“Emily,” I repeated. I’d watched coverage of her mother’s funeral from my apartment, textbooks open in front of me, too antsy to study. Emily, sitting alone in a sea of folding chairs. Behind her, protest signs that bobbed above Emily’s head like cartoon thought bubbles. UNNATURAL! ONLY GOD CAN CREATE MIRACLES! My heart had been in my throat, imagining what it would be like to lose my mother. I’d nearly called home—just to say hello, to see how my mother was doing—but then I’d imagined how jittery and defensive she would make me feel about my work, even if she didn’t say a word about it. All those old wounds reopening. I didn’t call.
“Where does Emily live?” I asked.
“Kansas, actually. A town not far from Wichita. I drive through it now and then.”
“Redbud?” My excitement sparked.
“Yeah. Why?”
I turned the notebook toward him as he sat on the step beside me, bringing his scent of unfamiliar laundry detergent with him. “Redbud. See? And five-twenty-four. That could be a street address.”
“Emily’s last known address,” Tom said, unthinkingly pulling the notebook closer to him. I resisted, pulling it back, and he let go. “She’s staying at five-twenty-four Twelfth Street in Redbud. I have contact information for all of these names.” He ran his finger down the page.
I took a second look at him. He smiled back, suddenly shifting away. Maybe he’d realized how close we were, hips nearly touching. “You’ve been stalking the other Homesteaders?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. The pit of my stomach tightened. I was alone in this dark house with him.
Tom looked hurt, like I’d offended him purposefully. “I prefer the term researching. It’s for work. I even helped your mom fill in a few blanks. Like the Grassis, Angela and Gina—you know how long it took to track down a reliable address for those two? It’s my coup.”
“How long did it take?” I asked.
He blinked. “A year.”
I nodded, cautiously accepting this. He wasn’t the first guy to research us. “And you’re sure this is Emily’s current address.”
“Positive. So what now? Are you going to go to the police with this?”
I hesitated. Honestly, I didn’t want to take it to the authorities. Not yet. I imagined being interviewed on the news, my classmates watching as I talked about my crazed mother running off into the night. No: I needed to find her myself. I’d given myself roughly three days before I returned to the dawn coming through the windows of my apartment, to the tranquility of the zebrafish tanks in the lab. Three days to return to my work, my promise to Bellanger that I’d finish what he’d started. A promise made public once I was accepted to the University of Chicago.
“Maybe I should just go,” I said. “Kansas isn’t so far.” The keys were still heavy in my pocket, a comforting weight. But the Chevy was an ancient and erratic beast, only good for short commutes. Prone to grinding, squeaky brakes.
“I’m happy to give you a lift,” Tom said casually, as if he’d read my uncertainty in my expression. “I’ve been meaning to go see Emily anyway.”
I considered this. It would give me a chance to pick Tom’s brain more. He was one of the last people to talk to my mother, as far as I knew. But he was a perfect stranger. All my mother’s old cautions against trusting people too easily rose into my brain. “Thanks, but I can’t ask you to do that.”
Disappointment flashed through his eyes. “It’s no problem, I’m happy to—”
“She’s my mother, my problem. You don’t have to worry about her.” I stood up, slipped the notebook into my pocket.
Tom stood too, and a brief awkwardness settled between us. “Just so you know,” he said, “I might pursue this myself. I mean, there could be a real story here.”
“I can’t exactly stop you,” I said, restraining my irritation. “I’d just ask for a chance to find my mother safe first. She’s not just a story to me.”
Looking serious, he nodded once. “You have my number if you need it, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Tom turned around, waved to me as he moved toward the door. “Good to finally meet you, Girl One.”
4
Time magazine—October 20, 1974
MIRACLE or MODERN SCIENCE? Inside One Man’s Attempt to Change Birth as We Know It
Daybury, Vermont, is a quiet hamlet, population barely reaching five hundred. Bucolic is the first word that comes to mind. There’s a single general store across the street from the post office. Neighbors greet each other by name. But lately, sleepy Daybury has been disrupted by hordes of camera crews, candle-toting pilgrims, and sign-carrying picketers. All of these outsiders are drawn by a single cause. Here, on the outskirts of Daybury, a man who has long toiled over his scientific research in obscurity has achieved the impossible. More than the impossible, perhaps—the downright miraculous.