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He’s tense, his shoulders stiff, jaw locked. I can only imagine the amount of inner turmoil he’s feeling right now. Micah had never so much as talked back to his parents until the other day. And now here he is, breaking into his father’s desk.
Micah shoves the letter opener into the top of the drawer, jimmying it around. He leans into it, prying the drawer open with a crash. There is no hesitation as he rifles through the drawers, looking for anything that might help us find answers.
“What can I do?” I want to help, but I’m afraid of overstepping.
“Maybe try the bookcases, pull out anything that could be related. My mother keeps photos and some of her files in those cabinets.”
I jump into action, searching everything, even fanning through books for anything hidden. Micah finds a ton of files in the bottom drawer of the desk. He meticulously thumbs through each folder.
We search in silence for what feels like an hour. I find some photos of Micah’s birth, but nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary. Finally, Micah shouts out to me.
“I found something!”
Micah pulls a stack of files out of the drawer and carries them over to a coffee table. I join him, sitting close to him on the leather couch. We take everything out of the folders, discarding anything unrelated. There are at least half a dozen documents with the BioCere, Inc. logo. They are all signed by Micah’s father, Bennet’s father, and someone by the name of Dr. Ronald Johnson, who is listed as the program director.
The first document is a standard NDA, guaranteeing mutual discretion between the parties. Secrecy was apparently highly important to both parties involved.
The next documents are agreements for treatment. It seems Micah’s father was being treated for infertility. There are notes about a series of injections, which they refer to as “Hyposerum 256”, which were intended to help Dr. Williams impregnate his wife. I also notice some worrisome fine print alluding to “unknown side effects”- for both the patient and offspring.
There are more documents regarding the financial exchange and legalities. The legal jargon seems intentionally complicated and hard to decipher. One of these forms suggests Dr. Williams waived his right to seek legal counsel “if or when” he or his child experienced medical issues. He is contractually forbidden to mention being part of the study, no matter the outcome. That strikes me as highly unusual and worrisome, but Dr. Williams signed and initialed every page.
We find records that “the offspring” was also injected with the same “Hyposerum 256”. There are also pages of intermittent reports- check-ins where it seems Micah’s father was recording his growth and development. There is an entire folder dedicated to Micah’s achievements, physically and academically. Worst of all, there are copies of emails between Dr. Williams and the program director regarding Micah’s “defects”. Anything he considered subpar, including his son’s possible sexuality- would be examined at an upcoming meeting where Micah would be present.
Heat creeps up my neck. I have never in my life hated someone as much as I hate Michael Williams right now. “Did you know anything about this?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember any kind of injections, exams, or meetings ever being mentioned. He’s always been… invested in my accomplishments, but I don’t know what this is about.” Micah stands to retrieve the calendar from his father’s desk.
Why would Dr. Williams discuss his son’s accomplishments with a medical company? Especially considering the Williams’ are particularly private people, it doesn’t make any sense.
The calendar lands on the table in front of me, open to September. Nearly the whole first week is blocked off. Micah: BioCere Testing is all it says.
“What the hell kind of testing takes a week?” An ominous shiver runs down my spine.
I’m struck by the need to get Micah far away. There are still more documents, packets, and records here.
“Let’s take it all.” Micah starts stacking files. “Leave the rest of this mess here. I want him to know what we have.”
Gathering everything of interest, we head back to the car. The drive to my house is silent. My mind is working overtime while Micah thumbs through more documents.
“This is some conspiracy shit,” he mutters.
As soon as we arrive, I head straight for the attic. I grab every box I can find that might have papers or photos and pass them down to Micah. He sets them in the living room, seven boxes in total.
It’s a testament to what a mindfuck this all is that we don’t talk. We are both totally focused on the task at hand, sifting through all that remains of my parents’ legacy. The sadness I feel for their loss is overshadowed by my fear of what we might find. The anxiety of not knowing is stifling.
I’m about three boxes in when I see the BioCere logo. “Here it is.”
Sure enough, there is a folder full of paperwork, similar to what we found in Micah’s father’s office. My mother apparently signed up for a trial marketed as an infertility study, agreeing to all manner of unintelligible medical nonsense just to be able to get pregnant.
There are no notes about meetings with BioCere, medical check-ins, or anything like that, but just because they didn’t save it didn’t mean records weren’t sent in. I had no idea about any of it.
Although I was expecting to find something, the reality is overwhelming. The room feels too confined, too warm. I take a moment to stack all of the boxes that aren’t needed, crack open a few windows, and switch on the ceiling fan. I got to the kitchen to splash some cool water on my face.
“Hey, Luk…” Micah looks unsure if he wants to continue. “There are some more medical records here for your mom. This says she had some aggressive form of brain cancer?”
“What? No, she never-”
I plop down on the couch, looking through the folder Micah found. There are brain scans, records from four different specialists.
