Robert Sawyer - Frameshift

Pierre shook his head.

“Very well,” she said. “Come with me.”

They walked into the brightly lit living room. Two full walls were covered with bookcases made of dark wood. A staircase led to the second floor. Along one side of it were tracks for a small motorized chair. The chair itself was positioned at the top. Dorothy led Pierre upstairs and into the first door on the left.

Pierre fought to keep his expression neutral.

Lying on the bed was a man who appeared to be dancing on his back.

His arms and legs moved constantly, rotating at shoulder and hip, elbow and knee, wrist and ankle. His head lolled left and right across the pillow.

His hair was steel gray and, of course, his eyes were brown.

“ Bonjour,” said Pierre, so startled that he’d begun speaking in French.

He began again. “Hello. I’m Pierre Tardivel.”

The man’s voice was weak and slurred. Speaking was clearly an effort.

“Hello, P-Pierre,” he said. He paused, but whether composing his thoughts or just waiting for his body to yield a little control, Pierre couldn’t say.

“How is — is your mother?”

Pierre blinked repeatedly. He would not insult the man by crying in front of him. “She’s fine.”

Henry’s head rolled from side to side, but he kept his eyes on Pierre. He wanted more, Pierre knew, than a platitude.

“She’s in good health,” he said. “She’s a loans officer for a large branch of Banque de Montreal.”

“She’s happy?” asked Henry, with effort.

“She enjoys her work, and money is no problem. There was a lot of insurance when Dad died.”

Henry swallowed with what appeared to be considerable difficulty. “I, ah, didn’t know that Alain had passed on. Tell her… tell her I’m sorry.”

The words seemed sincere. No sarcasm, no double edge. Alain Tardivel had been his rival, but Henry seemed genuinely saddened by his death.

Pierre squeezed his jaw tightly shut for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll tell her.”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” said Henry.

“I have a picture of her,” said Pierre. He pulled out his wallet and flipped to the small portrait of his mother wearing a white silk blouse. He held the wallet where Henry could see it.

Henry stared at it for a long time, then said, “I guess I changed more than she did.”

Pierre forced a weak smile.

“Are… only child?” A few words had gotten lost in the convulsion that had passed over Henry’s body like a wave.

“Yes. There—” No, no point in mentioning his younger sister, Marie-Claire, who had died when she was two. “Yes, I’m the only one.”

“You’re a fine-looking young man,” said Henry.

Pierre smiled — genuinely this time — and Henry seemed to smile back.

Dorothy, perhaps detecting the undercurrent, or perhaps just bored with conversation about people she didn’t know, said, “Well, I can see you two have things to talk about. I’ll go downstairs. Pierre, can I bring you a drink? Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” said Pierre.

“Well, then,” she said, and left.

Pierre stood beside Henry’s bed. Having his own room made perfect sense now. How could it be any other way? No one could sleep next to him, given the constant jerking of his limbs.

The man on the bed lifted his right arm toward Pierre. It moved slowly from side to side, like the bough of a tree swaying in the wind. Pierre reached out and took the hand, holding it firmly. Henry smiled.

“You look… just like I did… when I was your age,” said Henry.

A tear did slip down Pierre’s cheek. “You know who I am?”

Henry nodded. “I — when your mother got pregnant, I’d thought there was a chance. But she ended our relationship. I’d assumed if I’d… if I’d been right, I’d have heard something before now.” His head was moving, but he managed to keep his eyes mostly on Pierre. “I— I wish I’d known.”

Pierre squeezed the hand. “Me, too.” A pause. “Do you— do you have any other children?”

“Daughters,” said Henry. “Two daughters. Adopted. Dorothy— Dorothy couldn’t…”

Pierre nodded.

“Best, in a way,” said Henry, and here, at last, he let his gaze wander away from Pierre. “Huntington’s disease is… is…”

Pierre swallowed. “Hereditary. I know.”

Henry’s head moved back and forth more rapidly than normal — a deliberate signal all but lost in the muscular noise. “If I’d known I had it, I… never would have allowed myself to father a child. I’m sorry. V-very sorry.”

Pierre nodded.

“You might have it, too.”

Pierre said nothing.

“There’s no test,” said Henry. “I’m sorry.”

Pierre watched Henry move about on the bed, knees jerking, free arm waving. And yet in the middle of it all was a face not unlike his own, round and broad, with deep brown eyes. He realized then that he didn’t know how old Henry was. Forty-five? Perhaps as old as fifty. Certainly no more than that. Henry’s right arm started jerking rapidly. Pierre, not sure what to do, let go of his hand.

“It’s… it’s good to finally meet you,” said Pierre; and then, realizing that he would never have another chance, he added a single word: “Dad.”

Henry’s eyes were wet. “You need anything?” he said. “Money?”

Pierre shook his head. “I’m fine. Really, I am. I just wanted to meet you.”

Henry’s lower lip was trembling. Pierre couldn’t tell at first if it was just part of the chorea or had deeper meaning. But when Henry next spoke, his voice was full of pain. “I — I’ve forgotten your name,” he said.

“Pierre,” he said. “Pierre Jacques Tardivel.”

“Pierre,” repeated Henry. “A good name.” He paused for several seconds, then said, “How is your mother? Did you bring a picture?”

Pierre went down to the living room. Dorothy was sitting in a chair, reading a Jackie Collins novel. She looked up and gave him a wan smile.

“Thank you,” said Pierre. “Thank you for everything.”

She nodded. “He very much wanted to see you.”

“I was very glad to see him.” He paused. “But I should be going now.”

“Wait,” said Dorothy. She took an envelope from the coffee table and rose to her feet. “I have something for you.” Pierre looked at it. “I told him I didn’t need any money.” Dorothy shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s photographs — of Henry, from a dozen years ago. From when you would have been a little boy. Photographs of what he was like then — the way I’m sure he’d like you to remember him.”

Pierre took the envelope. His eyes were stinging. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, her face not quite masking her pain.

Pierre returned to Montreal. His family doctor referred him to a specialist in genetic disorders. Pierre went to see the specialist, whose office wasn’t far from Olympic Stadium.

“Huntington’s is carried on a dominant gene,” said Dr. Laviolette to Pierre, in French. “You have precisely a fifty-fifty chance of getting it.” He paused, and smoothed out his steel gray hair. “Your case is very unusual — discovering as an adult that you’re at risk; most at-risks have known for years. How did you find out?”

Pierre was quiet for a moment, thinking. Was there any need to go into the details? That he’d discovered in a first-year genetics class that it was impossible for two blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child? That he’d confronted his mother, Elisabeth, with this fact? That she’d confessed to having had an affair with one Henry Spade during the early years of her marriage to Alain Tardivel, the man Pierre had known as his father, a man who had been dead now for two years? That Elisabem, a Catholic, had been unable to divorce Alain? That Elisabeth had successfully hidden from Alain the fact that their brown-eyed son was not his biological child?