Generosity

Thassa with mirth. A week or two would turn them into big and little sister.

The secret of happiness suddenly seemed absurdly simple: surround yourself with someone who was already happy. Weld caught Stone’s eye and screwed up her face: You’re right; she’s unnerving. Fyodor barely acknowledged her, as if his job in this scene- the three principals meet for tea-was to sit stock-still and regret the development he’d set in motion.

Thassa, finally, broke things up. “Hey! Some people have homework to do, if they want to succeed in life.”

The three of them rose and stepped outside into a late-October night still warm enough to walk without hunching forward. The wind came in crisp off the lake, and in twos and threes, the leaves of the caged city trees made their apricot escape. Thassa walked backward for a few steps, looking at the couple through a director’s shot box she made with her thumbs and index fingers, pleased by whatever she saw inside the frame. Then she smiled at the future, waved goodbye, turned, and vanished.

Candace Weld felt a twinge she couldn’t quite identify. She turned to face Russell Stone, warming to all the bewilderment that the man had nowhere to put. He looked back, but couldn’t quite hold her eye. He wanted to insist that he’d initiated nothing. She dismissed his apologies with one raised eyebrow.

“That isn’t mania,” she told him, even as doubt spread across his face. It was, in fact, something much weirder. “That’s what we in the mental health business call peak experience. And you’re saying she’s like that all the time?”

She offers him her hand good night. The hand is polished driftwood. He takes it and feels something awful and instant. One of them squeezes, then the other, and they tumble too quickly into mutual knowledge.

He knows this story. You know this story: Thassa will be taken away from him. Other interests will lay claim. His charge will become public property. He might have kept quiet and learned from her, captured her in his journal, shared a few words at the end of his allotted four months, then returned to real life, slightly changed. A vaguely midlist literary story. But he’s doomed himself by calling in the expert. It’s his own fault, for thinking that Thassa’s joy must mean something, for imagining that such a plot has to go somewhere, that something has to happen.

I know exactly how he feels.

The “Genome” caption reads: Geoffrey Tomkin, Author, Tomorrow’s Child: The Science and Fiction Behind Germline Engineering. The image says: dead of coronary heart disease in two years.

TOMKIN:

If you want to issue a blanket pardon for every social crime we commit against one another, you just have to convince the public that destiny is in our genes.

SCHIFF:

You’re saying that it would be bad for social justice if Thomas Kurton is right?

TOMKIN:

I’m saying, the minute you claim, “My genes made me do it,” accountability disappears. And the minute you tell prospective parents, “We’ll give your child the traits you want and get rid of the ones you don’t,” you turn humanity into a fast-food franchise.

S CHIFF:

It would be bad if he’s right, but the evidence doesn’t necessarily prove he’s wrong?

TOMKIN:

Genomics says there are no genetic contributions without countless environmental ones.

SCHIFF:

Is it too late for me to get taller and prettier?

TOMKIN [glaring]:

These transhumanists are really big on making people taller. But taller than what? When Kurton’s company starts selling parents the genes for a seven-foot son, someone else is going to bring out an eight-foot model.

SCHIFF:

Is it too late for me to become an eight-foot model?

Weld calls Stone three days later, to postmortem the meeting. He’s in his other life, at Becoming You. She’s the first person from the college to use this listed contact number. It’s Halloween, and he’s dressed up as himself.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Thassadit,” the counselor says.

Russell suppresses a grunt. The lamb has crossed the lion’s mind. But there’s something in her voice, some professional reticence that worries him. “You think there’s reason for concern?”

“No. I wouldn’t say concern. But I’d like to talk to you about some possibilities.”

He says, “What kind of possibilities?”

She’s silent one beat too long. “I think someone should work her up. Take a good look. She seems immune to anxiety. Her positive energy is amazing. She maintains a continuous state of flow. Maybe she’s benefited from some kind of post-traumatic growth.”

A sick feeling comes over him. “It sounds like you’ve already worked her up.”

“Well, she did stick her head in the counseling center over lunch. Just to say hello.”

“And stayed for a chat?”

“We talked a little.”

“And now you’re her new best friend.”

“Russell, I think she should be explored.”

He catches himself gouging the margins of the manuscript in front of him with red pen. “You’ve seen her. You said she’s okay.”

“I mean really looked at, under controlled conditions. There’s a research group over at Northwestern ”

She trails off when he says nothing.

“Russell?”

He no longer thinks anyone needs to test anything but Thassa’s journal entries. “You said this isn’t hypomania.”

“It isn’t. I would bet my career.”

“Do you think it’s hyperthymia?” The better without the bitter.

Her silence oozes dislike for the term. “I think a professional researcher should look at her.”

“She likes you,” he says.

“I like her. Anyone would.”

This woman is not Grace. Grace always thought he was attacking when he was making nice. Constance Weld thinks he’s making nice when he’s attacking.

“Why are you asking my permission?”

“Well, I’m not, really. But I am asking your feeling.”

Testing is an excuse. The psychologist just wants to spend more time around the Berber woman, like everyone else.

“You asked her already? About Northwestern?”

“I mentioned the possibility.”

“And she said that sounded like more fun than a roadside explosive.”

“You don’t have to be like this,” the counselor says.

He watches himself regress. “No? What do I have to be like?”

“All right. Let’s not talk about this right now.”

He’s pathetic. Worse than a prepubescent. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m out of line.”

“No,” the psychologist replies. “I understand entirely.”