Perfect Little World(24)
“That’s all for now. I just wanted to meet you. You’ve been very helpful with the information that you’ve already provided, so this interview was just to have a face-to-face meeting and clear up any outstanding questions that I had. Thank you very much for coming. And good luck with the baby. You look great, by the way.”
Dr. Kwon stood and walked over to shake Izzy’s hand. Izzy stood and followed Dr. Kwon out of the meeting room, past the sofa and chairs where now a new couple, two pale, towheaded teenagers who looked like brother and sister, were waiting. Izzy nodded in solidarity to the pregnant girl, and felt awful when the girl’s face blazed red with embarrassment. Izzy kept walking, down the stairs, out of the library, and into the parking lot, where she finally stepped into her truck and began to breathe as calmly as she possibly could.
She still had no idea what was going on, what the project entailed, but Dr. Kwon was so kind, so patient, that Izzy felt very strongly that she wanted to be a part of the study. She wanted, after a long stretch of being avoided and ignored, to be desired by someone with good judgment. She wanted to believe that, inside her, there was something of great importance to the rest of the world. Was that so hard to believe, she wondered, as she started her truck and headed back to her normal life, which was patiently waiting for her, would always be waiting for her, she imagined.
chapter six
Dr. Preston Grind sat at the table in the meeting room of the complex, surrounded by file after file of people who, under no circumstances, would be a part of the project. Either their familial connections were too strong, their value systems regarding traditional families too ingrained, or they were doing well enough on their own and could not be induced to listen to him. His three postdoctoral research fellows, Jeffrey Washington, Kalina Kwon, and Jill Patterson, had each compiled ten prospective families that they believed best fit the profile for the project, and they were now making their cases to Dr. Grind.
“Carmen and Kenny fit perfectly into the socioeconomic parameters that we’ve targeted,” Jeffrey continued, a series of bullet points appearing on the screen for everyone to follow along. “They have already begun to tentatively espouse the desire for alternative methods for child rearing, and they lack almost any familial connections that would offer support once the baby is born. And, of course, they fit the time line regarding due date.” Jeffrey offered a pained smile, which seemed to be the only way he could express happiness; he was obviously convinced that he had found a compelling case for Dr. Grind to consider. Jeffrey, more than the other two fellows, was the most reluctant to accept Grind’s theories on the project, and seemed concerned that they were entering into something that could blow up in their faces and leave their reputations beyond repair. It was one of the reasons that Grind had selected him, his skepticism. It was helpful, Grind believed, to constantly be aware of the fact that he might be making a huge mistake.
“And,” Jeffrey then offered, “if we care about racial diversity, and I know that we do, then this couple helps with that complexity.” Jeffrey’s thesis at Texas Tech had focused on the disparities in childhood development among socioeconomic classes, focusing closely on race. As the only African American involved in the project thus far, Jeffrey wanted reassurance that Dr. Grind wasn’t simply going to put ten white families into a house and think that the data gathered would ultimately matter. Grind had assured him several times that racial diversity was a necessary component of the study, and, now, he agreed that Carmen and Kenny were perfect. Dr. Grind moved their folder onto the very slight yes pile and then turned to Dr. Kwon.
“Your next couple, Kalina?” Dr. Grind asked.
Kalina took the cord that had been connected to Jeffrey’s laptop and now attached it to her own. On the screen, there was a single photo of a young woman.
“It’s not a couple, actually,” Kalina said, smiling, radiating confidence. “It’s just a mom.”
“Okay,” Dr. Grind said, interested in hearing Kalina’s case. They were now in their third hour of deliberations and yet, to Dr. Grind, it felt like no time had passed at all. They were making something, he told himself. They were mapping out the years of their own lives, and the lives of perfect strangers. It was exhilarating.
“Isabel Poole, nineteen years old.”
Dr. Grind thought for a second and then remembered the name. This was the girl who had been recommended by Dr. Horton Jackson.
“She’s perfect,” Kalina said. “She’s absolutely perfect.”
Things had moved quickly for Preston after his initial meeting with Brenda Acklen. After a career spent begging for money, scraping together grants or university funding, he was shocked by how easy it was when you had access to billions of dollars, the power behind that money that induced people to do whatever you said. There were no committees, no advisory board. Mrs. Acklen had no interest in these formal proceedings. “Who knows how long I’ll be on this earth,” she told Preston. “I want to make this happen right now.”
So it was just Preston and the theories he was developing, in consultation with Mrs. Acklen, no stopgaps or oversight. Preston asked for something, postdoctoral fellows for research, a full staff of nurses and child care professionals, a complex to house the families, money to take care of these children, Mrs. Acklen wrote a check or called her lawyers or just said, simply, “Okay then.”