The Sabbathday River by Jean Hanff Korelitz

blue eyes, or a stroke, or a good sense of balance, or cancer, or genius …”
    â€œOr bad breath,” Judith said tersely. “But do we want to know? We’ve
blundered along for a few thousand years without knowing how we’re going to die. Why would we want to change that now?”
    â€œBecause, in the case of disease we want to treat it early, and in the case of genius we want to nurture it.”
    â€œSounds very Brave New World,” Naomi said affably. “I don’t think I’d want to know if my child—”
    â€œNo, you would,” Joel said. “I mean, if you thought about it, you probably would.”
    Naomi, abruptly quiet, understood that they had arrived on some hazardous ground. But she did not like the silence, so she went on as if there were no silence to break.
    â€œWell, I’m glad you’re here.” She looked at Judith. “It’s great news for me.”
    Joel, too, looked at his wife. He smiled. “She didn’t want to come, but I threw her over my shoulder. After all, I’m the man, right?”
    â€œPlease.” Judith rolled her eyes.
    â€œAnd I don’t see bringing up kids in New York.”
    â€œYou have kids?” Naomi looked at them both. They were looking at each other. An entire conversation, inaudible to her, passed between them. At last Judith turned to her.
    â€œNot yet,” she said. “Maybe soon.” She listlessly moved a carrot around her plate with the tip of her fork. “My mother came from Germany after the war. She was the only one in her family to make it out. She had a very specific interpretation of procreation, which she thoughtfully passed on to my sister and me. Basically, she told us that if we didn’t have children it would mean Hitler had won.”
    Something in Naomi’s stomach clenched. “That’s pretty heavy for a little kid.”
    Judith, unaccountably, smiled. “Oh, I don’t think she meant it to burden us. She just wanted us to see the world the way she saw it.”
    â€œShe was a character.” Joel shook his head. “Some people coming out of the camps were like that, you know. Almost hedonists. They were determined to have joy every day. Of course she hated almost everyone.”
    â€œExcept her daughters,” Judith reassured Naomi.
    â€œRight. The two of you, she completely adored. You were the reason she was saved. I mean”—he smiled fondly—“to have you.”
    â€œYeah.” Judith held her glass for Naomi to fill again. “That was the whole point to life. Life was a bunch of threads, and the threads were
families, and they were dangling down through the centuries, all the way back to the beginning of time. Or Abraham and Isaac, anyway. And then someone came along and tried to cut through the threads with these big cosmic scissors, and of course he did this very efficiently, but not quite efficiently enough to finish the job, so some little threads were missed. And so now the ones he missed have to make up for the ones he cut.” She shrugged. “Anyway, that’s how my sister and I inherited the responsibility of repopulating the world. My sister says it’s why she became a midwife.”
    â€œA midwife!” Naomi was impressed.
    Judith nodded. “Rachel went and studied with those women on the commune in Tennessee. They’re the ones who wrote that Spiritual Midwifery book that tells you how labor pains are supposed to be psychedelic and holy.”
    Naomi laughed. “And so, has your sister fulfilled her responsibilities? I mean, does she have kids of her own?”
    Judith seemed to consider. “Well, yes,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly soft. “She has two. A boy and a girl.”
    â€œThat’s nice. One of each.” Naomi’s voice was bright. It seemed awkwardly bright suddenly.
    â€œYes,” said Judith. She looked past Naomi, her gaze fixed.