by Julie Clark
“You too,” Jackie says.
To me, Rose says, “Can you have Liam call me later? I need him to take a look at the faucet in the downstairs bathroom.”
“Sure,” I say.
With a smile, Rose walks off.
“Who’s Liam?” Jackie asks. “Your plumber?”
I laugh. “No, Liam is my boyfriend, who just happens to know how to fix leaky faucets. He’s really a video game programmer.” I think of how much Liam would have enjoyed the picnic, and I wish I’d let him come.
Jackie looks interested. “How long have you been dating?”
“A little over a year, but I’ve known him forever. He was college roommates with Rose’s husband.”
Jackie smiles and looks across the yard. “Those are the best kind of relationships, I think. The ones that start from a friendship.”
“How did you and Aaron meet?”
Jackie shrugs. “Oh, it’s not very interesting. Colleagues of mine were going out for drinks with colleagues of his. So basically, we met in a bar.” She lowers her voice. “How do Miles and Liam get along?”
I hesitate. “Liam adores Miles. And Miles . . . sometimes needs a little convincing.”
“It’s got to be hard,” she says. “To find someone you like, who your kid likes too. I can’t even imagine dating with a child.”
“I never really did, until Liam. And then it just sort of happened. I wasn’t looking for it. Having a kid saps all my energy. I don’t even know how people with more than one manage.”
“So you never thought about having another?” she asks.
“I had the option to conceive a genetic sibling to Miles,” I say. “But he’s enough for me. We’re incredibly close, and I didn’t want to mess with that. Besides, I’m too old now.”
I wonder if that would have helped Miles. To have a brother or sister who understood.
Miles and Nick approach us, consumed in their conversation, walking across other people’s blankets.
“Miles,” I say. “Watch where you’re walking.”
He looks down and then up at me, baffled. “I’m walking on the ground,” he says.
Jackie and I laugh, and she says, “Yep. One and done.”
DNA
* * *
DNA is the hereditary material found in a cell’s nucleus. It’s a unique code made up of four bases—A, G, C, and T—which pair up: A with T, and C with G. Like letters form words and words form sentences, the sequence of the bases builds an organism. Humans have about three billion bases. What’s incredible is that 99 percent of those bases are the same in all people. It’s the 1 percent that makes us unique. How can DNA be different in every human who has ever lived, and yet still be 99 percent the same? It’s the infiniteness of that 1 percent, the endless combinations and recombinations, that makes us who we are.
Variations in our DNA help us trace how closely two individuals are related. These variations can occur through transcription errors—when a cell divides and the DNA code is copied incorrectly—or through environmental factors such as diet or exposure to carcinogens. Our DNA is constantly changing, undergoing tiny modifications as we go about our lives unaware—shopping for shoes or fighting with a spouse. So the DNA we’re born with isn’t the DNA we’ll die with. Even identical twins, born with the same genetic code, will accumulate environmentally triggered variations, growing more unique as they age.
* * *
Chapter Eight
“So what do you think Dad wants to tell us?”
It’s a question Rose has asked me a dozen times since I agreed to this lunch and one I still don’t have a good answer for. Before we could tell my mother the kids wouldn’t be coming, she’d called to tell us not to bring them. And now we’re in Rose’s minivan, heading up the 405 Freeway toward the valley. Traffic is light, and we’re making good time. Where is LA traffic when you need it?
“No idea,” I reply, just like every other time she’s asked it. I don’t want to hypothesize about Dad. I’ve felt on edge since I woke up this morning, preparing for a confrontation I don’t want to have.
“Guess,” Rose says.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I want to be prepared.”
I turn on Rose, annoyed. “Maybe they want to tell us that Dad’s signed up for that manned mission to Mars, where people are sent to colonize the planet and can never come back”
She pauses. “I think they’re getting remarried.”
I laugh, sharp and without humor. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“Think about it. They asked us to come alone because they know you’ll pitch a fit. No one wants to see that.” She grows more serious. “Mom seems different this time.”
“How?”
Rose shrugs. “I don’t know. Distracted. Flustered. I called her the other day to ask her what temperature she roasts her lemon chicken at, and she got mad at me and said, For God’s sake, Rose. Google it.”
That is strange.
Rose taps the steering wheel with her thumbs in a rhythmless tempo. She’s nervous. If I were to ask, she’d say she’s excited. But years of disappointment are written inside of her, and I can see the evidence in the rigid set of her shoulders, the stiffness of her determination. Despite her hope, her body is folding in on itself, remembering past rejections and preparing for the next one.
I try to ease my anxiety by thinking about how happy Miles was at the picnic and how much he’s changed in the past couple of weeks. As we crest the hill and descend into the valley, I hold on to the idea of Nick and Miles, like a warm pebble, solid and smooth, fitting perfectly into the palm of my hand.
—
Rose and I approach the front door silently. It’s been at least ten years since we’ve seen our father. He’s never met Miles.
Our mom opens the door before I have a chance to knock or ring the bell, and I wonder if she’s been watching through the peephole.
“Girls!” She flings her arms wide. She wears one of her usual tracksuits—today it’s bright pink velour that makes her look like a giant puff of cotton candy. Every movement has the weight of a performance, as if an audience is behind her, watching. She seems high-strung, almost manic in her greeting. Dad must be sending her over the edge. I give her a brief hug, pulling away first. I can’t stand to see my mother flit around like this.
I walk past her into a white, gleaming foyer, frigid air blowing out of the ceiling vent. Rose untangles herself and follows.
My mother closes the door and ushers us down the hall. “I have tea set up in the breakfast nook.”
The “breakfast nook” is a tiny table shoved up against a small window overlooking a barren patio. After she sold the house, my mother decided she wanted nothing more to do with gardening or yard care of any kind. She chose her condo based on the large amount of outdoor concrete and its proximity to Target. I sit on a rickety chair that wobbles on the uneven tile floor, and Rose settles in next to me. As we wait for Mom to bring over the teapot, mugs, and an assortment of bagged teas, we raise our eyebrows and shrug. Dad is nowhere to be seen.
Mom sits across from us and pokes through the teabags. “I’ve just discovered dandelion tea.” She flaps a pack and rips it open. “It tastes like dirt, but its effect on digestion is incredible. The first day I drank it, I had three bowel movements.”
I groan inwardly and look around again. “I thought we were having lunch. Where’s Dad?” My stomach grumbles in agreement.
“He’ll be here any minute.” Mom looks sideways at the clock, busying herself with her tea. “So how have you girls been?”
“Fine,” Rose answers for both of us. “So what’s Dad’s big news?”
Mom looks down, stirring her tea, a slight tremor in her hand. Then she looks out the window, a blinding concrete oasis of statues and cinder block. “I’m going to let your father tell you,” she says, a stiff smile pasted to her face.
I breathe a little easier. That isn’t the smile of a woman who’s about
to remarry the love of her life.
“So where is he?” I ask. I’d like to get this over with. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were hiding in the back bedroom, waiting for the perfect moment to make his grand entrance.
“We ran out of sugar, and your father offered to pick up more.” She fluffs up like a bird, smug and pleased that she’s got a man who will jump to make her life easier. A part of me understands what a big deal that can be for someone who’s been on her own for so many years. How something so simple can mean so much. This is the kind of stuff Liam wants to do for me.
As Rose and Mom make small talk, I grow edgy. How long does it take to buy sugar? My leg starts jiggling, and Rose reaches over to steady it, pressing her hand down on my thigh.
“Remember when your father drove all the way to Hollywood to get that bubble gum ice cream you wanted for your birthday, Rose?” Mom stirs her tea, a nostalgic smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “That was the year you had your party at the ice rink.”
Rose nods, taking a sip from her cup. “I remember he got there right before cake and presents. He dumped the ice cream on the table and spent the rest of the party on the pay phone in the lobby.”
Mom doesn’t reply, her smile frozen, trying to hold on to her version of the memory instead of Rose’s. She sets her teacup on the table and says, “Let’s go ahead and eat. Your father won’t mind if we start without him.”
She goes into the kitchen and returns with a platter of small sandwiches. It looks like something from a hotel, but when she gets closer, I can see slices of Velveeta pressed into Wonder Bread and a plastic tray made to look like crystal from far away. I know she’s trying as hard as she can. I just don’t know if it’s for us or our father, who can’t seem to find the sugar at the supermarket.
I help myself to a sandwich, noting she’s used both mayonnaise and butter, making the bread stick to the roof of my mouth. Rose grimaces as she sets hers down on the small plate our mother placed in front of each of us and takes a sip of tea. We sit, chewing, sipping, and listening to the clock tick on the wall behind us.
“This is ridiculous. I’m going to call his cell.” Mom hurries into the kitchen, just an open doorway away, and soon we hear her half of the conversation.
“But the girls are here already. We didn’t want to start without you, but they can’t sit here all afternoon waiting.” She pauses. “I know Peter. Well, when can you get here? . . . Really?” Then her tone shifts, interested. “Charlie? Well, I suppose so. Okay, I’ll tell them.” She whispers something into the phone we can’t hear and hangs up.
Mom comes back into the room, a bright smile on her face. “Well, your father’s been waylaid.” She fixes more dandelion tea for herself, avoiding our eyes. “Do you remember his friend Charlie?”
“No.” I abandon the small sandwich on my plate and wipe my mouth. Of course. Our father returns after ten years of silence, and he can’t even be bothered to keep a lunch date with his daughters. I swallow a seed of anger, but it takes root inside of me.
“Of course you do,” Mom insists. “He and your dad traveled through Australia together after college.” She says this like it’s something I used to know but have carelessly forgotten. “Well, he ran into Charlie outside the store and they stopped to chat—it’s been fifteen years since they’ve seen each other!”
I feel pressure from Rose’s knee on mine, urging me not to shout that it’s been nearly that long since he’s seen us. “You know how much your father loves to talk, and Charlie is leaving tomorrow for some kind of job.” Mom’s babbling now, trying to fill up as much time as possible because she knows as soon as she stops talking, I’m going to explode.
“You forget, Mom. We don’t actually know Dad very well,” I say. Then I shake my head. “No, wait. That’s not true. I know he’d get this hunted look on his face when he was alone in a room with us, terrified we’d want him to play. I know he never showed up when he said he would. Remember my fifth grade musical? He swore up and down he’d be there. But he rolled in for the last five minutes and completely missed my performance. Or what about the time he volunteered to help Rose sell Girl Scout cookies? He dropped her outside of the Safeway and left her there for seven hours. When I had my tonsils out, he sent me a balloon. One. It read Happy Birthday.”
“That was the gift shop’s mistake, not your father’s,” my mother says.
I stare at her, incredulous that she’d make another excuse for him. Yet, this is what she always does—tries to rationalize the many ways our father failed us, as if she could rewrite his good intentions over our heartbreak.
There’s more, but Rose silences me with a hand on my arm. “So Dad’s not coming,” she says.
A statement, not a question. Her tone sends me back forty years, when we would wake up and find him gone again, disappeared during the night without a goodbye, our mother blathering another empty excuse about why he had to go. And me, trying to hold together the pieces of my sister’s broken heart.
“We can reschedule.” Mom looks between us, measuring who might be the safer person to direct her explanation toward.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
I pull Rose’s arm to leave, and our napkins tumble to the floor.
My mother’s face is stricken as I yank open the door, the heat of the Valley afternoon hitting me full in the face.
“Paige, Rose, wait.” She struggles to find words. “He has some things he needs to talk about. Please.”
Rose’s voice is strong, but I can hear it crack beneath the surface. “He can email us.”
As we make our way down the path, Mom stands in the doorway, torn between making excuses for Dad and begging us to stay. And once again, because she can’t choose, she stays silent.
Rose rolls the windows down and blasts the air conditioner to dispel the heavy heat that’s settled into the car. As we pull away from the curb, I steal one last look at Mom, standing in front of her anonymous condo in a row of others just like hers, bland and barren.
“Drive carefully,” she calls, her blessing falling flat on the concrete that surrounds her.
I take deep breaths, angry that I opened myself up to disappointment again. I’m forty-seven years old, for God’s sake. And like the little girl I used to be, I feel punched in the gut when he doesn’t show up.
Rose navigates lunchtime traffic carefully, and soon we’re traveling back over the hill toward the west side. Rose’s face is pinched—the same face I remember from when we were little, when she was trying not to cry. I’m angry with my father for disappointing me, but I hate him for hurting Rose.
GENES
* * *
When I was a little girl, I secretly loved that I’d inherited my father’s eyes, identical down to the shade and shape. I’d lock myself in the bathroom and wrap a towel around my head so I could only see my eyes, and stare at myself in the mirror, trying desperately to conjure my father from thin air.
My blue eyes are the only obvious physical trait I inherited from him—approximately sixteen genes found on chromosome fifteen. But genes do more than just determine what we look like. They are a series of switches, allowing us to change and adapt, to grow, and eventually die.
Scientists are learning that it’s not just environmental triggers that activate or silence genes, but emotional ones too. Stress triggers cortisol and adrenaline, which travel through our bodies, delivering information that can impact cell function—positively or negatively—and forever alter our gene function.
Stress can also be activated by a memory. Your body can’t tell if you’re living through a physical attack or simply recalling one. All those times, when I’d stare in the mirror, I’d feel the sharp pain of rejection, no matter how long it had been since my father left.
It doesn’t matter that you don’t want me. You’re here with me even when you’re gone.
* * *
Chapter Nine
By Monday morning I’ve managed to banish my father to the
far corners of my mind where he can’t disappoint me. I’m on my way to the lab when I run into Jenna, the doctoral student in charge of Scott Sullivan’s case, who had managed to convince him to let us do a home visit after all.
“Hey, Dr. Robson, I was just looking for you. I wanted to check in with you about the Sullivan visit.”
“How were they?”
“They seemed okay,” Jenna says. “The house was a mess. Scott was all over the place. He kept jumping up while we were talking—that was new. He used to just sit there, letting Mara do all the work.”
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and looks down the hall. “To be honest, he seemed overwhelmed. Putting something in the oven for dinner, helping Sophie unwrap a piece of string cheese.” Jenna shakes her head. “He was totally out of his element.”
I imagine Scott bumbling around, trying to perform the lead role of parent when all he’s ever been is a very ineffective understudy. “How was Sophie?”
“She was quiet, so it’s hard to tell. I convinced him to stick around until the end of this phase, but it wasn’t easy.”
“Great. Any chance he’ll change his mind and join phase two?”
Jenna blows out a stream of air that lifts her bangs off her forehead. “Doubtful.”
I’m torn on what to do next. Jenna isn’t supposed to go back for another four months. But I’d like her to keep an eye on things. Scott isn’t negligent, but he’s the kind of man who would want to put on a good face for outsiders. Sophie can only benefit from that.
“Do me a favor,” I say. “I want you to visit monthly for the remainder of phase one.”
Her eyes widen. To step up our visits with just one subject could jeopardize our entire study.