by Various
You hunch down and wait for them. A violet hand, surprisingly warm, grips your shoulder.
“Oil Thigh na Banrighinn,” murmurs the Purple. As though it’s sad.
“A’Banrighinn,” echo the others. And there’s a slow, rhythmic thunk of jackets on the ground.
Not an attack. A dirge. They are mourning with you.
You bury your face in the Purple’s shoulder and weep.
Written Component, Part 5
Q. Do you think you have passed your exam?
A. I think I have survived.
I think Non-Mind is the wrong name for them.
They’re not safe. Their minds are not like our minds.
But sometimes they are just close enough.
Tory Hoke became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “The Baby Mimic” in Crowded Magazine (Aug. 2013), edited by Baden Chant and Ethan Fode.
Visit her website at www.thetoryparty.com.
* * *
Short Story: “The Baby Mimic” ••••
Short Story: “The Demeter Gyro Disaster” ••••
Short Story: “Shaka Bars” ••••
THE BABY MIMIC
by Tory Hoke
First published in Crowded Magazine (Aug. 2013), edited by Baden Chant and Ethan Fode
• • • •
THE WORST investment in our whole portfolio happens to be the one I’m most proud of. Sure, it’s been torture. It’s gobbled our resources and kept me up at night. But the ends always justify the means, even if no one dares to say so.
Nora and Greg Malloy would agree. Now that they’re done with it, anyway.
I met them on a muggy Wednesday evening at the Greenleaf Adoption office. The interview room was claustrophobic, beige, with a view of the parking lot and one depressed Bradford Pear.
I liked the Malloys at once. Well-heeled. Healthy. Vulnerable as a box of puppies. We swapped handshakes and gripes about the weather.
“Can’t wait for this heat to break!” I said.
“I know!” they said.
Natural.
They settled in the little plastic chairs. I spread their file on the desk and asked them, “Would you consider an older child?”
It gave them pause. They didn’t know me. Just like they didn’t know Chad last week, Jen last month or Javier the month before. I was just “Amy,” the latest social worker, the latest person with twill pants and bad news.
“Our specifications are firm,” said Nora. She was thin. She had a chin-length bob and long, expensive teeth.
“I’m not trying to change your mind,” I said. “I just want to hear your answer. Will you consider an older child?”
Nora looked at Greg. He had a lone island of hair on his forehead, a button-down shirt and jeans so out-of-date they were fashionable again. She nodded at him as if to say, you take this one.
“We want to share some firsts with the child,” said Greg. “And for the child to have some time to adjust. Before middle school. And all that.”
“We know any child comes with baggage,” added Nora. “We just want more years to connect. Before.”
“‘Age zero to five’,” I read. “Narrow target.”
“We know the right child is out there,” said Nora, putting a hand on her heart. “And everything’s in order. Our finances, our home study.”
“I see that,” I said. “And I’m delighted to tell you this makes you ideal candidates for a pilot study on attachment.”
“Attachment?” she said.
“We’re working with the Larentia Institute for Child Development.” I pulled out a brochure for them: a happy family on a happy beach, swinging a little boy by the arms. “We’re studying how a parent bonds with a child not biologically theirs. We want to give our adoptees what they’ve never had. We believe this study will provide the key.”
“Sounds worthwhile,” said Greg. Warm. Noncommittal.
“If you participate,” I said, “you could be prioritized for child placement.” I pulled on my words to make it sound illicit. Illicit was promising.
Nora opened the brochure.
“What would we have to do?” she asked.
“You would be given a neonate mimic device,” I said. I showed them the device binder. On the cover: a newborn baby swaddled in white. All they saw was a ruddy prune face and a cotton cap. They couldn’t have seen the five years of R&D. Seven prototypes. $15 million siphoned from the unmanned aircraft contract.
“Yours won’t look quite like this one, of course,” I said. “This is just a sample.”
“It’s not real?” asked Nora.
“It’s as real as it needs to be.”
Nora flipped the pages to more babies: pink, olive, golden brown. “My God!” she said.
“You’ll have your device for eight weeks. You’ll bring it in every week for data collection. And one more thing. Something for you to consider, Nora.”
“Yes?”
“We’d like to fit you for a vaginal ring.”
She frowned. “To do what?”
“Three things.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “It will prevent you from conceiving during the study.”
Nora snorted. Fat chance of that.
“It will monitor your response,” I said. “And it will ensure maternal hormone release in response to the mimic.” I smiled. “You’ll feel like a biological mother.”
Nora’s eyes went big and wet. Greg squeezed her hand.
“Do you think you might be interested?” I asked. She was, of course, but I needed more than interest.
I fetched the ring from the desk drawer and set it between us. Petite. Pearl-white. Elegant.
Greg said, “We should talk this over,” and his voice sounded like it was coming from another room.
“Yes,” said Nora, regrouping. “We need some time to think.”
“Of course,” I said. I snatched back my materials. “They want their participant list set this week, though, so don’t delay.” I pulled out a digital camera. “May I? For our records.”
“Sure,” they said.
The Malloys posed against the bare wall, smiling, radiating hope.
From the office window, I watched them walk to their car. Nora stopped. Greg pulled her close. They exchanged a few words. She stained his shirt with tears, and they laughed at it.
Very good.
As they drove away, I scooped up binder, brochure and ring and hurried out. I locked the door, pocketed the loose key, swapped nods with another social worker and went down the hall to steal a cup of coffee.
Not a minute behind me appeared another woman—taller, slimmer—in silver curls and her own twill pants. She carried a briefcase and a file.
This silver-haired woman unlocked the office and unloaded her stack on the desk. She glanced at the empty guest spots in the parking lot. She checked her watch.
She sat. Irritated, she adjusted the height of the chair.
• • •
I sent Nora directions to Dr. Maggie Park. She was an old ally. Fitness fan. Half-marathon addict. We did our residency together. She was happy to sign on, but I knew she didn’t believe in the project as much as she believed in the money. I didn’t take it personally. She’d made her own share of gray choices.
Dr. Park’s office was modest and pewter-blue, sandwiched between dermatologist and ENT in the medical center. Nora got her pile of forms from the clinician. Repetitive. Small print. No one could blame her for skimming.
She traded encouraging texts with Greg.
In the examining room, a nurse noted Nora’s vitals. Normal. Then Dr. Park came in to perform the insertion.
“You’ll have one of these,” she said, showing Nora a platter of three ring sizes. She let Nora handle them. She explained the possible nausea and spotting and headaches.
“The devices—the ring and the mimic—will synchronize,” said Dr. Park. “There’ll be a hormone burst when the mimic arrives. Some c
ramping.”
Nora was a sport. She scooted to the stirrups without being asked.
The office sent her out with a follow-up sheet and a 24-hour number. Nora wandered across the street for a coffee. Our security detail watched her from the parking lot. He said she stood outside the shop for twenty minutes, holding cup in laced fingers, studying every baby sling and stroller that passed.
• • •
Nora went home to pasta bake and kisses from Greg.
“How was it?” he asked.
“Not bad.” She stretched her arms to him. “Get in here!”
He hugged her so hard he lifted her.
“I got you a present,” he said. He led her to the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind.”
On the counter: two shot glasses and a bottle of Maker’s Mark.
Nora laughed. “What for?”
“You’d said you wanted whiskey,” he said, “the day we stopped trying.”
She said something indistinct. They held each other a long time. Then they kissed.
“You,” she said. “I remember you.”
Dinner went cold.
I told our security detail in their parking lot that he could take off for the night.
• • •
I called Nora the next day. Set up on my desk was her Corpus Chemistry Display, a sandwich-sized white box with real-time readings from her ring: pulse, blood pressure, hormone levels sampled from spotting so modest as to be imperceptible.
Above these readings, under a protective plastic bubble, sat the four dials with her current chemistry inductor settings: prostaglandin “nil,” epinephrine, progesterone and endorphin “low,” oxytocin “moderate.”
Below all these was an overall “mood” meter. Right now it glowed a chipper green.
“How is the ring?” I asked. “Comfortable?”
“Can’t feel a thing,” said Nora.
“And Greg?”
“Very supportive.” All green there.
“Good. You can expect the mimic by the end of the month.”
I could hear the rustle of paper as she made notes.
“Now,” I said. “What do you have planned for child care?”
“Greg works from home weekday mornings,” said Nora. “And I’m home from 3:00 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays. We’ll be here most of the time.”
“Oh, no! Nora, this is a very realistic infant simulation. The mimic will require round-the-clock care during the study.”
A pause. “That wasn’t discussed.”
“It’s in your agreement. Page twenty-four, goldenrod packet.”
“For eight weeks?”
“Yes, eight weeks.”
More paper rustling. The clack of binder rings. Her mood readout dropped into amber. She was reconsidering. Troubling, but not unexpected.
“Is this challenging your commitment?” I asked.
“Well…”
They were such good candidates. I hated the thought of losing them. On the CCD, I lifted the transparent bubble over the chemistry inductors. I touched the oxytocin dial. It would take just a click.
I restrained myself.
“Nora?” I asked lightly.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll get the time off.”
What relief! I snapped the bubble case closed.
“Excellent,” I said. “Now. I have a shopping list for you.”
I called the next day, too, to see how Greg had taken the news. Nora said he was excited and ready. I didn’t have a CCD for Greg to verify that, but no matter. If I had the wife, I had the husband.
• • •
Dr. Park and I went over on a Friday night. We sat in her Volvo S80 in the parking lot and watched their living room window. I primed the CCD and confirmed the standard labor initiation levels from my files. Dr. Park sucked on a sugar-free cinnamon candy so loudly it seemed deliberate.
Nora lay on the couch, reading. Greg sat on the floor, assembling the crib.
“Ready?” I asked.
Dr. Park shot me a look. “I’m a doctor, not a doula.”
“You’re not here to help them labor,” I said. “You’re here to keep them calm.”
I pushed the prostaglandin dial two clicks. I pressed the pulse button beside it.
We watched Nora bend over and hold her knees. The book slid off her lap. Greg stood.
I let them confer a moment. Nora laughed. Greg wrung his hands. Eventually she settled back on the couch.
I pressed the pulse button again. This one took the color out of her face.
“Damn,” said Dr. Park. “Take it easy.”
“It’s nature,” I said. “I’m just the gardener.”
Greg went to the kitchen and found the 24-hour number on the fridge. Dialed. A short conversation.
I hit the pulse button again. Nora doubled up. Greg finished his call and went to her.
Dr. Park glanced at my CCD. “How much are you pushing?”
“At four, now.”
She shut her eyes and shook her head.
A few moments later, Dr. Park’s phone rang.
“The Malloys called in,” said the duty nurse. “She’s having contractions. I advised them not to remove the ring, but they want to talk to you directly.”
“Good,” said Dr. Park. “I’m heading in.”
She crunched down on her candy and went. I pulsed a few more times. Greg rubbed Nora’s back as she bent over her knees. She said something, and he brought her a wastebasket to puke in.
Greg answered the door, found Dr. Park and sagged with relief. Like I always say: if there’s panic, send a doctor. For the next twenty minutes, as Dr. Park spoke soothing words to the Malloys, I worked a crossword and hit the pulse button every time I solved a clue. I pushed oxytocin, too. Endorphins. Some adrenaline, though Nora was making plenty of her own.
Inside, Dr. Park led Nora through some breathing exercises. Greg lost his temper. His neck turned red and his hands flailed. Dr. Park held up both hands as she talked him down. That was my cue.
From the backwards-facing car seat I scooped up the mimic, all swaddled in flannel. I tucked the CCD in my coat pocket.
Outside the apartment door, I could hear arguing. Greg’s voice cracked on the word “insane.” I snapped the CCD inductors to their final setting: prostaglandin “nil,” oxytocin and endorphin “max.”
I heard Nora make a long sighing sound.
I knocked. Greg let me in. He saw me and the bundle and took a big step back.
“It’s over,” said Dr. Park. “He’s here now.”
Nora toppled back on the couch, laughing, cradling her back. “It stopped!” she cried.
I hurried to her and put the bundle in her arms. Nora touched the mimic’s face and gasped. It looked real. Red. Animal. It opened its tiny mouth and squalled.
Greg’s eyes bugged out and his mouth twisted sideways.
Nora laughed and cried at the same time. She buried her face in the mimic’s hair. It smelled like cherry Kool-Aid.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God!”
“His name is Anthony,” I told her.
“Anthony,” she said.
Greg only watched.
Dr. Park explained how to feed it. I could have done it, but like I said. Panic? Doctor. Nora cradled the mimic’s neck, and it took the bottle perfectly. What a relief that was! That had been a real bitch in beta.
“Is that necessary?” asked Greg.
“Appetite is a key feedback loop,” said Dr. Park. “It’s important for the study.”
Nora smiled at Greg. He managed to smile back.
Dr. Park and I left them to it. Dr. Park seemed unsettled, but I couldn’t stop grinning. There’s something wonderfully sadistic about leaving parents alone for the first time.
The mimic documented the rest of the night for us. Nora paced the living room with the mimic in her arms. It fussed. Greg watched from the kitchen, eating cereal for dinner. His mouth was still on sideways.
“That was
terrifying,” he said.
“I know, right?!” she said.
“Did you know that was going to happen?”
“More or less.”
“More or less?”
“Here. Hold him for a second.” She put the mimic in his arms. “Like Dr. Park showed us.”
It shifted into full cry. Greg turned it on its side. Jiggled. Shushed. The mimic arched, red gums bared. Nora grimaced.
“What do I do?” he asked.
“Keep at it.”
“There’s got to be a trick. It’s just technology.”
The mimic shrieked, good and painful, like a smoke alarm.
“Jesus!” said Greg.
“Maybe it’s the swaddle,” said Nora. She took him to the couch. Checked his diaper. Re-swaddled. The mimic calmed for her straightaway.
Greg checked the kitchen clock. “You know, we should start getting ready for bed. How do we turn it off?”
“Turn it off?” asked Nora.
“Yeah.”
Nora shook her head. What a question!
• • •
I set the mimic to cry every two hours. Dry, warm, full belly—no matter. And I gave Nora’s calming goals a wider range: 50-90 decibels of shushing would reach the success state, for instance, with 1-4 Hz of jiggling. For Greg, calming needed exactly 75 dB, exactly 2 Hz. So it followed naturally that, if Nora went to the crying mimic, it calmed in seconds. If Greg went, the house heard twenty minutes of scream.
No one could blame Nora if she started going every time. No one could blame Greg if he let her.
At first she gave him a look that said maybe next time. Then the look said I’m sorry. Then she stopped looking.
The next days blurred. Wake, feed, burp, put down, boil bottles, mix formula. Sleep was sparse. Things stayed dirty: dishes, hair, body. Some part of Nora was always sticky. Greg would disappear for work and reappear, and Nora would have no sense of how long he’d been gone.
Frustration and sleep deficit pushed Nora’s CCD into the red over and over. I let it. I had to let it.
But when the mimic finally took a bottle and calmed for her—when his face relaxed and his long eyelashes fell—her oxytocin spiked and the CCD went to blue-green. It was hard not to be smug. Blue-green! Over a piece of technology! But technology with ten tiny fingers. Peanut chin. Down-turned eyes like Paul McCartney.
