Fatherless: A Novel

by Dobson, James

  Genhance Laboratories described itself as the leading epigenetic research company in the world, with a litany of drugs and therapies improving the lives of patients who suffered from genetic abnormalities or mental deficiencies. More recent research had focused on curtailing and potentially reversing age-related dementia. Testing GE633 on brain-damaged primates had proved to dramatically increase recall and, to the researchers’ surprise, expand several higher-end functions in the animals’ brains. Mentally impaired apes caught up with and in some instances surpassed their peers after only a few infusions of the formula. That’s when researchers nicknamed the treatment “brain-boosters.” The FDA had recently cleared Genhance to expand testing to human patients with age-related dementia and genetically rooted mental retardation. While early results had proven promising, most participants had been elderly patients with little to lose if the treatments failed.

  Leah was not an elderly patient. And she had an entire lifetime to lose.

  Kevin’s voice interrupted Angie’s growing discomfort. “Hi, beautiful. Have I told you lately how much I—” She answered before the custom ringtone could finish its thought.

  “Hi, babe. I see you tried to call.”

  “Hello, Kevin.” Not sweetheart. Not babe. Just Kevin.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She hated that question. Fortunately for him he was already in trouble.

  “Tell me about Genhance Laboratories.”

  A brief silence.

  “I already tried.”

  “No you didn’t,” she said with more certainty than she felt.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Have you checked your messages recently?”

  “Not since last night,” he confessed. “It’s been crazy today. The speaker said he wants to call a floor vote on another stopgap budget and—”

  “Kevin Tolbert.” She didn’t care about the details of his day. “You have some explaining to do. Check your messages this second!”

  She smashed her thumb over the icon of his smiling face. It was the first time she had hung up on him since they were in college and he forgot the third anniversary of their first date. Now, as then, she felt vindicated and slightly nauseated. At least this time she knew for certain he would call her back.

  “Hi, beaut—” She pressed the incoming-call icon immediately.

  “You couldn’t check your messages in ten seconds.”

  “Angie!” She recognized the tone from when Kevin suppressed his anger at the kids. “I’m not in a place where I can check messages. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  “‘To the parents of Leah Angelica Tolbert…’” She reluctantly read him the opening sentence, paused, and continued until she finished the entire letter.

  “Oh.” His voice softened. “Listen, babe, I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking you seem willing to put our baby at risk on the outside chance you can fix her. We already discussed this, Kevin. She isn’t—”

  “Correction,” he interrupted. “We tried to discuss this. But you didn’t listen. You cut me off with something about how normal isn’t always good.”

  Angie suddenly remembered why the name Dr. Wayne Galliger sounded familiar. It was Kevin who had mentioned him during their dinner date. She had been too upset by the suggestion to hear him out.

  “I tried telling you about the application process but you were in no mood to hear it.”

  “Application process?” She decided to listen this time.

  “Dr. Galliger is head of epigenetic research at Genhance. Troy knows him and suggested we connect. I wasn’t interested at first, but Troy said he has a stellar reputation.”

  “With aging dementia patients. Not with babies.”

  “With reduced mental capacity, which is exactly what we’re dealing with in Leah. He told me—”

  “You met with him?” Another surge of indignation.

  “We spoke by phone. He gave me thirty minutes he didn’t have because he believes kids like Leah may reap even greater benefits from the treatments because young brains have more elasticity.”

  “Greater benefits than whom? The apes?” she scoffed.

  “Better than dementia patients.”

  “Did he also explain the risks?”

  A pause. “Yes, he did.”

  “And?”

  “And I said I would submit Leah’s application to protect a slot, but that I would not even consider moving forward until you and I could learn more together.”

  She sighed at the arrival of the Kevin she’d married.

  Neither spoke for several moments, allowing the distance between them to close.

  “I’m really sorry, Angie,” Kevin said. “I had no idea they would reply to the application so soon. I thought I’d have plenty of time to discuss it with you.”

  She took a deep breath and winked at Joy, who was trying to slurp milk at the bottom of her bowl while fixed on Mommy’s vacillating facial expressions.

  “Promise me you’ll at least think it over,” Kevin continued.

  It was a promise she didn’t want to make. But she knew her husband well. He needed to explore every possibility.

  “Make me a promise?”

  “You bet.”

  “We’ll meet together with Pastor Mubar before making any decisions.”

  “I like that idea,” he replied. “Make an appointment.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Matthew felt his mother’s chilly fingers squeeze his arm doubtfully just as they had while the two of them negotiated their snowy driveway toward the car. But there was no risk of slipping on ice here, sitting safely inside a beautiful lobby ten minutes before their scheduled consultation. Still, he sensed her vague anxiety.

  He moved his hand over hers and gave a gentle pat. “Relax, Mom,” he said reassuringly. “It’s just an exploratory meeting. We won’t make any decisions today.”

  Matthew wondered how much his mother understood about what was happening. Three years earlier they had visited several senior-care facilities in the area to explore options. She had pleaded with him not to put her in what she called “an old folks’ home.” He had promised that wouldn’t happen. Of course, he could not have anticipated the pace of her deterioration then. He looked around, pleased to be sitting in a lobby that felt more like a stylish living room than a sterile hospital wing.

  He reached toward the coffee table in front of them to sort through a meticulously arranged selection of periodicals, careful to put each back in its place after scanning the cover. He found one promising title.

  “Here you go, Mom,” he said as he eased her clamped fingers from his constricted forearm. “Why don’t you look through this while I ask how much longer it’ll be.”

  Matthew rose from the sofa and walked toward the dark oak reception desk. A woman sat with legs crossed at the ankles. Sensing his approach, she looked up from her screen.

  “I apologize, Mr. Adams,” she said caringly. “It should only be a few more minutes.”

  “No problem,” he said, feeling bad about the intrusion. “I just needed an excuse to stretch my legs.”

  She seemed to sense his discomfort.

  “Your mother feeling a bit anxious?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s normal. Don’t worry. I’m sure Mr. Kohl will put her at ease. One of the kindest gentlemen you’ll ever meet. And he has more experience than any of our other advisors. You’ll both like him.”

  Matthew slid both hands into his pockets and smiled at the promise of a cohort.

  “Here,” she said. “Why don’t you take advantage of the time to review some of our packages?”

  The brochure felt elegant like a wedding invitation, pearl-embossed paper with silver trim.

  Matthew returned to the waiting area and sat beside his mother. She hadn’t yet flipped open her magazine. He angled his shoulders slightly to block the brochure from her gaze. A silly gesture, he realized, since it had been years since her last
laser eye adjustment. She would not be able to read such tiny print.

  The prices were much higher than Matthew had anticipated, especially with the two or three bonus services he would insist she receive. He wanted the absolute best for his mother. That’s why he had chosen Aspen House.

  A man approached who, at first glance, seemed out of place. Matthew had expected their consultant to look like an impeccably groomed banker rather than a retired piano tuner or plumber. He walked with a slight limp and wore a warm smile. He extended his hand. Not toward Matthew, but toward his anxious mom.

  “Hello, Ms. Adams.” He engulfed her slight hands in his large mitts. “I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”

  Looking forward since when? Matthew wondered while glancing at the only name on his tag, CHARLES. He looked more like a Chuck.

  “Matthew here has told us so much about you.” Matthew remembered the online questionnaire. Chuck would know a great deal about his mother.

  He raised a hand to place it on Matthew’s shoulder. “We can tell your son loves you a great deal.” The voice reminded Matthew of everyone’s favorite uncle.

  Ms. Adams looked into her son’s eyes. She received an affirming wink.

  The tension began easing out of her body.

  Chuck was going to make a terrific coach through a difficult decision-making process.

  “Can I offer either of you a cup of coffee or tea? Perhaps a glass of water?”

  “I’m fine. Mom?” Matthew asked.

  She gave a timid nod. A good sign.

  “She likes tea with milk,” Matthew said on her behalf.

  Moments later they sat in a small consultation room, where Chuck poured fresh milk into the china teacup he had placed before his guest.

  “I like a good cup of tea myself,” he began. “Soothes the anxious soul.”

  “Like Beethoven,” she replied.

  Matthew turned toward his mother in surprised delight. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her sip hot tea while bathing in classical music. It had been her favorite way to rejuvenate after arriving home from work. A pleasant memory he’d assumed she had lost.

  “Or the Beatles!” Chuck baited, prompting her to flash a playful smile.

  He’s very good, Matthew marveled.

  Chuck strained slightly to cross his legs as he looked down at a digital screen embedded in the table. “If it’s OK with you, Ms. Adams, I’d like to begin by asking you to fill in a few missing details on the application form.”

  “Missing details?” Matthew asked. “I don’t think I skipped any of the questions.”

  “You didn’t. I apologize for the inconvenience. Our company just added a few minor policy compliance questions. The usual legal mumbo jumbo.” He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.

  “I see,” Matthew said hesitantly.

  “OK. First, I’m going to need some proof that you are indeed over the age of eighteen, young lady.”

  A momentary silence was followed by a unified laugh.

  “That won’t be a problem,” Matthew said, reaching for his mother’s purse. “I’ll scan her identification card while you go to the next question.”

  “Great,” Chuck continued. “As awkward as it sounds, I do need to confirm that you’ve made this decision while of sound mind.”

  Hearing the word decision prompted Mom to look toward her son.

  “Um, we haven’t exactly made a decision yet,” Matthew explained. “We wanted to wait until after this consultation.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Chuck took the cue. “My mistake. I should have said I need to confirm you are capable of making a decision while of sound mind.”

  She placed the teacup back on the table while shifting silently in her chair.

  “Of course, anyone who loves both Beethoven and the Beatles can’t be nuts,” the consultant teased. “So I feel quite comfortable attesting to your sanity.”

  She offered a slight nod of confirmation.

  “And finally, I need to know that any decision you make to use Aspen House services will be one hundred percent non-compulsory.”

  A look of confusion came over her face.

  “He means nobody will make you do anything you don’t want to do,” Matthew explained. “This will be your decision, Mom. It can’t be mine or anyone else’s. Do you understand?”

  She moved her head slowly up and down without conviction.

  “Good,” Chuck said in a sprightly tone. “I’ll just need a thumbprint from each of you.” He turned the screen toward Matthew, who pressed firmly between the lines.

  He offered Ms. Adams the same opportunity. She hesitated.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Mom?” Matthew prodded.

  She rose from her chair and walked slowly toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Matthew asked.

  “I would like to see the room before making a decision.”

  Why would she want to see the room? Matthew wondered.

  “I really do want my son to finish his college education,” she explained. “I know he’ll be an excellent professor. And he can’t do that if he has to take care of me.”

  It seemed she understood what was happening after all, despite the look of confusion on her face each time Matthew had tried to explain. She had indeed connected the dots between this decision and his ability to pursue his dream.

  “I like this place,” she continued. “And I like you, Mr. Charles.”

  The consultant grinned at what he apparently assumed to be a closed sale.

  “But I would like to see where I’ll be living first.”

  Living? Matthew thought. Oh no!

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Adams.” Chuck seemed eager to correct any misunderstanding. “But you do understand, don’t you, that you would not live here.”

  She looked back from the half-opened door, confused by the comment. “What do you mean?”

  “Aspen House is no longer a nursing facility. We’re a transition clinic.”

  The words didn’t sink in.

  “We discussed this already, Mom,” Matthew interjected. “I told you that the only way the money can go toward my education is if you transition. We can’t afford nursing care and tuition.”

  He saw the mind that loved music by Beethoven and enjoyed Chuck’s playful banter sink back into a fog of confusion.

  “Transition?”

  “Yes, Mom!” The volume of Matthew’s voice swelled. “Millions of people your age decide to transition instead of suffer. Freeing yourself from a decaying body in order to help others is heroic. You want to be heroic, don’t you?”

  His voice changed from that of a son honoring his mother to that of a parent tutoring his child.

  “But life is a gift.”

  “So is transitioning.” He recalled the conversation with Professor Vincent. “I already spoke to a priest about it. He said it’s not a sin. It’s self-sacrifice.”

  “Father Tomberlin said that?”

  Matthew said nothing.

  “He said it’s not a sin?”

  More silence.

  She looked into her son’s eyes.

  He willed them to look back into hers.

  She turned toward Chuck, who was hastily typing something onto the screen, then back toward Matthew.

  “Do you want me to do this?” The question he’d hoped she would never ask him.

  “I told you, Mom. This is your decision. I can’t make it for you.”

  “And you discussed it with Father Tomberlin?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s not a mortal sin?”

  Matthew looked away. “No, Mom. It’s not a sin.”

  “Look at me, Matthew.”

  He turned back.

  “You’ve always wanted to become a teacher, haven’t you?”

  A single nod.

  Her shoulders lowered ever so slightly. She removed her hand from the door handle, then walked back toward her chair. Chuck l
ifted himself slightly from his seat in courtly deference.

  Neither man breathed for several seconds.

  “Mom?”

  She lowered her head and extended her thumb in resigned approval.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Talia Mubar noticed a small spot on her husband’s sport coat and moved in for a closer look. Mustard, as she had suspected.

  “Seth Mubar!” she scolded. “When on earth did you manage to get mustard on this jacket? I just had it cleaned last week to get out the barbeque sauce stain.”

  Reverend Mubar paid no attention as she dabbed her napkin in a glass of water sitting beside her menu or when she began rubbing the spot, his eyes fixed instead on the restaurant doors as if he was expecting someone.

  “Don’t worry about the mustard,” he said. “I need to tell you something.”

  “So speak,” Talia replied as she continued scrubbing. “My ears and my hands can work at the same time. I won’t have you looking like a muddled vagrant. At least not when we’re together!”

  He pretended to resent the affectionate jab.

  “You remember our meeting with Angie Tolbert?”

  “Of course. Sweet girl.”

  “She phoned yesterday to ask for another meeting, this time with her husband.”

  “I’m glad. Do they want to discuss the baby again?” Talia guessed.

  “Yes,” he said, appearing slightly uncomfortable. “They have an important decision to make and want our input.”

  She sat back from her cleaning to inspect her work.

  “Hopeless!” she concluded. “Take it off.”

  “What?”

  “You aren’t wearing that jacket while on a date with me. I expect my man to be presentable in public.”

  Hearing date seemed to make him even more uneasy. But he obeyed, wrestling his way out of his favorite sport coat, which doubled as a bib.

  “About date night…” he began. “I have a confession.”

  “Seth Mubar!” She didn’t need to hear another word. “You invited them to meet us for dinner, didn’t you?”

  A sheepish nod.

  She looked toward the entrance. “Is that why you’ve been watching those doors like a watchman on a wall?”