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“Around the time when the DNA was implanted into the eggs but before they were put into the mother, the father shared that he and his wife wanted only one of the three viable eggs—the best one—and they wanted to destroy the rest. Mom thought they wanted to make sure that the scientists wouldn’t secretly grow the others in the name of research.
“Mom was probably way too involved in the project at this point, and because she was the egg donor, she sort of felt a claim to us. She didn’t want any of us being discarded. So she and her boss came up with a plan: He’d put the eggs in Mom’s womb instead and she’d disappear, and then he’d tell the clients that there had been an accident in the lab and all the eggs were destroyed.”
“Your mom stole you and raised you herself,” Sean says, looking a little pale. I nod. “But you weren’t hers,” he says quietly.
“We didn’t come from her DNA, so no, not technically,” Betsey says, “but she used her own eggs, and she gave birth to us. She raised us. We’re hers.”
“Oh,” Sean says like he’s not really buying it. Like he thinks Mom did something wrong. I try to make him see that what she did was good. Because as much as I hate living as a third of a person, I’m living at all because of her.
“She did it to protect us,” I say. “We moved and lived as triplets, and we had a happy childhood.”
“Then why don’t you live as triplets now?” he asks.
I tell him the story of when we were nine and Dr. Jovovich was publicly arrested. “He admitted on the stand during his trial that there could be a set of three female clones our age living somewhere in the United States. Girl triplets went under the microscope and Mom freaked out. We went into hiding.”
Sean stares at me; I clarify.
“We each do a third of the day.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I mean Ella goes to school until lunch, I do the afternoon classes and cheer practice, and Betsey does our night job and college class, and any other evening activities.”
“But the ones who aren’t at school are homeschooled in the same classes,” Ella adds, like she doesn’t want him to think we each only have a third of a brain, too.
“You’re telling me that since you were ten years old, you’ve only been allowed out of the house one-third of each day?” he asks me, incredulous.
“Nine,” I say, “but yeah.”
“It’s not really that we aren’t allowed out,” Ella says. “It’s just our system.”
Sean turns his body to face mine and there’s an intensity in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. “This is what you meant when you said your mom is strict?” he asks quietly, but doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I mean, this is more than strict. This is… Lizzie, do you realize how messed up it is?”
I’m quiet a few seconds; it’s possible that the others are holding their breath. Then, “I think you get used to things,” I say. “I think you just go with your reality.” I sigh before adding, “But I know how strange it must seem to you.”
I’m about to tell him that it’s strange to me now, too, when he runs his hands through his hair and stands up.
“I’m going to go get some air, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, unsure whether that means he’s going to open a window or flee the scene. But when he jogs down the stairs and goes out the front door, I get my answer.
“That went well,” Ella mutters after he’s gone.
“Shh,” Betsey snaps at her. She nods in my direction, knowing I’m on edge. Probably feeling it. “He’ll be back.”
At first, I think Betsey’s right. But then a half hour passes, and someone turns on the TV for background noise. The cell phone buzzes and my heart leaps out of my chest; I can’t hide my disappointment when I discover that it’s just one of the cheerleaders checking to see why I’m not at practice.
“I should skip work, in case one of them happens to go to the restaurant after practice,” Betsey says.
“If you want to,” I mutter before glancing at the clock for what must be the hundredth time.
Bet leaves to call in sick, and Ella drapes a blanket over her lap and turns up the volume. She’s really watching now: It’s not just background anymore.
My insides rage with nervousness: I need Sean to call me.
Two hours after he leaves, the others force me into the kitchen for sustenance. We opt for a cocktail party–style dinner: crackers with cream cheese and jalapeño peppers, microwaved chicken skewers, carrot sticks with ranch, and cut-up fruit. My eyes are tearing up from putting too many jalapeño slices on my last cracker when there’s a knock on the door so faint that I barely hear it.
