IGMS Issue 8 (8 page)

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 try 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 dropped 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:

September 14, 2031

All for nothing. The letter says there is no difference between Steven's and Paul's DNA. My son looks at me with Steven's eyes, but he's a stranger who hates me. My wife tells me she doesn't love me anymore. My life is shattered. And Dr. Aiken says no difference. It was all for nothing.

His hands shook as he wrote. Tears threatened. He fought them down.

Lab tests aren't infallible. The samples could have been mislabeled. Or maybe the equipment isn't sensitive enough to detect some subtle difference. Or maybe he just lied to me to avoid a malpractice lawsuit. If so, he's going to regret it. I'll have the tests run again by someone else. I can --

He got no further. Blinding tears flooded his eyes. He buried his face in his hands as racking sobs consumed him.