Girl One(19)

“Yeah, a while back. Nothing. Not even an answering machine.”

“Deb won’t speak to just anyone,” Tom said, thoughtful. “Usually you’d have to jump through a few hoops. But you’re Girl One. Once they realize it’s you, they’ll want to talk.”

“No interviews,” I said quickly. “Not right now.” I was tired, I was bleary; just a few hours ago, a sleepwalking girl in an attic had tried to strangle me. My mother was gone. I couldn’t imagine putting on my bright-shiny professional self to answer glossy questions.

“Fair,” Tom said. “But you should know that if you agree to an interview, I could introduce you in person before you head home.”

I mulled it over. Tempting. “You’d do that?” I asked. “All the way to Minnesota?”

“Listen, your mother reached out to me for help. I want to see this through.” Tom tapped the steering wheel. “Because when I was watching coverage of your mom’s disappearance, I saw Deb on Good Morning America. Joan asked her about your mother’s disappearance. Of course Deb said she didn’t know anything. Such a misfortune, Joan. Blah, blah. But I saw this look on Deb’s face for a second. This panic.”

“What do you think that means?” I asked, disquieted, intrigued.

“Deb’s usually real chatty,” Tom said. “This was different. It was a weird look, Josie. Like she was hiding something.”





9

April 24, 1973

My beloved Josephine,

Two years old. You continue to be a remarkable Girl, in part because you are so unremarkable. You weigh twenty-one pounds. You have enough hair that your mother sometimes fashions it into small pigtails. You can jump, and stack blocks neatly in a tower, and count to five, and you know eighty-two words. Josephine, you even created your first sentence: you said, quite clearly, That man go when I departed for my weekend in Maryland. I can’t tell you how difficult it was to leave you behind. More and more, I recognize that my truest life’s work is being here with you. Your mother reports that you ask after me at every opportunity.

But I don’t worry about it as much as I might, because your second birthday brings the most marvelous news. Another baby is on the way. Before too long, my Josephine, you will be joined by a sister. Many sisters, if I have my way. One day, not long from now, there might be hundreds of Miracle Babies. Nothing would make me prouder than to be the father of a generation of miraculous Girls, particularly if they are anywhere near as smart as my Girl One. May you soon be One of a thousand. A million. More!

Your loving father always,

Joseph Bellanger

The New York Times—June 24, 1977

Fire Destroys Vermont Commune, Claims Two Victims

On the morning of Wednesday, June 22, a small but notorious corner of rural Vermont was shrouded in smoke. Due to the Homestead’s remote location, it took hours for the owners of a neighboring farm to notice the blaze. Firefighters were able to keep the flames contained, protecting the surrounding forest. By the time the blaze cleared, two bodies were found in the wreckage of what was once the site of scientific optimism.

One of the bodies has been identified as Fiona (no surname), the youngest subject of Bellanger’s landmark experiment. The other victim was Joseph Bellanger, who has been a lightning rod for both criticism and admiration since inducing parthenogenesis in nine human women.

According to a statement from state medical examiner Leland Henley, “The extent of these injuries suggests a fire that was set intentionally and, furthermore, was meant to cause grave harm.”

Local authorities have verified that dozens of people had been picketing outside the Homestead boundaries for weeks leading up to the fire. The group was led by Ricky Peters, who has made a name for himself as the most prominent critic of the Homestead and its occupants, having been quoted as saying Bellanger should “burn in hell.” Authorities have not yet determined the cause of the blaze. No suspects have been identified.





10

“Why aren’t you talking to your mother, anyway?” Tom asked.

We’d been driving since before dawn, the sky just turning gold and pink. The Iowa landscape raced by outside: fields, trees, scattered outposts of gas stations, everything both familiar and unfamiliar. Living in Chicago, I’d gotten used to the city, tightly packed and buzzing with energy. Here the country felt so big and open that anything might happen.

I’d been toying with the radio station, trying to coax something from the blur of static. Fuzzy music refused to get any louder or softer no matter how I adjusted the station. “Where do I even begin?” I asked, giving up and falling back against the seat.

As promised, Tom had procured an interview with the Clarksons as I anxiously hovered beside him. “Did you ask if my mom’s there?” I’d asked, the moment he got off the phone. “It was just their manager,” he’d said, “but no, he didn’t mention Margaret.” That didn’t necessarily mean anything, I reminded myself. I had to talk to Deb directly. The two of us had stayed at a cheap motel (Tom volunteering to sleep in the car, an offer I’d accepted, grateful for a solid night’s sleep on something resembling a real mattress) and started off as soon as possible.

In the morning light, I got a better look at Tom. He was probably ten years older than me, his hands on the steering wheel long-fingered, starred with ink stains. He had those grooves under his eyes that could’ve been from insomnia or could’ve been genetic, maybe both.