regarding the murder of Mary and the suicide of Minnie McKinney. But investigators would never question him. He would not attend Minnie’s funeral. His home was cleaned out, and he was gone before the print dried on the search warrant.

  On January 11, 2017, Emma gave birth to two healthy baby girls. She cut her hours to part time the following winter, so she and Giff could raise their children in the most loving environment they were capable of creating. She worked part time until her girls were school aged, and then she threw herself full time into genetic studies.

  She and Giff prayed every day that their girls, and their son, Mathew, born eighteen months after the twins, would not inherit the suicide gene of Emma’s mother’s family or the mental frailties of Emma’s father’s family. They kept their children active on the debate, cross country, swim, and track teams to keep their minds engaged. Both she and Giff began watching intently for suicidal tendencies when each of their babies turned thirteen years of age—always keeping them in their sight.

  In 2019 Attorney Gifford Johnson won a large chunk of change by finishing twenty-sixth in the World Series of Poker, and in 2021, he took a medical malpractice suit all the way to the state supreme court. The case set legal precedent in Pennsylvania. The two accomplishments together made him enough money to purchase the most sought-after one-hundred-year-old home overlooking the bay on Erie’s prestigious South Shore Drive. It was located two miles from Presque Isle State Park, where Emma and Giff and their children would often run together.

  Ally married Rhett in 2018, and they moved two houses down and across the street from Emma and Giff in 2022. Ally retained her position with Doctor Johannes where she could saunter in late every morning. Eventually she became his partner. Her extra salary often paid to replace neighbors’ windows. Not one of her three boys or her daughter would ever make a school golf team.

  Emma accepted a teaching position in Erie at Mercyhurst University in 2024 and initiated an in-depth research project on the possibility of the existence of a suicide gene. The study would last over five years, and upon its completion, she would win accolades from the American Psychiatric Association along with the Association of Women Psychiatrists. After that, Emma would turn her thoughts and research toward a second and perhaps more important McKinney-family curse—the MAOA enzyme.

  Yes, whatever came their way, they’d get through it.

  Chapter 49

  Saturday, March 2, 2030

  Suicide attempt. One.

  The feeling was worse right before her period. She knew that. She would tell herself if she still felt the same listlessness and longing in three days to go ahead and do it. Kill herself. The depression usually passed by the third day.

  Still, she took a step gingerly to tempt fate. Fine little lines spread in the ice beneath her feet. She couldn’t see them, but she could hear their crackle. She took another step. Languidly. More cracks. Water crept toward her, oozing from a big hole a few feet away. It covered the bottom of her running shoes. She looked up. If she squinted through the dark, she could see them—the melting spots in the bay’s ice—the dangerously thin layers that could suck a person under in the blink of an eye. T
hey were everywhere, all around her, but she thought she could meander around them until she got to a solid spot, a safe place, far enough away from shore that the water underneath would be over her head. Then she could wait—for fate to respond.

  A runner passing by on the path behind her slipped out of the darkness and burst into view, startling her with his holler.

  “What are you doing? Didn’t you see the sign saying stay off the ice? It’s thawing.”

  “Yes.” She pulled her cell from her pocket and turned slightly toward him. “I was trying to get a picture of the sunrise. I had no idea I was on the ice. Now I’m afraid to move.”

  He edged toward her slowly, put his hand out, and she slid her gloved fingers gently into his palm and stepped back on solid ground.

  “You need to be more careful,” he said. He hesitated only slightly, then he released his grip and backed away from her.

  For a moment, she thought he recognized her. It would be awful if he did. Embarrassing for her family. She’d gotten up early and snuck away before any of them awoke. They usually ran together on Saturday mornings. When they found out she had left without them, they’d be worried. She held her scarf in place to make sure he couldn’t see her face. The man slowly turned and continued on his way.

  She watched him jog down the path, the first rays of the rising sun streaking the morning sky above him. She put her ear buds back in and stepped onto the running path. As she did, the man turned back toward her, and those first rays of the sun fell on his silhouette, illuminating the left side of his face.

  Fate had responded.

  Her eyes brightened, and the world lit up when a few more rays filtered through the darkness. Her mind cleared and her sight sharpened and she saw how intricately beautiful and safe the world looked when you allowed a little light in.