The Ice Scream Man

by Salmon, J. F.

  “I didn’t mean it was your fault, honey.”

  “It’s not anybody’s fault,” Brad said. “I don’t think anyone has ever come across anything like this before. This to my knowledge is a first, but it doesn’t stop there.” Brad swapped the x-ray to show Sardis’ teeth. “It’s a comparable story with her teeth.”

  Brad covered a similar explanation; a rush to grow, the bone tricked, an amalgamation of enamel and bone, no distinguishing roots, blood supply, and sensitivity.

  Suzanne’s mind drifted to thoughts about what it would mean to have the nails and teeth surgically removed but judging from what Brad was telling her, it would require major surgery that could carry on well into her teens, and beyond. Also, there were no guarantees they wouldn’t grow back, and what would replace them, artificial nails? And the considerable discomfort that Sardis would undoubtedly suffer was enough to dissuade Suzanne dwelling on it any further. Besides, family and friends largely agreed, the more time spent in her company, the less noticeable her imperfections became. Some even concurred they enhanced her beauty. Sardis’ perfect imperfections were just that, perfect, and Suzanne made the decision to leave them well enough alone.

  “. . . from the university and the x-rays taken at the hospital, no one is putting two and two . . . .”

  The time would come when Sardis could make these decisions for herself; by then advances in technology and medical practice would open up new possibilities not in existence today. Suzanne realised her only reason to consider surgery was to protect Sardis from the ignorance of other people in her life, those who would view her as flawed and want to hold that against her, an easy target for the bullies foolish enough to chastise her—her with the capability to grasp and kill prey.

  “This doesn’t need to go any further, but I would like to check on her from time to time.”

  Suzanne spied the x-ray of Sardis’ teeth, again it looked unusual. There was no distinction between the jaw bone and the teeth breaking through the surface of the gum. Suzanne looked away, her eyes focused on the back of Sardis’ head.

  “. . . in touch with an excellent dentist when the time is right. . . .”

  How did Brad just describe her teeth? Her mind was still trying to catch up, but she thought he’d used words like canine or feline, and, bite, puncture, rip, gnash, gnaw, nibble, and tear. It all might have made more sense to Brad had he known of Sardis’ origin. Unknown to him, he was providing them with more of her survival equation but only Suzanne proficiently added it up.

  “There is one other important matter I need to discuss with you both. It’s of a somewhat sensitive nature. . . .”

  That “rush to grow” had aided Sardis’ survival in a biome of unimaginable climatic conditions. Animal parts in the septic tank, veterinary slices of organ, and other tissue soaked in around her, manifesting a fertilised fusion of animal and human DNA. That’s what really happened. Brad referred to them as claws, used to grasp, to guide the food into her mouth, and break it down with tiny cutting teeth into digestible pieces. Tiny cutting teeth, Brad must have just said it!

  “—sanne . . . .”

  She’d watched Sardis do it, feed herself from what surrounded her in the septic tank. As ridiculous and improbable as she imagined, she couldn’t shake the possibility that Sardis was—at least to some level—part animal. She didn’t behave like an animal, lick food from a saucer, or dig her nails into the leg of a chair and stretch her back up against it, nor crawl about the house biting the furniture. But the more Suzanne learned, the more Sardis became another part of someone or something else. Suzanne illogically worried that without the envelopment of her own DNA, how much influence could she propose over her daughter’s life when Sardis’ biological make-up conceivably had more to do with animals than with her?

  “Susanne, did you hear what I just said?” Brad’s voice had gone up an octave.

  Suzanne broke her gaze from the back of Sardis’ head and noted Alex staring at her. His face looked pale and unfamiliar.

  Suzanne then looked at Brad, who was sombre. He held her gaze waiting for an answer.

  “Sorry, Brad, what did you say?” Her voice cracked.

  “Your urine sample, Suzanne. You’re pregnant.”

  41:

  “Jelly baby.”

  It wasn’t planned. The pregnancy, it wasn’t planned, they weren’t even trying. They’d given up. An improbable occurrence the doctors had told them, their words resonated in numbness. They’d repeated their claim, earnestly shaking insinuating heads to express it wouldn’t happen again, and concluded it regrettable but best for Suzanne’s health, both physically and mentally. Brad Mullins concurred upon his own examination; reluctantly, Alex did, too, he being the one to pick up the pieces or live with them. That’s why it came with the shock of a stun gun when Brad delivered the news.

  Four months on and Suzanne and Alex became expectant, day by day, tensions subsided ever so slightly, and as the pregnancy grew they dared to dream names. Previous pregnancies never made it past week thirteen. She did everything right in preventative measures, took vitamin supplements, balanced her diet, didn’t smoke or take drugs, stopped drinking wine and caffeine, allowed for moderate exercise, and even abstained from sexual intercourse (which meant no Morning Sex of any description), and was not on antidepressants—they only came afterward.

  The ultrasound exam two weeks previous identified no complications—every twenty-one days—but there was never a feeling of assurance, always a sense that something could happen at any time. Hormonal or chromosomal abnormalities could cause tissue rejection or her body’s immune system might act against itself and attack the growing foetus.

  Anxious hope twisted in a cocktail of “what-ifs.” What if, this time, she was permitted to go all the way, carry to full term, and deliver a beautiful baby? They’d always dreamed of having two (it didn’t matter how they came into the world), a younger brother or sister for Sardis to love and protect. They would be a close family, tight. Why else would God sanction such a miracle, if it wasn’t a miracle meant to be? Or, what if God’s only reasoning was to resurrect the torcher cycle in a bid to punish them both for something that happened in a past life; over, and over, and over, and over, and conceivably over again! She prayed hard for that not to happen; they both did. What in this world or of another could be so cruel to allow for a fifth consecutive episode, unless they had been Bonnie and Clyde, flippantly shooting and killing those who did not matter to them? “Payback time.” Yet, Suzanne never felt inherently bad.

  But surely this latest development, this miracle, was “God’s good work”—everybody knows God is incapable of bad work— slapping a holy hand across the Devil’s visage. Who really pulls the string up there? Who takes responsibility for all the bad things? Is it as simple as faith, the repetitive answer to all things unknown? Never before in the history of mankind has a “word” settled so much by solving nothing.

  Why do bad things happen to good people? Why did my babies have to die?

  Or is it nothing more than a sophisticated board game to pass away the hours of eternity. Good versus Evil, Catastrophe versus Fortune between two narcissistic adversaries. God or the Devil, good or bad, black or white, it really didn’t matter who was who, who played what, strategies plotted, steered to place, equal rules to begin, a game to win or lose. . . .

  “Whose go is it?” God asked the Devil, or was it the Devil said to God?

  “It’s mine. You just sent Algeria into the last sixteen of the FIFA world cup finals.”

  “Oh, yeah, so I did. Well, a lot of the players and fans were openly worshiping on the pitch and in the stands, nice. I liked it.”

  “I’ve not used a disaster in a while.”

  “Which one are you leaning toward?”

  “Not sure, maybe this one. . . . Yes, I’ll go with this one.”

&
nbsp; “How many have you got in your hand?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “I was hoping for that one. Didn’t think you’d get it. Now I’m a bit stumped.”

  “Well, pick a card, my friend.”

  “Nope, doesn’t help. So, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, before I do something good. I’m going to respond with this little number. Nothing too brutal for your taste, I’m afraid, but I’ve added a little twist I think you’ll appreciate.”

  “You still get points.”

  “That’s true, my friend. Now feast your eyes on this beauty. . . .”

  Scarcer were the times when Suzanne felt more relaxed than when adding charm to the cottage and it was high time they spruced up the exterior. Everything had to be perfect in anticipation for the new arrival. Unfortunately, the soil either side of the veranda steps was durable. An abundance of stone prevented the shovel performing, a disappointing start for her plan to plant a few flowers and shrubs. Swapping the shovel for the pitchfork merely necessitated additional minutes of generous effort before she decided to abort the dig. The risk, though small, was far too great and overpowered her will to continue. Alex, at Suzanne’s request, finished the ploughing a couple of days later than when he said it would be finished.

  Now, back from the garden centre, excited by her purchases, and wearing the appropriate attire of dark green Wellington boots over faded blue jeans and a light waterproof green jacket zipped to the neck to keep the drizzle from chilling her bones, Suzanne was ready to transform the adjacent plots.

  A friendly horticultural worker advised the best plants and shrubs for purpose while she pushed sleeping Sardis around in the pram, the clear plastic hood shielding her from the drizzle. She settled for five varieties of foliage: ones that would hold their leaves, have a nice mix of colour, and not grow to obstruct the view of the landscape from her red bench. She bought two of each plant to give symmetry between each plot. It was a good time for planting, the horticulturist told her, the damp air conducive to good soil saturation.

  Suzanne stood back a distance, eyeing the plants still in their pots above the soil where she intended to plant. Sardis was fed and left inside in the warmth to sleep in the pram. It was difficult to overlook the streaks of stone scattering the boundaries of the dig, testament to Alex’s less-than-noble effort. He must have known this would upset her. Did he seriously expect her to gather up all those stones? In her condition! Was he stupid, or what? Didn’t he care? How could he walk away and leave the ground in such a state? A half-arsed job, that’s what it was, no other word for it. It irritated the shit out of her. She should have inspected it when he said he had finished. But seriously, did she really have to think of everything? Probably so, if she wanted to avoid feeling pissed off on such a pissy-wissy wet day. It was lucky for him, perhaps for her, too, that he was working. And that very thought calmed her down: Of course he cared, just not always in the way that she would have liked.

  Alex was doing well, making a real effort, working his rounds, seeking new business and winning back some of the old contracts he’d lost two years ago. And from what Suzanne could tell—he wouldn’t dare lie to her again—things were getting better. Thanks to a viable new partnership with a contemporary new waste management company, Alex could compete competitively again. Between the two of them, with Suzanne working part time at the hospital, they were again taking home a reasonable income. And that meant the tank was gone, thank God, but it didn’t mean Sardis’ food source had gone with it. There was always one red bag kept in cool storage—not from any vet’s, mind you, she couldn’t have any of that—her dietary habits had not quite been quenched.

  Satisfied with her choice of plants and their arrangement, Suzanne carefully removed the pots from the wet soil and began interspersing the first of two fertiliser bags she’d coaxed into the wheelbarrow from the boot of the car. The earth beneath her feet was soft and clumped to the soles of her boots as she plodded backward and forward, tossing the fertiliser with her hands. She grew relieved, glad that Alex hadn’t been there to snap at, because, to be fair to him, he did do a good job clearing out the majority of stones. So much so, she stomped around in what felt like a pair of platform boots. All too often she stopped to rake the inches of muck from the soles with her fingertips and flick the sodden clumps back to the earth. It wasn’t surprising, then, the amount of mud she trailed up and down the veranda’s steps while checking on Sardis, who by now had woken up out of her pram and was playing nonchalantly in the living room in her playpen. It was the fifth time Suzanne kicked off her boots by the door and quietly entered the kitchen to surprise her daughter and have a little fun spying on her before making her presence known.

  Sardis sat in the playpen fiddling with the construction of a few building blocks that she cleverly pieced together in ragged order. Suzanne admired her from the cover of the partitioned wall in the kitchen then made a few discreet sounds until Sardis turned her head, visibly glad to see her.

  “Come, Mum.”

  Suzanne stood out from the wall but made no attempt to move toward her. Smiling, she said, “What Sardis, what do you want?”

  Sardis stretched her right arm out toward Suzanne. “Mum”—the four fingers opened and closed simultaneously in the mitten—“Me, play.”

  “Do you want me to come over, Sardis?” Suzanne asked, still teasing as she walked slowly toward the playpen, amused at her daughter’s beckoning mannerisms and proud of the vowels she made. She was learning to speak, putting two- and three-word sentences together. She would have her first full sentence soon.

  “Mum, come.” Sardis stopped calling only when she stood over her and that made Suzanne laugh.

  “What have you got to show me, honey?”

  Sardis picked up the three-piece building block and held it up to her mother.

  “Who’s a clever girl, then?” She thought about taking Sardis’ mittens off to progress her play but decided to wait until she sewed the last of the shrubs and then she could keep an eye on her so she didn’t scratch herself. She stayed with her for a while, and then said, “Mummy will be back very shortly, honey, and we can both play together.”

  Suzanne stood several meters back to admire the bedding, her vision for the cottage one step closer to fruition. Once the grass on the verge regrew up through the trodden mud and the edges were clipped, it would look truly dreamy. All that remained was to leave out some of the heavy duty garden bags to rid the stones for Alex when he came home.

  She felt a little tired; stomping and planting in the mud had taken more out of her than she’d anticipated. The on-going drizzle progressed to light rain and she could feel the chill in the air as afternoon caught up with evening. She looked forward to getting indoors and out of her damp clothes, have a hot cup of herbal tea and spend time with Sardis before starting the dinner. Upon reaching the bottom step of the veranda, her right hand gripped the wooden rail and she lifted her left leg to ascend the first step—

  The artless pain struck with the carelessness of spilt paint across a near complete canvas. The cramping across her stomach was precipitous and unsympathetic. Only perseverance helped her up the steps and to the entrance of the kitchen, her first thought to get to the phone, call Alex, and get him home as soon as possible. In hunched-over haste she neglected to discard her boots when opening the door and with one step too far, the wet, muddy sole skated across the tiled floor. Her legs broke apart in an attempt to keep balance and she twisted to the ground with undue intensity that slammed her coccyx against the solid slate surface of the kitchen floor. Petrified wind escaped her lungs, blistering her throat and parching her mouth as it fled, and for a moment she was afraid to move, afraid to breathe in case she found she couldn’t. With brief relief she managed to push back on the palms of her hands and prop her back against the cupboard below the sink. The black slate was cold beneath her weig
ht, the phone, wired to the opposing wall was way out of reach, her mobile nowhere to be seen.

  With swelling distress, she grappled the hood off her head; the only thing it now sheltered her from was the fresh air returning to her lungs. She tried desperately to control her breathing, to regain her composure long enough to get back on her feet and make that all-important call to Alex. But she struggled to surpass her next breath.

  Deprived of relief, she remained fixed, worn with pain; proverbial awareness robbed her spirit and replaced it with pure trepidation. She hoisted her drenched green jacket, crumpled it about her waist, and examined between her legs. She didn’t have to wait for what she feared the most.

  The bleeding showed in the crotch of her cool blue jeans, just a few spots, and then the spots became a patch as the symptoms worsened and the trauma progressed to heavier bleeding. The cramping became stronger and constant. Severe lower back pain left her nauseas and her breasts felt numb. The signals abundant, all too clear, the spontaneous end of a pregnancy before fetal viability—before the stage of potential independent survival—the brutality of her loving God callously resurrecting her relationship with faith.

  It was only a few days ago, for the first time, when she’d bent down to put clothes in the washing machine and she’d felt the first delicate flutters of movement in her abdomen. She had looked it up: “quickening” they called it. She’d rushed eagerly to Alex and acquired his hand on her stomach. He touched quietly as if expecting to hear sound, gently rubbing her sweet swell. Then he said he felt something at a time when Suzanne felt nothing and ruined the moment by pretending to fall backward as if he’d been kicked from her stomach.

  The quickening had happened. But now this! She knew exactly what was taking place.