Frameshift

Epilogue

Thirteen Years Later Valerie Beckett, first woman president of the United States, looked out at the crowd of five hundred on the White House lawn, most of them sitting on the metal folding chairs provided for the occasion but some in wheelchairs. Beyond the wrought-iron fence around the yard, hundreds of additional spectators and tourists watched in wonder. It was a bright, sunny day, the sky a perfect cerulean bowl, the scent of roses in the air.

Beckett’s husband, First Gentleman Roger Ashton, smiled at her from the front row. Tiny TV cameras — so much smaller than the ones of just a few years before — were set up on thin-legged tripods. Flags rippled slightly in the gentle breeze.

“We are gathered today to honor a great human being,” said Beckett, at the wooden podium with the presidential seal on its front. “His name is known to many of us as the cowinner with Shari Cohen-Goldfarb — who is here with us today — of a Nobel Prize for startling discoveries about the secrets locked in our DNA, discoveries that have changed our view of ourselves and our evolution. For some, no higher honor is possible, and I surely wouldn’t presume to suggest that any medal that I could bestow is more significant. But it isn’t really the medal that matters — it’s the selfless work that it represents. For ten years, the man we are honoring led the fight to get a federal law enacted barring insurance companies in all fifty-one states from discriminating against the born and the unborn based on their genetic profiles or family histories. Well, as you all know, during the last session of Congress, that very principle was passed into law and—”

She paused for the applause, then continued.

“—and so the Tardivel Bill is no more; it is now the Tardivel Statute, a new and binding law of the land. And today, we are gathered here to honor the memory of Dr. Pierre Jacques Tardivel, who fought until his dying day for its passage.”

Molly, still beautiful at fifty, looked at her sixteen-year-old daughter, Amanda. She missed her husband — God, how she missed him — but, still, Molly was grateful beyond words for Amanda, and for the special bond they shared.

Ready? thought Amanda.

Molly nodded.

I wish Dad could have lived to see this.

Molly took her daughter’s hand. “He would be so proud of you,” she whispered.

President Beckett continued, “I’m now going to ask Dr. Tardivel’s widow, Molly Bond, and his daughter, Amanda, to come up and accept this medal with the thanks of the people of the United States of America.”

Molly rose to her feet. She and Amanda — stocky, with bangs that hung down to her eyebrows covering the subtle shelf of bone at the base of her forehead — moved up to stand next to the president, who shook each of their hands in turn. Molly stepped to the microphone. “Thank you,” she said. “I know this would have meant a lot to Pierre. Thank you all so much.”

Amanda was still within her mother’s zone. I love you, she thought.

Molly smiled. Amanda couldn’t really read her mind — but they were so close, so intertwined, the words didn’t need to be spoken aloud for Amanda to know that Molly was thinking, I love you, too.

Amanda raised her hands and began to sign.

Molly leaned back into the mike, interpreting. “Amanda says she misses her father every day, and loves him very much. And she says she’d like to recite a short speech that was one of Pierre’s favorites, a speech first made only a few hundred meters from this very spot half a century ago by another man who went on to win the Nobel Prize.”

Amanda paused for a moment, then glanced at her mother, drawing strength from their bond. Then her hands began to move again in an intricate dance.

‘“I have a dream,’” said Molly, giving voice to Amanda’s gestures, ‘“that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. I have a dream that my children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.’”

Amanda paused. Molly wiped tears from her eyes. Then Amanda’s hands moved once more. “By passing this law which makes us look beyond our genes,” said Molly, interpreting the signs again, “that great dream of a nation in which all its people truly are considered to be created equal has come another step closer to reality.”

Amanda lowered her hands and looked at her mother, sharing a special thought just with her. She then turned and looked out at the crowd, which was applauding wildly.

Pierre Tardivel’s daughter smiled.

And a beautiful smile it was, too.