Mother Knows Best

by Kira Peikoff

  1) Abrams is a 39-year-old star reporter for Mindset magazine who carries a deadly genetic mutation in her mitochondrial DNA.

  2) Abrams lost her only prior child, a son, to mitochondrial disease three years ago, when he was just eight years old.

  3) Abrams grew up an only child in the Westchester suburbs, the daughter of a high school physics teacher and an English professor.

  4) When Abrams was 16, her mother died of an undiagnosed illness that is presumed to be a result of a severe mitochondrial mutation; her father died of a stroke five years later.

  5) Abrams embraces a style of immersion journalism that defies the norm, colleagues say. “I have never worked with another reporter as fearless as Claire,” said Nancy Bennington, Mindset’s editor-in-chief. “Most reporters today make some phone calls and call it a day, but Claire is old-school.” Bennington described some of Abrams’ more unusual exploits, including posing as a patient to get into a corrupt drug trial; volunteering to try a synthetic form of LSD for cancer research; and trailing the CEO of a pharmaceutical company to expose a scam on prescription drug pricing. “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised she would risk everything to try an untested fertility treatment,” her editor added. “If there’s anyone who would be first in line for something like that, it’s her, especially after what she’s been through.”

  I heave a sigh of relief. They still don’t know. All the press has learned so far is the garden-variety version of me. No enterprising reporter has done her homework yet.

  I navigate back a page and skim the rest of the stories. Nash and Jillian are out on bail; a picture shows them holding hands together leaving the station: Nash defiant, Jillian stone-faced, both in shock.

  I hope they get off easy. But there’s no way in hell I would take any of it back. I close my eyes and zero in on the fluttery sensations in my stomach—the near-constant kicking still enthralls me. It never gets old to feel my baby moving, or to dream of us meeting face-to-face for the first time.

  When I open my eyes, Ethan’s name is staring back at me on the screen:

  Ethan Abrams, Husband of So-Called Frankenmom, Speaks Out

  I click on the story. It’s an op-ed he’s published in a leading journal for intellectuals.

  Whether we like it or not, there are technologies emerging today that make possible the creation of children who are not the offspring of one man and one woman, as every human has been until this point in the history of our species. But such tools have far outpaced our ethical understanding of how—and if—to use them, as Robert Nash’s irresponsible fertility experiment demonstrates. That my wife participated, and by extension involved me, is a source of tremendous heartache, both for me and for the child I will soon regrettably share with two other people.

  The creation of a child with genetic material from one man and two women violates a fundamental biological principle and our collective moral commitment to protecting the health and well-being of children. The regulatory system prohibits experiments that expose children to novel genetic origins that could hinder their future psychological development and the formation of their identities. That is why our regulations clearly state that no person can knowingly “alter the genome of a cell of a human being or in vitro embryo such that the alteration is capable of being transmitted to descendants.”

  Claire and I were desperate for another child after losing our son. She was afraid of passing on her mutation, but instead of having the courage to love whatever baby God gave us, she acted selfishly, out of fear, and now it’s time for her to face the consequences. If she is found guilty of conspiracy, she faces a fine of up to $500,000, a jail sentence of up to five years, or both. Given her stunning capacity for recklessness, it doesn’t surprise me that she’s disappeared now, at eight months pregnant, further endangering the welfare of her unborn child in order to evade her own punishment.

  Lest anyone question my role in this scandal, allow me to publicly state that I disavow my involuntary connection to it, and condemn every depraved step leading up to the child’s birth.

  I dig my nails into my palms. Would Ethan truly have preferred another Colton, with his doomed—but natural—origins? Then none of the ethics scholars would be scandalized, and one day they could all show up at the next kid’s funeral with Hallmark cards expressing their condolences. Assholes.

  I slam my computer shut and leap off the bed. If it’s selfish and reckless to sacrifice everything for the sake of my child’s health, then maybe I am unfit to be a mother. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  An unexpected wetness drips down my thigh. I reach around my stomach to wick it away. If Ethan is denouncing me in public, then our marriage is really over. The meanness of his words hollows out an ache in my chest all the way down to—

  My belly. It’s gone rigid, like it’s filling with cement.

  I look down at my hand.

  It’s bloody.

  * * *

  JILLIAN

  I wait in the doorway with my arms crossed. “What are you doing?”

  It’s after two AM and Nash still hasn’t come to bed. He’s in the living room hunched over his phone, his face bathed in its blue light.

  “I’ll be in soon.”

  I shiver in my lacy nightgown that he’s failed to notice. “Eighteen.”

  He keeps tapping his screen. “One sec.”

  “Eighteen,” I repeat. “Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

  When he finally looks up, his eyes take a second to focus on me. “What?”

  “The trial starts in eighteen days.”

  In his sigh, I detect a note of annoyance. “And?”

  I climb beside him on the couch. “And so we have only eighteen days before the shit storm, and you’re sitting here on your phone.” I snuggle up against him. “I just don’t want to waste any of our time together.”

  And, I think, I’m done being ignored. In the surreal, chaotic week since our arrest and release on bail, we’ve been lying low in his apartment away from the cameras. We didn’t cooperate with the cops when they first showed up, but then they quickly came back with a search warrant on the strength of Ethan’s tip and went through Nash’s apartment, where they discovered a file in his safe called DOUBLE X. It contained handwritten notes from our experiment that he’d saved for eventual publication, and unfortunately that was enough evidence to arrest us and charge us with the crime of circumventing federal research prohibitions.

  The tabloid media is having a field day with the story, but their angle is all wrong. They’re obsessed with Claire, the already legendary—and missing—Frankenmom. Never mind the geniuses required to join three people’s DNA into one flawless embryo. Nobody gives a damn who achieved that. Yet Claire, merely a means to an end—the press can’t run stories about her fast enough.

  But the most appalling part is Nash. In my version of this insane twist of fate, the two of us are supposed to be inseparable by now, united against the world. Even as our freedom possibly slips away, his affection should be one hell of a consolation prize.

  Instead, the reality is crushing: he is as obsessed with Claire as everyone else. It’s obvious in his distracted voice, in the urgency with which he scours the headlines, in his lack of interest in sex and his preoccupation with his phone.

  “You’re still looking for her, aren’t you?” I say.

  “She’s pregnant and alone,” he replies. “Why do you hate her so much?”

  “Why don’t you? She’s screwed up both our lives, and all you can think about is whether she’s okay.”

  “We have a responsibility to that baby. Can you imagine if she forgoes medical care because she’s afraid? It would be totally negligent.”

  The jealous knot inside me loosens. “You’re a good doctor, Rob. But Claire made this mess herself, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “Don’t you want to know if the baby is okay?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course! But it’s just another th
ing she stole, so now we have to worry about ourselves.”

  His eyes narrow. “Yes, she fucked up, but she’s still my patient. I can’t just abandon her.”

  “She stopped being your patient months ago. She’s our research subject. There’s a difference. And she cut the experiment short. You owe her nothing.”

  “Why are you so threatened?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I shrug, fuming. “Maybe because I’m about to throw away everything for you, and all you can think about is her.”

  “I told you, we’re not going to jail. They have no proof of any conspiracy. It’s just Ethan’s word against ours.”

  “What about the file?”

  “It’s not hard evidence. It’s descriptions of embryos at various points in their development. As far as they know, it could be pure speculation, which is not against the law, last I checked.”

  I hesitate. I’ve been dreading this conversation.

  “Don’t look so worried,” he says. “Without Claire giving up some DNA, they have no proof.”

  I decide not to tell him yet. We have so little time left. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.” I climb onto him and straddle his lap, planting a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Come to bed. It’s late.”

  He barely kisses me back. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood.”

  I gather enough self-respect to stand. “Fine. If you’d rather be looking for her, I’ll get out of your way.”

  I march out of the room, slowing in anticipation of him calling my name.

  Jilly, wait!

  But he says nothing. I peek over my shoulder in time to see him grab his phone once more.

  ABBY: NOW

  As my mom rests on the couch with her broken ankle wrapped in an ice pack, I feel like she’s spiraling out of control, along with my entire life.

  Why would she slip down a hill in a rainstorm?

  Why won’t she tell me anything?

  Who was the stranger who walked onto our driveway?

  I blink back tears. I’m terrified I’m going to lose her and I have no idea why.

  I have to do something, and I don’t care anymore if I get in trouble.

  Riley’s suggestion echoes in my mind: What if you reopened your account on the genetics site and contacted the stranger again? See what else she’ll tell you?

  It’s now or never. I dash into my parents’ bedroom and open Mom’s silver MacBook on her nightstand. Her computer has stored her Gmail password, so it loads fast. I search the inbox for MapMyDNA and find the message she sent to the company five weeks ago asking them to close my account. It takes me half a minute to write them back:

  Hi, sorry for the confusion but it turns out my daughter still needs her account for her final class project on DNA. Is it possible to reopen it ASAP? If so, can you please make her old username and password work again? Thanks!

  After hitting SEND, I delete the entire chain and block the company’s email address so she won’t see if they reply. Then I replace her laptop exactly as I found it—slightly off the edge of the nightstand.

  It’s past five PM now, on a Friday, so they probably won’t get the request until after the weekend. I hope it won’t be too late, because I have a feeling there’s only one person in the world who will lead me to the truth.

  CLAIRE: BEFORE

  The blood is dark red, like the first day of a period. Sweat prickles down my neck. It’s five weeks too early.

  I press my stomach. The baby is still moving. She’s alive.

  But my big belly is stiff as plaster to the touch.

  Is it a contraction? With Colton, I had a planned C-section due to him being breech, so I never experienced labor.

  Oh God, of all the times to be alone, far from any hospital, far from anyone who can help …

  Nash. Nash can help. He has to, even if he hates me, because that’s what doctors do in emergencies; they set aside judgment and fury and betrayal, and they come to the rescue.

  I check his number in my laptop’s address book, then drag myself to the dusty phone on the old woman’s nightstand and grab it off its cradle. Hearing an ancient dial tone only adds to my sense of unreality. My blood-stained fingers push the buttons of their own accord, and one ring collides with the next as the sticky warmth trickles down my thigh, until, finally, the acute relief of his voice echoes in my ear: “Hello?”

  “I’m bleeding,” I blurt out. “But if I go to the hospital, they’ll find me!”

  “Claire? Oh my God, where are you?”

  “Upstate. I’m so lost here. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Go to the hospital right now. The baby could be in distress.”

  “But if they recognize me, they’ll take her away!”

  “It won’t matter if she’s dead.”

  My breath catches. Dead. The word shocks something awake inside me, and my decision clicks. I would sooner kill myself than watch my own child die—again.

  “Meet me there,” I whisper. “Hudson Valley Hospital. I’m going now.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I waddle into an empty emergency room holding a towel between my legs. The blood is still trickling out, but slower than before—and the baby is still moving. I haven’t taken my hand off my stomach for a second.

  I approach the check-in desk with trepidation. My face is all over the city tabloid press, but here in rural Cold Spring, does anyone know or care?

  The young lady at reception is absorbed in her computer; her long purple nails clack on the keys. She glances at me with minimal interest.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m thirty-five weeks pregnant and bleeding.” I indicate the towel between my legs. “I need to be seen right away.”

  She seems unfazed as she pushes a clipboard across the desk. “Fill out your insurance information.”

  “I … don’t have any.” I think of Ethan’s amazing Columbia University health insurance that was supposed to have seen me through pregnancy and labor. Then I picture the meager two thousand dollars in the dresser. Who knows if it would even cover this visit? “I’ll—pay cash,” I stammer. “Is there a payment plan?”

  ‘Yes.” The receptionist doesn’t bother to hide her pity. How pathetic I must appear: pregnant, alone, and broke.

  “The accounting department will send you a bill after the visit. First, we need you to fill out your name, birth date, address, and medical history. You have ID?”

  I wince. “Sorry, I rushed out so fast …”

  In fact, I’m counting on the law that guarantees emergency treatment to anyone who walks into an ER, regardless of their legal status.

  “It’s okay; just fill out the form.”

  Name. My gaze sweeps over the desk cluttered with stacks of forms and hospital-branded pens. I scribble ANNE PAGE, and a fake birth date approximating my age. Next, I write the address of the skyscraper that houses the Mindset headquarters on Seventh Avenue. It’s the only one I know by heart aside from my own home. Former home, I guess. For the rest of the medical history, I check NO next to every major ailment, until I arrive at MENTAL HEALTH HISTORY.

  After a pause, I check NO. Then I slide the clipboard back to her.

  “Someone will be with you shortly, Ms. Page.”

  Five minutes later, a chatty blonde nurse leads me into a private room and helps me onto the bed, then takes my blood pressure and pulse and makes small talk about the snow. I appreciate her effort at distraction, but the longer we talk, the more I worry about a spark of recognition.

  “Dr. Morris will be in to examine you soon,” she says on her way out, after recording my vitals. “You can change into the gown, opening at the back.” At the doorway, she stops and stares at me, and I brace.

  “Is it your first?” she asks.

  “Yes.” It’s easier than explaining, and safer.

  “Ah.” Her lips curve into a reassuring smile. “First-time moms are always extra nervous. But by thirty-five weeks, it’s very likely your baby will be ju
st fine even if she’s born today. Good luck.”

  I’m still catching my breath as I change into the gown. Soon, there’s a knock on the door. A relaxed, fifty-something man wearing glasses and blue scrubs strides in, skimming my intake form.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Morris, and I’ll be examining you today. I hear you have some third-trimester bleeding?”

  Is he studying my face a little too closely, or awaiting my answer?

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “I just noticed it. I don’t have any pain, but I think I might be having contractions …”

  “Have you ever been diagnosed with placenta previa?”

  I shake my head. He instructs me to slide my bare feet into the stirrups at the end of the bed. “I’ll need to take a quick look at your cervix.” He holds up a clear plastic speculum. “It shouldn’t hurt, but it may be unpleasant, okay?”

  I nod, thinking how strange it is that I feel more comfortable with him looking down there than up at my face. I feel a cold squirt of jelly, then the thrust of the device, and his fingers poking around inside me.

  “Ouch.” The pressure is intense on my sensitive cervix.

  “Good news,” he says, “everything’s nice and closed. Next I want to do an ultrasound to check on the baby.”

  He wheels over a machine with a small screen that’s connected to a plastic wand about the size of a cucumber.

  Another cold squirt, this time on my stomach, and he presses the wand firmly into my belly. The screen comes to life with a grainy image of a fetus. Head, torso, arms, legs. I stare hungrily at the screen, at the limbs flickering in the black oblivion of amniotic fluid. A rapid whooshing heartbeat echoes through the speakers.

  “Is she okay?” I barely choke out the words.

  “She looks perfect! But … I do see one thing.”

  My heart surges into my throat. “What?”

  He squints at the screen, moving the wand back and forth over my abdomen. Every fiber in my lungs goes still; I can’t breathe.

  “It’s your placenta. It appears to have partially detached from your uterine wall.”

  My head feels woozy, like I’m swaying over an abyss. I struggle to focus.