Authors: David McLeod
Looking through the high-powered microscope again, he struggled to comprehend what lay before him. Admittedly, this was an experiment he wasn't keen on doing; most of his work to date had been attempts to breed the perfect tree. A tree without branches, a tree that could be used for all manner of building purposes. Creating planks of knot-free wood was his business. But being asked to do this form of DNA work was not at all what he wanted to do. He was way out of his depth; what did he know about human genes? But Buster had convinced him he was the man for the job, and had offered a financial carrot that was too tempting to resist — his wife thought so too.
Ah, his wife, such a wonderful woman. Her attitude toward his work had changed so much since he was asked to take on this special project. She had never been much interested in his science before. 'Why do we need trees without branches?' she'd ask. 'What's wrong with knots in wood? I like knots in wood, it gives it character!'
Such inane statements and questions. Her shrill, high-pitched nagging buzzed around inside his head.
But then again, maybe they were the good old days — a time when she'd seemed to care, or at least pretended to. How had his day gone?
What type of experiments had he done that day? And of course, does a scientist earn a lot of money? All of these questions she'd asked in the early days when they were getting to know each other. Then all too quickly came the wedding and the honeymoon.
After that, she'd even stopped asking him the time of day. She started telling people at parties he was an accountant, when they asked what her husband did for a living. She told him it was because she couldn't be bothered explaining what he did for real. But she did love to spend his salary — oh yes, that was one part of his job she really liked. So, when he came home a few weeks ago and told her what Buster had proposed, and about the one hundred thousand pound bonus that was on offer, she suddenly became
very
interested in his work.
Each day now she asked him about his experiments; she asked him to explain in the minutest detail how the project was coming along, and how close he was to the bonus. He knew all she was really interested in was the money, but unfortunately he did love her interest, however false. It brought back memories of a better time. The closer he got to completing the project, the more new things started to appear around the house. A plasma TV he had apparently always wanted, and a new dishwasher and washing machine that were also on his wish list. She visited the beauty therapist three times a week now, and just yesterday she'd brought home brochures on breast implants. Now, he said to himself, there's something I've always wanted.
He shook his head in disbelief as he picked up the vial to check the experiment results one last time. The numbers matched, and to all intents and purposes the experiment had been a success. Picking up the laboratory phone, he tapped in the number of the CEO's extension and waited for it to be picked up.
'Yes sir, it's me. We have the results from the experiment.'
The voice at the other end of the phone whooped with joy.
'Doctor McGuire, you are a genius. Get everything ready, and I'll have the management team in the lab in twenty minutes. This is a very special day; you have achieved the impossible! We'll be there very soon. Excellent! Excellent!' The phone went dead, and the professor's head sank to meet his elbows on the bench. Still clutching the phone, his thoughts were interrupted by one of his assistants.
'Everything okay, Doctor?' the man asked.
Not turning, the doctor replaced the phone and ran his hands over his face. 'Not entirely, Steven, not entirely.' He picked up the vial and tapped a few command keys on the computer beside him. Somewhere in the distance a printer sprang into life. Collecting the printed sheets as he moved to his office, he seated himself behind his desk waiting for the mob to arrive.
Leading the group of managers was Buster, the CEO. His nickname had come about because he looked like he was about to bust a blood vessel. Buster was a stout man with a melon-shaped face; this scarlet face of his was grinning from ear to ear. He held a bottle of champagne, and behind him one of the managers was carrying the glasses.
As they entered the room, he ordered another of the managers to shut the blinds and close the door.
Once the group had huddled into the doctor's small office, Buster launched into his speech: 'Gentlemen, you see before you one of the great geniuses of the twenty-first century. Today Doctor McGuire has inscribed his name in the science history books, and achieved what many thought to be impossible. Who would have guessed that a tiny piece of DNA — two thousand years old, I might add — could be brought to life again.'
Doctor McGuire interrupted Buster's speech. 'Sir, gentlemen, science is a very complicated and unpredictable mistress.' This comment elicited a few grunts and yeahs from the group. Buster's face still brimmed with pride as he regarded the doctor.
'You see, while we have managed to get a living embryo from the ancient DNA . . .'
The CEO continued to work on the champagne cork . . .
'. . . I'm afraid it's a girl.'
The word 'girl' coincided with the popping of the cork, and as the word sank in the bottle overflowed its contents. Forgotten, the champagne dripped onto the concrete floor.
Simon Travis walked up the steps of the old church, something he'd done regularly for as long as he could remember. The dirty brown building seemed out of place among the stores and offices at the heart of the City of Angels. Looking up at the ferocious gargoyles with their snarling teeth and razor claws, Travis recognized the fearsome protectors of the faith, but did they know he didn't belong there?
Their savage exterior made a stark contrast to the warm welcome within, and as he strolled slowly through the large iron-studded oak doors and into the church, the sweet scent of incense and burning wax filled his lungs. Approaching the wall of candles he lit one and, after genuflecting, he set the candle in a stand.
The interior of the church was immense. Down each side were old wooden pews. Cold to the touch, the seats shone in the dim light, polished by thousands of people slipping on and off them over the years. Individual thick burgundy cushions, hung on hooks on the backs of the pews, were provided for kneeling on. Daylight struggled to penetrate the stained glass windows: Noah's Ark, with lines of animals waiting patiently to board the boat; a bright green snake circling the trunk of an apple tree while a naked couple stare longingly up at the ripe, red fruit; a Samaritan kneeling to assist a beaten and bloody man at a roadside. All the images were beautifully crafted and the rich colours brought the stories to life.
The church was virtually empty. An old drunk was stretched out on a pew near the rear of the room, his dirty overcoat covering most of his body like a makeshift blanket. In the front row, a white-haired lady dressed in black sat praying. Her head was bowed, but every now and then she'd look to the statue of Christ and genuflect. Travis wondered what her story was; the drunk was obviously seeking shelter, but the old lady intrigued him. He started to make up stories in his mind.
Maybe she was the recent widow of a man she'd been married to for fifty years, and she was praying that God would take care of him. Maybe she'd lost a son or daughter in a drive-by shooting, and she wanted God to wreak vengeance on the killer. She could just be another drunk, seeking shelter and guidance like the man at the back.
Travis knew that, like him, most people who visited churches held within them dark secrets, so he kept his curiosity to himself, took a seat on the opposite side of the church and began to pray. He was waiting for confession to begin, and as the priest walked past him to the booth, Travis dipped his head lower; he wanted to remain anonymous.
He waited a few minutes for the priest to get settled and open for business, then went and took his seat in the vestibule. The small window slid open, and the priest invited confession.
Travis began. 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a week since my last confession.' For Travis, confession was the same every week. A small respite from his world of technology and science, a step into a world that could so easily be dismissed as superstition.
He wasn't even sure he truly believed in it, but he attended as regular as clockwork. The offloading made him feel only slightly better, but it helped. As he left the church, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a handful of hundred-dollar bills and pushed them into the donors'
slot.
He needed to get some fresh air. He phoned Taylor and told her he was taking the rest of the day off to go fishing, and asked her to call the crew on his boat.
He parked next to the jetty and dropped into the marina store before boarding to pick up a newspaper and his favourite fishing nibbles — corn chips and chocolate cookies.
The fifty-metre Feadship was kept in pristine condition. The boat's crew, Jules and Darren, lived on board and loved the boat more than
Travis did.
'Good morning, sir,' Darren said. Jules smiled. Travis smiled back.
'As shipshape as ever,' Travis said looking over the launch. 'I fancy a trawl for game,' he continued.
Darren had already assumed that marlin was the goal and had stocked up accordingly. 'Ready when you are,' he replied.
Travis nodded and smiled again. He made his way into the cabin, calling, 'let's cast off then,' as he went below. As the launch left the marina he opened a Heineken, spread out the paper and reclined on the couch.
Robberies and murders filled the local section. A story about a potential serial killer grabbed his attention for a while, but he lost interest as the story went nowhere. He opted instead to lighten his mood and sifted through the sections to find the cartoons and the entertainment news.
Enjoying the comfort of his couch, Travis immersed himself in the funnies.
A loud knock at the door startled him; he heard Darren's voice.
'Mr Travis, sorry to disturb you, but you have a telephone call. From
Ms Taylor, and she told me to interrupt you because it's important.'
Travis went to the door, took the phone and closed the door.
'Taylor, are you there?'
'I'm so glad I found you, your cellphone's switched off.'
'That's because I don't want to be disturbed. Now what's so important that you have to call me here?'
'I've just had a call from Dr Androna, he told me to tell you
Stemtex has tried to patent a cell storage system that mimics the one he used in the Diaplexe experiment. He seemed very upset about it.
Does that mean anything to you? I hope I've got that correct; I asked him to repeat it a couple of times.'
'The bastards! Sorry Taylor, yes, you did get the message right.
Could you please call Dr Androna back and tell him that the
Diaplexe experiment was completely top secret, and the only way
Stemtex could get this information would be from a mole in our organization. Tell him I want immediate answers!' He was struggling to hold back his anger as he spoke. He rang off and threw the handset against the wall. 'Someone is going to pay for this.' His words were forced through gritted teeth. 'Stemtex have been on our heels since the day we opened. They must have someone on the inside, it's the only explanation. Who the fuck is it?'
Mary was concerned about her baby's growth. 'Surely it shouldn't be growing this fast, Beverly?' Nine months, she thought, babies take nine months to grow, everyone knows that. Beverly had told her she was still missing days and patches of time, which was understandable with the amnesia; she'd also said her baby was quite normal, and as usual, told her not to worry. Mary couldn't get away from the drugs and nutrients being pumped into her intravenously, and this meant she hadn't been out of her room for, well, she couldn't remember how long. She missed her parents, she missed her friends — and who was the baby's father?
Doctors came and went at regular intervals, watching the monitor and making notations on their charts. Most of them didn't say a word to her; in fact they didn't acknowledge her at all. She didn't know that because of potential complications, the doctors had decided among themselves that under these extreme circumstances it would be best for them to perform a Caesarean section. This was immediately rejected by the head scientist. 'The directive is that the birth be as normal as possible,' he said.
Mary longed for the times Beverly came to visit; she was the only one who didn't cover her face — in fact, she didn't hide anything.
They talked about boys and her home life. Mary discovered they had a great deal in common. Both had lost their parents in unfortunate accidents, and Beverly had given birth to a baby boy at an early age.
Mary found her a great confidante when she worried about her own baby. Beverly hated lying about her past to Mary, but that was what she was being paid handsomely to do.
The room was pitch black when Mary awoke with a start. She felt the contractions begin. At first she didn't know what they were, although Beverly had told her what to expect. They felt like a backache.
It seemed only hours ago that the doctor had done a cervical exam to see if she'd dilated any more than the one centimetre and fifty per cent effaced of the previous day. He had told her she was now one to one and a half centimetres dilated and seventy-five per cent effaced, whatever that meant. As she pushed the call button next to her bed,
Mary thought about the day's check-up. The doctor had finished the internal exam and had told her he'd stripped her membranes. Beverly had explained that was a process of separating the amniotic sac from the uterus, generally resulting in the water breaking within twenty-four hours. Mary had pretended to know what Beverly was talking about, but now she was getting the point.
Beverly came rushing into the room and switched on the bedside lamp. Mary told her about the cramping sensations. Beverly timed them and the resulting intervals were five to six minutes. As Mary was helped into a sitting position, she felt a slight popping sensation. She tried to dismiss it as the bed settling, but Beverly walked her quickly to the bathroom. Mary felt damp as though she'd lost some bladder control, but this was nothing in comparison to what happened when they made it to the toilet. Mary sat and her lower area emptied as the amniotic fluids were released. Her back was getting more and more uncomfortable, but Beverly assured her that was all perfectly normal.
They moved back to the bed and Beverly reconnected her to the foetal monitor to check the contractions. The machine was now registering them two to four minutes apart, and they were becoming increasingly painful. Her contractions had been mainly in her back, but now they started to move to her tummy. Beverly unclipped the monitor connections and had her stand beside the bed and grip the rail as each wave came. Mary found a little comfort in the squatting position, but fell forward on to her hands and knees after a relatively big wave hit. There seemed to be no respite from the pain; she moved from the squatting position to a chair, rocking backwards and forwards, then walking around. Sitting, standing, rocking, and crouching
— the combination was like a bad aerobics class. She was using the breathing techniques Beverly had taught her, and lay back down again as her cervix was checked for dilation; she was three to four centimetres and still seventy-five per cent effaced.
She let out a small scream as a big contraction hit her; immediately, she forgot her breathing techniques and started to cry. Beverly calmed her, saying the doctors were on their way, and she breathed with Mary to help centre her.
'Breathe with me, Mary; they'll give you the epidural soon, honey,' Beverly said, stroking her arm. She'd already told Mary that the epidural would numb her from the waist down, and right now that was all Mary could think about.
The doctor arrived to do another cervical exam; she was now four to five centimetres dilated. The anaesthesiologist came in a few minutes later and told her to sit on the side of the bed with her feet on the seat of the chair and curl herself forward. She was told not to move at all, even if a contraction wave came. He injected the numbing medicine through a catheter inserted into her lower back. The pain was almost unbearable, and she felt like her lungs were going to collapse from the pressure. She was scared, and started crying and screaming. Beverly was right next to her, talking to her and stroking her hand. The epidural kicked in and suddenly Mary felt light-headed.
The pain had gone; in fact, she couldn't feel anything below her waist.
Once her pain had gone, so was the desire to cry and scream — there was peace in the room again.
She was connected to an IV to prevent dehydration, and the leads from the NST machine kicked it back into life. Graph paper spewed from the machine with numbers printed on it. It registered contractions from zero to a hundred and fifty; without contractions, the line would be at zero, and as the wave peaked, the line would hit over the one hundred mark. The epidural was definitely doing its job; Mary watched the graph with a smile on her face. The room was beginning to fill up, doctors, nurses, and suits. Mary felt like the star of the show.
The next exam hit seven centimetres and she wondered how big the gap had to get. Her insides started to burn as she dilated to eight centimetres; the doctor turned to one of the nurses who immediately noted the result.
'What's wrong? What's happening?' Mary gasped.
'You're doing great, Mary, everything's fine,' said Beverly.
Mary started to get feeling back below her waist and she knew the epidural was beginning to wear off. Between her deep breaths, she pointed this out to the doctor, who in turn called for the anaesthesiologist.
He returned and topped up the medication. Beverly went over the delivery process again with her — particularly the pushing and the breathing parts.
With the additional drugs not kicking in yet, the pain had returned and Mary was almost at breaking point. Another cervical exam showed ten centimetres dilated and a hundred per cent effaced; time to go.
'How about if you try to push,' the doctor said.
Mary looked at Beverly who stood at her side, while two other nurses bent her legs up in the air. Beverly positioned Mary's hands to the backs of her thighs, and told her to push. The pushing felt awkward, like forcing out wind and just getting red-faced. She kept up a sequence of attempts to push between bursts of fast, shallow breaths. Then a really big wave hit her, bringing with it the reflex pushing action. Her eyes closed tightly, and loud grunts joined the choir of her breathing. It seemed like all the people in the room were panting in time with her. As she pushed, Beverly counted to ten; the count was to help Mary focus on holding her breath.
Mary looked up at the TV, and she could see what everyone was looking at. A camera was picking up the whole event and relaying it to the screen. The image shocked her at first, but shortly became her point of focus.
She was approaching exhaustion, and with each contraction she was getting more and more nauseous. Beverly wiped a wet washcloth over her forehead to help cool her in the hope that would ease her nausea. The doctor told her the baby was in the birth canal and they were almost there. He told her to push harder, but the process seemed to have stopped; no matter how hard she pushed, the baby wouldn't budge. The baby was crowning, but wouldn't or couldn't go further.
Mary's pain was excruciating, and her screams were deafening. The baby just had to get past the last few bands of muscle, so the doctor made the decision to deliver using forceps.
All the lights in the room were turned on and trays of instruments were wheeled in, next to the bed. The end of the bed was removed so the doctor could gain easy access to her. A newborns' scale and warming machine were wheeled in and two nurses stood ready to handle the baby. The doctor performed an episiotomy and Mary felt all three snips. She watched on the screen as the doctor inserted the right forceps and then the left forceps into the birth canal. He connected the two pieces together and told her to push on the next contraction.
With the next wave, Mary pushed with what little strength she had left. The pain overtook her, and she almost fainted as her baby boy came into the world. The two nurses, working as a team, suctioned his nose and mouth, and everyone waited for his first breath. The wait seemed like an age. Everyone in the room held their breath until, finally, he let out a loud cry.
A round of applause and sighs of relief swept around the room.
The baby was taken to the scale where his birth measurements were recorded as eleven pounds four ounces, and twenty-two inches long.
Beverly told Mary that they would give him an APGAR Test, which evaluated his heart rate, breathing, muscle tone, reflexes, and skin colour.
'Each trait is scored zero to two. A total of seven or higher means the baby is in good condition,' she explained. And then, 'Congratulations,'
she announced. 'He's a ten out of ten!'
The torment wasn't over for Mary yet. Due to the way the forceps were used, she'd received a fourth-degree tear from front to back. It took just under an hour to stitch her up. She watched her baby being taken away as she finally drifted off to sleep.