By Curtis Craddock
Harry was a happy, rambunctious six-year old. Happy that is, until his kidneys failed. Harry had a disease that was destroying his kidneys, filling them with cysts. Harry didn’t know what cysts were, or even what kidneys were. All he knew was that he wasn’t happy. His legs wobbled, and his belly swelled up like the dead squirrel under the hedge in the back yard of his little suburban house. He didn’t want to run or play with eight-year-old Timmy. All he wanted to do was lie in his bed and sleep, and even that hurt. It hurt to walk. It even hurt to pee.
Mom and Dad and Timmy bundled Harry into the car, which Harry usually liked but which he didn’t like this time, because the bouncing hurt, and took him to the doctor.
Harry didn’t like the doctor’s place, all white-to-hurt-the-eyes and smelling of antiseptic, and he didn’t much care for the doctor either. The man spoke soothingly but jabbed him with needles, which didn’t seem fair since Harry was already miserable.
Then the doctor with the needles went away and Mom and Dad and Timmy and Harry sat around in the waiting room with several other families just like them. They sat, and they sat, and Harry hurt, but he was patient. He was always patient.
Finally the doctor came back and talked to Mom and Dad about cysts. Timmy sat with Harry, and neither the eight-year-old nor the six-year-old understood a word of it.
Finally, Timmy, who was not so patient as Harry, and who had had quite enough of being talked over, blurted, “Can they make Harry better?”
The adults stopped talking. The doctor smiled and said, “Yes we can. The problem is Harry’s kidneys. They’ve stopped working, and he needs new ones. Fortunately, we know how to do that. Do you know what cloning is?”
Timmy thought hard. “It’s where you make a copy of someone,” he said tentatively, having seen it in a movie.
“Precisely,” said the doctor glowingly. “But we don’t do the whole body. All we have to do is make a copy of Harry’s kidneys, and then replace them.”
“You can do that?” Timmy asked, impressed that this doctor could do something he’d seen the evil overlord do.
“Yes,” the doctor said, and he did.
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Eight years later Dad’s kidneys failed. His strength left him and his flesh grew jaundiced. He took many pills, and he changed his diet, and twice every week he did dialysis, which left scars on his arms and on the family's hearts.
Every night Mom and Dad would sit and talk, and Tim (who no longer liked being called Timmy) would listen in, about treatments and transplants and waiting lists and the likelihood of rejection.
Weeks passed, and months, and a year. Dad, who had once been hale, became fragile. Dad had been rejected by every donor list. Not serious enough, or a bad match.
Tim asked, “Why can’t we clone him some new kidneys like we did for Harry?”
“The Mercy General won’t allow it,” Dad said. “Requires destroying an embryo.
“It’s just a clump of cells at that point, not ever differentiated, before they interrupt the process,” Mom protested in vain.
“It’s the Mercy General’s law,” Dad said.
“They’ll do it in Canada, or Mexico, or anywhere else,” Mom said.
New words entered Mom and Dad’s late night discussions, they talked about passports, and itineraries, and taking the long way around, and their voices grew low as if they were afraid to be overheard.
Then came the day when the letter arrived. It was the day before dialysis, and Dad was very tired, so Mom got the mail. She hurried into the dining nook, letter in hand, the monthly bills streaming behind, like scattered footprints, forgotten. She and Dad huddled close. With trembling hands she opened the letter. She read. She cried. She lay her head down on the table and wept to drown the world. Harry tried to comfort her, and Dad put his arm around her shoulder though it looked like he wanted to cry as well. His passport had been denied: high risk of medical tourism. Only treatments approved by the Mercy General were permitted for U.S. subjects.
“We’ll find another way,” said Dad, and he did.
Dad had a brother, Uncle Ben. They looked very much alike. Dad would borrow Ben’s passport. If Dad was caught, he would say he stole the passport.
The idea terrified Mom. Dad would have to go alone. He would be vulnerable. What if something happened? But it was the only way.
Dad packed his bags. He would leave in the morning, a red-eye flight.
Dad left in the morning, but he didn’t get on a plane. When he opened the door, a man approached. The man had a badge, and officer of the U.S. Mercy General.
“Mr. Wilkens,” the badge said to Dad, “you are under arrest.”
Dad’s strength fled, hand-in-hand with hope, and he seemed to shrink within himself. Mom grew pale, Tim lurched out the door to intervene.
“You can’t!” Tim said.
“Stay back,” said Dad. His voice, dusty with defeat, still carried indelible parental authority.
“You don’t want any part of this kid,” said the badge. “You’re old enough to tried as an adult.”
Tim did not shut up. “Prison will kill him.”
The badge sneered. “He should have thought about that before he conspired to murder an embryo.” He handcuffed Dad’s hands behind his back.
“It’s just a clump of cells!” Tim shouted.
“That’s enough, Tim,” Mom said, taking Tim’s shoulder.
The badge rounded on Tim, “It’s a human being, and your father’s a filthy murderer, and I can see he did a number on you.” He glowered at Mom. “Child Protective Services will be along directly. We don’t leave kids in the hands of degenerates.”
Mom went white shaking with terror and fury. “You can’t”
“Tell it to the judge,” said the badge.
“But they did it for Harry!” Tim protested, pointing at a picture of Harry on the wall. Harry had left them a year ago, but not because of his kidneys.”
The badge looked at the picture, lifting an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s a dog.”
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