Izzy sat on a bench in Coolidge Park. She had time to kill before her next appointment, the meeting she’d been both dreading and desiring since it had been booked.
True to the Jacksons’ word, Izzy had been recommended for this new study, a possibility for financial aid and job training, things Izzy realized that she now desperately needed before the baby arrived. Right after she had received a packet in the mail from The Infinite Family Project, its logo that of a tree whose roots eventually formed the infinity symbol, she went online and found what little information was available. The main article she referenced had appeared on the front page of the Science section of the New York Times, with the headline “Odd Couple Seeks to Redefine Family Values.” It talked about a billionaire, Brenda Acklen, who owned Acklen Super Stores, and how she had now initially funded, to the tune of nearly two hundred million dollars, a private, long-term study on child development. The article also mentioned her partner in this project, Dr. Preston Grind, a famous child psychologist and researcher who would be heading the project. The focus of the study seemed to be about communal parenting, though both Acklen and Grind were vague on the details, which was a foreign concept to Izzy, and she read about the huge complex that was being constructed to house the experiment. Everything about this study seemed grand and mysterious, which both intrigued and terrified Izzy. The project was in its infancy, and no other Web sites or articles had any new information, only a regurgitation of the facts, either heavily for or against. The main takeaway for Izzy had been that the study would cover all costs for the participants for the duration of the study. It was a testament to her desperation for something to help add clarity to her future that she would endure any number of tests if it meant she and her child were taken care of. She had already filled out dozens and dozens of online forms and surveys for The IFP, wanting to know all manner of family history, financial standing, and personal information. It had all the makings of a low-level scam, but Izzy dutifully filled out every single question, including those that asked for her favorite short story (“A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner) and song (“Rocky Raccoon” by the Beatles), knowing intrinsically that, if nothing else, her participation was connected to the Jacksons’ good faith deposit of $20,000 in her bank account, a penny of which she had promised that she would not touch until the baby was born. It did not help that the meeting was taking place at the Chattanooga Public Library and not a hospital or doctor’s office.
Izzy finished her sandwich, heavy on the peanut butter, which she craved constantly since she became pregnant, and reached into her messenger bag for her pocketknife. She flicked open the blade, sharp as anything in the known world, and then produced a little piece of basswood that had recently, in Izzy’s own hands, taken on the shape of a duck. She started to make a pull stroke to further define the duck’s shape, working carefully, not even worried about cutting herself. She loved the way it relaxed her, to carve into a formless block and make it something tangible and specific, as if the shape had been there all along.