The Clone's Mother

by Cheri Gillard

  Charge Sarge walked by and asked if I could get away to get more than just a handful of cereal to eat. She offered to help me get going.

  The rescue I so desperately needed.

  I told her what needed to be done and she said, “No problem.”

  Then the bathroom door opened and my lady stood there with a cloudy puddle of water around her bare feet and a look of surprise on her face.

  “Something happened,” Beth said in a faint voice with tears dripping down her cheeks.

  “Looks like your bag ruptured,” I told her with a smile, hoping I could convey to her this was normal, expected, good news, part of the process, nothing to cry about.

  “Okay,” she said. “But something is coming out of me.”

  “That’s the amniotic fluid,” Sarge said, trying to ease her tension.

  “No. I don’t mean that. Look at this.” She lifted her gown.

  Hanging between her legs was a three-inch loop of white, glistening prolapsed umbilical cord.

  Sarge and I acted in unison, like one mind.

  We grabbed the scared, scrawny little thing with the pregnant hump in her middle and practically lifted her off her feet, tossed her on her bed, and whipped her into a knee-chest position, her knees tucked under her and her hind-end high in the air.

  While Sarge roared out instructions to our frightened friend, she also snapped an O2 mask over her face and explained our outrageous behavior. While she took care of that end, I yanked on a sterile glove as fast as I could and shoved my fist up her birth canal, working my darnedest to hold off any pressure which might compress the cord and cut off the blood flow to her baby.

  Neither my patient nor her insides liked this, and with the sudden loss of amniotic fluid, her uterus kicked into full swing. I had to try to hold my fist open around the cord to shield it, which every muscle in her body worked against.

  Sarge got on the horn and paged the physician stat and I stayed exactly where I was. While Sarge yelled into the phone, my patient wailed and I tried to talk over her volume to reassure her we were doing everything we were supposed to do, that she was doing just perfect, to stay right where she was, to breathe in deeply of the oxygen, to try to hold still, to put her head back down, to not worry and I’d get her covered with a drape, to relax, to put her head back down, that her baby was fine, but she needed to put her head back down, to keep it that way, that the doctor was on the way, that yes, we’d be doing a Cesarean very soon, and yes, the drape was covering her.

  And so forth.

  My wrist yelled at me, wanting Beth to be still.

  “Hun, you’re going to have to put your head back down. Keep it lower than your hips,” I said for the umpteenth time.

  Sarge said it too. She was putting an IV in Beth’s arm. Then to me, “How’s the pulse? Feel it okay?”

  She was talking about the pulsation in the cord. We didn’t want it to change, or stop, because that would be bad.

  “It’s a little slower. Crank up the O2.”

  Beth started wailing.

  “My baby is going to die!”

  “No, we’re not going to let that happen, Beth.”

  Her wailing took on monstrous proportions and became incoherent. It didn’t help the poor young thing that her face was plastered into the mattress, her knees were tucked as close to her chin as Sarge could make them get with a pregnant belly in the way, and her hind end jutted up in the air with my arm shoved inside of her.

  Just when my arm cramped bad and Sarge got the IV taped down, the OB raced into the room. She threw off her coat and began adding her own instructions to our little chaotic episode. We lifted Beth onto a gurney, with me not doing anything but trying to keep my hand in place to keep the walls of the womb from locking down on that fragile life-line which was the only connection this baby had to survival.

  The anesthesiologist arrived—a resident on call who did great work and could put a spinal into a turnip. I hoped for Beth’s sake she could have a spinal. But as we sprinted her stretcher down the hall as if we were in a St. Patrick’s Day bed race, the OB and anesthesiologist decided on General. At the scrub sinks, we dropped off the obstetrician and she began and ended a quick scrub while we got Beth into the Section Room and transferred to the narrow OR table.

  The scrub tech was ready for us, her table spread with gleaming steel instruments. The OB bolted in, hands up and dripping with the yellow remnants of Betadine soap lather, and the tech tossed her a towel then gowned her up. The other doc helped Sarge get the patient settled on the table. Meanwhile, another resident arrived to assist, his yellow sudsy arms held out in front as his backside bumped open the door.

  The anesthesia guy finally let Beth out of knee-chest—with me convoluting my arm and shoulder to stay at my post—long enough to slap a mask over her face and put her out. The cord pulse was slowing, but I could still feel it.

  The circulating nurse put a hat on my head and mask over my face while the surgeon slapped golden amber prep onto Beth’s exposed belly with a soppy clump of gauze clamped in a long sponge forceps. Then after a quick wipe-off with a towel, the sterile people wrapped her yellow-stained belly in sticky surgical plastic wrap.

  “Knife,” the surgeon commanded, and they were off.

  Somewhere in the chaos, Sarge called a Code Pink to the NICU, so their team arrived. Another guy showed up with yellow-stained arms held high as if someone had said stick-’em-up. By his wide eyes, late arrival, and lack of overall understanding of what to do or where to stand, it was obvious he was a medical student.

  The baby got born, I got to remove my contorted hand, and overall, the event turned out with a happy ending.

  NICU took the baby to their unit for observation after only mild resuscitation was required, and once Beth was closed, she went to recovery.

  That meant I had three patients down, and one break-in to go.

  It was half past five. I had a ton of paperwork to do but little time left to do my deed. So I jotted down the most crucial details of the night to make sure I didn’t forget, and set aside all the other stuff to finish later. I wanted to make sure that if I went to jail, at least the most important record-keeping for each patient was documented.

  “I’m going to go off the floor for a bit,” I told Sarge. She said fine. She’d rather I take the break anyway, otherwise she’d have to pay me an hour of overtime. Her manager preferred she didn’t do that.

  Patting the key in my pocket to confirm it was still there after so much running around, I stepped onto the elevator and watched the doors close.

  I pushed the basement button first, because if anyone was watching, I didn’t want them to see me go up and wonder where I was going. When I hit the basement, I pressed the seventh floor button and held my breath past each floor, praying no one would stop the lift and want on.

  When it finally opened, I was on the administrative floor. The hall stretched out silently and empty before me, glowing in the low radiance of security lights. The blinds of the vast picture window were up at the far end of the hall. The glow of a distant subway train blurred across an elevated track like it was suspended, floating through the pitch black sky. Dawn wouldn’t begin for at least another hour.

  The elevator doors began to close and I was still just standing there inside, zoning out. Or my shoes had grown into the floor. I hit the bumper, freed my stuck feet, and jumped out, letting my resolve take over to get this done.

  I walked down the deserted hallway, past Nazi’s empty desk, and right up to Carl’s door, as if it were completely natural and right for me to be there. I slipped the key in, and it turned easily and silently. This wasn’t going to be so tough. I’d be in and out in no time.

  I pushed on the door, swinging it open on noiseless hinges. It was surprising how such a heavy door could open so effortlessly when one held the key.

  With my hand resting on the doorknob, the door pulled from my grasp. There stood Carl Schroeder.

  Chapter 44

&n
bsp; Schroeder’s eyes burned at me, with menace and outrage. That wild look I’d seen when we passed at the morgue was in full bloom. His hair was a mess, his clothes slept in. He looked mad. The crazy and furious kind.

  I stared back. I was gagging on my heart, which was lodged in my throat. I had no idea what to say.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he shrieked.

  I stuttered and stammered, unable to come up with a good explanation for why I was entering his office just then. Some idea finally popped into my head and I blurted out, “I’m looking for Sheila.” That made no sense, but at least it was something, and perhaps he’d just think I was really stupid. More so than he already did.

  “What’s this?” he said, grabbing the key from the doorknob. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was there when I opened the door. How else do you think it unlocked?” I couldn’t think. The words just came out. I had to hope they’d hold water.

  Oops. They didn’t. Holes everywhere.

  “Where did you get this key?” he shouted again.

  “Um, have you seen Sheila? I really need to talk to her.” Maybe he’d think she loaned it to me, if she even had one, and I could make him believe we were good friends now. “She said to come look up here for her.”

  “Stop lying to me! You’ve crossed the last line. Your career here is finished.” He grabbed my arm, slammed the door and pocketed the extra key. He yanked me along beside him and pulled me down the corridor toward the elevator door. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. If he’d been behind Howard’s and Charlotte’s killings, and Anna’s shooting, then he’d think nothing of eliminating me from the face of the planet.

  “Let go of me.” I tried to shake him off.

  He veered to the stairwell and dragged me down the steps to the first floor. From there he wound me through the hallways of the hospital, tugging me alongside him at such a quick pace I had to scramble to keep my feet under me.

  “I have patients to take care of. I need to get back to my floor. I can’t abandon my patients.” I didn’t have any more, really. But he didn’t know that.

  Guess my work ethic didn’t weigh heavily on his conscience. He ignored my words. When we got to the front lobby, he shoved me past the guard desk at the front entrance.

  “Give up your badge,” he demanded of me. “Al,” he said to the guard, “see to it she never enters here again. Take her badge and keep her out!”

  “You can’t do that,” I said.

  His glare would have burned me if I hadn’t already been turned to ice with fright.

  “Give Al the badge,” he demanded through clenched teeth, his fury seething.

  I reluctantly tugged on it and the clip let go of my scrub jacket. Al collected it with a weary look.

  Once Carl stormed away, Al said, “Sorry, ma’am. Gotta do what the boss says.”

  “What about my things? I need to go back to the unit and tell my charge nurse and pick up my purse.” I couldn’t believe he had only delivered me to the door. Maybe there was still a chance to get back and find that book.

  “Can’t let you do that. I’ll call up for you and arrange for someone to bring down your belongings.”

  Al wouldn’t budge. He wasn’t letting me back in.

  I skulked out of the hospital, defeated and depressed. I’d have to come back later for my stuff. I’d failed. And I’d lost my job—for good this time—in the process.

  I had change in my pocket, maybe enough for bus fare, or a phone call to Mack. At least Carl only fired me and hadn’t killed me or anything like that. I had that to be thankful for.

  On the side of the main entrance was another smoking table, hidden behind some bushes. This time of morning no one else sat there. It was too dang cold anyway. So I took a seat, wrapping my arms around myself to stay warm, and tried to process what had just happened.

  I wasn’t there for more than two minutes when I saw Sheila, bundled in a fuzzy jacket, hustle from her red Mustang across the street into the hospital.

  Something was going on. She certainly wouldn’t be there that early to start work, even if she had been scheduled for day shift, which I knew she hadn’t. And she wasn’t there to get a tasty, nutritious breakfast from our short-order cook in the cafeteria. Betty was still out with the flu.

  Sheila had to be meeting Carl for some reason, and I was certain why.

  After she’d cleared the door, I hopped up and hurried back to Al’s post. When he saw me, he looked at me with his weary gaze.

  “Someone’ll bring down your belongings as soon as possible. I told your floor not to expect you back.”

  Bet that went over well.

  “I just saw Sheila Langley come in. Maybe she can bring them down.”

  “She didn’t go up there. Said she had a meeting downstairs. Now, don’t you worry. Someone’s sure to be down shortly with your things.”

  “Can I use the phone?”

  “Pay phone is right over there.”

  “Ah, come on, Al. I barely have money for a Coke. Just let me use your phone to call for a ride home. Please?”

  After a long pause to consider, he handed me the phone, but not before looking around to see if anyone would see him showing compassion to the exiled outlaw.

  “Thanks.”

  I dialed up Mack, hoping Jackie wouldn’t be near the phone. It was a relief when his sleepy voice came on.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Kind of early, isn’t it?”

  I turned away and crouched around the phone, pulling the cord as far as it would go, whispering so Al wouldn’t hear me.

  “Something’s going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Carl is here, and so is Sheila. I tried to get into his office, and he caught me.”

  “You what? I told you I’d take care of things.”

  “I think they’re doing the transfer. I’ve got to stop them.”

  “Stay put. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t think there’s time.”

  “Just wait for me.”

  “I need to get back in, but Carl fired me and kicked me out.”

  “Kate, just slow down. Don’t do anything more. It might be dangerous. I’m coming.”

  “You said Carl wasn’t violent, and you were right. He just escorted me to the front desk. I’ll just interrupt or something, keep them from going ahead till you get here.”

  “Why’d you try to get into his office?”

  “I wanted his book, his record. Everything is in it. I want it to make him stop—”

  “Kate—”

  “To prove what he’s done.”

  “Kate!” He sounded exasperated.

  “What?”

  “I have his book.”

  I suddenly downshifted, screeching from sixty to a dead stop. “You what?”

  “I got it this afternoon.”

  Unbelievable.

  “You know about his book?”

  “I just found it. I told you I’d take care of things. He gave me a key a long time ago. So I used it and went snooping. I found his record book and kept it.”

  “Well, uh, you could have told me.”

  Completely unbelievable.

  “I planned to. This is my first chance. I called you at work, but your charge nurse said you weren’t available.”

  Geez Louise.

  “So now what? We still ought to stop them.”

  “I’m coming.” His voice jiggled like he was hopping into his pants. “Just wait there. We’ll figure something out.”

  “Well, hurry up.”

  “Wait for me. Bye.”

  I gave the phone back to Al. “Thanks. I’ll just wait out in the fresh air—unless you’ll let me—”

  He was already shaking his head, so I quit trying to persuade him to let me back in.

  I gave an it was worth a try kind of shrug and skulked outside. I headed back toward the bench to shiver and wait for M
ack, when flashing lights caught my eye.

  An ambulance stopped under the emergency room canopy. The EMTs unloaded an unconscious corpulent man who was being bagged with oxygen and had several clear bags of IV fluids flowing into him through a tangle of tubes. Poor guy. But he presented just what I needed.

  I showed up alongside the gurney, thankful I was in scrubs, and no one seemed to take any notice of me. They were so glad to have an extra hand maneuvering the four-hundred-pound-if-he-was-an-ounce patient that they didn’t question my sudden appearance.

  Inside, I stayed close to the group, even carrying an extra IV bag for a moment to get past the security door. Once we were inside, several ER nurses converged on the purple-bloated guy and began doing all kinds of specific jobs. I needed to get out fast before someone assumed I’d know what to do. If this guy had a baby to deliver, I’d be fine. But otherwise, he was out of my element.

  Just as I thought I had my chance to disappear, a scary, stern woman who had to be the head nurse of ER caught me.

  “One hour of the shift left and staffing finally sends me another hand. You from ICU?” she asked.

  “L&D,” I answered meekly.

  “For godsakes,” she wailed. “What in the world good are you to me?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Here. Make yourself useful.” She slapped a syringe of potassium into my palm. “In room Five, find Vincent. He’s waiting for this to make up an IV. And don’t take all night. He’s been waiting nearly that long already.”

  She dismissed me from her presence by running into the other room to follow the huge purple guy who wasn’t having a baby. I figured I was home free now, and since Vincent had already spent the shift waiting for his potassium, his patient obviously wasn’t in any dire need. So I slipped the syringe into my pocket, skipped room Five, and headed for the basement.

  I thought I should look first in Mack’s lab. If Carl was using the incubators there, that’d be as good as any place to find them. Especially since Al said Sheila had gone downstairs.

  I let myself into Mack’s lab. My eyes had to adjust to the darkness for a moment before I could even begin to get my bearings. The power lights on all the equipment gave an orange, eerie glow to the place. Shadows layered over darker shadows, casting images of things not there all over the room. But in spite of my vivid imagination, it appeared as though I was alone. I turned to leave and find another possible meeting place, and I noticed the closet door was outlined in light.