by J D Lasica
“Miss Ramirez, welcome to our humble retreat.” She turned to face a serious-looking man with dark-complexioned skin, mid-forties or so, wearing an expensive designer suit that looked out of place. “I’m Sterling Waterhouse.”
She smiled and extended her hand. “Thank you for the invitation. It’s an honor to meet you.” He took her hand in his, then placed his free hand on top of theirs and let it linger there a bit too long. She finally had to pull her hand free.
She’d spent months of research to make sure Birthrights Unlimited was on the up and up. This little adventure wasn’t her first choice. She had been on several adoption agencies’ lists for more than two years with nothing to show for it. When she was being honest with herself, she knew she would never, ever be approved for an adoption. Not as a single working woman. And especially not as someone who had once lost a child, even if it wasn’t her fault. She imagined the notation scrawled across every one of her adoption applications: Denied—too great a risk!
While adoption was a non-starter, she still wanted to be a mom, and a few months ago an intriguing new possibility revealed itself. Her friend Caroline, ever the power connector, had heard through the grapevine that there was a place in Texas where they were taking childbirth to a whole new level with some kind of new high-tech method. Caroline scored a private invitation for her to apply. After a lot of soul-searching, she decided to set aside the lion’s share of her lottery winnings to cover the costs of the procedure.
Valerie breezed through the screening process, made the down payment in the required crypto-currency and, forests of paperwork later, now stood face to face with the man who might change the course of her life.
“I have so many questions for you,” Valerie said, angling her body so she could look at Waterhouse sideways instead of dead on. Her amblyopia—or “lazy eye,” as the kids on the playground used to taunt her—had gotten much better over the years, but after all this time, she still felt ill at ease in social settings.
“And I have the answers,” Waterhouse said in his silky baritone. But instead of continuing the conversation, he backed away. “All in due time.”
He stepped to the center of the room and raised his voice. “Honored guests! A moment of your time. Enjoy the good company, the local cuisine, and take advantage of your concierges, who are familiar with all of our packages. Tomorrow morning you’ll have a choice of a nature walk, kayaking, snorkeling, or windsurfing. But first, just settle in. I’ll return at five for a special presentation in the Vitality Lounge. ”
And with that, he wheeled and headed out the side exit, followed by three assistants.
The afternoon washed over her like a flash flood, quick and leaving her a bit dazed. She spent it in one-on-one conversations with Lance Harrison, listening to expert panels, and taking part in interesting group discussions. The backstory and mission of Birthrights Unlimited began to emerge, and Valerie was becoming more convinced that coming here was the right choice.
She was still skittish about biotech, but she found the breakout sessions fascinating. The researchers put on a multimedia presentation that showed the considerable progress the field had made in recent years. The government-funded Human Genome Project completed the first DNA sequencing of a person’s genome in 2003, years faster than predicted. But that was just a baby step. Just because you knew the order of the letters in a book that stretched out for six billion letters, it didn’t mean much until you knew what those letters did .
For instance, a single “misspelling” or “typo” in a gene could mean your son would be born with cystic fibrosis, Huntington’s, hemophilia, or Tay-Sachs. Or your daughter could have a twenty times greater chance of getting breast cancer. All the early work in the field was devoted to identifying and treating genetic diseases, starting with unspooling those three billion nucleotide base pairs in everyone’s genome. Where exactly was the cystic fibrosis typo located—on which gene in which chromosome?
That was what everyone was doing until Sterling Waterhouse and Henry Lee came along.
They founded Birthrights Unlimited with the single-minded idea of identifying not only genetic defects but desirable traits, too. While U.S. scientists had shackled themselves—that was the word the speakers used, “shackled”—with a self-imposed moratorium against exploring genetic enhancement, Birthrights Unlimited decided to blaze a different trail, all of it in full compliance with the law.
The company took what other researchers had discovered and shared and then added their own proprietary findings. Birthrights built its brand by empowering parents to “optimize” their child at the one-cell embryo stage with “enriched genes.” Parents could now reduce their children’s genetic predisposition to alcoholism or asthma or being overweight or having a severe case of acne or a hundred other areas where life can throw you a curveball. They didn’t have all the answers—they were upfront about that—but they did have thousands of the puzzle pieces firmly in place.
Before Birthrights Unlimited came along, a couple that wanted to do in vitro fertilization was limited to screening perhaps two dozen pre-embryos and picking one or two that were free of major genetic defects before they could be implanted in the mother’s womb. But now it was possible to do much more. Now you could provide your baby with “positive genetic influences.”
Who wouldn’t want that?
The emergence of CRISPR proved to be the game-changer. The breakthrough gene-editing technology made it super-easy for scientists to swap out little pieces of the human genome faster and cheaper than ever before—and to do it with pinpoint precision. A few years later, with CRISPR frenzy at its peak, Sterling Waterhouse and Henry Lee founded their small startup. And now Birthrights Unlimited had grown to become the only company taking full advantage of the promise of gene editing.
Well, Valerie thought, that was a lot to memorize!
Because handwritten notes were verboten during the retreat, Valerie had to commit it all to memory. She felt overwhelmed. As one speaker said, other advancements that once seemed like science fiction—test-tube babies, self-driving cars, space travel, DNA forensics—were today not only commonplace but passé. Now reproductive biotech was taking the stage, no longer a far-off fantasy but a here-and-now fait accompli. She could now see why a lot of this was being done on the down-low.
She was getting more comfortable with the idea, now that she understood the science better. She still had misgivings—she found it all a little bit spooky. But she’d put down a sizable nonrefundable deposit and hadn’t heard anything to give her pause. She was leaning toward yes, if she could summon up the nerve. She’d need to do more research if she was going to go through with this.
She picked up her tablet again, swiping through the slick digital brochure titled the Nature & Nurture Collection. Each guest was handed a tablet showing off the traits—a specific eye color, hair color, skin color, height range—that you could request for your child, with the probabilities of your baby inheriting the traits you requested (ninety-six percent for eye color, eighty-four percent for height within a couple of inches). On the tablet you could enter and save the traits you found desirable and voila ! BYOB—Build Your Own Baby. It was addictive, like an old game of “Bejeweled.” So far she had three Child Mods saved.
I have a feeling I won’t need any of them, though. If I’m gonna do this, I know exactly what I want.
Valerie stepped outside and climbed the staircase to the hardwood sun deck. Harrison, always hovering nearby throughout the day to answer questions, trailed her up the steps. A cool sea breeze scented with pine wafted in off the bay, fresh and invigorating. Seabirds danced in the sky and dragonflies flitted nearby. And then there was that quirky-looking metallic-green hummingbird, which kept zigzagging twenty feet above the sun deck.
“What is that thing? A hummingbird?” She found it curious that it never left her line of sight.
Harrison squinted at it. “Actually, no. It’s a small surveillance drone, part of our security protoco
l. If the monitoring agency spots someone who’s not on the guest list, an alert goes out to the security team. It’s to safeguard guests’ privacy. All it takes is one intruder and the next thing you know everybody’s name is on Wikileaks.”
“Hmm. Okay, I guess. Listen, can you help me out here?” She set her handbag and tablet on the sun deck’s railing.
“Sure thing.” He sipped a rum drink through a straw from the hollowed-out pineapple he held in one hand.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the treetops, and the tablet went into Sun Mode, making it easy to read in the sunlight. “I’m about done with the survey.” She had answered all the questions about her medical history, her personality traits, the kinds of characteristics she’d like to see in her ideal child. She swiped through a half-dozen screens. At the bottom of each page were the words YOUR DISCRETION IS REQUIRED; if you tapped the link, it went to the Confidentiality Agreement that she had signed.
There were only a couple of choices left in the survey.
“You a father?” Valerie asked.
Harrison smiled. “Yes. Two little girls. They’re my life.” And then his eyes darted away, as if recalling what he’d read in her bio.
“That’s nice.”
They walked to the edge of the sun deck and looked out over the panorama of sea, sky, and green rolling hills. Across the small bay, kite-surfers and stand-up paddle-boarders kissed the water’s surface while jet-skiers made darting, sweeping U-turns, trying to outdo each other.
“Honestly, I want just one thing.” Her eyes scanned the reaches of the cobalt sea. “To rewind the clock and take me back to that day when everything changed. I know it’s impossible, but that’s what I want. A do-over.”
And then she told him. About her three-year-old toddler, Jordan—gorgeous, care-free, with unruly wisps of dark curls, wearing only a white plastic diaper—playing in the back yard of their rental unit. About her young husband, going inside on the hot summer day to grab a beer and getting a phone call from one of his buddies. About her quick trip to the farmer’s market, where she came back loaded down with tomatoes, nectarines, berries—and noticed right away that Jordan wasn’t in the apartment.
He’s in the back , her husband said.
Alone? she said as a small panic rose in her chest.
They flew out the back door and found Jordan face down in four inches of water in the small blue inflatable splish-and-splash pool. Not moving.
Through the anguish, they tried CPR and chest compressions. They called 911. They tried everything, but it was too late. Jordan was gone.
Four inches! she kept repeating in a daze to the paramedics as they took her only boy away. Just four inches of water! How can this happen?
Looking back, she knew her marriage ended that day. Since then, she replayed the scene in her head every single day. Those few terrible minutes were burned into her retinas, playing over and over in the blackness of a thousand sleepless nights.
If life was at all fair, she should be recovered now, nearly a decade later. She was in her late thirties. Loved her job. Dating a terrific guy. Bank account flush with this crazy-lucky influx of money.
But none of it mattered. She was still haunted.
She told him all of this and closed her eyes. “I’ve already discussed the idea with my amazing boyfriend, and he’s on board. I’m still processing everything I heard today. It all sounds good. Still, there’s a leap of faith involved. Right?”
Harrison surveyed the lush landscape before answering. “No guarantees. There’s a leap of faith with anything worthwhile. Do whatever your heart tells you to do.”
She nodded. “Pretty wise life advice. ”
“Hey, what do I know? I’m just a glorified data jockey.”
She scanned the horizon beyond the lagoon. Just two final decisions she would have to make before giving the green light.
Whether to try to get pregnant herself or use a surrogate.
And whether to start from scratch. Or create another Jordan.
5
Brooklyn, New York, August 10
K aden walked into the makeshift office space at B Collective feeling dazed and lost. Did that just happen? Did my adoptive parents perpetrate this massive betrayal and just show up looking to clear their consciences or something?
Oh, Kaden, by the way, we were lying to you your entire life. We were just paid actors, forced to put you through a harsh childhood that made you despise us. Sorry, it wasn’t our fault.
Okay, whose fault was it?
She sank down at her workspace in the dingy converted warehouse the team had retrofitted with state-of-the-art hybrid fiber-optic cable. Sayeed, the leader of the collective, was at his stand-up station, evaluating different project opportunities. Annika and Colin were at their tables, hunched over glowing screens. Nico came in a minute after her, looking fresh and showered.
She set aside her anger to focus on the million questions she had. But where to start?
She slid the small light-blue envelope out of her jeans, addressed in big cursive handwriting to “Sweet Kaden.” She’d read the letter hurriedly in the park, and she read it again, the ink faded but legible:
My dear sweet Kaden,
I wish you were old enough to understand these words so I could say them in person. (I thought of doing a video but who knows what formats will be around in 10-15 years?)
I’m looking at you now, playing on the family room floor in front of me, an incredibly adorable 3-year-old, a little bundle of energy and juggernaut of possibilities, and you’re already your own person! Okay, message received, no more Barbie dolls for you, only dinosaurs and rocket ships and your favorite, the power wheels truck!
I know this note comes as a surprise, and you’ll be reading it a long time from now when you’re hopefully old enough to understand.
The reason I have to write this is that I’ll be gone soon. You’ll have new caregivers coming into your life and they can explain what happened when you’re a little older. Sometimes you just have to accept the hand the gods dealt you, my little one.
Always live your life to the fullest with no regrets. I hope you’ll connect with others and not shut yourself off from the awesomeness of life. Be one with the world—not apart from it.
Be fearless and free!!
Remember me in your dreams, sweet Kaden. Goodbye.
Love always,
Mom
xoxox o
Kaden’s eyes welled up for the first time in ages. This was such a bolt out of the blue. She sat there and felt her body go limp. She closed her eyes. It reminded her of the time she was suspended in a sensory deprivation tank, floating for hours in silent darkness.
She fished out the small thumb drive that Alison “Not My Real Mother” Baker had slipped her. She inserted it into her terminal and tapped the only file, a jpeg.
A photo popped up, and she caught her breath. It was a shot of her real mother, smiling and looking radiant, so alive and vibrant and happy, holding a baby swaddled in a bunny blanket. Kaden had no photos of herself as an infant, and Alison had always skirted her questions about that. But now she had this one. She copied the photo to her drive in the cloud and set the image as the wallpaper on her Mac.
She removed the thumb drive from her computer and unfastened the clasp of the gold-plated necklace she always wore beneath her T-shirts. She slipped one end of the necklace through the thumb drive ring and fastened the necklace around her neck, creating a sort of high-tech USB locket.
She breathed deeply to steady herself. In the past hour, everything she thought she knew about her damaged self was thrown up into the air. Where she came from. What kind of life she might have had. The paths someone had chosen for her.
Her entire identity.
Contact was a part of this, too—why was he refusing to answer her texts? What did her adoptive father mean that they were hired to play a role? Who hired them and why? How much of her upbringing was real or staged? What was her real mo
ther’s name—and how did she die? Should she bring Nico into this?
So many questions. If she just sat there, she would have a thousand more.
Time to get some answers.
6
Nesper Island, Caribbean, August 10
V alerie nodded at the young African American assistant across the deck who tinkled her little metal triangle and called out, “Please gather in the Vitality Lounge.”
Lance Harrison sipped from his pineapple and placed it on the table. “Time for the big show.”
They descended the sun deck staircase, entered the Reception Room, and followed the crowd down the corridor to the lounge. An elevated makeshift stage was set up against the far wall. Guests settled into the tropical-themed sofas and lounge chairs.
Sterling Waterhouse bounded onto the stage and boomed out, “Thank you all for coming.” He aimed a remote control and a large digital screen hummed down from the ceiling.
The lights dimmed and a video began showing soft, idyllic, slow-motion scenes of childhood innocence. A park setting, picnic tables with teddy bears on the seats, parents cheering on their kids. Then, a woman’s voiceover: “We can’t protect our children from all of life’s challenges.” Images of children in a three- legged sack race falling down and trying to get back up, squealing with giggles.
“But now there’s a way to foster your child’s innate abilities.” Cutaways of grammar school, tweens in a school play, teens taking the SATs, college kids at their graduation ceremony. “Shouldn’t your son or daughter receive every possible advantage?” Freeze frame of college mortarboards flung high into the air, swirling into a double helix, then cross-dissolving into the Birthrights Tower. “Nurture your child from day one.” Fade to black.
The screen lifted up and disappeared into the ceiling. Some polite applause from the guests.