Analog SFF, October 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I thought about the question, and what might be behind it. “I'd probably want to,” I said. Then: “Would you come with me?"

  She held my gaze through red-rimmed eyes. “I'd probably want to,” she echoed, “but I don't think I could give up motherhood. At least not until I have one of my own."

  "One of your own? You mean, get a guardian license? Be the mother and the guardian?"

  "Why not? It's something I've always wanted to do."

  "Wouldn't there be some kind of conflict of interest?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. Women have done it for thousands of years."

  "Well, I guess. But if we moved somewhere else, you could find another agency."

  "Yes, with a hundred applicants for each opening. It wasn't easy to land the job I have. If I left this agency, I might never have another chance."

  I didn't answer for a moment. Then I said, “Those are the issues. Either we'd give each other up, or one of us would sacrifice career options. But Angie, it's all hypothetical. Let's wait until it happens before we lose any sleep."

  She gave me a watery smile. “There is someplace I'd like to go. For a long weekend."

  I was happy to change the subject. “Where to?” I said.

  "My 10-year high school class reunion, July 12th, in Buffalo."

  I groaned.

  "Come on. For me."

  "It'll be a nightmare. A room full of strangers trying to pretend they're years younger than they really are."

  "They're not strangers to me."

  "You'll be eight months pregnant then. Don't you have to stay near Philly?

  "It's three weeks before my due date. None of my babies have come early, and it's not like there are no doctors in Buffalo. Besides, I'm a certified midwife. If we get caught in a freak July snowstorm, I can deliver the baby myself."

  "You'll turn a few heads,” I said, nodding at her belly.

  "That's why I want to go. It'll be a scream."

  Her tone was light now, but I could sense the tears just under the surface.

  "We'll do it,” I said. “It's, what, a six-hour drive?"

  "About that. But I'd like to stop on the way and see my sister Lisa. She lives in a cabin up in the Poconos. I haven't seen her in over a year."

  "She lives alone?"

  "With a man, now, though I haven't met him. I think his name is Harold."

  "I'll be flying to California two weeks before that,” I said. “That's when my demo is scheduled. But I should be home well before the 12th."

  We talked about the trip for the rest of the meal. Angie didn't cry again. When we finished, I had to ask for a take-home box. Angie had cleaned her plate.

  At the end of June, I flew out to the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena, California to demo our ERV prototype to NASA execs. It was my first time at JPL, and I loved the environment: scientists and engineers at the top of their fields, every one of them thrilled at the prospect of sending a man to Mars. It would take years to accomplish, but everyone at JPL believed it could and would be done. I felt at home.

  The proposal process hit delays, however, and took longer than expected. Finally, on July 11th, the Exploration Program Office accepted our proposal for consideration, and I prepared to return home. I called Angie, and we arranged for her to meet me at the Philadelphia airport. We would drive straight from there to her sister's, and then on to Buffalo.

  I had just turned in my badge to the JPL security desk when one of the mission directors intercepted me. He was a giant in the community: a former astronaut and a leader in every significant space mission since Zeus.

  "I'm glad I caught you,” he said. “That was an impressive demo."

  I thanked him, waiting for his real purpose.

  "Listen,” he said, steering me toward some green plush chairs in the lobby, “we're not going to give the contract to your team."

  I gaped at him. I hadn't seen any of the demos from competing contractors, but I felt we had a strong proposal. How could a winning bid have been selected in only a few hours, without following the review board process?

  "It's a political decision,” he said. “Your company already won a big piece of the launch contract, and they want to spread the funds around, to promote future competition. It'll go through the review board as usual, but at the end of the day, the contract will go to another team."

  "Why are you telling me this?” I said.

  He smiled. “I don't like losing talent. I need engineers who understand the whole mission, not just isolated components. I think you do. In short, I want to hire you. You'd be on my staff, one of my firefighters, with input into the whole system. What do you think?"

  I felt blindsided. That my ERV design would be scrapped for political reasons made me furious, but the chance to be a serious player on the team that sent a man to Mars! How could I pass that up? But did I really want to be mired in an environment so governed by political concerns? And what about Angie?

  "Can I get back to you?” I said.

  "Yes, think about it,” he said. He pressed a business card into my hand. “Call me. Soon."

  I took the card. He stood. “As I said, an impressive demo."

  "Thanks,” I said.

  I walked out of the building, feeling dizzy. A senior technical position on a space mission! It would mean a higher salary, better benefits, but most importantly, the chance to be part of the action. To know every system, to be consulted on critical decisions, and finally to watch from the ground as the technology I designed made history.

  The problem was Angie. She'd as much as told me she wouldn't be willing to leave Philadelphia. Having a baby of her own meant that much to her. If I wanted this job, it might very well mean leaving her behind. Could I do that? I thought about nothing else the whole flight home, but when we touched down in Philly, I was no closer to a decision.

  * * * *

  Angie met me in the baggage claim area. She seemed twice the size she'd been when I'd left.

  "How's the baby?” I asked.

  "Enormous. It's hard to sleep anymore from the kicks and contractions."

  "Contractions?"

  "Not the real thing, just preliminary. It's my body getting warmed up."

  She seemed so happy. Despite her size, she seemed to float down the airport hallways, and she couldn't stop smiling. I fingered the business card in my pocket. I ought to tell her about the job offer right away, but I didn't want to spoil her mood. Maybe I could wait until the long car trip; she'd have a lot of questions, and it would be easier to talk once we were on the road.

  "So how did it go?” she asked.

  "Fine,” I said. “The people there are great. It was an exciting time to visit."

  She took my arm as we walked toward the parking lot. “You'll win the contract,” she said. “I know you will."

  We reached the lot, and there, neatly parked, was my Elation.

  "You brought my car?"

  "I thought you might prefer it. Since you're going to be doing all the driving."

  I hugged her. “Thank you,” I said. I'd been dreading six hours in her Cavalier.

  We climbed in, paid the machine at the gate, and set off on I-76 toward the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

  "So you're not sleeping?” I asked.

  "How well do you think you'd sleep with something the size of a bowling ball pressing down on your bladder?"

  I laughed. “You've only got another three weeks, though, right?"

  "Until my due date. But I've always gone late. I think all this discomfort is just my body's way of preparing my mind for labor. I get so tired of having this baby inside me that I actually look forward to it."

  To me, a relaxing road trip means soft jazz on the stereo, attractive scenery, and quiet, lazy hours. To Angie, it means constant conversation. She kept up a constant patter all the way up the Northeast Extension to I-81 in Scranton, then for another half-hour along I-84 East. I barely heard her. I kept thinking about the job offer, kept trying to find an appropriate
point in the conversation to bring it up. Maybe it was better to wait until I'd made a final decision; that way, if I decided to stay, she'd never have to know at all. But no, Angie and I had always communicated well; that's why our relationship worked. I had to tell her. But when we turned off I-84 at the Milford exit and headed north, I still hadn't said a thing.

  The road wound its way through woods and into higher elevation. The air grew cool and fresh. At a row of ten mailboxes, we turned left onto a bumpy dirt road. The aircar hovered smoothly, unaffected by the terrain.

  "I take back everything I ever said about your car,” said Angie. “It's a pregnant woman's dream. In my car, this road would kill me."

  "Which cabin is hers?"

  "It should be the last one on this road. About a quarter-mile down."

  We caught glimpses of a lake through the trees, its surface shimmering silver in the sunlight. I could see why people chose to live up here. It was beautiful. We'd just passed the ninth cabin when Angie said, “Ouch!"

  "What is it?"

  "I'm having a contraction."

  I stole a glance at her face. “Everything okay?"

  "Yes, no problem; it happens a lot now. Wow. Feel how tight my belly is."

  I reached over and felt the tense muscles.

  "Does it hurt?” I asked.

  "A little. It's mostly ... watch the road!"

  I looked up just in time to see it: a bridge floored with metal grating instead of concrete, the kind called “singing” bridges for the sound tires make on their surface. My car didn't have any tires. It was too late to stop. I floored the accelerator, hoping for enough momentum to reach the other side. We almost made it.

  It was a small bridge, no more than a twenty-foot span across a mossy brook, but its metal grid sliced through the car's air cushion like a cheese grater, and gravity took control. We struck the bridge surface nose-first, the force of the collision severing the supports on the far side. The bridge angled sharply, and we fell with it, scraping sparks down its length until we jolted into the stream.

  I couldn't hear. In some faraway place, I thought Angie was screaming, but I couldn't think why. A sign, why hadn't there been a sign to warn about the bridge? In most places, the advent of aircars had forced these bridges to be replaced, but apparently not many aircars made it up here. Maybe there had been a sign, and I hadn't noticed. It occurred to me that we were going to be late for the class reunion.

  My last thought before I blacked out was that my feet were getting wet.

  * * * *

  The car door wrenched open, and a beefy man with red hair shouted at me from a long distance. He took a handful of stream water and threw it in my face.

  "Are you hurt?” he shouted, and his voice sounded much louder this time. “Can you walk?"

  I stumbled out of the car into the knee-high stream. “Angie—where's Angie?"

  "In the house,” said the man. “Come on; I'm Harold.” He helped me climb the bank. I made it into the living room, a rustic affair that smelled of pine and fresh fish. Angie lay on her back on the couch, eyes wide, breathing like a panicked animal. Her sister hovered nearby, eyes just as large.

  "Are you hurt?” I asked Angie.

  She shook her head, breathing in gasps, and I saw that she clutched her stomach.

  "The baby? It's coming?"

  She nodded. “I'm afraid,” she said. Her chest rose and fell in ragged meter.

  I kneeled by her and took her hand. “Angela Turner,” I said, “you're a registered nurse and certified midwife. You told me you could deliver this baby in a snowstorm."

  "It's too soon,” she said between breaths. “My water broke in the crash. She's coming too soon."

  "It's not too soon,” I said. “Twenty percent of all births start in the 37th week, and there's no appreciable increase in risk. You're a bloody Amazon superwoman, remember? You can do this."

  She grimaced. “It's not nice to use my own words against me.” She turned to her sister. “Lisa, I need to use your bed. I'll need pillows, towels, a basin of water. Harold, call the nearest hospital and get an ambulance up here. Then boil a pair of scissors. Just in case."

  I helped her walk to the bedroom. She shuffled slowly, stopping once and groaning until the contraction passed. I saw that her belly hung much lower now than it had the day before. She lay on the bed and directed me to prop pillows behind her back, head, and under her legs.

  Harold stuck his head in. “They're on their way."

  "Tell them to be quick,” Angie grunted, “or they'll miss it."

  Minutes passed like hours. Angie rocked rhythmically in the bed, panting like someone running uphill. She kept her eyes shut. Lisa looked in several times, but never stayed. I wasn't even sure Angie knew I was there, she was so focused on what she was doing. I stood next to the bed, watching her, but I didn't know whether to touch her or leave her alone.

  The contractions grew longer and more intense. As another one began, Angie gasped, grabbed my hand, and started to moan. She held the moan like a note, drawing it out, her face taut with pain. When it passed, she said, “Talk to me."

  I had no idea what to say. “You're doing great,” I tried. “You can do this."

  "No, something else, talk to me about something else. Distract me."

  I thought hard. “You're going to miss your chance to shock your classmates,” I said. “And I'll miss my chance to slow dance with a pregnant woman. How many people there do you think..."

  "Okay, be quiet."

  "I thought you wanted..."

  "Shut up, just shut up! Sorry—she's coming!"

  Angie screamed. It was a ferocious sound, half-scream, half-growl: a feminine roar of determination. She bore down with every muscle in her body, her whole attention turned inward. Her face turned red and sweaty. I wanted to run and shout for the ambulance, but I couldn't leave her.

  When the contraction passed, she lay spent and gasping. “So fast,” she said. “It's never been this fast."

  Lisa came in. “The ambulance is here, but it can't get across the bridge. They want you to come out."

  "Too late,” said Angie, and screamed again. I'd never felt so helpless. I wanted to touch her, soothe her, make everything all right, but there was nothing I could do.

  Instead, I stood awkwardly by the bed, my hands by my side, and watched. Please, God, don't let her die. She screamed again and arched, the skin on her neck stretched tight across tendons and veins. I'd never seen such pain. There was something wrong. This couldn't be normal. She was dying; I could see she was going to die.

  Lisa stood frozen, gaping at her sister.

  "Get somebody in here!” I shouted.

  Lisa ran out. She nearly collided with a paramedic on his way in.

  "Ma'am, my name's Henry, and I'm on a special birthing team,” he said to Angie. “I'm just going to check and make sure everything's fine."

  I could have screamed at him. Couldn't he see she wasn't fine? He seemed almost cheerful as he snapped on rubber gloves, then examined Angie.

  "Good orientation,” he said. “It's past the turn. Won't be long now. Boy or girl?"

  Angie grunted. “A girl,” she said.

  I was astonished to hear her speak.

  "She's going to be all right?” I asked.

  "She'll be fine. It's almost over. Look, you can see the head."

  I looked and saw a cap of dark, wet hair. Amazed, I told Angie, “You're doing it. It's almost over. You're doing it."

  She gave a scream that curled her whole body into a muscular ball. At first, nothing happened, but then, all at once, the whole baby flooded into a towel in the paramedic's arms. He expertly cut the cord, wrapped the towel around the baby, and placed her on Angie's chest. The baby let loose a squeaky cry. Angie laughed.

  I cried. I didn't even notice at first. I was so overcome by relief that only later did I realize that my cheeks were wet.

  The baby crinkled her face and waved a tiny, clenched fist. She was wrinkle
d, bloody, and smeared with a white butter I knew from my readings was called vernix. Her eyes crossed. Hair sprouted from the tops of her ears.

  "She's beautiful,” said the paramedic. “A little blue, but I'd give her an APGAR of eight."

  I sat on the bed next to Angie and ran my fingers through her hair. “You did it,” I said.

  She grinned at me. “Want to hold her?"

  I took the wrinkled, bluish-brown baby and cradled her awkwardly. I'd expected the vernix to be slimy, but it had a pleasant texture: a little sticky, but soft.

  "That's good for her,” said Angie. “You can rub that into her skin."

  The baby started to cry. I walked her to the window, rocking her and whispering soothing words. I looked at her chubby arms, the folds of skin under her neck, the fine hair down her back, her dark, half-closed eyes. I counted her fingers and toes.

  Outside, the ambulance disgorged a stretcher and other paraphernalia. Two police cars parked alongside. A helicopter roared over the fallen bridge toward me and touched down next to the house. When the blades stopped churning, a blond, fortyish woman in a suit jumped out, followed by a man with a diaper bag and an infant car seat. The room began to fill with people I didn't know.

  The blond woman marched straight to Angie's bed. She was older than she appeared from a distance, with heavy make-up to hide it.

  "I don't know what to say to you,” she said in low, furious tones. “Tell me, what should I say to you?"

  "The baby's fine,” said Angie.

  "That's not the point. You signed a contract; you're expected to honor its terms."

  "The contract allows for travel."

  "Within easy reach of a hospital! What do you call this?” The woman threw out her hands, indicating the cabin.

  "There was an accident."

  "I saw. I heard. Why do you think I'm here? Where's the baby?"

  Angie pointed to me. “There. She's fine."

  "Good thing. You were lucky."

  The blond woman held out her hands toward me. I stared at her. She wanted me to give her the baby. After all I had just seen, after all Angie had endured, this stranger wanted to breeze in and take Angie's baby away.

  "You're going to take her in a helicopter?” I asked.