This something nagged at her, like a thorn, but every day the nagging grew less. Then one day there was no nagging. The thorn had worked its way out.
It was a huge relief. Finally, she felt normal again. She felt like herself. It was the self she most loved. The one with energy, who loved to do things. The one who didn’t live under a cloud of apprehension but took pleasure in life.
One of those pleasures had been on hold for nearly a month. Too much pressure and stress. Freed of them was like waking from a stupor.
This waking first happened in the kitchen. Everett was putting away groceries, and she went at him like a cat in heat.
“I want you,” she growled, backing him against the counter. “I lust for your body.”
“I can do lust,” he replied.
She licked her lips.
He grinned.
She pressed herself against him, then let herself be lifted and carried to the bedroom.
The sex was awesome. She let herself go in a way she’d never done, clawing his back, grinding her pelvis against his, screaming when she came. He responded with a low-throated roar, and a millisecond later went stiff as a board and shot himself into her.
This happened on a Sunday morning, an off day from work for them. After sex they had breakfast. After breakfast Ellen called her mother.
Mom was different these days. More open, more expressive. The cancer remained in remission. Physically, she felt good. Mentally, like she was living a dream. How could things be better? She was well. Her daughter was cured. She couldn’t express in words how happy this made her. Not to mention the prospect of grandkids.
After the call Ellen waylaid Everett again. Afterwards, she lay in his arms and playfully asked if she was being a nuisance.
“No way. I love having sex with you.”
“It’s weird,” she said. “I feel so . . . so driven.”
“Driven?”
“Horny. It’s like I’ve been holding all this stuff inside, and now it’s just busting out. It feels so good to let go. I can see how people get addicted.”
He kissed her on the shoulder. “Should we tell the doctor you’ve become an addict?”
“I just like it.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
The next time they made love was that night. Ellen had the condom out, ready to roll it on, when Everett said, “How about we do it without that thing?”
She knew it was better for him. He got more excited. The sensation was heightened. He’d liked it more when she was on the mini-pill.
The condom, on the other hand, seemed like such a good idea.
It was a tough decision, but at length she agreed to do without.
The next time, a day later, she agreed again.
Her period that month was late. She couldn’t decide whether to say anything—really didn’t want to be the one to raise hopes only to see them dashed—and in the end chose to keep it to herself for the time being. When her period did finally come, she was immensely relieved.
A week later, she saw Dr. Stanović at a follow-up appointment. He asked how she was, and she said fine. He pulled up her new genome on his screen—new and improved—and went over it with her. He asked his normal battery of questions. He did a physical, after which he pronounced her fit.
Once she was dressed, he asked again how she was doing. Any concerns? Any questions she wanted to ask?
She hesitated a moment, then said yes. There was one question.
“Are there any delayed effects of the treatment? I feel stupid for asking now. I should have asked before.”
“Delayed effects? Such as what?”
“I missed a period. It came, but it was late.”
“Ah.” He nodded sympathetically. “It could be the treatment. A women’s cycle is very sensitive to change.”
She realized she’d asked the wrong question. What she’d meant was: could some effects reverse themselves? Could a change change back?
“Everett wants a baby,” she said.
“Yes. It’s why we did this. One of the reasons. Now you can.”
“I think I was pregnant. I think I lost it. I aborted.”
“This is possible? You and your husband, you’ve been trying?”
She looked at him, nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how much you want this. But look on the bright side. Soon you’ll get another chance.”
It was this that worried her.
He saw it in her face. “No? I’m wrong?”
“I don’t understand it,” she said.
“You’ve had a change of heart?”
Heart? Was that it? It seemed much bigger and all-encompassing. Heart, soul, spirit, self: all of them rolled into one.
She lifted her eyes to him. “Something like that.”
His preliminary diagnosis was amnesia. Partial, localized and temporary, he hoped and guessed.
Amnesia seemed the wrong word to her. What she had was less like a forgetting than an absence. Something that not only didn’t exist but never had. On no level did the idea of being a mother resonate with her. Her desire for kids was gone.
Dr. Stanović was puzzled and alarmed. He ordered a whole new battery of tests and sent her to a panel of specialists. She had scans and other studies of her brain, including a sub-cognitive resistance study to see if there was a short circuit somewhere. She talked to a therapist. She was tested for pre-partum depression. She had her hormones and pre-hormones checked.
It was a lengthy process, and she had plenty of time to think. Plenty of questions ran through her head. Was she less a woman, she asked herself, now that she didn’t want children? She didn’t feel that way. She felt as womanly as ever. She couldn’t even honestly say that she’d changed. The desire for kids was absent, but then when had it ever been present? She didn’t remember that it had. In this respect she felt no different than before. Her past self flowed seamlessly into her present self. Nothing had been taken away.
If it had been, wouldn’t she miss it? Wouldn’t there be a hole somewhere in her life? But in fact, the reverse was true. Something had been gained. She was healed. The killer gene was gone. A weight had been lifted. She was full of energy and gratitude and love.
One of the things she loved most was being with her husband. She loved seeing him. She loved talking to him. She loved the way he talked to her. She loved making love to him: this had always been one of their great pleasures, and it continued to be, only now the pleasure was tinged with something new. Every time he put on the condom, or she put it on, she felt a stab of guilt, for it reminded her what she was denying him. It was like putting a cap on his dreams, and this made her worry.
Another worry:
When she was alone, she was unaware of having changed. The thought never crossed her mind. She hadn’t become someone different. She hadn’t “become” anyone. She was who she was. She felt whole.
Everett, by contrast, was acutely aware that things were not the same. One thing had changed, and now everything seemed different to him. Scarcely a moment went by that he didn’t feel tied up in knots.
Finally, they sat down and talked about it. Everett hadn’t wanted to say anything sooner for fear of making her feel guilty or self-conscious. Figured she’d say something when she was ready.
It felt good to air things out, though neither of them knew quite where to go next. She asked him to be patient with her. She said she was still adjusting. She said she was sure things would work themselves out.
Everett agreed. He was a positive thinker, a man who didn’t know the meaning of unable to solve or fix or overcome. If today was difficult, tomorrow would be better. And if not tomorrow, then the day after. They’d make it better; there was no doubt in his mind. His optimism was hard for her to fathom, but it was welcome—it was always welcome—and she came away from the conversation, if not fully sharing in it then willing to entertain the hope that things, indeed, would improve.
But the worry did not go away. The
worry persisted. Her love for him—and possibly love in general—seemed to make worry inevitable. Could this possibly be true?
She posed the question to her mother, whose answer was yes. Start with the most blissful, heavenly, worry-free marriage, and eventually cracks would appear.
“Sooner or later you’ll find something to worry about,” she said with conviction.
“What did you worry about Dad?”
“Dad? Now that’s interesting. I was thinking about you.”
“What did you worry about me?”
“I didn’t ever worry a lot. But I’m your mother. I’m paid to worry. It’s built-in.”
“Were you paid enough?”
Her mother smiled. With the weight she’d lost and never fully re-gained, the features of her face seemed concentrated. The smile looked huge.
“I was paid plenty. And believe me, I keep getting paid, Paid in love, once in a while paid in worry. They go together. So tell me, what’s this between you and Everett? Is there a problem?”
Everett? Had she said anything about Everett? Did she need to?
“It’s not built-in,” said Ellen. “That’s the problem.”
“What’s not built-in?”
“I don’t want kids, Mom. I know I did, but I don’t anymore. I don’t want to be a mother. I don’t feel it. I don’t see the need.”
“You’re recovering from something major,” said her mother, thinking of her own treatment and recovery, which had taken her within an inch of her life. “Give it time.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“No? Then maybe you need to get pregnant. I’m not saying you should, so please don’t jump on me. That’s not what I’m saying. Only that if you did, you might feel differently.”
It was blunt, but that was her mother. Ellen did not take offense (another surprise) and in fact was somewhat relieved. The thought had occurred to her as well. For some women it did seem to work that way. A baby growing inside and then the birth of that baby, and all the hormones raging in the blood and flooding the brain—it seemed to make mothers out of the most unmotherly, uninterested, unchild-loving women. But it didn’t make mothers out of everyone, not by a long shot. There were plenty who gave up their babies, or kept their babies but shouldn’t have, plenty who didn’t want to be mothers even then. Ellen couldn’t say how she knew she was one of these, but she did know. She felt it in every fiber of her being. Whatever had changed inside—and it wasn’t as simple as memory, or not memory as it was commonly thought of . . . it seemed to be memory of a different type and level, memory on all sorts of levels, on every level, memory aka the absence of memory: conscious, subconscious, instinctive, reflexive and beyond, it was in her synapses and electrical circuits, and beyond that, down to her very cells and the forces that kept those cells alive, the hormones and molecules and fluxes of energy—had changed for good.
“It’s just not there, Mom. I’ve looked for it. Believe me, I’ve looked. Inside, outside. I’ve spent time with my friends who have babies. I’ve hung out with toddlers and kids. I like seeing them. I like that they’re around. But I don’t need one of my own. I don’t want one. The thought, frankly, never crosses my mind. It’s so weird.” She paused. “You know what else is weird? I’m happy. As happy as I’ve ever been.”
“You’re healthy, sweetheart.”
“Except when I feel guilty.”
A moment or two passed.
Ellen glanced at her mother. “There’re aren’t going to be grandkids, Mom. I know how much you would have loved them. I’m sorry.”
“The treatment changed you,” said her mother. And then, “I can live without grandkids.”
This was true. Of course it was. You lived the life you were given. What else could you do? The knot her mother felt in her chest was not about that. It was that she didn’t quite recognize the person beside her. As if a new Ellen—new and slightly out of synch, slightly off—inhabited the place where the old Ellen, her Ellen, had been.
“Are you mad?” Ellen asked.
“Mad? No, I’m not mad. I’m . . . surprised.” She wanted to shake the girl. She wanted to fold her in her arms. She wanted to distance herself and, for once, be done with the burden of motherhood.
“I envy you,” she said. “But never mind that. You do what’s right for you.”
“That’s what you’ve always told me.”
“It’s what I was told. It’s what I believe.”
“This was supposed to be right for everybody. Win-win all around. I never told you the story the doctor told us. About a patient of his who forgot his wife. That’s what the treatment did to him. They ended up getting divorced.”
“Are you and Everett talking about divorce?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Not yet.”
“Do you want one?”
“Of course not.”
“Does he?”
“He’s not happy.”
Her mother frowned. “Are you sure? Don’t underestimate how much he loves you. How worried he was about you. Maybe he’s still getting used to the fact he doesn’t have to.”
“He wants a family. We used to talk about it all the time. Dream about it. Joke about it. It was, like, one of the most important things.”
“No one gets everything they want,” said her mother. “Not in a marriage. Not anywhere.”
“I know that.”
“You make compromises.”
“Sacrifices, you mean.”
Her mother shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s made a sacrifice. But I can understand why it worries you. Usually it’s the other way around.”
The weeks passed. The situation at home did not improve. Ellen felt a growing distance between herself and her husband. He was making a sacrifice for her, a great sacrifice, and though he said nothing and even pretended otherwise, it was never far from her mind. A second sacrifice would have to be made, and this would be hers, and she dreaded it, so kept putting it off. She prayed if she waited she wouldn’t have to go through with it, that motherhood—whatever that was—would re-commence, that the instinct would be re-ignited inside her. She tried everything she could think of to make this happen. Spent time with friends who had children. Played with these children. Held babies in her arms.
But no. It was like sparking a fire from ash. The desire was simply not there.
They would have to face facts.
Yet still she procrastinated.
She wanted Everett to be the one to say something first. Tell her he wasn’t happy. Admit that he felt betrayed. Acknowledge he had thoughts of leaving her. It would her ease her guilt, she thought.
In time, she got her wish. He did break the ice. If only, she thought later, she’d been a little greedier and wished for more.
They’d had some wine. They were goofing around, and what do you know? The next thing, they were naked.
When it came time for the act itself, she asked him to hold that thought, while she got a condom from the bedside table drawer.
Before she could open the packet, he took it out of her hands, held it for a moment as if deciding what, if anything, it was good for, then tossed it on the floor. Then he pushed her back onto the bed and eased himself between her legs.
“Let’s make a baby,” he said.
She stiffened.
Heedlessly, he tried to enter her.
“No,” she said, resisting. “Stop.”
He stopped.
A second later, he sat back. “We need to talk.”
And she said, “Yes. We do.”
“It’s not working,” he said.
“No. It’s not.”
“What’s the matter? What happened to you?”
She’d explained it before, and she explained it again. The treatment had robbed her of something precious. Now she was afraid it was robbing her of him.
“The doctor said it was amnesia,” he said. “People wake up from amnesia.”
“I’m not waking up, Ev
erett.” She could barely meet his eyes. “Kids aren’t in the picture. I have to be honest with you.”
“Not ever?”
“I don’t know ever.” This was cowardice, and its effect was predictable.
He pounced. “So there’s still a chance?”
“No. Don’t think that. No chance.”
“You could grow into it.”
“No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’d be a terrible mother. The whole thing would be a disaster. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”
“Sorry?” He frowned. It hardly seemed sufficient. “Maybe we can get the doctor to make me forget, too.”
She started to cry.
“I can’t keep living like this,” he said. “I feel like I’m holding my breath. Like I’m underwater. Waiting to surface.”
“I know. I feel the same. I’ve been waiting, too. Hoping that things will change. Praying that they will.”
The tears rolled down her cheeks.
He felt helpless. Heartbroken.
“I can wait longer,” he said. “I will.”
“No,” she said. And then, “I’m so so sorry, Everett.”
He took her in his arms. Now he was crying, too.
“Things could change.”
“They won’t,” she sobbed.
“I love you so so much.”
“Oh God. I love you so much, too.”
Dr. Stanović had two stories he used in his meetings with prospective clients. Two cautionary tales. Typically, he’d choose one to illustrate the risk of treatment and separate those who were willing to take that risk from those who were not. The stories were based on two cases from the early days of Twenty-Two and You, which had grown a great deal since then. In each case the treatment was a success: the gene or genes in question were fixed, and the disease or risk of disease was eradicated. In both cases there was also a striking, highly focal and atypical memory loss. One patient lost the memory of his wife. This led to an extremely difficult situation at home, but the final outcome, against all odds, was a happy one. The other patient lost the memory of something equally dear. Dear to her and dear to her husband. This, too, led to an extremely difficult situation. This, in turn, led to a painful divorce.
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