Head bent in reverie, Pandora pushes her way through the revolving door of the lobby and marches to the elevators, enters, and presses the button without looking up.
The child’s original light lies somewhere beyond them, she knows. Somewhere beyond them in an ancient realm buried behind a storm of zeon blue. She knows she’s here to cancel the signal of the disease one way or another. But it’s more than that. If the child is to truly survive she must not only retrieve her light, she must own that power in such a way that it can never be repossessed. When she does—(and she must—the struggle cannot go on forever!)—Pandora will bring the child with her to Tahoe. The child will become Pandora’s student, her protégé. This is their destiny. Their second chance! This is what Elysha’s painting has been trying to tell her all along. We are the same thing. Heal Sydney; heal Elysha. We are one!
Half in a trance she wanders down the second floor hallway through the double doors of the lab, where she’s directed to a ladder-back chair. She hangs her cape on a hook behind the door and sits.
Pandora knows the child belongs with her. Is there even a question? The other women know little to nothing of the spiritual realms. Mitsy has never been more than an amateur, and in this lifetime at least, Hannah has interest in nothing but material goods. Those women don’t deserve her. Pandora isn’t perfect, God knows, but at least she tries. She sees the sisters now so clearly in her mind’s eye. It must be the physical proximity. There they are, Mitsy and Hannah in Tuscany, all those lifetimes ago, women of magic—herbalists, healers—even their income depended on the child’s light. Ever since the light was taken—five, six, seven lifetimes ago?—the two of them have led the droning sequential lives of pedestrian sleepwalkers. Nothing more. There is no way the girl’s gifts can flourish under the influence of such lightweights. Pandora’s mind is made up. She will heal the child at great expense to herself, and she will bring the child home. The child is her reward.
“A little pinch,” says the technician.
Pandora looks down at the tube, half-expecting her blood to be a clear stream, entirely absent of color. “I’m so tired,” she tells the man. “I wonder if we should do this after I’ve had some rest.”
“We’ll draw more blood later, anyway,” he says. “You’ll be a pincushion by the time you’re through; don’t worry.”
All at once Pandora’s head feels as if it’s encased in a concrete vault. Her temples pound. “Do you feel the pressure?” she asks the man. “The changes in atmosphere?” It’s coming upon them sooner than she expected—the storm. She can see the free-floating plasma particles everywhere! Can’t anyone else? Sometimes her gifts make her feel like the only living thing in a dead sea of belly-up fish.
“Excuse me?” the technician says as he releases the tourniquet and deftly removes the needle. He places a ball of cotton gauze on the puncture site. “Hold this,” he says. “Apply pressure.”
“The atmosphere,” Pandora repeats eerily as she presses down on the cotton. She’s surprised her blood isn’t spurting everywhere from the drop in barometric pressure alone.
“You mean outside?” he asks absently, his back to her, counting the vials of her blood. He turns around. “Hey, are you okay? You seem…I don’t know…a bit spacey. You want some juice or water?”
Pandora shakes her head. “No, never mind.” The man’s an idiot, she thinks. The ionosphere is practically collapsing on their heads and the little people go on. They feel nothing. She covets their ignorance.
A little wobbly, Pandora holds onto the arm of the chair as she stands. “Maybe I will take that juice,” she says.
She finishes a cup of cranberry juice and wanders into the lobby of the lab. A rakish young man with curly black hair and a dark complexion approaches her. The resemblance of cultural blend to her own is astounding. But not just that; there’s something…else. He could be her son. She connects with him instantly. Who are you?
“Ms. Pandora?” he says good-naturedly.
“I am she,” she says evenly, in spite of the spinning outer layers of her etheric brain. Her signals are picking up so much friction in the atmosphere, it’s a wonder she’s not spiraling down the corridor babbling in some indigenous dialect.
“Hey, my name is Dane,” he says. “Friend of Syd’s? The gang asked me to come get you.”
“Nice to meet you, Dane,” she says, extending her hand. She’s rewarded with a strong, firm handshake and an engaging smile. She regards him with interest—his dark eyes, long black lashes, dark curly hair and olive skin. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is your heritage?” she asks. “You seem familiar to me.”
He bobs his head back and forth, shyly. “Oh well, you know, all over the place, really. But my dad’s folks are from Sicily and the Czech Replubic, I think. And I don’t know, Armenian thrown in.” He shrugs. “Your basic rescue dog.”
Pandora smiles. He’s in this mix for a specific reason, she knows. But what? “Well, I’m ready to go,” she says, and pulls her red cape from a hook on the wall. “I believe my bags have been taken to the hotel already?”
“Actually, I’ve got them in the car,” he says. “But well, Mrs. M says she’d rather have you stay at the farm.” He looks down at his feet. “She really wants you there. My mission is to convince you.”
Pandora nods. “I don’t think you can convince me, Dane,” she says. “Sorry, but I’m the solitary sort.”
“Okay, let’s see, well…” He smacks his lips. “Here’s the hard sell—there’s definitely a comfortable room for you with your own bathroom. And the scenic view at the farm is cosmic!” His dark eyes widen in an attempt to tantalize her.
She is tantalized. “Cosmic, eh?” What’s he trying to tell her? What message does this boy bear unaware?
“Oh yeah, and there’s a baby horse about to be born in the barn. They’re keeping tabs on it from the laptop at the house; everybody’s ready to pounce. So it’s much more fun than a hotel. More like a zoo-tel!” He claps his hands. “If I were invited, I’d be at the farm, trust me.”
“But you weren’t invited?”
“Not really. Not to sleep anyway. The guys are elsewhere.” He frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, is it my imagination or is the sky falling?”
She studies him. “What do you mean?” she says cautiously. The answer is ‘Yes’!
“Just pressure, I don’t know. My joints and my head…maybe I’m coming down with something. Just a fair warning.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not you,” she says. “The ionosphere and atmosphere are compressing from a geomagnetic storm. That’s all.” For some reason, she holds nothing back.
“That’s all?!” he says, rubbing his temples. “Are you a scientist or something?”
“Sort of,” she says. “The mystical variety.”
“Oh wow, well that’s my kind of scientist!” he says. “The fourth way and all that, right? We’re more than we pretend to be!”
“Yes we are,” she says, amused. “At least some of us are.”
“Ha! Yeah!” he says, nodding. “Not everyone, that’s for sure. At least not yet.”
As they fall in step down the corridor, she says, “A baby horse then?” She wants to turn his attention away from the pressure to prevent amplification. One thing she doesn’t need is for the solar storm to accelerate its schedule. Right now, there’s still time. Barely.
“In the barn,” he says as they turn the corner. “Any time now.”
“Birth is auspicious,” Pandora says more to herself. “Another good sign. New life!”
“You got that right,” he says. “I’m thinking it’s a great omen for Syd. A filly was born just a little while ago, too. So…two babies!”
They arrive at the elevator bank. He presses the down button and they wait.
“They call them foals,” he continues. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The little tight body and long, spindly legs. Jonah showed me some videos.” He waves his arm. “They stand rig
ht up and walk!”
Pandora smiles to herself. The boy is genuine, such a rare quality.
“Syd named the last filly ‘Ireland’,” he says, “which I really dig. It came to her, Ireland!—just like that. Had to be.”
Ireland, Pandora thinks—her life after Tuscany—another place of great struggle for Sydney. The ocean, the cliffs, the long, dark winter nights. Pandora clearly remembers wandering in astral form to their cottage on the cliffs, the surf pounding beneath them. More ritual healing. Or she should say—attempts at healing. All doomed without that light. This will be the last time, she resolves. This time, the child will be healed.
“Today’s foal will be an Aries,” Dane continues. He taps his fingers impatiently behind him against the wall. “Like me. I think Aries would be an awesome name for the little guy, don’t you? If it’s a guy it’s called a colt, they told me. Aries creatures are strong. There are scientists who believe Christ was an Aries, did you know that?” He nods. “That he was born in the spring. I read a book about it.”
“How did they figure that out?” she asks.
“Supercomputers,” he says. “They figured out there was a giant astronomical event, probably a star explosion or something visible from the Far East, big and bright enough to direct the wise men.” He shakes his head. “Aries are leaders.”
Pandora regards him closely, intrigued. Who is this boy—a guide? “Are you Elysh…uh…Sydney’s boyfriend?” she asks.
He jockeys his head back and forth bashfully. “Not really, but I wouldn’t rule it completely out in a few years. I have a few things to work out first.”
“You? Not Sydney?” says Pandora, surprised.
“Yeah, you know, I have to deserve her.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Syd’s deep, you know. You can’t bullshit her.” He raises his eyebrows. “An indigo babe. There aren’t very many of them around. At least she’s the first one I’ve met, and I would know.”
The elevator finally arrives; doors slowly open. Doctors, nurses, aides disperse.
“Yes, she is,” Pandora says, chuckling. “She’s an indigo babe.”
Dane smiles, but doesn’t look directly at her. “Yeah, well, most people don’t know what that is, so I’m glad at least the person donating DNA understands who the hell Syd is. You know?”
“I do.”
“I wouldn’t want her to get a dummy’s DNA or anything. She’s no dummy.”
Pandora smiles deeply at the way the universe constructs an event or a life. The way the right people show up without anyone even realizing it, even the people themselves. The way it conspires to develop its citizens and move them in the intended direction of their lives. The way it gathers and illuminates then takes a bow and exits, leaving the rest up to us.
The elevator is empty; they enter alone. She is relieved by the silence.
And yet, she thinks, even with the help of God and the created universe, there is still so much to be done. So much to be done without any instruction, or at least without human instruction. So much must be divined. Intuited. Of this event it can be said that everything is in its place. Signs of birth and life and archetypal names surround her. The storm approaches. Coronal Mass Ejections threaten the horizon with their arsenal of healing frequency. And guides, such as this familiar young man, accompany her and Syd. On some primary level, each understands his role.
“The button’s stuck,” he says, pressing it this way and that. “But hold on; I can get it going. It’s just loose.”
While he tinkers, she lays deep in thought. How will the pieces of this massive, moving, cosmic puzzle assemble and join on all connected planes? Will it be peaceful or volatile? The answer rests squarely on Pandora’s shoulders, and yet she herself is unsure. The test is Sydney’s, but it’s also hers, Pandora’s. What will she be able to let go of this time that she has been unable to release in the past? That’s what will make the difference. That…and how she does it.
How?
“There we are,” says Dane, folding his arms proudly. “Down we go. It’s a slow boat though.”
Pandora is so focused, she barely hears him. Free-floating plasma particles surround her, reminding her again that particles have a determined path. Can he see them? To direct real change, the kind of change she’s been charged with directing, she must convert to an indeterminate path. Be a wave, she thinks. Be a wave.
Just as she thinks this, the elevator rocks in a jerky fashion, up, down, and sideways before plunging at a rate so rapid her feet levitate as her head strikes the ceiling hard. She is thrown against the boy, his body cushioning hers, protecting her as they strike the steel wall before falling to the floor like a sack of rocks. Bursts of light circle her head, followed by a confusing blaze of extravagant color. She fights to hang on, to check on Dane. Her eyes won’t open.
Darkness.
Hannah
“You’re almost there, Mitsy! You almost have her! Don’t give up,” Hannah coaches—or really, begs—from the back wall of the barn stall. What she’s thinking is—better Mitsy than me. Although Hannah knows she could still be recruited. Better to play cheerleader than get her manicured hands into that biological mess.
As instructed by the vet on the phone, Mitsy pierces the red bag of bloody placenta then moves aside as it empties. This is not a normal foaling, not at all the way it should go, but it isn’t hopeless yet. Mitsy kneels back down, breathing heavily, taking stock of the situation. Then slowly, she reaches her gloved hand into the birth canal to locate the foal. Hannah’s amazed at her sister’s courage. How did she go from an agoraphobic recluse to a competent (or at least willing) equine midwife in less than a week? The power of nature, she supposes. Or at least the power nature has over Mitsy.
“The foal isn’t low enough,” Mitsy says anxiously. “I can’t feel it.”
Hannah stares at Jonah’s concerned face in her phone screen. “Did you hear that?” she asks him. “She can’t feel the foal.”
Jonah turns the camera on Doc Benton, beside him, who’s driving the truck at breakneck speed.
“Tell her to reach up as far as she can,” Doc says. “To her elbows if she has to. Then tell me what she feels.”
Mitsy reaches deep. She grimaces, kneeling at an awkward angle, her face against Daizee’s hindquarters, her eyebrows deeply knit. So far, Daizee tolerates the intrusion.
“There it is,” she finally says. “There it is!”
“She feels the foal!” Hannah tells the men. “But Daizee’s not contracting.”
“I feel the hooves now!” Mitsy says.
“How many?” asks Jonah.
Mitsy struggles, blindly feeling the form with her hand. “Two,” she says. “Definitely two legs.”
“That’s good; that’s good,” says Doc, his head bouncing around like a slapstick clown. They’re clearly on the bumpy dirt road now, several miles south.
“Mitsy, can you grab hold of the legs and pull them?” he says. “Twenty minutes is too long. The foal has to get oxygen fast.”
Mitsy reaches in just as Daizee’s contraction pushes the legs downward. She removes her arm as the foal begins to show.
“There’s a hoof!” says Hannah. “Right there! I see it! Oh my God, it’s right there!” She turns the phone around for the men to see. “Do you see the hoof?”
“We’re only a minute away,” Jonah says. “Keep trying. If you can grab them both, do so, and pull.”
“Firmly but steadily,” says Doc. “If it’s in the right position it won’t hurt the foal. It looks like the right position to me.”
“But there’s only one hoof,” Mitsy says cautiously. “I don’t see the other one. It must be caught.”
“Shit!” says Hannah. “What should we do?”
In a storm of friction, the men disappear from the screen. Her phone is a coal black void. “Damn phone!” she says, pretending to throw it against the wall. Instead she shoves it in her pocket and rushes to the hall to dial them back on the l
and line.
The land line is dead.
“What the hell!” she screams. All at once the sky darkens and the lights in the barn dim then completely black-out. This is a bizarre state of affairs for eleven AM, she thinks. Where the hell is the daylight?
“Hannah?” calls Mitsy. “I can’t see you.”
“I’m here,” she says, trying not to sound anxious. After all, anxiety is contagious, and the last thing they need right now is an anxious midwife. Hannah’s only interest is in holding Mitsy together until this foal is born. What they need is blessed ordinariness. But so far there is nothing normal or ordinary about this day.
Hannah feels her way slowly around the dark stall, through the hall, and over to the window ledge of the front room. Against the dim window light, she sees the outline of the emergency lantern. She grabs it and flicks the switch. Light! At least the lantern works.
When Hannah arrives back at the stall, Daizee is snorting and wheezing. Closer inspection with the lantern reveals foam forming around her muzzle. Her tongue hangs out. Hannah grabs a squirt bottle of water from the ledge and drizzles some on Daizee’s tongue. “There, there, girl,” she says soothingly.
The mare struggles mightily and then, in an apparent second wind, contracts. The contraction is so strong, Mitsy recoils. Even Hannah feels it. Was it a contraction or an earthquake? Anything seems possible in lighting this compromised. Distress is evident in the mare’s bloodshot eyes as she contracts again. But this time, instead of releasing, the foal appears to be pulled back into the canal.
“Noooooo!” says Mitsy. “Noooo! Get back here!” She turns to Hannah, wild. Even in this poor light, Hannah can see Mitsy’s eyes—so red from lack of sleep, mascara pooled in dark pouches below them. Her freshly colored amethyst brown hair is slicked to her damp head. “I don’t know,” she says desperately, nearly weeping. “Hannah! The foal may be gone!”
“No,” Hannah says, determined. They will not lose the foal here! Not during Mitsy’s maiden attempt, not to mention all the larger issues they’re yet to face. Where’s the self-proclaimed gypsy healer when you need her, Hannah would like to know. She lays the emergency lantern on the hay and without even thinking, pulls on a pair of long gloves and kneels beside Mitsy, gently nudging her aside. “If only she hadn’t put her hand in that bloody mess…” crosses her mind, but she control/alt/deletes it. No time for regrets, or even ghosts of regrets. Time for action.
The Anesthesia Game Page 28