“To Kaye,” Friedrich Brock said. “The next Eve.”

77

Seattle

Kaye sat in the old Buick to stay out of the rain. Mitch walked along the row of cars in the small lot off Roosevelt, searching for the kind she had specified — small, late nineties, Japanese or Volvo, maybe blue or green — and looked up to where she sat curbside, window rolled down for air.

He pulled off his wet felt Stetson and smiled. “How about this beauty?” He pointed to a black Caprice.

“No,” Kaye said emphatically. Mitch loved big old American cars. He felt at home in their roomy interiors. Their trunks could carry tools and slabs of rock. He would have loved to buy a truck, and they had discussed that for a few days. Kaye was not averse to four-wheel-drive, but they had seen nothing she thought they could afford. She wanted a huge reserve in the bank for emergencies. She had set a limit of twelve thousand dollars.

“I’m a kept man,” he said, holding his hat mournfully and bowing his head before the Caprice.

Kaye pointedly ignored that. She had been in an ill humor all morning — had snapped at him twice over breakfast, chastisements that Mitch had accepted with infuriating commiseration. What she wanted was a real argument, to get her blood going, her thoughts moving — to get her body moving. She was sick of the gnawing sensation in her gut that had persisted for three days. She was sick of waiting, of trying to come to grips with what she was carrying.

What Kaye wanted above all else was to lash out at Mitch for agreeing to get her pregnant and start this awful, dragged-out process.

Mitch strode over to the second row and peered at stickers. A woman with an umbrella came down the wooden steps from the small office trailer and conferred with him.

Kaye watched them suspiciously. She hated herself, hated her screwball and chaotic emotions. Nothing she was thinking made any sense.

Mitch pointed to a used Lexus. “Way too expensive,” Kaye murmured to herself, biting her cuticle. Then, “Oh, shit.” She thought she had wet her panties. The trickle continued, but it was not her bladder. She felt between her legs.

“Mitch!” she yelled. He came running, flung open the driver’s-side door, jumped in, started the motor when the first poked fist of blunt pain doubled her over. She nearly slammed her hand against the dash. He pulled her back with one hand. “Oh, God! “she said.

“We’re going,” he said. He peeled out along Roosevelt and turned west on 45th, dodging cars on the overpass and swinging hard left onto the freeway.

The pain was not so intense now. Her stomach seemed filled with ice water and her thighs trembled.

“How is it?” Mitch asked.

“Scary,” she said. “So strange.”

Mitch hit eighty.

She felt something like a small bowel movement. So rude, so natural, so unspeakable . She tried to clamp her legs together. She was not sure what she felt, what exactly had happened. The pain was almost gone.

By the time they pulled into the emergency entrance at Marine Pacific, she was reasonably sure it was all over.

Maria Konig had referred them to Dr. Felicity Galbreath after Kaye met resistance from several pediatricians reluctant to take on a SHEVA pregnancy. Her own health insurance had canceled her; SHEVA was covered as a disease, a prior condition, certainly not as a natural pregnancy.

Dr. Galbreath worked at several hospitals but kept her offices at Marine Pacific, the big brown Depression-era Art Deco hospital that looked down across the freeway, Lake Union, and much of west Seattle. She also taught two days a week at Western Washington University, and Kaye wondered where she found time to have any other life.

Galbreath, tall and plump, with round shoulders, a pleasantly unchallenging face, and a tight, short head of mousy blond hair, came into Kaye’s shared room twenty minutes after she was admitted. Kaye had been cleaned up and briefly examined by the resident nurse and an attending physician. A nurse midwife Kaye had never met before also checked on her, having heard about Kaye’s case from a brief article in the Seattle Weekly.

Kaye sat up in her bed, her back aching, but otherwise comfortable, and drank a glass of orange juice.

“Well, it’s happened,” Galbreath said.

“It’s happened,” Kaye echoed dully.

“They tell me you’re doing fine.”

“I feel better now.”

“Very sorry not to be here sooner. I was over at UW Medical Center.”

“I think it was over before I was admitted,” Kaye said.

“How do you feel?”

“Lousy. Healthy enough, just lousy.”

“Where’sMitch?”

“I told him to bring me the baby. The fetus.”

Galbreath glared at her with mixed irritation and wonder. “Aren’t you taking this scientist bit too far?”

“Bullshit,” Kaye said fiercely.

“You could be in emotional shock.”

“Double bullshit. They took it away without telling me. I need to see it. I need to know what happened.”

“It’s a first-stage rejection. We know what they look like,” Galbreath said softly, checking Kaye’s pulse and looking at the attached monitor. As a precaution, she was on saline drip.

Mitch returned with a small steel pan covered with a cloth. “They were sending it down to…” He looked up, his face pale as a sheet. “I don’t know where. I had to do some yelling.”

Galbreath looked at them both with an expression of forceful self-control. “It’s just tissue, Kaye. The hospital has to send them to an approved Taskforce autopsy center. It’s the law.”

“She’s my daughter” Kaye said, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I want to see her before they take her.” The sobs began and she could not control them. The nurse looked in, saw Galbreath was with them, stood in the doorway with a helpless and concerned expression.

Galbreath took the pan from Mitch, who was happy to be relieved of it. She waited until Kaye was quiet.

“Please,” Kaye said. Galbreath placed the pan gently on her lap.

The nurse left and shut the door behind her.

Mitch turned away as she pulled back the cloth.

Lying on a bed of crushed ice, in a small plastic bag with a Ziploc top, no larger than a small lab mouse, lay the interim daughter. Her daughter. Kaye had been nurturing and carrying and protecting this for over ninety days.

For a moment, she felt distinctly uneasy. She reached down with a finger to trace the outline in the bag, the short and curled spine beyond the edge of the torn and tiny amnion. She stroked the comparatively large and almost faceless head, finding small slits for eyes, a wrinkled and rabbitlike mouth kept tightly closed, buttons where arms and legs might be. The small purple placenta lay beneath the amnion.

“Thank you,” Kaye said to the fetus.

She covered the tray. Galbreath tried to remove it, but Kaye gripped her hand. “Leave her with me for a few minutes,” she said. “I want to make sure she isn’t lonely. Wherever she’s going.”

Galbreath joined Mitch in the waiting room. He sat with his head in his hands in a pale bleached-oak armchair beneath a pastel seascape framed in ash.

“You look like you need a drink,” she said.

“Is Kaye still asleep?” Mitch said. “I want to be with her.”

Galbreath nodded. “You can go in any time. I examined her. Do you want the details?”

“Please,” Mitch said, rubbing his face. “I didn’t know I’d react that way. I’m sorry.”

“No need. She’s a bold woman who thinks she knows what she wants. Well, she’s still pregnant. The secondary mucus plug seems to be in position. There was no trauma, no bleeding; the separation was textbook, if anybody has bothered to write a textbook about this sort of thing. The hospital did a quick biopsy. It’s definitely a first-stage SHEVA rejection. Chromosome number is confirmed.”