"Don’t do that," he said.
"What?"
"Put a romantic spin on this. The child is defective. We shouldn’t have to deal with that."
"She’s not a durable good," I said. "She’s a human being."
"How much money did we spend on in-the-womb enhancement so that Anne’s substandard IQ was corrected? How much would we have spent if the other girls had had similar problems?"
"That’s not the same thing," I said.
"Isn’t it?" he asked. "We have a certain guarantee in this world. We are guaranteed excellent children, with the best advantages. If I wanted to shoot craps with my children’s lives I would-"
"What would you do?" I snapped. "Go to the Moon?"
He stared at me as if he had never seen me before. "What does your precious Dr. Caro want you to do?"
"Leave Echea alone," I said.
My husband snorted. "So that she would be unlinked and dependent the rest of her life. A burden on the girls, a sieve for our wealth. Oh, but Ronald Caro would like that!"
"He didn’t want her to lose her personality," I said. "He wanted her to remain Echea."
My husband stared at me for a moment, and the anger seemed to leave him. He had gone pale. He reached out to touch me, then withdrew his hand. For a moment, I thought that his eyes filled with tears.
I had never seen tears in his eyes before.
Had I?
"There is that," he said softly.
He turned away from me, and I wondered if I had imagined his reaction. He hadn’t been close to Echea. Why would he care if her personality had changed?
"We can’t think of the legalities any more," I said. "She’s ours. We have to accept that. Just like we accepted the expense when we conceived Anne. We could have terminated the pregnancy. The cost would have been significantly less."
"We could have," he said as if the thought were unthinkable. People in our circle repaired their mistakes. They did not obliterate them.
"You wanted her at first," I said.
"Anne?" he asked.
"Echea. It was our idea, much as you want to say it was mine."
He bowed his head. After a moment, he ran his hands through his hair. "We can’t make this decision alone," he said.
He had capitulated. I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or saddened. Now we could stop fighting about the legalities and get to the heart.
"She’s too young to make this decision," I said. "You can’t ask a child to make a choice like this."
"If she doesn’t-"
"It won’t matter," I said. "She’ll never know. We won’t tell her either way."
He shook his head. "She’ll wonder why she’s not linked, why she can only use parts of House. She’ll wonder why she can’t leave here without escort when the other girls will be able to."
"Or," I said, "she’ll be linked and have no memory of this at all."
"And then she’ll wonder why she can’t remember her early years."
"She’ll be able to remember them," I said. "Ronald assured me."
"Yes." My husband’s smile was bitter. "Like she remembers a question on a history exam."
I had never seen him like this. I didn’t know he had studied the history of neural development. I didn’t know he had opinions about it.
"We can’t make this decision," he said again.
I understood. I had said the same thing. "We can’t ask a child to make a choice of this magnitude."
He raised his eyes to me. I had never noticed the fine lines around them, the matching lines around his nose and mouth. He was aging. We both were. We had been together a long, long time.
"She has lived through more than most on Earth ever do," he said. "She has lived through more than our daughters will, if we raise them right."
"That’s not an excuse," I said. "You just want us to expiate our guilt."
"No," he said. "It’s her life. She’ll have to be the one to live it, not us."
"But she’s our child, and that entails making choices for her," I said.
He sprawled flat on our bed. "You know what I’ll chose," he said softly.
"Both choices will disturb the household," I said. "Either we live with her as she is-"
"Or we train her to be what we want." He put an arm over his eyes.
He was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. "Do you ever regret the choices you made?" he asked. "Marrying me, choosing this house over the other, deciding to remain where we grew up?"
"Having the girls," I said.
"Any of it. Do you regret it?"
He wasn’t looking at me. It was as if he couldn’t look at me, as if our whole lives rested on my answer.
I put my hand in the one he had dangling. His fingers closed over mine. His skin was cold.
"Of course not," I said. And then, because I was confused, because I was a bit scared of his unusual intensity, I asked, "Do you regret the choices you made?"
"No," he said. But his tone was so flat I wondered if he lied.
In the end, he didn’t come with Echea and me to St. Paul. He couldn’t face brain work, although I wished he had made an exception this time. Echea was more confident on this trip, more cheerful, and I watched her with a detachment I hadn’t thought I was capable of.
It was as if she were already gone.
This was what parenting was all about: the difficult painful choices, the irreversible choices with no easy answers, the second-guessing of the future with no help at all from the past. I held her hand tightly this time while she wandered ahead of me down the hallway.
I was the one with fear.
Ronald greeted us at the door to his office. His smile, when he bestowed it on Echea, was sad.
He already knew our choice. I had made my husband contact him. I wanted that much participation from Echea’s other parent.
Surprised? I sent.
He shook his head. It is the choice your family always makes.
He looked at me for a long moment, as if he expected a response, and when I said nothing, he crouched in front of Echea. "Your life will be different after today," he said.
"Momma-" and the word was a gift, a first, a never-to-be repeated blessing-"said it would be better."
"And mothers are always right," he said. He put a hand on her shoulder. "I have to take you from her this time."
"I know," Echea said brightly. "But you’ll bring me back. It’s a procedure."
"That’s right," he said, looking at me over her head. "It’s a procedure."
He waited just a moment, the silence deep between us. I think he meant for me to change my mind. But I did not. I could not.
It was for the best.
Then he nodded once, stood, and took Echea’s hand. She gave it to him as willingly, as trustingly, as she had given it to me.
He led her into the back room.
At the doorway, she stopped and waved.
And I never saw her again.
Oh, we have a child living with us, and her name is Echea. She is a wonderful vibrant creature, as worthy of our love and our heritage as our natural daughters.
But she is not the child of my heart.
My husband likes her better now, and Ronald never mentions her. He has redoubled his efforts on his research.
He is making no progress.
And I’m not sure I want him to.
She is a happy, healthy child with a wonderful future.
We made the right choice.
It was for the best.
Echea’s best.
My husband says she will grow into the perfect woman.
Like me, he says.
She’ll be just like me.
She is such a vibrant child.
Why do I miss the wounded sullen girl who rarely smiled?
Why was she the child of my heart?