Mother Knows Best Page 2

  But after today, I know this much: nothing will ever be the same.

  ABBY

  ONE MONTH LATER

  My mom has been acting super weird lately. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s always been weird. She stays in the house most of the time, except for school drop-off and pickup, and she doesn’t come to stuff that all the other moms go to, like bake sales and soccer games. It sucks when people ask where she is. I usually pretend she’s sick or out of town. This year, I started telling everyone she has a rare disease that makes her allergic to sunlight. But I know the other kids don’t believe me. They still talk behind my back, especially this one mean girl named Sydney. According to my best friend Riley, they have all these theories, like that she’s a witch or a secret agent. I wish it was something that exciting.

  The truth is kind of embarrassing: she has serious anxiety issues. My dad told me it’s called agoraphobia, and it’s extremely hard to cure. I don’t get what’s so scary about going outside. I hate when she misses my games, even though she makes us go all the way into the city once a year for Colton’s birthday. The one exception is for him. Never for me. But this year was such a bust that I don’t know if we will ever go to the city again. Ever since that day of her meltdown, she’s been acting even weirder than usual.

  Before, she kept busy around the house while I was at school and Dad was at work. She would go swimming in our pool, and garden in our backyard, which is this big meadow surrounded by trees. Our veggie patch has kale, zucchini, red peppers, snap peas, cucumbers, and cherry tomatoes. Every day after school, we would go out to pick stuff for salads. Then, while I did my homework at the kitchen counter, she made dinner—lasagna or tacos or coconut chicken soup. When Dad was finished with his work, we would all eat together. Life at home was pretty normal, except for her not going anywhere.

  But since that day at the museum, she’s been acting different. We’ve started eating frozen dinners or ordering in because she doesn’t feel like cooking. The flowers are wilting and the vegetable garden is drying up. When she picks me up from school, her hair is all frizzy and she’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, with the hood up. Even though it’s May and the weather is perfect, her pretty dresses are stuck in her closet.

  I keep asking if she’s okay, and she always tells me she is fine, just tired, or that she’s coming down with something. She’s been staying in bed a lot, and it freaks me out. I don’t know what’s wrong, but it feels bigger than a cold.

  Tonight, after we all take our seats around our dining room table, I try to pretend everything is normal. Our pizza has just been delivered, and I help myself to a slice of pepperoni while talking about the sleepover Riley invited me to this weekend.

  “We’re going to watch an R-rated movie,” I announce proudly. “The scary one with the clown.”

  I wait for them to flip, but instead, they barely seem to hear me.

  Mom is sticking her fork into a garden salad made of white iceberg lettuce, which she never eats because it has “no nutritional value.” Dad is silently watching her.

  “The clown that eats kids,” I add. “When Riley’s brother saw it, he slept on their parents’ floor for a week.”

  Dad sighs. “Abs, you know you’re not allowed to watch that stuff.”

  “But Riley is!” I shove my pizza in my mouth, and the hot cheesy oil drips down my chin. “Her parents are cool.”

  “Well, you’re stuck with us squares.” He hands me a napkin.

  I wipe my lips. “Squares?”

  “Old-people slang for nerds.”

  I give him a sassy smile. “Only squares say square.”

  “Touché.”

  Dad and I often tease each other, and Mom is our audience. But tonight, she’s staring down at her plate as she eats the yucky lettuce. It’s no use asking if she’s okay. Her answer is always the same.

  Dad clears his throat. He catches my eye, and we trade a glance that she doesn’t see. The way his lips press together, it seems like an apology.

  “I have an idea,” he says. “Let’s each share one good thing about our day. Honey,” he says to her, “do you want to go first?”

  Her face is pale. “Well, I got to take a nice nap earlier.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh, just stuff around the house.” She shrugs as though we can’t see right through her. “The usual.”

  “Right.”

  She touches her neck. “I might be getting a sore throat.”

  I can’t help rolling my eyes, but she doesn’t notice. It’s like she doesn’t even see me. I put my elbow on the table and reach across her to grab another slice out of the cardboard box. She doesn’t bother to scold my bad manners.

  “My turn,” I say.

  Dad gives me his attention. “Let’s hear it.”

  “We got a cool new art teacher.” Mom and I love arts and crafts projects, so I expect this to interest her.

  “That’s nice,” she says, looking both at me and through me. It gives me the creeps.

  “What are you working on?” Dad asks.

  “She’s going to show us how to make mandalas.” I turn to Mom hopefully. “I could bring one home for us to do together.”

  I see the twitch in the corner of her mouth—the effort to show delight. “Sure.”

  “I remember making those once,” Dad says quickly. “My dad showed me how.”

  His dad is long gone, same as my other three grandparents. I’m sad I never got to meet any of them. The Burke family line ends with me. Sometimes I get jealous of the other kids who go visit their relatives over summer break and play with their cousins. Riley thinks it’s strange that I have no family besides my parents. I guess it is. I don’t know anyone else with such a small family. More than anything else, I wish I had a brother or sister, but Mom won’t have another kid no matter how much I beg her.

  I squint at her. “Why did you become such a freaking zombie?”

  “Abigail!” Dad snaps his fingers. “That’s not how you speak to your mother!”

  I expect her to come down on me too, but she sighs like she can’t be bothered, which pisses me off more.

  “What is wrong with you?” I demand. “Are you, like, dead inside?”

  Dad jumps to his feet, pointing at the stairs. “Go to your room right now.”

  I bite off a huge mouthful of pizza. “I’m not done.”

  “You certainly are.” He comes around the table and yanks my chair out.

  “But I’m the only one being honest!” I glare at her. “Ever since that day in the city, you’ve been different and I’m sick of it.”

  She sighs again. “I already told you, I get panic attacks around Colton’s birthday. It’s a hard time of year.”

  “But it’s been almost a month!”

  “Enough.” Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the stairs. “Go to your room.”

  “Wait,” she calls. We both turn around.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know I haven’t been myself.” Her eyes glaze over and I feel my heart squeeze. I want to run and hug her, but I don’t. She usually gets sad for a few days or a week around Colton’s birthday. Not for this long. She also gets spooked at the littlest things these days—a dog barking, me opening her door. I feel like there’s something bigger going on, something she won’t admit.

  I know what’s bothering me and I can’t let it go.

  “What about your cousin?” I ask. “Was she there that day or not?”

  Her whole face darkens. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have any cousins.”

  “But—”

  “No buts!” Dad interrupts. “You were chatted up by a sicko. A stranger. This is exactly why you’re not allowed on social media!”

  “There’s no one your family lost touch with?” I ask, ignoring him.

  “No!” she shouts. “I’m not going to answer this again.”

  “Fine, jeez.” I’m never going to get anywhere, so I stomp up the s
tairs and slam my door. I’ve given her enough chances, and she shuts me down every time.

  When my parents canceled my profile on the MapMyDNA site, they made it impossible for me to contact the mysterious woman who shares my genes. But I still remember our messages because I took a screenshot of the whole conversation and emailed it to Riley with the headline OMG get this.…

  A few weeks before the museum, a random chat bubble popped up from someone whose screen name was JH0502: Hi, you showed up as a close relative. Want to connect?

  I accepted out of curiosity, and we exchanged DNA maps so we could see how we were related. The site said we shared thirty-seven genes and that we were connected through our “maternal haplogroups” or something like that. We talked in the chat window for a bit. She told me she was a distant cousin of my mom who fell out of touch, and she asked if I had a brother. I explained about Colton and told her we were driving to the city from Garrison to honor his upcoming birthday. When she said she lived in NYC, I invited her to meet up with us. We agreed it would be fun to make it a surprise family reunion.

  But then my mom’s panic attack ruined the whole thing, and we never got to meet her, and now I can’t even message her anymore.

  I sit at my desk, thinking of the one line of our conversation that still bothers me:

  Do you by any chance have a brother?

  If mom doesn’t have a long-lost cousin, how could the stranger have known?

  My heart is racing as I open my laptop.

  I know my mother is lying. And I’m not going to let her get away with it.

  CLAIRE: BEFORE

  TEN MONTHS TO GO

  One pink line. That’s all there ever is.

  This time, this test stick, will be number twelve. I know because Ethan and I started trying again exactly one year ago, back when we skipped a Yankees game to stay in bed all day.

  At least, he believes we’re trying. I don’t have the heart to tell him no, there is no way in hell I will test fate again. But he is far beyond willing. He’s desperate.

  Please, he begged me. We deserve another chance.

  It was his brutal mix of pain and desire, fueled by the fantasy of what had never been, that made me give in. In a moment of weakness, I nodded. That simple concession, I’ve come to realize, was crueler than a slap in the face. Now, every month, I find myself caught in the same charade, wasting money on pregnancy tests, feigning hope and disappointment.

  I hear him pacing outside the bathroom while I sit on the toilet, my underwear circling my ankles, the latest test in hand. He might be in suspense, but I already know the answer.

  I proceed with the monthly ritual anyway: Unwrap the pink plastic to insert a fresh tip into the test stick. Hover awkwardly over the miniature cup. Perform the delicate task of peeing into it without spraying my hand—by now, I’m an expert.

  Then I insert the stick into the pee and wait. The three-minute countdown begins.

  I wish his anxious footsteps outside the door still charmed me. When we were first married, I used to think his earnestness to have a child was flattering. Most of my friends in those days were dragging their feet on kids, though my greatest dream had always been motherhood. I considered myself lucky to find an older man who was ready for the real deal. When we met, he was an esteemed forty-year-old professor of public health and bioethics, already the director of his department at Columbia University, and I a bright-eyed twenty-five-year-old journalism grad student who literally bumped into him in the 116th Street subway station.

  Fast-forward to the birth of our son, who came out jaundiced and shuddering, with a wail to rival the bleakest human suffering. And then came Colton’s eight-year struggle with mitochondrial disease, against which he never really stood a chance, thanks to his defective genes.

  My defective genes. Too late, I learned that the crucial energy-producing parts of my DNA carry a code for faulty wiring. My own invisible flaw became my immutable legacy, magnified and unfixable in every one of his cells.

  Now, three years after his death, Ethan craves another child. A second chance. As if my screwed-up genes might respect the agony of the past and erase their faults this time around. To me, the facts are grim: a future child of mine will definitely inherit my abnormal mitochondria. This variety of DNA is always passed from mother to child, virtually unchanged.

  But Ethan, stubborn optimist that he is, remains hopeful, because the child’s clinical picture could range from asymptomatic—like me—to severe, like Colton, or anywhere in between. My own grandmother was healthy, but my mother suffered bouts of mysterious muscle weakness and breathing difficulties until her death from pneumonia at age forty-eight, when I was only a sophomore in high school. The effect of the damaged mitochondria is random and impossible to predict.

  It’s worth a try, Ethan urged me. You could always get prenatal testing, and if it’s bad …

  But I can’t bear to set myself up for another loss.

  Nor can I stand to crush his hopes of being a father again. He was such a good dad, affectionate and playful, never showing Colton the fear that consumed us as his illness progressed. After his death, I wasn’t sure I would survive. Even now, my mind flees from the black hole of those memories. Too much darkness remains. Things I would never admit to my closest friends.

  But Ethan kept my secrets, kept my shame, and dragged us both up despite the gravitational force of our grief.

  “I can’t go back to that place,” I told him when he started talking about trying again. “You know I can’t.”

  “You won’t,” he promised me. “You’ve come such a long way. And I have faith that this time will be different. You’ll see.”

  In a burst of hope last year, he painted Colton’s old bedroom a pale yellow with a trim of cartoon zoo animals, as though an adorable wall would coax a healthy child into being. To christen our “new start,” we made love on the plush carpet. These days, our cleaning lady is the only one who goes in there. We don’t even venture down the hall.

  “Claire?” he calls, knocking on the bathroom door. “It’s been three minutes.”

  I swallow hard. He uses my name only when he’s on edge.

  “Hang on.”

  But he’s right. Three minutes are up, and the display on the stick still shows just one line. I’m buying myself time before I must disappoint him again.

  I also have a certain unfortunate chore to complete. It’s four o’clock on the dot. I pull up my underwear and reach under the bathroom cabinet for my box of tampons that is never empty. It’s a box I ran through last year but didn’t throw out; I know Ethan will never look inside.

  I retrieve my pink disc of birth control pills, pop one of the white tablets under my tongue, and snap it closed. Then I return the box to the cabinet, take a deep breath, and open the door.

  The moment he sees my face, the crease between his eyes deepens. He pushes a lock of graying blond hair off his forehead, sighing, without the consolation of a shrug.

  We’re way past the pretense of better-luck-next-time remarks.

  I yearn to feel his sturdy arms tighten around me. But we’re past that, too. I’m not sure he has any comfort left to offer. He stares at the floor. It’s never gotten this bad, to the point that he won’t even look at me.

  I’ve half-heartedly suggested adoption. But he’s adamant that we first try in vitro fertilization, no matter how exorbitant the cost or uncomfortable the procedure. We can’t keep going like this. The natural route—ovulation tracking, charting my basal body temperature, timing sex to the hour—isn’t working. I let him believe it’s because of my age, which at thirty-nine seems reason enough. Eventually, I figure, he’ll give up and opt for adoption. But deep down, as selfish as it is, I don’t want someone else’s baby either if there’s any chance we can have a healthy child of our own.

  One who will thrive past age eight, who will make it to double digits, to the vexing teenage years and beyond—and who will carry a little spark of Colton along the way.
I can imagine no greater gift than to bring Colton’s sibling into the world. But not if he or she is doomed from the start.

  To secure the baby’s freedom from mitochondrial disease, I would do anything.

  Even if it means secretly betraying my husband’s deepest convictions.

  I can see the distance in his eyes, the disappointment tearing him away from me. My heart hammers, because what I’m about to say marks the turning point. There will be no going back.

  I imagine myself in the future flashing back to this very moment, explaining that I had to lie to save our marriage, that total secrecy was required to protect us both. By then, with the baby in his arms, he’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude; he’ll empathize with the pain of my choice, and thank me for having the courage to push forward alone. We’ll gaze at our sleeping child together, amazed at the life that a genius doctor has made possible. How could he possibly be mad at me then?

  “I’ve decided to give IVF a try,” I blurt out.

  His head snaps up. “You will?”

  “I know how much it means to have our own baby.”

  I’m amazed to see his eyes grow wet. Ethan never cries. He must be closer to the breaking point than I realized. It only strengthens my resolve.

  “I can’t believe it,” he says. “I thought you were going to give up.”

  “I’ll give it one shot. As long as …” I pause to underscore the importance of what I’m about to request.

  “What?”

  “You let me choose the doctor.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  I hold his gaze without flinching. “I want to see Robert Nash.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious. He has one of the highest success rates of any fertility doctor in the country.”

  I don’t add my other reason. The real reason I want to meet the maverick Dr. Nash, whose boundary-breaking research has endeared him to patients but amassed him many critics. Ethan himself, who sits on the President’s Bioethics Committee advising the federal government about new medical technology, dealt him a scathing blow in the press a few years ago. After Nash announced his success in silencing a gene associated with deafness in embryos, Ethan wrote a scornful op-ed that shot to the number-one most-read story in the New York Times. Ethan wrote passionately of the dangers of manipulating human life: the slippery slope of designer babies, the possibility of introducing unknown harms, and the arrogance of eradicating diversity in the gene pool. “Could one person’s disability be another person’s desired state?” he wrote. “We should be so suspicious of medical interventions that marginalize legitimate ways of being in the world.” A few months later, the FDA came down hard with new restrictions against editing the genes of human embryos, and Nash has declined to publicize his work ever since.