the Third Twin

27

JEANNIE SWITCHED ON THE LIGHTS IN THE PSYCHOLOGY LAB and Steve followed her in. “The genetic language has four letters,” she said. “A, C, G, and T.”

“Why those four?”

“Adenine, cytosine, guanine, and thymine. They’re the chemical compounds attached to the long central strands of the DNA molecule. They form words and sentences, such as “Put five toes on each foot.’ “

“But everyone’s DNA must say “Put five toes on each foot.’ “

“Good point. Your DNA is very similar to mine and everyone else’s in the world. We even have a lot in common with the animals, because they’re made of the same proteins as we are.”

“So how do you tell the difference between Dennis’s DNA and mine?”

“Between the words there are bits that don’t mean anything, they’re just gibberish. They’re like spaces in a sentence. They’re called oligonucleotides, but everyone calls them oligos. In the space between ‘five’ and ‘toes,’ there might be an oligo that reads TATAGAGACCCC, repeated.”

“Everyone has TATAGAGACCCC?”

“Yes, but the number of repeats varies. Where you have thirty-one TATAGAGACCCC oligos between ‘five’ and ‘toes,’ I might have two hundred and eighty-seven. It doesn’t matter how many you have, because the oligo doesn’t mean anything.”

“How do you compare my oligos with Dennis’s?”

She showed him a rectangular plate about the size and shape of a book. “We cover this plate with a gel, make slots all across the top, and drop samples of your DNA and Dennis’s into the slots. Then we put the plate in here.” On the bench was a small glass tank. “We pass an electric current through the gel for a couple of hours. This causes the fragments of DNA to ooze through the gel in straight lines. But small fragments move faster than big ones. So your fragment, with thirty-one oligos, will finish up ahead of mine with two hundred and eighty-seven.”

“How can you see how far they’ve moved?”

“We use chemicals called probes. They attach themselves to specific oligos. Suppose we have an oligo that attracts TATAGAGACCCC.” She showed him a piece of rag like a dishcloth. “We take a nylon membrane soaked in a probe solution and lay it on the gel so it blots up the fragments. Probes are also luminous, so they’ll mark a photographic film.” She looked in another tank. “I see Lisa has already laid the nylon on the film.” She peered down at it. “I think the pattern has been formed. All we need to do is fix the film.”

Steve tried to see the image on the film as she washed it in a bowl of some chemical, then rinsed it under a tap. His history was written on that page. But all he could see was a ladderlike pattern on the clear plastic. Finally she shook it dry then pegged it in front of a light box.

Steve peered at it. The film was streaked, from top to bottom, with straight lines, about a quarter of an inch wide, like gray tracks. The tracks were numbered along the bottom of the film, one to eighteen. Within the tracks were neat black marks like hyphens. It meant nothing to him.

Jeannie said: “The black marks show you how far along the tracks your fragments traveled.”

“But there are two black marks in each track.”

“That’s because you have two strands of DNA, one from your father and one from your mother.”

“Of course. The double helix.”

“Right. And your parents had different oligos.” She consuited a sheet of notes, then looked up. “Are you sure you’re ready for this—one way or the other?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” She looked down again. “Track three is your blood.”

There were two marks about an inch apart, halfway down the film.

“Track four is a control. It’s probably my blood, or Lisa’s. The marks should be in a completely different position.”

“They are.” The two marks were very close together, right at the bottom of the film near the numbers.

“Track five is Dennis Pinker. Are the marks in the same position as yours, or different?”

“The same,” Steve said. “They match exactly.”

She looked at him. “Steve,” she said, “you’re twins.”

He did not want to believe it. “Is there any chance of a mistake?”

“Sure,” she said. “There’s a one-in-a-hundred chance that two unrelated individuals could have a fragment the same on both maternal and paternal DNA. We normally test four different fragments, using different oligos and different probes. That reduces the chance of a mistake to one in a hundred million. Lisa will do three more; they take half a day each. But I know what they’re going to say. And so do you, don’t you?”

“I guess I do.” Steve sighed. “I’d better start believing this. Where the hell did I come from?”

Jeannie looked thoughtful. “Something you said has been on my mind: ‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters.’ From what you’ve said about your parents, they seem like the kind of people who might want a house full of kids, three or four.”

“You’re right,” Steve said. “But Mom had trouble conceiving. She was thirty-three, and she had been married to Dad for ten years, when I came along. She wrote a book about it: What to Do When You Can’t Get Pregnant. It was her first bestseller. She bought a summer cabin in Virginia with the money.”

“Charlotte Pinker was thirty-nine when Dennis was born. I bet they had subfertility problems too. I wonder if that’s significant.”

“How could it be?”

“I don’t know. Did your mother have any kind of special treatment?”

“I never read the book. Shall I call her?”

“Would you?”

“It’s time I told them about this mystery, anyway.”

Jeannie pointed to a desk. “Use Lisa’s phone.”

He dialed his home. His mother answered. “Hi, Mom.”

“Was she pleased to see you?”

“Not at first. But I’m still with her.”

“So she doesn’t hate you.”

Steve looked at Jeannie. “She doesn’t hate me, Mom, but she thinks I’m too young.”

“Is she listening?”

“Yes, and I think I’m embarrassing her, which is a first. Mom, we’re in the laboratory, and we have kind of a puzzle. My DNA appears to be the same as that of another subject she’s studying, a guy called Dennis Pinker.”

“It can’t be the same—you’d have to be identical twins.”

“And that would only be possible if I’d been adopted.”

“Steve, you weren’t adopted, if that’s what you’re thinking. And you weren’t one of twins. God knows how I would have coped with two of you.”

“Did you have any kind of special fertility treatment before I was born?”

“Yes, I did. The doctor recommended me to a place in Philadelphia that a number of officers’ wives had been to. It was called the Aventine Clinic. I had hormone treatment.”

Steve repeated that to Jeannie, and she scribbled a note on a Post-it pad.

Mom went on: “The treatment worked, and there you are, the fruit of all that effort, sitting in Baltimore pestering a beautiful woman seven years your senior when you should be here in D.C. taking care of your white-haired old mother.”

Steve laughed. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Hey, Steve?”

“Still here.”

“Don’t be late. You have to see a lawyer in the morning. Let’s get you out of this legal mess before you start worrying about your DNA.”

“I won’t be late. Bye.” He hung up.

Jeannie said: “I’m going to call Charlotte Pinker right away. I hope she’s not already asleep.” She flicked through Lisa’s Rolodex, then picked up the phone and dialed. After a moment she spoke. “Hi, Mrs. Pinker, this is Dr. Ferrami from Jones Falls University.… I’m fine, thank you, how are you? … I hope you won’t mind my asking you one more question.… Well, that’s very kind and understanding of you. Yes.… Before you got pregnant with Dennis, did you have any kind of fertility treatment?” There was a long pause, then Jeannie’s face lit up with excitement. “In Philadelphia? Yes, I’ve heard of it Hormone treatment. That’s very interesting, that helps me. Thank you again. Good-bye.” She cradled the handset. “Bingo,” she said. “Charlotte went to the same clinic.”

“That’s fantastic,” Steve said. “But what does it mean?”

“I have no idea,” Jeannie said. She picked up the phone again and tapped 411. “How do I get Philadelphia information? … Thanks.” She dialed again. “The Aventine Clinic.” There was a pause. She looked at Steve and said: “It probably closed years ago.”

He watched her, mesmerized. Her face was alight with enthusiasm as her mind raced ahead. She looked ravishing. He wished he could do more to help her.

Suddenly she picked up a pencil and scribbled a number. ‘Thank you!” she said into the phone. She hung up. “It’s still there!”

Steve was riveted. The mystery of his genes might be resolved. “Records,” he said. “The clinic must have records. There might be clues there.”

“I need to go there,” Jeannie said. She frowned thoughtfully. “I have a release signed by Charlotte Pinker—we ask everyone we interview to sign one—and it gives us permission to look at any medical records. Could you get your mother to sign one tonight and fax it to me at JFU?”

“Sure.”

She dialed again, punching the numbers feverishly. “Good evening, is this the Aventine Clinic? … Do you have a night manager on duty? … Thank you.”

There was a long pause. She tapped her pencil impatiently. Steve watched adoringly. As far as he was concerned, this could go on all night.

“Good evening, Mr. Ringwood, this is Dr. Ferrami from the psychology department at Jones Falls University. Two of my research subjects attended your clinic twenty-three years ago and it would be helpful to me to look at their records. I have releases from them which I can fax to you in advance.… That’s very helpful. Would tomorrow be too soon? … Shall we say two P.M.? … You’ve been very kind.… I’ll do that. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“Fertility clinic,” Steve said thoughtfully. “Didn’t I read, in that Wall Street Journal piece, that Genetico owns fertility clinics?”

Jeannie stared at him, openmouthed. “Oh, my God,” she said in a low voice. “Of course it does.”

“I wonder if there’s any connection?”

“I just bet there is,” said Jeannie.

“If there is, then …”

“Then Berrington Jones may know a lot more about you and Dennis than he’s letting on.”