We were getting closer to the answer I believed I was looking for, but he was deep enough that I didn’t see any harm in asking it straightforward.
“And what about removing certain characteristics? Clumsiness for example?”
“Hm. Yes—possibly. Though doing so would add another precarious layer to an already profoundly stratified subject matter. Whereas before we were dealing with modifications, on a viable, receptive donor, now we’re talking about altering an individual’s genotype. I wouldn’t recommend this. There are a many great and incredible things science is capable of teaching us. The more we investigate the more we learn there is purpose to everything. In digging deeper we can understand how things work, how they form, perhaps stop them before they mutate. This is a good thing, and I have worked alongside several physicians who are making it their life’s work to cure a child, before they’re ever born.”
“So you believe, then, in the process of correcting mistakes?”
He angled his head, considering my question before answering. “I believe in the moderated prevention of various terminal idiosyncrasies. But no, I don’t believe we have the right to pick and choose. A ‘mistake,’ as you call it, is subjective, and in turn fallible by way of motive and reason—these things are also subjective. Do you see where I am going with this? To take away one’s innate . . . quirks, we could call them; to do that, in my opinion, would be overstepping our bounds. Only when appropriate—and by appropriate I don’t mean when I feel like it’s a good decision, but rather when the issue presented poses a direct threat to an otherwise viable lifesource—then I believe we should, as great thinkers, do all that we can to”—here he smiled at me—“foster humanity. Help people live a better, longer, fuller life. Never, though, does that give us the right to tamper with Creation.”
I heard my father moving. And then there was light.
“But aren’t plants part of Creation?” I asked, squinting at the brightness.
“Of course they are,” he agreed, his voice light. “And so is Domain and Kingdom and Phylum and Class, and so on and so forth.” He sat back down and looked at me squarely. “But science isn’t Creation; it’s a part of Creation.”
“But you said we can do a great many things—”
“Ah, yes,” he nodded, “but just because we can, doesn’t always mean we should.”
It was ridiculous for me to feel dejected. Still, I couldn’t help but feel like I had been running atop a rainbow, only to find a pot of coal waiting on the other side.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he chuckled, “there’re a few things going wrong up here I wouldn’t mind tinkering with.” He tapped the side of his skull. “I would really like to not lose things, or, if I could just remember where I put them—that would save me a lot of time.” Suddenly he leaned forward. “Can you stay for a bit longer, or should you get started on your homework?”
I gave him a quizzical look but told him I could stay.
“Okay, good.” He scratched his eye. “It’s just that I’ve had a thought—a memory, rather. And I think it falls under the questions you’ve been asking.”
He removed one glove and set his hand to rest on the table; it was dusty, and there was evidence he’d been digging in soil, because it looked as though each fingernail tip had been painted brown.
“I’m not always very forgiving with myself,” my father continued, subdued and pensive, but not at all doleful. “When I make a mistake—even if it’s a small one, it still feels sharp to me; like a thorn in my heel. It’s been this way since I was young. Because of this, all my life I have struggled to reconcile with much of what makes me me. But as I’ve aged . . . the more I’ve come to accept, come to understand, that we are born the way we are for a reason. That imperfection isn’t the same thing as error. But I also think it’s in our power—and part of our responsibility—to become the very most of ourselves, if that makes sense? And I no longer feels as though this happens through medicine or science, but through engaging with people.”
He continued. “You know I struggle with being social. Until I met Marie I had only had the one friend, Edgar. We still keep in touch, actually, through that thingy your mother set up for me on the computer. I forget what it’s called: Face-something. Anyway . . . there are a few people who have changed me, for the better I would say.”
“In college I had a professor who really liked to lay into me. Challenge me. But I was convinced he hated me, until one day your mother pointed out that she thought he was pushing me because he saw potential. I don’t know . . . I still think it’s more than feasible he hated me. Either way, Dr. Garrison’s relentless dissatisfaction with my work was the impetus behind my perseverance. If I turned in an assignment to him, and he believed I could do better, he would make me redo it. I almost flunked out of Polymers because I was spending the majority of my time redoing the work he assigned me. At the time I wanted nothing more than to drop the class. But in hindsight it’s to him I owe the scientist I am today.”
“Your mother was the second person to change me. I’ve never been very good at saying what’s on my mind or talking about how I feel, but she . . . well, you know how it is—that mind reading thing she does. It was she who taught me how to enjoy the little things, how to laugh at myself. And that, I’ve discovered, is the secret to happiness. Well, my happiness, anyway.
“And then . . . you were born.” He paused and met my eyes, and we both blushed. “I was terrified,” he admitted. “You were tiny and squirmy, and even more breakable than my lab equipment. Do you know I refused to hold you for the first three days you were alive?”
I shook my head, wondering how I had never heard this story.
“Not because I didn’t want to,” he rushed to say, “but because I feared dropping you. And you were so small, so perfect, so alive. I didn’t want to”—he struggled for words, closing one eye—“damage you.”
My father continued with his memory. “Your mother—she was very understanding; even when nurses and doctor looked at me like I was the worst sort of father. But even her extensive patience eventually ran out. One day—the fourth day—Marie took me by a shoulder and said, ‘Jameson, she’s your daughter. You’re going to have to hold her some day.’ Then she all but shoved you—this, tiny little bundle—into my arms and added, ‘Today is that day. I’m taking a nap.’ And then she left me alone with you. Foster, I almost threw up on you. I didn’t, though. I made it to the sink. But then, once those initial nerves dissipated, once I was actually holding you,” he demonstrated with his hands, “and you didn’t appear to hate it, or me, then I wasn’t scared anymore. I held you in my arms for eight minutes.” My father stared at the table as he told his story, long lashes flickering. I saw him smile, watched his face grow fond with a memory I couldn’t see.
“Then,” he said, “I set you on the bed, next to your mother who was snoring by that point, and I proceeded to build a castle of pillows around your body.”
I laughed loudly, and was surprised to feel warm tears squeeze from my eyes. I was crying. We both were.
“With your dark hair and dark eyes, you looked like an Eskimo baby inside an igloo. But I didn’t care. I realized that it was I who had made you safe, and that’s all I ever wanted to do for you.” Another moment passed, until he peeked up with his eyes, smiling shyly. “I also realized I was still terrified of you.”
~
Opening a textbook I began highlighting keywords, releasing a pleasantly official scent that smelled of efficiency. I sat on my bed, mulling over the conversation with my mother in the gazebo, cut short. Although I felt some of her logic flawed, her comparisons inaccurate, I understood and appreciated the point my mother had meant to illustrate. She had done what any loving mother would do in her place: allow a maternal bias to skew her perception of me. And I loved her for that.
A soft rapping on my door pulled me from my thoughts. “Knock, knock,” my mother said, standing in the open doorway. “Are you very busy?”
“No, please, come in.” I capped the highlighter and waved her in, sliding half a dozen books to the foot of the bed. The shiny black ball sleeping soundly did not appreciate this intrusion on her space.
“Sorry, Rhoda,” I said, leaning forward to pet her.
My mother sat down with a weary exhale, still dressed in her work clothes. “Thank you for preparing the soufflé and putting the salad together. Dad and I were famished when we came in, and so we may have nibbled on it just a bit.”
I laughed and tucked my feet under my thighs. “It turned out okay, then? I always seem to undercook it or burn the edges.”
“That’s not true,” she disagreed, disappearing as she bent forward to retrieve something on the floor. “You’re wonderful with cooking—especially pastries.”
She resurfaced with the small potted poppy in her hands. I looked at it and gasped. It was nothing but a withered weed, its once stunning red and white petals now shriveled inward, barely clinging to a sallow center.
“Mom, what happened to it?”
My mother smiled sadly and shook her head. “Oh, this isn’t the same poppy I showed you earlier—though it grew up alongside it until I replanted them in the flower patch. Then it,” she regarded it ruefully, petting what was left of its petals, “began to die.”
My mother’s garden was an extension of our family, and the flowers her pseudo-children. Because of this, she became extremely attached to each and every living thing; and so when they perished without an apparent reason, she grieved. The pitiful little thing; I couldn’t help but feel for it, and a tug of empathy pulling at my heart.
“I can’t figure it out,” she said sadly, fixing her eyes on it. “I did nothing different with this one than I did with all the others. I gave it the same amount of food and water, the same sunshine. I feel responsible. I feel, perhaps, in overestimating its appearances, I underestimated what was happening deep down. And by the time I returned to check on it, there was hardly anything left. So of course I dug it up, carefully, and put it back in its own pot, hoping it would start to heal, but it’s been a few days and . . .”
At the catch in her voice I looked up. There were tears in her eyes.
“Mom . . .” Seeing her this upset made my stomach twist in knots. I hated to resort to these tired words, but they were all I had at the moment. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too,” she whispered. “But—I’m not giving up quite yet.” She met my eyes and reached out to tuck a curl behind my ear.
“Oh, okay,” I said, and looked down at the plant. “Good.”
“Yes,” she said, voice full of sharp intuition. “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not true. Not yet. It’s in shock right now, but I think there’s still a possibility in saving it. Which is why I’ve brought it up here: to see if what it wants is a change in environment.”
As I put together these words I realized she meant to leave the poor thing with me, and I gawked at her. “Not me? I’m terrible with flowers,” I protested. “They start to wilt if I’m in the same room for too long.”
My mother laughed, but in her eyes was that look; she wouldn’t be refused.
“Listen—it’s not as though it can get any worse, right?” She smiled wryly. I wished then that I could disagree, but really I could not. “Keep it on your balcony with the others. Somewhere it will get full sun,” she advised. “And each day when you get home from school, check on it—just give the topsoil a gentle poke, see that it’s moist but not sodden.”
“But I’ll for—”
“And I’ll remind you,” she interrupted, anticipating my strongest argument.
I shook my head, silently apologizing to the decrepit little bloom that would—probably to its complete demise—be put in my responsibility. I tried one last time. “But are you absolutely sure?”
“I’m positive, Foster.” My mother took my hand, sliding her fingers between mine. They were cool and soft and clean. Her eyes were on mine when she nodded. “I think this will work.”
Then I sighed, resigned as she went to transfer the pot from her hand to mine. I held it for what it was: a sacrifice.
My mother pushed off the bed and stood up, twisting her torso to the left and the right. “Table’s all set for dinner. Dad and I are ready when you are.”
“Okay. I’m going to—” I raised the pot to indicate my intentions.
“Full sun, remember.”
I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring way. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. Go ahead and start without me if you like.”
“We’ll wait for you,” she replied. “I need to take a quick shower.”
I stared at the unfortunate flower, shaking my head, and again feeling very sorry on its behalf.
“Fost?”
Thinking I was alone I startled at the sound of my mother’s voice, turning wide eyes toward her. “Oh! I didn’t know you were still there.”
“Sorry about that,” she apologized. The way she watched me, her head resting on the doorjamb, a fingernail tucked between her teeth, I couldn’t name the expression. It was dim but also . . . ferocious was the only word I could come up with.
“Promise me something, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t give up, okay?” Slowly her dark eyes moved away from my face, to my hands, then back to me. “There’s still plenty of time.”
“I promise.”
She smiled, lifted her head first, the rest of her body following suit. “Oh, and don’t take too long or there won’t be anything left of your soufflé.”
I smiled back and nodded. Then I watched her go, disappearing around the corner. Rhoda jumped down off the bed to trot after her. It was supper-time for her also.
I carried my sick charge across the room and out onto my balcony. It was dark now, but I put the pot in a place where I believed it would be unobstructed. Looking at it, I realized my mother and I still had yet to finish our conversation from earlier today.
Stepping back inside my room, I closed the French doors and pulled the sheer curtains closed. I went to my dresser, pulling a long gray nightshirt and navy blue leggings from the third drawer. As I began to undress, I paused.
Or maybe we just had?
Chapter Five
The month after our move to California, my parents advertised an estate sale in the paper. The previous owner of the chateaux was an elderly widower who hadn’t parted with a single item since the late nineteen twenties. Whether it was painful memories associated with his belongings or that he had no living relatives with whom to leave his inheritance, he gave us permission to keep anything we wanted and discard the rest. As for Monsieur Desmarais, he would be moving into Quiet Pastures, a retirement community in Northern California.
The inventory bequeathed to us was incredibly eclectic and varied, some items estimating a value of priceless. His taste in artwork alone led me to believe I would have liked him very much. With permission from my parents, I took my favorite piece—an original painting by Gustav Klimt, entitled Beyond the Kiss—and hung it above my bed. Everything else was sold and profits split down the middle between me and my parents. It came as no surprise at all when they chose to give the full sum to an environmental organization.
It took me a little longer to decide. I took my time doing research, determined to find a cause not only close to my heart, but also helping those who needed the money most. In the end I divvied the total into five substantial amounts, donating online to non-profits focused on getting food and clean water to the impoverished corners of the world.
During the estate sale I lost track of how many people had come through our home. While my parents acted as docents, leading people up and down two sets of staircases and into the fifteen-plus rooms, I stationed myself on a stool in the corner of the garage. My job was to direct prospective buyers into the parlor, and to oversee the less expensive items; an incongruous combination of Monsieur Desmarais’ belongings and ours. There wasn’t a whole lot of traffic,
as it was mostly knick-knacks, old clothes, and collectibles. I quickly became wrapped up in my own project, jotting down lyrics for a new song in my composition book.
When a girl and boy appeared around noon—him wearing nothing but navy blue board shorts and her in miniature jean cut-offs, and a turquoise bikini strapped beneath a slightly less revealing white tube top—I wondered with heightened self-awareness if everyone in this new paradise was going to look like Barbie and Ken dolls?
Having more than enough to do since the move—unpacking and washing my clothes, compulsively arranging my bedroom furniture, discovering hidden alcoves, and spending days lost inside the chateaux’s glorious library—I’d had yet to do much sightseeing, tourist attractions, or even leave the manse, really. Only later, would I understand the majority of this city’s inhabitants bore a homogenously gorgeous appearance. For now, though, the pair browsing half naked through my garage were the most physically attractive people I had ever seen in person; all blonde splendor and golden-brown skin, they left very little to be imagined, both with incredibly well-defined bodies suggesting exercise on a regular basis—likely outdoors, I thought, with a second look at their smooth, seamlessly tanned flesh.
After watching them interact for a couple minutes—chatting nonchalantly to one another and other patrons at opposites sides of the three-car garage—I surmised they were siblings and not boyfriend and girlfriend. Though, on looks alone, it could have gone either way; their coloring was distinctly similar, as were the oval faces and respectively appropriate bone structure. But, there were plenty of noticeable differences, the most blatantly obvious being the difference in height. He looked tall for his age, probably somewhere just under six feet, while she, the top of her head barely reaching his armpits, would have legally fallen under “little person” status, were she just a few inches shorter. This did nothing to detract from her beauty, however. If anything, it highlighted her extraordinariness in agility and grace, I thought, watching her rise up on one foot, balancing there as she removed something from a shelf well above her head.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 9