by RJ Crayton
That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t understand. “Take the baby?”
Dad joins me on my rubber block. He takes my hands in his, meets my eyes, and speaks firmly, clearly. “You’re familiar with the Grant Research Lab on campus, headed by Dr. Stephen Grant?”
My entire body tenses in shock. I pull my hands free of his, stand, and back away as the horror of what he is saying sinks in. “No,” I shout.
He stands, too, reaching his hand out to me. “I understand how this would be upsetting, Kelsey,” he says, calmly.
“NO!” I scream, shaking my head, wrapping both hands around my abdomen. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”
He tries to get closer to me, but I back away to the corner. I sit on the floor, pull my knees to my chest, tuck my head, use my hands to cover my ears and just kept saying, “No.” This can’t be happening. This is the worst of all possibilities.
Chapter 17: Dr. Grant’s Lab
Three Years Ago
After meeting Dr. Grant in his hotel room, I hadn’t wanted to see him again.
He’d shattered everything I’d known and believed about my mother’s death, about the inherent purity of Life First. I’d watched my mother again and again, in her last moments of life, urging me never to put another’s life before my own. Urging me always to choose my life first. It was so odd to hear. The idea that society was wrong, that protecting life as a whole, as a general concept, wasn’t so important. That even though something didn’t theoretically cost much, the reality could be quite different, and if it was more than you were willing to give, you shouldn’t give it. It was the antithesis of Life First.
Before I saw her recording, I’d felt confident in Life First. After, I had doubts. At what cost did life come first? It wasn’t as simple as statistics. It was something the government didn’t have a right to decide.
A month after he’d given me the recording, Dr. Grant called. He wanted to show me his lab. My mother had inspired it, he’d raved. It would honor her memory for me to see it, he’d insisted. I’d begged off, not wanting more upheaval in my life. I couldn’t deal with having more of my most basic truths shattered like porcelain.
Another month passed, and he called again. It was after I’d seen him with Luke. My curiosity about the work and about Luke took over. I wanted to know: what had my mother inspired? And what did this handsome assistant actually assist him with.
So, I agreed to meet him.
“I’m so glad you came,” Dr. Grant told me when I arrived in the large warehouse-like building with gray cement floors. The main room was separated in two. The first space, closest to the entry, was a work area. There were desks, computers, and tables holding data logs. The other half of the room was clearly where the real work was being done.
There were several areas separated by large cloth partitions, the kind you saw in old movies featuring makeshift hospitals. The partitions were black, and the experiments were hidden behind them.
Dr. Grant walked me toward a table and said, “This whole lab is all because of your mother. What happened to her shouldn’t have. She should have had an option. Something other than them both dying, or just the baby dying,” he said.
He was about to speak again, when the door to the room opened. Luke walked in, striding toward us with a sense of urgency. “Dr. Grant,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt. There’s a problem with Mrs. Mitchell. She’s holding on your private line.”
The two exchanged a glance full of some hidden meaning. Then Dr. Grant turned to me, smiled apologetically. “I’ll be back in one minute. Luke, why don’t you show Ms. Reed around?”
Dr. Grant took a few quick strides and was out the door. I turned to Luke, who flashed me his best grin, full of dimples and that mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“So we meet again, Ms. Reed,” he said.
“Yes, we do,” I replied, trying to keep cool, even though the way he stared at me with those dazzling blue eyes was heating me to thermonuclear levels on the inside.
“I think this may be a sign.”
I grinned and raised an eyebrow, hoping to look coy. “A sign? Of what?”
He flashed a crooked smile that made me wonder if his lips were as soft and kissable as they looked. “That you and I are meant to have dinner together.”
I liked that he cut to the chase, but I wasn’t quite ready to say yes. “Aren’t you supposed to be showing me around?”
“Of course,” he said, holding out his arm to me, like an old-fashioned gentleman. “That doesn’t mean I can’t ask you out, too.”
I smiled. “Why don’t you tell me what you do for Dr. Grant?”
“I assist him,” he said, purposefully vague, but never losing eye contact.
I tried to be equally bold, holding his gaze. “With what?”
“Whatever he needs,” Luke said cheerfully.
Even more vague. It was irritating, yet alluring at the same time. “Are you a doctor?”
“Nope.” He shook his head
“A med student?”
Another head shake, chased by a sly grin. “Nope.”
“Researcher?”
He laughed this time. “Nope.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is you do for him?”
“Maybe at dinner,” he said, this time winking.
I couldn’t suppress my smile. He knew he had me. I could tell by the look in his eye. He knew I would go to dinner with him. Instead of confirming it, I said, “You’re persistent.”
“Of course,” he replied, cocking his head slightly. “I’m supposed to be showing you around. What is it that you’d like to see?”
He wasn’t going to tell me what he did, and now he’d changed the subject. Figured I’d go with it. What did I want to see? “No idea,” I told him. “I don’t even know what Dr. Grant is researching.”
He stopped cold, regarded me, genuinely surprised. “You don’t know?”
I shook my head.
Skeptically, he asked, “Truly?”
I nodded.
He shrugged, finally accepting my ignorance. “You know Dr. Grant is an obstetrician?” he asked, looking a little uncertain that I knew anything about the doctor.
“Yes.”
Appearing relieved, Luke continued, “Well, he specializes in high-risk patients. One of his early patients died of pre-eclampsia, a fairly rare disease. But the only cure is to deliver the baby. No one knows exactly why, but the symptoms subside fairly quickly once the pregnancy ends.”
He started walking us toward the screened area. “Well, right now, it’s tough to make the correct call and get permission from the medical board to deliver a baby that can’t survive if the mother’s vital signs look pretty good. Unfortunately, things can go downhill quickly and without warning. So, Dr. Grant has been looking to develop an artificial womb. One you can remove the fetus to, so it can survive, but that will allow the baby to be delivered.”
An artificial womb would have saved my mother. They would have easily taken the baby if they’d known it would survive. No weighing whose life was more at detriment. I felt both a sense of regret that no one had accomplished such a feat in time to save my mother, yet a new sense of hope that others might not lose their mothers the way I’d lost mine. “Has he had any success?” I asked, hopeful they were on the brink of perfecting it.
Luke sighed. “Not quite,” he said, as we approached the other area of the lab, where several cloth partitioned cubicles were. Luke pulled back the curtain of one, and I saw what looked like a glass barrel containing clear liquid with a translucent sac at its center. Inside the sac was the outline of a baby. It was upside down and had clearly developed arms, legs, hands, feet and a head. But, something about the baby didn’t quite look right.
“What is it?” I asked, marveling at the wonder inside the cylinder hooked to so many tubes.
“It’s a womb, supported artificially,” Luke said. “Dr. Grant can remove the entire uterus and keep the baby alive, at least in the
primates he’s tested. This is a chimpanzee.”
An ape. That’s why it didn’t look right. The head was not the right proportion for a human baby. The body and extremities, though the right general shape, were too long.
“He uses chimps because of their similarities to people,” Luke continued. “It’s not exact. We’re not allowed to do human trials here. The ones on the apes have shown good progress. If the placenta’s fairly developed, he can remove the womb, and the baby can grow outside a mother. But, he hasn’t figured out how to support the fetus without the uterus.”
I looked at the tiny sac, completely awestruck. There was a baby in there, living without the aid of a mother’s body. “You can save the baby, but you have to take the uterus?”
He sighed. “Yes. It will be better than death for both, but it means a woman can’t bear any more children. It’s a heavy price to pay.”
I nodded. A heavy price indeed.
Chapter 18: Good News
Present
At some point, my father gives up on getting through to me. Maybe it is 10 minutes or two hours; I’m not sure. All I know is, after a while, he simply leaves me here careening from his news.
When he finally returns, I am still rooted to the floor, my arms hugging my knees. It feels comfortable this way. The floor isn’t as soft as the block that is supposed to be my bed, but feeling comfortable is the last thing I need.
My father kneels in front of me, looks me over. I hear another set of footsteps behind him, but don’t bother to look. Probably the doctor. Probably going to tell me about the procedure Dr. Grant will do. How the doctor will plunge a scalpel in my abdomen and rip my baby from my carcass, still wrapped safely in my womb. Only my womb will be gone forever, and I’ll never have another baby.
I shudder at the thought, and my father tenses. I don’t even care anymore. I close my eyes and tuck my head, still wondering how I didn’t realize this before. How I didn’t realize it would come to this. I mean, all long-term holding facility inmates are sterilized. No passing on corrupt genes. The last thing a society that has already been decimated by disease needs is a bunch of sociopaths and murderers corrupting the gene pool. FoSS wants good people. Being sentenced to a holding facility means your genes are bad and will produce bad people.
“Kelsey,” my father whispers.
I lift my head enough to see his face. He is right in front of me, staring at me, eyes filled with fear and anxiety. An avalanche of guilt smacks into me. My father looks like his whole world is dependent on whether I’m OK. I hate that. He should leave me here to get what I deserve. But he isn’t. For that, I owe him more than I’m giving. I need to say something, so I bury my despair for this moment. “Yes, Daddy,” I whisper.
He’s been holding his breath awaiting my response. He exhales in relief. “Are you alright?”
And then my selflessness is gone. I cannot be brave for him. I shake my head. “Daddy, you can’t let them do this to me,” I splutter, the panic palpable. “They can’t take my womb!”
He’s nodding his head before I’ve even finished the sentence. “OK, sweetie, OK,” he says in a lullaby-gentle voice. “I need you to calm down.”
I still, returning to my senses slightly, surprised by his response. It is not quite right, and I don’t know why. I scrutinize his face: solemn, eyebrows squished together, lips pressed firmly together, and eyes of steel. Strength. He is trying to convey that I must be strong. Yet, he is the strong one. I’m just the daughter.
I even my breathing and try to take on a calm tone. “Daddy, you have to help me.”
“I will,” he says with conviction. That is no lie. He is going to help, but still there is something he is not saying. “First, I want you to get up and come sit on your bed, dear.”
He is calmer than me, much calmer. I am not sure why he wants me to move or if it is useful, so I stay put for a minute. Then, I reason that he is strong, and if I am to be strong, I should do as he asks. I stand and follow him to the rubber block. We both sit, me closest to the doorway but with my back to it, where our watcher lurks. My father sits next to me, facing me. His eyes dart over to the doorway, then back to me. “I’m going to try to help you, Kelsey. Clearly this has been an ordeal for you,” he says patting my shoulder. “First thing you need to know: your hearing is the day after tomorrow. In preparation for that, I’m going to hire psychiatrists to come in and evaluate you, to see if there is something the people here missed.”
I nod. My defense. I need a good defense, and the psychiatrists could help with that. Good move, Daddy.
I am glad my father is thinking for me, that he hasn’t given up on me, written me off. The best thing for him politically is to cut me off, but he doesn’t seem to care. He seems intent on helping me through this. He cannot comprehend how glad that makes me, especially since I feel so desperate at this moment.
“Second thing,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think you’re doing well in here. I know the procedures are such to prevent anyone from hurting themselves, but you seem overly despondent to me.”
I want to protest, to say something in my defense, but the truth is, I feel overly despondent in here. But, I will not hurt myself nor even try, not when I am carrying Luke’s and my baby. I touch my belly. “Daddy, I would —” I start to say, but he shushes me.
“I’m sure you’ll make every effort to be OK, but I’ve asked and received permission to have a guard stationed inside the room here with you. If you’re ever feeling overly despondent, just ask him, and he’ll call a doctor to see you.”
Now this is crazy. I am in a facility that has doctors readily available. Why the middle man? Why not just call for a doctor? Why station some guard in my room? Someone inside my room for heaven sakes — watching me all the time! I am about to protest, when he says, “Mr. Geary, would you come over here, please?”
My heart skips a beat. Did he just say what I thought? I am afraid to turn my head and look, afraid the hope building inside me is going to dissipate, afraid that I misheard my father. Afraid that I have somehow misconstrued what is happening.
“He comes highly recommended,” my father adds. “His father worked here for 30 years.”
Two black shoes are now standing beside us. I stare at them for a moment, then follow the blue pants line upward, past the belt, past the starched shirt and black tie knotted at the neck, to the face, the dimples, those blue eyes and those brown locks peeping out from under his cap.
“Just let me know if you need a doctor, Ms. Reed,” Luke says, giving me a wink and a crooked grin, then walks back to the door.
With willpower I didn’t know I had, I manage to suppress the smile trying to claw it’s way onto my face. In fact, I want to jump for joy. But, I know that will put the kibosh on this guard ruse. I don’t know how my father and Luke pulled it off, but they did. I lean in and hug my father. “Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.
“Anything for my Kelsey-pie,” he whispers back.
My father stands, gives Luke a curt nod, then exits the room. Luke closes the door behind him, and stands just inside the doorway. I rise, prepared to walk over and greet him properly.
“Sit down,” he barks sternly. Though affronted by his tone, I follow his command. He watches me, but does not move. I don’t understand why he is doing this. I want both to scold him and wrap myself in his arms at the same time.
He speaks softly, less sternly now. “There are cameras in the room.” He inclines his head slightly upward to the corner. “The sound is usually muted, unless they want to hear a specific room. We can talk, but you have to lie down. Turn your face to the wall. Maybe cover your face with your arm, like you want to block out the light so you can sleep. If the monitor guard sees your mouth moving, he’s going to want to turn up the sound, hear what you’re saying.”
Of course. Luke is only protecting me from cameras. I do as Luke says, adding a touch of my own, giving a big yawn first with both arms outstretched. Then I open my mouth an
d pat it a couple times with my hand. I lie down, facing the wall, and form my arms into a sort-of pillow, tucking my face in.
“So,” I say. “Can’t he see your lips moving and realize you’re talking?”
Luke chuckles. “Nope. I’m standing just out of camera view. That’s why I haven’t come into the room. He can see my feet in the frame, maybe a bit of my lower body, but my head is hidden.”
Clever. “How did you guys pull this off?”
“Your father is surprisingly effective when he wants something done. I think he called upon everyone who’s ever owed him a favor, and promised out a 100 more.”
That sounds like my father — a wizard at political deal making. “So, do you think he’ll be able to get me outta here?”
Luke doesn’t speak for a moment. I am not sure if he is thinking, if perhaps someone is coming into the room, or if the answer is no and he doesn’t want to tell me.
“I hope he can,” Luke finally responds. “It’s just an uphill battle. Your father thought things were going our way when they got the pregnancy test results. He wanted to see you before the interview, so he could give you a heads up to say you left because you were pregnant, but he couldn’t get in.”
I roll over to see Luke so I can respond. He gives me the stink eye, so I roll back the other way. This weird, don’t-look-at-me communication is frustrating. I want to see his expression, see what I am missing. Head resting on my arms, mouth facing the wall, I ask, “Why couldn’t he get in? He got you in. He’s got plenty of clout. What happened?”
“The big guy, Dr. Slate,” Luke says. “He’s Michael Nimmick’s brother-in-law.” Crap! That explains a lot. Michael Nimmick is the current governor, and not too happy my father is trying, fairly successfully until now, to unseat him. Nimmick would like nothing more than to see me locked away as a menace to society. No wonder Slate is rushing things.
I start to tilt my head toward the door, toward Luke, but think better of it. “Well, how did he get you in here?”