"Where-?" David began.
Fletcher removed her mask and goggles. "She'll share the room with her mom but be accessible to the nurses so that Karen can get some sleep."
David kissed his wife with warm, deep love. "Sleep well, darling. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Rest, David. We'll be all right."
They embraced again. Nurse Dyer returned with a gurney. David helped his wife shift over to it. A last kiss and she rolled away through the door, Dyer pushing gently.
David Chandler watched his wife disappear into the post-partum wing. A hand slapped him on the back with weary heartiness.
"Congratulations, Dad." Dr. Fletcher smiled. Her eyes seemed to hold back a deeper emotion than she revealed in the friendly gesture. "She's a beautiful baby."
He nodded, then smiled widely. "She is. They both are. We've waited so long for this."
"Have you got a name for her?"
"Renata. Karen's grandmother was named Renata. It means `born again.'" Evelyn Fletcher raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
VII
Karen awoke to the sound of a baby screaming. The short, high-pitched shrieks cut through her sleep like meat cleavers.
"What's wrong?" she cried, sitting up in the hospital bed, looking around in the darkness. She had been awakened sev-eral times that day for breast-feeding, but the baby's cries then were nothing like these.
She looked through the window in the wall at her right. The sliding tray that allowed Renata to be reached either by her mother on this side or the nurses on the other lay open to the nursing area. Renata was gone.
"What's going on!" she shouted through the glass.
"Nothing," one of the nurses said casually. "Just taking a few drops of blood for tests. We give her a little heel stick, that's all."
Renata screamed as if she were being murdered. Karen pressed up against the glass, flattening her face in an effort to see what they were doing to her child. They stood somewhere out of view. The cries continued. Karen's entire body reacted to the sound. It was as if each scream were fashioned to activate ev-ery primordial mother instinct lying hidden in her soul. She wanted to smash the glass and seize her child from the mon-sters in white.
One of the torturers-an over-thirty frump with a bored ex-pression-deposited the frantic, kicking infant into the drawer, gently sliding it over to Karen's side of the wall.
"All done. Feeding time."
Karen hated the nurses already.
She scooped up her daughter, held her up to her right breast, and offered her nipple to the terrorized baby.
Renata sought out the proffered meal and sucked heartily. An occasional residual whimper escaped past the areola.
Karen waited until Renata had calmed down to examine her tiny feet. They were both still purple from hospital-form ink. A small, round Band-Aid adhered to the bottom of the left heel. She hugged the baby tenderly, cooing to it and whispering soft, loving mother sounds.
When Renata finished eating and fell into a satisfied sleep, Karen willfully ignored the rules. She did not restore the baby to the drawer in the wall but kept her bundled against her breast, sleeping protectively with her.
"
"Just a little ear infection, that's all."
Dr. Fletcher peered through the otoscope into Renata's tiny right ear. "When you look inside, the eardrum should look silvery and sort of reflective. If it looks red or swollen, that's a good sign that some antibiotics are in order."
"Is it serious?" Karen held the baby tightly. Renata watched the proceedings, blue eyes staring in an unfocused gaze of incomprehension.
"We just have to pick the right antibiotic." She made a few notes on the chart, then picked up Renata's left foot. She stroked a fingernail down the center of the sole, watched the toes flex, and made another note. She smiled.
"Other than that, everything else seems to be in order." She put a finger into Renata's hand. The small, stubby fingers re-flexively grasped the digit. "She's got a good strong grip." Karen smiled and hugged the baby even tighter. Renata gurgled, her mouth curling into a toothless smile as her arms and legs flailed about merrily.
Dr. Fletcher patted Renata's head, stroking the thin cover-ing of light blond hair. Renata's face became confused, reddened. She fidgeted, then began to cry.
"Uh-oh," Evelyn said. "Changing time."
Karen smiled. "That's one thing I regret about this place." She shifted over to the far side of the bed, lowering Renata into the drawer and closing it. "I don't get to diaper her until I get home." Fletcher smiled. "Enjoy the opportunity."
"
That afternoon, Nurse Dyer stepped into Fletcher's office and locked the door behind her. She wore deep emerald cu-lottes beneath her lab coat. No doubt, mused Evelyn, she had a pair of matching high heels to replace the crisp white hospi-tal shoes she currently wore.
"Dr. Lawrence is asking questions."
"Relax." She motioned for Dyer to sit beside her at her desk. The tall woman pulled up a chair, lowered her frame into the leather folds, and tried to relax. She did not seem to be succeeding. The nurse drummed her blood-red-polished, pro-fessionally short fingernails against the brown leather arm-rest. "The administrator could blow us out of the water if he gets suspicious at all."
Fletcher lit up a cigarette. "Lawrence isn't suspicious. He's just a meddlesome old bureaucrat who confuses irritating the staff with effective management. He's bothering everyone just to look busy."
"He questioned me about the discrepancies on Chandler's reports." Fletcher looked up. "Such as?"
Dyer leaned forward. "Delivering a full-term infant in just seven months."
"Jesus." Fletcher jabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. "That's so simple. Just direct him to me. That man hasn't touched a scalpel in eighteen years. I'll just backdate the operation and tell him he's confused."
"I think that maybe we tried to do too much. Maybe we should-"
"Should what?" Fletcher stood. "Pull back now when we know it works? Go back to the status quo?
Now that we've got the technique? Don't forget why we're in this." She stepped behind Dyer to grasp her shoulders. "Don't forget the goal here. Don't forget the payoff we're finally seeing. Great strides are never made without the risk of stumbling."
"But what if Mrs. Chandler should talk?"
"She won't," Fletcher said, patting the woman's athletic shoulders. "She's got the baby she wanted." The doctor paused, then spoke softly. "I think we should try another one."
"
David Chandler prepared to run the gauntlet. The day at work-being away from his wife and daughter-had been dif-ficult. The manager of an aircraft fastener warehouse does not have much time for quiet, reflective moments. Roaring forklifts and the constant metallic racket of jostling compo-nents make for rattled nerves.
And now he had to face this.
"There's the washroom," a stern-faced nurse said. "Put the robe over your clothes so that it ties in the back. Put on the bonnet. Put on the face mask." She handed him a sealed packet. "This is a Betadine scrub brush. Get it wet so that it lathers. Lather up your hands completely, then scrub. Pay strict attention to your fingernails. Not one speck of dirt should be under-neath when you're done. Then do it again. Your hands should have a nice orange stain all over."
"Then I can see them?"
"Of course." She looked at him oddly for a moment, then wandered away. Chandler donned the protective garb and turned on the hot water to perform the ablution. The bright, yellow-orange suds coated his hands as the sponge side of the brush worked up a lather. The antiseptic tingled in a small cut on his ring finger that he didn't remember receiving. The Betadine smelled sharply cleansing, very much in accord with all the other hos-pital smells.