“Us? There is no us,” he said with a growl.
Hannah and Milo. And the baby. If what Cora was saying were true, it wouldn’t matter if Hannah forgave him; he could never be with them again. He wouldn’t be at her side in the delivery room, or even ever hold the baby. “No!” he wailed. “My family!”
As if she too felt his pain, Cora covered her mouth with her hand.
“Milo can’t grow up without a dad,” Kristian said, horrified by the possibility. “He needs me, just like Ulrich needed Otto. I swore to Ulrich that I would always put family first, that I would never neglect my children. And I’ve only just begun Milo’s training.”
“This isn’t at all like what happened with Ulrich,” she said, her voice cracking. “Milo will be surrounded by love, and he’ll be able to visit you in a containment suit.”
“That’s not good enough,” he snapped. “And the . . .” He stopped himself from revealing Hannah’s pregnancy.
“You’re right; it’s not. I know how you feel. It was hard for me to accept this life at first, too.”
“You can’t possibly understand. You were nothing before you came here. You had nothing.”
“That’s not true. I lost my family as well. But now I have you back. Please,” she said, rubbing her palm, “give me a chance. It’s your birthday. Every year, since Ulrich took you from me, I . . .” She glanced at the cart.
Kristian eyed the lump of chocolate. Of all the days to wake up to this nightmare.
Hannah was a wonderful baker. He should be at home right now, celebrating with her and Milo. Milo. A quarter of his genes had come from Cora. Same with the baby in vitro. Conceivably both—or one—could possess the superimmunity trait as well. But it could take years for Kristian to design a safe, effective method for evaluating them. Meanwhile, Milo would come of age without his father’s daily guidance, and the baby would experience all her firsts without him. While he was stuck here, with her.
Vaguely, he recalled the lung tissue extraction that had led to this disaster. If all that Cora had claimed were true, he would no longer need her specimens to continue his research. The means of preventing another coronavirus outbreak—or a pandemic caused by a different novel pathogen—now resided within him. But what did that matter if he couldn’t be with his family? Any time spent on attempting to harvest and replicate his antibodies would be time not devoted to finding a way to eliminate the three viruses now colonizing within him because of her.
He glared at her. “You call that a cake?”
“I worked very hard on it,” she said proudly, seemingly unaware of his disdain. She set the wrapped box beside him.
“I want nothing to do with you.”
“During my labor,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, “Ulrich and I were so scared we’d lost you. He had to do an emergency C-section. But your first cries; they were so sweet. You were so sweet. You loved cuddling against me.” Putting her hand to her heart, she breathed in deeply. “There’s a lullaby your dad and I used to sing to you. Ulrich learned it from his mother. It goes like this,” she said and began singing, her voice hoarse and off-key, “Weißt du wieviel Sternlein stehen an dem blauen Himmelszelt?”
He had many fond memories of his grandfather—his father—singing that lullaby to him in his crystal-clear baritone. Kristian, in turn, had sung it to Milo.
His son, whom he now couldn’t see without PPE between them. Kristian blinked back the sting of tears.
Cora nodded toward the package. “Open it. Please?”
He lifted the box to hurl it against the wall but found himself sliding his index finger beneath the edge of the newsprint. He’d never been one to stifle his curiosity; why start now?
As the paper fell away from the case, he recognized the embossed symbol of his favorite watch brand. The rich scent of the patent leather box cut through the mustiness of the operating room. This can’t have come from her, he thought with a sideways glance.
Cora had stepped back, seemingly afraid he might strike her. Despite the gloom that had engulfed her, he could still make out hope in the upturned corners of her lips and the darting of her eyes.
He could crush her spirit now, so easily. With a simple flick of his wrist, the box would fly.
But he had to know how she’d gotten this. Slowly, he opened the lid, and a gift receipt fluttered to his chest.
He snatched it and inhaled sharply upon seeing the store’s name. “Where’d you get this?”
Shyly, Cora smiled. “Sylvia. She wanted me to be the one to give it to you.”
The room seesawed and Kristian fought to restore his sense of equilibrium.
Instantly, he’d understood the message that had accompanied his mother’s gesture. Everything Sylvia did was with intention and from the heart. She’d anticipated his rejection of Cora, rightly so, and planned accordingly.
Since Sylvia’s Lyme diagnosis, every stroke of his pen, every pipette filled and dispersed, every microscope slide he’d prepared had been in her honor. How could he accept Cora, his father’s assassin, as his mother? He didn’t know if he were capable of that, even for Sylvia.
“Do you want help putting it on?” Cora asked, her raspy tone scratching his nerves.
No, he did not want help.
“Get out of my sight, you . . .” Kristian bit his tongue to hold back that habitual, final word: mutt. Given that 50 percent of his genes had apparently come from her, what did that make him? And his children?
Her grandchildren.
Picturing his mother in her wheelchair at their window, staring across the East River toward North Brother Island, he slowly raised his arm
