IGMS Issue 8 Read online

  Steven never had colic. He never cried like this, for hours on end, for no good reason. He was a very good-natured baby.

  I suppose I should be grateful that colic is the worst of Paul's problems, considering how flawed his parents are. I'd been born with only one kidney; Marie's endometriosis had only worsened after Steven's birth, making any further natural conception impossible.

  But of course Paul had been born healthy, just as Steven had been. Dr. Aiken hadn't been kidding about the identical twin analogy. He looks exactly like Steven had at that age. Exactly. So many times, looking at him, I've been rocked by powerful déjà vu. Marie tells me she's felt it, too.

  So why is he so different?

  It's not just the colic. Steven would always relax when I held him. He would sit peacefully on my lap for extended periods as I read to him from books of nursery rhymes. Paul wriggles and squirms, tense as coiled wire. Every time I try reading to him, he fusses and fidgets until I stop. Yet he'll fall asleep instantly if Marie rocks him. Steven was his father's child; Paul belongs to his mother. I don't understand it. Could the DNA we used -- extracted from saved clippings from Steven's first haircut -- somehow have been contaminated or tainted?

  Oh, hell. I'm making too much of this. I think I'm more nervous and protective with Paul than I ever was with Steven. Understandable, I suppose, considering what happened. Still, I sometimes have to wonder if Paul likes me very much.

  He spent hours at his desk, staring at the monitor, unable to concentrate. He got no work done the rest of the day.

  Marie arrived home at six o'clock. She remained silent as John told her what happened, and stayed that way throughout dinner. She took a plateful of leftovers up to Paul's room afterward. John was too wrung out to argue.

  He waited for her in the living room, seated in the easy chair, the lighting at its dimmest setting. The television hung dark and silent on the far wall. Above the set, a four-portrait frame system, arranged in a simple square, displayed an ever-rotating series of smiling individual and family stills at random intervals. The room felt oddly empty to John; he had meant to have the Christmas decorations up by now, but hadn't gotten around to it.

  Marie entered and sat in the loveseat across from him. She was still dressed for work, in a stiff black business suit she favored when she had to give presentations to the board at International ComSys. Her makeup -- foundation to darken her pale flesh tone and simple black eyeliner -- appeared masklike in the soft light. She removed her earrings and set them on an end table next to the loveseat. She looked directly at him when she spoke. "I don't like this, John. I don't like what that woman at the daycare said about him."

  "Neither do I."

  "I think we need to look at our alternatives."

  "Me, too." He steeled himself for what he had to say next: "I'd like to call Dr. Aiken."

  She frowned. "What? Why?"

  "We have to face it. Something is terribly wrong with Paul. He's emotionally disturbed. And we need to understand why."

  "I think that's a little overstated."

  "You didn't see the fit he had today."

  "It was a temper tantrum. You act like you've never seen one before."

  "I never saw this kind of behavior from Ste --"

  Marie's features hardened into a glare. He swallowed his words.

  "John," she said in a tone much lower than her normal speaking voice, "I thought I told you never to say anything like that again."

  John rubbed his forehead. "Yes, you did. I'm sorry. I'm tired."

  "Don't you ever let Paul hear you talk like that. He doesn't need to hear that his father thinks he's defective."

  "Now who's overstating this issue? Damn it, he's my son. I love him and I'm concerned for him. I want to help him. We can't do that if we don't know what's wrong."

  She sat back in the loveseat and crossed her arms. "You know, none of this would be an issue if Paul could stay home instead of going to daycare."

  John tensed. "I've finally started a new novel, after years of being blocked. You know how important that is to me."

  "Steven didn't require daycare. You wrote three novels with him in the house."

  "Since you brought it up -- Steven didn't require constant supervision to keep him from getting into fights. Steven never displayed violent or neurotic tendencies."

  "Fine." She stood. "We'll find Paul another daycare, one that's not so crowded. But we're not calling the clinic. That's final."

  She left him alone in the living room and went upstairs. After a few minutes, the sounds of running water and the hum of her toothbrush filtered down to him.

  He pulled his handheld from his pocket and opened it. He input his password, brought up his journal, and finally gave voice to the dark notion that had nagged at him all afternoon:

  December 3, 2029

  Dear God, what if we really have created a monster?

  He logged the day's events while he waited for the sounds from upstairs to subside, for Marie to go to bed.

  II

  Paul's six-year stills arrived two weeks after he started the first grade. Following dinner, while Marie went downstairs to put a basketful of laundry in the washing machine, John took the disk into the living room to load it.

  Paul was already there, curled up on the couch, working the controls of his handheld. Tinny tire squeals and explosions emanated from Paul's headphones.

  Disk in hand, John stood watching him and thinking of the letter that had arrived the previous day. He still could not believe its contents. There had to be some mistake. For the life of him, he could not decide what he should do about it.

  He pushed the thought away and turned to the portrait wall. He pressed a button recessed on the underside of the nearest frame, opening a slot. The parade of images went dark. He pulled the disk from its sleeve, inserted it, and stepped back to watch for error messages.

  "What's Special Ed mean?"

  John started at the sound of Paul's voice, so like Steven's. It was as if a ghost had spoken. He turned to his son.

  Paul had doffed his headphones and set aside his handheld. A quizzical frown creased his forehead.

  John said, "Where did you hear that? One of the other kids?"

  "Mrs. Jordan said it to one of the other teachers. She said we were her Special Ed class."

  Nothing wrong with his hearing, John noted. Mrs. Jordan would find that out soon enough. "It just means you're in a special class that . . . that will help you with school."

  "Like I'm smarter than the other kids?"

  "Not smarter. Just different."

  "Like a retard?"

  John winced. "Don't say that. It's not nice."

  Paul pointed to the portrait wall. "Why do you keep his pictures?"

  John, long used to Paul's sudden subject changes, glanced at the portraits. The new disk had finished loading and the system had resumed normal display mode. The first of Paul's new stills appeared at the top left, showing him in a pullover dress shirt, his blonde hair neatly combed and flattened by gel, his teeth bared with only a slight upturn of the mouth -- more like a grimace than a smile.

  At the bottom right was a portrait of Steven -- from his fifth-year stills, if John's memory served -- in a little blue suit and tie. Steven's face and eyes were alight with a genuine grin, as if the photographer had just said something funny to him.

  "Steven's your brother. Why wouldn't we keep his pictures?"

  "'Cause he's dead."

  John took a moment to ensure his voice would remain even. "It's important that we remember him."

  "Why do you write books?"

  "Because I enjoy it."

  "I think it's stupid."

  John cleared his throat. "Why is that?"

  "'Cause it is."

  "That's not a very nice thing to say, either. And I'd appreciate it if you'd try to be a little more respectful of your brother." He ejected the disk and slipped it back into its sleeve. "I have some more work to do tonight, so please tr
y to hold the noise down, all right?" Without waiting for a reply, he left the room on unsteady legs.

  He managed to reach his office and shut the door behind him before the trembling fit overtook him. He put a hand to his mouth to stifle a bellow of rage.

  After several moments, the trembling passed. Drained, he looked across the room at his desk and the dark monitor atop it. Actually, he had no work to do. He had long since proofed the novel galleys; the finished product would be out in two weeks. Besides, he couldn't possibly work in his state of mind. But lately his office seemed the only place he felt welcome in the house.

  Somewhere on the other side of the door, glass shattered.

  With a groan, John opened the door and looked out. Paul stood in the entrance to the living room. "It fell," he said.

  John pushed past him. On the carpet lay the broken remains of a frame amid shards of glass. He glanced at the wall; the bottom right frame was gone from its accustomed place. The remaining frames flashed data missing messages.

  "It fell," Paul said from behind him.

  John began breathing hard. He dimly registered that Paul was just tall enough to reach the lower portraits, if he stood on tiptoe. John whirled. "It's in the middle of the damned carpet. Did it jump off the wall?"

  Paul stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the doorjamb. "Maybe you knocked it loose while you were over there."

  The trembling came over John again. "You little shit." He reached for Paul, grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, and slapped him hard, getting his entire arm into it. Paul spun from his grasp and collided with the doorjamb.

  John gaped, staring at his hand as if it had acted of its own accord. As suddenly as it had come, his rage vanished, leaving cold nausea in its wake.

  Paul cringed. An angry red spot stood out just under his left eye. John reached for him again; Paul shrieked and recoiled. He ran for the stairs, wailing all the way to the top and down the hall. The slam of his bedroom door cut off his cries.

  John sank to his knees, still gaping.

  Hurried footfalls sounded on the basement stairs. Marie rushed into the room, wide-eyed. "What's wrong? What happened?"

  He shook his head slowly.

  "John? John?"

  He put a hand over his mouth. He feared that if he tried to speak, he would vomit instead.

  "You bastard." She went upstairs.

  April 19, 2026

  The third anniversary of Steven's death, and the first since Paul was born.

  Marie has gone to visit Steven's grave. I elected to stay home. Marie didn't like that very much.

  I don't understand. She's the one who keeps telling me that Steven is gone, that the time for grieving is over, that I have to let him go.

  True, I haven't been to Steven's grave since the funeral. But that was for a different reason. I wasn't ready to accept his death then. Since I've accepted it now, I just don't see the need to go. Cemeteries are for the dead. And I've spent far too much of my time obsessed with about death.

  Or maybe I'm just afraid of having a relapse.

  At moments like this, I realize that it's still too fresh in my mind, all of it: the thunderstorm that hit the night we drove home from Marie's parents' farm after an Easter dinner; hydroplaning off the road and into a ditch, rolling twice before slamming upside-down into a tree; Steven's terrified screams. Marie and I had been scraped and bruised but had escaped serious injury. Steven had not.

  He was pinned in the back seat. The 911 dispatcher I spoke with over the cell phone assured me the ambulance could home in on my UWB signal, that we just needed to "hang on" until it arrived.

  Hang on -- as if it were that simple. One of Steven's lungs had collapsed, I learned later, and he had massive internal hemorrhaging. Marie and I could do nothing but wait in a weed-choked ditch by the side of the road, drenched by torrential rains, and watch as our son died before our eyes.

  Too fresh in my mind: the black depression I battled afterward, disconsolate despite Marie's best efforts; the unshakeable numbness and apathy as my writing career failed; the blissful, dreamy feeling of slipping away as I sat in a bathtub full of warm water, bleeding from the wrists I had opened with a steak knife.

  I've never written about it until now. The pain is still so close. Not good to dwell on it. All that is past. I have a new life now, and new crosses to bear.

  Marie took the baby with her to the cemetery. When I asked her why she wanted to do that, she said, "At least then I won't be alone."

  They've been gone for over five hours. Marie's previous visits to Steven's grave have lasted no more than two. She must have gone to her sister's house. She does that a lot lately.

  It's so much harder this time. I don't know why. None of it is like it was before. I keep telling myself that perhaps I'm romanticizing the past, but I'm not.

  For this we left the Church. For this we went through all of our retirement savings and took out a second mortgage on our house. Over this we agonized for weeks, waiting for a call from Dr. Aiken to tell us whether any of the fertilizations had succeeded. And on days like this, God help me, I wonder if we did the right thing.

  The next morning, John sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of soggy cereal in front of him. He had no memory of filling the bowl; he'd done it on autopilot. And he wasn't even hungry.

  Marie entered the kitchen, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans instead of being dressed for work. Dark circles marked her eyes. She'd put her hair up, but had missed a few strands, the way she sometimes did when hurried or distracted.

  Paul was still asleep in his room. When John blinked, he saw himself hitting his son, saw Paul slamming into the doorjamb. The image seemed burned on John's retinas.

  Marie leaned against the counter near the sink, blocking the sunlight slanting in through the kitchen window. "We need to talk."

  He nodded.

  "John, I don't love you anymore. Under the circumstances, I don't think we should remain married."

  "I'm sorry I slapped him. I hate myself for that."

  "It's not about that." She brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "Well, that's a part of it. But this has been a long time coming. You knew that, didn't you?"

  "We've been under a lot of stress. All of us. But we can make it through this. I know we can." The words came automatically. Years of practice.

  "Yes, we can make it through this. But not together. You've changed. You're not the man I married."

  "I want nothing but the best for you and Paul."

  "A divorce is best. For all of us."

  He pushed away the bowl of soggy cereal. "I can't believe you're doing this now, of all times. The novel will be out in two weeks -- my first since Steven's death. Don't you see the significance of that? Eric even thinks it could be bestseller material."

  "Eric's your agent. He gets paid to talk like that. You've said so yourself."

  "All right, yes, I have. The point is that I'm working steadily, and I'm turning out quality stuff. It's been therapeutic for me."

  "You call hiding in your office all day therapeutic? Do you think beating a child is a sign of improved mental health?"

  "I've hit him only once in six years. I don't think I qualify as an abuser."

  "Spankings don't count as hitting?"

  He gritted his teeth and swallowed a reply.

  "Never mind," Marie said. "I've done all I could to keep this marriage working. But I can't do it alone -- and I don't want to try anymore. I'm tapped."

  "Marie, listen to me. Please don't do this. Raising a child with special needs is unbelievably hard, much harder than the parenting magazines want you to believe. But we can't let it destroy our relationship. We can't let it kill something good between us."

  She glared. "You son of a bitch. Even after last night, you still blame Paul."

  "No, that's not --"

  "Yes, you do. Here." She dug in a jeans pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. She opened it, brought it to the table, and dr
opped it in front of him. "Thought you might want to have this back."

  He recognized the clinic's letterhead. It was the cover sheet of the correspondence he'd received the other day -- the results of the DNA testing.

  "I found it in your pants last night, while I was doing the laundry," she said.

  "This isn't what you think it is."

  "How long have you been talking to Dr. Aiken behind my back? How long did it take you to talk him into doing the comparison?"

  He sighed. "About a year and a half. But --"

  "You're convinced that Paul's damaged. That the cloning process somehow altered his DNA. That the doctors mutated him. Isn't that right?"

  "I was only trying to eliminate certain genetic --"

  She slammed her hand on the table surface. "You think he's a freak! You think he's a monster! Isn't that right?"

  "No! I --"

  She slapped him. His cheek stung from the blow.

  They stood in tableau for long moments.

  John said, "I love you, Marie. I love what we have. I've never loved anyone or anything more."

  She dropped her gaze. "You love what we had. But it's gone. It's over. You're only making this harder."

  "Where will you go?"

  "To my sister's. I've already packed a suitcase for Paul and me. I just have to wake him up, and then we'll leave. I'll come back later this week for the rest of our things. It would be best if you weren't here then. Can you arrange to be away from the house Wednesday?"

  Whispering, he said, "Sure."

  "Thank you."

  She walked out of the kitchen. Sounds filtered back to him: her tread on the steps, the creaking of the upstairs floorboards. Within ten minutes, she descended, speaking in a low voice. Paul answered, his voice sleepy and querulous, asking her where they were going. The front door opened and closed.

  Then, silence.

  A dreamlike shock settled over him as he sat at the table, staring at the letter from the clinic. He stayed that way for half an hour.

  He glanced at the clock over the sink and shook himself, blinking. Out of habit, he pulled his handheld from a pocket and made an entry in his journal: