Fatherless: A Novel (6 page)

A haggard
woman looked up slowly from her screen at the same impatient man standing in front of her receptionist window. “Once again,
Mr. Tolbert, we will call your name when the doctor is available to see you.”

For the third time in an hour, Kevin returned to the waiting room chair beside his wife Angie. Neither his charm nor his influence
could overcome the reality of physician shortages that had turned doctor visits into an all-day outing.

“Welcome to my world,” Angie said, gently poking her husband in the side. “You’ll just need to learn some patience, Mr. Congressman.”

It was a virtue Kevin had rarely required. He had grown accustomed to making things happen quickly, squeezing a two-year MBA
program into eighteen months, acquiring and selling three successful businesses before turning thirty, and winning national
office after a single campaign. Like a driver hitting a dozen consecutive green lights, he had almost forgotten how to use
the brakes.

“I don’t do patience well,” Kevin reminded his wife needlessly. “Is it always like this?”

“No.” Angie smiled feebly. “Only on the rare occasions I can actually get an appointment.”

The door opened and a nurse holding a tablet read the next name. A woman on the other side of the room gratefully lifted her
hand like a schoolgirl timidly seeking permission to use the restroom. Moving an infant from her lap to her shoulder, the
mother inched through the door as Kevin watched the light once again turn red.

Kevin noticed Angie looking down at Leah, who was still sleeping in her carrying seat. He could sense the anxiety she had
shelved long enough to ready the other kids for their playdate at a friend’s house. Angie had apparently used the sudden quiet
to indulge another fear.

“Do you hear a difference in Leah’s cough?” she asked hesitantly. “It seems deeper than I remember in Tommy or Joy.”

“Angie,” Kevin answered in the kindest tone he could muster, “we agreed to avoid speculation until we know something.” She
had never actually agreed, only adjusted herself to his inability to talk about the one thing that had been on her mind for
the past four days.

In truth, the same questions tormented them both.

He felt she needed a new distraction. “Troy sent me an interesting analysis of the census data. I think he found something
important.”

Angie forced her usual cheer. “That’s great, sweetheart.”

He sensed her veiled indifference, but continued to avert silence. “There appear to be needles of economic strength buried
in the haystack of dismal trends. Troy calls them bright spots.”

“As in optimistic?”

“Sort of. He borrowed the phrase from a case study we both read during grad school. About fifty years ago a nonprofit group
was given six months to solve child malnourishment in poor Vietnamese villages. A crazy deadline since experts had identified
a complex range of systemic problems intertwining to cause the epidemic.”

The look in Angie’s eyes told Kevin her mind had already started to drift.

“Anyway, one guy decided to cut through the complexity that had paralyzed the experts. He researched what the mothers of the
few healthy kids were doing differently from everyone else in the villages. He figured if some kids thrive despite identical
poverty, then there might be hope for the other kids.”

The words
hope
and
kids
pulled Angie back.

“They discovered several simple habits among those families that made a huge difference.”

“Like?” Angie asked.

“Like mothers dividing their children’s daily rations into four meals instead of two. They also violated cultural norms by
feeding their kids certain types of food that society deemed low-class.” Kevin’s excitement peaked as he came to the punch
line. “A book by Chip and Dan Heath called these families
bright spots
because their success became a model for large-scale solutions.”

“Always trust moms over the experts,” Angie teased.

“You’re more right than you know. If Troy’s analysis is accurate, moms will be the key to solving our long-term deficit problem.”

Her confused expression nudged Kevin to the bottom line.

“It looks like the pockets of economic stability and growth are the areas with the highest fertility. We seem to have found
our nation’s bright spots. We just need to find out what they do that’s different from everyone else.”

“Leah Tolbert.” The interruption reminded Kevin of his impatience.

“Finally,” he voiced too loudly.

“The doctor can see you now.” The nurse held the door open as Angie reached for Leah.

“I’ve got her,” Kevin insisted.

Leah whimpered on cue, as if understanding the doctor’s diagnosis better than either parent could.

Kevin reached deep but could not recall ever having heard of a disorder labeled
fragile X syndrome
. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Not many do these days,” the doctor continued. “In the old days a small percentage of the population had something they called
intellectual disability. Your grandparents would have called it mental retardation. But the disorder has become extremely
rare.”

“So it can be cured?” Angie asked expectantly.

Dr. Chapman paused. It must have been many years since she last discussed such a disheartening diagnosis with uninformed parents.
Genetic prescreening had virtually eradicated fragile X from the population in developed nations; it surfaced only in extremely
religious families who bypassed a process that kept defective eggs from implantation. But neither Angie nor Kevin seemed the
extremely religious type.

“Can I ask why you were unable to do genetic prescreening on this pregnancy?” Dr. Chapman asked Angie.

“Why do you ask?” Kevin intercepted, hoping to absorb the predictable assault.

“Well, it’s highly unusual to decline the procedure.”

They had heard the speech before. Screening promised to eliminate the most severe genetic defects, allowing parents to produce
offspring that inherited only their most attractive features and least vexing defects. Apparently this disorder, whatever
it was, fell in the latter category.

“We consider life a gift to receive rather than a product to select.” Angie’s intensity surprised Kevin. He had used the same
words with her six years earlier when they decided to start a family. She seemed excited about genetic screening as described
by her obstetrician. Common sense and practice said, “Do it.” Kevin’s upbringing said, “Don’t.” One argument and two sleepless
nights later she relented, which had resulted in now-five-year-old Tommy, whom Angie wouldn’t trade for any genetically optimized
kid on the planet.

The doctor’s expression fell short of condemnation, landing on pity. “I meant no offense.” She returned to Angie’s question.
“No, it can’t be cured.”

The words hit hard.

“But you said it had become extremely rare…” Kevin’s own realization cut his comment short.
None survive the screening process
.

Caressing Leah’s tiny fingers, Angie breathed deeply. In that moment, all her anxiety seemed to dissipate into clear, motherly
resolve. “Tell us what we need to know.”

“The effects vary a great deal from person to person,” Dr. Chapman explained. “I’ve only seen two cases myself, both in adults.
Your daughter may display irregular physical characteristics.”

Both Kevin and Angie looked in Leah’s direction. Neither knew what to notice. They turned back to the doctor.

“Most likely peculiar facial features that may become more pronounced as she ages, including an elongated face and slightly
enlarged ears.”

The doctor glanced down at the cheat sheet on her digital pad. “Is she crawling yet?”

“Some,” Angie replied hopefully.

“Well, she probably won’t walk as early as normal kids. And there will most certainly be mental impairment. We’ll want to
measure Leah’s cognitive abilities when she’s older, but most fragile X children possess about half the average IQ.”

Angie and Kevin looked at each other.

“Will she be able to attend school?” Kevin wondered aloud, willing himself to remain strong for Angie’s sake.

“Possibly, although you’ll be hard-pressed to find a competent program since the disorder has become so rare. Public schools
cut special education funding back in the early twenties.”

“Marriage and family?” Angie asked.

“Unlikely. But I see nothing to prevent your daughter from enjoying a vibrant sex life.”

Both Kevin and Angie winced at the suggestion.

The doctor continued, but neither heard the rest of her summary. Kevin and Angie would take time to understand the details
of Leah’s disability in days to come. For now, they tried to absorb one simple reality:
Our daughter will never have a normal life
.

Neither would they.

Julia reached
frantically toward the silhouette of a hand as it withdrew from her extending fingers. Despite a vivid brightness that seared
the vision of her sleeping eyes, she noticed only shadows. A dark, masculine form appeared stretched and diluted. Its comforting
presence ebbed away while something mysterious pulled her downward toward a brutal, merciless place.

She inhaled violently like a child desperate to break free from an outbound ocean current, then screamed at the shadow drifting
from view.

“Where are you going? How can you leave me like this? Help me!”

She heard a voice.

“It’s OK, sweetie. Wake up. You’re all right.”

Julia’s eyes opened to the welcome sight of Maria. Overpowering her confused anxiety, she quickly grasped what had happened.
Maria had heard the screams from the next room, startling her into action. Julia’s relief met embarrassment. She reluctantly
accepted her sister’s nurturing embrace.

Moments later, Julia sat propped against her pillow, hugging both legs tightly against her chest. She habitually retrieved
the pen and pad she had used in the past.

She added a single word.

“I can’t
keep taking you to the doctor, Mom!” Matthew Adams barked after reviewing the $1,152 bill for three visits to treat what had
turned out to be phantom ailments.

“I think she likes the attention,” the nurse had explained.

Seeing tears form in his mother’s eyes made Matthew feel like a heel. He reached across the table to rub her frail arm while
handing her a partially used tissue.

“Here you go.” He hated making her cry. But he didn’t know what else to do. He was losing his battle to protect her dwindling
assets.

“I’m sorry, Matthew,” she said.

“The doctor said there’s nothing wrong with you, Mom,” he continued gently. “Just remember to take your pills and everything
will be fine.”

But he knew she would not remember her pills any more than she could remember other important details. She became confused
over the simplest tasks, like trying to recall the two-word voice command that would dial his number. It caused her to panic
whenever he left for work or to run errands.

The sound of two quick raps at the door announced Donny’s arrival. “Sorry I’m late,” he said while letting himself in. He
began removing a coat. “Low on gas. Had to stop on the way.”

“No worries.” Matthew was just grateful Donny had kept his promise. “Thanks for coming early. I really need to snag some extra
hours.”

In truth, Matthew needed a break. That’s why he’d spent the money to hire a second part-time parent-sitter, even though competition
for senior-care workers had driven hourly rates to an all-time high. The income from Grandpa’s life insurance covered essentials
like rent, utilities, groceries, and basic digital access. But it didn’t cover extra help. Last month he’d paid a portion
of her prescription expenses out of his own paycheck. A waste, he thought, since she seemed to be getting worse instead of
better.

“Enroll in college,” his mom used to say. “Use the money for tuition. My son should be a professor.”

She knew he could do it.

He no longer even hoped.

Before heading to work, Matthew began a morning ritual his mother had come to expect. Retrieving a set of rosary beads from
the kitchen counter, he placed them carefully in her left palm. Engulfing her tiny fist with his own, he knelt down in front
of her and looked in her eyes. “I’ll see you soon, OK, Mom?”

Peering warily at Donny, she concentrated long enough to recognize the former stranger. She gave her son a hesitant but reassuring
smile.

“I’ll be back around four thirty,” Matthew informed Donny on his way out the door.

By the time Matthew arrived at work about a dozen students were already sipping drinks while scanning the day’s assignments
or reading social media updates. He slid past a sofa and three tables, placing his backpack behind the pastry counter before
starting another day retrieving empty mugs and tossing coffee-stained napkins.

Glancing around the room, Matthew recognized three of the eleven students: nameless acquaintances who acknowledged his presence
with a silent nod the way actors condescend to greet a helpful stagehand. He knew that his role, like those of the librarian
and cafeteria workers, was trivial compared to those of the tuition-paying students and tenure-earning faculty. A quick mental
tabulation said the room represented nearly six hundred thousand dollars in annual tuition, not including room and board,
tech access fees, or specialty drinks.

Slow day
, he thought.

“Hi, Matt,” came Sarah’s warm but apologetic greeting. “There were seven or eight frat parties last night. I think it’s gonna
be slow all morning. Would you mind waiting to sign in until your regular shift? Or maybe even third-period rush? Kelly and
I have it covered.”

Just like that, his income dropped; it was the third time this month a shift manager had casually reduced his hours. Sure,
he would work the guaranteed twenty hours this week, but he needed more.

“I’ll make extra income to cover an additional sitter,” he’d told himself in October. He had yet to make good on the promise.

Never one to show his disappointment, especially to Sarah, Matthew glanced at the clock. Ninety minutes until third period.

“Mind if I camp out at my usual table until then?” He didn’t need to ask, but wanted to keep the conversation going. “I can
catch up on research for my project.”

Both Sarah and Matthew knew that he had long since abandoned his formal education. It had been three years since he completed
his fifth and sixth community college courses, environmental studies and a comparative religions class called Our Spiritual
Impulse. His “project” nibbled around the edges of both by reading this and that tidbit to become a self-appointed expert
in the nonexistent field of “spiritual environmentalism.”

“No problem!” came Sarah’s reply. “Need to borrow my access code?” The offer meant she felt bad and wanted to make it up to
him. A promising sign.

“That’d be great.”

Seconds later Sarah reached over Matthew’s shoulder to swipe her finger across a ten-inch screen embedded in the table surface.
Her fingerprint opened a window to the collective wisdom of humanity thanks to a gold-tier tech access subscription he could
no longer afford. His own fingerprint gave access only to free, public domain content.

Matthew resisted the urge to move closer to Sarah’s body, but couldn’t help breathing in her fresh, feminine scent. He felt
bad for secretly enjoying the pleasure of her presence. Unlike the lurid images of seductive women that populated his virtual
games, girls like Sarah incited feelings just as exciting, but more wholesome. He couldn’t describe the sensation, even to
himself. She offered a mysterious healing from the diminished manhood his porn habit seemed to breed. But she was far too
young, not to mention way out of his league.

After a brief security scan, the screen came alive. Six taps on the digital keyboard presented Matthew with familiar icons
conveniently sequenced in use-frequency order:

Knowing Sarah or Kelly might walk by at any time, he chose the safest icon on the screen.

• YOUR DAY
  :
  
  • 9 a.m. = Start Work 
    

• YOUR MESSAGES
  : 
  
  • TROLLMASTER: “You gotta see this one. Hot!” 
    
  • GAIMGOD: “I just got accepted into Zilla Clan. Eat your heart out!” 
    

• YOUR NEWS
  : 
  
  • Release of
    Planet Battle VI
    exceeds game industry expectations 
    

• YOUR MONEY
  : 
  
  • $578 monthly prescription fee charged on 4/14/2042 to Visa account 
    
  • $3200 from Campus Grinds deposit scheduled to Chase account on 4/15/42
    

Matthew waved out of
DAILY SYNOPSIS
and selected the
INTERESTS
icon in search of something to occupy himself until the usual third-period rush. He went in and out of five recommended links
that seemed promising, but none held his attention.

“Here you go.” The singsong interruption startled Matthew. “Your usual poison, on the house.”

“Wow. Thanks, Sarah.” He savored the unexpected attention.

“You bet!” came her casual reply. “Enjoy.”

After taking a cautious drink to avoid burning his top lip, Matthew returned to the screen and tapped the
ACTIVE PROJECTS
icon to initiate the research genie, hoping Sarah’s clearance would generate more useful links than his own. Seconds later,
two new items appeared: a report in
Green World Journal
describing disproportionate environmental impact from larger households and a news brief quoting the director of epigenetic
research saying something about reversing age-related dementia.

Matthew browsed the second item. Skipping over the medical lingo, he found the article’s bottom line.

“That’s another two and a half years!” Matthew said aloud, prompting a confused glance from the student sitting at the next
table. Shushing himself, Matthew scanned the rest of the article for a more optimistic crumb. Nothing.

I don’t think I can handle another thirty months of lost keys, forgotten names, repeated conversations, and bathroom mishaps.

Noticing the strain of his own clenched fists, Matthew decided to change the subject. It had been awhile since he last explored
new pictures and updates from fellow Littleton High School graduates. Over the past three years nearly every former cheerleader
had approved his “Secret Admirer” status request, giving him anonymous access to an occasional “Secret Surprise” they might
post for their mysterious followers. But one prize remained, the only girl he had ever mustered up enough courage to ask to
the prom. Although she had rejected him, he had never lost his fascination with her.

Typing
DAVIDSON
into the search field, Matthew expected to find another perky picture of Maria. He instead saw a professional press photo
beside the latest column written by her older sister—the former valedictorian.

A quick glance at the clock told Matthew he had plenty of time to kill. He began reading…

Taking another sip from his mug, Matthew reread the final paragraph. Then he read it again, this time mentally selecting and
rearranging seven words to give them their due.

Give those burdened the freedom to thrive.

Making a note to explore other columns by Maria’s sister, Matthew opened a journal page filled with previous entries. Up popped
seemingly random phrases, references, and concepts he had been capturing for months. Scanning the list, he found the item
he was looking for.

Taking one final sip of his cooling mocha, he glanced out the window toward nothing in particular. Looking back at the screen,
he typed a missing piece into his project puzzle.

Two minutes later, Matthew shot off a request to meet with the chairman of the University’s Religious Studies Department.