Living Proof

by Kira Peikoff

  Two days later, Arianna felt excited for the first time since the crackdown. It was Friday morning, and Inspector Banks was leaving her clinic for the fourth time that week. Each morning he’d arrived, demanded to count the embryos, and then departed with a look of vague hostility. She always regarded him blankly, concentrating on the wall behind his head or the deep crease between his eyes. But this morning she bade him good-bye with a smile, as if she were seeing off a patient.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” she said, beating him to his line.

  He frowned and nodded, tucking his paperwork under his arm. “Bye, then.”

  As soon as the door closed behind him, she scooted in her wheelchair straight through the hallway to Dr. Ericson’s office. It was thrilling to arrive there so quickly, after weeks of labored effort to walk the short distance. Her wheels squeaked over the linoleum floor as she leaned forward, daring herself to lean farther, to move faster. She hardly pitied herself at all.

  A new donor’s egg-extraction surgery was scheduled for this afternoon. The woman’s supply of eggs was especially crucial: Arianna would save five of them for Sam as he had requested, in order to be prepared for—and oh, how she willed for—a breakthrough. The rest of the donor’s eggs would provide another batch of desperately needed embryos once they were mixed with donor sperm that the clinic had bought en masse from a sperm bank.

  Arianna stopped in Dr. Ericson’s doorway.

  “He’s gone,” she announced.

  “Good.” Dr. Ericson set down a chart he was studying. “We have the young woman coming in at two for her extraction.”

  “How many eggs do you think you’ll take out?”

  “I would say we have a good shot at twenty. I saw her yesterday morning, and her ovaries were highly stimulated.”

  “Perfect,” Arianna said. A typical extraction surgery yielded somewhere between fifteen and twenty eggs, and rarely varied from that range. As long as Dr. Ericson could take out twenty eggs, then Arianna could smuggle five of them to Sam, and record the extraction at the end of the day as a normal fifteen, without arousing the suspicion of the inspector, who was well aware of the typical range. Several months ago, in fact, a forty-two-year-old patient had undergone the same extraction surgery as part of the IVF process. When the woman’s aging ovaries produced only eleven eggs, the inspector who reviewed the records that month had seized on the low number, demanding a medical explanation in writing, and then had called the patient to corroborate it herself. Shortly thereafter, the DEP subjected the clinic to a random audit.

  “I’ll tell Emily to separate out the five strongest eggs for Sam,” Dr. Ericson said. “But who’s going to bring them to him, and when, since none of us can go to the lab anymore?”

  “Megan will. She’s planning to go in a few days anyway to finally bring Sam embryos again, so she’ll give him these egg cells as well. Then he’ll give her clones he made this week so she can come right back here and stock them.”

  Dr. Ericson smiled. “I haven’t seen you beam like this in days.”

  Arianna wished she could jump out of her chair and hug him, the man who was not just her colleague and accomplice, but her friend.

  “We’re finally going to get back on track,” she said. “Once those embryos are in Sam’s hands, I’ll feel so much better.”

  “Me, too. And with the eggs from today, we’ll have more embryos ready, let’s see—” He counted five fingers in the air. “—next Wednesday. So Sam will have a continual supply again. No more gap days.”

  Arianna smiled, thinking of Sam’s wry sense of humor. “It sounds like SADFACE finally found its slogan,” she mused. “No more gap days.”

  * * *

  Sam Lisio was terrible at waiting. With no embryos to research for several days, and thus, no means of productivity, he returned home after spending hours in the lab cloning replacements. The process was monotonous, constantly splitting embryos at the four-cell stage to coax out more and more clones. At last, when several hundred petri dishes of tiny embryos filled the incubator, Sam felt it was enough. That large a reserve would take months to deplete, he reasoned. Months they didn’t have anyway.

  The new clones would soon need to be frozen, but in the meantime, Sam had nothing to do. So he went to his apartment, which felt less like home and more like a temporary holding cell.

  As soon as he opened the door, he dumped his duffel bag on the floor and went straight to the kitchen, stopping in front of a particular wooden cabinet above the sink. Its bronze handle was rubbed down to a dull yellow. He grabbed it and swung open the door, feeling a familiar heady anticipation. Inside the cabinet stood deliciously full bottles of liquor: whiskey, rum, vodka, and scotch. Hesitating only briefly, he seized each bottle and emptied them, one by one, into the sink.

  He did not trust himself to be patient the right way; it was far too tempting to be alone in his apartment with nothing but pressure and worry as his constant companions. Once stripped of his only desirable means of escape, he let the hours wash over him, hoping their ebb and flow would begin to soothe him into sleep. Instead, time seemed to stagnate like a swamp, and he felt stuck in its dense muck. Fully clothed and awake on his bed, Sam pictured the blue eyes that had looked at him so tenderly in the lab. His heart began to race as the memory replayed: he pacing and talking, she sitting and listening.

  “But this technique has never been tried on humans.”

  He’d stopped pacing, and at the moment he felt his own worry and longing burst forth onto his face—their eyes met.

  In that moment, some kind of understanding had passed between them. Could she have read him, and mirrored his sentiment in a glance? Or was she simply thrusting all her hope upon the one man who could save her?

  Could he?

  To find the combination of growth factors that yielded oligos was the key, and he knew he was close. Yet so many critical hours were passing by, delivering no change except for the further deterioration of her spinal cord.

  How much would these five wasted days matter?

  It was the main question Sam obsessed over as he plodded through the time, alternately studying his notes long after he had memorized them, cursing the DEP, and thinking of her. When she unexpectedly stopped by with takeout on Saturday night, he had to hide his disproportionate joy at seeing her, and his devastation at seeing her wheelchair. He wondered if she might mention their charged glance in the lab; part of him wished she would. But she did not, and craven as he was, the topic was never broached.

  Sunday’s arrival felt like the landing of a trans-Atlantic flight: a thrilling moment, even though all he did to reach it was wait. At last the five days were over, although their damage done. But ahead lay an uninterrupted week of research, an hourglass dripping golden sand.

  When Megan arrived at the lab that morning with the black case, he hugged her as soon as she stepped into the basement.

  “That was out of character,” she joked.

  He only smiled and unloaded his precious red flasks, each one a vase cradling a rare seed of hope. One, two, three, he counted … nine altogether. A foreign feeling overcame him as he held each flask, and after a moment, he realized it was sentimentality. In the potential for life, he thought, there was so much promise for those already living.

  Megan watched him carefully place each flask into the incubator. “There are also five egg cells in a special flask that Arianna labeled for you. She told me you needed them.”

  “We better.”

  “Do you think you will?”

  Sam paused. He knew that the longer he waited to answer, the less legitimate his confidence would sound, but he couldn’t lie either. “Whether we will in time, I don’t know.”

  Megan lifted her chin slightly up and down, her nose twitching.

  Aware that she might start to cry, Sam turned away and carried the now-empty black case to the freezer. Without speaking, he loaded it with flasks of cloned embryos that awaited their final destination in the cli
nic’s freezer.

  “Are you going to have enough clones after this to account for the next batch of embryos?” Megan asked him from behind. “Arianna told me they’ll be ready in a few more days, on Wednesday.”

  Sam turned around and, seeing her composure, relaxed. “I made a few hundred clones last week, so I don’t have to waste time on that BS anymore, or worry about shortages.”

  Megan sighed. “At least you’re prepared. Arianna told me that same inspector showed up every day last week.”

  “I know. And the bastard will probably show up every day this week. If he could, I bet he would rent out one of her examining rooms and sleep there.”

  Megan rolled her eyes and reached out for the filled case Sam handed back to her. “I wouldn’t speak too soon.”

  * * *

  Sunday night, Trent reluctantly found himself on a train to Long Island at the behest of his mother to come home for a family dinner with a couple of special guests—none other than Dopp and Joanie. Trent could often count on his mother to interfere somehow—with only the best of intentions, of course—but this was beyond his expectations. And the worst part was that he could only smile and thank her, for she really did think she was doing him a favor.

  “I know you’ve been struggling at work lately,” she had told him over the phone, “and I’ve been wondering how to help. And then it hit me—of course! We could have your boss over for dinner!”

  Trent had to hold back a groan. “Mom, you really don’t have to—”

  “Oh, please, he told us himself on Christmas that he wanted to get together, remember? I’ve already called to invite him.”

  As uncomfortable as the evening promised to be, Trent thought now that maybe his mother really would be helping. Spending an evening with Dopp outside of work would give him a chance to showcase his loyalty to the department and his solidarity with its mission. Be who I was, Trent told himself. Dutiful son, noble employee, and a guy who wondered why the hell any of it mattered.

  His mother opened the door with a smile and greeted him warmly, telling him with one look that their guests were already seated inside.

  “What’s wrong?” She pulled back and stared at him.

  “Nothing, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded breezily. Was his unease that obvious?

  She put an arm around his waist and led him toward the dining room. “Greet them first, and then come help me serve.”

  As they turned the corner, a long mahogany table came into view along with a man’s familiar profile, with its prominent nose and long chin—a man who turned to face Trent as soon as he stepped into the room. Next to him was his very pregnant wife, and across from them sat his father. All three smiled.

  Trent forced a wide grin and gave a little wave. “Hey, Dad. Hi, boss. Funny seeing you here.”

  Dopp smiled good-naturedly. “Who were you expecting?”

  Trent shrugged, not feeling up to witty banter. “Glad you both could join us.”

  “Our pleasure,” Dopp said, putting an arm around Joanie.

  “We’ll be right back with dinner,” said his mother. She pinched Trent’s waist and they turned around, heading for the kitchen. “Isn’t this perfect,” she whispered. “Just what you need.”

  “Yeah.”

  In the kitchen, she handed him a platter with pot roast and a bowl of salad from the fridge.

  “But, Mom,” he said, “don’t you think he realizes you’re just sucking up on my behalf?”

  She cocked her head. “Honey, that’s how the world works. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “You don’t think it’s too phony?” Not that he cared, but he couldn’t help asking.

  “You have to play the game to get ahead. Act like there’s nothing you care about more than your job.”

  They walked back to the dining room single file, arms loaded with food.

  “Trent,” his father said as soon as they entered, “I was just telling them about all the cover stories you did for Newsday on Saint Mary’s. How many was it again?”

  Trent cringed at the name, once synonymous with disgust. Saint Mary’s was the church near their home they had often attended during his childhood that had later been revealed to harbor lecherous priests and financial fraud. Trent had covered every ugly ripple to come out of the church: a wonder for his journalistic visibility, but not so much for his psyche.

  “Seventeen, Dad.”

  His father’s eyes widened. “That’s right. Over just a few months, wasn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  Joanie looked impressed, while Dopp gazed thoughtfully at Trent. “I remember when all that happened. What a nightmare that was.”

  Trent nodded. “It was a tough time.”

  “But,” his mother pointed out, as she sat down next to him, “it did get you nominated for the Pulitzer.”

  “One of the reasons I hired you,” Dopp said. “You can’t turn down that kind of talent.”

  “Thanks,” Trent said, forcing a gracious smile as he smoothed his napkin over his lap.

  His mother said a quick grace and announced, “Bon appétit.”

  “Speaking of church,” his father said dryly, “how was everyone’s sermons this morning?”

  Oh yeah, Trent thought. Sunday—and the rest of his world was the same.

  Joanie nodded. “Fantastic. Our priest is really passionate about family values, so he’s been talking a lot lately about that.”

  “Of course, we just eat it up,” Dopp said with a smile. He turned to Trent. “What did your priest talk about? I always wonder what goes on at city churches.”

  The pasta in Trent’s mouth seemed to wrap around his tongue. He held up a finger as he chewed, then swallowed. “Faith, mainly. The importance of faith, no matter what.”

  Trent heard the words and felt his lips moving as his face grew hot; the guilt was an equal and opposite reaction to his lie. But wait, he thought. What was there to feel guilty about? He had committed no sin; no angry God was going to strike him down. Yet his looking-over-one-shoulder reflex had not entirely ceased, as if he were a recovering addict grappling with relapses. With no drug to encourage his hopes and placate his fears, the world—however free of guilt—seemed much more dangerous, and more lonely.

  He looked around the table at his mother and father, at Dopp and Joanie, the people who had not long ago constituted his network of ideals and support. Now what were they? His parents, talking so earnestly about the faith discussion he had begun—they were still good people, he reasoned. People who simply wanted the best for him, in their own misguided way. There was no evil in that.

  And Dopp: he was stroking Joanie’s hair as he leaned over the table, speaking about the issues facing modern-day priests. How recently Trent had watched him the way his parents were now, with rapt respect. Dopp’s voice was mesmerizing—commanding in volume but subtle in inflection, the mark of a true ex-priest. As Trent studied the man he had once considered his mentor, he was surprised to feel the tiniest bit nostalgic. Dopp was a man of passion and conviction, a man who inspired action, whose judgment was keen and his lifework important to him.

  From Trent’s seat at the head of the table, he glanced over at his father, who sat with his chin on his fist, a humble listener, mustering only enough interest to follow, never to challenge or to lead.

  Suddenly Trent realized he was grateful to Dopp. If it were not for him sparking the motivation, Trent never would have done his job well enough to uncover the suspicion in Arianna’s numbers, which had led him to her.…

  “… is why our current case depends on it.” Dopp turned to him, rubbing the rim of his water glass. “Don’t you think, Trent?”

  He wasted no time. “Absolutely.”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” his mother cut in, “but to us on the outside, the crackdown seemed very sudden. We should have known it was part of the plan.”

  She smiled at Trent, and only he understood the craft
iness in her eyes: she had noticed his mind wandering and found a way to catch him up. He smiled back, grateful for reasons she would never know.

  “It was a policy trick up our sleeve,” Trent said.

  “Though it has yet to really pay off,” Dopp said, looking at him.

  “It will. I’m doing whatever it takes to make sure of it.”

  “I’m sick of hearing about that woman,” Joanie said. “By the time this baby comes, I hope I never hear her name again, unless it’s in reference to a court date.”

  Dopp chuckled. “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

  Wry smiles flickered around the table, hyenas united over their prey, Trent thought. Any trace of nostalgia and goodwill vanished. He wanted nothing more than to be sitting on the train heading back to Manhattan, to her. How much longer would he have to keep up this farce?

  “So who wants dessert?” his father asked.

  Everyone nodded, even his mother, who never ate sweets. “There’s a fresh apple pie in the oven,” she said.

  “I’ll go get it,” Trent replied, jumping out of his chair.

  “Thanks, sweetie. It’s so good to have you home.”

  He smiled as he turned away. Never had he felt more alone.

  * * *

  When he walked into his building’s lobby a few hours later, he was startled to find a young woman crying, hunched over on the bench near the elevators. Trent recognized her as a neighbor with whom he often exchanged pleasantries. No one else was around to help, so he approached her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need something?”

  She looked up at him with reddened eyes, her shoulders heaving. “Oh God, I’m in such a mess. There’s nothing you could do.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  She wiped her hand across her face. “Well, I’m pregnant, which is the good news. Three months along. But my caseworker found out that I drank on New Year’s, one glass of champagne, and now I have to pay a one-thousand-dollar fine.”

  “Jesus,” Trent muttered. “Just for one glass?”

  “I’m dreading telling my husband. We were saving up for a vacation.…” She broke into sobs again. “We haven’t gone on vacation for two years.”