The Suicide Gene Read online

  Then there was Mrs. Martin who lived around the corner. She transformed her garage into a house of terror that made your hair curl every Halloween, but no one skipped her house. She handed out hugs and king-sized candy bars at the end. She also brought Ye Old Sweet Shop brownie-stuffed cookies—the best cookies in Erie—for Emma when the neighborhood ladies met for coffee. Mrs. Martin didn’t have children. She told Emma if she had a little girl, she would want her to be just like Emma.

  Emma asked why she didn’t have children once. Mrs. Martin told her she wouldn’t risk it. Said her family lineage, laced with disease, possibly contained the horrid BCRA gene. She passed away when Emma was in seventh grade. Emma was so surprised and frightened that her mom thought explaining about “the gene” would help. It didn’t.

  Emma began dreaming about chromosomes and genes. She took out biology books from the school library, delighting her mom. “We may have a little doctor in the making,” Heidi said. She didn’t realize Emma was experiencing firsthand what the word phobia meant, and Emma feared her mom would end her biology-reading blitz if she did. So Emma kept her fears to herself. She scoured the shelves at the public library for genetics books on the sly. Read every one and then began taking out text books from the Mercyhurst University library. By her junior year in high school, she had developed an insatiable fear of diseased chromosomes—even the deletion of some chromosomes propagated a syndrome.

  So the fear began. She once argued with a medical-school professor that ignorance perpetuated life and if people realized the truth about genetics, they’d never have children. He countered there were remedies to battle bad genes but she persisted. To her, the one and only control a person had on genetics was ending their bloodline.

  There was good reasoning for a moderate fear. When Emma was sixteen years old, Ben and Heidi petitioned the court for her records and found her files had been misplaced.

  For a while, the Kerrs thought someone at the courthouse or adoption agency or both would be fired. Her records had been completely expunged: all paper, digital, microfilm, and microfiche copies gone with the wind. The director at the adoption agency said they’d never seen anything like it. It appeared someone had intentionally deleted everything. They continued searching for an entire year but to no avail. They’d vanished. All that remained was the faded copy of the birth mother’s initial adoption interview form, done in pencil. They could no longer even see the mother’s name.

  To preserve what little information they had, Heidi Kerr recorded the adoption in the family bible for Emma and—oblivious to Emma’s gene anxiety—future generations:

  The Kerrs adopted the one-month-old Caucasian girl on Monday morning, October 7, 1985. She came with the clothes on her back and a pink teddy bear with a bright pink ribbon. The thin, silky ribbon contained words penned in ink and only minimally legible. The Kerrs translated it to: “To Emma who was loved much.” They kept the name Emma in reverence to the birth mother who made their greatest dream come true.

  Emma read the genealogical note hundreds of times. The entry didn’t help. Her medical history remained undisclosed. There were diseases like cystic fibrosis, Alzheimer’s, cancer, and diabetes that may be embedded in her nucleotides.

  And then there was the depression.

  She won a science fair in high school with a genetics project so comprehensive the school made her scale it down before she displayed it. She used a rat farm and human eye exhibition as attention getters, breeding four rats to evaluate their resulting fur colors and charting human eye color on a three-foot display complete with family lineage and iris patterns. The final report walked viewers through genetic theories proposed by Gregor Johanne Mendel, Thomas Hunt Morgan, and Ronald Fisher, and discussed the genetics of diabetes, schizophrenia, and finally, depression, which she linked to an increase in suicide attempts. Ally said the report was so technical only a scientist could comprehend it. The teachers and judges said she captured first place with her rat display alone and forced Emma to shorten the project name from Understanding the Complications of Genetics; Is There a Suicide Gene to Understanding Genetics.

  Ben Kerr put a shelf with mini-lights in Emma’s bedroom to display her first-place trophy. Mercyhurst Preparatory School science fair trophies and ribbons held a lot of weight in Erie. Students flaunted their awards on local scholarship applications. But to Emma, that award on that shelf—lit up like a beacon to her phobias—reminded her that genetics was clearly a topic worthy of discussion. The suicide gene was not.

  Her depression progressed, her fears escalated, and her gene obsession metastasized.

  By college, Emma was done searching for her biological family and swore off ever bringing a child into this world without knowing her DNA. Even Ally couldn’t convince her she was being irrational. Then the mix-up with the clothes she had on hold at The Limited occurred, followed by her chance meeting with Mr. Martin in Pittsburgh during her sophomore year at Pitt. But for those two events, Emma and Josh might still be together and on their way to parenthood.

  “Emma!” Sharon interrupted her reflections so abruptly she jumped. “What’s going on?”

  “Sharon, you scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Ally said you haven’t returned her calls.” Sharon stood in her doorway, arms overflowing with bags full of the day’s food and paraphernalia. She frowned. “I got another email from her. She’ll be in seminars all day but asked if you would call her tonight. Why didn’t you return her call?”

  Emma crumpled the note in her hand that Sharon had left for her the day before. Its scribbled words were punctuated with a hotel number and read: Urgent. Call me before 7:30 tomorrow morning. I won’t be home until late Sunday night. We need to talk.

  “I tried calling last night,” Emma insisted. The lies flowed easier these days. “I’m so behind. Can you email her for me? Tell her I’ll talk to her Monday.”

  “Sure, I can do that, but what about Josh?” Sharon sidled toward her desk, set the bags down, and returned. She stood arms akimbo in Emma’s doorway. “Why has he been calling?”

  “Not important,” she grumbled. He’d been calling and texting since Monday. “Just ignore him. Eventually he will stop. Did you get a chance to search the obituaries like I asked?”

  “Oh, yes, I did.” Sharon left briefly and returned with a website address and a list of steps. “I looked at length and came to the same conclusion you did. There was no Erie record of an infant McKinney dying in September of 1985—”

  “I knew it.” Emma blurted. “That baby did not die.”

  “Wait, let me finish. I found something in the New York State records. I couldn’t print it out—our damn printer is out of ink. I’ve used so many ink cartridges printing files. I’ll order more.”

  “New York?” Emma stood, took the paper from Sharon’s hand.

  “Yes, New York. Follow the steps I wrote down, and you’ll see an obituary for a female McKinney who died on September 15, in Westfield, New York. It was a small notice in the Westfield Chronicle.”

  “It can’t be.” Emma expelled a long, befuddled breath. “The Scully Winery and family farm are in Westfield, New York. That’s where Sara Scully McKinney grew up. Who were the parents?”

  “Well, Renee and Mathew, of course.” Sharon looked puzzled.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “What’s impossible?”

  “The baby’s death. Are you sure it was an obituary?”

  “Well, it was short but on the same page with the obituaries. Stated she was the daughter of Renee and Mathew, her cause of death was SIDS and the burial would be private.”

  “What was the baby’s birthdate?”

  “Didn’t say. The obit didn’t even list other relatives. Only stated she passed away at the Scully farmhouse and listed the address.”

  “Are you sure it stated Melissa?”

  “Yes, Emma—Melissa Megan McKinney.”

  Emma took deep breaths, glanced down, and focused on the
grainy wood in her big desk while the words registered and the dizziness passed. After a moment, she realized Sharon still stared confusedly. Try to calm down. Breathe. One, two, three.

  “Emma!” Sharon, who applied cream to her wrinkle-free, fifty-six-year-old face four times a day, furrowed her brow and puckered her lips so dramatically that little lines fell across her face. For once she looked her age. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m—I’m just confused. I thought they were lying. I didn’t think the baby died.”

  “I’m sure they lie about many things. Those twins are psychotic.” Sharon turned slowly to leave the room. “But they’re not lying about that baby.”

  She threw a baffled stare over her shoulder and left the room, mumbling to herself.

  Dumbfounded, Emma worked quickly to find Mary’s most recent file. She knew exactly what to look for. The exchange was fresh in her mind. Today her first intent had been to reread the Post-it marked “baby.” Now she searched for the Post-it marked “work.” All four of the McKinneys mentioned the farmhouse at one time or another, but not with any substance. It had been unimportant—a place they visited, no more.

  Why had no one told her the baby died at the farm? She began reading.

  Patient: Mary McKinney

  Psychiatrist: Dr. Emma Kerr

  Date: February 11, 2015 1 p.m.

  ****

  Mary: Minnie and I can’t come in together any more. She’s coming in later today.

  Dr. Kerr: Yes, she rescheduled.

  Mary: Her new boss won’t let her extend her lunch and work late any more. She’s a bitch.

  Dr. Kerr: Sometimes fitting appointments into a lunch hour is difficult. I understand.

  Mary: Yeah, but this lady is a control freak. I designed her work schedule tracking program on our mainframe—put in overtime to complete the project according to her rushed timeline. Then when she finds out my sister is coming here at lunch, she throws a tantrum. Last time I do her a favor.

  Dr. Kerr: Are they giving you trouble at work? We can switch yours to evenings, too.

  Mary: Hell, no. I’m the workhorse. They don’t care what my schedule is as long as I get my work done. And I always do.

  Dr. Kerr: Then let me ask, why did you cancel your appointment on the twenty-ninth?

  Mary: Matt asked me to run some errands, and when Matt says jump, we all ask how high. I drove out to our Westfield family home. We’re finally selling my grandmother’s old farmhouse. The place is a mess. Been falling down for years.

  ****

  She paged to the next Post-it marked “baby.” Only a few minutes remained before her next client. The rest of her day and night were booked.

  ****

  Dr. Kerr: Would you rather not talk about Melissa?

  Mary: No, I’ll talk about her with you. I just don’t talk to my siblings about her.

  Dr. Kerr: Why not?

  Mary: Lots of reasons.

  Dr. Kerr: Do you feel comfortable telling me how you felt when she passed away?

  Mary: Did Minnie tell you how she felt?

  Dr. Kerr: This session is for you, Mary, not Minnie.

  Mary: I want to know how she felt before I say how I felt.

  Dr. Kerr: Is there a reason?

  Mary: Look, just tell me what my sister and brother said about Melissa. How they feel about her—death.

  Dr. Kerr: Mary, I will keep everything you say confidential. You can tell me how you feel about your sisters, your brother, the baby, or any other family member. I promise you I will keep it between you and me.

  Mary: (Pause.) You know, Doctor Kerr, I do believe you would do that.

  Dr. Kerr: I’m glad. Then what would you like to discuss today?

  Mary: I’d like to talk about Minnie.

  Dr. Kerr: What would you like to discuss about her?

  Mary: Sometimes she reminds me of my grandmother.

  Dr. Kerr: Your grandmother? Sara?

  Mary: Yes, she is a replica of her.

  Dr. Kerr: Do you feel that is good or bad?

  Mary: Oh, not good.

  Dr. Kerr: Why not good?

  Mary: (Silence.)

  Dr. Kerr: Mary?

  Mary: My grandmother was a dreadful woman.

  Dr. Kerr: And you believe Minnie is like her?

  Mary: Yes, she is.

  Dr. Kerr: What concerns you about Minnie?

  Mary: She annoys the crap out of me with questions lately.

  Dr. Kerr: Regarding?

  Mary: You. Me. Keeps asking what we talk about during my counseling.

  Dr. Kerr: That gets on your nerves?

  Mary: Well, yes, I suppose I don’t want her to get mad.

  Dr. Kerr: Why would she be mad?

  Mary: (Pause.) Because she likes to tell the family stories. I’m sure she wrote you a book about our family when we agreed to come to counseling.

  Dr. Kerr: Since there were four of you filling out the forms, I reviewed a lot of family history.

  Mary: I’m sure Minnie’s stretched painfully into the longest. She is all about trivialities. She rambles on. Trust me, I understand. She’s smart as a whip but can be a bore. I’m quite sure you didn’t read her entire history. You ought to go back and try. You’ll learn more about the whole family—my grandmother Sara and her sister.

  Dr. Kerr: I’m familiar with the story about your grandmother and her sister.

  Mary: Minnie told you?

  Dr. Kerr: I am hoping you will share your feelings about what happened.

  Mary: You mean—

  Dr. Kerr: Yes, the suicide.

  Mary: (Silence.)

  Dr. Kerr: We will only talk about this if you want.

  Mary: (Silence.)

  Dr. Kerr: Mary?

  Mary: (Silence.)

  Dr. Kerr: We can change the subject.

  Mary: Do you know what my grandmother’s sister’s name was? Did Minnie tell you?

  Dr. Kerr: No, now that you mention it. I don’t know her name.

  Mary: Her name was Melissa. My grandmother’s sister who took her own life was named Melissa.

  ****

  At the time of this session, Emma still had a glimmer of hope that the baby lived. But now Sharon’s news sent all speculation into a tailspin. Had Renee McKinney named her baby after her husband’s dead aunt who committed suicide? Who does that, she thought.

  And then—the baby died?

  “What the hell is going on in this family?”

  Chapter 15

  Friday, February 27, 2015

  Seventy-six days.

  After a long Thursday, Emma pulled into her driveway at one-thirty on Friday morning. Exhausted but famished, she popped a container of Sharon’s leftover lasagna into the microwave, meandered to the living room to sit down, and promptly fell asleep.

  She never heard the beeping of the microwave. She did, however, dream all night of someone gazing at her through her conspicuously big front window. Her cell alarm rang at six. She selected snooze five times, wondering if the figure she saw peeking through the glass was her imagination or had really been there. Shopping for drapes or blinds was imperative.

  By the time she arrived at her office, her mind had washed away the figure in the window and centered on the obituary Sharon had located. She obsessed over two things: why Renee named the baby after a person who committed suicide, and why Mary had delivered the news as if revealing a fourth secret of Fatima.

  Clients came and went all day—no cancellations. When the door closed behind the last client in late afternoon, Emma opened the McKinney digital files and pulled out their paper files.

  If Sharon wasn’t so damn efficient, Emma would have thought she got it wrong. Small-town newspaper articles were harder to locate online than city chronicles, but Sharon had trudged through website muck and planted her feet firmly on fact. She documented her trail, Emma followed gingerly in her footsteps and found herself facing a black-and-white obituary that sucked the color from her world. Although
words of the baby’s death were clear, she struggled to absorb them. Erasing what seemed like a lifetime of believing Melissa Megan McKinney lived would at least take a day or two.

  The notice’s brief details left many of Emma’s questions unanswered, yet one was clear. The baby had died.

  Melissa Megan McKinney, infant daughter of Renee (Blake) and Mathew McKinney, passed away from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) on September 15, 1985, at her grandparents’ residence, the Scully Family Farm, 1000 Scully Way, Westfield, New York. Burial will be private. In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to the National SIDS Institute in the family’s name.

  With those words, Emma’s doubts withered. All this time, she had probed Erie archives in search of information regarding Melissa McKinney. It had never occurred to her to search elsewhere. Why would the obit be listed in Westfield’s paper and omitted in Erie’s?

  A newspaper, even a small one, would confirm a death. Right?

  Of course.

  Not knowing where to go from there, she took Mary’s advice and opened Minnie’s initial history. Mary was right. Minnie’s essay ran on—and her handwriting was atrocious. Melanie, Matt, and Mary composed brief and to-the-point backgrounds precise enough for Emma to grasp the family history quickly. Emma had merely skimmed Minnie’s scribbled writing.

  She had attached four notebook sheets, filled out front and back. They were curled and frayed at the ends from handling, and thinned and grayed in the middle from erasing, as though she labored as she wrote. Deciphering the words proved impossible.

  Emma grabbed her phone and took pictures of the pages. She sent the pictures to her computer, opened her email, downloaded each one individually, and blew them up. Then she read each word. They hollered an angry history from her screen. Names and dates jumped at her. Detailed family facts dappled paragraphs, yet Minnie never stated the name of Sara’s twin sister.

  First mention of the baby didn’t come until the back of the third page, halfway down.