Next: A Novel by Michael Crichton

Pancakes. How do you think it’s going? Same every fucking night.”

    “What did Mom say?”

    “She wanted to know if I was coming to the funeral.”

    “What’d you say?”

    “I told her to fuck off. Why should I go? He wasn’t my father.”

    Tom sighed. This was a long-standing argument within the family. Lisa believed she was not John Weller’s daughter. “You don’t think so, either,” she said to Tom.

    “Yeah, I do.”

    “You just say whatever Mom wants you to say.” She fished out a cigarette butt from a heaping ashtray, and bent over the stove to light it from the burner. “Was he drunk when he crashed?”

    “I don’t know.”

    “I bet he was shitfaced. Or on those steroids he used, for his bodybuilding.”

    Tom’s father had been a bodybuilder. He took it up later in life, and even competed in amateur contests. “Dad didn’t use steroids.”

    “Oh sure, Tom. I used to look in his bathroom. He had needles.”

    “Okay, so you didn’t like him.”

    “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said. “He wasn’t my father. I don’t care about any of it.”

    “Mom always said that he was your father, that you were just saying it, because you didn’t like him.”

    “Well, guess what? We can settle it, once and for all.”

    “How do you mean?”

    “I mean, a paternity test.”

    “Lisa,” he said. “Don’t start this.”

    “I’m not starting. I’m finishing.”

    “Don’t. Promise me you won’t do this. Come on. Dad’s dead, Mom’s upset, promise me.”

    “You are a chickenshit pussy, you know that?” That was when he saw she was near tears.

    He put his arms around her, and she began to cry. He just held her, feeling her body shake. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

    After her brother had gone, she heated a cup of coffee in the microwave, then sat down at the kitchenette table by the phone. She dialed Information. She got the number for the hospital. A moment later, she heard the receptionist say, “Long Beach Memorial.”

    “I want to talk to the morgue,” she said.

    “I’m sorry. The morgue is at the County Coroner’s Office. Would you like that number?”

    “Someone in my family just died at your hospital. Where would his body be now?”

    “One moment please, I will connect you to pathology.”

    Four days later, her mother called back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I mean, going down to the hospital and asking for blood from your father.”

    “He’s not my father.”

    “Lisa. Don’t you ever get tired of this game?”

    “No, and he’s not my father, because the genetic tests came back negative. It says right here”—
    she reached for the printed sheet—“that there is less than one chance in 2.9 million that John J.
    Weller is my father.”

    “What genetic test?”

    “I had a genetic test done.”

    “You’re so full of shit.”

    “No, Mom. You’re the one who’s full of shit. John Weller’s not my father, and the test proves it.I always knew it. ”

    “We’ll see about that,” her mother said, and hung up.

    About half an hour after that, her brother, Tom, called. “Hey, Lise.” Real casual, laid-back.

    “Just got a call from Mom.”

    “Yeah?”

    “She said something about a test?”

    “Yeah. I did a test, Tommy. And guess what?”

    “I heard. Who did this test, Lise?”

    “A lab here in Long Beach.”

    “What’s it called?”

    “BioRad Testing.”

    “Uh-huh,” her brother said. “You know, these labs that advertise on the Internet aren’t very reliable. You know that, don’t you?”

    “They guaranteed it.”

    “Mom’s all upset.”

    “Too bad,” she said.

    “You know she’ll do her own test now? And there’s going to be lawsuits? Because you’re accusing her of infidelity.”

    “Gee, Tommy, I don’t really give a damn. You know that?”

    “Lise, I think this is causing a lot of needless trouble around Dad’s