Millennium Babies

“It was a lawsuit, Brooke. I had an argument to make.”

“Maybe you can justify it that way, but I can't. I know the truth when I hear it. And so does the rest of the world.” Brooke swallowed. Her throat was so tight it hurt. “Now get out of here.”

“Brooke, I—”

“I mean it, Mother. Or I will call the police.”

“Do you want me at least to do the DNA work?”

“I don't give a damn what you do, so long as I never see you again.”

Her mother sighed. “Other children forgive their parents for mistakes they made in raising them.”

“Was your attitude a mistake, Mother? Have you reformed? Or do you still have lawsuits out there? Are you still trying to collect on a thirty-year-old dream?”

Her mother shook her head and went back to the car. Brooke knew that posture. It meant that Brooke was being unreasonable. Brooke was impossible to argue with. Brooke was the burden.

“Some day,” her mother said, “you'll regret how you treated me.”

“Why?” Brooke asked. “You don't seem to regret how you treated me.”

“Oh, I regret it, Brooke. If I had known it would have made you so bitter toward me, I never would have talked to you about our problems. I would have handled them alone.”

Brooke clenched a fist and then unclenched it. She made herself take a deep breath and, instead of pointing out to her mother that she had done it again—she had blamed Brooke—Brooke said, “I'm calling the police now,” and started toward the house.

“There's no need,” her mother said. “I'm going. I'm just sorry—”

And the rest of her words got lost in the bang of the screen door.

An hour later, Brooke found herself outside Professor Franke's office. She ignored the small electronic screen that floated ahead of her, bleating that she didn't have an appointment and she wasn't welcome in the building. It was a dumb little machine; when she had asked if Professor Franke was in, it had told her he was. A good human secretary would have lied.

Apparently the system had already contacted Franke, for he stood in his door, waiting for her, a smile on his face even though his eyes were wary.

“Everything all right, Professor Cross?”

“I never gave you permission to contact my mother,” she said as she came up the stairs.

“Your mother?”

“She came to my house today, claiming I'd nullified my restraining order by contacting her. She said you asked her for DNA samples.”

“Come into my office,” he said.

Brooke walked past him and heard him close the door. “We did contact her, as we did all the parents, for DNA samples. We were explicit in expressing our needs as part of the study, and that they had every right to refuse if they wanted. In no way did we ask her to come here or tell her that you asked us to contact her.”

“She says it came from me and she knew I was involved in the study.”

“Of course,” he said. “One of the waivers you signed gave us permission to examine your genetic heritage. That includes parents, grandparents, living relatives if necessary. Your attorney didn't object.”

Her attorney was good, but not that good. He probably hadn't known what that all entailed.

“I want you to send a letter, through your attorney or the university's counsel, stating that I in no way asked you to contact her and that you did it of your own volition.”

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked.

“To me or to her?” she asked.

He drew in his breath sharply and she realized for the first time that she had knocked him off balance.

“I meant to her,” he said, “but I guess I owe you an apology too.”

Brooke stared at him for a moment. No one had said that to her before.

“Look,” he said, apparently not understanding her silence. “I should have thought it through when your mother said she didn't allow such confidential information to be sent to people she didn't know. I thought that was a refusal.”

“For anyone else it would have been,” Brooke said. “But not for my mother.”

“She's an interesting woman.”

“From the outside,” Brooke said.

He nodded as if he understood. “For the record, I didn't mean to cause you trouble. I'm sorry I didn't warn you.”

“It's all right,” Brooke said. “Just don't let it happen again.”

Except for receiving a copy of the official letter Franke sent to her mother, Brooke didn't think about the study again until Memorial Day weekend. The semester was over. Most of her students successfully answered the question on her World Wars final: Explain the influence World War I had on World War II.

One student actually called World War I the mother of World War II. The phrase stopped Brooke as she read, made her shudder, and hoped that not every monstrous mother begot an even more monstrous child.

Professor Franke sent instructions for Memorial Day weekend with the official letter. He asked her to set aside time from mid-afternoon on Friday to late evening on Monday. She was to report to TheaterPlace, a restaurant and bar on the west side of town.

She'd been to the restaurant before. It was a novelty spot in what had once been a four-plex movie palace. The restaurant was in the very center, with huge meeting rooms off to the sides. The builders had called it a gathering place for organizations too small to hold conventions. Still, it had everything—the large restaurant, the bar, places for presentations, places for seminars, places for quiet get-togethers. There were three smaller restaurants in what had once been the projection booths—restaurants that barely seated twenty. One of the larger rooms even showed live theater once a month.

Cars were no longer allowed in this part of town, thanks to a Green referendum three years before. Someone had tried to make exception for electric vehicles but that hadn't worked either, as the traffic cops said it would be too hard to patrol. Instead, the light rail made several stops, and some enterprising entrepreneur had built underground tu

She walked from the light rail stop near the refurbished mall to TheaterPlace. On the outside, it still looked like a four-plex: the raised roof, the warehouse shape. Only up close did it become apparent that TheaterPlace had been completely gutted and remodeled, right down to the smoked glass that had replaced the clear windows.

A sign on the main entrance notified her that TheaterPlace was closed for a private party. She touched the door anyway—knowing the party was theirs—and a sca

Welcome, Brooke Cross. You may enter.

She shuddered slightly, knowing that Franke had programmed the sca

The door clicked open and she let herself inside. A short dark-haired woman she had never seen before hurried to her side.

“Professor Cross,” the woman said. “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Brooke said.

“Just a few rules before we get started,” the woman said. “This is the last time we'll be using names today. We ask you not to tell anyone who you are by name, although you may tell them anything else you wish about yourself. Please identify yourself using this number only.”

She handed Brooke a stick-on badge with the number 333 printed in bold black numbers.

“Then what?” Brooke asked.

“Wait for Professor Franke to make his a

“Thanks,” Brooke said. She stuck the label to her white blouse and made her way down the hall. All of the rooms were named after characters from famous movies, and the decor in all of them except the restaurants was the same: movie posters on the wall, soft golden lighting, and a thin light blue carpet. The furniture moved according to the function. She had been in the Jones Room before for a faculty party honoring some distinguished professor from Beijing, but she doubted the room would be the same.