Shivers 7 (8 page)

She went on, “Then there’s David’s welfare to consider. What happens to him when I die? I’ve made plenty of money, but he has special needs. I can’t put the money into a trust for him, or even open a bank account for him because, as far as the outside world is concerned,
he doesn’t exist.
”

She sighed. “If there were only someone I could trust to look after him when I’m gone… It wouldn’t be difficult. He’s so undemanding. Of course, if the two were tied in together—unofficially, of course—the running of the business, caring for my son—I’ve always known that I couldn’t pass it on to him, but as long as he benefits from my success, I’d be happy.” She gave me a look I’d never expected or imagined to see from my boss, the famously powerful, self-sufficient Florida McAfee, a look that was anxious and hopeful and almost pleading.

I said, “I’d like to meet this son of yours.”

* * *

We both made calls to reschedule our afternoons. It took her longer than me, not because she had more scheduled, but because her personal assistant was still very new to the job, and needed to be talked through it all. The woman who’d worked for her in that capacity for over a decade had left a few months earlier, to start a new life in Australia after coming into an unexpected inheritance or winning some lottery—I wasn’t sure of the exact details, just that she was now rich and somewhere far away.

When we were done, Florida’s driver took us to her house in Holland Park. The journey passed without conversation; she was busy with her iPhone, and I was too nervous to speak. This was a first for me, and I’d never heard of anyone being invited to her home. When she entertained, she rented some appropriate venue, a nightclub in central London or a villa in Italy.

The house was smaller than I’d expected, just an ordinary house on a quiet street. After entering, she took me straight upstairs.

The room behind the locked door was small, no bigger than my own walk-in wardrobe, kitted out like a home office with built-in shelves, desk and filing cabinet. But this was only a front: as she explained, “I was afraid that I might get a cleaner for whom a locked door was just too tempting to resist. And the more difficult I made the lock, the more likely it would seem there was something worth stealing, worth gossiping about, and attracting the attention of burglars.”

She pulled out a book in the middle of the third shelf down, revealing an electronic keypad. She keyed in a number and the bookshelf-wall opened to reveal a bedroom.

There was a window, on the back wall, curtains open, letting in the soft light of late afternoon. If a burglar had looked in, he’d see a few things worth stealing, although they were no more than the electronic goodies any reasonably well-off young man might own: the sleek laptop, the iPod in a Bose docking system. But if he saw those things, he’d also see their owner, stretched out, fully clothed, on top of the bed, as if asleep. It would take a little while, or a much closer inspection, to recognize the sleeper as a dead man.

“David,” said Florida, in a peculiarly gentle voice I’d never heard her use before. “Darling, I’ve brought someone to meet you. I’ve told you about her. It’s Leslie…you remember, I’ve told you about the clever girl I put in charge of R&D?”

Part of me wanted to turn and run like hell. And if I had, I have no doubt there would have been a handsome severance package in my near future, and maybe that would have been just the spur I needed to get out and start up my own company, although it’s likely there would have been some sort of non-competition clause to encourage me to go to New Zealand or Canada, or at least far enough from London so Florida wouldn’t have to see my face again.

But I was curious. I had to see him for myself, had to confront Florida’s secret. I would have to stare down at his closed, handsome face, and touch his cool skin; hold his unresponsive hand in mine; spend time with him, trying to know him, to figure out who he was and what was meant by his existence.

Later, in the weeks and months to come, Florida answered my questions as best she could, as she described her attempts to be a good mother to a child who could not respond, but she could never explain the mystery of their relationship to my satisfaction. Unlike David, I kept asking for more.

But she didn’t mind. My questions, my refusal to go away, confirmed that she’d been right in her choice, and that both her business and her son would be safe with me. Just as, in the past, she’d bought him new clothes when he outgrew the old ones, bought him toys and games and books and music, trying to give him what every boy should have, redecorating his room every few years so that it better reflected his age, and filling it with all the latest things, all the treasures she had purchased, as if they were offerings left in the tomb of a young prince, now she had brought him her final gift, me.

Reader, I married him.

The Baby Store

Ed Gorman

“You know how sorry we all are, Kevin,” Miles Green said, sliding his arm around Kevin McKay’s shoulder and taking his right hand for a manly shake. “It’s going to be rough and we know it. So any time you need some time away, take it. No questions asked. You know?”

“I really appreciate it, Miles. And so does Jen. Everybody here has just been so helpful to us.”

Miles smiled. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to give us lawyers a good reputation, Kevin.” He checked the top of his left hand where the holo was embedded. “Time for me to head out for LA. The rocket leaves in three hours.”

The Miles incident had occurred at the top of the day, just as Kevin had been about to settle himself into his desk chair for the first time in two months. The firm of Green, Hannigan & Stortz had been generous indeed with one of its youngest and most aggressive lawyers.

By day’s end Kevin had been consoled by fourteen different members of the staff, from the paralegals to the executive secretaries to the firm’s reigning asshole, Frank Hannigan himself.

Hannigan said: “I know Miles told you to take all the time you need. But if you want my advice, Kevin, you’ll get back in the game and start kicking some ass. And not just for the sake of your bonus this December. But for your mental health. You’re a gladiator the same as I am. The battle is what keeps you sane.” Hannigan frequently spoke in ways this embarrassing.

As Kevin was leaving the office, he heard a brief burst of applause coming from one of the conference rooms. As he passed the open door, David Stortz waved him in. “C’mon in and celebrate with us, Kevin. My son just graduated at the top of his class at his prep school.”

Reluctant as he was to listen to even ten minutes of Stortz’s bragging, Kevin stepped into the room and took a seat.

Stortz, a balding enthusiastic man with dark eyes that never smiled, said, “This is quite a week for this firm, I’d say. Phil’s son jumped from second grade to fourth after taking a special test. Irene’s daughter wrote a paper on George Gershwin that’s going to be published. And now my boy is at the top of his class.”

The people Stortz had cited were sitting around the conference table, pleased to be congratulated by one of the firm’s founders.

No one seemed to understand that inviting Kevin in to hear people bragging on their children was a bit insensitive given what had happened to him and his wife. But then nothing ever seemed to deter the lawyers here from bragging on their kids.

More than winning cases, more than accruing wealth, more than performing as talking heads on the vidd networks, the greatest pleasure for these men and women came from congratulating themselves on how well they’d designed their children at Generations or what the populist press disdainfully called “The Baby Store.” Of course it wasn’t just this law firm. Designer children had become status symbols for the upper classes. An attractive, bright child obviously destined to become an important citizen was now the most important possession you could boast of.

These parents were unfazed by the media criticism that insisted that the wealthy and powerful were creating a master race by genetically engineering their progeny. After all, as Miles had once said, “You design the child yourself. And it’s no sure thing. Every once in a while somebody designs a dud.”

Kevin was able to leave before the liquor appeared. It would be a long one. Six fathers and mothers bragging on their children took some time.

* * *

“May I help you, Sir?”

Only up close did the woman show even vague evidence of her actual age. The plastic surgery, probably multiple surgeries in fact, had been masterful. In her emerald-colored, form-fitting dress, with her perfectly fraudulent red hair, she looked both erotic and efficient.

“Just looking, really.”

“Some very nice ones. And feel free to read their biographies. Some of them are pretty amazing.”

“I don’t have much time today. I think I’ll just look at the holos.”

“Fine.” A smile that would have seduced a eunuch. “I’ll just let you look. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

He spent equal time with male and female holos. They were all so perfect they began to lose individuality after a time. As Stortz said, people did, of course, design duds. The looks didn’t turn out quite right; the intelligence wasn’t impressive or even, sometimes, adequate; and then there were personality flaws, sometimes profound. Most of these problems resulted from parents who wouldn’t listen to the advice of the scientists and programmers. But their arrogance could be tragic.

Given what had happened, he settled on looking at the girls. These were finished products, used to guide the buyer in creating their own girls. He was particularly taken with a dark-haired girl of sixteen whose fetching face was as imposing as the amused intelligence that played in her blue-eyed gaze. Yes, good looks—and intelligence. Requisites for a leadership role later on.

He doted on the girl, imagining the kind of boasting you could do in a session like the one he’d just left. Even up against the likes of Stortz and the others, this girl would undoubtedly triumph. Whoever had designed her obviously had known exactly what they were doing.

But then it was time to catch the bullet train home. Soft summer suburban night awaited. He just hoped Jen was free of her depression, at least for a few hours.

* * *

He was never sure how to characterize the sounds she made—“crying” was too little but then “sobbing” was probably too much. He usually settled for “weeping.”

She was weeping when he got home that night. He went upstairs immediately to knock softly on the door of the master bedroom. “Is there anything I can do, honey?” he asked as he’d asked every night since the death of their five-year-old son three months ago.

“Just please leave me alone, Kevin,” she said between choked tears. “Just please leave me alone.” Even given the loss they’d suffered, could this tragedy alone fuel so many endless days of bitter sobbing sorrow?

Dinner alone. By now he was used to it. An hour or so in front of the vidd with a few drinks. And then bringing her a tray of food. Otherwise she wouldn’t eat. He’d come to think of all this reasonably enough as The Ritual.

After eating—she’d lost fifteen pounds from an already thin lovely body—Jen usually went into the bathroom and showered for bed. Afterward was when they talked.

“Somebody at the office told me about a very good doctor. Very good with depression.”

“Please, Kevin. No more shrinks. I couldn’t take another one.”

“I wish you’d take the meds.”

“The headaches they give me are worse than the depression.”

Sometimes he wondered if she wasn’t purposely punishing herself. Maybe her depression was her way of dealing with what she’d saw as her negligence in the death of Kevin, Jr.

“You know the doctor said he’d never heard of anybody getting headaches from this particular med.”

“That’s what I mean about doctors. They say things like that all the time?
They
don’t take the drugs.
We
do. We’re their guinea pigs. And when we complain about something, they tell us we’re just imagining it.”

And so on.

The best part of the night was when she lay in his arms in the darkness, responding finally to his patience and kindness, trusting him once more as she had always trusted him in their young marriage. Sometimes they made love; sometimes the day-long siege of depression and tears had left her too shattered to do much more than lie next to him.

Tonight he was afraid. He didn’t know if he should tell her what he’d done or not. He certainly didn’t want to set her off. But maybe the idea would appeal to her. Maybe she was ready now to talk about the rest of their lives. Maybe a talk like this was exactly what she needed to hear to make her forget—

He’d tell her about his impulsive visit to the Baby Store and—

But then he smiled to himself for there, her regal blonde head on his shoulder, came the soft sweet sounds of her child-like snoring.

* * *

In the next few weeks he visited the Baby Store three times after work. On the second visit he asked if he could visit with one of the consultants. He kept assuring the doctor that he was only asking questions while he waited for his train. The doctor kept assuring him in turn that he understood that quite well.

On the third visit, his words seeming to come unbidden, Kevin explained how our-five-year-old Kevin, Jr. had drowned in the small lake that ran very near the front porch of their summer cottage and how Jen blamed herself for it. She’d been on the phone when he walked into the water. Kevin had been in the backyard dealing with some particularly aggravating gopher holes.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with kind blue eyes, said, “It’s especially traumatic when you lose a child you designed yourself. It’s a double loss.”

“I guess I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right. And we spent so much time making sure he’d be just right.”

The doctor, whose name was Carmody, spoke gently. “I know why you’re coming here, Kevin. And I think you’ve got the right idea. But what you’re worried about is convincing your wife.”

Kevin smiled. “You’re a mind reader, too.”

“Oh, no. It’s just that I’ve been through this process with a number of people over the years. Something unfortunate happens to the child they’ve designed and they’re not sure if they can deal with designing another one.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right.”

“Usually the man is the one who suggests it. The woman is too lost in her grief. And he knows that she won’t like the idea at all. Not at first. And her feeling is perfectly natural. You’ll both feel guilty about designing another child. Kevin, Jr. is dead and here you are going on with your lives—and replacing him.”

“I’m already feeling guilty. But I think that’s what we both need. A new child. While we’re still in our early thirties. With our lives still ahead of us.”

Dr. Carmody nodded. “But it won’t be easy. She’ll resist. She’ll probably even get very angry. And she’ll feel even more isolated than she does now. She’ll think you don’t understand her mourning at all.”

“So maybe I shouldn’t suggest it?”

“Not at all, Kevin. All I’m saying is that you should prepare yourself for some very heated discussions. Very heated.”

* * *

“I don’t know how you could even
think
about another child now,” Jen said at dinner that night. “We loved him so much. It’s not like buying a new pair of shoes or something.”

“Honey, all I said was that it’s something to think about. You’re so sad all the time—”

“And you aren’t?”

“I guess I don’t have
time
to be sad most of the time. I’m always rushing around with work and—” He knew he’d said the wrong insensitive thing. He eased his hand across the candlelit dinner that the caterers had prepared so nicely. He’d wanted the right mood to even raise the subject. He knew that convincing her was somewhere in the future. “Why do you think I don’t sleep well? I’m thinking about Kevin, Jr.”

By the look in her blue eyes he could see that he’d rescued himself. And what he’d said hadn’t been untrue. He couldn’t sleep well these nights. And a good deal of the time during those uneasy hours, he thought of his son, his dead son.

“I don’t even want to talk about it now,” she said. “Or think about it.” Her smile surprised him. One of the old Jen smiles, so girlishly erotic. “Tonight I want us to drink all three bottles of wine and just be silly. It’s been a while since we’ve been silly.”

He slid his hand over hers, touching it with great reverence. His one and only love. He missed her. The old her. “Well, if you want silly, Madame, you’ve come to the right guy. Nobody’s sillier than I am.”

And they toasted his silliness. In fact, before they managed to stagger into bed and have some of that old-time sex of theirs, they’d toasted a good many things. And every one of them had been silly. Very, very silly.

* * *

Then came the day when he got home from work and found Jen’s personal holo filled with images of children from the Baby Store. Jen often forgot to turn the holo to FADE when she was done with it. His first inclination was to rush up the stairs to the exercise room and congratulate her for beginning to show interest in designing another child. But then he realized it would be better to let her interest grow at its own pace.

He was disappointed that she didn’t mention the holo that night at dinner. But the fact that she’d come down to dinner at all told him that old Jen hadn’t been lost to him after all. The old Jen was slowly returning to the shining presence he loved so much.

She didn’t mention anything about the holo—or subsequent viewings of the Baby Store holos—for the next eight evening meals. And when she brought it up the reference was oblique: “Sometimes it’s so quiet here during the day. Bad quiet, I mean, not good quiet.”

It had rarely been quiet when Kevin, Jr. had been alive.

* * *

Dr. Carmody said, “I think a little nudge might be appropriate here, Mr. McKay.”

“What kind of nudge, Dr. Carmody?”

“Oh, nothing confrontational. Nothing like that. In fact, something pleasant. I had a patient who was having a difficult time getting her husband to come in. They’d only recently come into some money and her husband still had some of his old attitudes about designer babies from the days when he’d been so well off. But she surprised him. Invited him to his favorite restaurant, which just happened to be near her, and after the meal she just happened to steer him in our direction—and four days later, he came in and signed the papers and started creating not one but two children. Twins.”

“Well, one of Jen’s favorite restaurants is near here, too. We go there for our anniversary every year.”

“When’s your next anniversary?”

“Two weeks from tomorrow.”

Dr. Carmody smiled his Dr. Carmody smile. “That’s not very far off, is it?”

* * *

She was late getting into the city and for a frantic half hour Kevin was afraid that Jen had known that this would be more than an anniversary dinner. He couldn’t contact her on her comm, either. Maybe she’d decided not to meet him. Maybe she was in the bedroom, weeping as she once had. He stood on their street corner lost in the chill April dusk and the shadow crowds racing to the trains and the freeways.