Robert Sawyer - Frameshift

Merde! It was already 14:00. Time to leave to pick up Molly. His stomach started churning. The murders could wait; this afternoon, they were going to find out what was wrong with Amanda.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Tardivel,” said Dr. Gainsley. He was a short man with a fringe of reddish gray hair around his bald head, and a completely gray mustache. “Thank you for coming in.”

Pierre shot a glance at his wife to see if she was going to correct the doctor by pointing out that it was Mr. Tardivel and Ms. Bond, but she didn’t say a word. Pierre could tell by her expression that the only thing on her mind was Amanda.

The doctor looked at each of them in turn, a grim expression on his face. “Frankly, I thought your pediatrician was just humoring you when she referred you to me; after all, lots of kids don’t speak until they’re eighteen months or more. But, well, have a look at this X ray.” He led them over to an illuminated wall panel with a single gray piece of film clipped to it. The picture showed the bottom half of a child’s skull, the jaw, and the neck. “This is Amanda,” he said. He tapped a small spot high up in the throat. “It’s hard to see the soft tissues, but can you see that little U-shaped bone? That’s called the hyoid. Unlike most bones in the body, it’s not attached directly to any other bone. Rather, the hyoid floats in the throat, serving as an anchor for the muscles that connect the jaw, the larynx, and the tongue. Well, in a normal child Amanda’s age, we’d expect to see that bone down around here.” He tapped the X ray farther down in the throat, in a line directly behind the middle of the lower jaw.

“And?” said Molly, her tone perplexed.

Gainsley motioned for them to take the two chairs in front of his wide glass-topped desk. “Let me see if I can explain this simply,” he said. “Mrs. Tardivel, did you breast-feed your daughter?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you must have noticed that she could suckle continuously without pausing to breathe.”

Molly nodded slightly. “Is that abnormal?”

“Not for newborns. In them, the path between the mouth and the throat curves very gently downward. This allows air drawn in by the nose to flow directly into the lungs, bypassing the mouth altogether, making it possible to breathe and eat at the same time.”

Molly nodded again.

“Well, as a baby begins to grow up, things change. The larynx migrates down the throat — and with it, the hyoid bone moves down, too. The path between the lips and the voice box becomes a right angle instead of a gentle curve. The downside of this is that a space opens up above the larynx where food can get caught, making it possible to choke to death.

The upside, though, is that the repositioning of the larynx allows for a much greater vocal range.”

Pierre and Molly looked briefly at each other, but said nothing.

“Well,” continued Gainsley, “the migration of the larynx is normally well under way by the first birthday and completed by the time the baby is eighteen months old. But Amanda’s larynx isn’t migrating at all; it’s still up high in her throat. Although she can make some sounds, a lot of other sounds will elude her, especially the vowels aw, ee , and oo — like in ‘hot,’

‘heat,’ and ‘hoot.’ She’s also going to have trouble with the guh and kuh sounds of G and K.”

“But her larynx will eventually descend, right?” asked Pierre. He had one testicle that hadn’t descended until he was five or six — no big deal, supposedly.

Gainsley shook his head. “I doubt it. In most other ways, Amanda is developing like a normal child. In fact, she’s even a bit on the large size for her age. But in this particular area, she seems completely arrested.”

“Can it be corrected surgically?” asked Pierre.

Gainsley pulled at his mustache. “You’re talking about massive restructuring of the throat. It would be extremely risky, and have only minimal chances of success. I would not advise it.”

Pierre reached over and took his wife’s hand. “What about — what about the other things?”

Gainsley nodded. “Well, lots of children are hairy — there’s more than one reason why we sometimes call our kids little monkeys. At puberty, her hormones will change, and she may lose most of it.”

“And — and her face?” said Pierre.

“I did the genetic test for Down’s syndrome. I didn’t think that was her problem, but the test is easy enough to do. She doesn’t have that. And her pituitary hormones and thyroid gland seem normal for a child her age.”

Gainsley looked at the space between the two of them. “Is there, ah, anything I should know?”

Pierre stole a glance at Molly, then made a tight little nod at the doctor.

“I’m not Amanda’s biological father; we used donated sperm.”

Gainsley nodded. “I’d thought as much. Do you know the ethnicity of the father?”

“Ukrainian,” said Pierre.

The doctor nodded again. “Lots of Eastern Europeans have stockier builds, heavier faces, and more body hair than do Western Europeans. So, as far as her appearance is concerned, you’re probably worrying about nothing. She clearly just takes after her biological father.”

Pierre drove over to San Francisco, made his way to the dilapidated apartment building, and touched the button labeled super. A few moments later, a familiar female voice said, “Yes?”

“Mrs. Proctor? It’s Pierre Tardivel again. I’ve just got one more quick question, if you don’t mind.”

“You must get Columbo reruns up in Canada.”

Pierre winced, getting the joke. “I’m sorry, but if I could just—”

He was cut off by the sound of the door mechanism buzzing. He grabbed the handle and headed through the drab lobby to suite 101. An elderly Asian man was just getting off the small elevator next to the apartment. He eyed Pierre suspiciously, but went upon his way. Mrs. Proctor opened the door just as Pierre was about to knock.

“Thank you for seeing me again,” said Pierre.

“I was just teasing,” said the plump woman with the golf-ball chin.

She’d had her hair cut since the last time Pierre had been here. “Come in, come in.” She stepped aside and motioned Pierre into the living room. The old TV set was on, showing The Price Is Right .

“I just wanted to ask you a question about your husband,” Pierre said, taking a seat on the couch. “If you—”

“Jesus, man. Are you drunk?”

Pierre felt his face growing flush. “No. I have a neurological disorder, and—”

“Oh. Sorry.” She shrugged. “We get a lot of drunks around here. Bad neighborhood.”

Pierre took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “I just have a quick question. This may sound funny, but did your husband have any sort of genetic disorder? You know — anything that his doctor ever said was inherited? High blood pressure, diabetes, anything like that?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Pierre pursed his lips, disappointed. Still… “Do you know what his parents died of? If either of them had died of heart disease, for instance, Bryan could have inherited those bad genes.”

She looked at Pierre. “That’s a thoughtless remark, young man.”

Pierre blinked, confused. “Sorry?”

“Bryan’s parents are both still alive. They live in Florida.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry they’re alive?”

“No, no, no. Sorry for my mistake.” Still — still — “Are they in good health? Either of them have Alzheimer’s?”

Mrs. Proctor laughed. “Bryan’s dad plays eighteen holes a day down there, and his mother is sharp as a tack. No, there’s nothing wrong with them.”