money to have her genes fixed so that all her children would have gray hair and the anticancer protection. Her way of saying to the world, look, I’m so rich I can afford to have this expensive anticancer treatment so I don’t need to care about having gray hair. And, like a lot of stupid and wasteful things, it became fashionable. Which is why your mother has gray hair, too.”
Lore sits up in bed so she can see herself in the mirror on the dresser. She turns her head this way and that, touches her gray hair. “Can we turn the gene back on?”
“Yes, but it won’t make any difference to you. Only your children.” He holds the covers, waiting for her to slide back down.
“Why didn’t you turn it back on?”
“I did, but your mother didn’t. She wanted you to have all the visible trappings of the rich and powerful. As she said to me at the time, you can always dye it. Now lie down.”
Lore does. “What color am I supposed to dye it?”
“Any color you like.” He goes to the window and pulls the curtains closed.
Lore frowns at his back. “But how will I know which color is the right one?”
Right, wrong; on, off; yes, no. She is used to black-and-whites, but at seven Lore is suddenly realizing she can make of herself what she wills. When she is old enough she can have red hair or golden eyebrows or hot, dark lashes like spiders’ legs. And no one will tell her she is wrong, because no one will know. She could become anyone she wishes. But how will she know she is still herself?
She stays awake a long time, thinking about it. How does Stel know who she is if every time she stands in front of a mirror, she looks different? Before she falls asleep, Lore resolves that she will never, ever dye her hair.
FIVE
I knocked, the two short, three long taps we used to use. Spanner opened the door. Her eyes were gummy and vague.
“We agreed I’d come here. Yesterday. In the bar.”
“Right.” She let me in.
I noticed the changes immediately. It was not just that someone else had been living there for a time—the different smells of soap and shampoo left behind in the bathroom, the exotic spices half-used on the shelf over the microwave—it was other things. We had never kept the place scrupulously tidy but it had felt alive and cared for. Now the worn places in the rug were dark with ground-in dirt and several plants were brown and curling. The plastic eyes of the power points were dull and cold and the equipment on the bench was covered in dust. I tried not to think about how she must have been supporting herself the last few months.
I couldn’t help glancing at the bench again. She noticed, of course, and laughed the laugh I had first heard a few months before I left, the ugly one. “Don’t worry. I haven’t lost my touch.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and the familiarity of the gesture here, in this flat, almost gave me vertigo.
“Let me see the PIDA.”
I handed over the baggie. “It’s sterile.”
Spanner carried it over to the bench. She took off covers, flipped a couple of switches, then pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves, took the PIDA out of the bag, and slid it into the reader. She scanned the information that came on-screen. “How much detail do you want?”
“Not much for now. Change the fingerprint ID and physical description to start with. And add my middle name, of course.”
She nodded. “Less is better.”
It was as though that single sentence had been echoing in the flat for nearly three years, as though I had somehow just stepped out for a while and stepped back in to hear it once again.
Less is better.
If only she had kept to that axiom. I wanted to grab the PIDA, leave the flat, and never come back, but I did not know anyone else who could do this for me. At least, not anyone as good as Spanner. As Spanner used to be. “I have the fingerprints ready to go.”
“Let’s have those, too. You’ve used them to open an account?”
“Not yet.”
“Good.
Lore sits up in bed so she can see herself in the mirror on the dresser. She turns her head this way and that, touches her gray hair. “Can we turn the gene back on?”
“Yes, but it won’t make any difference to you. Only your children.” He holds the covers, waiting for her to slide back down.
“Why didn’t you turn it back on?”
“I did, but your mother didn’t. She wanted you to have all the visible trappings of the rich and powerful. As she said to me at the time, you can always dye it. Now lie down.”
Lore does. “What color am I supposed to dye it?”
“Any color you like.” He goes to the window and pulls the curtains closed.
Lore frowns at his back. “But how will I know which color is the right one?”
Right, wrong; on, off; yes, no. She is used to black-and-whites, but at seven Lore is suddenly realizing she can make of herself what she wills. When she is old enough she can have red hair or golden eyebrows or hot, dark lashes like spiders’ legs. And no one will tell her she is wrong, because no one will know. She could become anyone she wishes. But how will she know she is still herself?
She stays awake a long time, thinking about it. How does Stel know who she is if every time she stands in front of a mirror, she looks different? Before she falls asleep, Lore resolves that she will never, ever dye her hair.
FIVE
I knocked, the two short, three long taps we used to use. Spanner opened the door. Her eyes were gummy and vague.
“We agreed I’d come here. Yesterday. In the bar.”
“Right.” She let me in.
I noticed the changes immediately. It was not just that someone else had been living there for a time—the different smells of soap and shampoo left behind in the bathroom, the exotic spices half-used on the shelf over the microwave—it was other things. We had never kept the place scrupulously tidy but it had felt alive and cared for. Now the worn places in the rug were dark with ground-in dirt and several plants were brown and curling. The plastic eyes of the power points were dull and cold and the equipment on the bench was covered in dust. I tried not to think about how she must have been supporting herself the last few months.
I couldn’t help glancing at the bench again. She noticed, of course, and laughed the laugh I had first heard a few months before I left, the ugly one. “Don’t worry. I haven’t lost my touch.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and the familiarity of the gesture here, in this flat, almost gave me vertigo.
“Let me see the PIDA.”
I handed over the baggie. “It’s sterile.”
Spanner carried it over to the bench. She took off covers, flipped a couple of switches, then pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves, took the PIDA out of the bag, and slid it into the reader. She scanned the information that came on-screen. “How much detail do you want?”
“Not much for now. Change the fingerprint ID and physical description to start with. And add my middle name, of course.”
She nodded. “Less is better.”
It was as though that single sentence had been echoing in the flat for nearly three years, as though I had somehow just stepped out for a while and stepped back in to hear it once again.
Less is better.
If only she had kept to that axiom. I wanted to grab the PIDA, leave the flat, and never come back, but I did not know anyone else who could do this for me. At least, not anyone as good as Spanner. As Spanner used to be. “I have the fingerprints ready to go.”
“Let’s have those, too. You’ve used them to open an account?”
“Not yet.”
“Good.
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