The Wedding Gift

“It happens all the time.” The old man shrugged, moving the tray of necklaces back behind the smudged glass. “You have people coming in here looking for old tin boxes, or antique desks, or wanting to go through the pockets of coats.”

“Do they ever find what they’re looking for?” I ask.

“I’ve never seen it,” he said, grabbing a piece of paper. “I’m going to write down a number for you. In case you don’t have any luck.”

I studied the pawnshop owner, his watery blue eyes and the thick, plastic frames on his glasses. It was easy to believe he had answers for me. I so desperately wanted answers.

He slid the contact information across the counter, and I clutched it in my sweating palm.

When I got the locket, I loved it, but I didn’t look inside. My makeup was on, my hair had been released from curlers, and every tiny button on my dress had been fastened by a whirl of helpful hands. Someone kept refilling my champagne glass, and I didn’t know how many glasses I’d had in total. It’s fair to say that I was drunk. If I had been sober, I would have opened the small clasp and seen the lock of hair.

Instead, I smiled and held it to my neck.

“Should I wear it?” I asked no one in particular.

A chorus of voices responded—aunties, and bridesmaids, and my elder’s voice loudest of all.

“It doesn’t go with the other necklace, your grandelder’s.”

So, I handed it to someone. A friend? A hairdresser? A wedding coordinator? Looking back, it’s hard to know. I handed it off to one of the swirling multitudes who had been taking care of me all day. And that’s the last time I remember seeing it. I didn’t know what was inside.

Now, I’m calling a number. I’m not sure, but I think it’s somebody who deals in illegal things. The old man told me they might help me, but I don’t think that they’re going to be able to give me what I want.

During the wedding, Larry and I slow-danced to Moon River, and he whispered in my ear. “Did you like the present?”

“Yes,” I answered dreamily, nuzzling against his neck.

“I wanted you to have it. That way you know my future is in your hands.”

“In my hands,” I repeated, slurring my words.

“I know most people keep their anstrands in a safety deposit box,” he whispered, pausing to spin me around. “But it’s more romantic to keep it close to your heart, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes,” I answered. “Much more romantic.” At that point, I still assumed that the locket was safe in my elder’s purse.

The phone rings and rings. An automated voice asks me to leave a message. I don’t know what to say, or if I’ll get in trouble with Interpol for saying it.

“My name is Regina Fallstead. I’m looking for my husband’s anstrands. They’re in a heart-shaped locket.” I leave my information, and I pray that the lock of hair has made its way to the black market so that I can buy it back.

Within minutes, I receive a call.

“You shouldn’t leave your real name,” a woman’s voice explains, condescending, as if she’s talking to a small child.

“How do you know it’s my real name?” I ask, offended.

“It’s in the police report you filed,” she answers. “I have access. Not legally, mind you.”

“Do you have the locket?” I ask, hopeful.

She laughs. It’s a cruel, tinkling laugh that echoes in my head even after she’s done.

“That’s gone,” she says. “Forget about finding it." She pauses. "But I can get you whatever you need. Blonde. Brunette. Tall. Short.”

She’s offering me a stranger’s DNA. I feel nauseous just thinking about it.

“I can’t,” I say. “The baby won’t grow up to be my husband.”

“If he looks enough like your husband, no one will say anything,” she says. “People will turn a blind eye.”

Pausing, I try to digest what she’s saying. Rather than duplicating his original genetic elder, I would be offering him a fake, an imposter.

“How do I know it’s not a second or third-generation?”

“We come with references,” the woman says. “I can introduce you to some of our youngers. They’re real babies made from 100% authentic ancestral strands. First-generation. When you see one, it’s obvious that there are no deficiencies.”

“Can’t some deficiencies be latent?” I ask. From biology class in sophomore year, I remember learning about horrible birth defects—stomach polyps and malformed lungs, mutations that only reveal themselves when the younger is fifteen, or twenty, or thirty-five.

“Right,” she said. “They can. But we’re careful about how we source our anstrands. And, usually, our clients are trying to get a younger who's passable in the short term. That’s the priority. Can I ask—does your husband know that it’s gone?”

I close my eyes and feel my pulse throbbing in my belly. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. This is not the sort of thing he’ll be able to forgive.

“We’ll replace the locket, too, obviously,” the woman says, and the way she says it sounds almost predatory. “We can replicate anything. All we need is a photo.” She pauses. “But it won’t be cheap.”

“You said you have tall and brown-haired?” I ask, feeling mouse-like, vulnerable and small.

“We have whatever you need,” she replies, “for the right price.”

After the wedding, Larry asked me about the gift. He wanted to know why I hadn’t worn it, why I wasn’t wearing it every day.

“It’s too precious,” I said. “I thought about keeping it close, like you said, but it seems safer to lock it in the safety deposit box.”

“You’re probably right,” he agreed, sighing. “Can you imagine losing the chance at a male? Who would care for you in your old age?”

“Right,” I said. “We need both our youngers. The male and the female.”

My husband squeezed my hand and fussed with the rings on my finger. I smiled at him, hiding my worried thoughts.

“What are you without me?” he asked, earnestly. “And what am I without you?”

“We’ll always take care of each other,” I promised. “And, when we can’t take care of each other anymore, our youngers will care for us.”

“You’re so right,” he said, patting my hand. “The bank will be safer.”

“So much safer,” I agreed, gazing into his sweet brown eyes.