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  Instead, I army-crawl to the door, close it quietly, and tiptoe back to my room, where I shove the swab into the plastic tube and screw on the cap, which releases the buffering liquid. Then I’m done.

  Riley will mail it for me tomorrow after school.

  I fall into bed feeling a weird mix of excitement and guilt. I’ve probably broken a bunch of laws, not to mention Mom’s trust. If she ever finds out, I’ll be grounded for life.

  Soon I’ll know whether the stranger is really her cousin. I think back to the message where JH0502 asked if I had a brother. But literally a billion people have brothers. It doesn’t prove she’s part of the family, right? She could be some random stalker after all.

  My eyelids close. Maybe Mom’s been telling the truth the whole time.

  I’ve been upset with her. She’s been so distracted. But that doesn’t make her a liar. As sleep muddies my mind, I land on one last thought:

  I hope the experiment fails.

  CLAIRE: BEFORE

  “Your turn in the hot seat,” Nash says to me with a wink.

  I squeeze Ethan’s hand and climb onto the wax-paper-covered chair in the center of the exam room, then slide my feet into the metal stirrups. In the days since my egg retrieval, nine embryos have grown in Nash’s lab in the privacy of their petri dishes, concealing their secret deep down in their DNA, and two have emerged as the strongest candidates for implantation. Nash has advised me to transfer only one embryo for safety reasons. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll have a shot with the other one. So today he’s putting in a single female embryo, a double X. To think I could be the mother of a daughter!

  Today is embryo transfer day, and Ethan and I have not been this excited since—well, since I found out I was pregnant with Colton a decade ago and the future still sparkled with possibilities. Ethan rubs my hand with adorable eagerness now, reminding me of that distant, golden era.

  On my right side, Nash squirts cold gel over my abdomen to prepare for the ultrasound-guided transfer. My bladder is painfully full, which is required for his visualization. As he strokes my stomach with a probe, a grainy black-and-white image of my empty uterus appears on the flat screen. My womb is disappointingly compressed and narrow, like a flat tire. I picture it filling up with a big round baby.

  “I can’t believe our child is about to be in there,” Ethan says, gazing at the screen.

  “In about one minute.” Nash holds a thin catheter tube that contains the microscopic embryo in its tip. “Claire, I’ll just insert this into your cervix and guide it into the middle of your endometrial cavity, then depress the plunger, and voila.”

  I smile weakly, too overcome to speak. My heart beats erratically. Now there’s no going back. In nine months, I could be holding the world’s first genetically modified human being. Please let her be healthy. Please let her be normal.

  “Will it hurt?” Ethan asks. His concern sends a tremor of guilt through me.

  “Nope,” Nash says. “It’ll feel like a tampon but smaller. Ready?”

  When he stares at me, an electric dart shoots between us, a charged particle of hope and nerves massive enough to collapse the room if it weren’t for Ethan, who misses the moment entirely. He’s transfixed by the screen.

  I clear my throat. “Let’s do it.”

  After inserting a speculum to view my cervix, Nash slides the catheter painlessly into my vagina. The three of us watch it bypass my cervix and snake up into my uterus.

  “Okay, moment of truth,” he announces. He’s acting relaxed, but his hand is slightly shaking; I feel the catheter wiggle inside me. His nerves are our secret, a strange kind of intimacy we can’t help but share. To counteract this closeness, I squeeze Ethan’s hand. Nash deploys the plunger.

  A white speck shoots out the head of the tube and disappears somewhere inside my womb. In three seconds, it’s gone.

  “Okay.” Nash lets a breath escape as he withdraws the catheter and the speculum. “Now we wait.”

  Ethan turns to me with an ecstatic grin. He kisses my lips, then reaches over to pump Nash’s hand as though their professional beef never existed. Not that Nash has any idea who he is. To Nash, he’s Mr. Ethan Glasser, sedate science teacher, not Dr. Ethan Abrams, relentless ideological opponent.

  “Thank you so much, man,” Ethan says. “You have no idea how big a deal this is.”

  I silently will Nash to avoid looking at me so that my burning tongue doesn’t explode with the truth. Nash gives Ethan a hearty slap on the shoulder, not missing a beat, and the temptation passes.

  “In fact,” Nash tells him with a smile, “I think I do.”

  * * *

  Eleven days later, on a Monday morning, I wake up with sore, heavy breasts and an urgent need to pee. Ethan is already in his office preparing to give a nine AM ethics lecture.

  I run to the bathroom to unwrap one of the pregnancy tests from the three different brands I hoarded during the terrible wait for this day. I wasn’t supposed to test until at least eleven days after the transfer, but I’ve secretly been peeing on a stick morning and night since day six. Each time, the damn stick has remained a stubborn white next to the pink control line, and I’ve choked back my panic.

  But this morning, as I examine my naked body in the bathroom mirror, something is different. My nipples have darkened to a purplish brown, which has only happened once before.

  I hover over the toilet, stick in hand, and pee like the expert I am. It’s pathetic, but I could do this in my sleep. I must have blown two hundred bucks on pregnancy tests this week out of sheer impatience. No desire compares to the primal need to know of a new life inside you; to want to bear witness to every moment of its existence. The love I ache to give another baby floods my heart with bittersweet pain. I could wait a thousand years if I knew I’d have one someday. The hardest part is not knowing if I ever will.

  I pull up my underwear and sit back against the wall. The blank stick taunts me.

  Look away. Three minutes will take an eternity otherwise. But who am I kidding? I hold it up to the window so the sun will illuminate even the faintest line. Particles of dust dance in the light, but the stick remains appallingly white.

  Come on.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and count the seconds under my breath. When I get to twenty-seven, I can’t take the suspense anymore and open my eyes.

  There it is. A second line.

  Faint is an understatement; it’s a wisp of the softest pink, too pale for a visible edge. But pink nonetheless.

  I wondered all week whether I would burst into tears if this moment arrived. Instead I just stare, unblinking. The greatest art in the world couldn’t be more beautiful than this little line.

  I get to be a mother again.

  Colton would have been the best big brother. How is it possible for good news to sting so much?

  After another sixty seconds, the gossamer pink darkens to a rosier hue, something I can take a picture of and send to—

  Nash, I think first. And then, guiltily, Ethan.

  Another name enters my mind. I notice that my hands have become clenched. Really, the donated few bits of DNA mean nothing in the grand scheme of an entire person. They’re like a quick fix for some diseased cells. Over and done. Case closed.

  It’s my baby now. My little girl.

  I sprint to the bedroom to grab my phone and photograph my priceless fortune. Then I text the picture to Ethan: We did it!!!

  I write the identical text to Nash, who gave me his cell number in case of emergency. On second thought, I add: You’re a miracle worker.

  Then, out of nowhere, an aftershock of dread slams into me. It hits me so hard that I sink onto the bed.

  What if she’s not normal? What then?

  * * *

  JILLIAN

  At the lab bright and early, I hear Nash’s cell phone buzz in the storage locker. He’s in the clinic seeing a patient and won’t be back for another hour.

  I head over to the floor-to-ceiling locker an
d pause in front of his unit on the bottom left. All the laboratory staff deposit our personal items in private lockers so as not to contaminate our work environment. Nash has never bothered to be secretive about his code—for months, he’s pressed 0912 into the keypad, his birthday. For a brilliant physician-researcher, he isn’t exactly a whiz at security.

  I hesitate with my finger on the zero.

  No one else will be here for another fifteen minutes—it’s only 8:43 AM.

  I can’t stand the thought that’s been driving me crazy for a week. Is he sleeping with anyone else? But I can’t ask him outright. What am I supposed to say: “Do you fuck a lot of women in your spare time? Or just me?”

  I glance over my shoulder. Coast is clear.

  I punch in his locker code and retrieve his phone.

  As soon as I see the name CLAIRE GLASSER on the text, I sigh with relief. Claire is certainly not dating him. And then I notice the picture attached—a pregnancy test—and the words: We did it!!! You’re a miracle worker.

  We? She didn’t do a damn thing but spread her legs.

  We did it—me and Nash. I can’t believe we pulled it off.

  Claire’s misunderstanding doesn’t matter. She doesn’t even matter, beyond her status as the first subject who volunteered for our research. The child, if it’s born healthy, will be the crowning achievement of our career. And one day, the whole world will know it. I marvel at the consequences for science and humanity—if the pregnancy survives, it will be the first-ever child born of three people’s DNA.

  … Including my DNA. I freeze, staring again at the photo of that pink line. Somehow, despite all the planning and effort leading up to this very test, I haven’t thought much about the personal implications for me. But in a very real sense, I, too, am reproducing.

  That means Claire is pregnant with our child. An actual human being—not just an egg cell—is going to inherit my mitochondrial DNA, which I inherited from my mother. I always imagined I’d be a mother someday, once my career was established and the right man came along—and maybe he already has.

  But in about eight months, a baby will enter the universe who shares thirty-seven of my genes. I lean against the locker in astonishment.

  My baby, too.

  ABBY: NOW

  The morning after my successful saliva mission, I’m on my way to homeroom when I spot Sydney heading past me with an ugly smile. I still can’t believe she slipped that horrible note into my bag. Calling my mom crazy—it’s seriously messed up.

  I plant myself in her path. “What the fuck?” I say quietly, so any teachers around can’t hear. The curse slips out without warning, surprising us both. I cross my arms, feeling very grown-up and powerful, even though she’s at least three inches taller.

  Her pimply face displays shock, then confusion. “Excuse me?”

  “I could get you suspended.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I hate that I have no way to connect her to the note. “You know what you did. Why are you such a brat?”

  She suddenly pushes me—hard.

  “Hey!” I cry, stumbling back. My sandals fly out from under me, and I crash down onto my butt and elbows in the middle of the hallway.

  She stands over me with sick enjoyment. “Watch who you call a brat.”

  Tears sting my eyes as she stomps off. A group of younger kids rush past, whispering. I’m sure our “cat fight” will be all over school by second period. Ugh.

  The bell rings. Five-minute warning.

  I’m rubbing my elbows when Mr. Harrison and Mrs. Miller come into view, chatting. I guess they can tell something’s wrong, because they both start running.

  “Abigail!” Mr. Harrison helps me up. “What happened?”

  I wipe my eyes. “Nothing.”

  “You okay?” Mrs. Miller asks. She rests a hand on my shoulder.

  After Sydney’s cruelty, her kindness makes me choke up, so I nod and rush to the bathroom before I embarrass myself any more. This is the worst day and it’s not even nine AM.

  Once I’m locked in a stall, I text Riley: Meet me in bathroom NOW. She’s probably already in first period, but we still have a few minutes to spare.

  Soon, there’s a knock on my stall. “Abigail?” I recognize Mrs. Miller’s gentle voice. “Are you hurt?”

  I open the door a crack. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want to talk?”

  I shake my head. The last thing I need is for her to report what happened to the principal, who would call our parents and give us both detention—even though it’s all Sydney’s fault.

  “If you change your mind—”

  Riley bursts loudly through the bathroom door. “Oh my God, I just heard Sydney punched you!”

  Mrs. Miller’s expression turns to horror.

  “No, no, nothing like that.” I head to the sink to freshen up. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  Mrs. Miller checks her watch. “Okay, well, two more minutes, girls.”

  “We’ll be right there,” I promise, as she pushes open the door.

  “Don’t be late.” But she smiles to let us know we’re off the hook. “We’re finishing the mandalas today.”

  When she leaves, Riley and I start talking at the same time.

  “That bitch,” I say, as she goes, “So?”

  I tell her all the details. When I finish, she looks more confused than pissed. “I wonder why she hates you so much.”

  “It’s so annoying. As if I don’t have enough to deal with.” I unzip my backpack and hand over the kit containing my mom’s DNA sample.

  My best friend eyes me with a new respect. “You actually pulled it off?”

  “Yup.” I’m not sure whether to be proud or ashamed; maybe both. “Can you mail it today?”

  “I will after school. How long till they get back to you?”

  I shrug. “Couple weeks. They’ll email you the report.”

  She groans. “Weeks? That’s, like, forever.”

  “I know.”

  The bell rings again. As we leave the bathroom, she lowers her voice even though no one else is around.

  “What if you reopened your account and contacted the stranger again? See what else she’ll tell you?”

  I give her a one-eyebrow please. “I’d have to sneak onto my mom’s email.”

  “Why? Can’t we do it from my computer?”

  “Because my mom told their customer service I was being ‘harassed.’ ” I make air quotes to show how extreme she can be. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s too late. They already shut it down.”

  “Nope.” She gives me a wicked grin—the same one that got me on an upside-down roller coaster last year. “I checked. They don’t delete your data until sixty days after your account is canceled. It’s only been, like, a month.”

  We pause outside Mrs. Miller’s classroom. Her voice floats out, discussing mandalas. In ancient cultures, she’s saying, they symbolized the connection between our inner worlds and our lived reality: “Think of them as a reflection of your state of mind …”

  No wonder I chose all black and brown colors.

  Riley’s whisper snaps me back. “You still have time.”

  “If my mom found out, she would freak.”

  “Abs, you’re way past following the rules. I mean, you stole her DNA. You could probably go to jail.”

  My stomach sinks like a bowling ball. “Exactly. I’ve already done enough.”

  As we walk into class, my forehead breaks out in a cold sweat.

  What have I done?

  PART TWO

  CLAIRE: BEFORE

  TWO MONTHS TO GO

  I feel the baby moving first thing every morning before I get out of bed: insistent jabs near my pelvis, or dramatic rolls above my belly button. I’ve never felt so connected to a fetus—honestly, not even to Colton. He was much quieter in the womb. Sometimes, days would pass before he provided evidence of his existence with a mild flutter. If he was a hummingbird, this baby is
a bull. And I’m loving the show.

  The strength imparted in her kicks tells me everything: she is going to be healthy. Strong. A child with a future.

  I’ve been so enthralled by the world of my womb and counting down the weeks until my due date—February 28th—that I’m totally caught off guard when Ethan asks me over breakfast one morning, “Who’s Jillian Hendricks?”

  I don’t do anything stupid like spit out my decaf coffee. But my stomach flips over like one of the baby’s somersaults.

  “Hmm?” I keep my eyes on my iPad, where I pretend to be engrossed in the New York Times Sunday crossword.

  “Jillian Hendricks.” He slides the iPad away from me. “The person you’ve been Googling the hell out of.”

  I dare to glance up at him and am not surprised to see his exasperated frown. I hate that look; it makes me feel like one of his slacker students.

  “Come on, Claire.” He sets down his coffee beside his plate of half-eaten eggs. “Your laptop was open on your desk when I went to print something, and her name was all over it.”

  Okay, it’s true that I have become preoccupied with the elusive Jillian—trying to discover her health history, her ethnic background, her political views, her social media activity—but there’s frustratingly little online. I wish I could have shrugged off our connection with a thank-you and a good-bye as soon as the pregnancy test dried. But the truth is that the baby’s debt to Jillian has been tormenting me. What if my daughter somehow looks like her? What if she’s inheriting some tendency to cancer or Alzheimer’s or something? So like any good journalist, I’ve sought facts to set the story straight. It’s just so damn hard to learn anything through Google.

  I widen my eyes as if in belated recognition. “Oh, Hendricks, yeah, she’s this up-and-coming scientist I want to interview for the magazine. But I haven’t been able to contact her, so my editor might kill it.”

  Ethan forks a bite of egg into his mouth, watching me. He chews slowly, suspiciously. I try not to squirm.

  “Why?” I demand. “Who did you think she was?”