The Ones We Choose

by Julie Clark

  “If you want, I can help with that too.” I try to keep my voice cool, as if it’s no big deal. “I can spend some time this afternoon, after we’re done. Give you a break.”

  “Thanks,” Jackie says. “But I don’t mind doing it; it’s just time-consuming.”

  I drop it, though every instinct urges me to push her, to keep asking, to find a way to get into that room by myself. If I can intervene in time, Jackie will never have to know. I could save her this pain, at least. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  I follow her down the hall to her bedroom and try to imagine Aaron there, living out his final few hours, tossing and turning while Jackie slept, worrying about a secret only he and I knew.

  Jackie disappears into the walk-in closet, a box of trash bags tucked under her arm.

  “Where do you want me to start?” I ask.

  “In here.”

  She hands me the bags. “I’ve already set aside the things I want to keep, so let’s do this quickly. I’ve limited myself to his favorite college sweatshirt and a sweater I bought for him our first Christmas together. Don’t let me get sentimental. Don’t let me talk myself into keeping anything else. I don’t need it.”

  I look at the shelves of clothes, the hangers of golf shirts, pants, and button-downs. “Do Leonard or Beverly want to keep anything? Or Nick?” I ask.

  “I have other things for Nick,” she says. “Leonard and Beverly have the entire contents of his room, intact since he left for college. Trust me, they don’t need any of this stuff.”

  I try to ignore the nagging sadness that Miles won’t have anything, no small token of his father to remind him of the man he knew.

  I tear open the box of garbage bags, pull one out, and snap it open, and Jackie begins emptying hangers and shelves, shoving clothes in with abandon, as if she’s trying to stay one step ahead of her emotions. Every time something goes into the bag, a puff of air is displaced, and soon the entire closet smells like sandalwood soap, like Aaron.

  —

  Jackie empties the last drawer, and we sit on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. She takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says, though it sounds more like she’s talking to herself than to me. “I’m going to rearrange everything in here. New bedding, maybe some new furniture.” Her eyes travel around the room, taking in the empty drawers that still hang open, the closet with bare shelves, all evidence of Aaron removed. “If this were happening to someone else, I’d think that sounded so cold, erasing him and starting over. But I’m terrified that if I don’t deal with it now, I’ll turn into someone who’ll freak out if you move his toothbrush.”

  I give her a sad smile and reach out and squeeze her hand.

  “Thanks for helping today,” she says.

  “I was glad to.” I pull her up to standing. “C’mon,” I say. “We deserve a drink.”

  We look around the room one last time before heading into the kitchen, and I cast one last glance down the hall and pray that Aaron destroyed whatever documentation he had from ACB a long time ago.

  —

  Later that evening, Rose and I are sitting in her kitchen drinking wine when Miles comes in with a question. “Josh is sleeping over at Grandma and Grandpa’s tonight, and he invited me to go.” He’s bursting with excitement, bouncing on his toes. “So can I?”

  I look at Rose for an explanation. “Mom and Dad want to have one-on-one time with the kids. Day trips. Overnights.” She shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, but a weight descends, a realization that Miles and I are on the outside, looking in.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “It’s Josh’s night.”

  “But he invited me,” Miles argues. “We already called Grandma, and she said it was fine.”

  Annoyance that he’s done this without my permission zaps through me. “My answer is still no.”

  His face crumples in disappointment. “You never let me do anything.”

  I try to lighten the mood, to push past the topic by saying, “You’re right. I’m the meanest mom in the world.”

  Miles just glares at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Not tonight.”

  “When?” he pushes. “When can I have my night with Grandma and Grandpa? I haven’t had a sleepover with Grandma in months.”

  He hasn’t slept over with my mom since my dad returned. Rose watches me, saying nothing. “Arguing with me isn’t the best way to change my mind,” I tell him. “It’s not happening tonight. Call Grandma back and tell her you’re not coming.”

  Rose intervenes. “Hold up, Miles. Go upstairs and play with Josh. I need your mom to help me with something. Don’t call anyone just yet.”

  Miles clomps up the stairs, and Rose turns to me. “Can you come with me to the garden center to pick up some potting soil? I ordered seven bags and I want to get there before they close.”

  I look at the stairs, feeling whiplash at the change of topic. “Is this some kind of trick?” I ask, following her to the car.

  “No trick,” she says. “I need your help.”

  As we pull out of the driveway, Rose clicks on the radio. NPR. North Korea. Israel. She flips the stations until she comes to ABBA singing “Waterloo.”

  I laugh. We used to dance to this song as kids, making up a routine that we’d perform in front of the mirror in my bedroom.

  We both begin to sing, falling into the roles we had when we were younger. At a red light, right on cue, we turn and sing to each other, “ ‘I feel like I win when I loooose.’ ”

  We make our way through the entire song, moving our shoulders in sync, as if no time has passed. And it feels so good—to be here with Rose, driving and dancing and singing, as if we weren’t constantly at odds with each other.

  We pull up to the gardening center just as the song ends, and Rose cuts the engine. We sit, catching our breath, and I say, “I don’t want to argue with you anymore.”

  “He’s dying, Paige.”

  “I know.” I look out the window at the large outdoor space, filled with a riot of color. Hanging plants, tabletops filled, extending all the way back to the edge of the store, where ceramic pots and trees line the back of the lot. Customers push large flatbed carts toward the entrance.

  Rose turns to me. “You need to stop using Miles as a shield.” I start to interrupt, but she holds her hand up. “This isn’t about you. Or what Dad did to us. This is about how you’re going to explain to Miles—one year, five years, ten years from now—why you refused to let him know his grandfather. And I promise you, all the reasons you think are so important right now won’t matter. They will be empty and hollow and meaningless.”

  I look up at her. She’s not yelling. She’s not crying. She’s just laying out the facts. And she’s not wrong.

  She reaches across the console and takes my hand. “You’ve been hiding behind science to justify your solitude. But you alone are not enough for Miles. We aren’t enough for him anymore. His world is expanding, and you have to let it.”

  “And you think an overnight with Josh, Mom, and Dad will give him what he needs?”

  “Of course not. It’s an overnight. They’ll watch movies and eat junk food and stay up too late. That’s my point. It’s harmless. You need to realize that every interaction with Dad isn’t going to turn into a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. He’ll still be Miles in the morning.”

  I smile, and something inside me loosens. I can’t keep banging against this wall.

  Rose continues, “Time is short. This isn’t about forgiving Dad or even having a relationship with him. It’s about not hating him when he dies.”

  “Okay,” I say, staring out the window. “Can we go home now?”

  Rose opens her door and gets out. “No. I really need your help with this soil.”

  I follow her, grabbing a flatbed cart from a stand. It rattles over the concrete, sending vibrations up my arms, the loud sound eliminating any chance of further discussion, which is a relief.

  —


  I volunteer to pick the boys up the next morning. When I arrive at Mom’s, I sit for a minute in my car, practicing my lines. I will be kind. I will smile and say, Thank you for hosting the boys. I will tell them we don’t have time to linger; no, I don’t have time for a cup of coffee, and we will leave.

  I unbuckle my seat belt and head in.

  Mom leads me to the back, where the boys have built an enormous pillow fort. She looks at me over her shoulder. “I told them they could sleep in there last night. They had the best time.”

  Pillows lean against the dining room table, blankets cascade over sections, and Miles’s head pokes out of a small opening near the top. “Mom, check it out! This is my room.”

  “Cool,” I say. “Where’s Josh?”

  Josh pokes his head out of a different section. “Hey, Aunt Paige. Can we get doughnuts on the way home?”

  I smile. “We’ll see. Are you guys ready to go? Where’s Grandpa?”

  “Here!” a voice calls from deep within the fort. “Hold on.”

  My father crawls out a side entrance and stands, carefully bracing himself on the table.

  “Should he be doing that?” I ask my mother.

  She looks at me sideways. “He has cancer, Paige. Not a broken leg.”

  The boys tumble out after him and hug him. “Grandpa slept in here with us,” Miles says. “All night.”

  I watch them, three Robson boys, and I wonder what it would have been like to have had this version of my dad when I was growing up. What kind of holes it would have filled for me. The magic of having an adult build something with you, play in it with you, pretend in it with you. I never had that. And even though I’m glad Miles will have this memory of my dad, I feel cheated that I never got one for myself. Like a whisper, the realization creeps up on me. It’s not too late.

  I turn to them. “Get your things and meet me by the door.”

  They hustle out of the room, and I look at my parents—older, broken down by life and illness and regret. “Thanks for having them,” I say, surprised by how easily the words come.

  My mother turns away, tears in her eyes. My father offers a small salute. “Thank you,” he says.

  IMPRINTING

  * * *

  Several years ago, Rose and the kids were over for dinner when my refrigerator conked out. No light. No motor. With hamburgers sizzling on the stove, four kids chasing one another around in the backyard, and repair rates firmly in the after hours category, I went in search of my owner’s manual, hoping to find something that would save a fridge full of groceries. But before I could even scan the index, Rose fixed it. Reset button on your outlet, she said. This is how it’s always been. While I research answers, Rose simply knows them.

  Imprinting is an irreversible brain mechanism controlled by biochemicals and genes, which occurs when an early experience becomes a permanent part of a young animal’s mind. For example, if you want your child to be bilingual, it’s best to speak to them in two languages from birth. Conversely, if you deprive a child of language and keep them in silence, no amount of instruction will allow them to acquire even the most rudimentary understanding of grammar and syntax. It will be too late.

  What experiences recorded on my mind during my own childhood, between birth and age twelve, when the window for imprinting closes? Somewhere along the way, I must have learned that answers were to be found outside of myself. And Rose must have learned the opposite. Although we were raised in the same house, by the same person, and lived through the same disappointments, our approach to problem-solving—and to life—is completely different. I think about that evening often and how easily Rose understood that the problem wasn’t the object, but the source.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  We’ve looked at Scott Sullivan’s inhibitor gene from every one of his samples, and they’re all identical—until shortly after Mara’s death, when a single substitution appears on the Y chromosome. We believe this is attributed to the trauma of his wife’s death. At this point, we have no choice but to officially release him from the oxytocin trial. I’ve scheduled a home visit with him to close out the paperwork for phase one and hopefully get him to agree to let us study what we think is happening to him. I’m also anxious to check in on Sophie and confirm that what Jenna says is true, that she’s doing okay and Scott has things under control.

  Their street looks the same as it did on my last visit, five years ago. Mara was frazzled that day, the top half of her blouse unbuttoned and her hair looking like it hadn’t been washed in days. Scott, however, looked showered and rested, ready to begin our interview.

  When I knock on the door today, an older and heavier Scott answers. The TV is blaring, and a dish towel hangs over one shoulder. “Dr. Robson, come in. It’s good to see you.”

  “Thanks for taking the time to meet me today,” I say.

  “No problem.” He leads me into the house. A layer of dust covers every surface, shoes litter the floor by the door, and a pile of laundry has tumbled sideways outside the master bedroom. “Sorry about the mess.”

  In the kitchen, Sophie sits at the counter, swinging her legs and drawing a picture. A pot of spaghetti sauce bubbles on the stove, the strong smell of garlic and oregano inviting. Almost cozy.

  “Hi, Sophie. I’m Dr. Robson. The last time I saw you, you were a baby.”

  Sophie looks at me for a moment. “Did you know my mom?”

  I study her, the shape of her face so similar to Mara’s. “I did. I liked her a lot.”

  Sophie nods once and resumes her work.

  “I’m going to talk to Dr. Robson in the dining room, okay, Soph?”

  “Sure, Daddy,” she says, not looking up from her drawing.

  Evidence of Mara is everywhere—photographs dot the surfaces, Mara in mid-laugh, Mara with an infant Sophie, Mara and Scott on their wedding day. I compare the mess and clutter around me to Jackie’s pristine house. But she’s always run their home. Here, Scott has gone from doing nothing to doing everything. And if my suspicions are correct, the change is showing up in his DNA.

  “How are you adjusting?” I ask. I need the anecdotal data if I’m going to close out the file.

  Scott sighs as we sit in chairs across from each other. “At first I was totally overwhelmed. Sophie cried all the time. There wasn’t anything I could do to console her. Truthfully,” he lowers his voice, “I could barely function. All I wanted to do was run away.”

  This doesn’t surprise me.

  “I had no idea how much Mara did—the meals, the scheduling, the homework, and school events. It was crazy. One time, I forgot to go grocery shopping. I had nothing to put in Sophie’s lunch, so I tossed in four chocolate puddings and a spoon and prayed the school wouldn’t call.”

  I laugh. “We’ve all been there.”

  Scott smiles, reassured. “I’m doing better now. I’ve got a system. A schedule.”

  “Schedules are good.”

  He looks down at his hands, folded on the table in front of us. “It’s still hard to think about how much Mara’s missing. It’s not fair that she doesn’t get any more days with Sophie, or get to see these milestones.” He looks back at me. “Sophie lost her first tooth a couple of weeks ago. I knew enough to tell her to put it under the pillow for the tooth fairy. When she was asleep, I slipped her a twenty-dollar bill. The next day I found out no one gives more than a dollar. Everyone seems to know this stuff except me.”

  “We all have moments when we feel clueless,” I tell him.

  “What’s crazy is that sometimes I look at Sophie, and she’ll have an expression on her face or she’ll say something, and it’ll be so much like Mara. How could she have learned that from her in such a short time?”

  I set my pen down. “Fifty percent of Sophie’s genes came from Mara, that’s how. Some things, the learned behaviors, will fade over time, while others, the things she inherited directly from Mara, will sharpen.”

  Scott leans forward. “Ser
iously?”

  I explain mtDNA, and his eyes grow hopeful.

  “If Sophie has a daughter, she’ll pass it on to her children too. A whole history of Mara, of her mother before her, lives inside of Sophie.”

  “You’re kidding me,” he says. “So you mean I could be a ninety-year-old grandfather and see a flash of Mara in my grandchildren?”

  “Not only is it possible,” I tell him. “It’s likely. Mara’s mitochondrial DNA will be present, unchanged, in every cell of your grandchildren’s bodies. So in essence, Mara will be there too.”

  He looks across the dining room to a picture of Mara, her hair swept up in the wind and laughing. “Incredible,” he whispers.

  I flip open the file in front of me. “I want to thank you for finishing phase one, but I also came to talk to you about the phase two trials starting in the fall.”

  “Sure,” he says. “You got my paperwork, right?”

  I pull out his latest labs and say, “Well, there’s a problem with your levels.”

  Scott looks concerned. “What problem?”

  I point to the line measuring oxytocin. “See these numbers here? How they’re increasing?”

  He looks confused. I push the lab work toward him. “We think the gene that inhibits the release of oxytocin has been methylated.”

  Scott traces the line of numbers with his finger, from left to right. He looks up, worry spreading across his face. “Is that a problem? Is it dangerous?”

  “No, not at all.” I explain how methylation works and how life events can trigger a change. “In this instance, the methylation is actually allowing your body to do what it’s supposed to do.” I slip the labs back in the folder and look at him. “But we don’t know if it will continue until the oxytocin inhibitor is completely dormant or if it will halt here, so we’d like to continue working with you and study the gene itself.”