The Suicide Gene Read online

  “What do I know?” Emma uncovered her ears.

  “That the McKinneys are your birth family,” Ally yelled.

  “They aren’t.” Emma backed away and lowered her voice when she heard the front door chimes.

  Seconds later, Sharon hurried in with arms full and face flushed.

  “I could hear the two of you outside.” She juggled her packages. “What in God’s name is going on?”

  “Tell her,” Ally shouted. “Go ahead. Tell Sharon.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You think you are the baby!” Ally reached for her briefcase, yanked out Emma’s disc of client cases, and threw it on the desk. “You think you are Melissa McKinney.”

  “I can’t be Melissa,” Emma spat back at her.

  “You can be and you are.”

  “No, I’m not. She died September 15th, 1985.”

  “That baby did not die. She’s lying. Minnie is a pathological liar. She never tells the truth. You were born Melissa McKinney.”

  “Ally!” Now Sharon yelled. “What are you talking about? Emma, did you think you were related to the McKinneys?”

  “She is a McKinney. She didn’t tell you, because she wanted to continue counseling them.”

  “You’re wrong, Ally. That baby died.” Emma reasoned.

  “I don’t believe it.” Ally shifted her contorted face to the left and right slowly, deliberately. “I’ve read every word of all four files. I reread Minnie and Mary’s a second time. You are Melissa McKinney. You know it, I know it, and they know it. The only one who doesn’t is Melanie.”

  “Emma can’t be the baby.” Sharon juggled her packages, nearly dropping one. “I found the obituary online myself!”

  “Sharon is right.” Emma stepped around the desk and sat down, slowly, candid conversation weakening her. The topic had never aired between the two of them, but obviously Ally had considered the possible McKinney connection for quite a while. Like her, she supposed Ally would struggle to discard the suspicion.

  Emma gazed Ally’s stricken face and guilt besieged her. There were so many times she had lied to Ally about the McKinneys. Times when she followed them, stalked them, almost. She went elbow to desk, forehead to palm, and let the wind out of her lungs.

  She surrendered.

  “You’re right. I did think I was a McKinney.”

  “Emma!” Sharon screeched.

  “No worries, Sharon. Mercifully, I’m not. I drove to Trinity Cemetery on Friday. The baby is buried in the McKinney family plot. The date of death on her tombstone matches the date on the obituary you dug up, September 15th.”

  “Are you sure?” The terror in Sharon’s eyes didn’t dim but stabilized.

  “I’m sure.” Emma let an arm fall clumsily to her desk and she nodded. “I called St. Luke’s rectory, and the secretary confirmed it. I know her. She works a long day on Friday, packing food baskets. She rechecked the church records and let me talk to Father Mike. He was a young priest back then. Said he baptized, administered last rites, and buried Melissa McKinney on the same day, Saturday, September 21st, 1985. He stayed and prayed with the family afterward at Trinity Cemetery.”

  Ally said nothing so Emma continued.

  “Father Mike said he always remembers when he buries a child, but especially remembers the McKinney baby because that was the first time he had blessed a baby so small. He said the McKinneys were heartbroken, Renee completely despondent. She never recovered. Even after Melanie was born, after the divorce and her marriage to Sam Winger, she still talked to him about the baby.”

  “Did you admit you thought you might be a McKinney?” Sharon still looked confused. “I mean, you can’t be, right? Because honestly, you look like them. I thought it myself.”

  “No, I never admitted it. He seemed nervous talking about them. Only discussed them with me because he requested I counsel them in the first place. He said there were confidential issues.”

  “Confidentiality?” Concern replaced confusion in Sharon’s expression.

  “He didn’t want to say too much.” Emma hesitated, considered lying, but then told the truth. “Said he was afraid the family would sue the church for disclosure. They were known for being quick to sue.”

  “Emma,” Ally said, her voice calmer now. “Even more reason for you to get rid of these cases. You’re playing with fire. This family has a history of personality and mood disorders. You know that increases their risk.”

  “Are those girls in danger of doing something rash?” Sharon’s gaze bounced back and forth between Ally and Emma.

  “Yes,” Ally responded. Then she nodded toward Emma, and Emma heard words cross Ally’s lips she never thought she’d hear. “Suicide runs in their family. Some might call it a gene.”

  All those years ago when this began, Ally had fought the concept. Whenever Emma mentioned the possibility that a suicide gene existed, a fire danced in Ally’s eyes and a debate ensued. Now, for the first time, Emma witnessed a bewilderment in her.

  “There’s no such gene.” Emma picked up the disc. “You were right all along, Ally.”

  Ally clomped back to her briefcase and removed a stack of Xeroxed copies of files.

  “Society for Neuroscience, Doctor Mann, RGS2,” she said and slapped the outline of a suicide study on Emma’s desk.

  “The American Journal of Psychiatry, Epigenetics and Genetic Biomarkers.” Another academic work fell from her hand.

  “Mayo Clinic, Risk factors, Family History.” She hurled it down on Emma’s desk, along with another study and another. She dropped them strategically into an organized heap, all titles visible for Emma to see.

  “And here are the families with constant suicide tendencies: the Hemingways.” She tossed an article down.

  “The Wittgensteins. The Lukases.” Old news articles hit the desk. “The Cobains. Need I go on?”

  “No,” Emma conceded. “I’ve read them—all of them.”

  “The gene does exist. It’s only a matter of time before someone researches the concept, concludes the gene exists, and releases the finding. You were right all along, as you are with everything—every hypothesis, every theory. I’ve relied on you all these years. You were my tutor, my mentor. I didn’t have the brains to be a valedictorian. I had a best friend who taught me everything I needed to know on any subject.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Ally. You are first in everything you do.”

  “I was first because you wanted me to be first. You wouldn’t let me fail. You never let up until I understood every formula, postulate, axiom, principle. Wouldn’t give in until I absorbed and comprehended every lesson, inside and out. You suggested my award-winning, paint-and-wait program—to save me from my own idiosyncrasies. You, Emma, not me.”

  Ally stood back to compose herself.

  “Yes, I’m Doctor Allison Elizabeth Weaver, and I’m damn smart, but my best friend is a genius. And because she is, because she taught me everything I know about psychology, psychiatry, depression, and downright mania, because of that, she virtually made a genius out of me, too.”

  The room went still. Like at the end of a Mass after communion, when parishioners wait silently in anticipation of the final blessing.

  “You are brilliant, Emma. Your mind is like a sponge. It retains every drop.” Ally took a step back. “You knew the answer to every question ever posed—except one.”

  At that moment, Emma saw her reflection in Ally’s wet eyes. She saw the Emma Ally knew. The Emma whom Ally grew up beside, a best friend she couldn’t live without, a girl who shared her scatterbrained ways and nerdy mannerisms. She turned away, unable to respond.

  Ally’s save-the-world, especially-Emma, determination resurfaced. “You were right. There are thousands of people out there living with this suicide gene. The Hemingways had it, the McKinneys have it, and Emma? You have that gene, too.”

  Emma placed the palms of her hands on her eyes and pushed. She refused to cry. If she did, she wouldn’t stop.
/>
  Ally picked up her purse and briefcase. “How many people in the McKinney family committed suicide?”

  Silence again.

  “Get rid of their cases, Emma.”

  For a moment they existed aimlessly in the small room. Like those who witness the close call of an accident, and aren’t sure if everyone is all right, or if they should leave or stay. They lingered a little longer, and then Sharon proceeded quietly to the front office.

  “Emma.” This time Emma’s name flowed over Ally’s lips in a long, wistful way. “Are the McKinneys the reason you told Josh you never wanted children? How long have you believed you were a McKinney?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice swimming in a long sigh. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

  “This is good—not being related to them. They have a lot of mental problems. Surely you can’t be disappointed.”

  “No, I’m not.” She attempted to match the cadence of her voice with her words. “I’m actually elated. I can counsel them without feeling guilty.”

  “You never said a word to me—all these years.” Ally shook her head. “I didn’t say anything when you began counseling them, because I didn’t want to put anything in your head. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve worried about your heredity. I was shocked when you said Father Mike asked you to counsel them.”

  Emma kept her focus on Ally. She knew any sudden movements, if she turned her cheek or hung her head, would reveal she hid something. The truth was she had weaseled her way into their lives. A friend told her Father Mike provided informal pastoral counseling to Melanie McKinney, and Emma schemed to flaunt her counseling skills to him in the hope he referred Melanie to her.

  The previous spring she had volunteered at St. Luke’s on Friday evenings, assembling food baskets for the needy alongside Father Mike and other volunteers. Then during the St. Luke’s Day of Caring in summer, she was paired up with him to undertake a community service project. She finally had time alone with him. After five hours of hammering boards for handicapped ramps, boasting about her specialty of working with suicidal clients, he bit. He asked Emma if she knew the McKinneys. No, she said, she didn’t know them. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. He asked her to counsel them. She agreed to fit them in.

  “There were other families I resembled over the years, not just the McKinneys.” Emma worked hard not to lose eye contact with her. “Regardless, you can’t be mad. I’m going to keep searching. I want to find my biological family.”

  Ally went to Emma, bent down, and hugged her. When she stood back, the corners of her mouth sagged into a frown.“You’ll find them someday, and they won’t be half as bad as you imagine. Most adopted children believe they come from royalty. They fantasize about it. Not you.”

  Emma’s eyes fell to her desk. The long, straight streaks of its wood-grain pattern jumped out at her, reminding her of the rows of print in a storybook, a fairytale. About a girl pretending to be normal.

  Ally turned toward the door, and Emma listened to the slow shuffle of her footsteps.

  “I have to ask.” Ally halted at the door, her back to Emma. “Are you suicidal?”

  Strange, she thought, being on the other side of that question. Experiencing the jolt, firsthand. That instant fright caused by knowing if you tell the truth, you were going to be locked away. In twenty-nine years, the question had never escaped Ally’s lips. Emma offered the correct answer.

  “No, Ally, I’m fine.”

  Ally turned to face her.

  “There have been times in the past when I became completely lost with worry about you. I wondered if my best friend was going to take her life. But I told myself you would never do that to Heidi, to Ben and—” She hesitated. “To me, Emma. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? Because I could never forgive myself for letting it happen.”

  A tear meandered down Emma’s cheek. It left a thin streak on the side of her face furthest from Ally, out of her sight. Carefully, Emma held her head in place.

  “This is the first time I’ve admitted this.” Ally’s voice cracked. “There’s been this unspoken truth between us all these years about your depression. It’s the reason you studied psychiatry. It’s why I studied psychiatry.”

  Emma couldn’t speak and, thankfully, Ally didn’t press her.

  “I’m always here for you. I try to pick you up, comfort you, make you laugh, but I can’t save you. Only you can. You need to see someone. You need help. You are afraid you are going to commit suicide. And now—” She stopped and swallowed. “With your mom’s illness and Josh leaving, I am, too.”

  Hearing Ally’s fears out loud crushed her. But wisdom often comes in the worst of times. Emma saw her opportunity to close the window and change the direction of the airflow in the room. No matter what problems faced you in life, if you looked around, you’d find that opening and stop the wind from lifting you off your feet and sending you tumbling to the ground. She seized the opportunity.

  “I’m doing better.” She could hear the sincerity in her own voice. “I went away, to a wedding, with someone. I was afraid to tell you.”

  “With Josh?”

  “No.” Emma blushed and wiped her tear-streaked face without Ally noticing. “Not Josh.”

  “Well.” Ally looked hurt. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Ally.” Emma’s voice softened. “I had the best time. The first time in years I left everything behind and enjoyed a weekend.”

  “I’m glad. You need to take a break once in a while. But can I ask why you didn’t tell me? You’ve never kept anything from me.”

  “There’s a reason.” Emma winced, intentionally. It was the perfect time to tell her. “I went away with Giff Johnson.”

  “Attorney Boy?” Ally’s eyes widened.

  “I hope you aren’t mad.” Emma didn’t look her way. “I sort of felt like I betrayed you.”

  “Mad? I’m elated!” She laughed, let a faint snort escape. “You probably saved good old Rhett Butler’s cheap behind.”

  A muted celebration lingered—the kind that occurs when you see someone you haven’t seen for a long time at a funeral. You’re pleased as can be, but the timing is bad.

  “That’s wonderful.” Ally cocked her head and smiled. “When did the two of you start dating?”

  “Not long ago. He sent me flowers on Valentine’s Day. It broke the ice.”

  “Wow, awesome. You need something decent in your life, and he seems like a good guy.”

  Glib dialogue continued awhile, then they hugged, guardedly, and Ally departed somewhat reassured of Emma’s stability.

  Emma relaxed her shoulders and fit her thin frame into the big chair, relieved and feeling partially victorious, yet a bit empty. What the twins expressed about their father held true for Emma and her birth family—even a bad family may be better than no family at all.

  Disappointment and disbelief, not celebration, filled the empty places in her heart. Besides looking like them and more than the confusion over the clothes at The Limited or the roll-call blunder of her seventh-grade teacher, one other festering reason she thought they were related remained. A reason she had packed away long ago, but now Ally had unraveled the tightly wrapped memory.

  Emma had been completing her required college-volunteer hours at a Pittsburgh soup kitchen, refilling glasses and wiping down tables. One Friday afternoon she ran into her old neighbor, Mr. Martin, as he scooped mashed potatoes and gravy onto plates for the homeless. They called to each other, waving plastic-gloved hands and promising to chat later. When their shifts ended, they greeted one another with hugs.

  “Emma Kerr!” He held his hands out. “How are you? You’re all grown up. What are you doing in Pittsburgh?”

  “I go to Pitt.” She hugged him, stepped back, and smiled proudly. “I’m in my second year.”

  “It doesn’t seem possible. My, how time flies. I can’t believe you’re all grown and in college. Have you decided on a major?”

  “Pre-med.”


  “Ah, pre-med, I’m not surprised. You were always brilliant.” He winked at her. “You were Mrs. Martin’s favorite. Of all the kids in the neighborhood, she liked you the best.”

  “I adored her. She treated me wonderfully.”

  “You reminded her of her nieces. She said you looked enough like them to be their sister, but that you were smarter.”

  He nodded pensively and continued, “Oh, how she loved children. She would have made a great mother. Some things just weren’t meant to be.”

  Emma stood quiet as she often did at the mention she looked like someone. That same old turbulent feeling resurfaced—a swell from the pit of her stomach that morphed into pins and needles shooting up her neck and down her arms. As always, she consciously commanded the sensation to dissipate.

  Mr. Martin had no idea she was adopted. When she calmed down, she tried to thread inquiries about Mrs. Martin’s nieces into the conversation but couldn’t find the right words or the proper place. She attempted for twenty minutes, but then Mr. Martin had to go, and she walked back to her dorm, disappointed.

  She spent weeks afterward trying to unearth information about the Martin family, about the nieces, but to no avail. There were a million Martins.

  For a long time she dreamed—wished—she was related to Mrs. Martin. Time eventually distanced her from the possibility. She retired the idea and moved on.

  She wouldn’t have thought of it again, if not for the Martin name on the front page of the Erie newspaper two years ago. An R. Martin was listed in the obituaries. She turned to section B and saw his picture, Mr. Martin—Robert Martin. The paper gave a brief description of his deceased parents, siblings, and his life’s work. The piece was lengthy because Mr. Martin volunteered at a number of nonprofits and served on more than a dozen boards. Emma didn’t read the entire article. She skimmed halfway down the page to where they named his deceased wife.

  At the time, she couldn’t believe her eyes. He was preceded in death by his wife, Coleen McKinney Martin.