Immaculate: Chapter 1

The door cracked open and a little voice said from below, “Can I help you?” I blinked and looked down, and saw a child staring up at me curiously. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old, with the curliest head of hair I had ever seen in my life.

She really was the spitting image of her mother.

I said nothing at first, too perplexed by this strange little girl who was not supposed to exist. She blinked then knitted her eyebrows together before repeating her question:

“Well? I said can I help you?”

“Alice, who’s at the door?” called a voice from inside.

“This man out here, Uncle Rick!” she replied over her shoulder. Suddenly the door swung open revealed a tall, rugged young man. He bore the same piercing gray eyes like those of the girl. He narrowed his eyes and grumbled,

“What is it? What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Allison Conrad,” I blurted out. “I was wondering if she was here?”

“Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Todd Landers,” I said, handing him my business card. “I’m with the New York Daily and was wondering if I could interview her for a story?” The man took the card and studied it carefully before asking,

“A story about what exactly?”

I blushed, slightly embarrassed, as I said,

“Teen-pregnancies. And how their families cope with the, um, situation.”

“You’re a little late to the party, you know,” the man croaked. “Allie hasn’t been a teenager for quite some time. And more importantly,” he added darkly, “exactly how did you know she was a teen-mom?”

“I met a friend of hers through a mutual acquaintance,” I explained. “Kendel Richardson? I understand they were together when…” the man suddenly shook his head.

“Sorry, I’m going to have to say no.”

“It’s only a few questions,” I insisted. “If it’s anonymity you’re worried about…”

“It’s not,” the man snapped.

“Can you at least tell Ms. Conrad I stopped by? Or tell me how to get in touch with her personally?"

"You'd need an Ouija board for that. My sister died 18 months ago. Goodbye Mr. Landers.” And with that he slammed the door in my face.

Like I said, the teen-pregnancy angle was just a cover for my true objective. Weeks before I tracked down the Conrad residence, I was having drinks with an old friend of mine, Chris, and we ended up talking about the glory-days of our youth. At some point (somewhere between five or six drinks later) he revealed to me a secret that was meant for the grave.

“Did I ever tell you about Kenny Richardson?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“Old friend of mine from high school. We were in the same year. Great guy, awesome friend... usually. Now, he had himself a good time back then! Maybe too much of a good time, now that I think of it.”

“Lady's man?”

“The King of 'em! Had his pick of any girl in the school - hell, probably the whole town! But Junior year he picked a real zinger: Allie Conrad.”

"What was wrong with her?”

“Oh nothing, nothing really. She was a sweet girl - kind of shy most of the time, but real sweet. Though, from what I remember about her, she was something of a heart-breaker. Had her fair share of fun, too,” he added with a mischievous wink.

“Anyway, she and Kenny, they got together and seemed to be going pretty hot and heavy for a while. I think they were together for most of the year. But - it didn’t exactly end well.”

“Let me guess: she got pregnant and they broke up.”

“Nope. They broke up and then she got pregnant.”

“Huh? Don't tell me she was she stepp’n out?”

“Nope, not that either. The way she claims it, she never cheated on him.”

“Well then, how does that work out?”

“It doesn’t. Kenny never believed her. In fact no one did. I think she was just a scared little kid who was in over her head, and couldn’t bring herself to admit the truth.”

“Sounds like it.”

“But still,” Chris added thoughtfully (which, I should add, is very uncharacteristic of him), “she claimed the whole time after, right through the whole pregnancy, that she never cheated on him. And that they weren’t actually ‘together’ when she got pregnant.” He paused and looked down at the polished bar.

“Poor kid - she stuck around and faced everyone, even though no one believed her. Even with all the stuff they were saying ‘bout her. She held her ground.”

I don’t know what it was, but there was something to this story. To most people, even to Chris, it seemed like another mundane tale - another little ditty about another ‘Jack and Diane.’ But there was something about this story, the way Chris talked about it, that seemed singularly unique. It got me to thinking about something... well, maybe just more than a little bit crazy...

"Immaculate Conception?" Randy repeated.

"Yeah," I answered. Randy sat up straight and turned around in his chair - the dead butterfly still pinched tightly between his tweezers. That was how I knew my cousin Randy was the smartest person around - because the smartest people tend to have the weirdest hobbies.

"What in the world would make you think of something like that?"

"Just came to me out of the blue," I replied with a shrug. "Wanted to know if it was actually possible."

"Not outside religion as far as I know," Randy said. "At least not in mammals."

"So, other animals can do it?"

"I mean, it's possible for some species of fish and reptiles," Randy explained. He then smirked and said with an eye-roll, "Ironic isn't it? A serpent is actually more likely to produce a virgin birth, than a human spawned from the bone of another human being."

"Randy," I sighed. He held up his free hand in resignation.

"I know, I know, getting off the soap-box." He paused and thought for a moment, before hesitantly adding, "Look, even with the technology we have now, it's still pretty much impossible for us to make the genes 'work' in the way we want them to. Reproduction in humans really does require the genetic material from both a mother and a father in order to be effective."

"Could we have access to the technology some day?" I asked. Randy shrugged.

"I think it's unlikely, but I wouldn't rule it out. The more we learn about our world the more we learn to control it, change it."

"Reshape it in our own image?" I suggested.

"Why not?"

"You never read Mary Shelley, did you Randy?" He smirked.

"As a matter of fact, it was my book report in Mrs. Barnes class."

"Uh-huh - and what was the grade?"

He scoffed and waved me away...

So I got in touch with Kendall Richardson, now married tax consultant and father of three. He was very, miraculously, unashamed about his past; very forthcoming about everything he knew. Even his wife knew about it, and the child he never saw.

“She won’t even let him help her,” Mrs. Richardson stated (several times). “She won’t even let him help her and she’s his daughter, too!”

“You mean you don’t pay child-support?”

“It’s not from lack of trying,” Kendall replied irritably. “She just won’t accept it. Literally. For the first year after Alice was born, I would send her a check in the mail and she would just send it right back. With a note telling me I didn’t have to pay for a child that wasn’t mine.”

“So Miss Conrad even claims that you’re not her daughter’s father?”

“Yeah she does,” he sighed dejectedly. “But I mean really, of course I know she’s mine. I’ve always known she got pregnant while we were together, but didn’t tell me about it until after. Maybe she just wanted to do it by herself - or maybe she thought about giving up the baby for adoption, but then changed her mind.

“Would you like to see a picture?” Mrs. Richardson suddenly interjected. She strolled over to the corner of the room and retrieved a black framed picture from the end table. It was dusty and hidden behind a small ridge of their own children's exploits.

“This is Alice, right here,” Mrs. Richardson stated matter-of-factly, pointing to the curly-haired toddler beaming into the camera. Behind her was her mother. It would be impossible for anyone to deny it: the child looked like she’d been copied straight from her.

Their hair was a rich coco and hung in loose, natural ringlets that most girls only dream of. Their faces had the same shape and rosy pigmentation; their ears, their lips, and their noses, all drawn out in perfectly matching lines. Their eyes - now that was the most telling and astonishing trait: their eyes were identical in every sense of the word. Slate gray that pierced through the world with an almost omnipotent quality. So similar was this mother to her daughter, that it was very difficult to see any trace of her father.

“See, she has the same forehead as her father,” Mrs. Richardson went on, as if reading my thoughts. “And there, look, she has the same hands.” I nodded, of course, agreeing with her that there was a noticeable resemblance. I suspected the Richardsons had so long diluted themselves that there would be no way to convince them otherwise. As for me however, the wheels started turning in my head and I was eager to get the truth straight from the horse’s mouth.

One way or another.

The second trip to the house was a little more… volatile than I would’ve liked.

I pulled up just as Mr. Conrad (Uncle Rick) returned home from work. Little Alice was there with him, climbing out of the back of the car, a pink backpack swaying from her shoulders. She was the first to notice me, and hid halfway behind her burly caretaker.

“I thought I told you to leave us alone,” Mr. Conrad snapped as he led his niece to the porch.

“Mr. Conrad, please, I only have a few questions.”

“Well I’m afraid I don’t have any answers for you. Now will you please get off my property before I call the police?”

“Mr. Conrad, will you let me just ask you one thing?”

He stormed up the steps to the house, shoving his charge further into the door. He turned to me, eyes burning, and said very quietly, “Goodbye Mr. Landers. And don’t come back.” He swung the door forward, but this time I was prepared.

“Mr. Conrad!” I slammed my palm against the door, pushing it open just enough to see half of his livid face. Thinking fast I added,

“What if I told you I know?”

“What?”

“What if I told you that I know about your sister?” I lowered my voice to a whisper.

“That I know about her daughter?”

Mr. Gordon stiffened and gazed at me incredulously.

So my hunch was right after all.

“Uncle Rick?” said a little voice from behind the door. Even though I couldn’t see her, I knew that little Alice was watching and listening intently. Mr. Conrad's face softened and, without turning around, said to her,

“It’s alright Alice. Go on in. We’ll be there shortly.”

A pause and then the sound of little feet galloping off into some other room of the house. Mr. Conrad opened the door wider. He stood there for a moment and assessed me meticulasly; his lips pressed together and his lower jaw thrust forward. In that one moment, he looked every bit like his sister. Like his niece.

“I’m going to ask you two things,” he finally said. “And if I don’t like how you answer them, you’re to leave and never come back.

“First: what exactly do you think you know about us?” He cocked his head in the direction Alice went. “About her?”

I thought about my answer very carefully.

“I know that your niece… is not like other children. She’s very, very special.” Mr. Conrad glared at me, unconvinced. So I finally came out and stated my theory:

“Mr. Conrad - Alice doesn’t have a father, does she?” Mr. Conrad thought for a moment, and then replied,

“Alright. Second question: let’s say I didn’t let you in. Let’s say I decided to shut the door right now and never speak to you again - what would you do with this information… that you think you know?”

“I guess then, in that case, I would just move on to my next story,” I answered. And I meant it.

Even though I knew I was right, even though I was certain of it, no one would believe me without any substantial proof. But more than that, much more, it wasn’t my story to tell. Not for something this big.

Mr. Conrad considered my answers and then, without a single word, strode silently down the hall, the door left wide open.

I guess I passed the test.