Her Irises Are Hazel by Maura Yzmore

I lay eyes upon my daughter’s face for the first time in over thirty years.

My little Mia.

She’s a grown woman now. Beautiful. Tall. She moves with purpose.

We are in the communal area on the ground floor of my building. It’s a bit noisy, but it’s warm and the chairs are comfortable. There isn’t really room for guests in my quarters.

She stares at me with incredulity. I know I’m not what she expected.

As she sits down across the table from me, I see a few grays in her hair, faint lines around her eyes and mouth. She looks so much like I did at that age…the age I was when I saw her last, before they took me away to a life of hard labor, low gravity, and recycled air on a large asteroid.

I wonder if she has children of her own.

I know why she’s here, on this godforsaken rock. Mia wants what everyone else wants from me, and I say no before she even asks.

“They sent you because they thought you’d soften me up,” I say.

“Yes,” she nods. “But I wanted to come. I hadn’t seen you in so long… I was curious.”

Her irises are hazel, like her dad’s. Somehow I forgot that.

“I’m happy to see you. I really am,” I say softly, as emotions swell in my throat. “But I won’t talk to you or anyone else about the project. Ever. The project was an abomination. It should’ve never existed.”

“But we’re finally ready!” Mia leans toward me, her forearms pressing on the table. “Ready to leave the solar system, to find a real new home out there. Yet, even with all the advances in cryotechnology, we’re still too short-lived. Too human. We can’t do it without your work. Please.”

I want to yell that there’s nothing wrong with being human; that we live exactly as long as we’re supposed to. That humanity is perfect. That she is perfect.

But all I say is “No.”

Mia lowers her chin and looks up at me, her hazel irises visible halfway. The words seep through clenched teeth: “You owe me.”

We look at each other for a long moment. She hates me; I don’t blame her. But there is something I need her to know, something that sears my chest from within, so I break the silence.

“Do you remember Aggie?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course I do.”

Aggie. My youngest. My sweet little baby girl. Her small body failing to grow, losing all hair, her skin turning thin and dry, like paper, like it could crumble at any moment under my touch and leave her insides exposed and raw. Sweet Aggie, who got so very old so very, very young. My Aggie, my reason for everything.

“We failed her, your father and I. We did everything we could, but it wasn’t enough. Maybe if we’d had more time, but her condition progressed so rapidly…”

“I remember. I watched my sister die of old age. She was ten.”

“We were desperate. When the government grant for our project didn’t go through, your dad and I emptied our savings, our retirement accounts, and funded it ourselves. We ran tests day and night, for months, most of the time just the two of us.

“Until we had a breakthrough. Repeated animal tests held up. We were so excited — a cure for aging!

“But your sister was so sick; we didn’t have enough time for human trials…so your father ran the serum protocol on himself. I watched his body go back in time, grow slim, his skin smooth and toned. He looked as he did in college.

“Then he got ill. Really ill. His organs started failing, one by one, as if his whole body had decided to disintegrate. He was in so much pain, but he held on…until the day Aggie died. He said he was happy she wouldn’t be alone, then let go; died just two days after her.”

Mia looks to the side in silence. She remembers.

“I saw no way to carry on,” I continue. “I destroyed all research records, set the lab on fire, and ingested the remaining serum, probably ten times the dose your father got, maybe more. I wanted to die, and I wanted it to be as quick and as painful as possible.

“I was in agony for weeks. When I didn’t die, the authorities came after me: destruction of government property, illegal experimentation on human subjects… Arson. Homicide.”

“I know all this,” Mia interrupts and leans away from me, annoyed. “I was there. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you know that your dad and I failed Aggie. What you don’t know is how much I regret failing you.”

Mia’s eyes are locked onto mine.

“I am so sorry, Mia. I’m sorry I all but abandoned you while Aggie was dying. I’m sorry I didn’t think of you when I decided to end my life. I’m sorry that you had to grow up with strangers because of me.”

Mia’s jaw clenches and her nostrils flare. For a split second, we are connected–

And, just like that, the link is gone.

“Well, you can make it up to me now,” she says flatly. “We need you. We need your work.”

“No,” I remain firm. “This project killed your father and destroyed our family.”

“But it worked! It was a success!”

“No!” I grab her wrist and shake it. “This…this is not success — this is hell!”

Our hands are next to each other, orthogonal. Hers belongs to a middle-aged woman; mine, to someone much, much younger.

“I will live long after you die,” I say. “That is my punishment.”

I let go. Mia pulls her arm to her chest and rubs her wrist. She stares at me with her dad’s hazel eyes, wide, glistening with tears.

I never ask if I have grandchildren. I know that, in ways that matter, I do not.

—

Maura Yzmore is a short-fiction writer and science professor based in the American Midwest. Her recent work can be found in The Molotov Cocktail, Aphotic Realm, Coffin Bell, and elsewhere. Find out more at https://maurayzmore.com/stories or @MauraYzmore on Twitter.