Jessica is a Terrible Mother
By Jessica Lake
Jessica is a terrible mother.
Just ask her.
“I’m a terrible mother. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.”
Ask her why she had a child.
“I needed Phillip. I mean Dr. Martin. He holds the purse strings to the big research bucks. I needed funding for my research.”
“I don’t see how—”
“I wasn’t done.”
Can you feel it? Her dire chill. Her car stuck. The blizzard rages. She steps out. No going back now. It’s forward, into the whiteout. Endure.
“Dr. Martin chose me out of all his first years. I’m so lucky.”
Wait for it.
“That’s sarcasm. I had to hold a gun to his head. Figuratively.”
No filters. No boundaries. What comes next is a hoot. And totally Jessica.
“When Phillip suggested a threesome, I immediately thought, ‘nascent descendant.’”
“My bad.” Jessica smirked. “He meant with Nico.”
That’s the problem with Autism. It’s a mixed bag. Jessica was a certified genius. But she couldn’t decrypt the subtleties of the primitive ape man.
“But I’d already cloned.”
Yes.
She said cloned.
Great Grandma started it. You harvest your eggs. You mock fertilize them. Place a bun in the oven. Bake a few months.
Gender reveal. Congratulations! It’s a girl. ;-)
Send in the clones.
Jessica continues.
“Hey, no biggie. Turns out pregnant plus silence equals the funding I need.”
Ask Jessica about her daughter.
“Jessica. Tell us about your daughter—your little Jessie.”
“Jessie wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d read. Sure, the first year sucked. All she did was cry. Then she started talking. Finally. She could tell me what she wanted. Then she started asking questions. By three years old she was collaborating with me. It was grand.”
See that?
Left eye. Outer corner.
A tear.
Kids grow up quickly.
“Jessie, listen closely. This is embarrassing. And de rigueur. This is your life story.”
Jessie sat upright in her chair, ready to receive the history download.
“Your full name is Jessica Lake Severance. You like men. You are a private person. Very exact and unemotional. You are thirty-six years old. And will always be so. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You were born in Norfolk, Virginia. Your parents were Albert and Astra Wordsworth. You were raised Protestant. You abandoned religion early.”
Jessica continued, without pause, without inflection. These were not memories. These were their distillation. Decanted.
“Any questions, daughter?”
“No, Mother.”
When Jessie turned ten, her mother became very sick.
By then Jessie was a full-grown woman.
Her mother as light as a feather.
Ask Jessie how it ends.
“Jessie, what happens next?”
“My mother. My world. Her head in my lap. The only sound the labor of each breath. A small shudder—then the forever rest.”
A short candle—burned at both ends.
Wait.
Jessie does not weep.
Jessica is gone.
And then—
There is only young Jessica.
And the research still undone.