by Mark Souza
Robyn arrived home mid-afternoon in a sunny mood. The time with her parents had been pleasant absent the specter of mediating tensions between her father and Moyer.
The apartment was silent when she entered and she started worrying about Moyer until she spotted the pillowcase he’d used as a sack sitting on the table. She called out his name. He emerged from the kitchen wearing a tentative expression he often greeted her with, as if divining her mood before making a misstep. It drove her mad.
His lips slowly lifted into a grin as he moved to the table. “I have a surprise for you,” he said.
Her eyes shifted to the sack. The outline of something thin and rectangular showed through the fabric. He had to know by now she didn’t care for books, and detested the additional risk of having them in the house. Few of Moyer’s books were banned and he took precautions to conceal those that were; however, Security Services considered anyone who possessed books suspicious.
Though not all readers were dissidents, it was well known that most dissidents read, and in fact, revered books. Owning them was enough cause to be watch-listed. And being listed brought with it additional scrutiny and net monitoring. Her good mood soured. She didn’t appreciate Moyer’s brand of surprises.
He pulled the book from the sack. His eyes gleamed with expectation, expectation Robyn resented because she could not feel the joy over a book that Moyer hoped for. Only it wasn’t a book. It was a picture frame with the manufacturer’s packaging displayed inside.
Moyer handed it to her, his excitement palpable. The frame was plain and black, the type of thing people used to display college diplomas. In fact, the manufacturer’s packaging had the appearance of a formal certificate, a product suggestion to show customers it was properly sized for such use.
“Read it,” Moyer said, his voice an octave higher than normal.
Was she missing something? There was no reason to be so excited over a stupid picture frame. She examined the stiles and the packaging. The first thing that struck her was her name printed in large letters across the sheet inside the frame. What was it? Her eyes drifted up to the words above her name. At first she thought she’d misread it. When she read it again, her jaw fell slack from the shock. Tears welled up in her eyes. Phlegm filled her throat.
Then it struck her that the document was a fraud and her elation crashed to the ground. “It’s not real,” she choked out. “It’s a trick, a dirty, mean trick. How could you play with my hopes that way, Moyer?”
“It is real,” he insisted. “It’s registered with the Department of Records.”
She sobbed and shook. The frame almost fell from her hands. “But… ” She was going to ask how he had managed it and then realized she knew. Moyer had sold his books and bought the parenting certificate on the black market. He must have bought it from someone who worked in the Department of Records, someone who not only had access to the certificates, but could input the information into the Department of Records database. She was officially fit to be a parent. She was so happy, yet so scared. It was happening. The line separating her dreams and reality had been wiped away.
She set the certificate down and hugged Moyer, audibly squeezing the air from his lungs. It was the best gift he’d ever gotten her. She was a teary-eyed, snot-nosed mess.
“There’s more,” he whispered.
“More?”
“Check our accounts. I set up a new one for baby things.”
At first she was too emotional to navigate the net. She sucked in a couple deep breaths and then regulated her breathing to calm down. She accessed their bank and immediately recognized the new account. She checked inside. Nine thousand credits. She gasped. “Is this for real?”
Moyer nodded. “I had some left over, but I set it aside as an emergency fund.”
It was so hard to grasp. She had more money than she would need to finish out the nursery. She never comprehended there were people who valued books so much. Excitement swelled inside her. She had to tell someone. Her first instinct was to notify Kelsey Martinez, but Kelsey likely had her hands full with Brooke. Then Eve Ganz came to mind. She was the perfect choice. No one would be more excited to go shopping, or to hear Robyn had the green light to stock her nursery.
Sunday, 31 March
Despite her exhaustion, Robyn couldn’t sleep. Eve had been so much fun on their shopping trip. She was as excited as Robyn. Shopping to her was as water is to a fish. It was her environment, where she thrived. She haggled every price, took advantage of every discount and coupon.
Still, as Robyn lay in bed and tried to relax, the thrill of the day was wearing off and doubt started creeping in. Moyer snored beside her. She had started to describe her day with Eve and hadn’t gotten five minutes in before Moyer had drifted off to sleep. She should have been at least as tired, but her brain still buzzed with energy and uncertainty.
A tsunami of events had been set in motion, and though presently far enough away to be almost invisible, a rumble was swelling on the horizon. When Robyn could no longer stand it, she elbowed Moyer in the ribs. He moaned and slid away. She elbowed again.
“Mmm, what’s wrong?” he asked. He cracked his eyelids apart and craned to see the clock. It was 2:20 a.m.
“Moyer, am I going to be a good mother?” she asked.
“Is that why you’re still awake?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll do fine,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
He was dismissing her, assuming she didn’t really want an answer, or that she would be happy hearing what she wanted to hear, but that wasn’t the case this time. She wanted the truth. Their daughter was sixteen weeks away and Robyn had serious doubts about whether she was up to the task.
“But I failed parenting class.”
“So?” he groaned. “It was only a stupid class and you had a personality conflict with the instructor.”
That was true. For whatever reason, Mrs. Wagstaff had it out for her from the start. However, not all of Robyn’s doubts could be so easily dismissed.
“I threw our replica. I was frustrated, I was angry, and I couldn’t control my temper. If that was our daughter, she might be dead now.”
Moyer turned to face her. “It wasn’t our daughter. It was a piece of plastic. I’ve seen you with Brooke. You are as gentle and loving as anyone I’ve ever seen. You will make a fabulous mother. Now go to sleep.”
She mulled over what Moyer said. She did feel better. The more she thought on it, the more she knew he was right. She would never hurt Brooke, or neglect her.
“Moyer?”
“What now?”
“Do you think we could schedule a visit to see our daughter?”
“I suppose I could ask.”
“Moyer?”
“What now?”
“I love you. I just wanted you to know.”
Chapter 21
Sunday, 16 June
Robyn didn’t know what to say when her Capital Arms workmates first told her they planned to throw her a baby shower. She was so touched she almost cried. And on the tube as she headed into Labor Housing for the party, she was anxious. She tried to blame it on traveling into Labor Housing, but the real reason was she didn’t know what to expect from women who lived so differently.
Serafina, the girl whose name meant angel, agreed to hold the baby shower at her apartment — probably because it was the closest to the professional quarter. At least that’s what Robyn suspected. The girls at work were being considerate and didn’t want Robyn feeling nervous.
The tube doors opened, and for once, none of the other riders gave her the pitying or accusing stares she received when she exited the tube after work in the professional quarter.
Serafina’s apartment was a tiny walk-up, one main room with a bathroom and separate kitchenette. There were no bedrooms as far as Robyn could tell. She suspected the tattered sofa in the main room folded out into a bed.
Ruth, Carla, Linda, and a few other girls whose faces she recognized, but c
ouldn’t put names to were there. Even Big Mona was in attendance. Carla grinned. “You almost caught us making bets on whether or not you would show.”
“Did you win or lose?” Robyn asked.
“I lost,” Carla said. “I’ve never been able to figure you out.”
Big Mona handed Robyn a cold beer. “Generations ago,” she said, “before the genetic plague, mothers-to-be weren’t supposed to drink. Those were totally barbaric times if you ask me.” She lifted her bottle in a toast. “To progress!” Big Mona tipped the bottle up and chugged half its contents down.
“To progress,” Robyn echoed before doing the same. Robyn didn’t usually care for beer. But given the occasion, it felt perfect.
The loosening effect of alcohol buffed the sharp edges of anxiety off her mood. Conversation quickly turned to Robyn’s first days on the cleaning crew. It was interesting to see it through other eyes and how funny it had become. It wasn’t funny at the time, not to Robyn, and not to them, but she had been wrong in her assessment of these women, and wrong in the way she first treated them. And yet they found it within their hearts to forgive her. As they told stories, she laughed with them, laughed at herself and who she had been.
There were games, silly games. Serafina dragged out a doll from a cupboard. They were all to attempt changing its diaper while blindfolded and wearing gloves. Robyn won handily and for once was grateful for the tumultuous time she’d spent under the tutelage of Mrs. Wagstaff. She wouldn’t have believed it, but perhaps she had learned something in parenting class.
By the time Serafina served cake, Robyn’s lips were rubbery and numb. They seemed to take on a life of their own when she made ‘P’ or ‘B’ sounds. Robyn was quite amused by what a delightful combination cake and b-b-b-beer made. She liked cake fine. But beer raised it to a whole new level.
Serafina quieted the girls to begin the opening of presents. “The first gift is from Mona.”
Mona eased off the sofa and staggered her way to the table. She handed Robyn a white box tied with pink ribbon. Mona’s dark piggy eyes sparked with glee as Robyn tried to untie the bow. Robyn’s fingers weren’t working quite right and she grew frustrated. She started to chew at the knot when Serafina came to the rescue with a pair of scissors. After the ribbon was cut, Robyn pawed the lid off and pushed aside the tissue paper inside. Underneath, she found a piece of wooden dowel mounted on cardboard. Robyn stared at it confused.
“Just in case you were wondering whatever happened to that stick you had up your ass,” Mona cackled. Robyn laughed with the rest of them and set the box on the sofa. “There’s more,” Mona said. “Look underneath.”
Robyn lifted the stick from the box. It was taped to a piece of cardboard. Underneath were a matched set of pink onesies. They were so tiny. It didn’t strike Robyn how small her baby would be until then. And how fragile.
Tears filled her eyes and doubt crept into her heart again. She wasn’t ready for this. She was a pretender with a fake, black market parenting certificate. Any accredited psychiatrist wouldn’t let her within a kilometer of a child. And yet in roughly three weeks, a child would be entrusted to her care. Moyer’s child.
As she covered her face and started to sob, warm, comforting arms settled across her shoulders and back. Above her, Big Mona said, “I thought it was good, too. But not that good.”
Serafina got the duty of assisting Robyn to the tube and riding with her to assure she arrived home safely. She lived closest to Robyn. It only made sense.
Thursday, 21 June
Sweat dripped off Moyer as he trudged up the stairs of his building weary from work. A power outage darkened a quarter of CapitalCity including Michigan Street Station. The elevator was out, whether by conservation decree or power demand overload didn’t matter, the results were the same; no power on the hottest day of the year. Battery powered emergency lights sprayed pallid light in the stairwells and hallways. The air sweltered, dry and stagnant, reminding Moyer of a sauna.
The smell of paint fumes greeted him when he opened the door of the apartment. A suction-like sound, sticky and wet emanated from a back room. It was the sound he imagined he’d hear when he peeled his sweaty clothes from his skin.
He found Robyn at work in the spare room he often used as a library and office, the walls lit by a chemical luminescent lamp. Robyn applied pink paint in broad glistening swaths with a roller. She caught sight of Moyer and stopped. The intensity in her face froze him. Her eyes exuded a single minded determination and an unspoken expectation. She hadn’t said a word, yet it was clear she wanted him to paint. If he didn’t, there would be an argument. He would be called unsupportive and she might accuse him of not wanting the baby. And maybe she was right.
He could cite studies on how black and white were the most stimulating for babies and the best colors for a nursery, and that maybe the walls should remain as they were. But this wasn’t really about that. This was about boredom and Robyn’s perception of progress. Painting the room made the baby seem that much closer. Nest building is what it was called in a book he’d read. It didn’t matter to his wife that it was the hottest day of the year, or that the air conditioning was on the fritz. He broke eye contact, went to the bedroom and stripped down to his underwear. A smarter man would have run out the door and never come back.
He picked up a roller and set to work. As he coated the roller, he was overtaken by a tingling numbness. He felt as though he was in a dreamlike state, the vivid sort of dreams that came to him just before waking.
He pushed the roller along the wall. It didn’t feel real. The pink roller spun, but the fresh stripe smeared across the wall was white, as if the pink pigment was the adhesive side of a sheet of liquid wall paper being rolled out, and the visible side was white as the wall they were attempting to paint.
The irony and futility of it hit Moyer at the same time. It was as if the room was determined not to be transformed. No matter how hard they tried, the room would never be a nursery. They were sweating for nothing. He started to giggle and pushed the roller faster. Pink paint rolled out white, swath after swath.
“Moyer!” Robyn barked. “What are you doing?”
He turned to face her. She was so serious and angry. Guilt weighed on him though it wasn’t his fault. Was she mad because, despite how hard they worked, they weren’t making progress?
“Look at what you’ve done.”
Moyer turned his gaze back to the wall. The paint he’d rolled out was no longer white. Pink drips oozed down from his chaotic roller strokes. Pink marks marred the white ceiling and door trim where he’d overshot during his giddy exuberance.
“I swear you are more trouble than you’re worth. But you are not getting out of it that easily. Go to the store and buy a small can of white touch-up paint and some brushes.”
Moyer backed out of the room feeling betrayed, eyes transfixed on pink paint that moments before had rolled on white. What had happened and what did it mean?
Chapter 22
Friday, 29 June
The call from Hogan-Perko couldn’t have come at a better time. Fredrick Duncan wanted to schedule a viewing. He said it was beneficial for both baby and parent. Hearing voices bonded child to parent, and seeing the nearly completed baby bonded parent to child.
Over the last few weeks, Robyn’s initial burst of preparation slowed to a near halt. Anticipation gave way to anxiety and then despair with the certainty that it was all a trick and there would be no baby. At other times, the enormity of caring for a baby would crash down on Robyn’s shoulders, and leave her doubting her abilities and her decision to become a mother. Baby classes had helped for a while, but they were a distant memory now, and Robyn was sure she’d forgotten everything.
“What if I kill our child, Moyer? You can get it wrong and they die if you do. And diseases, all manner of them. I can’t do this.”
Traffic in the tube was light late in the evening once the main commute was done. Moyer and Robyn had a car to themselves. She
huddled close, much as she had when they were dating. She smiled when their eyes met, but her vice-like grip on his arm belied her nervousness.
Above ground the rain that had fallen most of the day had stopped. Neon light from restaurants and bars around the periphery of Freedom Circle reflected off glistening cobbles. Inside the glass cube lobby of the Hogan-Perko building, a single light cast a dim golden glow.
“Something isn’t right, Moyer. They’re closed.”
“Relax. This is when they told us to come.” Moyer rapped on the door and cupped his hands to the glass to peer inside. He didn’t see anyone. Robyn’s concerns seemed to have merit. It didn’t feel right to him either. Something was wrong. Nothing would be more devastating than for the deal to come apart now after nine months of invested emotion, yet he sensed their child drifting away.
Duncan rose from a chair behind the reception desk and strode forward, his upper torso rigid. He unlatched the door, and welcomed them in with a smile. “Come, please. I’m so glad you are here,” he said extending his hand, “Robyn, isn’t it? So nice to see you again.”
“I was afraid you were closed. Is this normal?” Robyn asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Winfield. We take great precautions with our children. Babies pattern to the first voice they hear. We assure the building is empty so there can be no mistake. Please, follow me.”
During the elevator ride, Robyn, nervous with anticipation, chattered on like an excited child. Duncan patiently nodded and answered her questions. Her grip on Moyer’s hand tightened with each passing floor.
After the elevator doors opened, Duncan led them down the dark hallway on the 17th floor and through a set of automatic double doors. Inside, the room was split by a glass wall with a door inset in the middle. Through the glass, a red spot of light projected from the ceiling and shined down on a large plastic egg with a transparent top.