by Michael Fine
Dr. Young knew about the death of Hope’s sister, Angel, almost ten years earlier and the circumstances around the poor girl’s passing. Hope was channeling her anger into productivity, but Dr. Young knew that it was her job to keep her young colleague from stretching into recklessness. Faye, now sixty-three, had been a widow for over twenty years; she had been just forty-one when her husband died suddenly of a heart attack. Never remarrying, she had immersed herself in research. Her focus had helped her get to where she was in her career, but she would forever be grateful to her own mentor, years earlier, who had finally shown her there was more to life than work.
Dr. Young continued, “Yes, the autopsies revealed normal development. But the lambs are observed alive for just a few days and then euthanized and autopsied. We only test for what we test for. We don’t know if they will live and thrive in the long-term.”
Hope drew a deep breath. She was so tired of hearing that she had to take things slowly. What about the thousands of young girls being forced into unwanted pregnancies? There were so many more now since Roe had been overturned on the very night that Angel was raped and impregnated against her will. How many were raped, just like Angel? How many were adolescents, just like Angel?
“But the womb works,” Hope said. She sounded lame even to herself.
“Yes. So far, so good. But there’s a process. Yes, it’s slow. Yes, it’s painful. But it’s necessary. What happens if you’re wrong? Fast forward in your mind to human trials. What happens if the extraction procedure fails or if the artificial womb doesn’t work and the fetuses die? Your trials would be stopped. Your reputation would likely be tarnished beyond repair. Funding for your research would dry up in a heartbeat.”
Hope wanted to say, “I’m never wrong,” but she knew better. She took another sip of coffee, hoping to regroup and form a persuasive argument. It didn’t come because, in her heart, she knew Dr. Young was right.
Faye stood up, walked to the sink, poured the small amount of green tea in her cup down the drain, rinsed the cup, and put it in the small dishwasher. “Listen,” she said, “Go finish your paper. I know you don’t like it—hell, nobody does—but it’s important work. Peer review is going to be critical, and you need to dot all your I’s and cross all your T’s so nobody has any reason to refute your findings.” She put her hand gently on Hope’s shoulder. “Okay?”
Hope looked up at her mentor, thankful for her wisdom and her kindness. She nodded.
“Okay, good,” Dr. Young said. “I’ve got to go to a budget meeting later this afternoon and I need to prepare. You have citations, I have budgets. Frankly, I think you’re getting the better end of the deal.” She smiled kindly and walked out of the kitchen toward her office.
Hope got up and refilled her coffee. She put the pot back in the coffee maker, rested both of her palms on the counter, and took several deep, calming breaths. Then she picked up her cup of coffee and headed for her desk. She had work to do. Step number whatever of however many steps it took.
She silently asked herself, not for the first time, Will it make the boat go faster? It was something her Mom used to say, based on the story of the Great Britain Men’s Rowing Eight team, which won Olympic Gold in Sydney, Australia in 2000 against all odds and after years of failure. The team’s unrelenting focus, exemplified by critically asking the question, “will it make the boat go faster?” about every single decision and action they took, was one of Hope’s guiding lights. She’d made a promise to Angel, and to herself, all those years ago, and her artificial womb would be the fulfillment of that promise. It might be a workaround for women’s inability to get safe, legal abortions, but at least it would help millions of young girls and women legally shorten their ordeals.
Chapter Nine
Monday, November 6 (later that day)
Stanford Hospital
Stanford, California
Taking advantage of a rare break, Hope went to the small cafeteria on the main floor of the hospital and bought a can of Diet Coke. She walked out the side entrance nearest the cafeteria, hoping to sit in peace for a few minutes. She’d been up since 4:00 a.m., already worked four hours at the lab, and been on call since 9:00. Hope checked her phone and saw that it was only three o’clock. Her shift didn’t for another three hours.
The normally blue northern California sky was an oppressive blanket of gray and Hope hoped the weather wasn’t an omen for the election tomorrow. Thankfully, President Fred Spencer, the farcical, flamboyant jackass-pretending-to-be-President served just one term. Still, the damage he had done to the nation and the world was incalculable. In response to Spencer’s ultra right-wing agenda, the nation jerked left and twice elected Gabriella Davenport. Davenport served eight distinguished years as the nation’s first female president. Harvard-educated, serious and competent, she was—at least for people with Hope’s political sensibilities—a breath of fresh air. Sadly, her Vice President for her second term, Zachary Grant, wasn’t nearly the politician or person Davenport was. He was in a tight race.
Hope was happy that at least it wasn’t raining. The chill in the air gave her goosebumps, but she’d never really be cold here given the Bay Area’s mild weather. She cleared out her email inbox and checked her social media feeds. Lots of posts by people worried about the election.
Hope stood, chugged her Diet Coke, and threw the can into a trash bin next to the worn wooden bench on which she’d been sitting. She headed back into the hospital.
When she arrived on the pediatric wing, the residents in her cohort were already standing around together, waiting for their attending physician to take them on afternoon rounds. None of the other students acknowledged her arrival.
The beeps and buzzers of the floor filled the silence. A few of the residents spoke quietly to each other. Each was grateful that the antiseptic smell that was so powerful in the surgery wing was absent here. Finally, Dr. Vic Isaacs walked up and greeted the group.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said. “Let’s get going,” he added, as if he had been waiting for the students to arrive rather than the other way around. “Try to keep up.” Every student knew that he didn’t just mean they should keep up with the pace of his walking; he was known as a brilliant doctor and an exacting teacher.
The group entered the room of a pregnant woman in her late forties who was suffering from kidney difficulties due to being pregnant at her advanced age.
“Statement of the case, anyone?”
“Mrs. Edwards is forty-seven years old,” Pamela Westin said, beating other students into the spotlight, something she did regularly. “She is presenting with acute kidney pain, and blood and protein in her urine,” “Mrs. Edwards is thirty-five weeks pregnant. This is her fourth pregnancy.”
“Good morning, Kim,” Dr. Isaacs said, turning on his best bedside manner. “How are we today?”
Kim Edwards snarled. “Well, I don’t know how you’re doing today, but I’m fucking miserable. The pain is unbearable.” After a beat, she added, “God I hate my fucking husband.”
A few of the residents laughed. Dr. Isaacs snapped his neck around and stared them back into silence.
“Sorry to hear that, Kim,” Dr. Isaacs said. “What can we do to help make you more comfortable?” It was important that the residents came to understand that while their primary job was the physical well being of their patients, it was very much also their job to attempt to help the “whole patient.” This sometimes meant silently absorbing abuse from patients.
“Can you keep my husband from jumping on me all the fucking time? Can you do that?” Mrs. Edwards smiled a wry smile.
Dr. Isaacs was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Mrs. Edwards said. “So how about a cup of ice chips instead?”
The nurse, who had been quietly taking Mrs. Edwards’ vitals, said, “Comin’ right up, hon.” She packed up her cart and wheeled it out of the room. She was back before the Doctor and his residents finished talking
with Mrs. Edwards.
After a few more minutes of small talk, the group left Mrs. Edwards to herself and gathered just outside of her room. Dr. Isaacs asked the group, “What can be done to keep Mrs. Edwards’ kidneys from failing?”
This time, before Pamela Westin could answer, Hope said, “Transfuse Mrs. Edwards’ umbilical cord blood into her bloodstream. Umbilical cord blood is ideal for treating immune-mediated diseases like kidney disease because it hasn’t been exposed to disease or illness. Mesenchymal stem cells derived from umbilical cord blood have been shown to significantly aid patients’ recuperation from kidney disease.”
Dr. Isaacs was impressed. He smiled and said, “Excellent, Hope. A bit aggressive compared to what I was thinking, but excellent.”
Most of the other residents once again found themselves in awe of Hope’s seemingly bottomless reservoir of medical knowledge. Some found themselves defensive because of it, none more than Pamela Westin, who jumped in.
“We need to help her control her blood pressure.”
Annette, one of the Pamela Pack, as Hope thought of it, raised her hand. “Maybe we should keep her husband away from her until after the birth,” she joked.
Dr. Isaacs said, “That’s enough, Annette. Pamela, you’re correct. Keeping her blood pressure down will be helpful.”
Pamela pouted, unhappy that Dr. Isaacs’ praise of her wasn’t as effusive as it was for Hope, that bitch.
“But how?” Dr. Isaacs asked the residents. “Are there medicines we can use to help treat Mrs. Edwards?”
“ACE inhibitors and ARBs would help,” Hope said, aware of, but unconcerned by, the resentment her excellence caused in many of her classmates.
“Explain,” Dr. Isaacs said to Hope. He could see the blank looks on the faces of some of the other residents.
Hope explained at length how ACE inhibitors and Angiotensin II receptor blockers, or ARBs, help relax blood vessels, which lowers blood pressure and makes it easier for the heart to pump blood.
Dr. Isaacs couldn’t hide his smile. Hope Hunter was far and away the smartest, most focused resident he’d ever overseen. Pamela, Annette, and the others in the Pamela Pack couldn’t help but notice Dr. Isaac’s reaction. Pamela openly sneered at Hope.
Hope happened to look at Pamela just as the sneer formed on the woman’s face. She knew what jealousy looked like; she’d been seeing it in the eyes of her fellow students her whole life. Hope smiled her biggest, most radiant smile at Pamela, who quickly dropped her gaze. It was a technique Hope learned years earlier, and used often.
“Okay everyone. Let’s keep going,” Dr. Isaacs said. He started walking down the hall and his gaggle of residents followed.
By 5:45 p.m., Dr. Isaacs told the residents that rounds would end fifteen minutes early. He had reports to write and wanted to leave the office early enough to have dinner with his wife before she fell asleep on the couch. Before he left the group, he walked toward Hope and pulled her aside.
“Hope, I just wanted to let you know that once again you impressed me today. It is a pleasure having you in my cohort.”
“Thank you, Dr. Isaacs,” Hope said. “As you know, I have a real passion for this rotation.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Pamela, Annette, and friends clustered near the wall. That wasn’t unusual; they were the very definition of a clique. They were looking at her, snickering and laughing. That wasn’t all that unusual either, she thought.
Dr. Isaacs continued speaking to her, but she couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying; she could hear Pamela and Annette talk about her.
Annette said, without a shred of self-awareness, “She never goes out with us to the bar.” She crossed her arms. “Of course, she’s such a loner, she probably doesn’t have any friends. She probably never goes out with anyone.”
One of the other residents said, “Well, I think she works at the research lab and also at that Pancake Shack place. So, she probably doesn’t have much free time.”
Hope made a mental note to thank the woman for trying to defend her.
“I heard she cleans toilets at that dump. A friend of mine found her on her hands and knees in the bathroom there once.”
Hope finally snapped her attention back to Dr. Isaacs, who was winding down. She wished he had been able to concentrate on what he was saying.
“…See you tomorrow,” Dr. Isaacs said.
“See you tomorrow. Thanks again, Dr. Isaacs,” Hope said, hoping it was the right thing to say. She checked her phone and realized it was just a few minutes before six. She had thirty minutes to get ready and get over to the Watering Hole. Despite what Pamela and her pack said, Hope did go out on occasion.
Chapter Ten
Monday, November 6 (later that evening)
Watering Hole Burgers
Menlo Park, California
Hope showered and changed into jeans, a black t-shirt, and her favorite oversized lavender-colored sweatshirt. She wore her tennis shoes, as always. She was exhausted, an all-too-common state for her, and starving. She drove to the restaurant, just a mile or so from Stanford’s campus, and parked in the back.
She swung open the door to the famous burger joint and immediately smelled the grease. Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since she wolfed down a protein bar mid-morning. She spotted Billy sitting at one of the booths along the back row, and he waved as she walked toward the table.
“Hi Billy,” Hope said. She forced herself to call him Billy, at his request, despite the fact that she much preferred his full legal name. Her relationship with Billy/William Valentine was complicated, she thought, not for the first time. She liked him; she just didn’t have him high on her priority list. That and the fact that she knew she was more than a bit screwed up when it came to men.
Billy got up and gave Hope a hug. “Hi babe,” he said, and Hope tried not to bristle at the pet name. He sensed she was in a foul mood, and asked, “Rough day?” He was enamored by her intelligence and strength, her sparkling blue eyes, long blonde hair, blemish-free skin, and lithe body, and wanted desperately to win her heart. If that meant listening while she vented, so be it.
“Not rough. Just long.” Like most days.
“Come, sit,” Billy said. He motioned to Hope to sit across from him in their booth. “What do you want? I’ll go order for us.”
Hope told Billy what she wanted and he made his way to the long line at the counter near the front of the restaurant. While she waited, she opened her purse and pulled out her phone, checked her email and immediately wished she hadn’t. Buried within dozens of spam messages was a message from Faye at the lab. The subject read, “I found some citation errors. Let’s discuss.” She read the email over a few times, fretting. She hated citations. And she hated letting Faye down. For a brief moment, Hope thought about telling Billy that she had to go back to the lab, but she was starving and he was one of her few social outlets. She could work on fixing the citations when she got home.
Hope reached over and grabbed the basket of peanuts on the table. She cracked open a few and shot them into her mouth. As was tradition at the restaurant, she tossed the shells on the floor. The contrast between the floor here and the cleanliness of her lab and of the hospital always struck Hope as amusing. What would it be like if she could just chuck used instruments on the ground? She smiled at the idea. It was her first real smile of the day.
Billy returned and placed their burgers and a basket of fries on the table. He slid into the booth across from her and reached out with his palms up. She extended her arms and placed her slender fingers into his hands for a moment. He squeezed them gently, knowing how skittish she was about the possibility of injuring her hands.
Billy let her hands go and pulled his burger toward him. “What do you think is going to happen tomorrow?” Billy asked, referring to the election. “I think Grant can hold on.” He took a bite and wiped his chin.
“From your lips to God’s ears,” Hope said, although Billy knew Hope defin
itely did not believe in God. She’d told him once that it was a saying she’d picked up from her childhood in the South, where it was easier to pretend she believed in God than to defend her atheism. She, too, dove into her burger, and sighed audibly after each of her first few bites.
“Even if Owens wins, he seems way more reasonable and committed to bipartisanship than Spencer was,” Billy said. He popped a french fry in his mouth. “God, that guy was horrible,” he said while chewing.
“Let’s not talk about him,” Hope snapped. “He’s ancient history, thankfully.”
Billy knew that Hope had strong feelings about former President Spencer. She blamed him, indirectly, for her sister’s death. Spencer nominated Julian Kingsley, who was the swing vote to overturn Roe, which set off Louisiana’s trigger law, which outlawed all abortions in the state, including Angel’s. Not to mention the fact that her mother left Hope and her sister in Louisiana and went to Washington to fight the man and his horrible policies. He let the subject drop.
Billy asked Hope about her work at the lab. He wordlessly absorbed her complaints about her distaste for citations and congratulated her on the success of her latest trial. When she told him about Pamela and Annette at the hospital, he tsk tsked and provided moral support. Hope, so preoccupied by her thoughts about her own day, didn’t once ask Billy about his.
When they finished their burgers, Hope said, “Thanks, Billy. That really hit the spot. Thanks for making me come out tonight.”
Billy smiled. “I didn’t make you do anything. Nobody can make anyone do anything, least of all you.”
It was Hope’s turn to smile. “Well, thanks just the same. Listen, I have to do some work on my citations tonight and I have to get up early for work tomorrow morning.”
