LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY, JULY 2012
One of my earliest, and worst, memories involves poking my head into the bedroom where my grandfather, laid low by Parkinson’s disease, lived out his days. A white-haired version of my father confronted me, propped in a bed behind metal railings. I remember lots of white—the wallpaper, the carpet, his smock. He moaned at me, and syrupy saliva trembled on his chin. I was only five. I’m still ashamed I ran.
Twenty-some years later, I found myself filling a plastic tube with my own saliva, to submit for genetic testing. I had no reason to think of Grandpa, and filled the genetic spittoon in a frivolous state of mind. I merely wanted a surprise (maybe a Genghis Khan gene) to spice up my new book, ...
