The Adoration of Jenna Fox

I used to be someone.

Someone named Jenna Fox.

That’s what they tell me. But I am more than a name. More than they tell me. More than the facts and statistics they fill me with. More than the video clips they make me watch.

More. But I’m not sure what.

What kind of person was Jenna Fox that she didn’t have any friends?

Was she someone I even want to remember?

Everyone should have at least one friend.

I don’t know if I will ever remember Jenna. The Jenna I was, at least. Father seems to think I will. Mother desperately wants me to. But letting go of something old and building something new that is all my own feels good. I want more of this feeling.

“Sometimes we just don’t know when we’ve gone too far.”

“You of all people should understand! If it weren’t for in vitro, I wouldn’t be here. You always called me your miracle. Why can’t I have one, too? Why do you get to decide when the miracles will end?”

“And your old life? Do you miss it?”

“Parts. Mostly I regret that I never saw my parents again.”

It finally stops on my face. It rests there. Caressing. Watching. Watching what? The enthusiasm? The ruddy cheeks? The anticipation? Watching all the breaths, heartbeats, and hopes of Matthew and Claire Fox? For a moment, I can see the weight of it on Jenna’s face. My face.

“It was a private journey as much as a public one. He was searching for his personal essence as much as he was making a political statement.”

“He’s missing something. I mean, really missing something[.]”

To heaven? Is that where she thinks she’s going? Is she really sure of going to a place that isn’t even on a map? And how can she be sure she’d like it once she got there? But that’s Lily. One big question mark.

She has accepted the loss of her limbs but blames an out-of-control medical system for the outcome. She thinks if someone had regulated antibiotics long ago, when they first knew about the dangers of overuse, she and millions like her would have had a different fate, and now she seems determined that no new medical injustices will be unleashed on the world.

“You have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you? Medical costs are a terrible economic drain on society, not to mention the ethics involved. And by restricting how much can be replaced or enhanced, the FSEB knows you are more human than lab creation. We don’t want a lot of half-human lab pets crawling all around the world, do we?”

“So it’s not human skin.”

“It is human. Completely human. We’ve been genetically altering plants and animals for years. It’s nothing new. Tomatoes, for instance. We engineer them to withstand certain pests or to give them a longer shelf life, but it is still one hundred percent a tomato.”

“I am not a tomato.”

“I’m a doctor, Jenna. And a scientist.”

“Does that make you an authority on everything? What about a soul, Father? When you were so busy implanting all your neutral chips, did you think about that?”

“I won’t even bring up the fact that I am two inches shorter now—acceptable ballerina height—another detail I know wasn’t an oversight.”

I’ve heard about sociopaths, people who connect with no one but themselves and their own self-interests. That would be Dane.

“They aren’t perfect, but none of us are ever exactly what we want to be, right?”

[T]hat day almost two years ago, Kara talked me into the red skirt. She was right. It was a change I needed. What happened to that red skirt?

Is there such a thing? A real Jenna? Or was the old me always waiting to be someone else, too?

Without knowing it, she called me a lab pet. Why am I so drawn to someone who could destroy me? Why do I need her to be my friend?

The dictionary says my identity should be all about being separate or distinct, and yet it feels like it is so wrapped up in others.

I decide that sometimes definitions are wrong. Even if they’re written in a dictionary. Identities aren’t always separate and distinct. Sometimes they are wrapped up with others. Sometimes, for a few minutes, maybe they can even be shared. And if I am ever fortunate enough to return to Mr. Bender’s garden, I wonder if the birds will see that piece of him that is wrapped up in me.

All of your pieces fill up other people’s holes.

But they don’t fill

your own.

I look at my hands. Trembling. A battle between neurochip and neuron, survival and sacrifice.

Would the old Jenna have jeopardized her future for the sake of someone else?

“How can you know?” I ask.

“Some things aren’t meant to be known. Only believed.”