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 glad she had.
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 woman'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 subcognitive 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 from 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.
With Everett, by contrast, the awareness was nearly always there. She felt tentative. Incomplete. Duplicitous even. There was a subtle tension in the air.
At a certain point they talked about it. He had noticed the tension, too. He'd chalked it up to the treatment and hadn't wanted to pressure her by speaking out of turn. Hadn't wanted to make her self-conscious. Figured she'd say something when she was ready, like now.
It felt good to air things out, though she didn't know 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 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 regained, 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. It's not there. It's not happening. I've been with my friends who have babies. I've looked at 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 occurs to me. 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 recommence, that the instinct would be reignited 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 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, Everett." 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 and overcome.
"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.
It was this latter story he used for his newest prospective client, a young woman in for her first interview. He wanted no misunderstanding about what she might face.
When he was done, she was silent.
He waited.
"How awful," she said at length.
"Yes. Heartbreaking. But like you, they were young. They remarried. The woman to a man more suitable to her. The man to a woman who more closely met his desires and needs."
"So it worked out. It ended up okay."
This wasn't a statement of fact (which she couldn't have known) but an appeal. She was asking for reassurance, and he considered carefully before responding. He asked himself what would help her most. What was most important that she hear. That all these many years later he was still haunted by what had happened? That to this day he wondered if he'd done the right thing? Or that the woman in question was alive and well? And the man in question, who loved her with a love you could feel across the room, was now the father he wanted to be?
"They are not you," he said, "and you are not them. You must make your own decision. But in answer to your question, I'd have to say yes, it did work out. Not as they expected, and possibly not as you'll expect, but in its own way."
He paused, thinking perhaps this fell short, wondering what more to say. He thought briefly about himself and his own uncertainties. The future was no double helix. One could mourn or be grateful for that. This, too, was a choice.
* * *
Greed
By Albert E. Cowdrey | 7485 words
American towns often have a lot of character to them. Robert Reed's story in this issue showed us German Bluff and some of its denizens. Now Albert Cowdrey treats us to a tale of Bonaparte, Mississippi, and what happened when a shady character came to town....
THE DAY WAS SUPPOSED TO be routine. Vern had fed the creature last night, so that chore was out of the way for another week. He rose late and took his usual run up Cemetery Road, along the bluff to the yellow sign saying DANGER and back again to the Castle.
He showered, received his breakfast tray from Mrs. Lemieux, settled into Uncle Ish's comfortable executive desk chair in the study, and ate with one eye on a big plasma TV where Godzilla was destroying Tokyo yet again. Someday he'd have to buy some recent movies.
He'd just finished his Cajun omelet with extra Tabasco and downed half a cup of coffee when the phone bleated. Caller ID said U
navailable, so he ignored it until a voice from his past commanded, "Vern, answer the damn phone. It's Mojo."
He spilled his coffee. " Mojo? Where the hell you calling from?"
"Noplace. It's where I live today. Look, can we talk?"
"Funny, you don't sound like Joan Rivers."
"Ha, ha. I'm desperate. I mean, can we talk face to face?"
"I live in Bonaparte, Mississippi."
"I know, I got your address off the Internet. I can be there in four hours max. How do I find you?"
"Call me when you arrive, okay?"
Vern flicked off the movie, spent a while in laborious thought—his thinking was always labor-intensive—then called his lawyer in New Orleans.
"Vernon Helms, Ben. I need to consult you as my legal advisor."
"Right. Attorney-client privilege. Gotcha."
"I've been contacted by somebody claiming to be a fugitive from justice. We were frat brothers in college. The voice sounded right and he used a nickname very few people would know outside Delta Upsilon Delta."
"The fugitive wouldn't be Joe Hoxie, absconding financier, would he?"
"How'd you guess?"
"Well, a story about him in the Picayune mentioned that he went to Tulane. I know you played football for that bunch of losers [Ben went to LSU] and you're the same age. So whatchoo wanna know?"
"If he shows up here, what should I do?"
"Turn his butt in. I say this as your legal advisor and an officer of the court."
"Yeah, right. Suppose I drive down next week and we do lunch? I may have more questions."
"You mean after getting my legal advice, you want my illegal advice, only not over the phone. Anytime, Vern."
Thereafter habit resumed its sway. Except at feeding time, one day was much like another in Bonaparte.
Half a dozen visitors turned up to view the Castle, and Vern showed them through the public rooms on the first and second floors. Tourists always liked him—big, meaty, with a shy smile and honest brown eyes, he looked like a good-natured bear. (Most had never seen him grab an opponent's facemask in a football game and try to tear his head off.) The tourists had just left when Petey Potts, Bonaparte's answer to the Geek Squad, arrived and began to delete the last 3,000 unwanted apps an Internet service provider had gratuitously jammed into the Castle's computer. Afterward Vern wrote him a check.
Fantasy & Science Fiction, Extended Edition Page 7