Mother Knows Best

by Kira Peikoff

  “You didn’t know about this?” I ask him.

  “Are you kidding? We were partners. Why would she betray me?”

  I can’t help thinking, I told you so. But his mounting anger as we listen to the recording is validating. Any loyalty he feels for her will dry up fast now.

  After the recording finishes, the prosecutor turns to the jury with a flourish, as if gearing up for some big finale.

  “What’s especially damning,” he declares, “is that this willful manipulation of human life, this three-parent experiment, was no reckless impulse carried out at the request of a desperate mother. It was planned well before Claire Abrams volunteered herself—in fact, she was an unsuspecting part of the plan all along.”

  The prosecutor curls his lips up in distaste.

  “What’s he talking about?” I ask.

  “No idea,” Nash says, as the prosecutor opens his mouth again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, computer records reveal that this woman”—he points at Jillian—“registered as a member of the online support group Mighty Mito Moms a full year before the experiment began so that she could gain the trust of women like Mrs. Abrams, mothers whose children suffered greatly from mitochondrial disease. Our defendant here posed as JohnsMom111 and posted in the group thirty-three times about her nonexistent child’s illness so that she could eventually use their vulnerable community as a recruiting platform. Poor Mrs. Abrams fell right into the trap.”

  The courtroom breaks into murmurs as Nash’s jaw goes slack.

  It takes me several mind-numbing seconds to speak. “Did you know about this?”

  “I swear to God, I had no clue.”

  I inch away from him on the bed. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

  “I turned you down at the bar, remember? When I told you to find another doctor?”

  I recall my mortifying disappointment that night at the Stone Rose Lounge. “True.”

  “And her recording proves it. She’s goading me on, calling me a coward unless I accept your proposition. She must have been waiting for someone like you to come along, counting on your desperation and then mine …”

  “Wow.” I cradle my stomach, trying to reconcile the irony that the healthiest part of my child has come from someone so damaged.

  He is visibly shaken. “I would have fired her immediately had I known …”

  I touch my face. My cheeks are sweaty.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “You look warm.”

  I flick my wrist. “Oh, my daughter’s DNA is part psychopath. No biggie.”

  “Not the part that influences personality.”

  “You don’t know that,” I retort, my voice rising. “Gene interaction is way more complex than anyone understands. It’s not like we have a precedent!”

  His slow exhale makes me shudder. It seems like affirmation of my fear, but his mind must still be on Jillian, because he says, “I never even knew her. After all this time.”

  Meanwhile, the prosecutor is on a roll now, his step quickening.

  “It would have been bad enough to catfish a regular person. But Claire Abrams is in a different category altogether. Medical records subpoenaed during discovery show that she suffered a mental breakdown after the death of her son, complete with paranoid delusions and panic attacks that required a prolonged stay in a psychiatric facility, where she imagined her son was still alive and kept calling out to him.

  “Needless to say, we’re not talking about someone of sound enough mind to consent to any kind of experiment. But did that matter to Dr. Hendricks and Dr. Nash? No, they preyed on her despair to fashion her into a willing surrogate. And now this poor child is about to be born to a mental patient on the run.”

  A surreal fog clouds my vision. There it is, my deepest secret exposed with cruel nonchalance. The shame I’ve worked for so long to hide, scooped right out of my soul and flung before the world to judge. With immense dread, I look at Nash.

  He’s gaping at me in disbelief.

  I manage a shaky smile. “I guess I also have a lot to explain.”

  ABBY: NOW

  On Monday night at dinner, I’m totally distracted. My meeting with JH0502 is tomorrow. What will she tell me? What is such a big deal that she is going to drive all the way to Garrison to meet me in person—alone? And why can’t my mom know?

  If Mom and Dad notice I’m not paying much attention at the table, they don’t seem to care. In fact, I think they’re having some pretty big problems themselves. They barely spoke to each other all weekend. It must be bad, because Dad turns on the TV to watch Jeopardy while Mom silently serves us microwaved chicken nuggets.

  Afterward, I skip dessert and tell them I’m going to sleep early. “Big day tomorrow.” That part isn’t a lie. They kiss me good-night, and I go upstairs. It’s kind of ridiculous how they’re barely noticing me tonight.

  I brush my teeth and get ready for bed, but toss and turn, thinking about what will happen. After a while, I give up trying to sleep. The house is dark when I tiptoe down to the kitchen for a snack, except for a wedge of light from Dad’s office. His door is slightly open, and he and Mom are inside talking. I can’t help overhearing their tense voices drifting out. I mean, I could plug my ears and go back to my room, but what I hear makes me freeze.

  “I didn’t just slip and fall,” she’s saying. “There was … more to it.”

  I tiptoe closer and press myself against the wall.

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “I thought you said it was an accident.”

  “It was. But the truth is … I was chasing another vision of Colton.”

  I hold in a gasp. She was what?

  “I know it sounds crazy,” she’s saying, “but he just, like, appeared on the playground.”

  “Oh fuck. This is what I was afraid of.”

  “Why do you think I didn’t tell you? But he seemed so close …”

  “Honey, no one was there. Tell me you realize that.”

  Silence.

  “Oh God,” Dad moans. “You need to go back on the Risperdal—”

  “No!”

  “There’s no shame in taking medication.”

  “I don’t want that shit in my body!”

  “But what if you hallucinate while you’re driving? This isn’t something you can control!”

  “I’ll look for a therapist.”

  “I really think an inpatient program would be the most effective—”

  “No!” she yells. “I’m not going to Bellevue again.”

  Again?

  “Then somewhere else …”

  I hear them move toward the door, so I leap under the staircase, where I can crouch in the shadows without them noticing. They walk out of the office, still arguing. As they head upstairs, the steps creak above my head.

  “I’m sure therapy will help,” she’s telling him. “Let me just give it a shot.”

  “All right. But you have to tell me immediately if this happens again. Okay?”

  I don’t hear what she says next, because they lower their voices when they near my bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  All I can think of is that terrible note I discovered in my backpack: My mom’s a crazy bitch.

  Maybe Sydney was right. Maybe my mom is crazy.

  I’m not sure what Bellevue is, but I’m guessing there’s a whole big part of her life she’s kept hidden from me. Maybe JH0502 will know.

  I feel like I’m on the edge of a mountain, waiting for the ground to fall out from under me. Except it’s impossible to see the most important thing: how steep is the drop?

  JILLIAN: BEFORE

  The courtroom smells like fear and stale coffee. When the judge marches in, I rise unsteadily from my seat at the defendant’s table along with my lawyer.

  The next few minutes mean everything. Today I find out how long I’ll be going to prison—alone—since Nash never showed up. Now that we know Claire is unstable, it makes sense. He can’t leave a newborn baby with a c
razy woman. I’m not sure who I feel worse for—myself or him; we’re both trapped.

  This past week has been a horror show culminating in a guilty verdict that surprised no one. My recording, which the prosecutor dredged up using data recovery software, was played loud and clear for the jury. It revealed the two of us discussing the strategic details of how to carry out the mitochondrial transplant—when, where, and how the secret experiment would go down. The jury only deliberated for fifteen minutes before reaching their unanimous verdict.

  The only question left is how severe my sentence will be. In cases regarding the welfare of a child, Judge Clark happens to be notorious for her harshness.

  As she takes her place at the raised bench, all chatter ceases in the airless room. Between two American flags, a round gold eagle seal with the words U.S. DISTRICT COURT shines in the wood paneling above her head.

  Seeing those official symbols cuts through my quiet self-control. This is happening. This is real. I’m about to be sentenced for a crime that has no business being a crime. I’m about to be hauled off to prison. I grip the table to fight my overwhelming urge to run.

  Beside the bench, the poker-faced bailiff announces, “This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Patricia Clark presiding.”

  My lawyer nudges my foot with his own. I know what’s coming next, and it will take every ounce of my self-control to accept punishment for the greatest triumph of my life.

  Judge Clark’s solemn gaze bores into me. “We are here today to issue a sentence in the matter of United States v. Hendricks. Ms. Hendricks, you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers of conspiring to expose an unborn child to experimental genetic origins that could harm both her physical and psychological well-being, in contravention of the federal ban on editing human embryos. Before your sentencing, do you have any last statement you would like to make for the record?”

  I clear my throat. Damn you all, I want to scream. My career is crucified. My parents are too ashamed to return my calls. The man of my dreams is gone, stolen by the woman who wrecked my life. What’s left?

  “Your Honor, I’m—” I force myself to utter the lie. “I’m sorry for any damage I’ve caused. I accept responsibility for my actions.”

  A flick of dissatisfaction crosses the judge’s face. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” I sit down, unable to make eye contact with my lawyer, whose posture radiates annoyance.

  “You had one job,” he hisses under his breath. “Be at least a little contrite.”

  I’m not an actress, I think. I’m a fucking scientist.

  The judge opens her contemptuous mouth. “Ms. Hendricks, you are hereby sentenced to thirty-six months in prison and three years’ probation, on condition that you agree to stay away from all human embryo research for a period of ten years. You are to voluntarily surrender in thirty days to the Federal Correctional Institute at Danbury.”

  I feel my lungs deflate as the air flies out.

  Time passes, seconds or minutes, I can’t be sure; the courtroom erupts in a flurry of activity and my lawyer says something with an apologetic expression; someone takes me by the arm.

  But I can only focus on one thing: Judge Clark is right. Justice must be served. An appropriate punishment extracted from the offenders. But the system is broken, the blame misplaced. I will have to take matters into my own hands.

  A raw, crackling energy surges through my veins. It’s my old friend ambition, galvanizing me with a new purpose.

  A purpose that will sustain me over the next three years.

  And after that—

  I think of Nash and Claire and the baby—my baby. I think of them escaping to safety somewhere, of Claire forcing them to become a family together, a family that should have been mine.

  After that, I’m coming for you.

  * * *

  CLAIRE

  THE DAY OF

  My eyes snap open at four thirty AM, as usual. Insomnia is my nightly companion these days, when rolling over in bed is a feat and my bladder fills every hour. The house is quiet, except for the sound of Nash snoring in the next room.

  With the trial over and his (and Jillian’s) guilt declared, he has nowhere to go. Returning home would mean certain jail. We’re stuck together now. I swallow past my guilt. Have I trapped him?

  No. He came on his own to help me. I never forced him.

  But maybe—

  The rest of the thought makes me cringe. Maybe if I’d been up-front about my mental health issues from the start, he never would have trusted me, and none of this would be happening. Which is exactly why I didn’t tell him, of course.

  After the prosecutor’s brutal revelation, I waited for Nash to retaliate. Waited for his inevitable anger, suspicion, and disgust.

  For three years, I had kept my secret from friends and colleagues, cowering alone in my tower of shame. Only Ethan knew, and he cultivated my isolation by pretending our life was normal. He craved normalcy like it was the point of existence. Eventually he decided that another child would fix me. The truth hurts to admit, but I think our marriage failed years before this new baby came into the picture. It crumbled at the altar of my suffering.

  You have to get out of bed, he used to beg me. We can’t live like this.

  I felt sorry for him, but more so for myself. I had no desire to move on if it meant leaving my son behind. In hindsight, I realize how alone Ethan made me feel, and how inadequate, for not managing my pain as well as he did.

  I’ve also come to understand that grief can coexist with healing. The former doesn’t stop where the latter starts. Instead, they run on parallel tracks; some days one is ahead, some days the other. A return to normalcy after the death of a child is simply not possible. At best, it’s facing every day with a clear head and a broken heart.

  After the prosecutor’s bombshell, I thought Nash would regard me with cautious suspicion, like Ethan did after my brief stay in the psych unit, as though I might revert to seeing Colton’s face in the shadows.

  Instead, Nash gave me the ultimate gift: his compassion. “That sounds absolutely terrible,” he said, without a trace of judgment. “What a nightmare.”

  “It was. I lost my mind. It was pretty bad.”

  Then he stunned me further by covering my hand. “You lost a child. Who could blame you?”

  “I should have told you at the beginning. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes.” He was matter-of-fact. “But what does it matter now?”

  “You don’t think I’m …?” I couldn’t bring myself to complete the sentence.

  He squeezed my hand. “What people do in grief isn’t fair to judge. It isn’t really you.” He closed his eyes as if in painful recollection.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I lost my wife to brain cancer eleven years ago.”

  I gasped. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know you were married.”

  “I never talk about her.”

  We were quiet for a bit, and then he said, “It’s why I didn’t see myself with Jillian long-term. Just couldn’t let go.”

  I wondered about his use of the past tense; had he let go now? A small part of me hoped so.

  “I didn’t cope well,” he went on. “Drank until I had to join AA. I was totally out of control for a few years.”

  He studied me for signs of disdain. I remained unfazed.

  “We do what we can to survive,” I said, “and we’re stronger for it.”

  “Exactly. That’s why this whole scandal doesn’t feel like the end of the world. Because I’ve been through worse.” There was a glimmer in his eye. He blinked it away. “After that, I can get through anything.”

  * * *

  I lie in bed at four forty-five AM, contemplating what has happened between us since that conversation a few days ago. The line between doctor and patient has grown blurrier than ever. He’s begun to linger in my room after a meal, instead of rushing out to be alone, and we spend time at night rea
ding side by side, with our shoulders touching. Sometimes he tells me funny quirks about his wife, like that she collected mustache cups and enjoyed terrible puns, and I share an anecdote about Colton. I told him about Colton’s love of making up stories, and how we invented an adventure series about a lonely space robot named Melvin. I also told him about Colton’s favorite nurse at the hospital, Lucy, whom he called his girlfriend, and who surprised him with fudge one year on Valentine’s Day. By then he was getting his nutrition through a feeding tube, because his stomach was in such bad shape, but the doctors allowed him to taste the fudge anyway. It might have been the last great day of his life. Sharing these private memories has brought us immeasurably closer.

  Last night, before we went to sleep, he closed his laptop and said to me, “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I came for the birth, but that’s not why I’m staying.”

  “It’s not?”

  “You’re brave, Claire. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  I laughed dryly, in spite of my pounding heart. “Or maybe just stupid.”

  “Nah,” he said. “Not to me.”

  I took his hand and put it on my belly. “She’s kicking. Can you feel?”

  As we sat there enjoying the baby’s surreal jabs, the moment felt explicitly intimate, like a betrayal of Ethan. But fidelity to my husband was no longer a requirement, so I let Nash hold my stomach until enough time had passed that we’d crossed the boundary of our official roles and were becoming something else entirely. Something that triggered a different sort of jolt inside me.

  * * *

  Now, at five AM, the baby gives another ferocious kick to my bladder. Time to pee again. I feel warm liquid drip between my thighs. Have I wet the bed? Oh God, how embarrassing.

  As I struggle to my feet, clear fluid leaks out between my legs in a way I cannot control. Holy shit. When I stand up, the flow gets heavier. It pours out like a faucet, soaking my panties, creating a puddle on the floor.

  “Hey!” I waddle as fast as I can into his room. “I think my water broke!”

  He bolts upright and flicks on the lamp. “What?”