by Joe Hart
“Yes,” Zoey says.
“Okay, could I get his name for reference?”
“It’s Lee Asher.”
“All right,” Fost says, scribbling on a chart he holds in one hand. “Well, to be honest, I don’t have a lot of good news for you. His head trauma was apparent when he came in as well as the broken arm. Whoever worked on him prior to this did a good job. The arm is set well and should heal fine, and the cranial vent was inserted correctly. We did an MRI, or magnetic resonance imaging, and noted that there is still some swelling of the brain, but that’s not the worst of our worries.” Fost pauses, glancing around at them. “I’m afraid there are some signs of hypoxia, which is a lack of oxygen to a certain area of the body. In this case it’s Lee’s brain. All of his autonomic functions are fine but obviously cognitive areas have been affected. At this point we don’t know how severe the lack of oxygen was; only time will tell. If the person who treated him is available, they might be able to answer some further questions for me.”
“She is. I’m sure she’ll be able to come in today,” Merrill says.
“So you’re saying that there isn’t anything you can do for him?” Zoey asks.
“I’m afraid not. We’ve sterilized the vent and are monitoring his condition closely, but for now it’s a waiting game.”
The pressure that’s been building in her chest becomes painful. “Will he wake up?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t say one way or another. In cases like this, patients sometimes remain in a coma for an extended period. Others wake up but never regain speech or mobility. Some have made remarkable recoveries; it all depends on the person. I wish I could tell you more or give you a definitive prognosis, but I can’t.”
Zoey gazes at Lee. He looks so small, so insignificant lying in the bed, like an afterthought of the person he once was. How can he be here but not be here all at the same time? The fact that there is nothing she can do to help him is like a thorn jabbing her skin somewhere she can’t reach, its needling point digging deeper and deeper with each minute.
Fost shifts in place, transferring the chart he holds under one arm. “I’ll be his physician for the length of his stay here, so any questions or concerns you have can be left for me at the desk down the hall. I’m almost always on call, so I’m not too hard to find.” He gives them a half smile. “One thing that’s immeasurable in the world of medicine is the resilience of the human spirit. Keep talking to him, let him know you’re here. I’ve seen it do wonders.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Zoey says.
“You’re welcome.” Fost takes several steps toward the door before Zoey stops him again, forcing herself to look away from Lee.
“One last thing, Doctor.”
“Of course.”
“Do you have any testing and treatment procedures for cancer?”
Fost frowns. “We do. Why do you ask?”
Zoey swallows, trying to gather the remaining amount of her courage, willing herself to press forward even as the words try to submerge within her. She turns to Rita and Sherell. “You both might want to sit down.”
65
Zoey settles onto the bed beside Lee’s, an exhausted sigh escaping her.
The babies are finally both asleep after nearly an hour of struggling to get them down in their cribs across the hospital room. She nestles herself into the blankets and reaches across the space between them to grasp Lee’s hand.
Their first month on the island flew by in a blurry haze of days that melted into one another. There was always somewhere to go, someone to see. The processing Eleanor had mentioned upon their arrival was a series of interviews by psychologists, doctors, social counselors, and a dozen other officials from various departments of the city. Their questions ranged from the standard (How are you feeling today?) to the bewildering (When was your last bowel movement?). But most of Zoey’s time had been spent in Eleanor’s office. The mayor had been extremely interested in the ARC as well as Vivian’s research, which wasn’t surprising given that the island’s initial purpose was the same as the National Obstetric Alliance’s had been. Slowly over time the research and experiments had been dialed down, much more of the resources and efforts channeled toward protection of the citizens and continuation of life on the island.
But now things have changed.
Zoey had been processed much faster than the others and allowed to move into a shared room with Lee at the hospital. This wasn’t only due to her wishes but also to the fact that it was so much more convenient for the testing she lent herself to each day. The scientists, those who were originally tasked with finding a solution to the Dearth decades ago as well as the trainees and apprentices dutifully trained for succession, had made significant progress in the process of isolating her Beta-catenin. Their theory was that introducing the refined protein from her body into an embryo would create the same reaction that had produced her daughters. They continued to be tested as well, their results always normal and healthy.
Healthy.
Zoey shifts uncomfortably on the bed, partially due to the soreness in her shoulders from rocking the girls to sleep and partially because of the guilt. Because she is healthy and so are her children.
But Rita is not.
She recalls telling them that first day, standing beside Lee’s bed, the warmth of his hand the only thing that got her through it. She remembers the look on Sherell’s and Rita’s faces as she told them about the enzymes that had been added to their food since their arrival at the ARC as well as the terrible effects the overexpression of Beta-catenin could cause.
Sherell’s tests had come back normal. Rita’s had not.
Malignant tumors had been found on both of Rita’s ovaries and had begun to spread outward, reaching hungry tendrils toward the rest of her body. The doctors had operated immediately, removing both ovaries nearly two weeks ago, and she had held Rita afterwards, the younger woman crying not only out of fear, but also of loss. Loss of the possibility for children she had never truly voiced out loud as a hope, not until it was gone. Radiation therapy was planned to begin the following week, and only that day Doctor Fost had explained the side effects that would begin almost immediately after the first dosage. Nell had held her daughter’s hand the entire time, rubbing her back and murmuring encouraging words. She’d slept in a bed beside Rita even before the initial surgeries and hadn’t left her alone for more than a few minutes since. If the older woman’s mettle was any indication, Rita had inherited more than enough strength to make it through the treatment.
But despite those assurances Zoey’s stomach churns with nausea at the thought of what her friend will have to go through in the coming months. She rubs Lee’s hand with her thumb, veering her thoughts away from what Rita will endure, and focuses on Lee.
He is much the same as he was the day they arrived. Only less. He has lost weight and a certain amount of his color. But it is more than the physical that has diminished. He seems farther away sometimes to her, a thinning of some indefinable trait she can’t see but feel.
It is as if he is in a boat without oars, drifting more out to sea with each day spent locked in himself while she waits on shore.
The thorn of frustration at her inability to help him has become a lance through her center. And it is killing them both.
Her pillow is wet and she realizes then that she’s crying. She wipes at her face and readjusts her hold on his hand. “Eleanor offered me a job today,” she says. She’s taken to talking to him at night, sometimes whispering for hours while their children sleep across the room. “She doesn’t have a title for it yet, and she won’t tell me exactly what I’ll be doing. Only that I’ll be working closely with her and the administration for ‘the betterment of the island,’ as she puts it. I think she knows what I’m going to propose even though I haven’t written anything down yet. She’s very insightful when it comes to people. Probably why she’s in charge.” Zoey traces a vein in Lee’s hand with her fingertip. “The problem is I don’t
know if it’s the right thing to do or not. No one can fight the world and win, I know that now, but if I’m wrong . . .”
She lets the thought trail off as one of their daughters makes a soft noise in her sleep. “I named the girls today,” she says quietly. “I wanted to wait until you woke up, but . . .” She swallows. “The one we traded me for is Ellie. I asked Tia if I should spell it just like Eli spelled his name and she said I better not because then I’d be condemning her to spelling out her name for everyone her entire life.” She laughs before saying, “And the other one is Lynn for Ian’s daughter. When she gets older we can tell her about him and where she got her name.”
Zoey looks away, afraid that the tears will come again, but her eyes are dry. Maybe she’s exhausted her stores; it wouldn’t surprise her. She shifts closer to Lee, enfolding his arm against her, wrapping both of hers around it. She’s impaled again by helplessness, the feeling having robbed her of so many nights of sleep, but she anchors herself to the warmth of his body, the quiet breathing and night sounds of their daughters.
And for now it is enough. For now, it has to be.
66
Three months later Zoey wakes in the middle of the night, not sure of what brought her free of sleep.
She begins to push herself up, guessing it was one of the girls stirring and hungry for a feeding, but stops.
Lee’s hand rests in its customary place within hers but his head is turned toward her instead of facing the ceiling.
He is looking at her and he smiles before his eyes close again.
EPILOGUE
NINE MONTHS LATER
Zoey holds the flowers as she walks through the bar’s rear doorway into the wide courtyard.
The area is more crowded than she expected. Merrill and Chelsea sit on one side of a long table near the fence surrounding the space, Merrill holding their son Ian who sits in the crook of his father’s arm watching the world with the intensity that only babies and poets seem to possess. On the opposite side is Janie, her military uniform gone in exchange for a business suit, her customary dress since gaining the title of senior military advisor nearly six months ago. To Janie’s right is Tia, her face reddened in mid-laugh and, Zoey guesses, by the contents of her mostly empty glass. There are three more tables nearly full with an assortment of soldiers, business owners, and several families all enjoying the cool fall air that’s finally broken the strange heat spell of the past weeks.
Tia sees her first and she grins, eyes going from Zoey’s face to the flowers she holds. “You do that just to piss me off, don’t you? You know how much I hate flowers.”
“And you know how much I love them,” Janie says, standing to take them from her while giving her a hug. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“I guess they’re passable as far as flowers go,” Tia says, standing to give Zoey a hug as well.
Zoey laughs. “I would’ve brought you some of your favorite white whiskey, but I thought flowers were more appropriate. Congratulations, both of you.”
“She had to make an honest woman out of me eventually,” Janie says and grins, brushing away some loose hair on Tia’s head before running her fingers down to rest on her shoulder. It is such a comfortable, loving gesture it nearly overwhelms Zoey with emotion. Tia and Janie’s relationship had grown slowly and steadily since their arrival, the spark between the two of them obvious to anyone who spent more than a few minutes in their company. So it was really no surprise when they announced their engagement two days ago.
“So glad you could join us, Minister,” Tia says as they all settle down at the table.
“Oh, don’t call me that. Not here,” Zoey says. “I’m officially clocked out.”
“But having drinks with the minister of domestic affairs is such an honor.”
Zoey rolls her eyes. “You just get a thrill out of being one of the few people able to insult me and get away with it.”
Tia smiles evilly. “Maybe.”
A waiter comes and takes her drink order and they begin chatting about plans for the wedding that will be held in the spring.
“We tried to get Eleanor to agree to shut down immigration for a day so we could have the ceremony in the middle of the bay on one of the bigger ships, but she told us no,” Janie says.
“If it weren’t for me, that might’ve been an option,” Zoey says, sipping her wine.
“If it weren’t for you, the island wouldn’t be running like it is,” Merrill says. “You’ve done a lot in the last six months.”
A part of her knows he’s right. The referendum she drafted, after the very first election in Victoria’s history, was agreed upon almost unanimously. She hadn’t expected it to pass through the two divisions of parliament on its first vote, and when Prime Minister Scott, who had been elevated from the position of mayor during the election, signed it into law, Zoey had nearly broken down with worry that they had made a fatal mistake, her self-doubt a constant whispering in the back of her mind.
The Open Borders Act, or what the general populace called Bridger Law, had been the first step of many in the legislative movement to send an emissary mission to Seattle, notifying the city of their presence on Vancouver Island along with the recent breakthroughs in their scientific sector.
When the new leadership of Seattle had learned female infants were being born once again on the island, there was an almost overnight draft of allegiance drawn up between the two cities and the influx of men to Victoria’s port had begun a month later. Zoey had been filled with terror during the interim, half expecting each morning that she would wake to see a fleet of warships approaching across the water, their decks lined with men coming to plunder, steal, and violate. Coming to do what had always been done: to take. She had voiced her concerns over and over to Eleanor, who continued to support Bridger Law despite Zoey’s reluctance.
You’re not giving yourself or the movement enough credit, Eleanor had told her not long after the emissary mission had left Vancouver Island. I always knew one day we would have to reach out into the world and take our chances to continue to support the growing population here, and now you’ve given us the opportunity to do it. It’s not just that you’re carrying the key to end the Dearth, Zoey, it’s your belief as well. There’s a reason the law went through as quickly as it did; it was nothing short of inspired. The hope and faith for the future was just what this place needed. You’re what this place needed.
Despite Eleanor’s confidence that they had taken the right path, Zoey had still worried the entire movement would be a disaster simply because people were unpredictable even when the correct choices were clear.
But the outcome couldn’t have been more opposite.
The influx of men and several women, who had learned of Victoria through rumor, was organized, calm, and peaceful. In the last months, Victoria’s army had almost doubled in size, its flood of volunteers fueled by the new residents, and a steady trade had begun between the island and Seattle’s port, bringing in vital resources the people of Victoria had done without over the past decades.
To put it simply, the idea had started to form within her after arriving on the island, and once it had bloomed and flourished into life, it couldn’t have gone more according to plan. Their government became stronger along with the military, which ensured safety, new industry had taken off in dozens of exciting new directions, and by utilizing a stabilized form of her own Beta-catenin within embryos, women had begun giving birth to female infants again. There had already been five children born and another twenty women were expecting. All in all, the results had eclipsed her wildest hopes and dreams.
The conversation between her friends has moved on, leaving her floating in her own memories and emotions. She brings herself back to the present.
“I haven’t seen Rita very much in the last few weeks,” Chelsea says, taking Ian from Merrill’s arms. “Guess her new occupation is taking up a lot of her time.”
“Do you mean being in the military or the tall b
lond-haired guy who follows her around like a lost puppy?” Zoey asks. Everyone laughs, but she knows they couldn’t be happier for Rita. Her recovery had been an arduous one, but only a month ago her doctor had declared her in remission.
“They’ve only been dating for a couple months, but I’ve never seen her happier,” Merrill says. “Nell told me the other day if he doesn’t do it soon, Rita’s going to propose.” They laugh again.
“How is Sherell and Newton’s little one doing?” Tia asks.
“She’s great,” Zoey says. “I stopped by to see them yesterday. I don’t think Newton’s quit smiling since she was born.”
It hadn’t been a shock to any of them when Sherell and Newton announced their pregnancy. What had been a surprise was that the fetus was a girl. Apparently the protein and enzyme therapy Vivian had employed at the ARC had not only worked on Zoey but on Sherell as well. Both of them were still cancer free, and Sherell’s baby had been born healthy and without complication nearly two months ago. Already Sherell was donating portions of her day to the scientific community in an effort to harvest some of her Beta-catenin for the eventual distribution among women who wanted to give birth to girls.
“They’re going to be great parents,” Janie says. They all murmur their agreement and fall silent. Zoey can feel what’s coming and wants nothing more than to leave the table before it does. She doesn’t want or need the pity she sees in their eyes whenever her own family comes up. She quickly finishes her wine and opens her mouth to say her good-byes, but Chelsea touches her hand before she can.
“And how are you doing, Zoey?”
“I’m fine. Just . . . fine.” She smiles tightly before looking anywhere but at the people who know her best. Chelsea starts to ask something else, possibly about the girls, but she cuts her off. “I really should get going,” she says, rising from the table.