The Petrification Gene

Your mother can’t prepare you for the questions your own daughter will one day ask. She will grit her teeth to keep from screaming as you whine and beg. “Why? Why? Why!” 

She’ll finally snap. She’ll tell you that you won’t like the answers. She’ll warn you that the day you’re posed the question, you may not be so cocky. But she can’t teach you the secret to subtlety. 

The answers are always hard to find, even when you’re the one who has them.

“What are they talking about, Mommy? The teachers at school don’t make any sense.”  

Evelyn cringes at the syrupy curiosity in her daughter’s voice. Her back tenses as she stands over the pot of boiling vegetables that will be their dinner. For a moment, she thinks she sees an eye peeking out of a carrot. The vision is swallowed by raging bubbles. 

“Mommy? What’s the Petrification Gene? No one explains."

Evelyn stirs the softening vegetables in the pot with a fork. Her hand is surprisingly steady. She pokes at one of the carrots, checking to see if it’s tender. The bubbles swirl it out of reach. Evelyn pursues it doggedly, a shallow crease forming between her eyes. 

“Mo--”

“Get me the strainer, Emma.” She turns to her daughter. Emma’s eyes are precious sapphires, innocence with the wish to break. “Please,” Evelyn adds, her voice gentler. 

Emma hurries off to retrieve the strainer, her steps dignified, precise, unfazed. When she returns, there’s no mistaking her frustration. She thrusts the strainer toward Evelyn, jabbing her in the side with the handle.

“I’m sorry!” Emma says, shrill with dismay. She clutches the strainer close to her chest as though she’ll protect her mother from further injury by holding the thing hostage. 

Evelyn rubs a sore rib and sighs. She touches Emma’s soft hair, charging the smile she shows her with warmth. “It’s okay,” she says, smiling still. She pries the strainer from Emma’s grasp, slowly, reassuringly. 

Emma takes a few steps back, her former fire dimmed. “I’m sorry,” she says again, lower this time.  

“It’s okay,” Evelyn repeats. She lets a tight breath out through her nose. All can be forgiven. Time is precious, more precious than anger. You never know when it’ll run out. Evelyn reminds herself to be patient as the vegetables tumble into the basket. The water that drains blasts a cloud of steam into her face.

“Go sit down, Baby. I’ll bring the food out in a minute,” Evelyn says. Emma obeys without a word. 

As Evelyn plates them up, alone in the kitchen, she indulges in a shiver that moves from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. Her hands keep working. Her mind flies away. 

The Petrification Gene. 

Barry always met her at the bridge. They’d cross it together to go to school. 

Barry had a funny laugh. It was like rice pouring out of a burlap bag into a puddle of flour, so thin and delicate. She rarely told good jokes, but he rarely could hold back from laughing. Barry’s laugh was a breath that wouldn’t fade.

There had never been a morning that Barry didn’t meet Evelyn at the bridge. Not until he set the precedent on that somber March day. 

The sky rocked with thunder, but no lightning cracked to give the building rumble some relief. The wooden boards of the bridge looked slippery, treacherous. The horizon was a daunting wall of wrath. 

There was their school in the distance, refuge from the storm. But where was Barry?  

Later that week, when Barry hadn't shown for four days, Evelyn went to his house nearly frantic with confusion. Barry's mother answered the door. Her dark skin was ashen. Her eyes seemed tiny, sunken, deserted. 

This wasn't the woman who had chattered on so animatedly at the hair salon with the other ladies, cutting off Evelyn's own mother when she disagreed with something that was said. 

It was as if her voice had dried up. 

"Where's Barry?" Evelyn ventured to ask. Her throat was dry and the question left her like a croak. 

The woman crumpled in the doorway, wracked with sobs so hysterical Evelyn gasped and jolted backwards, nearly tripping down the porch steps. Sorrow infected the air and filled Evelyn's own eyes with tears of dread. 

She wasn't sure what had happened to Barry, but she knew it was something awful. 

"Mommy?" Emma stands in the kitchen doorway, a diminutive figure with a haunted look on her face. In this moment she reminds Evelyn of her younger self, stranded and clueless and scared. But that fear is nothing compared to the phantom that follows once you know. 

"You… Are you okay?" Emma asks. "You were standing really still for a long time." 

Evelyn swats a strand of hair out of her face. She wipes sweaty palms on her jeans and squeezes her thighs. She banishes the memories. 

"I'm fine, Baby," she says. She pastes on a chipped smile. Emma doesn't move. "I just got lost in thought. Sorry. The food is ready. Come on. Let's go eat." 

Evelyn grabs their plates and starts toward the dining room, but Emma blocks her way. The girl stares. 

"I don't get it," Emma says. Her tone is strained. She seems to have aged twelve more years in a second. "Is it really that bad?"

The tile floor is cold. The food is getting cold. Evelyn's heart is frozen. 

Eric worked for a tech agency. They gave him long, ridiculous hours. He offered over the phone support from 9PM to 7AM. It left him washed out, like a ghost cut from tracing paper. 

But on his days off, he made it a point to take Evelyn out. They'd go camping to disconnect for a little while. They'd visit museum exhibits, marveling at the experimental displays of science which fascinated them both. Each wore their long hair in messy buns held in place with bobby-pins. By the end of the day, both would have a collection of pins in their pockets, stolen from one another's hair. 

Evelyn hid in their perfect little bubble back then. She hid from the horrors of reality. She hid from the curse that plagued society around them. 

Then Emma was born. 

"Never, Evelyn. She can never know. We need to protect her. We'll protect her," Eric said. 

This was impossible. But of course Evelyn agreed. She was just as determined to keep Emma safe. Shelter her from the truth. She didn't need to know. She shouldn't know. 

Only months after Emma completed their family, Evelyn received the call that shattered their bubble. It was Barry all over again, but worse. So much worse. 

Eric's manager explained that her fiancé had been found very soon after the tragedy, fallen out of his office chair. He was rushed to The Orchard, following protocol, where he would be preserved and where Evelyn would be able to visit what remained of him. 

He had grooved skin like bark, hard and unyielding. His expression was frozen in a manner of distress, mouth gaping mid-cry, brows knitted. His legs had blended into a trunk. His hands had stretched and divided into reaching branches. Tiny green fists beaded along Eric's arms, promising leaves of life. 

But Eric was gone. He would never speak again, never meet Evelyn's eyes, never laugh with his daughter or watch her grow up. He wasn't dead, but he was gone, trapped in this botanical limbo among rows and rows of carefully maintained corpses linking together in the canopy. 

This is the Petrification Gene. It can be present in anyone's DNA. It can strike at any point in a lifetime. It can transform any normal day into a nightmare. 

It can snatch away the love of your life. 

Evelyn recalls that somber week in March again, when she was thirteen years old. 

She dashed home through the steady drizzle, unable to get the image of Barry's wounded mother out of her mind. 

When she got home, she asked her mother, "Why? Why did Barry's mom look like that? What happened to Barry?" 

That was when she learned of the Petrification Gene, what it did to people. Her mother didn't spare her, though she seemed uncomfortable talking about it. She put her hand on Evelyn's shoulder afterward. Evelyn pictured the tree thing that had taken Barry's place with a far off look in her eyes. 

"It's a hard fact of life, and a heavy burden to carry. But you're old enough now. You're a young woman who should know the truth," her mother said. 

Had Evelyn been old enough? Are you ever really old enough to handle that sort of revelation? 

Looking at her own twelve year old, at the vague apprehension in her innocent gaze, Evelyn faces the question: Should I tell her? 

Her heart beats slowly, as if it will stop, as if Time will pause to allow her to come to a decision. The room shrinks until it's just two pairs of eyes, Eric's sapphire ones boring a hole into Evelyn's torn heart as he shakes his head in her mind. 

"Don't do it, Lyn," he says. "Not now. Not to her."

And the wretched possibility gnaws at Evelyn, the idea that invades whenever she remembers those she's already lost. What if the gene is in Emma?

No. Please, no. 

Evelyn may have an answer, but she's not her mother, and she's not the person she was when Eric was still here. She doesn't know who she is. 

Evelyn swallows the lump in her throat, all the things she could say but won't. The plates don't emit any warmth against her palms. She heats one after the other in the microwave. Emma watches her, just stiff limbs and stitched lips barring the doorway. 

Her eyes track Evelyn around the room. She waits, but there's a different curiosity peering through her darkened eyes now. Is Evelyn the woman she always thought she knew? Evelyn feels as if she's been stabbed at the thought of losing Emma's trust, but she picks up each of their plates again and goes to the doorway with conviction. 

"Let's go eat, Emma," She says. The words are a punctuation ending the conversation. 

She balances a plate on her arm and grabs Emma's hand. She pulls them into the dining room and they push food around with their forks. There aren't any eyes peeking out of the carrots, but Evelyn feels watched, judged. And she's plagued by her own burning question. 

Will it take her from me? 

Later that night, Evelyn eyes her cell phone. It rests within arm's reach on the dresser, tempting her to dial her mother's number. The seconds go by as she weighs her options. She feels like a little girl going to her mother for advice, but the plan she has in mind is scandalous and loneliness constricts her. 

Finally, she grabs the phone and shuts the bedroom door. Emma's asleep, but Evelyn doesn't want her to hear anything if she wakes up.

"Oh, Evelyn, it's late, you know?" Her mother crows. 

"Yeah, I just…"

"Spit it out." 

"I'm thinking about testing Emma."

There's a rustle on the other end, then a short pause. "The cameras will catch you. You'll be fired or worse, Evelyn. It's against the law."

"I know, Mom. Of course. But--"

"If you called me for my advice, you should just--"

A dog barks and more rustling follows. Feet hit wood flooring. "Oh, hush up, Baxterville," Evenlyn's mother snaps. A screen door creaks open and slams with a brittle metallic smack. 

"Leave it alone, Evelyn. You hear me? Some things just shouldn't be known."

Evelyn sits on the edge of the bed, the phone cupped to her ear, her fingers numb. Her head feels fuzzy. Her legs are restless. 

Leave it alone? Some things just shouldn't be known? Why'd her mother tell her about Barry, then? Why did Evelyn have to know? Why does she have to know so well? Why can't she know the rest, the most important thing? 

"Okay," Evelyn says, voice toneless. "Goodnight, Mom."

"Eve--"

She hangs up the phone and flings on the white lab coat she wears to work. Keys pocketed, hair tied back in a neat bun with no bobby-pins in sight, Evelyn sets out on her mission. She stops in Emma's doorway, picking out her daughter's lovely sharp features through the shadows. 

It's worth it. She needs to know for sure that Emma is safe. Then she can answer all of Emma's questions. Then neither of them have to be afraid. 

It's a long drive to the lab, but it flashes by in a strange fashion, a single thought that encompasses everything sinking Evelyn into a daze. Her hands hold the steering wheel steady and the car stays in its lane. As with preparing dinner, her body goes through the motions and her subconscious invades her conscious.

The compound is a shell in the night. No one will be here for another five hours. There is probably a nightwatchman checking the cameras, but if he bothers her she'll just tell him she forgot something in her locker. Evelyn hardly cares about the particulars, though. All she cares about is calming this dread spreading through her veins like ice. 

Her key admits her entry with no resistance. Evelyn passes down dark hall after dark, windowless hall. A map of this place is posted in her brain. She has worked here for years, ever since she lost Eric. 

She almost sets to work in the dark before realizing she'll definitely need light to use the detection instrument. The long bright bulbs that travel along the ceiling buzz to life. 

Evelyn removes Emma's comb from the pocket of her lab coat. The teeth are threaded with honey brown strands. Evelyn holds it delicately in her fingers. Her heart clenches. Warmth tickles the chill. 

"I have to know," she whispers. 

But as the detector processes the data contained within Emma's DNA, Evelyn realizes she never prepared herself for an alternate outcome.

This outcome. 

Her heart seizes. The dot on the tab is green, a clear indication of a positive result. Evelyn shakes her head as if she's underwater, the action dragged out and shell-shocked. 

"That can't be right." Her voice slices out of her like a knife through the air. She drops the instrument on the floor, her hands quaking, and runs over to the drawer to get another test. 

She does it again, inserting a weightless strand of hair. The dot, ugly and damned, shows itself like a sneer. Another green, horrible dot. 

Evelyn stares through the monster, as if it were a ghost that could be dispelled by disbelief. The floor strikes her knees, making her blink in delayed surprise. She was cold before. Now she's something that has been frozen for centuries, ready to shatter at the smallest touch. 

That touch comes, but her body stays impossibly in one piece. 

"Ma'am? Are you alright? What are you doing in here?" A man in an officer's uniform grips her shoulder. The nightwatchman. 

Evelyn gathers herself up off the floor and starts toward the door. The man calls after her, but she doesn't turn around. She picks up speed as she weaves through the endless hallways. All she can think about is getting home. Precious time getting away. Time away from her. Precious, limited time. 

The ride home is a reckless race and an eternity. Everything is so clear now, so disgustingly clear. Evelyn's fingers bite ruthlessly into the steering wheel. 

Evelyn busts inside, leaving the door wide open in her haste to pound up the stairs. She half expects Emma to be gone from her bed, a striking memory, untouchable. The reality is far worse. 

Emma is sprawled across the floor, one arm reaching for the door. Her hair drapes her back like a matted cape. Her legs are one awkward piece, bent against the side of the bed. Thin and twisting protrusions already escape from her fingertips, but no green sign of life resides with her. 

A guttural sound belches out of Evelyn. She presses her fist against her mouth to keep from screaming. She presses until her fist is halfway in. She bites down until she tastes blood. 

Her legs feel rickety as she approaches her daughter. She squats near Emma's head and dares to touch her cheek. Emma's skin would usually yield to such touch, supple and warm. Now, no matter how hard Evelyn digs her finger, the bark won't give. 

Emma was so afraid. Her O-shaped mouth and tense, raised brows attest to that. Her eyes are clouded gray, dry, no longer the glistening sapphires they once were. 

Evelyn drags the stiff thing onto her lap. She cradles Emma's head in her arms. Locks of petrified hair jab her in the gut and ribs. She gets lost in that ghostly glare. Emma was alone and terrified while Evelyn scrambled in vain to settle her own fears. How pathetic. How utterly wrong. 

Evelyn clings to her daughter for several hours. All the while, Emma rots away, skin blackening and shrinking. 

When the eyes have vanished in the mess of rot, Evelyn breaks free of her stupor. It occurs to her that she waited too long to bring her daughter to The Orchard where special nutrients would be fed through her roots to sustain her in this new form. 

She trudges through early morning streets anyway, carrying the fetid bundle that remains of Emma. Her vacant eyes don't see those staring in alarm from their porches and car windows. 

When she gets to The Orchard, she dumps the muck over Eric's strong roots. Eric's face has smoothed out over the years, undergoing the slow changes of a tree. His placid expression is one of sleep. 

Emma is gone. She's more than gone. 

"I protected her, Eric. She never knew," Evelyn mumbles into the dirt.