Paradeisia: Origin of Paradise

by B. C. CHASE

  Copyright © 2014 B.C.CHASE

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Corporations, characters, organizations, or other entities in this novel are the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, are used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct.

  Author’s note: This novel is not allegory. It is fictional entertainment.

  Character list enclosed at end.

  In Memoriam

  J.M.C.

  4085 Woodbridge Street

  Wesley Peterson jumped up to shattering glass. It came from the adjoining bathroom. His heart was pounding in his throat when he heard two steps and a thump.

  Someone was in their home, and she was gone. He jumped off the bed, shouting, “Sienna!”

  There was no reply. But he heard breathing. From two people, he thought. He imagined an intruder holding his wife in the darkness. The picture filled him with rage.

  His pulse was literally throbbing in his neck as he quietly drew his handgun from the nightstand drawer. He owned one for a moment just like this, but he had never been forced to use it before. A surge of adrenaline caused his hands to shake as he tried to load the gun, making an unpracticed task even more difficult.

  He couldn’t get the magazine to slide into the well. He tried to force it until he realized a round was protruding out the top. He slipped it in with its brothers, then successfully jammed up the magazine. There was a loud click when he released the slide to chamber the round.

  He swiftly moved toward the partly open door of the bathroom. He felt something wet, sticky under his feet on the carpet.

  Someone had bled from the bed to the door.

  He dashed his fingers inside the door frame to flip on the light switch and then flung the door open, aiming inside. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light, but what he saw made him stagger backwards.

  His young wife was alone, spread-eagled on the floor in a pool of blood. He moved down to help her, but she pointed behind him and let loose a nothing-held-back, bloodcurdling scream.

  ORIGIN

  OF

  PARADISE

  Pleasant Plains Elementary School

  Wesley was sitting at the front of the third grade classroom. His forty-five students were taking a test. To pass the time, he turned to his phone. Innocently, he sent a text to Sienna:

  u bored like me?

  Her reply was quick:

  y these emails nver end!

  He responded:

  was just thnking how much I love u babe

  so glad u said yes

  *blushing

  u know wht I want?

  wht?

  i wnt to pick u up

  a date? cool

  seafood?

  perfect. thn wht?

  a movie

  cool, thn wht

  home

  and? ;)

  whtver u wnt

  i wnt to make ur baby

  com get me

  He felt a rush, looked up from his desk at the kids. Awkward.

  Of course he didn't leave the school right away because he couldn't. But he was practically breathless with lust by the time he did leave, and he couldn't stop his car from blowing past a red light or two.

  When he reached home, she was waiting for him.

  Topless.

  He lost his breath. Her beauty still knocked him out every time he saw her.

  He was still standing there in dumbfounded awe when she took his hand, pulled him into the bedroom. Laying back on the bed, she drew him over her. “I love you, Wes,” she said, her voice tender. “I want you to be my baby daddy.”

  He swallowed, “You’re gonna be a great mom.”

  He softly, slowly began to kiss her all over her face, her neck. She closed her eyes, breathed, “I need you….” Her hands searched for his pants, “Now.”

  That's the way it had been since their wedding day. After the rings went on, the gloves came off. It was mind-blowing, marital Shangri-La. They were desperately, passionately in love, and the sexual energy pent up from four ravenous years of celibate dating had exploded like a piñata. They had fun, tried everything, drank deep of love.

  But it didn't work.

  This time, like every time, the test showed negative. As she stared at him sadly from the toilet, the stick in her hand, Wesley said quietly, “It's been a year now.” He swallowed, “I think we need to see a doctor.”

  She wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “I'm sorry, baby,” he said. But he couldn't bear the look on her face. He wanted to fix this.

  An x-ray and some tests rendered the verdict: it was impossible for them to conceive.

  Their perfect American dream had come crashing to a halt.

  So, like true Americans, they sought a quick fix. This landed them at the sleek, modern office of a fertility MD, who wasted no time in unleashing an onslaught of probes, collections of fluid, and tests. Then, they met him one day to hear what he had to offer. He said simply, “I can get you pregnant, and I bet I can do it within a year.”

  Wesley looked at Sienna, shocked. Then they both exhaled with a relieved laugh. Wesley asked the doctor, “You're sure?”

  “Oh yeah. That's not the question. The question is what kind of baby will you choose?”

  The Doctor's name was Kenneth Angel. He looked no older than forty, though they knew him to be in his seventies. Barrel-chested, he wore a tight-fitting shirt with mini sleeves to show off his biceps. He had a deep, baritone voice and spoke with authority, sounding almost paternal, "Now these days, infertile couples have options. A test tube baby isn't just a test tube baby anymore. Now it's a test tube baby on steroids.”

  He smiled, “We can perform all kinds of amazing miracles now, so much so that we are helping everyone make babies, not just the infertile. In fact, I would say thirty percent of the couples I help do not have any fertility issue at all. They just want me to work my magic.”

  He leaned forward, “What I mean is, they don't want to leave their child to chance, they want to choose their baby—and they can. You can...

  “Listen, if you went to buy a car and the salesman said 'pay me 16,000 dollars and we'll bring you a random car from our lot,' you'd say he was crazy, wouldn't you? So why would you come in here and be happy if I gave you a random baby from your genes when it's totally within our power to choose what's best for your family—and most important, what's best for your child?”

  Wesley and Sienna stared at him blankly.

  “Okay, I can tell this is a little abstract for you, so let's talk specifics....

  “Look, we could choose mom's or dad's eye color. Sounds simple, but let's say you want more options. Not a problem. I could even let you choose from a range of color options, free of charge." He held his hands out, "The possibilities are limitless... Of course, eye color is a matter of preference, but eye shape is what determines attractiveness... If you want this boy—”

  Wesley interrupted, “Who said it would be a boy?”

  “Sienna said so, on the phone.”

  “But isn't sex a roll of the dice?”

  “Of course not,” Doctor Angel replied, deadpan. “Those are choices now: male or female, homosexual or bisexual... Your pick...” He shrugged with annoyance, “Now, what I was saying was, if you want this boy—or whatever you choose—to have really beautiful eyes, there are an array of shapes we can choose from—and they don't even have to derive from either of you. Right now almond-shaped eyes are all the rage, but if you want him to have the more bulgy surprised l
ook like you, dad, we can go with that.

  “And dad,” he chuckled, “I don't want to get personal here, but have you been entirely happy with...size?”

  Wesley blinked, “What size?”

  “You know, downstairs. Now let's be honest here, no keeping secrets from your doctors these days. I know you're only average, a little smaller than average, actually. I have the numbers right here. But wouldn't you like to give your son the opportunity to really impress in the bedroom? Don't you want his girlfriend to say 'wow' when he drops his pants?”

  “Wife,” Wesley corrected.

  “Wife, girlfriend... The point is, why let him be average when he could be more than average? You wouldn't want to condemn him to disappointments in the bedroom, would you? The truth is size does matter.”

  “I haven't had any disappointment,” Wesley asserted with confidence.

  Doctor Angel rolled his eyes, smiled, “Sienna, this is the time to be honest. Your child's future is at stake. How often do you fake it?”

  She nervously looked from side to side. “I...”

  Her hesitation was enough to tell Wesley the truth, but Doctor Angel did not relent, “How often, be honest. This is important.”

  “Sometimes, I guess.” Then she turned to her husband, “But it's only because we've been trying so hard lately.”

  Doctor shrugged, “Despite what you might have been told, the truth is size has a lot to do with performance. A lot. Studies prove it.

  “But anyway, the point is that this is just one of the things we can help your son with now, before he becomes sexually active; before he is even born.”

  Suddenly a gigantic screen inlaid in his desk flashed to life. At dizzying speed, he tapped through a number of scenarios with a program called "Conception." By selecting different physical traits, he showed them examples of what their baby could look like at birth and what he could become as he grew.

  Wesley thought it was like playing a computer game, creating an ideal character—only the character would come out of his wife's body. Surreal, in an unsettling way.

  When Doctor Angel was done toying with their son's aesthetics, he moved on to brainpower. He showed them what a likely IQ for their child would be without gene selection. It wasn't good. With a wink, he said, "We won't blame that on mom or dad." He arranged some new options for them, boosting their child's IQ by double digits. He went through different possible skills: mathematical abilities, creativity, artistic aptitudes and so forth. He probed psychological traits and reviewed sixteen possible personality types.

  After stupefying them with these prospects, he dramatically switched to scare tactics. Wesley and Sienna's genes, it turned out, had a terrifying number of lurking dangers. He gave them an example of what their offspring could be without any gene selection at all: a cancerous, diabetic, and morbidly obese wretch suffering from migraine headaches, incontinence, addiction to alcohol, and high blood pressure.

  “Now you know the government keeps a record of every child's DNA. If you think they won't use it to price his insurance, then you've got another thing coming. Let me tell you, with health problems like this, his healthcare costs are going to be unbearable.”

  Doctor Angel told them that clearly, ethical parents couldn't allow themselves to produce such a burden to society. Moral parents would spend the extra money to abolish at least a handful of these dreadful genes...

  “Let me be honest with you guys... Gene selection is the new norm; hardly anyone will be making babies the old-fashioned way, no matter how much fun it is. Performing a little gene selection now is like paying your kid's college tuition in advance—only these are guaranteed results. If you want your children to be able to compete in this world, you have to give them this head start. It's survival of the fittest.”

  Wesley said quietly, “How much does this cost?”

  “Oh, well beyond the cost of getting you pregnant, the choices we're talking about would start at 20,000 and go up from there. But we'll work with you...”

  Sienna protested, “But we just don't have the kind of money you're talking about.”

  “How much did both your cars cost?”

  “Uh...”

  “You financed your cars, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how much do you owe on your house? Just a little bit?” he squeezed two fingers together, smiling wryly. “Look, guys, we work with banks all over the country. We can finance anyone, no matter their situation.”

  Wesley hesitated, “I don't think we'd want more debt...”

  Doctor Angel leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his chest and adopting a sage expression, “You financed those temporal things, but you wouldn't finance your child's future? Wesley, you're young so I'll give you some slack, but you really have to ask yourself about the wisdom of that kind of thinking. I mean if you don't do it now, he's just going to have to pay for all this stuff later in gene therapy treatments. That is way more expensive than what we're talking about here. And because he can't get a job and has such high health insurance costs, guess whose door he's going to be knocking on for money. That's right. Yours. Mommy's and Daddy's. The people who didn't invest in his future when it really mattered.” He sighed, “Frankly, if you can't do this for your child, it might be time to talk about whether you guys are ready to be parents. Are you responsible enough?” He tapped closed the “Conception” program and glanced over his e-mails. “I don't remember off the top of my head, but I'm not sure your metrics on 'planning' were very high. Procrastinators, both of you.”

  He looked up, “So, what do you say?”

  Like they had learned to do at any car dealership, they left to talk it over before they made a choice.

  They were overwhelmed by all the miracles science could work. What should they do? What was the right thing to do? Should they do anything at all?

  In the end, it was all irrelevant. Shocking Doctor Angel, Sienna missed her period and turned up positive on a pregnancy test the next day. An intuitive distaste for Doctor Angel led her to return to her original doctor, Richard Kingsley, while she brought the baby to term.

  So this night when they had slipped into bed, they were happy. She had a decent-sized baby bump; fourteen weeks. All was well.

  Wesley spun around to where Sienna was pointing, expecting to face an intruder, but there was no one there.

  "Please look! He could be alive on the bed!" she screamed. Turning back to her, he saw that she had knocked a vase off the tile surrounding the bathtub. His heart sank with a sudden realization: her stomach was conspicuously flat.

  There was no intruder. She had lost the baby.

  He couldn't believe it, after all they had been through. As he stepped back toward the bed, he thought about the last maternity checkup. Doctor Kingsley said everything was progressing just fine. That was four days ago.

  So what happened?

  Wesley approached the bed and was sick at the sight of a little lump under the white comforter.

  It definitely wasn't moving. Then again, he didn't expect it to be; he was pretty sure a baby couldn't survive a miscarriage at fourteen weeks. The duvet was draped off the side of the mattress and was dripping blood. Wesley had never felt so sickened in all his life. He didn't want to uncover the lump in the covers. He didn't want to see their baby like this. He wondered if it would be best just to call 911.

  "Wes?" Sienna cried weakly. "Is he... Is he alive?"

  Wesley closed his eyes and jerked the cover off the lump. Slowly, his stomach in a knot, he allowed his eyelids to open.

  It was a wad in the sheet.

  The baby was not there. The lump under the duvet was nothing but a sheet wad.

  Wesley checked the path back to the bathroom again. There was no fetus on the floor, only blood. He checked through all the covers, searched under the bed. Nothing. He went back to the bathroom and looked at his wife's surroundings. The fetus wasn't there. He opened the lid of the toilet, just in case.

  "
What are you doing?" his wife asked.

  "It's gone. There's no fetus."

  "Don't call him a fetus."

  "Did you go anywhere else but the bathroom?"

  "No, I... I came right here," she was pale and looked weak. Then she gasped, clutching her stomach, where the baby bulge had clearly disappeared.

  “Bad pain?” Wesley asked.

  She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut.

  "I'm calling 911," Wesley said, concerned that she had lost so much blood.

  But as he walked out into the living room to retrieve his phone, something told him that he should also be worried by the fact that their baby had totally and completely vanished.

  International House of Bacon

  Her cell rang from her apron where she stood at the server's station. The blonde pocketed the lousy tip she had just counted, wiped the sticky syrup off her hands, and dashed around a corner. “Hi,” she answered.

  “Aubrey, it's Maggie.”

  “I'm at work—what's up?”

  “You know the job I told you might open up eventually if you were really really really lucky?”

  “Uh, yeah... You told me yesterday.”

  “It's available! If you make it to La Guardia in an hour, you'll get an interview!”

  “An hour? I couldn't possibly make it that fast. I don't even have my resume ready.” That's what Aubrey said, but her heartbeat accelerated with hopeful anticipation.