Two weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon late in August, Midge went into labor. Her labor wasn’t easy, and when the baby arrived eleven hours later, Midge was exhausted. But the child she cradled in her arms was without doubt in her mind the most beautiful baby in the world. Midge was frankly surprised at how much of Nick she could see in him, and her parents had agreed. Midge’s heart swelled with a poignant joy to see how much they obviously loved this little grandson they possibly wouldn’t ever get to see beyond the hospital room. Still, just a short time after the baby’s birth, they left the room so she could be alone with her son in the hour she had requested, and she gave her emotions full reign as she held him tenderly, carefully feeding him with the bottled formula provided.
“I knew I’d love you, Baby, but I didn’t realize how very much. You look just like Nick!” She beamed with pride, trying to focus through her tears as she gazed at her beautiful newborn son. “I don’t get to name you, but I’m going to name you, darling. Nicholas. Nicholas John. It’s our secret.” She smiled, tears still blurring her vision. “I couldn’t name you anything but Nicholas. You look so much like your father.” She searched the baby’s face wistfully.
“I’ll always love you, and you’ll always be mine—miracle of miracles. I’ll pray for you every day, precious darling. And you’ll be so loved and so cared for. You’ll have another daddy, and another mommy, but I’ll always be your mother. Your daddy will love you, and your mommy will love you, and I, your mother, love you more than you can ever know, sweet boy. God will take care of your daddy and your mommy, and He’ll take care of your mother—me, and you.” She caught him up to her shoulder, patting and caressing his back.
“Little Nick,” she smiled. “How much I love you. I don’t want to let you go. I know you’ll wonder why you couldn’t stay with me. I don’t know myself, except that I want so very much for you to have a father from the very beginning. God will watch over you, sweetheart, and he’s already blessed you with a wonderful daddy and mommy. They’ll take good care of you and love you as their very own.”
Her heart ached with a physical hurt, as she wiped her eyes. “They’re Christians, my little darling. And they’ve been praying for a beautiful baby like you. They’ll love you, and I’ll get to see you from time to time. And when you’re all grown up and as old as your mother is now, I know you’ll have room in your heart for three, maybe even four parents who’ll love you forever.”
Midge held her sleeping baby close to her heart even as the tears flowed down her face. It was a suspension of time in her life that she knew would remain vivid in her mind for many years. She only had a few more minutes before Bob and June Mackey would arrive to meet and take home their new baby. Time was so very precious, and tired as she was, Midge was alert, bonding with the baby she would soon relinquish to virtual strangers. She was ever so thankful now for the respect she had for this couple that would soon ride away with her child so sweet and vulnerable.
“Oh, God,” she cried, “keep him safe and loved.” She sang softly to her baby as she gazed at his perfect little form, caressing his head, stroking his tiny arms and legs, repeating phrases of love.
The precious time flew by and soon, much too soon, a gentle knock sounded at the door.
……….
Gene Chemosh rubbed his eyes and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was close to three in the morning. He wanted—needed–to talk to Sal.
“Sal!” He nudged her gently. “Sal! Wake up. I need to talk to you.”
Sally Chemosh rolled over and squinted one eye. “What?” she asked, peevishly.
“I’m sorry, Sweets, but I need to talk. I had another nightmare.”
“What?” she said a second time. She pulled herself up on her elbows and shut her eyes tightly for a brief moment in an effort to achieve alertness. “Again?”
“Again, Sal.” His voice had a sliver of fright in it that was just enough to bring Sally Chemosh to full alertness.
“Same one?” she asked gently.
“Yeah.”
The moon shone through the skylight in their bedroom, and Sally looked at her husband as he lay beside her. He was staring straight up, with his hands clasped beneath his head.
“It bothers me, Sal. A lot.”
“Well, I’m sure it does.” Not really knowing what to say, she waited in silence for him to speak. When he didn’t, she sighed, wishing for the devil-may-care husband she had always had until two weeks ago. “Are you taking anything that would cause it?” She yawned, wanting to help him, but also bewildered by this seemingly superstitious side to her husband that was totally foreign to herself. It was most peculiar, and she really didn’t know how to respond, except to say, “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.”
“Yeah. I can’t figure it out. I’m not taking anything. I had a Scotch after dinner, but I always do. And I don’t think it could be indigestion. The last three days I’ve been very carefully ruminating.” He glanced at Sal with a half-smile, attempting in vain to sound lighthearted. When she didn’t smile in return, he dropped trying to act like he didn’t feel. “I think I might talk to Joe Denspot.”
“Joe who?”
“Joe Denspot. That psychiatrist I introduced you to at the convention in Chicago a couple years ago. Remember?”
“I remember.” She paused. “You really think you need to?”
“I don’t know what else to do. It’s a hellish way to spend the night. And I can’t seem to get it off my mind during the day, either.”
“Well, go see him, then.”
As Sally lay back down, Gene Chemosh got out of bed. “I think I’ll sit up for a while.”
“Why don’t you just take a sleeping pill?”
“I can’t—early appointments.”
“Sorry.” In another few seconds, Sally fell back to sleep. Her husband watched her momentarily, his mind far away, and then he walked out to the den. He poured a scotch and sat down heavily, glass in hand.
Every night for the past three nights, Chemosh had been troubled with the same dream—a full-blown nightmare in his own estimation. He had half a mind to call Denspot right now, he felt so desperate, but a call to initiate treatment at three-thirty in the morning was of course out of the question.
The nightmare always seemed to start with Andy and him playing together on the floor—about five feet from where Chemosh was presently sitting in his chair. In the dream, Andy has his favorite building set scattered all around them, while they work on a space station. Next, out of the clear blue, Andy says to his father without even looking up at him, “Daddy, I love you.”
Chemosh answers, surprised, “Well, hey, son, I love you, too.” Then there is silence for a moment, while the two work in harmony together. But the next words are always the same.
“How much?” Andy inquires.
“So much I can’t begin to tell you.”
“Tommy says his dad would do anything for him, he loves him so much—even die.” The little boy’s eyes get big, and the ensuing pause turns into a long moment, as Chemosh waits for his son to explain. But he never does. He just resumes building purposefully and seemingly with full concentration.
Finally, Chemosh takes Andy’s hands in his own and says, earnestly, “I would do anything for you, too, son. I’d give up everything in the world if I had to.”
“You love me that much?” The little boy stops and looks up with a seriousness greater than a seven-year-old boy should have—in Chemosh’s mind at least, but he responds in kind.
“I love you that much and more.” He looks at Andy and is filled with deep satisfaction. But in the same moment, Andy lies down and falls fast asleep right there on the carpet, his toys strewn about him. Chemosh is about to pick him up in his arms and carry him off to bed, when he hears the voice of an older child.
“Dad, I love you. Would you do anything for me? Would you give up everything in the world if you had to?” And then, in the saddest of voices, spoken through stifled sobs, he stammers, “Dad, I love you.”
Chemosh wants to turn in the direction of the voice, so as to be able to connect it with a person, but he can’t determine the direction it’s coming from. Confused and bewildered, he stares down at Andy, but Andy is sound asleep, and his lips are closed.
The next part of the dream is the part that Chemosh dreads. It is as if all the organs in his own body turn to lead. Of course he can’t hold his head up: his brain seems to weigh two hundred pounds. His lungs and stomach, liver and kidneys all turn to lead. Only his heart remains unchanged, except that it beats far too slowly, and much too loudly.
Dreams are inexplicable. Chemosh, in this one, notes that his heart beats fourteen times—very slowly—and then the voice repeats itself: “Dad, I love you. Would you do anything for me? Would you give up everything in the world if you had to?” And then—the clarity disintegrating in sadness—“Dad, I love you.” Chemosh is aware of his heart beating loudly and slowly again, fourteen times. And then the voice once more.
Touched deeply, he notes that whoever or whatever is speaking sounds just like Andy but a few years older. Still inside his dream, he’s never felt such an urge and such a need to cry. But he can’t. Overcome with sadness and the twofold frustration of not being able to match the voice with a person or to vent his own grief, he crumbles under the weight of his own leaden body and falls unconscious on top of Andy.
Instantly, still in the dream, he regains consciousness, only to realize that his leaden body has fallen headlong onto his sleeping son. He tries to rouse Andy, but is unable to. It is at this point that Chemosh awakens, sweating with fear that Andy is dead.
Gene Chemosh raised the untouched glass to his mouth and then brought it down again. Somehow, strange as it seemed, drinking the scotch seemed inappropriate, and in his acute distress he felt an uncanny need to be appropriate.
In all his forty-two years, he had never felt so vulnerable as this dream made him feel, nor so incapacitated—as if he were no longer able to function as the competent, self-directed individual he had made himself to be.
“Hmm,” he mused in a half whisper, with a quick shake of his head. “Chemosh, you’re above this. You’re not superstitious! Are you losing it? It’s just a dream, and Andy’s safe and sound. Drink the scotch and go back to bed.”
And he did.
……….
“Carla!” Nancy whispered excitedly. “Can you go to lunch at 12:30?”
“Sure,” Carla smiled. “What’s goin’ on? You look like you won the lottery!”
“But I don’t bet,” Nancy countered, smiling with a teasing look in her eyes.
“Well, what is it?” Carla persisted.
“Oh, Carla, I’ve won more than the lottery.” She thrust out her left hand.
“Nancy! You’re engaged? When did that hap—Oh, save it ‘til lunch time, when I can hear all the juicy details.” She wrinkled up her nose and smiled as she spoke, then grabbed Nancy’s hand, admiring the sparkling new ring. “Hey, it’s gorgeous! Did Michael pick it out himself?”
“Yes! I was totally surprised! Isn’t it beautiful?” She grinned, and turned into the hall, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll stop by at 12:30 then, OK?”
“You got it!”
Carla smiled, turning back to her desk. As she printed a letter, she thought about Nancy. So Michael had asked her to marry him. Carla was pleased beyond words. If anyone had seen her face with the ear-to-ear grin all over it, even a stranger would have asked the cause. She set the letter inside the envelope flap, ready for signing.
It had been a month since that infamous Saturday morning that Carla had spent with Mike and Nancy outside the “abortuary.” Things were normal at the office, and Nancy and she both felt that Marc Garman was unaware of their knowledge that his child had been aborted.
Carla was not comfortable with this situation, but she knew of nothing she could do about it. One thing she had noticed was that Mr. Garman no longer left early on Fridays, as he used to prior to the abortion, and Carla guessed that his relationship with Patrice was different now. Her boss also seemed much more easily annoyed. Actually, the thought had crossed her mind that Marc Garman and Patrice Hamlin had perhaps separated. It seemed reasonable enough, given the possible circumstance of his wanting the baby and her not. But this was only a conjecture, and Carla tried not to let her mind run away with it.
Carla wondered what he would think if he knew that she had become an abortion protester. She couldn’t second-guess, because she wasn’t sure of what his feelings were, even about his own child’s death. That he would condone it she couldn’t imagine, yet she had no substantial reason to believe he did not. This question rang through her thoughts while at the office and in her off-work hours as well. Would his reaction be that she should mind her own business? From her viewpoint, the unborn baby’s life she considered her business as much as if a toddler in the apartment next door were hustled off to a homicidal maniac’s house to be chopped up in pieces. There was no difference, except that the post-born child’s cries would be audible, and the pre-born child’s were not.
But now the deed was done. Marc Garman’s child was dead, and no one would be found culpable—not Patrice, not Marc, and not the abortionist. Did anyone feel guilty or even sorry for having ended this child’s life? Did Marc? The question persisted in Carla’s mind, despite her will to drive it off. Surely he must be plagued with regret. She hoped that his conscience would mandate remorse to the highest degree. But there remained the possibility that he and Patrice had acted in collusion regarding their baby.
“No way!” Carla exclaimed in her disturbing reverie. “It couldn’t be. God, don’t let it be the case.” Carla’s sober thoughts on this depressing subject usually concluded with a picture, comforting in her mind, of certain protesters she’d met outside the abortion clinic. These people had come full circle from aborting their own children to a commitment to protest the abortion of other children. Far from hypocrisy in Carla’s eyes, theirs was a commitment to help others escape the pain they themselves had experienced in the aftermath of their own children’s lives being snuffed out by abortion.
The phone rang. Someone with a pleasant female voice, which Carla did not recognize, asked whether Marc Garman was in.
“Yes,” Carla answered. “May I tell him who is calling?”
“Yes. Patrice Hamlin.”
“Just a moment, please.” This was unusual; Patrice had always used Mr. Garman’s private line in the past.
“Why would she be calling on the office line?” Carla asked herself as she transferred the call to Mr. Garman. She wished she could hear it, but of course that was out of the question. Still, she had to admit to herself shamefully that she found herself glad that Patrice was having to call on the office line.
In a few moments, Marc Garman stepped out of his office and stopped at Carla’s desk as he inserted a couple of letters into his briefcase.
“I won’t be back in the office this afternoon. You can call me, but only if the sky falls in.” He gave Carla a perfunctory smile and turned with an air of nonchalance, heading quickly out the door.
Carla felt her heart sink just a little. She liked having Mr. Garman in the office and was beginning to acknowledge to herself that she was really quite attracted to him, now that Patrice had faded from the picture. But maybe she hadn’t, after all. Carla felt she should want them to stay together, but today she was forced to recognize that she had been glad they had cooled their relationship. Since she had learned that Patrice had aborted the baby when it was full-term, she had lost all respect for her. Besides, it seemed easy to dislike someone who seemed to reciprocate the feeling.
She couldn’t help but review the previous moment in her mind—especially Marc Garman’s smile. To Carla, it seemed like a façade hastily put on by a man whose former confidence had been kicked out from under him.
“God, help Marc, wherever he’s going,” she found herself praying. Then she forced her flesh into second seat and added, “Patrice needs your help, too, Lord. I know she does. Help them both.” She turned back to her desktop, determined to keep her mind on the projects in front of her, and glanced at her watch. It was almost 12:00. Grimacing, she directed all her energy towards the work before her.
……….
At precisely three o’clock, Marc Garman walked into the Blue Spruce Bar and Grill. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light as he made his way towards the covered patio. It was empty except for the southeast corner where a young woman sat, fully leaning against the back of her chair. As Marc approached, he watched in amazement as she drew deeply on a long, slim cigarette. She didn’t notice him approach as she exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Marc stopped for a moment and stood watching. Her face looked almost lifeless, and her entire body seemed to reflect an attitude of resignation. Marc wanted to stand right there and watch her for another moment, he was so taken aback, but he decided not to risk her seeing him do so.
It was too late. As she turned, coolly surveying her surroundings, Patrice’s eyes lit on Marc and she raised her voice impudently. “You look like you’ve never seen a cigarette before.”
“I’ve seen plenty, but never one in that particular hand.” Marc’s voice was even, but not unfriendly.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”
Marc slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table, and audibly muttered, “Nasty habit.”
Patrice’s cool turned to cold and she replied, condescendingly, “Well, aren’t we the white-washed sepulcher!”
“What?” Marc replied with feigned innocence. He made no attempt to hide his disdain for the change he beheld in the woman with whom he had shared almost two years of his life.
Patrice answered slowly, exaggerating with her mouth each word. “I said, ‘Aren’t we the white-washed sepulcher!’”
“I heard you. Where’d you get that phrase?” Marc looked at her, genuine curiosity on his face. “But if there’s buried guilt, my guess is that you’re the sepulcher.” He leaned back in his chair and his manner was brusque and business-like now. “What is it you wanted to talk about, Patrice?”
Patrice drew deeply on her cigarette and then ground the butt into the glass ashtray on the table. She spoke as she exhaled. “I’m sorry for what happened, Marc. I realize now that what I did was unfair. The baby was yours as well as mine. I…”
Marc interrupted. “No, Patrice. Neither of us owned that baby, any more than anybody owns me, or owns you. The little boy you were carrying was never our property. Nobody owned that baby.” He spread the fingers of his right hand and raked his hair from front to back, taking a deep breath as he did so. Reacting to the objection on her face, he brought his hand down quickly in a gesture to halt her from talking further.
“I’ve spent hours thinking about this,” he continued, “and not one minute of it has been very pleasant, but I’ve come to some definite conclusions. So if you’re going to talk to me about this baby, please refer to him as ‘the baby you killed,’ or as ‘the baby you hired someone to kill.’ But don’t call him ‘your baby’ or ‘my baby,’ insinuating he was ours to dispose of.” His eyes flashed throughout the rebuke. Patrice made no attempt to stop him, even when a waitress came outside to take their order. Sensing the level of emotion, she quickly walked back inside, and the two were left alone.
Patrice was painfully aware of the attention they had brought to themselves through the windows to the patio, and her face was flushed with embarrassment and self-consciousness. Marc’s face was heightened in color as well, but from unrepressed anger rather than embarrassment; he didn’t seem to care who saw him.
When he finally stopped, Patrice said in a quiet, even tone, “Why don’t we go for a walk. I’m not very hungry.”
“I don’t feel like walking—with you,” Marc bluntly replied.
Patrice summoned all the composure she could, but it was not enough. Her eyes welled with angry tears of humiliation, and she rose from her chair, hurriedly walking toward the door back into the restaurant and then outside the main entrance.
For the first time since the day Patrice had told him of her plan to abort the baby, Marc felt sympathy for Patrice, albeit fragile. It was not enough to melt the ire from his face, but he quickly put a compensatory bill on the table and followed her.
It was an unusually bright day for Rock Pier, and the sunlight seemed blinding to Mark, as he strode quickly to catch up with the woman who had emerged from the dark building a moment before himself.
“Patrice!” Marc called. She kept walking, but he quickly caught up to her, speaking again as soon as he knew she could hear him. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. It’s bad enough for me, and I fought you the whole time. I only regret I didn’t go to jail for physically keeping you away from your…your… bloodthirsty doctor.” Making no effort to control the emotion that had been pent up inside him for so long, Marc continued his tirade. “How would he like to have somebody sell his brain and his liver and his…his…heart?” Marc sputtered out the words, then stopped and took a deep breath. He sighed bitterly. “We had this conversation once before. Remember?” He grabbed Patrice by the arm, turning her to face him. Her tears didn’t mitigate his passion.
“I’ll never get to hold that baby,” he said, as if trying to make her understand his wrath. “My baby, because I would have loved him—so much I would have loved him…” Angry tears welled up in his own eyes as he looked intently at Patrice. “You killed my baby. I’ve never been a bitter person, but I am now, and I have you to thank for that, too. I hope you regret what you’ve done. If there’s any decency in you, you surely must regret it. But don’t ever ask me to forgive you. It’s not a possibility.”
Patrice looked up at Marc and openly sobbed. “Please, Marc. I can’t take any more. Our baby—the baby…” She swallowed and wiped her nose. “…the baby was supposed to—to pioneer a new movement in medical history, and it never happened. I thought people would appreciate my sacrifice, but nobody did.”
Marc frowned in disbelief at her words. “To their credit!”
“Whatever,” Patrice muttered, dropping her head. She was the very picture of rejection. Covering her face with her hands, she inhaled and exhaled a couple of times as Marc stood silently. “You don’t love me anymore, and I have no one to turn to. No one, and I’m afraid,” she blurted out through her fingers, her chest heaving uncontrollably as she looked up. “I’m afraid, Marc.” She looked in vain for a glimmer of compassion on his face. “I…I feel so hopeless.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I might become an alcoholic—the very thing I’ve cursed all my life.”
She stopped, retrieving a tissue from her purse, and blew her nose, regaining some composure as her voice took on a more defensive attitude. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy to learn that this whole thing has left me in a desperate place. You can go out and find yourself another girl and have your baby. You don’t have to relive the…the whole thing—over and over and over and over.” She looked in vain for sympathy on Marc’s face.
“I can find myself another girl and have my baby?” Marc replied, speaking each word slowly and sarcastically, obviously incredulous at the suggestion. He paused. “My baby is dead. My baby’s little heart is being cut up right now, per your wishes, by a bunch of medical researchers whose own hearts are beating like precision steel—hard and cold. A defenseless little human killed by humans, sold to other humans, bought by still others, and finally used up. It’s a long chain that markets human flesh. And by your choice, our baby’s the main part of it—the victim. Imagine his tiny little face about to see the light of day. ‘Oops! Somebody needs those eyes. Sorry, kid.’ He never took that first breath of air, because mankind needed another pair of lungs, and his mother figured his were disposable. He never uttered that first cry, but some white-coated researcher gets those little vocal chords to study.”
Patrice, threw her head back and seethed in fresh air, holding it inside clenched teeth. She had never seen Marc so angry, and her gut feeling was that any interruption on her part might be imprudent. She pressed her hands tightly over her ears in a vain effort to shut out his voice, her purse hanging from her elbow.
“Feel that baby-soft skin. It was needed, too, I’m sure. My child was a martyr to the cause of medical research. But he didn’t get any accolades—maybe because he wasn’t a willing participant. He had no choice in the matter. He would have run, if he could have—or hidden, if only he had had a place to hide. But no, his mother had a pretty good hold on him, and so he was cut up and sold for his body parts.” Marc punctuated each word of the last phrase.
Ignoring Patrice’s obvious refusal to hear him, Marc ended his angry spiel with stark clarification of Patrice’s culpability. “No, Patrice, I can’t go out and find another girl to have my baby.” He paused to look at his watch calendar. “My baby died one month ago tomorrow. He died because you wanted him dead.”
“You could have stopped me, and you didn’t. Don’t put all the blame on me.”
“And just how could I have stopped you?” Marc demanded.
“You should have told me then what you’re saying now—before the fact.”
“I was in shock,” Marc replied. “I’d never given abortion much thought before. It’s not exactly a subject for casual conversation.” He paused for a second, as if a new idea had just entered his mind. “You know, when you get close to it and look at it for what it really is, you can’t help but want to avoid the subject—even thinking about it, let alone talking about it.” He stopped, relaxing just a little, and leaned against the tree growing next to the sidewalk. “Abortion protesters carry big, ugly signs. Now I know why—to get the truth in people’s faces. We ought to kiss the ground they walk on.”
“They’re disgusting,” Patrice muttered, avoiding Marc’s eyes.
“The signs?”
“No…Well, yes. But the protesters—sticking their noses in other people’s business.” She waited for the retort that was sure to come. How could Marc defend those freaks?
“Their noses are just sniffing out foul play, that’s all.” Marc pushed away from the tree with his left shoulder. “The rest of us are used to the scent.” He shook his head and looked Patrice directly in the eye before turning to walk to his car. “It stinks!”