He concentrated on scrubbing his fingernails and cuticles. He plunged his hands into the stream of water to rinse, then lathered and scrubbed again. Drying his hands, he examined the fingertips-now clean and yellow-white beneath the trim nails-and looked up. In the cupboard above the sink sat an open box of scrub-brush packets. David's eyes glanced right and left. No one near to witness the crime. Deft fingers plucked one packet from the box, skillfully sliding it under the gown and into his right front pocket.
He might need one at home. Crime in the service of sanita-tion.
He slipped on his mask, then paused. He had just touched his pocket and his face. With a self-derisive snort, David Chan-dler picked up the used brush and repeated the cleansing ritual. Finally done, the masked man strode purposefully down the hallway, only to stop midway, trying to remember what room number he had been given. The iron-eyed nurse passed by, noted his confusion, and directed him to the room.
Karen Chandler lay in bed in a semiprivate room. No one occupied the other bed at the moment, and the only sounds came from the cries of other babies in the wing. Renata lay in her mother's arms, nursing happily. Tiny fingers pressed against the soft milk-filled flesh.
"Hi," he said, standing in the doorway.
"David!" Her voice nearly burst with affection. "Sweetheart, what time is it?"
"Five-thirty. I came as soon as I could."
"You didn't have to do-"
"I couldn't rest until I saw my two loves." He leaned over the bed to nuzzle Karen deeply through his mask, then gazed at his daughter. Her eyes were closed in a feeding reverie. "How soon until I can take you home?"
"Dr. Fletcher said that she has an ear infection, so the nurse gave her a shot of antibiotics. The poor thing cried for ten min-utes after." She stroked Renata's hair. "They want to keep us here another night to make sure her ear's okay."
"I'm sure it'll be all right.""
Karen knew it was not all right.
Even though she had been a mother for less than two days, she could tell that the baby in her arms had changed. Its skin seemed less pink. When she put her finger in Renata's pudgy hand, the fingers closed around it but squeezed with less strength. She seemed just as hungry as ever, though she nursed for shorter periods.
Karen told Dr. Fletcher on her afternoon rounds. Fletcher peered into the baby's eyes, shone a penlight through Renata's left ear lobe, then examined both ears with her otoscope.
"The good news," Evelyn said, "is that the ear infection is subsiding. But there may be some complication from the anti-biotic. I'll have the nurses take another blood sample." Karen fought her urge to ask what could be wrong. Silently, she prayed to a God she hadn't addressed personally in years. Please don't hurt my baby.
She held Renata close to her all that afternoon, surrender-ing her only for diaper changes and the blood sample.
Five minutes after Renata had been returned from the blood drawing, Nurse Dyer strode swiftly into the room, pushing a Plexiglas case on wheels. It looked similar to the one that had held the baby in the delivery room.
"What's wrong?" Karen asked, holding Renata to her breast.
"Dr. Fletcher will explain when she gets here. Right now we have to take Renata for more tests."
"Where?"
"Dr. Fletcher will explain," Dyer said, all emotion masked. She carefully lifted the baby over to the case, lowered her in, and sealed the lid. Throwing switches and rotating knobs, she turned on heating lamps and increased the oxygen supply.
Renata kicked and screamed for a moment, then weakly relaxed. She had just been fed. The box was warm. Nurse Dyer offered her a fresh Nuk pacifier via the glove box, stroking the clear silicon rubber against her soft baby cheek. Renata turned her mouth toward the faux nipple, sought it out, clamped onto it, and sucked. Intent on nothing else, she drifted off to sleep.
"Dr. Fletcher will be with you," Dyer said, "after she's had a chance to examine the baby." She wheeled the quietly hissing, softly glowing conveyance out of the room, leaving Karen alone in a silence punctuated by the distant, healthy cries of other children in the post-partum ward. " David held Karen's hand firmly. He stood beside her bed, listening to Dr. Fletcher explain aplastic anemia in laymen's terms. It was all too confusing.
"You knew that she could get this from the drugs?" His voice held pain, incomprehension, and a growing anger.
The doctor took a deep breath, trying to project as much calm as she could.
"Bone-marrow suppression is always a risk when we use antibiotics on anyone. Generally, it's a small risk. Aplastic ane-mia seems to result from unknown, idiosyncratic sensitivities that aren't predictable. We can, however, predict that an ear infection can lead to deafness and further, worse complica-tions if untreated. The benefits far outweighed the risks. Even so-"
"Couldn't you," Karen asked in a subdued voice, "have used something safer?"
"We used the antibiotic with the safest record. I'm sorry that this happened. I want you to know that spontaneous recovery of bone-marrow function can and does occur in these cases." David's voice was close to trembling. His right leg, foot perched on one of the bed's lower braces, jerked nervously, like some animal ready to take flight out of anger or terror. "Well," he said tightly, "what are you doing about it?"
"We're keeping her in reverse isolation to prevent any op-portunistic infections. We're providing supportive care. Intra-venous fluids, glucose, proteins, blood transfusions. If not for the obvious problem, a bone-marrow transplant would be the surest solution."
Karen responded to the mention of a problem by placing her other hand on David. He held her even tighter.
"What problem?" she asked.
"Bone-marrow transplants require a very close match be-tween donor and recipient. That's why the donor is usually a very close relative. A brother or sister. Mother or father. Karen's eyes filled with tears. "I'll do anything to save my baby. What do I have-" Then she saw Dr. Fletcher slowly shak-ing her head.
Karen's words ceased as if she had been punched in the throat. The sickening realization swept over her that Renata was not her baby. She was not the mother. She never had been. And now, when Renata lay in life-threatening danger, she could offer no help at all.
Karen fought against the swirling black faint that pulled her down into the bed sheets. Needs her mother, she thought, needs her mother. The words choked her soul. David's hands, mas-saging hers, felt hot and distant. She took a deep breath.
"Where is her mother?" Karen asked with forced steadiness.
Fletcher shook her head sadly. Stepping over to the door, she closed and locked it. She returned to the bed and reached across to close the baby drawer. Her voice was low, under-standing, but firm.
"You know the terms of the contract. No one is ever to know that the child is not yours. Especially not the donor mother."
Karen stared with incomprehension. "Even if it costs this baby her life?"
"I'm sorry, that's-"
"It's a contract with no teeth," David said. "It relies on our good faith, on our being so happy with the baby that we wouldn't dare risk it being taken away. But that's not the case with Renata." He grabbed Fletcher's arm. "Her life's in danger. I don't care what happens to us. I just want her to live." Dr. Fletcher maintained her low tone. "It's not just a ques-tion of custody. I told you that the transoptive technique was experimental. I told you that the donor mother had come in for an abortion. What I didn't tell you is that she thought she was getting an abortion. The donor didn't know that her fetus would be transplanted."