by Victor Koman
"Hello?" her voice said.
"Good evening," said another man's voice. "I'm-"
"Oh, hi! You have reached Ron and Valerie's place..."
Following the tone, the caller, obviously annoyed at having been tricked by the recording, said, "My name is Bobby Roy Jensen, and I heard about you on the TV. I know you must be going through a terrible crisis, and I considered it my Chris-tian duty to offer you Bible counseling during your time of troubled decision. Please call me at Klondike five four-one-eight-oh. If you need immediate help, please turn to psalm eighty-eight, especially verse te-"
The recorder's thirty-second timer ran out, cutting him off. The phone rang again. This time the message activated on the first ring. Valerie numbly listened to it play through, waiting for the caller's message as if she were tuned in to a radio drama.
There was no message. The caller hung up. The phone rang again a few seconds later.
"I think you're a real sick bitch," said a man's voice tinged with the slur of alcohol. "You and your money-hungry boy-friend. You live in sin and try to kill your bastard to cover up your evil, but you got tricked, didn't you, and now you try to gouge some money out of it."
She listened to the voice in a nauseated, drifting blur of un-reality. The world was invading her bedroom, and it was a world of hate and invective directed at her.
"Whaddayou want your baby back now," the voice rambled, "after you'd given it up for dead? `Cuz there's a buck in it? Or is your boyfriend running for office? Your kind makes me-" When the tape cut off, the caller rang again. At the sound of his voice Valerie reached out to switch off the unit's monitor. Then she walked slowly through the house, turning the switches on all the telephones to silence. The messages would accumulate, but she wouldn't have to hear them. In the silence, the words of the last message echoed relent-lessly in her mind. She'd given up her baby months ago when it was nothing more than a little blob of tissue. Just a potential baby. Now that it was real, did she have any right to demand it back? Did the money matter? Why did Ron put that in the law-suit? She understood that it was a way to make the defendants sit up and take notice, but it all seemed so venal. All she wanted was Jennifer.
Someone knocked at the door. She ignored it. Whoever it was rang the doorbell again and again.
"Stop it!" she screamed. Running to the bathroom, she seized a thick green towel and ran to the foyer. She rammed folds of cloth between the hanging chimes, deadening the sound to the muffled thunk of the solenoids.
The thunking stopped suddenly, accompanied by a flare of camera lights and flashes, a scuffling sound on the front steps, and a familiar voice shouting, "Get the hell off!" Ron quickly entered, closing and locking the door behind him. He hugged Valerie with fierce intensity.
Through sobs and tissues she told him about their hour apart. He guided her to the bedroom, where he laid her down on the covers and helped to undress her.
"And the really awful part of it was those phone calls." She looked at Ron as he pulled her blouse off.
"I don't want to go through with this, Ron. Can't we just let them have the baby?" Ron helped her under the sheets and pulled the comforter over her before answering. She could tell that he was mar-shaling his thoughts for a convincing, logical statement.
"Val, you know I love you and I don't want to put you through any pain. But what Dr. Fletcher did to you is just unconscio-nable."
He pulled off his turtleneck and jeans, undressing quickly to slide into bed beside her. "Doctors can't be allowed to treat women and children like experimental cattle. She can't go around taking babies as if they were livestock to be sold to the highest bidder. That sort of thinking leads to political eugen-ics. To breeding and killing programs for the good of the state or the good of the race. Dr. Fletcher may think she has the noblest of motives, but she's really no different from a Nazi scientist-" Valerie buried her head in Ron's arm and cried, her tears hot and unyielding.
"This will be a very important case, Val. A landmark deci-sion. I have to be the lawyer who sees this through, who makes sure it never happens again. Don't you understand that?" She stopped crying. A drunken voice reverberated at the back of her mind.
"Or is your boyfriend running for office?"
"You'd be famous," she said softly.
"Remember," he whispered, "what my dad always used to say about doing well by doing right? It's right to fight for your baby, and we'll be rewarded for it by a jury of good people." Without a word, Valerie rolled over to stare silently at the wall.
XI
"This will be the easiest case I've ever had." Terence Johnson's voice sounded bright and cheerful in Evelyn's ear. She had only just a few minutes before hung up from her conversation with Valerie.
"I've been thinking about it over dinner," he continued, "and I know that after a few days, when all the facts come out on this, there'll be a broad base of support for you."
Fletcher stretched out on her bed, pulled the covers over her, and curled up with the phone. Exhausted, not looking forward to the marrow job tomorrow, she shared little of the young lawyer's enthusiasm.
"If I had seen any such support among my colleagues," she said, "I wouldn't have worked in secret." Johnson's voice tutted dismissively. "Doctor's are a stodgy bunch. Don't you see how transoption cuts across the tradi-tional divisions? The antiabortionists will cheer you because you've finally found a way to save the lives of all those unborn babies. And the pro-choice feminists will applaud you because you're giving women the freedom to terminate a pregnancy without the stigma of death that has always surrounded abor-tion. Free choice without guilt. Babies saved without oppres-sion of women. You've brought the world to a new pinnacle of civilization. Single-handedly, you-"
"Since I seem to have taken you on as my lawyer in all this," she said levelly, "what exactly am I paying you?"
His tone returned to earth from its stratospheric courtroom excesses. "Oh, just expenses. The other guy is doing this for the publicity, so can I. In fact, I probably have lower overhead."
"Why?"
"I'm unemployed."
"Unemp-" She cut the word off. "Just what legal experi-ence do you have?"
"Well, I passed the bar last year."
"Yes."
"And before that I worked as a paralegal while at law school."
"And after your bar?"
"There are a lot of amoral and immoral law firms out there, Dr. Fletcher." His voice took on a curiously cautious tone. "I have yet to find anyone who views the law the way I do. It was hard enough to get through law school. I had to keep my opin-ions to myself and just parrot back what the profs told us. Study section was the place where conformity of opinion really got bullied into... Why am I telling you this? You've been through med school."
Fletcher smiled at the memories of her own run-ins with professors and facilitators at every stage of the hierarchy in her teaching hospital. She rolled over on her side, switching the phone to her other ear.
"So you've never really practiced law, have you?"
"I've practiced a lot. Now I want to do it."
"And your plans for this trial?"
"Character witnesses. Expert witnesses. Convince the jury that transoption is literally a giant step forward in human rights and that all who understand it agree."
Fletcher said nothing for a moment, then, "You know where to reach me." After she switched off the phone, she stared at the darkness, where the ceiling hung, until sleep enveloped her.
"
Valerie faced the morning with a dread that approached ter-ror. She lay on the bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of vehicles stopping in front of her house. She would have to penetrate that wall. And another at the hos-pital.
Ron stepped out of the bathroom, vigorously drying his hair and beard. "You understand why I can't go with you," he said.
"No," she said without emotion.
"I've got to get the ball rolling on this lawsuit. The other side's probably
going to try to stall for as long as possible, tak-ing the full thirty days to demur, so I've got to be ready to get it to trial ASAP. And I've got to assemble witnesses, prepare a strategy for jury selection, rearrange my schedule-"
"I understand. You'll be busy."
"Val," he said, sitting on the bed to lay an arm on her shoul-der. His dark eyes gazed at her with firm intensity. "It's good that you're going. If the baby has to have a bone-marrow trans-plant, I'm behind you all the way. It can only help the case if we cooperate in every way with her medical needs. But we can't let that sap our momentum."
"It's supposed to hurt. A lot."
He hugged her. "Honey, I'll be there. You'll be spending the night at the hospital, right?"
"Right."
"So I'll be there after five." He kissed her cheek tenderly. "Just relax and concentrate on saving our little girl."
He escorted her to the Porsche. The reporters flashed pic-tures, shouted questions, and pointed their videocams. Wisely, they stayed on the other side of the property line.
"How do I get past them?" she whispered.
"Just tell them that you can't comment on the case but that all you're interested in is seeing your baby get the medical care she needs." He shut the door with a firm push. "Drive carefully and remember-The press can be our best friends in this."
She pulled slowly out of the driveway. A crush of newshounds encircled the vehicle, thrusting microphones into the half-low-ered window.
"What did you feel when you found out your baby hadn't been aborted?"
"Can you explain what's wrong with the baby?"
"Why do you want her back?"
"What name do you have picked out for her?"
"What do you feel toward the surrogate mother?"
Valerie just said, "I want my baby to be healthy," and rolled up the window.
"How sick is she?"
"Did you foresee your decision to abort having such reper-cussions?"
"How do you feel helping the doctor who did this to you?"
She rammed her foot on the accelerator and peeled away.
The newspaper and radio teams hastened to form a convoy behind her, leaving the TV crews to tape wrapup segments using the house as a backdrop.
The trip down the hill toward Harbor City unnerved Valerie. Trying to concentrate on the simple act of driving, she none-theless kept gazing into the rearview mirror in an effort to observe the cars and vans behind her. She counted six, sev-eral sporting the logo of a radio station or newspaper. Curious glances from drivers and passengers in other lanes made her blush with embarrassment and fury. She pulled into the medical center's north parking lot after a quick survey of the entrance. The line of protesters was longer than ever. Several policemen stood at the periphery, quietly watching the proceedings, making their presence tangibly felt with that projected mixture of self-assurance and mortal threat that members of their profession so effectively exude.
As soon as she parked her car, reporters surrounded it, quickly joined by the others from the convoy.
"Ms. Dalton-Why are you here?"
"Is it true the baby needs an organ transplant?"
"Do you think you'll be a fit mother?"
"Did you want an abortion because you weren't married?"
"Why aren't you pressing criminal charges?"
"Can you get us inside to see Renata?"
She found it impossible to move away from her car. They had her surrounded by an impassable wall of polyester and power cables. Her breath stopped. Ahead of her she saw a tiny pinpoint of scintillating darkness appear. It grew, expanding across her field of vision as something drummed in her ears with growing power. She remembered having fainted in the cafeteria and welcomed the feeling as an escape that would temporarily solve her problems.
A huge hand reached out of the shimmering blackness to seize her arm. Another equally massive hand shoved some-thing under her nose. The sharp odor of ammonia brought her to with a startling memory of her mother cleaning the kitchen floor. Just a flash of that lovely, sweet face laboring with a sponge mop and a pail and then the crowds returned.
This time, though, she was in motion.
The beefy pair of arms, clad in white, served double duty. The left arm held her by her right upper arm as the right plowed a path through the reporters, huge elbow out like a powerful wedge driving through the field of inquiring minds.
The arms were attached to a singularly huge brute, nearly as wide as he was tall. Topped with close-cropped platinum hair that curled like the wool of a highland sheep, the face was contorted by the sneering smile of a man who enjoyed this sort of confrontation and probably did not get to see it often enough.
"Move it or lose it," bellowed a deep voice with an unplaceable accent. The speed of their progress stunned Valerie. They glided through the crowd, which-though small-replenished itself from rear to front as they moved.
"You'll be all right, ma'am," the deep voice reassured. "They sent me out to get you. Doc Fletcher figured you'd be bothered by these guys."
The elbow threatened, swung, cut swaths through the re-porters, never hitting, barely touching. They all quite profes-sionally avoided getting bruised.
"The name's Mason, ma'am. Johnny Mason." He charged with her toward the line of protesters. "I'll be around to take you back through tomorrow." He turned his head to smile at her. Under a gnarled brow framed by thick silver eyebrows, emerald eyes smiled as his fighter's lips twisted into a grin. "I used to be a movie-star bodyguard before I became an orderly."
He elbowed the chest of a particularly obstinate paparazzo. "It was tough leaving show business, but I knew medicine was my calling."
Mason and Valerie moved almost as one into the thick of the pickets. They all stopped what they were doing to stare at the woman and her burly escort. Most gazed at her, not knowing how to react. Were they to hate her because she had wanted an abortion or support her because she came to save her baby? Or vice versa?
Rather than make a hasty decision, they simply stared.
Valerie saw a few of their signs as Mason rammed through the gap that opened to let them pass. Bayside University Steals Babies.
Abortion Is Murder-Transoption Is Kidnapping.
One sign merely read: I Cor. 1:28.
There were more signs than she could read before the entry doors swung open to admit the pair into the reception area. They breezed past everyone, Mason leading her into Dr. Fletcher's office.
"Sit down and take a rest, ma'am," Johnny said. "That little girl in there needs you in the best health." He smiled gently and patted her on the shoulder with a thick, soft hand.
Valerie thanked him and lowered herself into the brown vi-nyl easy chair. Dr. Fletcher entered a moment later, crisp white lab coat over baggy hospital greens. She looked calm. Without any en-mity in her voice, she said, "Good morning, Valerie." Valerie hesitated a moment before replying. "Good morn-ing, Dr. Fletcher. I-I just want to let you know-"
Fletcher held up her hand. "Please. I understand your posi-tion, and I accept it. Let's separate that from why we're here. There's a little baby down the hall who's in great danger. Usu-ally there's enough time for me to confer with prospective donors and give them a few days to think things over. As it is, I'm going to explain the procedure to you and give you only a few minutes to consider.
"A bone-marrow transplant is far easier on the recipient than the donor. What we'll do when we have the bone marrow is inject it into Renata's bloodstream. The stem cells will find their way to her bone-marrow cavities and set up shop, turn-ing out the three kinds of cells she needs. It will take anywhere from two to four weeks, though, for us to be sure that all three cell lines have taken hold and are producing."
Valerie reclined a bit in her seat, unconsciously worrying at the nail on her left index finger. All her nails were in disre-pair, opalescent polish chipped and dull, but the left index had cracked near the quick. She levered the nail back and forth gently, without even noticing her action.
"What happens then?"
"Then we'll know whether she'll be all right or whether we have to try again." Evelyn shifted in her seat, craving a ciga-rette. "The marrow creates the red blood cells, the white cells of the immune system, and the platelets that are essential for blood coagulation. If any one of those three is missing, life is impossible. We already have to keep her in reverse isolation to prevent others from infecting her. Luckily, her infant's di-gestive system lacks the bowel flora that could turn deadly in such a condition. That's why a transplant is of crucial impor-tance."
"That's why I'm here," Valerie said, puzzled.
"I hope that's why," Fletcher said, "because a bone-marrow transplant is a far greater trial for the donor."
Valerie's nail snapped between her fingers.
"
She lay on the table in the same small operating room where, months ago, her baby had been taken from her. Entering the room, she caught memories of the operation, flashes of re-membrance that caused her to tremble with fear and anger. She steeled her nerves and concentrated on a mental image of Renata lying helpless in her electronic cradle. She stared over-head at the red-brown spot on the ceiling. Its familiar pres-ence comforted her. Amidst all the madness of the past two days, it had appeared to her, when she lay down, as a steady, old friend. All the activity that must have taken place in here between March and October had not changed it. Scores of women must have stared up at the ceiling. Had any of them seen it? Could any of them have missed it?
She felt a kinship with all of them, all the women who had given up their unwanted children to Evelyn Fletcher. What were they thinking about at this moment, hearing the news of transoption?
As Dr. Fletcher explained it, this would be a simple but slow operation, assisted only by Nurse Dyer and an anesthetist. Nurse Dyer looked different. Valerie realized that the tall woman wore a minimal amount of makeup today. The pants and short-sleeved shirt of hospital greens showed beneath her lab coat instead of a dress. She could not have had a good night last night, Valerie thought, and probably wasn't expecting one tonight.
