by Julie Clark
“You’re still thinking methylation, aren’t you?” he asks.
I gather my laptop and some papers off my desk and stand. “I think it’s too soon to think anything. I need to get some air, a change of scenery. I’ll be down the hill at Dillon’s if you need me.”
—
I arrive at the coffee shop, with its wide-open views of Point Dume and the Pacific. I need to sit down with the Sullivan file, away from the lab, where my perception can sometimes be skewed. I pull up the file again and scan the labs, starting with the blood draw from that first day in the hospital five years ago. His levels remained static until the draw a few weeks after Mara’s death. That’s when they began to creep up. Methylation can cause a slow genetic change, usually occurring across months, years, or even generations. If we’re getting gradual methylation of Scott’s inhibitor gene, that could explain the small increase in his oxytocin levels.
Late October sun angles across my table and pulls my eyes across the highway to the beach beyond. It’s deserted, save for a few surfers on the tail end of their morning surf session. My eyes automatically search the cars in the beach lot, looking for Liam’s, but I know that even if he surfed this spot today, he’d be long gone by now.
I return to the file, pull up Jenna’s interview notes, and go back to June, the last visit with Mara. I read through everything, then look again out the window and think about her final day and what she left unfinished, believing she had more time. What kind of mess would I leave behind? What would I have wished I’d said? And to whom?
On impulse, I log on to my email and pull up Miles’s class roster. I scroll down until I find Aaron’s contact information and copy his address into a new message. My cursor blinks, waiting for words that won’t come.
Dear Aaron, I think we need to talk.
No.
I have a crazy question for you that will sound ridiculous.
Also not good. I can’t think of a scenario in which this conversation ends well. I either embarrass myself with my outrageous imaginings, or I drop a bomb onto the lives of people I care about. As long as the words stay inside my head, no one can get hurt. I delete the email and look across the restaurant, where I see an older man sitting a few tables away, shoulders hunched over his cup of tea, an untouched Danish sitting on a plate next to him. His features seem vaguely familiar until I realize I’m looking at my father.
More unfinished business.
As if sensing my stare, he looks up, and our eyes lock. He hesitates, offers a half smile, then resumes his stirring.
A combination of resentment and regret creep up inside of me. It’s easy to keep my distance when I can fool myself into believing he doesn’t exist. But watching him eat alone in the same restaurant as his daughter breaks something inside of me.
“Dad.”
He looks up, his tea halfway between the table and his mouth.
I gesture toward the empty seat across from me, surprised to find myself hoping he’ll accept.
His eyes fill with a mix of gratitude and apprehension, and I smile to show him I mean no harm.
He carries his tea and Danish across the restaurant and slides in across from me. “Good morning,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. Dillon’s is out of the way and caters more to the Malibu crowd.
He shrugs. “They have the best selection of Danishes on the west side.” He stirs his tea and takes a sip. “How have you been?” he asks.
His words feel formal, like something he’d say to an acquaintance. Which I guess I am.
“I’m well,” I finally say. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good, considering.” He sips his tea, his familiar blue eyes studying me over the rim of his cup.
“What medications are you on? What kind of treatment plan?” I latch on to these details so we don’t have to discuss anything personal.
He sets his cup down and gestures toward my laptop, ignoring my questions. “Work? Your mother says you’re running an important project through the college.”
“I’m studying the effect a certain hormone has on new fathers,” I tell him. “We’ve discovered a genetic inhibitor in some men that keeps their body from releasing it.”
“That sounds interesting. Why are you here and not in the lab?”
I rest my arms on the table, then pull them onto my lap, the echo of my father’s stern voice saying, Elbows, please, playing in my mind. “I’m trying to make sense of some data. But something screwy is going on with one of our subjects, and the test results aren’t making sense.”
“What do you think it is?”
“At first, a lab error. But his results keep coming back the same.”
He takes a sip of his tea. “And?”
I shake my head, unwilling to put into words what I’m beginning to suspect. That grief has caused a biological response in Scott, which has affected him enough to alter his brain chemistry and his cells. “We’re not sure yet, but we’re working on it.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You must have some theories?”
I cross my arms. “Nothing I’m ready to talk about yet.”
He nods, as if he expected to be shut down, and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I must get back to your mother. It was a real treat to visit with you. I hope we can do it again?”
My head jerks up, his abrupt farewell catching me by surprise.
He gathers his things, oblivious.
I don’t know why this shocks me. He’s always been this way, leaving before anyone else is ready to let him go.
I consider his request. Do what again? Have another thirty-second conversation? Let’s do this again sometime, or I’ll call you. The phrases are meaningless. Nothing more than empty words that really just signal goodbye.
My father hesitates, as if wanting to say something more, but then decides against it. “Regardless, thank you for inviting me to join you today.”
After he’s gone, I shove my laptop away, surprised that instead of feeling angry at his sudden departure, I feel guilty that maybe I could have tried harder to hold him here. I think of my mother’s advice from the other day and wonder if this is the life I’m too scared to live—and whether it’s worth it.
ANNESLEY COLLEGE LABORATORY RULES AND PROCEDURES (EXCERPT)
* * *
Updated 2016
Los Angeles, California
2009
GENERAL SAFETY AND LAB USE
Unauthorized work in the laboratory is forbidden.
Unauthorized personnel (including undergraduate students) are not permitted in the laboratory under any circumstances. Authorization may be granted by Dr. Robson on a case-by-case basis.
No one under eighteen is permitted in the lab at any time.
* * *
Chapter Twenty
“Trick or treat!” Miles’s voice floats over Josh’s and Hannah’s, and the woman who answers the door oohs and aahs over their costumes while Rose and I stand on the sidewalk. I’m dressed up as Jessie, from Toy Story 2. Liam and I came up with our costumes together—I’d be Jessie, and he’d be Woody—because Miles had been obsessed with the movie. I’ve got a Western shirt on, with blue jeans and cowboy boots, and I’ve fixed my hair in a long braid down my back. Liam’s costume was equally simple—jeans, boots, a vest, and cowboy hat. This afternoon, I snuck away to the mall, where I bought a new pair of pants that hugged my hips and made me look like a movie star in a tabloid magazine rather than a tired-out geneticist who spends too much time in the lab. I’m not naive enough to think that simply by wearing a costume, I can remind Liam of everything we used to be. But somehow I’ve bought into the magical thinking that if we can stand next to each other, me as Jessie and him as Woody, that for a few minutes I might feel like I’ve gotten something back again.
Miles races down the path, holding up his candy. “Twix!” he shouts. “The giant size!”
“You should let me check that for safety,” Rose says, adjusting her Cleopatra w
ig. She looks more like Cher than the Egyptian queen.
“Put it in your bag, Miles. Don’t let her near it.”
Rose shoots me a look and whispers, “You know you’re going to eat that the minute he falls asleep tonight.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t want you near it.” I pull out a mini Snickers from my pocket that I stole out of Miles’s bag while he retied his shoes, and I pop it into my mouth before he can see.
The kids race past us and on to the next house. The night is perfect—there’s a slight chill to the air, but not so cold that kids need coats over their costumes. The street is crowded with groups—large bands of teenagers out for an evening of mischief and parents with small children dressed as pirates and princesses. Miles’s ninja costume has been a hit at every house we go to, and I make a mental note to tell Mom. “What’s Mikey doing tonight?” I ask.
Rose shrugs. “He says they’re trick-or-treating, but I think they’re probably just taking advantage of being able to roam the neighborhood after dark.” She looks at me sideways. “You look good. Kind of hot. Like a hot cowgirl.”
“Thanks. Liam and I planned to be Jessie and Woody a month ago. It seemed silly to go through the trouble of getting a new costume.”
“I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that Liam is back at the house with Henry, handing out candy.” To the kids she calls, “Hannah, wait for us at the corner!”
“It’s a costume, Rose. Not a love letter.” I pick up my pace, hoping Rose can’t see the truth in my eyes.
—
After three hours and a huge bonanza of candy, Rose and I call it a night. The kids beg for one more street, reminding us that it’s Friday and they can sleep in tomorrow, but I’m exhausted. “Time to head back to the house so you can empty your bags and start trading.”
“Everyone knows that’s just an excuse for you to steal our candy, Aunt Paige,” Josh says to me.
I touch my finger to the tip of his nose. “I don’t steal. I sample.”
When we get to Rose’s, we follow the kids up the walk and through the front door. As I move through the quiet house, I wonder if Liam has already left, and I feel a pang of disappointment. But then I hear his voice in the kitchen, laughing at something Henry’s said.
Nerves flutter through me. This is the first time I’ve seen him since we broke up, and I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. It’s just Liam, I remind myself.
As I walk through the dining room and into the kitchen, I pull up short. Liam leans against the counter, drinking a beer, but he’s not wearing the Woody costume. Instead, he’s repurposed it into a Han Solo costume. When he sees me, the smile falls off his face.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey.”
Rose and Henry look awkward, and Rose says, “Maybe we should go check on the kids.”
I feel a surge of anger at how eager he is to shed even the smallest connection to me. And I feel foolish that I thought it could be any other way. “No, it’s fine,” I tell them, not wanting to be alone with Liam. To Liam I say, “You changed your costume.”
He looks down, as if he doesn’t remember what he’s wearing, and then back up at me. “Yeah. This just seemed simpler.”
I nod. “Simpler. Right.” What could be simpler than a costume he already has?
“Don’t be that way, Paige.”
“What way?” I stare at him and his eyes lock on to mine, each of us dug into our own anger, unwilling to give any ground to the other. Finally, I turn to Rose and Henry and say, “We should go. It’s late.”
I walk into the living room, where the kids have spread their candy on the floor and are sorting through it, trading Almond Joys for Milky Ways. Rose follows me. “You don’t need to leave,” she says.
“We do. Miles is going to a beach party tomorrow and should probably get to bed.”
“In November? Whose party?”
“It’s a Founder’s Day celebration at the Turner House.” The Turner House is one of several private beach clubs in Santa Monica. Most of their events happen during the summer, but they’re famous for their Founder’s Day party every November.
“Who do you know who belongs to the Turner House?” Rose asks. But then she says, “Oh. Right. Never mind.”
“You don’t have to say it like that.”
She pulls me aside and whispers, “Yes, I do. Do you really think it’s a good idea for him to go?”
I watch Miles pile his candy back into his bag and say, “I think we’re both getting worked up over nothing, worrying about something that isn’t logical or possible. Besides, once he heard about it from Nick, I didn’t have a choice. It’ll be fine.”
“Are you going too?”
“No, I have too much work to do.”
“You can’t just ignore this and hope it will go away,” she says.
“There is no this.” I step away from her and turn toward the living room, where Hannah and Josh are still sorting candy. “Happy Halloween, you guys.”
“Good night, Aunt Paige,” they say, not looking up from their task. Rose watches me, annoyance and worry etched across her face, as I walk out of the room.
—
The next morning my eyes are gritty from lack of sleep, and no amount of coffee can erase the fuzziness in my head. Rose texted me this morning. Sorry last night was such a disaster. You guys will find a new normal. But what I’m realizing too late is that it’s our old normal I want. Except the old normal wasn’t good enough for Liam.
When I pull up to Jackie and Aaron’s, Jackie is loading beach bags into her car, and Aaron and Nick huddle on the grass. A prickle of unease, like a warning, passes over me as I survey the scene, but I shake it off.
“Miles!” Nick calls. “Come over here! My dad is going to show us how to win the rocket contest.”
Miles bolts from the car, not even bothering to shut the door. Jackie leads me over to the porch.
“What’s that?” I ask.
She smiles. “Every Founder’s Day, the club has all these different activities for the kids. Relay races, crafts, eating competitions, and the rocket contest.”
The boys kneel next to Aaron, who holds a two-liter of soda and a package of Mentos. “We have to get our bottle to explode the highest,” he tells them. “Watch.” He uncaps the soda, and the boys draw nearer.
“Aaron’s been waiting to do this competition for years,” Jackie says. “You can’t enter without a kid, and up until now, Nick’s been too scared.”
I watch Aaron hand out the supplies to the boys, giving them quiet directions the entire time. He lets the boys do the work, asking questions, giving suggestions, but ultimately letting them figure it out. This is the first time I’ve seen the three of them together since my conversation with Aaron, and I search for differences—hungry for anything that might prove he isn’t our donor. But when his head tips toward Miles’s, it’s impossible to miss the identical shape of their eyes or the symmetrical way their hair curls over their ears. I glance at Jackie, certain she sees it too, but she just smiles, a tinge of sadness in her eyes.
“Any word from Liam?” she asks.
I give her the basics of what happened last night, and Jackie winces. “Ouch.”
Miles whispers something in Nick’s ear, and they both burst into laughter. I look at Jackie, and a fissure opens inside me, leaking uneasiness and dread.
When they’re ready to toss the bottle, Aaron turns to us and says, “Watch this!”
He hands it to Nick, who tosses the bottle onto the sidewalk, where it bounces and then shoots up into the air, a fury of fizz. The boys scream and laugh, dancing out of the way as a cascade of soda rains down on them. The bottle lands and explodes, a river of leftover soda running down the driveway and into the gutter. Aaron’s laughter floats over everything.
Jackie turns to the boys. “Okay, over to the hose before you get in the car.”
Aaron picks up the bottle, which has split in half, jagged plastic edges pokin
g through the label. He jerks his hand back as a tiny stream of bright red blood seeps from his finger. “Caught an edge,” he says. “Be right back.” He jogs up the stairs and through the open front door.
From behind us, I hear Miles say to Nick, “That was so cool. What do you get if you win?”
But I don’t hear Nick’s answer because Jackie says, “Why don’t you join us?”
I shake my head. “I wish I could. But I’ve got a ton of work to do. It’s not often I can get eight uninterrupted hours in the lab on a weekend. My pile of paperwork is almost as tall as Miles.” I smile, but it feels forced. “How’s Aaron doing?” I nod my head toward the house.
She gives a tiny shrug. “The same. We’re at an impasse.”
Aaron joins the boys at the side of the house, and I hear them giggling, unable to tell the difference between Nick and Miles, the sound of their laughter blending together into something almost musical.
“Look what I found!” I hear Aaron yell, and the boys shriek. Aaron comes around front, each boy tucked under an arm, like footballs. Miles laughs, reflexive and deep, the same laugh as when I tickle him. A shiver runs through me, and I cross my arms over my chest.
Of course the boys are similar. They’re best friends. They adopt each other’s speech patterns and expressions. It’s what humans do. But I’m beginning to lose my grip on that rationale. Desperate to reset my racing thoughts, I say, “Can I use your restroom?”
“Of course,” Jackie says.
I walk through the quiet house, toward the powder room that sits off the family room and kitchen. After locking the door, I sit down on the closed toilet, resting my head in my hands. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to ease the tight knot of fear pinching my chest. When I open them again, they land on a wadded-up paper towel soaked with blood in the trash can next to me, an empty Band-Aid wrapper on top of it. Almost like it’s waiting for me. Time seems to slow down for a few seconds, as if to mark this moment in my mind, the one that links before to after.
And then it moves again, reminding me I have a limited window in which to act. I rummage around in my purse and find a crumpled Ziploc that holds a couple of Q-tips, which I toss into the garbage. My shaking hands turn the bag inside out and lift the bloody paper towel from the trash can, careful not to touch it. I seal the bag and stash it back in my purse, my heart pounding. The consequences of what I’m planning to do are nothing more than faint smudges on the edge of my periphery.