Mother Nature: The Journals of Eleanor O'Kell (22 page)

“Nothing seems to be working,” Abigail Rickover says. “We have no carriers. We’re no closer with the dogs. Our best geneticists want to leave.” I say we’ve only just begun.

“No matter what you say, the Tomgirls are still children,” Nancy says. I say they are physically capable of motherhood without risk. “There’s nothing left to say,” Nancy says.

“More,” Odette says.

December 15, 1988

Luigi died this morning in Diana’s arms, the dutiful wife holding the dutiful husband that he and she could never be in life. There are too many candles in the room to count, the scent so thick I start to choke.

It takes O’Kell money, but Diana gets Luigi buried in sacred ground, at the church cemetery in Southampton, despite his sins. Luigi and the O’Kells always made strange bedfellows, right up until the end.

I call the Tommies together and they jam into the basement of the Cathedral.  First I thank them for their sacrifices, for everything they have done for the Tommies and for The Good Egg. Then I tell them we have reached a precious moment now that the Tomgirls, their daughters, our next generation, are ready to carry our work forward. I say this is what we have been waiting for and working toward all these years in the last town along the canal, the control of our own destiny, without any outsiders telling us what we can or can’t do. For the first time, in a matter of time we will have our own daughters raising our own girls. I ask them what could be better than that. No one, not even Allyson, says a word, because if they did I would bite their heads off. Nancy never even shows up.

Odette wants to do it back to me, to show me what she has learned. I let her do me all she wants, front and back, then I ask her if she wants to be the first. “The first
what
?” she says. She can be so dim.

“You don’t touch me any more,” Nancy says. “You
won’t
touch me. What’s the matter?” Nothing’s the matter, I say. What Nancy doesn’t know about Odette can’t hurt her.

“We have to draw the line somewhere,” Nancy says. Why here? I say. Why now? “We can’t do this to the Tomgirls,” Nancy says. “They’re little girls, for God’s sake. I wouldn’t do that to a dog.”

I meet Diana at The Plaza for lunch. She seems lighter than before, almost lithe, as if with Luigi’s death she has caught her second wind. “G is away at school now,” she says, “and it’s like I’ve got my life back. And I like my life, Eleanor. I
adore
it.” Imagine that, I say.

July 8, 1989

“I can’t stand for it,” Nancy says. “I can’t
stay
for it. I can’t watch you do it to the Tomgirls.” Then you’ll have to leave, I say. But I don’t think she’s going anywhere. How come I don’t care?

“I think you’re going off the deep end, Eleanor,” Nancy says. “I think you need help.” I think you need to leave now, I say.

Just like that, Nancy is gone, all her clothes moved out of the Queen Mother, with no forwarding address left behind. I don’t even care that I don’t care.

“There’s nothing in her room,” Sliv says. “She’s gone, Miss O’K. Clean as a whistle.”

I don’t miss Nancy. To tell the truth, in the end I had no use for her. Love is strange.

Allyson and Heather start chemotherapy for cancer of the ovaries. Soon all their hair will fall out and we will have to shave ours in solidarity. Sisterhood is powerful when misery loves company.

Nancy can yowl all she wants, but there’s nothing illegal about what I’ve done or in what I’m about to do. And it’s too late to stop me now. We will start very slowly, one Tomgirl at a time.

“Look what you’ve done to me!” Allyson pulls the black kerchief from her head. “
Look
!” There’s not much to see. A thin line of dirty gray stubble is all that is left of her eyebrows. Sprigs barely pass for hair on her head. I ask her what she’s driving at. “Have you gone blind?” she says.  Allyson doesn’t look at all like Odette’s mother to me any more. She looks for all the world like a ghost.

“There’s something you should know,” Abigail Rickover says. Oh? I say. “It’s working. We’re on the verge of identifying the vigilance gene in the border collie. We’re about to break through. Some day we’re going to be putting genes in people. ” Praise the Lord, I say, and pass the ammunition.

Odette will be the first among equals, the first Tomgirl to give birth to a girl.  And why not? She will be 16 any minute now.

I am the first to shave my head. Soon we Tommies will all look the same, like light bulbs lit up in solidarity. This is not the time for loose ends. Or for loose lips.

I check the records to inspect the Harvard sperm personally this time. I make my personal selection. Then I make sure the chromosomes are stained just so. Nothing is too good for my Tomgirls.

“I loved Luigi,” Diana says over the phone. Of course you did, I tell her. Love sounds more like
luff
, like the sail of a boat short of wind. Diana sounds dead drunk.

I tell Odette what is going to happen and why. She has been so programmed for so long she sees no reason to say no. “I can’t wait, Big Mother,” she says. There’s no reason to wait any more.

Soon Odette will be with a child by the name of Constance because Constance Briody lives.

“I have been in touch with a lawyer,” Allyson says. “I would urge you
not
to do this. If you do, I am going to fight for my daughter. And my
grand
daughter. It will be war, I promise you, and I will win, because I have nothing to lose.” I tell her to fire when ready.

Odette is admitted to the Lying-In the night before. Allyson tells her
not
to come, but she disobeys her own mother for the sake of Big Mother, for the sake of something bigger than herself.

All is well. Our youngest mother is with child. The next Constance will be coming into the world before you know it. I go with Odette to the Briody & Daughter Bake Shop to celebrate. The Tomgirls crowd around her, touching her tummy as if they could tell the whole story of our immortality with their fingertips. When I ask who wants to be next, every one of them raises their hand. “Me! Pick me, Big Mother!” Revolution is at hand.

“I pity them,” Allyson says. “And I pity
you
.” I tell her she had better leave now. “You will be hearing from my lawyer,” she says. “That’s a promise.” I tell Allyson to give up the ghost.

We are doing at least one every day now in the last town along the canal. It won’t be long before every Tomgirl is pregnant with a girl. Miracles never cease.

“I have a little surprise for you.” Allyson smiles. “It’s about my lawyer. His name is Vincent D’Angelo.” I saw this one coming three moves away. Hair of the dog, I say.

I tell Betsy Bokamper over the phone that Vincent D’Angelo is back in our lives. “He’s a blessing,” she says, “and he’s not even in disguise.”

I see the first swelling of Odette’s beautiful baby, the flatness of her belly  going round and soft with a life of our own making. She sits with her hands  on her stomach, moving her fingertips round and round in small circles. She is singing to our baby girl, humming lullabies that we all know the words to, then cooing hello to what grows inside of her by the second.

The Tomgirls are blossoming before my eyes. They are all with child, with our little baby girls. They are all leaping out of their skins like brilliant sunflowers stretching toward the sun. I wonder what Nancy would say if she could see us now.

“Patience is not a virtue in this field,” Abigail Rickover says. “It’s a necessity.” What are you saying? I say. “I’m saying our work with the vigilance gene is opening the door to our understanding of the very nature of life.” I tell her to give me something I can hang my hat on. “Well,” she says. “How big is the market for immortality?”

We live in a town where The Tommies don’t have a hair left on their heads  because of the chemotherapy
yet all the Tomgirls are full of new life. I haven’t felt so happy in years and years.

“The chemotherapy is working,” Allyson says. “My cancer is in remission.”  That’s wonderful news, I say. “Not for you,” she says.

The sonogram at the Lying-In is all milkiness and chalk, but you can trace the chin and the little arms and legs of little Constance deep inside of Odette to where only shadows survive. I see enough to know there is everything to look forward to. I can almost imagine what it feels like to be a mother.

Me and my precious Tomgirls are doing Lamaze classes together, breathing, breathing,
b-r-e-a-t-h-i-n-g
together, helping each other, holding each other every step of the way.

Allyson may be in remission but Heather looks worse than ever, like the blood has been drained from her body.

I watch as the sexuality of the Tomgirls gives way to motherhood, to something more than self. They like to sit together now, to talk about what’s going on inside of them. We have no need for their sexuality any more, thank God. Sex is just a postcard from an ancient civilization, like a vestigial tail or a third leg.

“I’m beginning to feel like a grandfather around here,” Sliv says. “I’m going to buy me a big fat box of big fat cigars.” I tell him to make sure they say  “It’s a girl!” Sliv stops. “I got just one question, Miss O’K,” he says. “Who the hell’s the father?” I’ll never tell, I tell him.

Odette is in full flower now, her skin as tingly as a sharp slap in the face, her tummy as round and hard as a medicine ball. “There!” she says. She puts my palm above her belly button and I can feel the
kick-kick-KICK
of little Constance Koksher, like this little creature, sight unseen, is fighting for her life. I feel like a mother, like a parent, like I have never felt anything like this before, all of my hopes coming to rest upon this little girl I still know so little about.

I see big round bellies everywhere I look now in the last town along the canal. In the Briody & Daughter Bake Shop, the Tomgirls sit with their hands folded across their stomachs, as if in prayer.

“Stem cells,” Abigail Rickover says. “They’re the key. They already have a kind of immortality to them.” How is that possible? I ask. “They have enough genetic material to create a completely new being from scratch.” Where do I sign? I say.

“No settlement this time,” Vincent D’Angelo says over the phone. I tell him he’s a one-trick pony who can’t prove a thing. He says not to bet on it.

December 13, 1990

I walk into the hospital too late and Allyson is already holding the baby.  Odette, still in bed, starts to cry in big gulping tears. “I’m sorry, Big  Mother,” Odette says. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did wrong.” What do you mean? “Meet
Eugene
Koksher,” Allyson smiles. “It’s a
boy
!”

December 14, 1990

I tell Dr. Gloria Mayer to keep the baby in the hospital for observation. “But Miss O’Kell,” she says. “This baby is healthy as a horse.” Better safe than sorry, I say.

December 15, 1990

“We’re calling him ‘Eugene.’” Allyson laughs in my face. “In your honor.”

December 16, 1990

Odette is suckling her son when I go with Allyson out into the hall. “I guess you’re not God after all,” Allyson says. I tell her not to be so sure.

December 17, 1990

It is so easy to slip inside the glass room at night when the baby is sleeping, to pinch his nose just so and to cover his mouth just long enough for the lights to go out. But a nurse sees me and comes running as I run out the other door.

December 17, 1990

I go to the Lying-In to look at the baby under glass and it’s gone. Where is the baby? I say to a nurse with a clipboard. “Which baby would that be, Miss O’Kell?” she says.
My
baby, you idiot! I say. Koksher.
Eugene
Koksher. “Begging your pardon, Miss O’Kell,” the nurse says. “Odette and her mother took that boy home this morning.” I go to their home with Sliv in case I have to be persuasive. But it’s too late. We tear the house upside down. But they’re long gone.

December 23, 1990

A postcard of the last town along the canal from Allyson, from an airport. “I always loved you, Eleanor,” she writes. “So did Odette. Can you even remember the first thing about love?” She signs it for both of them, and for Eugene.

December 24, 1990

“I know people from the service who know how to find people,” Sliv says. “I can find those two, Miss O’K. Just give the word and I talk to my people.” I say there are plenty more where they came from.

I thought I was too old for my heart to break.

I will never play favorites again. I will never let my feelings get in the way of what I need to do for The Tommies.

I order ultrasound for all the Tomgirls. It’s never too late to know the truth.

“I can’t be sure,” Dr. Gloria Mayer says. You’re the head of pediatrics at the Lying-In, I say. How can
you
not be sure. “Looking at a sonogram,” she says, “is like looking at a bad black-and-white picture that’s out of focus.” I want to know the truth. “The truth, Miss O’Kell? The truth is you’ve got a mixed litter. At best.”

“I’m not a medical doctor,” Abigail Rickover says. “But I know you can’t abort them now. It’s too late.” What if you were trying to save the life of the mother? “That’s more complicated,” she says.

February 22, 1991

I go to the Lying-In. I think the mothers are in danger, I say to Dr. Gloria Mayer. “What are you saying?” I’m saying baby boys are
not
acceptable in this town. “To whom?” she says.  Let me spell it out for you, I say. “Save your breath,” she says.

Dr. Gloria Mayer’s letter of resignation is on my desk.

Two of our Tomgirls go into labor tonight. It’s too late to escape my fate.

They’re
boys, almost every damn one of them, as if the Cushing genes will settle for nothing less. I can almost hear Thomas Cushing & Sons laughing, as though the whole thing has been nothing but their cosmic joke. “I’m so sorry, Big Mother,” one of the Tomgirls tells me. “I don’t know what went wrong. Nobody does.” Abigail Rickover says statistically we did everything
right
. “This is an impossibility,” she says. “An act of God.”

It’s like someone kicked me in the gut, like I have been led down this road on purpose for the purpose of my own humiliation. I don’t know what to do with the Cushing boys, these Cushing
sons
. I won’t touch them. I can’t even look at them. The Tommies can’t carry any more children to term. The Tomgirls produce mainly boys. The Good Egg is out of eggs. My best-laid plans could not have come out worse. All I want to do right now is to lick my wounds.