Fatherless: A Novel (7 page)

“I don’t
like it,” Troy whispered into his friend’s ear. “Near as I can figure, you’ll start with a five-stroke handicap. Maybe more.”

Only seven of the twelve other faces in the room looked familiar to Kevin Tolbert, many of them rising stars in other congressional
regions. Like Kevin, each had been invited to join the closed-door session of Senator Franklin’s austerity coalition in an
effort to stack the political deck in favor of whatever recommendations emerged. All of them were strong fiscal conservatives
who had voted to support phase one of the president’s agenda. None of them would be easily convinced.

He also recognized Trisha. Who didn’t? Every bit as striking as her magazine cover shots, Trisha Sayers seemed out of place
at any gathering of corporate and congressional titans. But she qualified, especially since trading her “Trisha Delisha” pop-icon
status to launch what had become the nation’s leading chain of fashion outlet stores. It only elevated her first-name-only renown,
especially among women who admired the model-turned-recording-artist-turned-retail-entrepreneur. They spent hundreds of millions
annually to mimic her empowering, form-fitted beauty at an affordable price. Six years earlier Trisha had given the president
credibility among female voters when she endorsed his campaign. She remained a favorite face of the new, trendier conservative
movement.

“I’ll give you ten to one Franklin uses Trisha as press liaison for this coalition,” Troy said softly, clearly troubled by
the prospect.

Kevin nodded silently. Despite his concern, he had to admire the senator’s political savvy. “She’s definitely easy on the
eyes,” he quipped. “Let’s just hope she goes easy on our proposals.”

“Don’t count on it.” Troy handed Kevin a tablet containing his presentation slides and a page with a short bio on every attendee,
complete with photos he could use to connect faces to competing agendas.

The host called the meeting to order as Troy spotted a seat behind Kevin reserved for support staff and aides. He patted his
friend on the shoulder. “Make us proud, Congressman.”

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” Brent Anderson began. “I’d like to once again thank you for accepting our invitation to help
tackle some pretty big issues in a very short time frame.”

Anderson had been the senator’s most important companion since their corporate days, long before Franklin had pursued his
first public office. The architect of the SLASH application, Anderson proudly wore his corresponding nickname,
the Scalpel
. He had proven himself capable of cutting through government fat to find substantial savings. As chairman of the austerity
coalition, Anderson would bring the same tough-minded tenacity to finding proactive strategies to present when revised budget
projections went public. With less than two weeks to go, he hoped to solidify agreement on the most promising proposals first.

“I’m going to assume you have all read the executive summary sent out yesterday,” Anderson continued. “We won’t take time
to review the agenda other than to emphasize our goal of identifying big-boulder opportunities.”

Kevin liked Anderson’s style. Jump right to the bottom line to avoid wasting time. Why mess with a hundred pebbles and miss
the two or three large rocks?

The agenda listed several fast-fire presentations. Each had been allocated fifteen minutes to summarize the big idea and another
fifteen for group discussion. Over the next four hours members of the coalition would present, debate, and rank the most promising
options. Kevin was up first.

“Congressman Tolbert.” The terse introduction started the clock.

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson,” Kevin began. “I appreciate the opportunity to present ideas that should, in my opinion, inform
any solutions we propose.”

With a swipe of his hand Kevin’s first slide appeared on a transparent board behind him. Across the bottom of a graph ran
a sequence of decade markers starting with 1950.

“This chart shows population trends in China over the past century.”

Brent Anderson rose to his feet. “Mr. Tolbert, a reminder that each presentation must be short. Are you sure you want to waste
part of yours talking about China? They aren’t our challenge at the moment.”

“But they are an important reference point, Mr. Anderson,” Kevin said. “Their economy is in a free fall after decades of rapid
expansion. Their decline will shed light on our own.”

“Very well.”

“The black line tracks population. You’ll notice a gradual leveling off that started in 2022, about two parenting cycles after
China implemented the most far-reaching population control measures ever devised. Fears over feeding their massive populace
led to policies that created a very different problem.”

Another wave of Kevin’s hand caused a second line to appear.

“The green line shows total gross domestic product for China by decade. We see a bubble of growth from about 1995 through
2017 as they took advantage of lower dependency ratios. With one child per couple, women entered the workforce like never
before, dramatically expanding their economy. They grew at lightning speed, for a while. As you know, that growth slowed and
then stopped about fifteen years after their population peak. They’ve been shrinking ever since.”

A third line appeared.

“This blue line shows the percentage of the Chinese population over the age of seventy, the highest ever recorded. The low
dependency ratio that had been fueling growth turned on its head. Instead of one dependent child per couple, they now have
two dependent parents per child. They find themselves paying the piper for the decades spent making money instead of raising
kids. Today they don’t have enough young adults to fuel an economic engine pulling a pretty heavy load of nonworking passengers
named Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa.”

A sequence of identically shaped graphs with similar trend lines appeared on the screen in rapid succession, each with a different
title:

“As you can see,” Kevin explained as the series of charts continued, “every other developed nation in the world has been experiencing
the same phenomena thanks to a combination of declining fertility and senior longevity.”

The dominos stopped on a graph labeled
USA
. “And we now find ourselves in the same situation. The black line reflects actual and projected population in the United
States as reported by the Census Bureau since World War Two.” A consistent but decelerating climb, from a 1950 start of one
hundred and fifty million to a 2050 peak of four hundred million. “As you know, we will never reach the growth levels predicted
in 2030, leading us to our present financial crisis. This year marks the first year we will see net population decline. Based
upon current trends, our pool of working-age adults will continue to shrink.”

Kevin looked at the clock. Five of his fifteen minutes had passed and he had said nothing the group didn’t already know. He
hurried on.

“We looked beneath the surface of the data hoping to find bright spots in this overall cloudy picture.” A color-coded map
of the United States appeared, various regions bearing different shades of red toward light pink. A few appeared in pure white.

“What do the circled white regions represent?” asked someone seated to Kevin’s left.

“I’m glad you asked, Mr. McGurn,” Kevin replied after a quick glance at Troy’s pictorial cheat sheet. “We call them bright
spots. They are subregions of the country that show consistent economic growth even during down cycles. Our goal was to identify
any common characteristics as a shortcut to finding effective turnaround strategies.”

“Did you?”

“We did. Two.” Kevin looked at Troy, who offered a slight nod of affirmation. The moment of truth had arrived. In the next
five minutes Kevin would make the most important and risky pitch of his political career.

Troy jumped to his feet to distribute twelve copies of the supporting research document as Kevin advanced to his next slide.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the regions with the strongest and most consistent economic output share two simple characteristics.”

Kevin swallowed hard.

“First, they have much higher rates of fertility, more than twice the national average.” Kevin paused to let one unlikely
reality settle before revealing a second.

Here goes
, he thought.

“They also have the fewest transition volunteers.”

At that moment, every bit of oxygen left the room.

“Thank you
both for seeing me.” Angie’s voice was slightly higher than usual, anxiety restricting her vocal cords. “I didn’t know who
else to call.”

The pastor’s wife, Talia, moved toward their nervous guest to offer a reaffirming embrace. Angie clung possessively to the
elegant, dark-skinned woman. After a few seconds, she released her hostess with a blush. It was not the kind of first impression
Angie had intended to make.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I needed that more than I knew.”

“Please, don’t apologize.” Both women looked at Reverend Mubar, the white of his smile lifting the mood. “We’re glad you came.”

The pastor spoke with the faint echo of an accent neither Kevin nor Angie had been able to peg despite six months of competitive
speculation. His light ebony complexion and deliberately articulate vocabulary suggested childhood immigration from an African
state. Kevin had guessed Uganda while Angie supposed Ethiopia. Both assumed Reverend Mubar had come to the United States between
the ages of seven and nine, since his speech retained scant traces of his mother tongue.

The minister ushered his wife and Angie toward the counseling section of his office. Angie accepted one of two chairs opposite
the sofa positioned behind a glass coffee table displaying an assortment of scones next to a small teapot with matching cups
on saucers. The presence of delicate china made Angie even more grateful the pastor’s assistant had offered to occupy the
children in the nursery during the session.

Talia sat beside her husband and began pouring tea. Angie watched quietly, wondering how to begin. She had never met with
the pastor before and wondered why his wife had joined the discussion. She took a small sip of tea while wondering who should
speak first.

“I hope you don’t mind that I invited my wife to sit with us,” Pastor Mubar said, breaking the silence. “Talia joins me whenever
I meet with a female parishioner.”

“Not at all.” In truth, Talia’s presence comforted Angie. “That seems like a wise policy.”

“It protects everyone. Besides, the Scriptures tell the older women to instruct the younger. I know I’m not qualified.” He
gave himself a slight courtesy laugh.

“Who are you calling old?” Talia winked while flashing a playful smile that further lightened the mood. The pastor’s wife
had no discernable accent. Perhaps the northern Midwest? Chicago? Or Detroit? Probably in her late thirties, Talia Mubar did
not seem much older than Angie.

“Reverend Mubar, can I ask a personal question?”

“Please, call me Seth,” he corrected.

“My husband Kevin and I have been attending Apostles’ Church since moving to DC. We both love your teaching ministry.” She
paused to let the compliment sink in before asking him to resolve a trivial dispute. “But we have a running debate over your
background. Were you born in America?”

Seth chuckled at a question he seemed to have answered many times before. “My parents immigrated from Egypt to the United
States when I was seven years old. My father was a civil engineer until he fled during what they now call the Arab Spring.”

“Fled from what?” Angie wondered aloud.

“My parents belonged to the Egypt Orthodox Church, which made them second-class citizens amid the Muslim majority. After the
revolution my father feared things would become much worse for believers in Egypt. He wanted to give my sister and me a better
life, so he came to America. If you know anything about the plight of Christians in Egypt today, you will understand why I
remain very grateful.”

“Egypt Orthodox. Is that like our church?”

“Yes and no. They don’t have many Protestants in Egypt. Most believers attend either a Coptic or Orthodox church where they
use ancient liturgies few in America would recognize. But we affirm the same basic creeds defended by the early Church fathers.”

Angie nodded politely at matters far removed from her present concern.

“But that’s enough about my background,” Seth said. “Let’s talk about your situation.”

Placing her saucer and cup on the table, Angie took a deep breath in preparation for her dive.

“Two days ago my husband and I met with our daughter Leah’s pediatrician.” The doctor’s accusing face invaded her memory,
stirring defensive feelings she thought had been purged. “We learned that our baby’s genetic profile revealed irregularities.”

Seth gave Talia a knowing glance.

Angie’s voice broke as she spoke the words aloud for the first time. “She told us Leah has something called fragile X syndrome.
It’s a rare disorder that causes physical and mental—”

“We know the disorder,” Seth interrupted. “A former member of Apostles’ Church had it also.”

For a brief moment Angie felt less alone. “Former member?”

“Yes. She died shortly after her mother. A very sad situation.” Seth assumed a reflective posture. “Between genetic screening
and transitions very few believers ever meet a disabled individual, let alone serve one.”

Angie continued. “Our doctor asked why we skipped the genetic screening process before Leah’s conception.” Her head fell as
if she had exposed a mortal sin.

Angie’s eyes darted between her two confessors in anticipation of condemning glares. To her surprise, both glowed like parents
genuinely pleased by a child’s Crayola mess.

“I felt—” Angie began.

“She made you feel foolish?” Talia asked.

Angie nodded. “And irresponsible. The doctor said the only parents who skip the genetic screening process are religious extremists.”

Seth started to speak, but Talia squeezed his leg in pain-inducing punishment. He obediently bit his tongue to let Angie continue.

“We’ve never considered ourselves to be extremists.” She was trying to convince herself. “We just never felt comfortable with
the whole designer-baby thing. Now I’m not so sure.”

Talia loosened the grip on Seth’s leg, releasing his tongue.

“You are extreme.” Talia’s grip clamped again. Seth’s reaction struck Angie as funny, causing her to smile at the couple’s
wordless banter.

“I mean to say, most people will consider your choice extreme.” He removed Talia’s hand in self-defense. “Even most of the
people who attend this church opt for genetic screening. No one seems to question the procedure since it’s become the new
normal.”

Angie felt abnormal. She recalled the label
blind conception
to mock mothers who rejected prescreening, mothers who wanted to conceive babies through the beauty of intimate passion with
their husbands rather than the clinical proficiency of in vitro selection.

“But normal is not the same as good,” Seth continued. “Or heroic.”

Angie reacted with curious surprise. “Heroic?”

“Angie, sweetheart.” Talia took over. “Describe what you felt the moment you learned something was wrong with your little
girl.”

Angie remembered the call from the pediatrician’s office insisting Kevin attend Leah’s genetic profile appointment. “I was
terrified.”

“I bet you held Leah extra tight that evening,” Talia continued.

She had.

“I imagine you felt an intense urge to protect her, even though you had no idea what you needed to protect her from.”

A single tear on Angie’s cheek confirmed the suggestion.

“Did you resent Leah?”

The question jolted Angie. “Resent Leah? Why would I resent her?”

“She’ll be a major burden to you and your family,” Seth interjected.

“But that isn’t her fault.”

“Whose fault is it?” he asked.

“Nobody’s. Maybe mine. But certainly not hers,” Angie said with indignation.

“How about God?” Not a question she had expected from her pastor. “Shouldn’t he have protected Leah from disability? Protected
you from this burden?”

No one spoke as the interrogation served its purpose.

“Your heart yearns to protect your daughter,” Seth explained. “You defend her instead of resent her, accept her as a gift
instead of criticize God for a faulty design.”

Talia moved from the sofa to kneel beside Angie’s chair and placed her dark fingers onto Angie’s milky-white arm. “In a world
that treats human life like a commodity to use and discard, many would call you extreme. Extremely heroic.”

After a therapeutic sob, Angie gratefully accepted her second cup of tea and a cinnamon-almond scone. Her appetite finally
released from days of stomach knots, the simple pleasure seemed a soothing tonic to her soul. So were the pastor’s words.

“The Christian faith views children as a gift from the Lord. It understands that every human being is made in the image of
God himself and so has inherent worth and dignity. Leah’s value isn’t based upon her capacity to make money, enter the Olympics,
or win glamour pageants. Although I know she’s a beautiful baby.”

Angie felt her heart swell.

“She has infinite value because she reflects the image of her maker. Just like your other two children, Leah is a masterpiece
in God’s gallery of family portraits. He reveals part of himself through every child or adult who has ever received his breath
of life.”

Seth drank from his cup as his wife read Angie’s face. More needed to be said.

Talia jumped in. “But Leah will be a tremendous amount of work and expense to raise. She might cause embarrassment when you
take her out in public. She may become a source of tension in your marriage. You’ve already seen how some people will react,
questioning the wisdom of your choice.”

Seth appeared agitated at his wife’s negativity. But Angie understood. Mothers need more than inspiring truth. They must brace
themselves for hard realities.

“Your daughter will be called a debit,” Talia continued as Seth visibly reacted to her offensive slang. “Leah will never fit
in. She’ll always be seen as an expensive burden and as damaged goods. You and Kevin will ask why this had to happen to your
child, why it invaded the life you imagined for yourself.”

They were Angie’s very thoughts. Unspoken. Stifled. Guilt-ridden.

Seth could no longer remain silent. “Angie, we don’t know why bad things happen to good people. We live in a fallen world
that includes a whole lot of sickness, death, and heartache, but very few answers.”

“I know.”

“All I can tell you is that you and Kevin made the right choice by becoming tools in the artist’s hands. Now comes the hard
work of putting God’s little masterpiece on display.”

A noise caused Angie to turn.

“I’m sorry, Pastor.” It was his assistant peering through the door. “I hate to interrupt. But I think someone needs her mommy.”

Angie heard Leah’s whimper of discontent. The sound intensified the pain in her breasts. Feeding time had passed.

“I should probably go,” Angie said as she placed her empty teacup beside the plate containing the remains of a scone. “There’s
nothing damaged about her hunger clock. Every bit as inconvenient as Tommy’s or Joy’s was.”

Accepting Leah into her arms, Angie cradled her daughter with a gentle swinging motion. An immediate tranquility overtook
both child and mother.

Seth and Talia leaned back on the sofa, quietly observing the holy reunion.