Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

Sandra never walked down a Washington, D.C., street wearing a Bureau maternity outfit, never felt the groping hands of men on the Metro who interpreted surrogacy as a sign of promiscuity. While the intellectuals’ culture embraced surrogacy as a logical extension of making their lives as productive as possible, many people rejected the set up as unnatural, even threatening to a nuclear family.

  “He wanted sex in exchange for tearing up the contract signed by Matron Barbara and felt no qualms about using derogatory language to shame me into doing what he wanted.” I paused, tried to throw off the image of the small man looking up at my breasts, one of his hands extended over his genitals. “I doubt if many women would have found that appealing, but I’m not ‘feeling’ anything different because I was a surrogate.”

  “Still plain-speaking Anne. Let’s talk about this worker’s presence at Giant Pines. Do you think he wandered into the transport for a thrill?”

  “We have two estate laborers who saw one adult wearing Giant Pines clothing with his hands on the arms of our child and assertively moving him into the transport, a blatant violation of estate protocol. The statements of these two adults are on tape, time stamped about six minutes after that transport left.”

  “So you don’t believe the young male worker initiated this as a joy ride?”

  “He came back to us in torn Giant Pines clothing inappropriate for winter wear, hungry and shaking. He told us that things happened fast and that he was carried into the transport. The police did not choose to interview him this afternoon.”

  “Anne, what do you know about Senior Executive Director Jensen?”

  “You asked me that question earlier. I learned his name from Auditor Milan in connection with siphoning non-market production and blackmailing Matron Barbara. I have no idea about his role, although from what I saw, he takes liberty with estate protocol. And, it might be suggested he tried to kill us. You haven’t asked anything about the transport blowing up.”

  Sandra closed a folder. She tilted her head to one side, a gesture I remembered accompanying advice. “Here’s information you need,” she said. “Senior Executive Director Jensen purchases land for the Bureau in our region. Ashwood exists because he managed land dealings following the time of adversity. Many very important people live in beautiful homes because he negotiated deals.”

  In the few moments of silence following Sandra’s last statement, I understood she wanted me to think about those people whose pleasant surroundings came through Jensen’s influence. The same people he might feed with Ashwood production. Important people.

  She cleared her throat. “What is critical to everyone involved, including you, is that this unfortunate set of actions remains confidential. While we believe the transport explosion is an unfortunate accident, maybe a problem of poor maintenance, I acknowledge that you were unduly frightened. The driver is home recovering and has been compensated for his discomfort. Your worker will receive rehabilitation services.”

  The smile she produced told me Sandra found the Bureau’s decisions not entirely logical, but final. “You sound in control of the situation.” If we followed the bureaucratic line, whitewash would cover the entire day and cover up cash would be deposited into our accounts. “Perhaps I could arrange for you to get away this weekend. Give your body a chance to heal and rest your mind.”

  “Sandra, I have the entire estate on top security. This man is not sending people near the water reclamation buildings, nor will our goods be going into his business coolers.” My fingers searched for other tears, ripping the shredded fabric. “No one will enter or leave Ashwood without air-tight credentials until some future date. We can’t afford to have that level of security in place very long on our limited resources, but I can’t take the chance that Jensen will stage something dramatic on our property or harm the Regans. I’m not leaving while we’re one level short of a lock down.” But I do need a shower and a nap, I wanted to say.

  “The Bureau guarantees that Senior Executive Director Jensen will not interfere with Ashwood’s business in any way. I’ll transfer security funds to your budget for thirty days to provide peace of mind to staff and workers. You were right to make that decision.” She stopped for a few seconds. “He never physically threatened the Regans, so you know extra security isn’t necessary for that reason.”

  “Director David may have already spoken with his department leaders about threats made against his family. His wife and children are of utmost importance,” I said. “There might be pressure from outside the Bureau to deal with Senior Executive Director Jensen.”

  “All I can say, Anne, is that you do not need to worry about interference with Ashwood’s production. Everyone understands the contract signed by Matron Barbara is invalid. And, you do not need to worry about physical threats. No one from Great Pines will come near your estate. That is clear and enforceable.”

  What she could not say, that Jensen would drop his threats to the Regans, would keep a number of us at Ashwood constantly on edge. I knew Sandra well enough to understand that she would not over commit the Bureau.

  Like a mother wanting to protect her children from a viral infection, I’d had enough talk. “Is there anything else, Sandra? Anything else you need to ask or that I should know?”

  “One last thing, Anne. In recognition of your wise actions in the six weeks since assuming responsibility of Ashwood, I’m pleased to tell you that a bonus equivalent to your first year salary has been deposited in your long-term savings account. I’m so proud of you. I wish we could send a hundred estate managers out of training as well-prepared as you.”

  During my training days, we’d joke that bonus and bribe begin with the same letter and both ultimately buy freedom. I’d become financially secure with my surrogacy pay. This bonus placed me among a narrow subsection of the American population with a current job and sufficient daily living secured, plus savings in the bank. And I’d give up most of it for one living family member or a handful of good friends.

  “If you want to talk about all of this later, I’m your contact. You can understand the need to keep this information out of the local office. Call me if you’d like to share lunch one day.” Sandra gave me her customary little quirked eyebrow before signing off.

  25

  Terrell knocked on my office door to set up a medical assessment as Sandra faded. “Can we set it up in here?” I asked. “Between the ride home and sitting here for the last half hour, I’m getting stiff. I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk to my quarters in five minutes.”

  “We’ll make it work. You just stay in that chair.” He closed blinds, lowered lights, attached sensors to my desk data system. When my appointment time began, I was physically ready. Terrell stood guard outside the office for the twenty-minute procedure.

  My mind didn’t settle as I considered the possibility of whole U.S. generations suffering post traumatic stress syndrome in the aftermath of the time of great adversity. Did each person live with their own tiny time bomb nestled in a carefully restored psyche waiting for some insignificant trigger to blast open unspeakable damage? A dark screen, a sense of diminishing trust in a person of almost idol status, the sting of embedded materials turning up the pain of being alone. As physical data passed through the system, I wondered if Jensen could start a virtual smear campaign to tip Tia’s balance or if the deepest injury of his explosion device was the return of my own awareness of the thin edge between safety and hell.

  “Session complete” showed on screen before a technician appeared to share results: two cracked ribs, lumbar sprain, multiple contusions and abrasions. “For the first twenty-four hours take frequent hot showers, level three pain medication and rest,” the technician suggested. “Your body has experienced a serious affront. Rest will be the best medicine. Don’t make any significant decisions while taking pain medication and allow others to absorb your regular work.”

  I disconnected sensors, pulled my torn sweater back over my bruised body, and thanked the technician before dr
opping the connection. Crying had appeal, but Terrell needed to set up a screen for Ladd in ten minutes. Too tired to move from my chair, I touched my earpiece to let Terrell know he could remove the assessment tool.

  “Have a minute?” David, Phoebe in a sling across his chest, stood at my office door with Terrell. Torn pants hinted at an ugly bruise. He walked in, helped disconnect wires, then closed the door as Terrell left. “What’s the diagnosis?”

  “Broken ribs, lower back sprain.” Voices still sounded mushy as my ears recovered from the explosion. “Pain medication, heat, and rest.” I sighed. “I know I can do the first treatment.”

  “You’ll feel better if you give yourself time to rest.” He lifted one hand to the curve of Phoebe’s tiny backside. I watched, language temporarily gone, at the sight of that fierce paternal protection gentled in a soft touch. “The DOE tells me everything will be handled through our chain of command including extra security for the next month. What do your superiors say?”

  Bureaucrats forget they deal with the best and brightest of other government agencies in our world. David would hear the emptiness between Sandra’s assurances of Ashwood’s safety, but that was all I had to offer. “Jensen will not pursue the contracts signed by Barbara, no Giant Pines employees will attempt contact with Ashwood for an indefinite period of time, and we’ll have extra security for thirty days.” I paused. “There are two tapes on file at the Bureau—yours and one created by Jensen, which implies Ladd willingly looked for adventure.”

  We both paused in the quiet, growing darkness of early evening. Outside my windows everything looked the same. I took a deep breath, thought I would pass out from the pain and moved in my chair. Lights began turning on around my office illuminating our dirty clothes, our scrapes and gashes, our emotional upheaval.

  “So Ashwood is safe, in theory, and I assume money has been moved into accounts to make today’s episode go away.” I let him speak, not caring to confirm the statement he’d made with disgust. “What does your Bureau have on file about my wife?”

  I edited, giving only the headings of screens I’d reviewed in Tia’s files. “She’s brilliant. She had a traumatic childhood and developed certain emotional or mental health challenges. There’s evidence of alcohol and drug abuse. She requires thoughtful support.”

  “Nurse Kim came loaded with a pack of negative feelings. Does she work from the same files?” I envied Phoebe, who had David for protection.

  “I honestly don’t know what files the infant and child section of the Bureau uses, David. Nor do I have full understanding of how they might read the same information. Nurse Kim’s responsibility is to help develop a sustainable family unit. All she really needs to assess is if you two can raise children in a stable family.” I paused. “Not that that isn’t a big order. It’s just different from why I’m here.”

  “What do you think about our ability to raise Phoebe in a ‘stable family’, Annie?”

  What I wanted to ask was where did “Annie” come into our relationship? Where did he find reason to change our relationship with my family’s affectionate nickname?

  “I’m trying to reconnect the way adults and kids relate here. That should be seen as pro-child. Besides putting the estate back on a self-sustaining production path, supporting you and Tia as parents does drive me.” I lowered my voice, stretched the words like a woman rolling fragile pie crust. “I know you love Phoebe and being a father. Tia will grow into being a mother.

  “One day at a time, David. If you believe in God, take comfort that we made it through this one and are here with your beautiful daughter.” Somehow my voice sounded gentle yet solid as an alto in a cathedral choir. “Phoebe is safe here.”

  The baby stretched in her carrier. “Hey, peanut,” he cooed, “I want you to meet your best friend.” Easing the baby out, he held her toward me. “I haven’t seen you hold Phoebe since her first hour home.”

  My hands extended without direction from my intellect. I ignored my pain and stood, took Phoebe into my arms, brought her close to my chest. On instinct I lowered my head to breathe in her sweet baby smell. Cradling her in my left arm, I touched her soft cheek with gentle fingers. “She’s beautiful. Eyes like her mother’s and your calm temperament.”

  “I would kill anyone who tried to remove her from this house.” His voice, tired from the day’s events, sounded like a warrior declaring his loyalty.

  “So you don’t think she’s ready for a trip to Europe with me?” Tia walked in dressed like an unwashed college student in layers of mismatched clothing. Her hair curled in oily ringlets on one side of her head while lying squashed on the other side. “First time I’ve been out of my office in three days and it looks like Ms. Matron would like to make off with my daughter. What’s up?”

  “I can take Phoebe to Nurse Kim while you two talk,” I suggested. “Smells like a diaper change might be needed. You can tell Tia about the day.”

  They turned away and began walking with all the intimacy of two office peers independently heading toward the coffee station. A certain macabre aura accompanied their movement. David moved forward without enthusiasm as if each step carried him toward a dentist chair. Tia, oblivious of her husband’s clothing or injuries, adjusted her steps like a terrier fighting to set the direction and speed of a stroll. Phoebe nestled deeper in my arms, eyes open and focusing toward my face.

  “Hey Baby Bright Eyes, I’m Anne.” I spoke to her in the voice I once used to welcome shy third graders to my classroom—soft, but not sing-song. “Let’s be friends.”

  As if recognizing the difference between a pile of reports and the sweet weight of Phoebe, my body began the gentle rocking motion of mothers, the rhythm of comfort, the sharing of breath and place and absolute peace of the moment. She ceased weighing anything like a burden as I absorbed responsibility for her tiny body.

  But broken ribs trumped emotional peace, and matron responsibility denied the need for human connection. Voices in my ear demanded attention in the kitchen, filing a report, delayed equipment approval, completing Teacher Jason’s contract while pain medicine faded.

  “Much as I would love to stand here with you all evening, little Phoebe, we have to find your nurse.” I kissed her head. “But I’ll be back to spend time with you. We won’t fail you.”

  Outbuilding lights interrupted the gathering winter evening night. Phoebe, no longer wrapped in the sack on her father’s chest, responded to the cool air of the glass wall walkway, pushing deeper into my arms and wounded chest and began a hungry mewing. I clutched her closer, gasping as her tiny body pounded against my injured ribs. Muscles throughout my legs and back and arms declared the day’s abuse with aches and sharper pain.

  “Well, Matron, we’ve been wondering when the baby might be ready for her dinner.” Terrell walked toward me, long steps moving quickly to the place where my feet had stopped. For a moment I wondered if he could carry both Phoebe and me back to the residence. “A bit shaky, Matron? Let me take the baby.”

  A groan of sorts escaped my lips, surprising both of us. Terrell, not knowing the entire story of the little boy I handed to another couple interpreted the sound as a sign of mere physical distress.

  “Hold on, Matron,” he said while easing Phoebe to his shoulder, holding her with one hand while calling for assistance. “Lean against me. We’ll just wait here for Nurse Kim. Then I’ll walk you back to your quarters. Nothing needing your attention for a few hours.”

  “It’s too … cool here … for the baby.” My words, loosely connected like Van’s just hours before, exited in whisper-like tones. “We should walk.” I slid one foot ahead, relying on intellect over strength.

  “You are an amazing, if stubborn, woman. Put an arm around my waist and lean.” He chuckled, but not so loudly as to alarm the baby. “Remember that old song, ‘Lean on me, when you’re not strong …’”

  We moved forward in sliding steps to the rhythm of Terrell’s rich tenor filling in blanks where he’d forgotten the so
ng’s once meaningful words. At his shoulder, Phoebe showed signs of changing her mews into crying. Arm around his waist, I felt signs of wooziness and did in fact lean even more.

  Nurse Kim advanced with speed and determination. Meeting us at the end of the office building walkway she handed one blanket toward me then wrapped a second around the baby. I drew myself away from Terrell as the nurse assessed my condition.

  “You need help, Cook Terrell?” I thought maybe the little witch sounded concerned.

  “If you could walk with us as far as the nursery,” he answered. “I’ll make sure Matron gets to her quarters. Maybe Lana could take over with the baby, and you could help our leader undress and into a warm shower. I’ll head back to my office for the med pack. I know it’s not medical protocol, but I’d like those ribs wrapped tonight so she can get some sleep. Sound okay?”

  “Thank you” was all I could say, stupid tears threatening to accompany any other words.

  Terrell busied himself with wrapping the blanket around my shoulders. “Ever been in shock, Ms. Matron?”

  “Never had anyone try to kill me before.” My teeth wanted to chatter, my hands shook. I was as chilled as only a survivor of Minnesota’s cold could be.

  I heard Terrell giving directions to staff and workers while we moved through the residence. The halls seemed too long. I wanted to stop, sit, cry, sleep. I tried to walk on my own, felt Terrell renew his grip around my waist. I wondered if Tia would take care of David?

  26

  Terrell started the shower while I struggled on my own to get out of my ripped clothes. Shaking badly, I wrapped up in my robe, leaned against the shower door until Terrell left. Standing in the steamy shower, I ran a hand over my swelling ribs. Bruised flesh already colored my knees, legs and elbows. Tiny cuts stung as water ran over my body. I finished quickly.

  “You okay?” Phoebe’s always watchful Nurse Kim asked from outside the bathroom door. “You need help with anything?”