"The world has sure changed, hasn't it?"

I startle and turn around. It is Lily. I didn't hear her come up behind me. I turn back without answering.

"Mind if I sit down?"

I stare out at the pond, silent, and hug my knees to my chest. She sits down, uninvited.

The rock is large. The distance between us small. I feel every inch of it. The lack of conversation doesn't seem to bother her. It suffocates me. She is here for a reason. What is she waiting for? She finally breaches the wall of quiet between us. "I'll be honest. I don't really know what to make of you."

I smirk. It is close to a laugh. She never lets up. But somehow I can accept her bluntness easier than lying. "You don't tiptoe, do you?"

"What would be the point?"

"Right," I say, still staring straight ahead. "Why spare any feelings when the feelings belong to a freak?"

"Your words. Not mine."

"Some things don't have to be said out loud."

"Eighteen months ago, I let go of my granddaughter," she says. "I said good-bye. I grieved. Then a few hours later, your parents told me what they had done."

"And you thought it was wrong?"

"I'm not like your parents. I think there are worse things than dying."

I think of the dark place, where I was nowhere at all. Trapped, dead, but alive. I hug my knees tighter and turn my face to look into Lily's eyes that have been watching me all along. "And that's what you think Jenna did? Died?"

She shakes her head. "There you go again. Putting words in my mouth. You were always good at putting — " She stops abruptly, like she has caught herself admitting to some-thing. "Like I said before, I didn't know what to make of you. That's all."

"Didn't. Don't. Which is it?"

"What?"

"Two different things. First time you said you don't know what to make of me. Just now you said didn't. Past tense. Big difference. You've come to a decision?"

She laughs. "God, you sound like Jenna. You look like Jenna. You can even be so damn precise and picky and aggravating like Jenna."

She begins to reach out like she is going to touch my knee, but then she pulls back and returns her hand to her lap. "I just don't know if you're a perfect replica of my Jenna, or — "

"Or the miracle you prayed for?"

She nods, her lips tight. My nana. I lay my head down on my scrunched-up knees and close my eyes, even though I loathe the darkness.

"I don't know either," I say. I speak the words into the dark, crowded angles of my folded arms and legs. I'm not even sure she can hear me. Or if anyone can. It's a familiar feeling I never wanted to return to.

Species

Human n. 1. A member of the species Homo sapiens, adj. 2. Representative of the sympathies and frailties of human nature. 3. Sympathetic, humane. 4. Having human form or attributes.

Where do I go from here?

How many hours can one person spend locked in a bathroom, looking at skin, hair, eyes. Feeling fingers. Toes. And the absurdity of a belly button?

How many definitions for human can one person find? And how do you know which one is correct?

How many hours can you spend shivering? And holding.

And wondering.

Details

We sit in the living room. Father builds a fire, even though Mother warns that the top of the chimney is still missing. He doesn't care. He wants a fire. If the house burns down, he'll build another. She doesn't argue.

His time here is limited. He will be missed in Boston. Questions will be asked, and the others can't cover for him for long. So in this unplanned visit he tries to tell me more of what I need to know. At dinnertime I learned more about the new and improved Jenna. Even though Bio Gel is self-sufficient, I actually do have a primitive digestive system, mostly for "psychological reasons." No stomach, but an intestine of sorts. It explains my infrequent trips to the restroom and unusual constitution. And the system does utilize the nutrients for my skin. At some point, I may be able to eat some table foods. I tell Father I have already indulged in mustard and he frowns, but he doesn't say anything. It's like he can't take any more drama. Even if it may derail everything he and Mother have worked toward for so long. Mustard. Irrelevant.

Mother has been mostly quiet. Before dinner she apologized for raising her hand to me. She stumbled over her words. I don't recall her ever hitting me, but even the possibility seems to shake her. Now she sits in the wingback chair near the fire, her head back, her eyes staring at something I can't see. The past? Is she retracing every moment, wondering what she should have done differently? Always chatty and in control, she is now the opposite, like someone has pulled her plug. Father fills the space she leaves by adding logs in the fireplace and refilling both their brandy glasses. I have never before seen Mother drink anything stronger than cranberry juice.

Father doesn't address the question I threw at him before I ran out the kitchen door this afternoon. Perhaps, like mustard, it is irrelevant to him. I don't think it is irrelevant to Lily. She had been conspicuously absent all evening. She helped make dinner but didn't join Mother and Father in eating it, instead excusing herself and going to her room. "You need some time alone together," she said.

As he pokes at the fire, Father explains in detail more than I really want to know, the tedious process of saving bits of my skin and growing it in the lab and combining it with other specimens until the required amount was achieved. He moves on to the technology of brain scans, what he and his team have learned just from my experience and the implications for future-patients facing similar problems. As long as he is in doctor-scientist mode, he is talkative and in charge. When he veers into father mode, he stumbles and looks in many ways like a mirror image of Mother. He ages. Who is this Jenna Fox who has so much power over them? I feel like a weak, unsure ghost of her. Maybe a replica. I search for some portion of her strength.