Five(19)

She did not cluck and coo at him or return his embrace with the strength he would have liked, but she did say, “Nicholas, it’s sad that those people in the pictures died, it’s good to be sad for them. They’re people with families, and I help them get the answers so they can catch the bad guys. It’s not easy, but it’s important. It’s the most important job I could ever do.” And Nicholas understood that it was, but he wished that the job of being his mother was more important.

When Nicholas was old enough to ask about his father, he decided not to. He was curious, but he did not want to hurt his mother, he did not want to disturb the fragile balance of their life together. He knew the man must have been tall and must have had dark curly hair, and tawny skin, and deep brown eyes like he did, because he looked nothing like his petite, pale, prematurely white-haired mother. He didn’t feel he could ask her because sometimes if he said too much or asked too many questions, she withdrew and went somewhere that he could not follow. A curtain would fall down over her eyes and he could not see her past it.

But luckily for Nicholas, Mrs. Worth was a scientist at her core. And when he was fourteen his curiosity about his paternity was satisfied quite fully when she gave him an old notebook to read.

“I found this up in the loft when I was getting the Christmas ornaments. I suspect it will answer your questions—if you have any,” she said, handing him the diary labeled Log of Recreational Activities, 1986–87. He knew his mother was forty years old in 1987, the year of his birth. Intrigued, he flipped through the pages. He turned to a date about nine months before his birthday and read the entry:

    25.01.1987

Participant: Andrew Sanderson

Description: Approx. 6′ 1″, medium build, muscular biceps. Age, 27. Slight subcutaneous adipose layer covering the lower abdomen, which although noticeable and could be improved is not repulsive. Hair, black. Eyes, dark brown. Skin tone, medium to dark, cultural appearance is Caucasian, perhaps Mediterranean, though physical features and characteristics suggest possible variable genetic influences.

Occupation: Forensic pathology trainee.

Location of activity: My flat. Primary position, front room sofa. Secondary position, bed.

Duration: Approx. 42 minutes preparatory activity, Approx. 7 minutes maximum exertion.

Number of thrusts in maximum exertion phase: 212 (Approx.)

Heart rate: 112 bpm (Approx.)

Temperature: 36.8°C

Notes: A pleasurable experience, although participant talked too much, probably due to his age. As a result, I was unable to keep accurate count of my heart rate or the number of thrusts. If the opportunity presents itself, I will repeat the activity; however, I will expect to see improvement in performance after providing critical feedback.



The subsequent entries for the next few months all referred to Andrew. It appeared his performance did improve with feedback and they saw quite a lot of each other. The last entry of the notebook had only one line in the middle of the page.

Test result: positive. Gestational age, approx. 13 weeks.

When he returned the notebook he asked, “So why isn’t my surname Sanderson, Mum?”

“I did all the work, why should he get the credit,” she said.

“Then how come everyone calls you ‘Mrs. Worth’?” Nicholas asked.

“Women who live without men make people nervous, Nicholas. So I added Mrs. to my surname. People asked too many questions otherwise, especially when you were born. If they ever ask about ‘Mr. Worth’ I just say he’s dead, and that shuts them up,” she said.

Nicholas asked her a few other carefully worded questions, like did Andrew know about him (no), did she like Andrew (yes), what happened to Andrew (he married the girlfriend he was cheating on with Mrs. Worth). And when he was about to ask if he could find Andrew, his mother put her hand on his shoulder in that awkward way that she had of showing affection about three times a year and said, “I chose you then and I would do it again. I have no regrets.”

Nicholas handed back the notebook to his mother and replied only, “Okay, Mum.” He didn’t have the heart to ask her anything else, knowing how much those words meant and how hard they were for her to say. They never spoke about it again.

Most of their life together was like that, living in comfortable silence, words never having been Mrs. Worth’s strength. And then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, Nicholas was a young man, going off to university, going off to travel, going off to live, she was relieved to see, a happy life, full of friends, and parties, and laughter, and experiences and loves—full of normalcy and fun and people. Her life was full of people too, of course, although most of them were dead.

Mrs. Worth was most comfortable in the morgue, in the lower levels of the hospital, among the deceased, who did not judge her peculiar personality, who did not expect banter or smiling or conversation or ask prying questions. They needed her skills and her knowledge more than the living did, she knew it from her first incision into a cadaver in her first year of medical school. It was where she was most at home.

As a forensic pathologist she performed thousands of autopsies and unlocked the secrets of the dead and eased the pain of not knowing for their families. Her work brought criminals to justice and exonerated the innocent and protected humanity from disease. And when she began her career, she was one of the only women who did this work, and it was a huge achievement.