It constantly amazed Dr. Grind, who had focused so intently on the children of these parents, how much of his time was devoted to making sure that the adults were taken care of as well. They were assigned bimonthly visits with a psychiatrist to discuss their lives in the complex, and Dr. Grind was constantly assessing how they were adjusting to life in a more communal setting. The babies were thriving, had been hitting a good number of their developmental goals, even to Dr. Grind and the postdocs’ surprise, earlier than normal. One of the babies, Ally, was already talking and a few of the other babies weren’t far behind. Though Dr. Grind had cautioned everyone from the postdocs and caregivers to the parents themselves that they could not expect radical advancement in the children’s development in such a short time, this collective family was outpacing the work Grind had done with the Artificial Village project, and Preston believed that starting from the moment of birth had been essential to this feeling of community. During his video chats, every other week, with Brenda Acklen, she was overjoyed to hear how things were going with the children, and Dr. Grind never failed to provide her with videos and pictures of the babies, all the things they were accomplishing. Her focus had primarily been with the children, so she asked less about the parents, but he continued to provide her with optimistic information about their future endeavors. “This is your family, Preston,” she would tell him time and time again. “I’m the benefactor, but you’re the daddy.” He was entirely uncomfortable with that logic, the patriarchal conundrum it provided, but how to explain the fact that it also thrilled him to hear it, to feel that he was, once again, a part of a family.
But it wasn’t entirely true. Though he worked hard to make the experience communal by nature, he was still the doctor, an outsider by definition. When he walked into a room, the parents and the postdocs seemed to adjust their posture, as if they believed he was noting every detail of their interactions. But then, there were those moments, when one of the parents handed him a child, their own child, and trusted him to care for him or her, that made him believe that, no matter what the outcome was for everyone else, he had built something necessary for himself, and that when the ten years of the project had come to a close, he would be as rehabilitated as everyone else, although no one could know that he had changed.
After his meeting with Gerdie, he checked on the babies in the nursery, so much activity swirling around him that he was momentarily discombobulated by the sounds and colors and motion; he simply let it wash over him for a few seconds and then rejoined the world. He picked up Cap, the quietest of the babies, the most thoughtful, he had determined, who smiled as Dr. Grind rubbed noses with him. A few of the babies were sitting in a circle, each manhandling a musical instrument, everything becoming an object of percussion in their tiny hands. Dr. Grind set Cap in the circle and placed a tiny ukulele in his lap.
Marla, long after her band had broken up and she’d given up on the drums, took to the ukulele once Jody was born, singing him revised new-wave and punk songs while she plink-plunked on the flimsy instrument. Preston could still easily recall the sounds of her singing to Jody in his bed while Preston washed dishes from that night’s dinner. It was the best sound of his family, his wife singing songs of distorted anger, softly pitched, his son joining in until his voice wavered and then fell away from the song entirely.
As Dr. Grind made random chords on the neck of the ukulele, he was amazed to see Cap stroke his open palm against the strings in what seemed to be a fairly smooth strumming motion, making a rickety song between the two of them. Cap had an innate sense of rhythm, or as much as a baby could have, and he played for a few more seconds, smiling with great satisfaction at the sound he was making, looking up shyly at Dr. Grind for approval, who responded with great enthusiasm. When he tired of the music, Cap pushed the ukulele entirely into Dr. Grind’s hands, and then Dr. Grind awkwardly strummed some passable notes and sang gibberish to Cap, who smiled and then pointed to Dr. Grind and said, as clear as a struck bell, “Daddy.”
Christie, who was playing with Marnie on a drum set, instantly turned around to face the two of them. “That’s his first word,” she said. Jeffrey walked over from where he’d been playing with a few of the babies and agreed. “I heard it from over there,” he said. “Daddy.”
As if on command, Cap said it again, “Daddy,” still pointing at Dr. Grind. Christie touched her heart and oohed and aahed at the cuteness of it. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. Jeffrey went to Cap’s clipboard and noted the new development on the sheet. Two of the parents came over to hear it as well, Cap unable or unwilling to stop now that he’d spoken aloud. Dr. Grind found that he could not let go of the ukulele, kneeling awkwardly over the little boy, who kept pointing to him. He knew that, in less than three seconds, he would start sobbing and he would not be able to explain this properly to anyone, not even himself. He simply kissed Cap on the forehead and then walked out of the nursery.
Down the hallway, safe from view, finally alone, he found that the tears now wouldn’t come. He cradled the ukulele and thought of his own son and he found that he could not remember the exact moment when Jody had said, “Dad.” There was no memory of it and he wondered how much else he had simply lost to time or inattention. He thought of the photo that he had hidden within the building itself, and now he wished that he could break into the plaster of the ceiling and retrieve it. Had he been so naive to think that one family could take the place of another? Or had he been so naive to think that a family, dispersed, would live forever in his mind?