Solomon's Knife

by Victor Koman

  "They'll both be moved to the postpartum room. They need to sleep, and so do you. Kiss your wife good night and go home and rest."

  He looked at Dr. Fletcher. She nodded in agreement.

  "Sweetheart?" he said. "Will you be all right?"

  Karen Chandler smiled at her husband. Tears of joy began to well up in her soft grey eyes. Her chestnut hair, wet with sweat, hung in near-black tangles across the pillow. Blood smeared her abdomen, her belly still large and soft from the ordeal.

  She was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  David stretched across the bed to hold her for a moment. They wept those misty-eyed tears that survivors of great ad-ventures weep. They murmured the phrases new parents speak that seem to them so momentous and emotional at the time.

  "We have a baby," she said.

  "A daughter," he said.

  "She's beautiful."

  "So are you, my love."

  Nurse Dyer wheeled the baby out of the room. The little one had already fallen asleep.

  "Where-?" David began.

  Fletcher removed her mask and goggles. "She'll share the room with her mom but be accessible to the nurses so that Karen can get some sleep."

  David kissed his wife with warm, deep love. "Sleep well, darling. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  "Rest, David. We'll be all right."

  They embraced again. Nurse Dyer returned with a gurney. David helped his wife shift over to it. A last kiss and she rolled away through the door, Dyer pushing gently.

  David Chandler watched his wife disappear into the post-partum wing. A hand slapped him on the back with weary heartiness.

  "Congratulations, Dad." Dr. Fletcher smiled. Her eyes seemed to hold back a deeper emotion than she revealed in the friendly gesture. "She's a beautiful baby."

  He nodded, then smiled widely. "She is. They both are. We've waited so long for this."

  "Have you got a name for her?"

  "Renata. Karen's grandmother was named Renata. It means `born again.'" Evelyn Fletcher raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  VII

  Karen awoke to the sound of a baby screaming. The short, high-pitched shrieks cut through her sleep like meat cleavers.

  "What's wrong?" she cried, sitting up in the hospital bed, looking around in the darkness. She had been awakened sev-eral times that day for breast-feeding, but the baby's cries then were nothing like these.

  She looked through the window in the wall at her right. The sliding tray that allowed Renata to be reached either by her mother on this side or the nurses on the other lay open to the nursing area. Renata was gone.

  "What's going on!" she shouted through the glass.

  "Nothing," one of the nurses said casually. "Just taking a few drops of blood for tests. We give her a little heel stick, that's all."

  Renata screamed as if she were being murdered. Karen pressed up against the glass, flattening her face in an effort to see what they were doing to her child. They stood somewhere out of view. The cries continued. Karen's entire body reacted to the sound. It was as if each scream were fashioned to activate ev-ery primordial mother instinct lying hidden in her soul. She wanted to smash the glass and seize her child from the mon-sters in white.

  One of the torturers-an over-thirty frump with a bored ex-pression-deposited the frantic, kicking infant into the drawer, gently sliding it over to Karen's side of the wall.

  "All done. Feeding time."

  Karen hated the nurses already.

  She scooped up her daughter, held her up to her right breast, and offered her nipple to the terrorized baby.

  Renata sought out the proffered meal and sucked heartily. An occasional residual whimper escaped past the areola.

  Karen waited until Renata had calmed down to examine her tiny feet. They were both still purple from hospital-form ink. A small, round Band-Aid adhered to the bottom of the left heel. She hugged the baby tenderly, cooing to it and whispering soft, loving mother sounds.

  When Renata finished eating and fell into a satisfied sleep, Karen willfully ignored the rules. She did not restore the baby to the drawer in the wall but kept her bundled against her breast, sleeping protectively with her.

  "

  "Just a little ear infection, that's all."

  Dr. Fletcher peered through the otoscope into Renata's tiny right ear. "When you look inside, the eardrum should look silvery and sort of reflective. If it looks red or swollen, that's a good sign that some antibiotics are in order."

  "Is it serious?" Karen held the baby tightly. Renata watched the proceedings, blue eyes staring in an unfocused gaze of incomprehension.

  "We just have to pick the right antibiotic." She made a few notes on the chart, then picked up Renata's left foot. She stroked a fingernail down the center of the sole, watched the toes flex, and made another note. She smiled.

  "Other than that, everything else seems to be in order." She put a finger into Renata's hand. The small, stubby fingers re-flexively grasped the digit. "She's got a good strong grip." Karen smiled and hugged the baby even tighter. Renata gurgled, her mouth curling into a toothless smile as her arms and legs flailed about merrily.

  Dr. Fletcher patted Renata's head, stroking the thin cover-ing of light blond hair. Renata's face became confused, reddened. She fidgeted, then began to cry.

  "Uh-oh," Evelyn said. "Changing time."

  Karen smiled. "That's one thing I regret about this place." She shifted over to the far side of the bed, lowering Renata into the drawer and closing it. "I don't get to diaper her until I get home." Fletcher smiled. "Enjoy the opportunity."

  "

  That afternoon, Nurse Dyer stepped into Fletcher's office and locked the door behind her. She wore deep emerald cu-lottes beneath her lab coat. No doubt, mused Evelyn, she had a pair of matching high heels to replace the crisp white hospi-tal shoes she currently wore.

  "Dr. Lawrence is asking questions."

  "Relax." She motioned for Dyer to sit beside her at her desk. The tall woman pulled up a chair, lowered her frame into the leather folds, and tried to relax. She did not seem to be succeeding. The nurse drummed her blood-red-polished, pro-fessionally short fingernails against the brown leather arm-rest. "The administrator could blow us out of the water if he gets suspicious at all."

  Fletcher lit up a cigarette. "Lawrence isn't suspicious. He's just a meddlesome old bureaucrat who confuses irritating the staff with effective management. He's bothering everyone just to look busy."

  "He questioned me about the discrepancies on Chandler's reports." Fletcher looked up. "Such as?"

  Dyer leaned forward. "Delivering a full-term infant in just seven months."

  "Jesus." Fletcher jabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. "That's so simple. Just direct him to me. That man hasn't touched a scalpel in eighteen years. I'll just backdate the operation and tell him he's confused."

  "I think that maybe we tried to do too much. Maybe we should-"

  "Should what?" Fletcher stood. "Pull back now when we know it works? Go back to the status quo?

  Now that we've got the technique? Don't forget why we're in this." She stepped behind Dyer to grasp her shoulders. "Don't forget the goal here. Don't forget the payoff we're finally seeing. Great strides are never made without the risk of stumbling."

  "But what if Mrs. Chandler should talk?"

  "She won't," Fletcher said, patting the woman's athletic shoulders. "She's got the baby she wanted." The doctor paused, then spoke softly. "I think we should try another one."

  "

  David Chandler prepared to run the gauntlet. The day at work-being away from his wife and daughter-had been dif-ficult. The manager of an aircraft fastener warehouse does not have much time for quiet, reflective moments. Roaring forklifts and the constant metallic racket of jostling compo-nents make for rattled nerves.

  And now he had to face this.

  "There's the washroom," a stern-faced nurse said. "Put the robe over your clothes so that it ties in the back. Put
on the bonnet. Put on the face mask." She handed him a sealed packet. "This is a Betadine scrub brush. Get it wet so that it lathers. Lather up your hands completely, then scrub. Pay strict attention to your fingernails. Not one speck of dirt should be under-neath when you're done. Then do it again. Your hands should have a nice orange stain all over."

  "Then I can see them?"

  "Of course." She looked at him oddly for a moment, then wandered away. Chandler donned the protective garb and turned on the hot water to perform the ablution. The bright, yellow-orange suds coated his hands as the sponge side of the brush worked up a lather. The antiseptic tingled in a small cut on his ring finger that he didn't remember receiving. The Betadine smelled sharply cleansing, very much in accord with all the other hos-pital smells.

  He concentrated on scrubbing his fingernails and cuticles. He plunged his hands into the stream of water to rinse, then lathered and scrubbed again. Drying his hands, he examined the fingertips-now clean and yellow-white beneath the trim nails-and looked up. In the cupboard above the sink sat an open box of scrub-brush packets. David's eyes glanced right and left. No one near to witness the crime. Deft fingers plucked one packet from the box, skillfully sliding it under the gown and into his right front pocket.

  He might need one at home. Crime in the service of sanita-tion.

  He slipped on his mask, then paused. He had just touched his pocket and his face. With a self-derisive snort, David Chan-dler picked up the used brush and repeated the cleansing ritual. Finally done, the masked man strode purposefully down the hallway, only to stop midway, trying to remember what room number he had been given. The iron-eyed nurse passed by, noted his confusion, and directed him to the room.

  Karen Chandler lay in bed in a semiprivate room. No one occupied the other bed at the moment, and the only sounds came from the cries of other babies in the wing. Renata lay in her mother's arms, nursing happily. Tiny fingers pressed against the soft milk-filled flesh.

  "Hi," he said, standing in the doorway.

  "David!" Her voice nearly burst with affection. "Sweetheart, what time is it?"

  "Five-thirty. I came as soon as I could."

  "You didn't have to do-"

  "I couldn't rest until I saw my two loves." He leaned over the bed to nuzzle Karen deeply through his mask, then gazed at his daughter. Her eyes were closed in a feeding reverie. "How soon until I can take you home?"

  "Dr. Fletcher said that she has an ear infection, so the nurse gave her a shot of antibiotics. The poor thing cried for ten min-utes after." She stroked Renata's hair. "They want to keep us here another night to make sure her ear's okay."

  "I'm sure it'll be all right.""

  Karen knew it was not all right.

  Even though she had been a mother for less than two days, she could tell that the baby in her arms had changed. Its skin seemed less pink. When she put her finger in Renata's pudgy hand, the fingers closed around it but squeezed with less strength. She seemed just as hungry as ever, though she nursed for shorter periods.

  Karen told Dr. Fletcher on her afternoon rounds. Fletcher peered into the baby's eyes, shone a penlight through Renata's left ear lobe, then examined both ears with her otoscope.

  "The good news," Evelyn said, "is that the ear infection is subsiding. But there may be some complication from the anti-biotic. I'll have the nurses take another blood sample." Karen fought her urge to ask what could be wrong. Silently, she prayed to a God she hadn't addressed personally in years. Please don't hurt my baby.

  She held Renata close to her all that afternoon, surrender-ing her only for diaper changes and the blood sample.

  Five minutes after Renata had been returned from the blood drawing, Nurse Dyer strode swiftly into the room, pushing a Plexiglas case on wheels. It looked similar to the one that had held the baby in the delivery room.

  "What's wrong?" Karen asked, holding Renata to her breast.

  "Dr. Fletcher will explain when she gets here. Right now we have to take Renata for more tests."

  "Where?"

  "Dr. Fletcher will explain," Dyer said, all emotion masked. She carefully lifted the baby over to the case, lowered her in, and sealed the lid. Throwing switches and rotating knobs, she turned on heating lamps and increased the oxygen supply.

  Renata kicked and screamed for a moment, then weakly relaxed. She had just been fed. The box was warm. Nurse Dyer offered her a fresh Nuk pacifier via the glove box, stroking the clear silicon rubber against her soft baby cheek. Renata turned her mouth toward the faux nipple, sought it out, clamped onto it, and sucked. Intent on nothing else, she drifted off to sleep.

  "Dr. Fletcher will be with you," Dyer said, "after she's had a chance to examine the baby." She wheeled the quietly hissing, softly glowing conveyance out of the room, leaving Karen alone in a silence punctuated by the distant, healthy cries of other children in the post-partum ward. " David held Karen's hand firmly. He stood beside her bed, listening to Dr. Fletcher explain aplastic anemia in laymen's terms. It was all too confusing.

  "You knew that she could get this from the drugs?" His voice held pain, incomprehension, and a growing anger.

  The doctor took a deep breath, trying to project as much calm as she could.

  "Bone-marrow suppression is always a risk when we use antibiotics on anyone. Generally, it's a small risk. Aplastic ane-mia seems to result from unknown, idiosyncratic sensitivities that aren't predictable. We can, however, predict that an ear infection can lead to deafness and further, worse complica-tions if untreated. The benefits far outweighed the risks. Even so-"

  "Couldn't you," Karen asked in a subdued voice, "have used something safer?"

  "We used the antibiotic with the safest record. I'm sorry that this happened. I want you to know that spontaneous recovery of bone-marrow function can and does occur in these cases." David's voice was close to trembling. His right leg, foot perched on one of the bed's lower braces, jerked nervously, like some animal ready to take flight out of anger or terror. "Well," he said tightly, "what are you doing about it?"

  "We're keeping her in reverse isolation to prevent any op-portunistic infections. We're providing supportive care. Intra-venous fluids, glucose, proteins, blood transfusions. If not for the obvious problem, a bone-marrow transplant would be the surest solution."

  Karen responded to the mention of a problem by placing her other hand on David. He held her even tighter.

  "What problem?" she asked.

  "Bone-marrow transplants require a very close match be-tween donor and recipient. That's why the donor is usually a very close relative. A brother or sister. Mother or father. Karen's eyes filled with tears. "I'll do anything to save my baby. What do I have-" Then she saw Dr. Fletcher slowly shak-ing her head.

  Karen's words ceased as if she had been punched in the throat. The sickening realization swept over her that Renata was not her baby. She was not the mother. She never had been. And now, when Renata lay in life-threatening danger, she could offer no help at all.

  Karen fought against the swirling black faint that pulled her down into the bed sheets. Needs her mother, she thought, needs her mother. The words choked her soul. David's hands, mas-saging hers, felt hot and distant. She took a deep breath.

  "Where is her mother?" Karen asked with forced steadiness.

  Fletcher shook her head sadly. Stepping over to the door, she closed and locked it. She returned to the bed and reached across to close the baby drawer. Her voice was low, under-standing, but firm.

  "You know the terms of the contract. No one is ever to know that the child is not yours. Especially not the donor mother."

  Karen stared with incomprehension. "Even if it costs this baby her life?"

  "I'm sorry, that's-"

  "It's a contract with no teeth," David said. "It relies on our good faith, on our being so happy with the baby that we wouldn't dare risk it being taken away. But that's not the case with Renata." He grabbed Fletcher's arm. "Her life's in danger. I don't care what happens to us. I jus
t want her to live." Dr. Fletcher maintained her low tone. "It's not just a ques-tion of custody. I told you that the transoptive technique was experimental. I told you that the donor mother had come in for an abortion. What I didn't tell you is that she thought she was getting an abortion. The donor didn't know that her fetus would be transplanted."

  The pair gazed at Fletcher in silence. David breathed faster, trying to suppress shock and anger. The doctor made a men-tal note to watch for signs of hyperventilation. Karen's face paled to the color of the pillowcase into which her head sank.

  "You didn't tell her?" she said in a dulled monotone.

  "If we went to the mother with this news," Fletcher said, "the repercussions would be enormous. It would put every-one involved into jeopardy." Her voice grew urgent. "The state could imprison us, seize Renata, and ruin our lives. Contact with the donor is out of the question." She stood to turn her back to them, taking a deep breath and longing for escape. One sick child threatened to demolish all her work, her entire career, which had culminated in the reckless action that had saved Renata's life in the first place.

  "I don't understand," Karen said softly.

  "What?" Fletcher said, turning around to face them. She sniffed sharply, took a breath, and tried to maintain a doctorly attitude.

  Karen searched Fletcher's face for a sign of compassion. "I don't understand why you've done all this. You-you do all this research and study to perform fertility operations. And then you try something that no one else has ever done before just to help me have a baby. You must have some overwhelming re-gard for human life. Then how can you value the life of an unborn child so much that you'll go through all this to save it, yet let it die a few hours after it's born?"

  The doctor shook her head. A pressure built up inside her, ready to burst.

  "Isn't that," Karen asked, "the mirror image of an abortionist's view?" Evelyn surrendered to the tears that ached inside her. She wept for the memory of her own lost child, for the fatal choice she had made at an age when her body was that of a woman's but her soul was unprepared for a woman's existence.

  David watched her stand with her head buried in one hand. He glanced at his wife. She nodded, releasing his hand. He brought a chair over to the side of the bed and helped the woman into it.