Turn of Mind

so the first person the infant sees is you.

Still not enough, Amanda said.

Enough what? you asked.

Control. That would take care of the nurture part. But what about the nature? That would be an unknown.

But you’re a teacher, you protested. Surely you see how different children from the same households, raised the same way with the same food and the same experiences, can turn out differently?

Yes, Amanda said. You need to know that you’re the source of whatever comes out. Otherwise you leave open the door for other emotions, other attitudes toward your child to creep in.

Emotions like what?

Contempt. Disdain. Or just plain dislike.

Let me get this straight. You can love a child who displays, let’s say, unattractive traits or behaviors if you know he or she came from your genetic makeup. But if you don’t know . . .

. . . then who knows what you might feel toward them? Amanda finished your question.

Like a body rejecting a donated kidney, you said slowly.

Exactly. And because you don’t know until you transplant it, why take the risk?

Because people need kidneys. And you say you need a child.

I do, she said. And the way she said it convinced you of her resolve.

But it didn’t add up. You protested, But you’ve left half the chromosomes out of the equation. What about the genetic makeup of the father? That’s certainly out of your control.

I can deal with Peter’s genes, with any peculiarities that arise from them, she said. You wondered about that. You didn’t believe at that point that you would ever consider James as something you’d have to deal with. You changed your mind later, of course.

The woman stopped. My turn to ask some questions, she said. Why did you resist having children? Is it your career?

No. I suppose it comes down to control as well, you said. I like making my own choices. I always have. But with a child you have no choice. When it is hungry, you must feed it. When it has soiled itself, you must clean and change it.

But as a doctor, aren’t you constantly responding to patients’ needs? When something happens during a surgery, you have no choice. You have to fix it. When an emergency arises, you have to respond.

That’s different, you said.

How?

You spoke slowly, trying to work it out.

It requires the best of you, you said. Something unique. Not just anyone can perform a transfer of an intercostal nerve into the musculocutaneous nerve to restore biceps function. Or an open carpal tunnel release, for that matter. Even other specialists mess those up. Yet a child can love anyone. Children do love the most horrible, depraved people. They attach to warm bodies. Familiar faces. Sources of food. To be valued for such base requirements doesn’t interest me.

You’ll change your mind when you have the baby. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.

So people say. My anticipation is that I will hand it over to James and let him deal with it.

You interest me. Not many people would think this way, much less say so.

I usually say what I think.

Yes. I see that. And I suspect you don’t have much patience for people who don’t.

You’re right. Not much.

Then suddenly your memory skips ahead to the birth, which was three weeks early. There were some problems with Mark’s lungs. He came out furry, covered with lanugo. A small, red wheezing creature. He was your patient before he was your child, which helped the transition.

Naturally you breast-fed him, because of the antibodies. Did your duty in that regard, despite the inconvenience and pain. You didn’t like being sucked dry multiple times a day, and the thought of it distressed you more than you expected.

You weaned him at three months and resumed your professional life once you no longer leaked milk at the slightest provocation. You hired Ana at that point—Ana who did all the things a good mother would do. You were not a good mother. And yet Mark clung to you. And, six years later, Fiona did the same. By then Amanda had stopped trying to conceive, even she admitted it was pointless.

When was the last time you saw Amanda? You cannot recall. You accept that she is gone. They are all leaving, every one of them. James. Peter. Even the children. A diaspora. But you are somehow drawing strength from that. With each loss, you are stronger, you are more yourself. Like a rosebush being pruned of extraneous branches so the blossoms will be larger and healthier next season. Sheared of this excess, what will you not be capable of ?

You have a vision: Amanda, here, on the floor, her heart violated, her eyes still open. You always thought the