Kitabı oku: «Between You and Me», sayfa 3

“Will do.”

She turned quickly to head back to the elevator and nearly collided with Caleb Stoltz. He was so close that she caught his scent of sweat and blood and sunshine, and the intensity of it flustered her.

“Um, the staff here can answer any—”

“I want to give blood,” he said quietly. “For Jonah, in case he needs it.”

They had already given him many units in trauma. The attending had declared him stable, but anything could happen in surgery. She glanced at the nurses, each of whom sent her an I’m busy look.

“I can show you to the blood bank,” she offered.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d appreciate that.”

On the way back to the elevator, she hesitated. “Wait here a moment. I’ll get you some clean clothes to put on.”

She went to a supply room and found a set of scrubs, size extra large.

“You can wear these for now,” she said, gesturing toward the men’s room. “Put your clothes in this bag.”

He hesitated. Then he stared down at the hopelessly soiled shirt and pants. “I reckon I look like I just slaughtered a pig.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, but you’ll be more comfortable in these.”

While he was changing, she checked her messages. A reminder about dinner tonight with her parents. Study group at nine—Step Two of the medical licensing exam was right around the corner, a test of her medical knowledge and diagnostic and clinical skills. If the ER stayed quiet, she might be able to grab a quick nap in the on-call room.

Caleb emerged from the men’s room. In the borrowed scrubs, he looked only slightly less like a fish out of water. She took the plastic bag marked Patient Belongings, which contained his bloodstained clothes. “I’ll have these cleaned for you.” The offer just popped out of her, as if she were his valet. It would be a kindness, though, she told herself. Given what was happening to his nephew, he had more important things to deal with.

So do you, said an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother.

She led the way through the winding hallways to the blood bank and introduced him to the technician there. “This is Mr. Stoltz,” she said. “His nephew is in surgery and he wants to give blood.”

“As much as you’re allowed,” Caleb said. “My blood type is O negative.”

She was surprised he knew. Most people didn’t know their blood type.

“You’re a universal donor. Excellent,” said the technician, a laid-back type named Klaus with a ponytail and a small hoop earring. “Right this way, Mr. Stoltz.”

He was calm and compliant as he took a seat in a one-armed lounge chair.

Klaus handed him a clipboard. “Some standard screening questions.”

Reese’s phone vibrated with a message from Mel: Get yr ass back down here and detox this drunk pls.

Lovely. “I have to go,” she said. “Can you find your way back to the surgical waiting area?”

“I can, yes.”

She wished she could stay with him. Or at least say something comforting. He looked so lost and confused and scared. “Uh, okay. I wish you and Jonah the best.” Lame. So fricking lame. The best what? The best outcome of an amputation? The best way to deal with a little boy who now had to go through life with one arm? She tried to think of something more to say, but nothing came to mind, no words of comfort or reassurance.

He didn’t reply, simply nodded and started filling out the screening form.

And with that, their association ended. It was the way things worked in the emergency department—once the emergency had been passed on to the next team, the patient and his family were history. The residents and attendings who worked in the department liked that aspect of the job. Sometimes Reese wasn’t so sure. Sometimes she wanted the story to continue.

As she stood in the elevator, she looked down at her hand and realized she was holding the bag with Caleb’s soiled clothes. And she’d never been so pleased to be stuck with someone else’s dirty laundry.

4

“C’mon with me, baby. I’ll drive you all the way to heaven,” roared the drunk, clinging to Reese’s hand. “You’re one red-hot babe, that’s just what you are.”

Reese breathed in the scent of Mastisol. She’d popped an ampule and put a few drops on her surgical mask as an odor blocker, a trick she’d learned from a helpful floor nurse. “You’ll be fine, Mr. James. Get some rest. Here are your discharge instructions. The program we talked about can work, but you have to show up. I’ll make sure you have a ride later.”

He serenaded her with “Ride Sally Ride” while she washed at the sink.

“You’re good with him,” commented the nurse who had assisted her. “He’s not everyone’s fave.”

“And his vomit looks so attractive on me.” Reese peeled off the mask, gloves, and disposable paper gown and added them to the waste bin. Actually, she didn’t hate the ER, even in moments like this. She didn’t even hate treating patients like Mr. James—frequent fliers who had a way of drawing compassion from her even as they destroyed themselves. Perversely, she found herself nurturing the hope that a guy like that might actually get clean one day. There were things she loved about primary care, and sometimes she couldn’t help comparing those moments to tedious hours in surgery—a rotation she secretly did not love.

She hurried away to the staff room and went to her locker. Inside was a jumble of textbooks, binders and clipboards crammed with notes, a tangle of charging cords, a makeup bag, and a change of clothes. She glanced at herself in the small mirror on the back of the door. Her dark, short hair lay in random wisps around her face, and the ever-present bruised circles under her eyes marked her as someone who had been on call for too many hours. Shit. She wished she had time to go home and shower before dinner—her parents were meeting her at Urban Farmer, one of the city’s best restaurants. But as usual, she was running late and would have to make do with a quick once-over in the ladies’ room.

There, she fluffed out her hair and applied makeup so old she couldn’t even remember buying it. She wadded up her lab coat, now soiled from her encounter with Mr. James, and added it to the bag with Caleb’s clothing. Something pinged on the tile floor—the coin she’d found in the trauma room.

With a quick motion, she stuck it in her pocket, smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt, then faced the mirror and took a deep breath. She wondered if other people got nervous at the prospect of having dinner with their parents. She wondered if others felt the burden of family expectations pressing like a weight on their chests. It’s just dinner, she told herself.

Except with Hector and Joanna Powell, it was never just dinner. Tonight’s elegant meal at the trendy spot was more than that. They wanted to discuss her prospects for several elite residency program matches. The stakes were sky high, and her parents wanted to make sure she landed right where they were aiming her. She couldn’t remember if they’d ever asked her whether she was on board with the plan.

On her way out, she encountered Mel and his young son greeting each other in the foyer. With a grin of delight, Mel offered the kid a high five, their hands slapping together in friendly fashion.

“Look who got sprung from day care,” Reese said. “How was your day, Frankie?”

“Good,” said the little boy. He was four years old and adorable in his Phillies T-shirt—as if there was any other way for a four-year-old to be. “I fed the hamster. It was my turn.”

“Cool. What do hamsters eat?”

“Carrots and alfalfa kibbles.”

“Yum. And I’m impressed that you know the word ‘alfalfa.’” They walked outside together. The air was gritty from the heat of the day, and redolent of exhaust from the traffic surging along the boulevard between the hospital and the river.

“Big plans for the night?” she asked.

“The biggest,” said Mel. “Backyard wiener roast.”

“Yay!” Frankie danced a little jig.

Reese said goodbye and went into the laundry service she always used. She dropped off her lab coat along with Caleb Stoltz’s clothes, asking for a rush job. Outside again, she hesitated. Stuck her hand into her skirt pocket. Her fingers brushed the little token she’d picked up in the trauma room. She took it out, turned it over in her hand. Blakeslee Sawmill. It probably belonged to Jonah Stoltz. The image of a precision saw popped into her mind. She’d never observed an amputation. Christ, that poor little kid.

On impulse, she went back into the hospital and pressed the elevator button.

Compared to the mayhem of the ER, the surgical intensive care unit was an oasis of ominous quiet, punctuated by the artificial hiss and thump of ventilators, monitoring equipment, and life support gear. The waiting area was empty. She approached the nursing station and asked about Jonah Stoltz.

He’d made it through surgery and was recovering in the SICU. She found him in a high-tech suite there, his small form looking even smaller in the steel cocoon of the hospital bed. A nurse stood at a computer terminal on a rolling cart, keeping track of all the monitors; she glanced up and Reese acknowledged her with a nod. Beside the bed, on a wheeled stool, sat Caleb Stoltz.

The big man had his head bowed and his eyes closed. Reese wondered if he was praying, or sleeping. A bandage held a cotton ball in the crook of his arm.

“Mr. Stoltz?” she asked softly.

He looked up at her and blinked, then instantly turned his gaze to the boy.

“I came to see how he was doing,” Reese explained, a little awkwardly.

“He woke up once, but he wasn’t really all there, know what I mean?”

“That’s normal under the circumstances,” she said with more authority than she felt. From the corner of her eye, she saw the nurse nod again in agreement. “He’s been through a major trauma, and the deep sleep is part of his recovery.”

“That’s what the other doctors said too.”

“I, um, found something.” She handed him the flattened souvenir coin. “I thought it might belong to Jonah.”

Caleb Stoltz took the coin in his big workman’s hand. “His lucky charm. Guess it didn’t bring him any luck today.” His hand hovered between the side bars of the hospital bed. He seemed unsure of what to do; then he let his fingers rest on Jonah’s knee.

The gesture made her heart ache. There was something so piercing about the two of them, strangers ripped away from their quiet existence and thrust into this frightening, sterile world. Her throat felt tight with compassion. “Mr. Stoltz, has anyone spoken to you about accommodations while you’re in the city?”

“No.” He kept his eyes on Jonah. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

A now familiar twinge of annoyance flared up in Reese. “I’ll see if I can find someone to help you out with that.” She took a step toward the door, and something else occurred to her. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten a thing all day.”

“Hadn’t thought about that, either.”

“Let me show you where the cafeteria is.”

His long, sun-browned fingers curled around the boy’s knee. “I’d best stay here.”

“He’s going to be asleep for a while, I estimate. You won’t do him much good sitting here.” He shot her a look, and she added, “The cafeteria is close. We won’t be gone long.”

He stood up, his long body unfolding from the small stool. “All right,” he said simply.

In the elevator, Reese couldn’t help herself. She glanced at her watch.

“You late for something?” he asked.

Her cheeks heated a little. “No, it’s fine,” she lied.

The cafeteria of Mercy Heights was a linoleum and Formica emporium of instant gratification. Rows of salads, floating in a sea of chipped ice, led to long steamer tables of casseroles and overcooked meats in salty sauces. The desserts ranged from thick banana pudding surrounded by bland vanilla wafers to pies crowned with six inches of meringue.

Seeing his hesitation, Reese guessed that he didn’t have much practice eating at a cafeteria. She took the lead by selecting a brown plastic tray and gliding it along in front of the salad bar. Though she had no intention of eating, she selected a random salad, an entrée, and a dinner roll and helped herself to a tall, syrupy Coke from the beverage dispenser. Following her lead, he chose exactly what she did. Except on his tray, for a man of his size who hadn’t eaten all day, the food looked woefully meager.

“You need to eat more than that,” she said. “Otherwise you’ll be back here hungry again in just a couple of hours.”

With quiet compliance, he loaded up his tray with main dishes, a macaroni salad, and banana pudding, then followed her to the checkout line. Reese paid with her staff debit card. Briefly she considered picking up his tab but decided against it. She knew next to nothing about Caleb Stoltz, but she already sensed that he had his pride.

He took out a worn billfold and counted out the amount in cash. She led him to a table and sat down, resisting the urge to check her watch once again. Having dinner with a patient’s family member wasn’t exactly a breach of policy, but neither was it standard procedure. Certainly Reese had never done anything like this before.

But then again, she’d never met anyone like Caleb Stoltz before.

Just to have something to do with her hands, she took a napkin from the napkin holder and spread it over her lap. “So I guess—” She broke off, noticing that he had fallen silent and still, his head bowed as he perused his dinner tray.

A moment later, he looked up. “What’s that?”

“I guess it’s been a rough day for you. Please, go ahead and eat.” She toyed with her salad, swirling her fork in the wilted leaves.

He dived in, eating mechanically but probably not tasting the meat and potatoes, the green beans, the dinner roll shiny with butter. Reese kept trying to figure out what it was about him. An otherness. He seemed to be surrounded by some sort of invisible bubble or cocoon. Though he sat across the table from her, he inhabited a world she couldn’t touch.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the Amish community, Mr. Stoltz,” she said, feeling somewhat abashed by her own ignorance. She’d taken a seminar in the cultural competency of physicians, meant to help a doctor understand the patient’s perspective. In the class, they’d covered far-flung cultures like Samburu tribes and Tibetan nomads, yet they hadn’t touched on a group right next door. “My impressions are based on things I’ve seen in National Geographic and on PBS.”

“That’s pretty much all most folks know.” He took a few more bites of food. “If you don’t mind, I go by my given name, Caleb.”

She vaguely remembered hearing that it was an Amish custom to use people’s first names rather than titles. Simplicity ruled their way of life, that much she knew. I wish I knew what you were thinking, she silently told him. He seemed so placid and calm, yet she sensed something more going on.

“So … Middle Grove?” She took a small bite of her salad and chewed thoughtfully, picturing rolling hills, painted houses and barns, quilts pegged on clotheslines. “I’ve lived in the city all my life,” she said. “Not right here in Philly, but in Gladwyne, about twenty minutes away.” She turned her wrist to check her watch again and then caught herself.

She was surprised to look down at her plate to discover that she’d eaten most of the salad. With a shrug, she started in on the dinner roll. It had been a long shift today, and she hadn’t bothered with lunch. “Is it true you don’t use electricity or phones?”

“Each community has its standards,” he said patiently. “On our farm, we don’t use electricity or have a phone. If there’s an emergency, like there was for Jonah, there’s a phone in a shed we share with the neighbors.”

“Is everyone in your community Amish, then?”

“Most folks are, yah. We do get plenty of tourists coming through,” said Caleb. “More than our share, though it’s not as busy as it is down in Lancaster.”

She flashed on the news vans camped out in front of the hospital. “Do the tourists bother you?”

“Not me personally. I reckon it bothers some to have outsiders watching us going about our business, harvesting corn, or plowing a field, or our kids walking to school.”

She took a sip of her Coke. “It would bother me.”

They finished eating, and the silence between them was oddly companionable. She hadn’t meant to eat at all, but she’d just sort of done it without thinking. He had the oddest effect on her, this big, quiet Amish man. Time seemed to slow, moments slipped by, unnoticed.

A nasal sound came from her purse. He started, the first sudden movement she’d seen him make. “Sorry,” she said, fumbling in her handbag. “It’s my phone.” She took it out and checked the screen.

Her mother, of course.

“Shit.”

“How’s that?” he asked.

Shit. She’d completely lost track of the time. That wasn’t like her at all. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said to Caleb. Without waiting for his assent, she left the table and stepped over to the side of the cafeteria near the garbage cans. “Mom, I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. I’m tied up here at the hospital.”

“Your shift was over forty-five minutes ago,” Joanna Powell pointed out.

How many other adults had a mother who memorized their work schedule?

“I know, but there’s a sort of … interesting case I’m involved in.” She cast a glance at Caleb Stoltz, who had managed to put away a dinner that would have satisfied three regular-size men. “I’m so sorry. I was really looking forward to getting together with you and Daddy tonight.”

“I guess there’s nothing else to be done,” her mother said. “We’ll just have to reschedule. In the meantime, I’ll email you some things about the residency interviews.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Reese said. “You’re the best.”

She got off the phone quickly and hurried back to the table. Caleb finished his large cup of Coke.

“Would you like something else to drink?” she asked. “There’s lemonade, iced tea, or—”

“I’m okay. Just not used to the taste of a Coca-Cola. Been a long time.”

Reese wasn’t quite sure why she’d stood up her parents in order to linger at the hospital with this man, a stranger whose nephew had passed through the emergency room. Ordinarily patients came and went like leaves floating down a smooth-flowing river. Often, that river flowed with blood, but it continued on as regularly as the janitorial staff that cleaned each exam room and curtain area after each successive patient.

Something about this man and his injured little boy took hold of Reese’s heart. She simply wasn’t ready to sign off on him yet. It happened that way with patients sometimes. The residents and attendings she worked with talked about the fact that a certain case or patient or family member caused a peculiar resonance in the doctor, for a variety of reasons.

Reese sheepishly acknowledged that a few of the reasons might have to do with an unusual man with piercing eyes, and a sweet, broken boy.

She accompanied Caleb back up to the SICU, stopping at the nurses’ station to see when the doctor would be by to talk to him again. Outside Jonah’s suite, they stood together, looking at the boy through the thick safety glass of the window.

“He’s still sound asleep,” Reese said.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

“You can ask the doctor when he comes on evening rounds.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?”

“Almost. I’m a fourth-year med student. I was with the trauma team when they brought Jonah in, but he’s not my patient. I just thought you might want somebody around in case you have any more questions about Jonah.”

He leaned his hand on the upper frame of the window and kept his eyes on Jonah. His whole body tensed. “It’s good of you to take the time for us, Reese.”

It felt strange to hear him call her Reese. Patients and families often addressed her as “Doctor,” unaware that she hadn’t graduated yet.

She pressed her forehead to the glass and gazed at the small, still form amid the tubes and monitors. The huge bandage on the elevated arm stump dominated the scene. There would be nothing simple about this boy’s life now.

“Did anyone talk to you about what you might say to Jonah when he wakes up?” she asked.

“No. But I’ve thought about it plenty. How do you tell a little kid that he’s lost his arm? How do you tell him he’ll never throw a baseball with that hand again or hold a sandwich in his fingers, or pick up a tool to work? How do you tell him he’ll never properly shake hands with his bride’s father or pet his dog on the head with that hand?”

She winced at the pain she heard in his voice. “You just tell him. I wish there was another way, or a different outcome, but there’s not. You’ll simply have to tell him, directly and honestly, that he’s lost a limb and he’ll learn to get on without it. It’s terrible, but the worst part is over and he survived. A different sort of life is waiting for him now.” She felt surprised to hear herself speaking to him with more confidence than she felt. Speaking like the sort of doctor she hoped to become.

“What sort of life will that be?”

For the first time, Reese sensed anger in him. “With proper therapy and prosthetics, he’ll manage,” she said. “The technology is so advanced nowadays that a prosthetic arm with a properly fitted artificial hand can function very much like a natural one.” She bit her lip, wishing the words could be more reassuring.

“So you’re saying he’s going to get an artificial limb?”

“That’s the recommended protocol. It’s the best way to give him the most functionality,” she said. “The stump will need time and therapy to heal properly to accept a permanent prosthesis. Once he’s fitted with that, he’ll undergo more therapy to learn how to use his new hand.” She turned to him. “I know it’s hard. That boy’s life changed in an instant. But kids are incredible. I’ve worked with many of them in my rotations. They’re amazingly resilient. They can adapt to almost anything.” She resisted the urge to put her hand on his arm. “The ones who do best are those with a supportive family. Judging by how devoted you are, I’d guess Jonah has that.”

When he didn’t answer, a disturbing thought occurred to her. “Don’t tell me an artificial limb is against your religion,” she said.

“As far as I know, it’s not.”

“Good,” she said.

They stood together for a few quiet moments, then stepped into the room. The nurse at the computer terminal acknowledged them with a nod. Reese tried to picture Jonah playing in a baseball game, helping with farm chores, petting his dog.

“Do you feel like talking about the accident?” she asked.

“I already told everything to a woman from some agency. She wrote it all down and made a voice recording, too.”

She was probably from Child Protective Services, Reese guessed. “It’s standard to get a detailed report of an accident.”

“I see.” His face was somber. He was practically radiating guilt.

“Well, if you ever want to talk—not for a report or anything—I’d be happy to listen.”

To her surprise, he nodded slowly. When he spoke of his nephew, his reserve fell away. “I was in the kitchen when it happened. I was with Hannah—she’s Jonah’s big sister. We were just washing up after breakfast. I could see him across the field working at the neighbor’s silo, and everything seemed to be going just fine. He’s helped fill silo dozens of times. All kids pitch in with chores. Then I guess I got busy with something else, and a bit later, the neighbor came running over, said there’d been an accident.” His hand curled into a fist. “The way they told it, something got hung up in the shredding machine. Jonah was trying to push a stalk through when the blades caught him. It all happened fast. Real fast.”

Reese kept her gaze fixed on the red and blue monitor lights that gave a constant readout of Jonah’s vital signs. She was beginning to understand that even a boy Jonah’s age played a vital role on a family farm. He had lost more, perhaps, than a non-Amish boy.

And suddenly her cheeks felt hot with a deep sense of outrage. With all due respect to the Amish ways, she seriously questioned the practice of letting a boy do the work of a man. She wondered if there would be any further investigation, if Caleb would be questioned for putting a child at risk.

Then she bit her lip to keep herself from speaking out. Now was not the time and she was not the one to judge or comment. She reminded herself of the things she’d learned in her medical compassion classes. Even after the worst of accidents, a doctor must never point the finger of blame at the patient, or at any friend or family member. That was the role of social services. And more often than not, an accident was exactly that—an accident. In her ER rotation, she’d seen any number of adored, protected children who’d suffered accidents. A bad landing in a gymnastics competition. A cupboard door slammed on a finger. A fall down the stairs.

Guilt was a powerful force. It didn’t need any help from an outsider. No doubt Caleb Stoltz was feeling plenty guilty already.

Glancing sideways at him, she noticed the tension in his clenched fists and angular face, and in the way he held his neck and shoulders. She tried to imagine the sudden shock of an ordinary day turning into a nightmare.

Finally he spoke again from a place of deep anguish; she could hear it straining his voice. “I yelled at him this morning,” he said in a quiet, flat tone. “I yelled at him for teasing his sister. I told him to get on over to the neighbors’ to fill silo.”

“What would you have done if he hadn’t been teasing his sister?”

Caleb looked down at his fisted hands and flexed them open. “I would have sent him over to the neighbors’ to fill silo,” he conceded.

“Then you can probably quit trying to claim responsibility for an accident. As awful as this is, you should understand that things like this happen.”

“I’m his guardian. I love this boy more than my own life. But I failed him. I didn’t keep him safe.”

“Don’t keep torturing yourself about Jonah’s accident,” she said, though she knew words of comfort didn’t always allay the guilt. “Lots of people seem to do that in the ER, and it’s not helpful. Things happen. It’s awful, but the only choice is to go on.” An idea occurred to her. The Amish were a people of deep, abiding faith—or so she assumed, since they had created an entire way of life around it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about your church. If you’d like to pray, there’s a chapel.”

“I’m not a prayerful man.”

She was surprised to hear him say that, having assumed his faith was what bound him to the Amish community. Not a prayerful man … and behind his reserved expression she detected a peculiar sadness. He represented a world so different from her own. She wondered what that world was like.

He stood unexpectedly close, and his nearness flustered her in a way she wasn’t prepared for. She detected no danger from him, it wasn’t quite like that; yet she felt something profoundly physical that she hadn’t experienced in a long time, maybe ever. And something spiritual as well; yearning mingled with hope, as though he represented a long-buried desire. Despite her exhaustion and the fact that she had canceled dinner plans with her parents for his sake, despite the fact that she had a policy against connecting too closely with a patient or his family, she felt drawn to this man with a strange affinity that was more than curiosity. When she looked at him, a gentle, peaceful feeling settled over her. Her vital signs seemed to slow down; the relentless pressures of the ER ebbed away.

She wished the social services counselor or someone from the chaplain’s staff—anybody—would show up. She left another message at the extension on the house phone.

The charge nurse came in to do a routine check on Jonah. Though she worked swiftly and efficiently, Reese could see her sneaking glances at Caleb Stoltz. Women seemed to stare at him the way people stared at a work of art, or an exhibit at the zoo. He appeared to have no notion of the feminine interest he sparked. Negligently handsome, with a body sculpted by hard, honest work, he looked far more intriguing than the doctors and staff who populated the halls of Mercy Heights.

She shared a look with the nurse and realized they understood each other perfectly.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. What on earth was she thinking? Hospital fatigue must be getting to her. Maybe she was experiencing some sort of end-of-rotation ennui. She had absolutely nothing in common with an Amish farmer. Maybe, though, the unbreachable differences between them actually piqued her interest. She found him as exotic and baffling as he seemed to find the big-city hospital.

She tamped down a barrage of nosy questions. Her schedule was crammed, and she needed to sleep at some point. It was time, past time, to move on, to re-establish that professional distance. “Well,” she said, unsettled by her own thoughts, “I should go.” She made a point of checking Jonah’s chart. “Your nephew’s stable but still critical,” she said.

Caleb pressed himself as close to the bed as he could get. He eyed the bandaged stump of Jonah’s arm, and the look on his face made Reese’s heart freeze.

“I’m sure in the next few days, you’ll learn a lot more about the therapy and prosthetics I mentioned,” she tried to reassure him. “Really, Jonah will be able to live a normal life.”

He was silent for so long that she wasn’t certain he’d heard her. Then he looked up. “What’s a normal life?”

“I suppose it’s different for everyone. Jonah will have to find the answer on his own.”

“That’s a big question for a little boy.”

Another long silence. Reese had no idea what more to say. She was rescued from having to respond when someone from the chaplain’s staff stepped in. She said a reluctant farewell, and on her way out she took a shortcut across the skybridge that led to the maternity ward, which was called, not incidentally, the Powell Pavilion. It had been named in honor of her grandfather, a pioneer in human fertility in his day. She had a thought of her parents and their high-stakes, high-tech world, playing God and bringing miracles to life. What would Caleb Stoltz think of doctors whose daily work involved chemically freezing a woman’s uterus to force her to conceive?