by Kira Peikoff
More than three thousand hits pop up. I click on an article that’s eleven years old from the New York Times:
So-Called “Frankenbaby” Heralds Brave New World of Reproductive Gene Editing
Wasn’t Frankenstein a monster?
I don’t want to read it, but I can’t look away. I skim the words fast, as if that will make them less hurtful. A few phrases jump out: illegal experiment, criminal charges, crossing an ethical line, the first genetically modified child.
The last phrase jogs a memory from a few months ago—the day we went to the Natural History Museum, when we passed some protesters who were chanting against GMOs. I had never seen people in Garrison parading around with colored signs and yelling about anything.
If those people were that pissed about genetically modified food, how would they feel about a genetically modified human? Would they think I’m really that different from them? So different I shouldn’t have been born? Would no one want to be friends with me if they knew?
I stare at my fingers. They’re long and bony with short round nails. Nothing special. I touch my cheek. It’s soft and cool. Same as any other cheek. I don’t feel genetically modified, whatever that means. I feel like a regular person. But maybe something poisonous is running through my blood.
For the first time, my mom’s frustrating behavior clicks.
All this time that I’ve been mad at her for staying at home like a loner, for not showing up to my soccer games and recitals, it’s not just that she didn’t want to be discovered. She didn’t want me to be.
A name at the end of the article catches my eye.
Dr. Ethan Abrams, director of the Bioethics Department at Columbia University’s Mailman School of Public Health, disavows his connection to the child in the strongest terms.
“Let me be clear,” he said in an exclusive interview with the Times marked by outbursts of raw emotion. “I was betrayed by my wife and her cowboy doctor. That baby was created without my knowledge or consent. I had nothing to do with it.”
When asked about the criminal investigation, he said, “What they did breaks norms that have existed since the beginning of time. Human beings are not meant to be manufactured like an assembly line, with spare parts chosen from multiple people. The real victim here is the child who will spend a lifetime paying the price—if not with medical problems, then with social and psychological stigma.”
This guy’s my dad?
Ouch. Deep breath.
My hands are shaking when I close out of the article. What is the point of going to meet him if he wants nothing to do with me?
Outside the window, the river is flecked with diamonds in the sunlight. I’m annoyed at the peaceful blue sky and the white clouds. If the world were normal, I’d be in school, goofing off with Riley in … art class. Ugh. Never mind.
I consider my options: go to the city to try to meet Ethan, or get off the train and go back to an empty home? I wish I could talk to my mom, but she’s too sick to help me. I could call the school, ask to talk to Riley, and explain the situation. But then she would call her parents, who would call the cops, and I’d be in even worse trouble.
No, I guess I should stay on the train. Maybe Ethan will change his mind when he sees I’m not a monster. Or maybe he’ll blow me off. Worst case, I’ll go back home anyway and figure out another plan to free my “dad.” And best case, Ethan will help me rescue him, and together we’ll stop Jillian once and for all.
* * *
It’s almost eleven AM when I get off the subway at Broadway and 168th Street, near Columbia University’s School of Public Health. The neighborhood is nothing like Garrison. Store windows are shuttered, litter is all over the streets, and some homeless people are wandering around rattling cups for change. A sketchy guy on the corner watches me run to a steel building behind Presbyterian Hospital.
I rush through the revolving glass doors into a domed building with a very high ceiling. But my relief at being inside soon becomes fresh anxiety. I couldn’t be more out of place. Some med students are studying in a lounge behind a glass wall. Two doctors walk by deep in conversation, their high heels clicking on the glossy floor. I catch a few words: interpretation of the biometric data. This is clearly a place where important grown-up things are happening. I feel like an extra in the wrong movie. My parents would kill me if they knew where I was.
The receptionist, a woman with chunky black glasses, asks where I’m going, and I tell her I’m here for Dr. Abrams.
Her brown eyes widen. He must not have a lot of young visitors. “Is he expecting you?”
“Um, not really. No.”
“I’ll call and announce you. What’s your name?”
“Abigail.” After a pause, I add, “His daughter.”
“Oh! I haven’t seen you around before.” She gestures to the elevators. “Third floor, room 301. I think he’s teaching, but he should be back in his office soon.”
“Thanks.”
The elevator surprisingly goes down instead of up. The dropping ground makes me feel off-balance, possibly headed in the wrong direction. I step into a quiet hallway with no windows and pass several glass office doors until I find the right one. I peek inside, then jump back when I see a man at a desk. My father?
I suddenly feel a wave of guilt. I don’t even know if my other dad is okay, and now I’m going behind his back to meet a stranger who might hate me.
My hands are clammy and my heart is hammering, but I’m not turning back now. I’m done living a lie.
I drag myself to the door, hold my breath, and knock.
CLAIRE
As soon as my cab home from the hospital pulls up to the house, I know something’s not right. It’s Tuesday morning, and both of our cars are in the driveway. Rob must have stayed home all day to take care of Abby instead of picking up his regular shipment of wood from his supplier. But why would neither of them answer my calls?
Maybe they both caught the same bug. Or food poisoning. They’re doubled over a toilet, so they can’t make it to the phone. I want to muster the energy to be pissed. I want to march in and find them both sick as dogs and feel awash with relief and fury, but mostly relief.
Instead, I walk in to a chilling silence. The house smells stale, like the trash needs to be taken out. Abby’s pink sneakers, which she always kicks off in the foyer, are gone. I expect to see Rob’s keys and wallet on the console table, but the surface is bare. Yet both the cars are outside. They must be home.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “Honey? You guys upstairs?”
I listen for the flush of the toilet, the creak of footsteps. Nothing.
“Hello?” I yell. “Anyone home?”
Hearing my panicked voice echo through the empty house confirms that this whole situation isn’t just in my head. This isn’t some paranoid fantasy I indulged to escape the hospital. This is real. My family is missing.
But the cars … They must be home.
I spring into action, searching one room after the next. Kitchen, living room, dining room, bathroom. Taking the stairs two at a time. Guest room, Abby’s room, our room, bathrooms. No trace of them. In desperation, I start whipping open closet doors. Twisted scenarios knock on the door of my consciousness, but I refuse to let them in. I’m the bouncer of my own sanity. If I don’t keep out the worst thoughts, they’ll paralyze me, and what help would I be then?
Once I’ve gone through every closet, searched the backyard, checked under the couches and beds, behind the shower curtains, and in the garden shed, I finally think to search the cars.
Our Honda Accord is locked, and since I don’t have the keys, I peer through the windows. The same old travel coffee mug is in the cup holder and abandoned sweater in the back seat. And to think that just yesterday, Rob and I were inside driving to the hospital and our biggest problem was my mental health.
I peek underneath the car, and that’s when I see it: a dirty black box about two inches long and three inches wide, stuck on the undercarri
age with a magnetic strip. It takes considerable strength to rip the thing off. A cryptic symbol is printed on the back: a red Wi-Fi signal with a blue arrow. A green light is blinking on the display. I quickly pick off the cover and remove two double A batteries. Then the light goes dark.
What the … ?
Someone has been tracking our car.
Jillian. That fucking bitch. It has to be.
Before I lose my nerve, I dial the three digits on my cell that I have spent a decade avoiding: 911. If Rob and I end up arrested on our outstanding warrants, so be it. I’d rather spend the rest of my life in prison than find him and Abby in a ditch somewhere because I was too cautious to seek help.
When the dispatcher answers, I shout at him in frantic, stumbling language.
“Slow down,” he interrupts. “Are you in immediate danger?”
“My family is missing,” I explain, trying to control my gasps. “I found a tracking device on my car and I know who did it; she’s a psychopath; you have to find them!”
“Take a breath. When did you last hear from them?”
“Yesterday. But I was out of town, and today my daughter didn’t show up at school, and my husband is unreachable.”
“Can you describe them?”
“My husband is tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair, and my daughter is eleven, with wavy red hair and freckles. She wears pink sneakers …” My voice breaks. “Please hurry. They could be anywhere.”
“Can you describe the perp you believe is involved?”
I’m pacing on the driveway, kicking up rocks and dust at every turn, but now I close my eyes and envision Jillian at the museum. “She’s about five five, I think, with cropped red hair … very fit …” I think the word pretty, but can’t bear to say it.
“Okay,” the dispatcher says. “I’ll need to take your information for the report, and then I’ll send this over to the Cold Spring PD to open a case.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Will they start quickly?”
“Right away, ma’am. There’s no waiting period when a child goes missing. We’ll give you an update as soon as we can.”
After I hang up, a grenade of pure venom explodes inside me. I imagine myself slitting Jillian’s throat, scratching out her eyes, strangling her with my bare hands. If we ever meet again, nothing will stop me from killing her.
JILLIAN
Watching Abby disappear into the forest is crushing. There’s no way around it. But once she’s out of sight, I make a snap decision: we need to cut our losses and get a move on.
When I make it back to the cottage, I venture down to the basement, where I handcuffed Rob to her metal cot under threat of the gun as soon as we found her missing. I find him now yanking his arm uselessly against the cuffs, cursing me out. His wrist is ringed with red marks from his violent attempts to dislodge himself. But when he sees that I’m returning solo, he freezes, and his eyes fill with fresh panic.
“She got away?”
“Yep. Which is why we have to leave. She’s a liability now.”
“Are you serious? She could die out there! She has no food, no water, nothing!”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. She’ll find her way to a friend’s house or something.”
Though I’m playing it cool, her abandonment stings. She was an important part of the plan. Without her scans and blood work, our study will suffer. But thanks to my other data, we still have a shot at world fame. It’s for this reason, despite my disappointment, that I allow myself a twinge of admiration for her escape. I recognize a little of myself in that girl. I always used to wonder: would she turn out selfish and stupid like Claire, or brave and clever like me? Now that I know the answer, she’s gone.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him. “I’m going to pack the car.”
He jerks against the cuffs, calling me a heinous name, but I don’t have time to fight.
If Abby goes to the cops, or someone calls 911 after seeing her alone, the police could show up any minute.
Rob is yelling at me to let him go, but I ignore him as I grab the suitcase I’ve been prepping for days and haul it out to the car. At some point on the journey, we’ll have to stop and buy him some essentials. It would be too risky to swing by his house in case the cops have already found her and brought her home.
Once my suitcase is in the trunk, I pack us a cooler of turkey sandwiches for the drive, even remembering to go easy on the mayo and add a sliced pickle the way he used to like. He has it so good with me. I wonder when he’ll come to his senses. And stop yelling, for God’s sake.
When everything’s ready to go, a notification pings my phone from my GPS app. I almost ignore it because I’m so used to seeing the updates. Anytime Claire’s car goes anywhere, my app lets me know her location within fifteen feet, thanks to advanced satellite data. The whole thing was ridiculously simple to set up. After I started working at the Garrison school, I accessed Abby’s file for her address. Then one evening after midnight, I swung by their house and snapped a discreet two-inch magnetic tracking device under each car in the driveway. In less than sixty seconds, I was out of there.
From then on, I’ve been able to watch both her and Rob’s movements from afar. It’s come in quite handy. I’m about to silence the notification out of habit when I realize that Claire is at the mental hospital. I shouldn’t be getting an alert about her movement at all.
I swipe open the app. CONNECTION LOST. BATTERY FAILURE.
Wait, what?
I checked the battery twice before installing it. The thing was brand spanking new, guaranteed to last for six months. It’s only been a couple of weeks. Either the company is full of shit, or … someone disabled the device. Someone who noticed Rob and Abby were missing. Fuck.
Gun in hand, I rush to the basement to release him.
“Time to go!” I announce. He’s about to yell again when he sees it and goes silent. I need him to get the message: we can’t afford his belligerence. I unlock his cuffs with one hand while tightly gripping the gun in the other.
When the cuffs come loose, I aim the gun square at his chest.
“Hands up,” I command.
He doesn’t mess around.
“You first,” I say. “I’ll follow you.”
He walks in front of me to the car, because I’m no idiot.
“What about Abby?” he demands, staring ahead.
“I told you, she’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I trust her to figure it out.”
A siren wails in the distance. It could be an ambulance. Or a cop.
I open the passenger door for him. “Get in.”
He obeys. I climb in the driver’s side and place my gun in the pocket of the door. The siren grows louder. “Give me your wrists,” I demand. “Hurry.”
When he extends them, I quickly snap the cuffs into place.
“Oh, come on,” he protests. “Is this really necessary?”
I peel out of the driveway without buckling my seat belt. “I think so.”
“Whoa!” he exclaims as I careen down the winding road, throwing us against our seats. I don’t breathe until we’re clear out of the forest. We pass a shrieking cop car that flies by in the opposite direction. It doesn’t slow down for us. It’s going after someone else.
Once it’s out of sight, I exhale.
“We made it.”
I smile at him, but he’s monitoring the window. His restrained hands move as one unit toward the door handle.
“What are you doing?”
“I need to find my daughter.” He pulls on the handle; as we accelerate toward the highway entrance, the door cracks open and wind roars in.
“Stop!” I crush the gas, merging onto the ramp. “You’re going to want to stay.”
He sticks one ankle out. “Never.”
“Are you sure?” I glance over at him, wanting to see his face in this moment, a moment I will remember forever. “Because we have a son.”
<
br /> ABBY
The stranger who is my father approaches the glass door to his office. He’s short, a little overweight, and a lot older than I expected, with graying hair, slouched shoulders, and wrinkles around his eyes. In his black suit and shiny black shoes, he looks like someone who is used to being in charge. But there’s also something handsome and gentle about his face that reminds me of the good guys in old movies. I want to trust him, but I’m afraid.
When he pokes his head out, his confusion is clear. He looks up and down the hallway for my parents.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Um, hi.” I wave awkwardly. “I’m Abigail.”
“Hi, Abigail.” His smile is polite, but impatient. “Are you lost, or …?”
“I’myourdaughter.” I say it fast like one long word, then squeeze my eyes shut.
When nothing happens, I open my eyes. He’s staring at me as if I’m an alien making contact with Earth. I search his face for happiness, or hatred, or some sign of his feelings, but all I see is disbelief.
“You’re … you’re not …?”
“The three-parent baby? Yeah, that’s me.”
“Oh my God.” He stumbles backward into an armchair. “Oh my God.”
I walk into the office, even though he hasn’t invited me in. “Um, yeah, my mom kept it a big secret. I actually just found out.”
“You just …?” He blinks several times. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting …”
“It’s okay.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t know about you either.”
I stand in the middle of the office while he continues to stare, his eyes traveling from my pink sneakers up to my cutoff shorts and dirty tank top. God, this is weird. What did I expect, that he’d tell me he regrets the mean things he said in the newspaper, that he tried to find me, that he’s sorry for missing out on my life?
Yeah, I secretly hoped for all that—I did.
And now I feel like an idiot. Worse—an unwanted idiot. I should have known better. I start for the door.