a quick look toward the door of her office. Not that there was anything for people to be suspicious about. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was looking at a website, not porn, and there were plenty of people who looked at porn on the job. This was a scientific website, sort of.
Pictures formed in horizontal stripes. The top was monochromatic: sky, wall, and then the beginnings of heads, the round edges of cells, of letters. The background was a light robin’s egg blue, patterned with faint fleur-de-lis. Finally, the page paused, then refreshed itself, forming fully.
The Institut Indépendant de la Recherche sur la Réplication Génétique had spent a lot of money on its website. There was a picture of a sheep—Dolly, presumably—and the “camera” swooped into her mouth and down into her DNA spiral, which replicated itself in a new frame, twirling independently. Clicking on either strand brought you to the home page, a slideshow of happy smiling people. Elm clicked on the Union Jack, which took her to a menu.
“About us: We are a group of physicians and researchers dedicated to exploring the exciting new field of genetic replication since 1997. With the highest regard for ethical considerations, we are discovering the ways in which science can help us live fuller, better lives. Have you been devastated by the loss of a loved one? DNA replication may be the answer to your problems. All consultations are kept strictly confidential and thus we are forbidden to present testimonials. However, our clientele include diplomats, moguls, CEOs, royalty, and other important world figures.”
“Devastated by the loss of a loved one.” The phrase struck Elm as particularly apt. She was devastated; utterly laid to waste. She had to admit she was impressed. The introduction, stilted though it was, took exactly the right tone. It was sympathetic without being sentimental, informative without providing detail, and reassuringly professional.
She turned to the other pages, which were not translated, but she could read French decently, and with the help of the diagrams she could tell they were explanations of the various types of cloning or the mechanisms used. One involved, apparently, removing the anchovy from a cocktail olive. Others involved volleys of arrows emanating from an eyeball, a snake fighting with a beach ball, and two M&M’s fused together. Another page was FAQs, this one translated into English. Do you replicate from nonanimal subjects? “The Charter of Fundamental Rights of the European Union prohibits the genetic replication of humans. For an explanation of the implications of this regulatory policy, please contact us.” Elm paused. What did that mean? It sounded like it might be possible to clone human beings, like the legalese meant the opposite of what it said. At the bottom was a Paris phone number and a disclaimer: “We regret that we are unable to respond to electronic mail inquiries.”
Elm was disappointed. This site was not the comedy she had predicted. It didn’t have cartoon dancing sheep or pseudoscientific mumbo jumbo. Instead, it looked like a real medical establishment. And Elm knew that if she even remotely believed that it was possible to bring Ronan back, or to re-create him, the thought would obsess her. The conference call demanded her attention. She unmuted it, thanked the participants, and ended the call.
She stared at the same particle (of food? of lint?) that had been there for months, too close to the corner to be sucked up by the vacuum. Colin would not feel the same way. Though agnostic, he called himself a spiritualist. “Twelve years of having the nuns beat it into you, some of it has to stick.” What happened to Ronan, according to Colin, was no one’s fault, not theirs, not God’s. It was just a cruel twist of destiny. It was fate.
“That makes you a fatalist,” she had said. Colin had shrugged.
He would not want to explore bizarre and probably illegal ways to reincarnate their son. It was ridiculous. Elm wouldn’t be able to tell anyone, if it happened. She imagined herself as she was nine years ago, pregnant with Ronan, swollen, her belly drawing her hands to it like a magnet. She would have to say that it was a new baby.
This was insane. This was magical thinking, something her grief counselor had told her to watch out for. “It’s not that it’s harmful,” her therapist had said. “But it’s unproductive, backward. It doesn’t help you move forward.”
Elm had experienced this minor psychosis in small ways. There were signs that Ronan