by Imari Jade
Kane's eyes opened wide. “Do you mean...that if I request it...my son will be a genius? Is that really possible?”
“Most definitely,” Dr. Mendoza assured him. “Our geneticists have made wonderful progress in the last few years. Would you like me to add super intelligence to your list of requirements?”
I could feel a headache coming on, a bad one, and there was a strange, high-pitched buzzing in my ears. I wanted to scream, “Stop. Do you hear me? Stop. It’s my baby you’re talking about, and that’s not what I want. That’s not what I want at all." But I clenched my jaw and pressed my lips together because Kane’s hand reached out to touch mine, and because Dr. Mendoza had turned to stare at me again. I would not give him cause to think I was crazy.
Kane must have taken my silence for agreement, because he answered for both of us. “Definitely. Top of the range intelligence is an absolute must.”
The next item on Dr. Mendoza's list was ‘Physical Appearance’. He pushed a form across the desk and instructed us to fill in the blanks indicating our choice of hair colour, eye colour, skin tone, as well as a number of other details. After that came, ‘Temperament’. And after that, ‘Athletic Ability’. There was more, a whole lot more, but by then my mind was reeling and I was finding it difficult to concentrate. Kane, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself. I left it all to him.
Dr. Mendoza smiled as he closed the file. “Now sit back and relax while I go over the procedures that will have to be carried out, step by step, before the infant is delivered.”
I could hear his voice, droning on and on, but his words were too technical for me to grasp, and I only caught an odd phrase that made any sense. “...a small operation to harvest the egg ...completely painless ...fertilized in the laboratory ...DNA ...Critical period...” And then at last, “When we are sure the embryo is viable, it will be implanted into Cela's uterus.”
“And that’s it?” Kane asked.
“Not quite. The baby’s development must be monitored very, very carefully. Various medications and stimuli must be applied at specific intervals. It will be necessary for Cela to visit the Centre twice a week for the first three months, three times a week for the next three, and every day for the last trimester.”
I frowned. “Stimuli? What kind of stimuli?”
“At first simply recordings of your voice, lullabies, stuff like that, all very soothing.”
It was a strange concept, but one I rather liked. “Will the baby be able to hear at such a young age?”
“Oh yes. No doubt about it. And don’t forget your infant is destined to be a genius. He will assimilate speech-patterns and comprehend basic mathematics from a very early age.”
There was more, something about chemicals and metabolism and the effect of radiation and supersonic sound waves on brain development. Dr. Mendoza must have seen the blank look on my face because he broke off in the middle of a sentence and chuckled softly. “There, that's enough for today. And don’t you go worrying about the details. All you have to do is make an appointment with our receptionist and follow instructions. Leave the rest to us. We’ll take care of it all for you.”
* * * *
The first weeks were the worst. Worrying about whether the embryo would survive kept me awake at night, and the thought I might lose it, and have to go through the whole process all over again, reduced me to tears. But when Dr. Mendoza announced the critical period was over, and all was well, I relaxed and began to enjoy my pregnancy.
Shopping for baby garments and nursery furniture and furnishings, took up a lot of time. There was no shortage of goods to choose from, but most were designed for RoBabies, and the real-wool and real-cotton articles I wanted, were difficult to come across.
I searched the library's archive to find micro-books on motherhood, and read them slowly, one by one. Dr. Mendoza laughed when I told him. He made some remark about old-fashioned ideas, but I didn’t care. I enjoyed reading about ‘bonding’ and ‘how to bathe a baby’ and a stack of other interesting topics. Photos of red and wrinkled newborns, with tiny fingers and unseeing, milky eyes, brought a lump to my throat. I could hardly wait to hold my own baby in my arms.
Nine months is a long time, but with so much to keep me occupied, the days flew. I spent long hours at the Centre, more often than not wired to a machine that throbbed and pulsed and emitted strange, supersonic vibrations. Now and again I was given a handful of pills and a glass of some strange liquid to swallow.
Dr. Mendoza kept a check on my progress, and week by week, gave encouraging reports. “Fine. You're doing fine.” And, “Bonny little fellow you've got in there.” When I became impatient and complained about the discomfort, he gave me an encouraging pat on the back. “Nearly there,” he said. “Not much longer now.”
The sessions at the Centre grew longer and more tedious. I had no idea what it was all about, and didn't like the idea of bombarding the baby with so much stimuli, but when I expressed my concern to Kane, he only laughed. “Relax. Dr. Mendoza knows what he’s doing. Leave it to him.”
Then, at last there came a day when Dr. Mendoza looked up from his scanner and smiled. “Time’s up. Tell Kane to take the day off tomorrow and get you here bright and early. And remember, there’s nothing to worry about. The delivery will be quick and painless.”
I have no idea what they gave me to drink but it worked like a charm. I went into labour at nine on the dot, and by ten it was all over, no pain, no fuss, no worries, no problems.
Kane held my hand when Dr. Mendoza lifted the baby and held it up for us to see. “Congratulations!” he announced. “You have a fine, bonny son.”
I stared, feeling my heart swell with pride as I took in the child’s blue eyes, blond curls and peaches-and-cream complexion. Perfect! Absolutely perfect. Everything we’d dreamed of, everything we’d been promised. There was nothing red or wrinkled about this baby. He was as beautiful and flawless as a porcelain doll.
I held out my arms. “Give him to me. Let me hold him. Oh, Kane, isn’t he gorgeous?”
Kane squeezed my hand. “You bet, Honey, you bet.”
Dr. Mendoza held the child closer. I reached out to take him.
Then the small rosebud mouth opened. Words came out, each as clear and distinct as a bell.
“Mama...Papa...Mama...Papa...Mama...Papa...”
I must have fainted because when I opened my eyes again Dr. Mendoza was not there. Nor was the baby.
“They’ve taken him to the nursery,” Kane told me. “But he’s fine. Dr. Mendoza gave him a thorough going over, and he's assured me the child has every Genetic modification we requested. He’s perfect in every way.”
Tears welled up and spilled over, way beyond my control. “But...Oh, Kane, he’s not like a baby at all,” I sobbed. “Not a real one. He’s like . . .like . . .a RoBaby.”
Kane gave a small, amused laugh. “Yes, in a way I guess he is. But that’s great. Just think we won’t ever have to worry about him catching a cold, or picking up a bug of any kind.” He paused and a thoughtful expression crossed his face. “What are we going to call him? Have you thought of a name?”
“A name?” My head was aching unbearably and my limbs felt numb and icy cold. For a moment I could only stare. Then a name floated into my head, and from far, far away, I heard myself laugh. “Robby. We’ll call him Robby. I can’t think of a more perfect name.”
Kane frowned. “Honey, are you okay?”
I tried to stifle the laughter, but it bubbled up no matter how hard I tried. “Why...why do you ask?”
Kane’s frown deepened. “You're acting very strangely. Not like yourself at all.”
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Absolutely fine.”
And I was, because quite suddenly my head stopped thumping, and I knew everything was going to be okay. More than okay, because I had it all worked out. On our way home from the Proc-Centre we would stop by at the RoBaby factory. And then...and then we would trade Robby in. For a girl. Yes...a girl wou
ld be nice. A girl with big brown eyes and dark hair like mine. A girl-baby who would cry. And cry... and cry... and cry...
The End
About the Author
Daphne Olivier grew up in the foothills of the Amatolas, in the Eastern Cape. After training as a nurse in East London, she married and, for many years, lived on a farm. Today she lives in a small South African town together with her husband and their two dogs.
[email protected]
Other works by the author with Melange
The Kennaway Woman
The Way It Was
Tabitha’s Solution
by Tori L. Ridgewood
February 6, 2001
He was nearly a week overdue.
Tabitha traced the red circle she had drawn on the calendar to mark her due date six and a half months earlier.
“Time to come out, little one,” she murmured, patting her full, round belly. The burden inside shifted lazily under her touch. “Just try not to hurt mama too much on the way, all right?”
In twenty-four hours, if things didn’t get moving on their own, her labour would have to be induced. Tabitha was more than ready to get going, but the prospect of that particular medical procedure somehow bothered her more than the idea of giving birth itself. Her body would know what to do when the time came. Having extra poking and prodding to make it happen seemed a little like—overkill.
But her midwife had been adamant: if she was not in labour by the 7th, away to the hospital they would go. No home birth. Possibly a c-section.
It seemed like her pregnancy could be summed up in numbers.
Six and a half days overdue.
Two years of trying. Less than some parents experienced, but longer than others would tolerate before heading to the fertility doctor.
Eight pregnancy tests before her husband, Alex, was assured that they were really and truly going to have a baby. He’d been thrilled after the two little blue lines appeared in the first test, but he’d suggested that she pee on the stick again, and again, and again, just in case. After all, the second test had shown negative results. Later, at the midwives’ office, they’d learned that a false negative was a common phenomenon in the early stages.
There was no doubt about it at this point, Tabitha reflected. The negative had definitely been false.
Forty pounds of extra weight...please let it come off quickly, she prayed.
Tabitha wrenched her gaze away from the calendar as the kettle shrieked on the stove. She padded heavily over to turn off the element, not quite waddling but not in an easy gait. Since her pelvis had loosened a few weeks ago, walking was a bit of an adventure in balance. Her great, round belly made her feel like a cow at times, unwieldy and awkward. In other moments, when she caught a glimpse of her silhouette with her full breasts and plump bottom, and her hair grown out longer than it had ever been, she felt deliciously womanly and sexy.
An opinion that Alex was happy to share.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he called out from the top of the stairs to their basement apartment, “I rented you a movie for tonight!”
The sound of the door shutting echoed down the stairs. Tabitha smiled tiredly. No matter how fat and exhausted she became, her husband never failed to make her feel better. She listened to him coming in, tromping down the plastic liner on the carpet.
“Shoes!” she reminded him, without turning.
“Shoes,” Alex grudgingly agreed, grumbling cheerfully as he turned back to the bottom steps.
Every speck of dirt showed in their tiny wall-to-wall cream carpeted one-bedroom basement apartment. Organization seemed to be the one goal that consistently escaped Tabitha’s grasp. There were copious piles of textbooks, binders, bills, used tea mugs, and discarded notes on every flat surface, marking her as a university student in her final year. The bright, open-concept main room had enough space for their kitchen table, two second-hand couches, the coffee table, her overcrowded plywood computer desk, a cheap wooden shelf for the stereo, their cable-less TV, and the cheap VCR they had purchased, on sale, instead of the expensive new DVD player they had wanted. A large fruitless orange tree, the only plant that Tabitha had managed to avoid killing with love, marked the boundary between the living space and eating space.
She called the plant “George”.
Tabitha’s inability to keep green things alive didn’t bother her as much as the clutter in their home. Alex never complained that they couldn’t actually eat at the table. The worn-in sofa cushions were fine, he reassured her; the baby certainly wouldn’t care. She plunked a decaffeinated tea bag in her mug, eying the piles of clean laundry in the middle of the room that still needed folding. Her husband’s clean aprons and chef’s coats lay precariously on top of the largest pile, taunting her. She couldn’t procrastinate on the housework anymore, having finished her last essay for the term that morning. At least, with the baby so overdue, she had been able to complete her final assignments and would be awarded her degree. That was one worry she could finally put aside.
But the mess... If their home was going to be ready for the little stranger, she had to get busy after he changed and went to his second shift of the day. Alex did what he could to contribute, washing dishes, making meals ahead, and doing all the grocery shopping in the knowledge that Tabitha loathed those chores, but he had been working extra shifts for months to put extra money aside.
Who knew? Maybe a round of energetic cleaning would get things in the uterine department moving!
Alex, his shoes left on the plastic, held the video up as he came toward her. “I feel bad, you’re all alone these days.”
She set the mug on the counter and pressed herself into him, enjoying the close embrace. “It’s all right. I’m worried more about you. You’re working too hard.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’m fine. I get enough sleep for now. After the baby comes, I probably won’t. I’ll take what I can get at the moment.”
“I feel like it’s my fault that this is taking so long,” Tabitha confessed. “I’ve tried everything.”
He stroked her cheek. “It’s not your fault. She’s just really comfortable in there. I don’t blame her for wanting to stay.”
“Do you wish we had found out for sure?” She looked up at him, searching for reassurance. “Whether it’s a boy or a girl?”
“Nope.” Alex cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “It’s the best surprise we’re ever going to have.”
* * * *
Eight days earlier, Tabitha had been absolutely positive that the baby was on her way. Her entire pregnancy had been incident-free: no morning sickness, no swollen ankles, no varicose veins. A few stretch marks now crossed her abdomen, but otherwise it had been text-book perfect.
“I’m so excited, I just know it’s going to go smoothly, Mom.” Tabitha grinned as she cradled the phone between her chin and shoulder. The soft pastel green receiving blanket she was folding crackled with static electricity in her hands as she shook out the ends. “Plus, if we do have the baby tomorrow—no, when we have the baby tomorrow, I’m going to think positively—I’ll win that brand-new nursery at the mall!”
“But you already have a crib, and a stroller.”
“I couldn’t resist entering that contest. I just had a really good feeling about it.” Tabitha added the tidy square of fabric to the linen shelf beside the crib, and picked up a cotton one printed with yellow duckies. “It includes a bassinet with a lacy lining, so Victorian and adorable, plus a changing table. I don’t have a changing table.”
“Do you really have room for all of that?” Her mother cautioned. “We talked about that. Until you move, you’re pretty crowded as it is. That’s why I got you that rail-riding changing thingy.”
Tabitha suppressed a sigh. “I’d make it work, Mom. I’m creative. I play Tetris, I like rearranging things.” She refused to look around again at the small bedroom holding the old double-bed, one long dresser, a side table with a lamp, and for the baby, the line
n shelf she had converted from an old plant stand. The crib was squeezed into the only space left, nearly blocking the bedroom door.
“I wish I could be down there with you, dear,” her mother sighed.
“I know. I do too.” Tabitha hoped she sounded sincere. On the one hand, having her mother present during her labour would be a comfort. On the other, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea. It was going to be hard enough being exposed to the midwives again! Tabitha never even let women in a change room see her naked, always putting on her swimsuit in the bathroom.
Still, she had imagined her mom waiting just outside the delivery room, and being one of the first to hold her new grandchild. That would have been wonderful.
“Did your washer and dryer ever come?” her mom asked.
“Yes, just yesterday.” With great relish, Tabitha described her new appliances as though they were toys. “They’re really shiny, Mom. So much better than going to the laundromat. I can’t believe we lucked out on an apartment with a laundry room, let alone that we were able to buy the set on sale. It’s going to make using cloth diapers much easier.”
Tabitha didn’t care that her mother was probably rolling her eyes. This was a debate she had often gotten into with her. No, she did care. “I know you think it’s silly, but it’s really better for the environment.”
“All you’re doing is using more electricity,” her mother argued. “Why else did they invent disposables? God knows, if they had had disposables when you and your brother were babies...”
“There are mothers in India who never put their babies in diapers,” Tabitha pointed out. “Babies have survived being put in cloth diapers for thousands of years. It’ll help him to toilet train faster, if he feels the wet.”
“Tabitha. This is a baby. You’re looking at two years before that’s even close to happening.”