Mother Knows Best Read online

  But I’ve been so swept up! Given the source of the rumor, it seemed plausible. I ponder where I could have gone wrong.

  About five years ago, when Colton’s illness accelerated to its final stages, I received an invite from the hospital staff to join a private online support group called Mighty Mito Moms. The women offered comfort, understood my devastation, and answered questions about everything from cleaning a feeding tube to managing a low-blood-sugar meltdown. The group also feverishly sought news of cutting-edge research into mitochondrial diseases. As sophisticated as grad students after years of coping with their children’s illnesses, the moms scoffed at overhyped words like cure and breakthrough.

  So when a trusted member called JohnsMom111 recently started a new thread titled “Legit Development in NY Lab—Could Be BIG,” I paid attention.

  JohnsMom111 had met a postdoc named Jillian who worked in Nash’s lab. I wasn’t surprised by this connection, since the moms were well networked with innovative scientists across the U.S. This Jillian had confided a tip about Nash’s current project in order to secure private funding from the moms’ wealthy donor circle. But the project was under wraps, so details were spare.

  All we learned was that Nash had allegedly managed to create a healthy egg for women who carry mitochondrial diseases. In other words, we could give birth to our own genetic children—safely—with a slight caveat. Word is that he’s figured out how to stitch together two women’s DNA—the healthy nucleus from a woman like me, and the healthy mitochondria from a donor woman to make up for the former’s deficit. This is theoretically possible because mitochondrial DNA is found outside a cell’s nucleus.

  If the nucleus is like a big, important mansion, housing almost all the cell’s DNA, then the mitochondrial DNA is like a little gas station in the backyard. The station may be tiny, but its energy powers the entire lot. In some cases, however, the gas station is prone to catching on fire, which threatens to wipe out the whole property.

  Nash’s idea is to rescue the mansion from the burning property by airlifting it onto somebody else’s safe property whose own mansion has been removed. All that remains there is its working gas station, until the new mansion takes up residence. The resulting combined lot will be set for life—not a fire in sight.

  In real terms, Nash may have pulled off creating a hybrid egg, which could then be fertilized with sperm. Such an embryo would have two genetic mothers and one father. If this is real, it’s totally radical, paving the way for offspring from three individuals for the first time in history. And totally illegal, violating the strict federal ban on editing human embryos intended for reproduction.

  It would be so much easier if three people didn’t need to be involved—if, say, my husband could loan out some healthy mitochondria instead of a random donor woman, but unfortunately biology doesn’t work that way. Only eggs—and thus, only women—can pass down this special kind of genetic material.

  The odds of such a transplant actually working are long, and the danger is high, but the post from JohnsMom111 ended with a statement I can’t stop thinking about:

  Reading between the lines, ladies, it seems like Dr. Nash might be looking for a woman like one of us to volunteer for a clinical trial to try to have a healthy baby through his procedure, in TOTAL SECRECY OF COURSE … or else his work will never be tested in the real world b/c of the laws. Jillian couldn’t say so explicitly, but I can take a hint!

  The implications tapped a vein of hope I thought had cauterized long ago: the birth of my own child (mostly), conceived with a little help from the latest technology; and the rebirth of my marriage, defined for too long by helplessness and disease.

  But Nash is now twenty-seven minutes late.

  I lean into my palm and close my eyes. A throbbing sensation in my skull threatens to gather steam, explode into a migraine. The lounge’s posh atmosphere of chatter and jazz isn’t helping. I gather my non-designer purse to leave.

  “Mrs. Glasser?”

  Nash stands at the edge of my booth, a briefcase slung over his shoulder and a black trench coat buttoned up over his towering frame. His face is flushed, as though he’s jogged several blocks, and his mane is downright untamed. He gives me a rueful half smile, as though I had a right to expect anything of him.

  “Sorry I’m late. Wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

  I swirl the purple liquid in my glass with a smile, forcing myself not to leap up and hug him. “I’m too cheap not to finish my wine.”

  “Fair enough.” He scoots into the booth across from me and sets his briefcase aside. In the low light, with the panorama of skyscrapers silhouetted in the window, his features stand out in sharp relief: the heavy ridge of his brow, the nose that’s a little too pointed, the prominent chin and stern jaw. His handsomeness is aggressively masculine. I can’t help thinking of my husband’s soft, kind face and even softer middle.

  “Thank you for coming. I realize my note wasn’t all that …” I trail off, unsure where I stand.

  He tilts his head. “Conventional?”

  “I was going to go with subtle, but yeah.” I’m suddenly aware of my racing heart. “Do you want to order something?”

  “I don’t drink.” He says it matter-of-factly, without shame. The journalist in me fights the urge to ask why. The prying nature of my job has almost ruined me for normal social interaction.

  “Got it.” I take a sip of my wine to buy time, but apparently, he isn’t one for small talk.

  “So how do you know Jillian?” His direct gaze unnerves me.

  “Your postdoc?” I wave my hand. “Oh, I don’t know know her.”

  He narrows his eyes, and I shift in my seat.

  “You’ve heard of the Mighty Mito Moms? Well, one of our members crossed paths with her and heard about some of the … stuff you guys are working on.”

  “What stuff?” A stormy look darkens his face.

  I spit out the words. “With the … eggs.” I lower my voice. “The mitochondrial transplant …”

  “Jesus Christ.” He glances away, muttering something under his breath.

  “I thought you wanted …?”

  He stares at me blankly.

  Okay, maybe he doesn’t want volunteers after all.

  “Never mind.” Mortified, I reach into my purse for a twenty-dollar bill to throw on the table. “I should go.”

  “No.” His hand shoots out. “I need to know what she said.”

  I repeat the bare bones I learned. “I’m very sympathetic, obviously. All the Mito Moms are. We’re the last people you have to worry about.”

  He sits very still. Too still. Gazes out the window at the shadowy treetops of Central Park. I wait uncomfortably in the silence. Finally, he looks back at me, and his expression is grim.

  “She had to blab at the worst possible time.”

  “She was just excited,” I reply, jumping to the defense of this Jillian I’ve never met. “She knows we’re on your side so there wasn’t a risk.”

  “I don’t think you understand how sensitive a time this is.”

  I hold up a hand. “Trust me, I get it.”

  All anyone in bioethics circles like Ethan can talk about is the FDA’s recent draconian punishment of a Yale group who figured out how to engineer a synthetic egg and sperm cell, then create an embryo from scratch—with no parents at all. The scientists argued that they weren’t technically breaking the law because they weren’t tampering with the genes of a natural embryo, but the FDA disagreed and not only shut down their lab, but announced criminal charges.

  Human life is sacred, not fodder for irresponsible experimentation with unknown consequences, the FDA’s headline-making statement declared. Ethan read it aloud to me triumphantly over breakfast, practically cheering along with his cereal spoon. To be human means to have two biological parents—no more and no less. Anything else would be a repudiation of our collective heritage, needlessly redefining and endangering our future generations, and the essential stabilit
y of our species.

  Of course, the impact for Nash is just as significant as for the Yale group. Zero parents are as verboten as three parents, and now there can be no doubt about whether the FDA will throw its might behind enforcing the law.

  “I just can’t believe her,” he’s telling me. “She’s the brightest postdoc I’ve ever worked with—I’m talking superstar potential. And then to do something so careless? If the press gets wind of this …”

  “It won’t,” I tell him firmly. Maybe it’s not the best time to mention I’m also a journalist, though my editors at Mindset would kill for this scoop. But I don’t care. I’m after a much bigger payoff. Either I can leave now and wonder forever, or confront him outright. A memory of Colton assaults me then: the day he was rushed to the ICU in an ambulance as sepsis spread through his veins. Mommy! he cried, clutching me as his fever spiked. I don’t want this body anymore!

  I ground myself with a shaky breath.

  “I know you don’t know me, but the truth is, I think we can help each other.”

  “You mentioned that.” Nash’s tone is wary, but I forge ahead.

  “There’s nothing I want more than to have my own healthy child, and your transplant is the only shot I have. Let me be the first human trial.”

  He laughs. He actually laughs, but the sound is far from mirthful. It’s a dry snort.

  My breath quickens. “I’m not kidding. I’ve been to hell and back, and I just want another chance to be a mom. Losing my son …” I chomp on my lip. “Please. I would do anything.”

  He watches me, but his face is inscrutable. I can’t tell if he is pitying or judging me. Then he stands and picks up his briefcase.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m sorry about your son,” he says, and his voice is gentle enough that I believe him. But then it takes on a harsher edge. “Unfortunately, this meeting was a mistake. I think you should find another doctor.”

  His eyes betray a sadness that clashes with the hard line of his mouth. Then he turns on his heel and heads for the door.

  * * *

  JILLIAN

  On Friday night, while other people my age are out partying, i.e., getting hammered in some random bar, I’m at home reviewing a lab report.

  It’s the latest data from Double X—the mitochondrial transplant experiments. An egg’s sex chromosome is always an X, while a sperm could be an X or a Y. So combining the DNA of two eggs—two X’s—to create a single perfect egg led me to coin the project’s shorthand name. Just between me and Nash, since he and I are the only ones working on it.

  It’s a dream job in more ways than one. Because his fertility clinic is adjacent to his own private lab, he has access to a virtually unlimited supply of human eggs to work with; he gives a price break to IVF patients who donate some of their leftover ones to research. Plus, he’s the closest I’ve come to knowing a genius.

  As I underline various stats in the data, I can’t help thinking back to our electrifying moment earlier today. Something passed between us. Something that can’t be measured or observed. It doesn’t matter that he’s my boss, or that I’m twenty-four and he’s forty-two. The charge between us is undeniable.

  I rub my eyes, coaxing the memory back. My cramped studio is dark except for the yellow pool spilling from my desk lamp. No moonlight illuminates The Cave, as I fondly call the place. My only window faces a brick wall, my kitchen is hardly more than a mini-fridge, and the bathroom could be mistaken for a closet. It’s a joke, and still, I can barely afford the Upper West Side rent on my postdoc stipend. But in five short blocks, I can walk right into the lab.

  Nash rarely doles out compliments. One approving look is enough for me to float for a week. So today’s interaction floored me. First, he watched as I demonstrated my innovative method for snipping the nucleus out of a donor egg to preserve more of the integrity of the cell.

  Then he shook his head with an I’ll-be-damned grin. “You’re on your way to greatness, you know that?”

  “Come on,” I said, though I knew he was right. I’ve known it ever since my seventh-grade biology teacher, Mr. Sear, pulled me aside and asked whether I would consider skipping straight to a local university. Undergraduate work would be more appropriate for your level of comprehension and skill, he told me. In the months that followed, as I aced the bio and stat classes that perplexed college freshmen, I would dwell on Mr. Sear’s remark, unpacking its promise and the future it implied.

  And now, fresh out of Harvard with my PhD in molecular biology, I’m one of the youngest experts this field has ever seen. And I’m only just getting started.

  “I’m lucky to have you.” Nash caught my eye. “I mean it.”

  “Does that mean I get a raise?” My paper mask and magnifying goggles covered half my face, but I’m sure he could tell I was smiling. We were standing side by side at my microscope. To my surprise, he draped one arm around my shoulders.

  “How about when you win the Nobel, you’ll kick me a percent?”

  “Deal,” I said. All too soon, he removed his arm. But its weight lingered at the base of my neck, and my shoulders tingled. We’d never touched before. Did it mean something? The gesture was too brief to signify anything other than encouragement, but maybe …

  An abrupt knock rattles my door. I startle out of my chair—it’s after ten PM. No one visits me this late.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” says a distinctive voice. He’s here? I rush to my mirror and smooth down my hair before opening the door. A late-night visit can mean only one thing.

  But as quickly as my hope rises, it vanishes. Nash is more livid than I’ve ever seen him. His jaw is clenched, his cheeks are pink, and his forehead is beaded with sweat.

  “What happened?” I ask in a panic. “Are you okay?”

  Without a word, he stomps into my apartment and flicks on the light. It’s his first time seeing the place, and I’m embarrassed to show him how modest it is. But he obviously doesn’t care; he’s staring at me with cold, hard rage.

  My mind flies to our farewell hours earlier: I cleaned up my station, recorded the day’s progress on the master doc, and said good-night, still high from our brief contact. He smiled at me and tipped an imaginary hat: Nice job today.

  “You’re fired, Hendricks.”

  I grip the edge of my console table. “What?”

  From his intimidating height, his red face seems volcanic.

  “As talented as you are, I just can’t trust you. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Excuse me? I’m the best fucking postdoc you’ve ever had.”

  “I know.” He begins to pace. “But what you did—telling those Mito Moms about our research, which you know very well is now illegal—” We lock eyes as he stops short. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Oh.” I smirk. “Yeah, trying to win us more funding is definitely inexcusable. Good point.”

  “The woman you told spread the news to their whole group!”

  “It’s fine, they’re on our side.”

  “Yeah, too much. One of them just cornered me to volunteer for a trial.” He rolls his eyes. “You should have known better. These poor women are desperate.”

  “So what?” I lift my chin. “They have a right to be. And they’ve helped us raise money before, so don’t they have a right to know where it’s going?”

  “Not if they’re going to blab! I’m surprised the press hasn’t already called, and then the feds—and next we’re both out of a job, or worse.”

  Already my mind is racing ahead to how I’ll land my next postdoc position with an abrupt dismissal and no recommendation, how I’ll make my rent next month without my shitty stipend, and how I would rather eat dirt than ask my parents for money. They run an elite prep school in upstate New York that funnels privileged kids to the Ivy League. As their only child, I grew up in a thicket of expectation and ambition, which intensified when my precocity became apparent. My father used to frame my A+ bio
logy exams around his office, telling visitors, Jilly’s going to make her mark one day. He even landed a profile of me in the local paper after I was accepted to Bard at age thirteen. And now, after my spark of greatness, this is it? A dishonorable discharge, good-bye and good luck?

  Nash is silently watching me, allowing me time to digest the next steps—my inevitable apology, a logistical conversation about collecting my items from the lab, some formal horrible good-bye.

  But none of that is going to happen.

  Calm settles over me. I will not go gentle into this good night.

  “You can’t fire me,” I say. “At least, you shouldn’t.”

  “Oh really?” I’m emboldened by the tinge of amusement in his voice.

  “It would be the biggest mistake you could make.”

  “Look, I understand—”

  “No, you don’t.” I brush past him to my bookshelf and pull out a biography of the British legends Robert Edwards and Patrick Steptoe. The cover shows two aging men wearing black-rimmed spectacles and dark suits.

  I hold it up. “Remember them?”

  “Of course.” He crosses his arms. “The fathers of in vitro.”

  “That’s right. They created the first test tube baby in 1978.”

  “What does that have to do with you?”

  “A lot, actually. I’m guessing you haven’t read their bio.” I clutch the book tightly. “They knew the world would be so scandalized by a baby created in a dish that the experiment would never be permitted, so they were daring enough to carry it out in secret, then hid it for the entire nine months of the mother’s pregnancy. It was only after Louise Brown was born healthy that they announced it, when no one could question the outcome. And today IVF is as routine as going to the movies.”

  Nash squints at me. “Jillian—”

  “If you remember, Edwards won the Nobel in 2010. Not a bad gamble, huh?”

  “You’re crazy.” He shakes his head. “No way.”

  “Am I?” I decide to double down. “Or are you a coward?”

  My heart is skipping. I know he prides himself on his boldness in going against the establishment. But have I gone too far?