The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain

by Kevin David Jensen

Zach gazed out the window at the rain falling through the cedar trees that surrounded the cabin in which he waited. His stomach complained mightily. He felt weak, and his hands shook. Dull pain still pulsed down his left arm; all of his limbs ached from last night's imprisonment in the shed. He whirled his arms around like slow propellers the way Dad did when he was getting ready to play catch. It seemed to loosen his shoulder a bit and ease the aching for a moment.

  From the ferry, Grandfather had driven them through a small town and then into wooded countryside. He had brought them here to this two-bedroom cabin secluded among the trees. Once inside, Grandfather had permitted him to drink all the water he wanted; after more than twelve hours without a drop, Zach had downed several cups. Nothing had ever tasted better to him. Studying himself in the bathroom mirror, he had been surprised by the redness in his eyes.

  Then Grandfather had sent him into this bedroom to wait. His instructions had been succinct: stay here until I call for you. Zach had protested that he wanted to go home, but Grandfather had ignored him, warning him that when he came out of the bedroom, he was not to speak unless spoken to. A single violation and he would receive no food until dinner.

  Zach had waited in this room ever since. The clock on the wall showed 10:28; he had spent most of two very dull hours watching the rain, sometimes praying that he could go home, sometimes wishing hungrily that he were in the kitchen with Mom making tacos for lunch. He eyed a gray squirrel as it darted down from a tree, hunted around for seeds on the ground, found something, and scaled a second tree with its find. The squirrel is free, he thought, just like the mountain goat, and they can get all the food they want. Why can't I? Because I was grown in a glass tank? Or maybe the tank was plastic. Somehow, plastic seemed worse.

  Mom never got to hold me when I was a baby. The thought came unbidden, but it bit into him nonetheless. She never felt me in her tummy. To her I'm just like any other person's kid…

  But what about Dad? Could a dad love his son as much if he hadn't been nearby for the birth? Was there a special bond for dads?

  Baseball, he thought, that's our bond. And working in the dirt. It was a silly thought; baseball and dirt were no match for having carried a baby in your tummy for nine months.

  Headlights appeared through the rain; a car approached on the gravel road. The trees blocked most of his view, but he glimpsed it before it pulled around the cabin to park. Grandfather's voice greeted someone at the front door a few seconds later, just as another vehicle approached and stopped nearby. Zach heard Grandfather speaking with his first guest in the living room, but could not make out what they were saying. Grandfather was keeping his voice quiet, and the other person, a man, was following suit. Another voice—a woman's—soon joined them.

  A third car shone its headlights through the trees and parked next to the cabin, and another man's voice added to the conversation in the living room. Zach stepped around the bed, the only furniture in the room, and lay down at the door with his ear pressed against the crack between it and the floor. He still had trouble making out their words, though, catching only enough to tell that Grandfather was doing most of the talking.

  The conversation went on for nearly thirty minutes. After the first ten, Zach gave up on eavesdropping and stretched himself out on the bed. He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come. It should have—he felt exhausted. But it refused, probably because he was hoping Grandfather would wrap up his business with these other adults soon and finally let him have something to eat.

  Grandfather did not end the conversation, but he did call for Zach, at last. Zach got up from the bed. His stomach rumbled as he pulled the door open and walked the short hallway to the living room.

  Three strangers stood facing him as he entered; Grandfather watched from the side with his arms folded. The woman was Asian, though rather different from Aunt Lia—tall, with wide hips and short, black hair. An Hispanic man stood beside her, his hands in his pockets. He was dressed in a suit and tie and wore polished, black shoes. A third man, Caucasian and dressed in a shirt with three buttons and a high collar, leaned against the wall near the Hispanic man. The trio eyed Zach intently.

  He looked at Grandfather, who smiled at him in a—well, grandfatherly sort of way. It looked out of place on his face. "Zechariah," he intoned warmly, "these are friends of mine who would like to meet you."

  So it was this again—meeting foreigners, Grandfather showing him off for them. Zach knew this routine. It would be easy enough. Hopefully they wouldn't ask too many questions and he could have lunch soon.

  "This is your great accomplishment," the Hispanic man intoned. He sounded like Spanish was his first language.

  "This is he," Grandfather confirmed. "How old are you, Zechariah?"

  "Ten," Zach said clearly. He didn't feel like speaking up, but neither did he dare mumble—not if a meal was at stake.

  The Caucasian man spoke. "What sorts of complications have you had with him?" His accent was strange—he wasn't from the United States. Perhaps Europe? The man looked at Zach the way Mom looked at meat at the grocery store—assessing it, gauging its quality.

  "His immune system was the most daunting obstacle," Grandfather replied, "but as you can see, he has come through quite well. The first couple of years were a challenge. Basic medical attention, though, would provide our clients with a high rate of survival, to be sure."

  "The survival rate must be perfect, not merely high," the Asian woman countered. "Especially at the beginning, or clients with the kind of means you're hoping to attract will refuse to take the risk." She, too, had a strong accent, but her words were clear and precise, and she was easy to understand.

  "Quite true," Grandfather conceded. "Hence the need for continued funding and research."

  "You have never duplicated this success?" the Caucasian man asked, waving at Zach.

  "Not yet," Grandfather admitted. "But, as I explained, it is merely a matter of time. I have already shown you my most recent developments, and we have never been nearer to the ability to succeed consistently than we are today."

  Zach had only a vague understanding of what Grandfather was referring to—something about growing more babies in those clear boxes—but the other three adults received his words thoughtfully. The Hispanic man stepped forward and circled Zach, studying him, placing hands on Zach's arms and feeling his muscles. Zach flinched at his touch. The Caucasian man, too, stepped toward him for a closer look.

  "Talk with him, ask him questions," Grandfather encouraged them. "You'll find that his functioning is entirely normal. He is, in fact, average or better in all his classes, and he fits in well with his peers. No one in his school suspects anything unusual about his origin."

  "Do you like school?" the Asian woman inquired of Zach. She remained standing in her place, observing him—not like the men, though. Her eyes examined him differently…like Nana Maggie's eyes, Zach realized, curious about him, but with a certain compassion that the men's eyes lacked.

  "Yeah, I like it," Zach answered. "Especially P.E."

  She smiled. "Yes, P.E. is good for boys. What games do you play?"

  "Baseball is my favorite," Zach replied. "My dad is teaching me. And my mom is teaching me soccer."

  The Asian woman furrowed her brows, giving him an odd look.

  Grandfather saw it and chuckled. "I recently placed Zechariah with a couple to test how he would function in the environment of a home."

  "No, you didn't!" Zach blurted out. "I went by myse—"

  "Zechariah!" Grandfather interrupted him. "Remember what I said about speaking when you have not first been spoken to." He said it sternly but not angrily, like Mom and Dad when they corrected Zach. To Zach, it was clearly an act; Grandfather was trying to impress these people. Even so, Zach closed his mouth. He was hungry.

  "And what was the result of the test?" the European man wanted to know.

  Grandfather smiled. "
He performed excellently. His behavior was the same as that of any normal boy his age. He struggles with obedience, as you've now seen"—Grandfather cast Zach an admonishing glance—"but he also learned a great deal from exposure to a new environment."

  "Did the couple notice anything strange about him?" the European man asked again.

  "Nothing," Grandfather said. "As far as they know, he is a perfectly normal boy from a troubled background, whom they took in as a foster child."

  Zach clenched his jaw. Only the ache in his belly kept him from contradicting Grandfather; inside, he was seething. They were his parents, his real parents.

  "Do you have friends?" the Hispanic man asked Zach.

  Zach restrained his anger and nodded. Grandfather motioned for him to do more than just nod. "I have lots of friends," he said wearily. "I have cousins, too, but only girls. I have one cousin who's a boy; he lives in Alaska. I haven't met him yet. And I—"

  "Thank you, Zechariah, that is sufficient," Grandfather said. From a small table in the corner he took the photo album he had kept in his briefcase earlier and handed it to the Hispanic man. "I trust that you have already contacted the references I gave you concerning the validity of my claims and my research," he told the group, "but most of my investors appreciate the opportunity to see some record of Zechariah's development for themselves. These photographs illustrate the child's growth during his incubation and since his birth. I think you'll find, on the basis of Zechariah's health and progress, that my work is quite promising."

  "Expensive, though," the European man pointed out. "Why so costly?"

  "The returns will more than justify the expense," Grandfather assured him. "At the present time, though, the work I am engaged in is blatantly illegal in nearly every civilized nation. That, as I'm sure you understand, escalates the cost."

  The European man smirked; apparently, he knew all about involvement in illegal endeavors. He looked over the shoulder of the Hispanic man, and the Asian woman joined them, studying the photos in Grandfather's book. All three pairs of eyes examined the first few pages with interest.

  "When did you place him in the artificial womb?" the Asian woman asked Grandfather.

  "He was a mere embryo, recently conceived in a laboratory. Only days old."

  "Magnificent," the European muttered, shaking his head at the pictures he was seeing. "This remarkable machine—"

  "Is now ten years out of date," Grandfather informed him, "succeeded now by a simpler and more efficient model built on the same principles, but with the most up-to-date technology. It is more versatile, more adaptable—in short, more certain to bring us success."

  The three foreigners perused the photo album for another minute, making their way through it slowly, then returning to the pictures at the front for a second look. At last they set it down on the coffee table in the center of the room and returned their attention to Grandfather.

  "We are on the verge of a grand accomplishment, my friends," he proclaimed. "The keystone of my research is at hand. Then, I am certain, we will perfect the process of growing infants in an artificial environment, and it will not be long before buyers line up to grow their own families at their convenience, without the inconveniences of pregnancy."

  "Many women will prefer to bear their own children," the Asian woman challenged him.

  Grandfather spread out his hands. "To be sure! But there will be others, particularly the wealthy, who are accustomed to a measure of freedom from life's discomforts—these will pay handsomely for the convenience of a pregnancy-free birth that bypasses the complications inherent in employing a surrogate mother."

  "It is truly amazing," the Hispanic man declared. "I will give your proposal serious consideration."

  "As will I," the European man agreed.

  "I am most grateful," Grandfather said humbly. He looked to the Asian woman.

  She hesitated. "I am not so certain. He appears to be flawed. His eyes are too red. He seems weak." She took one of his wrists, lifted it, and dropped it; Zach let it fall limply to his side. She shook her head.

  "That is nothing more than weariness," Grandfather told her, the barest hint of irritation in his voice. "He had a busy day yesterday and needs rest."

  The woman mused, examining Zach closely, face to face. "I would question him without you here to prompt him, if you would permit it," she said to Grandfather.

  Grandfather hesitated just the barest moment, then threw his hands open. "By all means! Speak to him as long as you like. Come," Grandfather told the two men, "let us discuss the details outside before you depart." They followed Grandfather out the front door, leaving the Asian woman alone with Zach.

  She knelt in front of him and looked up into his eyes. "I have a son, grown up now," she told him. "When I look at you, I know there is nothing wrong with you. You are a normal boy, just as Dr. Lerwick says. But I think you are very sad. Why?"

  Zach held his tongue. Would Grandfather let him be open with this woman? But Grandfather was outside, where he would not hear. Could this be a trick?

  The woman's eyes were probing, but gentle, and strong. "It is safe. I will not tell him what you say."

  Zach stared at the floor. "I…miss my mom and dad," he told her in a soft voice.

  "Your foster parents? You liked it better there?"

  "They're not my foster parents!" Zach protested, still keeping his voice down. He didn't want Grandfather to hear him. "Grandfather lied! They're my real mom and dad! Mom said they took cells from her and Dad and put them together, and they did a test on me twice and found out I was really theirs!"

  The woman leaned back from him and considered him with her head turned to the side and her eyes narrowed, gauging whether she believed him. "What is your mother's name?" she asked.

  "Kara," Zach answered, "Kara Fleming."

  "Do you know her phone number?"

  Zach recited it for her, and the woman held his eyes, taking it in.

  She repeated it once, then stood and took Zach's hand. "You are shaking," she noted. "Are you hungry?"

  "Starving," he told her.

  "When was the last time you ate?"

  "Last night. But they didn't give me much."

  "Who?"

  "The men who kidnapped me."

  The woman blinked slowly one time. "I see. Here," she said, drawing a granola bar from the pocket of her sport jacket. "Eat this quickly and give me the wrapper. Do not leave crumbs."

  Without hesitation, he ripped the wrapper open and devoured the granola bar, careful, as she had warned, not to drop any crumbs that Grandfather might find. The snack was gone in seconds. He licked his lips clean. His stomach felt a little better, though it rumbled all the more for having received something solid. She took the wrapper back and stuffed it into her pocket.

  She left the room, following the others out the door. "I am satisfied," she announced as she closed the door behind her. "He is fine."

  They continued their conversation on the porch, out of the rain. Zach glanced discreetly through the window and thought briefly of trying to escape while Grandfather was distracted, but decided against it. He didn't know where he was—somewhere on Bainbridge Island, but he knew nothing of the place, and he had no idea where to go. Besides, Grandfather had rescued him last night and had promised that when his business here was finished, they would get some food. Then he would take Zach home to see if Mom and Dad genuinely wanted to keep him. In addition, of course—Zach shuddered as he thought of it—the kidnappers could still be out there somewhere, hunting for him.

  Even as he decided not to try to escape, an idea came to him. He turned and opened the photo album. The pictures inside showed the artificial womb and himself inside it, first tiny, then gradually larger until he was a full-sized baby. After that, there were photos of him over the years—as a toddler, a four-year-old, a kindergartener, and on until just last spring.

  Checking the window o
nce more, Zach pulled out photographs, one here and one there. He took six of them and, closing the book, hid five in his jacket pocket. The sixth he carried quickly into the bedroom where he had waited. He placed it on the bed, on top of the pillow. Then he returned to the living room to wait for Grandfather on the couch.

  Grandfather came inside a few minutes later, having bidden his guests farewell. "Get up," he commanded. "We're leaving." He scooped up the photo album without opening it and thrust it into his briefcase.

  "Can we get some lunch now?" Zach asked in what he hoped was a polite voice.

  "When we get back to Seattle," Grandfather answered.

  "And then you'll take me home?"

  "And then, Zechariah," Grandfather agreed with a sigh, "if you are truly certain your parents will want you back, I will take you home. And we will find out if they do."

  Zach followed him out to the car, and they departed. A gray squirrel—perhaps the same one?—looked up from its scavenging among the trees to watch them go.

  *****