Epilogue
One Year Later
“YOU have one more patient,” Jean said, poking her head through the door, “then you’re free.”
“It’s an add-on?” Marsha asked, slightly perturbed. She had planned on being free by four. With another patient she wouldn’t be out until five. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have cared, but today she was supposed to meet Joe Arnold, David’s old history teacher, at six o’clock. He was taking her to the pet shop in the mall to pick up that golden retriever puppy he’d persuaded her to get. “It’ll do you good,” he told her. “Pet therapy. I’m telling you, dogs could put you psychiatrists out of business.”
A few days after he’d read of the tragedy in the papers, he’d called Marsha to say how sorry he was and that he’d always regretted not contacting her to express his condolences after David’s death. Gradually, the two were becoming friends. Joe seemed determined to break her willful isolation.
“The woman was insistent,” Jean said. “If I didn’t squeeze her in today, we couldn’t have seen her for a week. She say’s it’s an emergency.”
“Emergency!” Marsha grumbled. True psychiatric emergencies were luckily few and far between. “Okay,” she said with a sigh.
“You’re a dear,” Jean said. She pulled the door shut.
Marsha went around her desk and sat down. She dictated her last session. When she was through, she whirled her chair around and gazed out the large picture window at the scenic landscape. Spring was coming. The grass had become a more vibrant green than its pale winter blue. The crocuses would be up soon. A few buds were already on the trees.
Marsha took a deep breath. She’d come a long way. It was just a little over a year now since that fateful night when she’d lost her husband and second son in what had been deemed a freak accident. The newspapers had even carried a picture of the rusty bolt that had apparently given way on an old sluice gate when the Merrimack had been at its spring thaw heights. Marsha had never tried to contradict the story, preferring the nightmare to end with a seemingly accidental tragedy. It was so much simpler than the truth.
Dealing with her grief had been exceedingly difficult. She’d sold the big house that she and Victor had shared, as well as her stock in Chimera. With some of the profits from these sales, she had bought herself a charming house on an ocean inlet in Ipswich. It was only a short walk to the beach with its glorious sand dunes. She’d spent many a weekend alone on the beach in pensive seclusion with no sounds to trouble her save the waves and an occasional squawk of a sea gull. Marsha had found solace in nature ever since she was a little girl.
Neither Victor’s nor VJ’s body had been recovered. Evidently the tremendous force of the rushing water had washed them God knows where. But the fact there were no bodies made Marsha’s adjustment all the more difficult, though not for the reasons most psychiatrists would suspect. Jean had gently suggested to Marsha that she go in for some therapy herself, but Marsha resisted this encouragement. How could she explain that by not finding their remains, she was left with the uncomfortable sense that the horrid episode was not over yet. No remains of the four fetuses had been found either, not that anyone had known to look for them. But, for months after, Marsha had had disturbing nightmares in which she would come across a finger or a limb on the beach where she walked.
Marsha’s biggest savior had been her work. After the initial shock and grief had abated, she’d really thrown herself into it, even volunteering for extra hours in various community organizations. And Valerie Maddox had also been of tremendous help, often staying with Marsha for weekends at Marsha’s new beach house. Marsha knew she was indebted to the woman.
Marsha swung back to her desk. It was just about four o’clock. Time to see the last patient and then get to the pet store. Marsha buzzed Jean to indicate she was ready. Getting to her feet, she went to the door. Taking the new chart Jean handed her, Marsha caught sight of a woman who was about forty-five years old. She smiled at Marsha and Marsha smiled back. Marsha gestured for the woman to come into her office.
Turning around, Marsha left the door ajar and walked over to the chair she always used for her sessions. Next to it was a small table with a box of tissues for patients who couldn’t contain their emotions. Two other chairs faced hers.
Hearing the woman enter the office, Marsha turned to greet her. The woman wasn’t alone. A thin girl in her teens who looked sallow and drawn followed in behind her. The girl’s sandy blond hair was stringy and badly in need of a wash. In her arms was a blond baby who looked to be about eighteen months old. The baby was clutching a magazine.
Marsha wondered who the patient was. Whichever one it was, she’d have to insist the other leave. For the moment, all she said was, “Please sit down.” Marsha decided to let them present their reasons for coming. Over the years, she’d found that this technique yielded more information than any question-and-answer session could.
The woman held the child while the girl sat down in one of the chairs facing Marsha, then settled him in the girl’s lap. He seemed quite preoccupied with the magazine’s illustrations. Marsha casually wondered why they’d brought the child along. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to get a baby-sitter.
Marsha felt that the young girl was not in the best physical health. Her frail frame and extremely pale complexion indicated depression if not malnutrition.
“I’m Josephine Steinburger and this is my daughter, Judith,” the woman began. “Thank you for seeing us. We’re pretty desperate.”
Marsha nodded encouragingly.
Mrs. Steinburger leaned forward confidentially, but spoke loudly enough for Judith to hear. “My daughter here is not too swift, if you know what I mean. She’s been in a lot of trouble for a long time. Drugs, running away from home, fighting with her brother, no-good friends, those kinds of things.”
Marsha nodded again. She looked at the daughter to see how she responded to this criticism, but the girl only stared blankly ahead.
“These kids are into everything these days,” Josephine continued. “You know, sex and all that. What a difference when I was young. I didn’t know what sex was until I was too old to enjoy it, you know what I mean?”
Marsha nodded again. She hoped the daughter would participate, but she remained silent. Marsha wondered if she might be on drugs right then.
“Anyway,” Josephine continued, “Judith here tells me she never had sex, so obviously I was surprised when she delivered this little bundle of joy about a year and a half ago.” She laughed sarcastically.
Marsha wasn’t surprised. Of all the defense mechanisms, denial was the most common. A lot of teenagers initially tried to deny sexual contact even when the evidence was overwhelming.
“Judith says that the father was a young boy who gave her money to put his little tube in her,” Josephine said, rolling her eyes for Marsha’s benefit. “I’ve heard it called a lot of things but never a little tube. Anyway—”
Marsha rarely interrupted the people who came to see her, but in this case, the girl in question wasn’t getting a word in. “Perhaps it would be better if the patient told me her story in her own words.”
“What do you mean, her words?” Josephine asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.
“Exactly what I said,” Marsha said. “I think the patient should tell the story, or at least participate.”
Josephine laughed heartily, then got herself under control. “Sorry, it struck a funny bone. Judith is fine. She’s even gotten a little more responsible now that she’s a mother. It’s the kid who’s messed up. He’s the patient.”
“Oh, of course,” said Marsha, somewhat baffled. She’d treated children before, but never so young.
“The kid is a terror,” Josephine went on. “We can’t control him.”
Marsha had to get her to be more specific. Plenty of parents could call their toddlers terrors. She needed more specific symptoms. “In what way is he a problem?” she asked.
“Ah
!” Josephine intoned. “You name it, he does it. I’m telling you, he’s enough to drive you to drink.” She turned to the child. “Look at the lady, Jason.”
But Jason was absorbed in his magazine.
“Jason!” Josephine called. She reached across and yanked the magazine out of the infant’s hand and tossed it on Marsha’s desk. It was then that Marsha noticed it was the latest issue of the Journal of Cell Biology.
“The kid can already read better than his mother. Now he’s asking for a chemistry set.”
Marsha felt a jolt of fear as it grabbed her by the throat. Slowly she raised her eyes.
“Frankly, I’m afraid to get the kid a chemistry set at age one and a half,” Josephine continued. “It ain’t normal. He’ll probably blow the whole house up.”
Marsha looked at the boy in Judith’s lap. The child returned her stare with his own piercing, ice-blue eyes. There was an air of intelligence about him that far outstripped his cherubic baby face. Marsha was taken back in time. This boy was the spitting image of VJ at the same age.
Marsha knew instantly what was before her: the final zygote. The one VJ said he’d wasted on the implantation study. A child created from her own sixth ovum.
Marsha couldn’t move. A small cry escaped her as she realized the chilling truth: the nightmare wasn’t over.
Josephine got to her feet and stepped over to Marsha. “Dr. Frank?” she asked with some alarm. “Are you all right?”
“I . . . I’m fine,” Marsha said feebly. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m okay.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the child.
“So like I was saying,” continued Josephine, “this kid’s beyond all of us. Why, just the other day—”
Marsha cut her off. Doing her best to keep a quiver out of her voice, she said, “Mrs. Steinburger, we’ll have to set up an appointment for Jason himself. I really think it would be best if I saw him privately. But it has to be another day.”
“Well, whatever,” sighed Josephine. “You’re the doctor. You’re the one to know. I suppose we can wait a few days. I just hope you can help us.”
Once they had gone, Marsha closed the door behind them and leaned heavily against it. She sighed and said aloud, “I hope so too.”
She knew she had to do something about this child, this prodigy whose villainy might match or even surpass her son’s. But what to do?
She picked up the phone to call Joe Arnold to say she was running a little late. Just hearing his voice on the line helped calm her down.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not trying to cancel on me, ’cause I’m not letting you off the hook.” He laughed warmly. “I thought we might eat in tonight. Can’t leave a dog alone his first night home. I hope you’re up to braving my cooking. I make a mean chili. I’m working on it right now.”
Marsha hoped she was up to braving quite a lot of things, starting with the truth. And of the people she felt closest to—Valerie, Joe, Jean—Joe might be the one to confide in, the one she could count on the most. “Chili sounds great,” she told him. “And I’d just as soon eat in.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about Jason, but it would keep. She didn’t want to say anything over the phone.
“Terrific. I was beginning to think I’d have to sign up as a patient to get to see you alone. Meet you at the pet shop at seven? I think they’re open until eight.”
“Seven will be fine. And, Joe . . . thanks.”
She hung up the phone and got her coat.
Marsha drove to the mall, feeling better already just knowing she’d soon be telling someone the true story behind Victor’s and VJ’s deaths. She’d bottled the whole thing up for so long. It would be a relief to finally get it off her chest. She felt all the luckier for having Joe to talk to. Ever since he’d come into her life, he’d been a real godsend.
She drove into the mall parking lot and picked a spot near the entrance closest to the pet shop and turned the engine off. Gripping the steering wheel, she broke into soft sobs. Somehow, she would have to face this last demon-child, and with Joe’s help, end forever the nightmare her husband had begun.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Robin Cook, Mutation
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