Saturday—October 22, 2016

Her eyes swollen from crying, Allanna MacKay was seated atop a stool at the kitchen breakfast bar.  Between her hands was the letter she was writing to her mother.  Grace was toddling about near the refrigerator—clawing pages out of a clothing catalog.

            The young woman’s eyes drifted about the well-decorated two bedroom high rise suite, slowly taking it all in. Everything was absolutely new, shiny clean, and first rate. Vast windows clad with vertical blinds, opened onto the picturesque mountainside and city—providing abundant natural lighting throughout.  Cheerfully painted walls with contemporary artwork throughout. Comfy furniture—designer this, designer that—hardwood flooring.  All the household perks and toys…Everything aside, it was very agreeable. 

            Allanna brushed back her shoulder length black hair—recently, sporadic strands of white had snuck in—and resumed with her pen.  Mom, we’ve already been here twenty eight days.  At times it seems like forever... She rolled the barrel of the writing instrument along her lips.  Twenty eight days—by the end of the month, thirty seven.  She admitted it, she had become a calendar junkie.  One hundred seventy more days until her due date.  Twenty-four weeks to go:  She was three and a half months pregnant. 

            The toddler held up a crumbled page of ladies in lingerie.  “Mommy, look—pretty,” she said proudly.

Allanna’s attention wandered down to Grace.  For the first time, the mom saw the extent of the frayed pages that papered the floor.  Even in miserable moments, she couldn’t help but to smile at Grace.

Allanna then sniffled, rubbing her eyes.  She loved children and, oh, how she cherished her Grace—so why was it she found herself so frequently despondent over being pregnant?  It wasn’t as if this was a difficult pregnancy in terms of her health—she had even eluded the prolonged bouts of nausea she’d suffered with Grace.             

            To Allanna, it seemed like she stayed depressed these days.  Vivid recollections of those many years of wanting and waiting, willing to sacrifice almost anything for a child of her own, told her she was now being ungrateful.  And she hated herself for that. But there was nothing she could do to alter her deep down true feelings, was there?  She wondered.

            She began clicking the pen.  It still didn’t make any sense to her why she was the one pregnant.  And with twins, no less!  Perhaps that was part of why she felt so blue:  She felt freakish.  But that was nonsense, she tried to convince herself.  So what if she was a freak—if the definition of a freak included the part about carrying two new lives, then she was privileged to be labeled as one.  Or so she tried to convince herself. 

            To begin with, why should she in any way feel like an oddity?  Hardly anyone was aware of her pregnancy—primarily only the specialists and technicians who worked at Hightain.  She picked up the letter.  Her mother was one of the select few who had knowledge—and the women had been sworn to secrecy.

            Allanna had initially guessed that her melancholy was fueled from guilt over being pregnant at a time when millions who wanted to be, couldn’t.  Yes, the altruistic Allanna MacKay would instead wish her good fortune upon each and every one of them before claiming it for herself:  She already was gifted with a child—what of all those who were childless and might now remain so?  But gradually she had come to realize that such was pure bunk, that purely selfish reasons were largely involved:  Whether it was real or imagined, she had convinced herself that this pregnancy was trampling her marriage, that Tom and she no longer communicated well, that each of them was keeping the felt frustration hidden from the other.  They never talked about the important things anymore, instead only the ordinary and safe. Artificial politeness reigned.

            Her impression was that Tom was deliberately distancing himself from her.  He would spend hours alone exercising at the gym downstairs, and to her, this practice seemed more his sanctuary—an escape from her—rather than a means of maintaining his health.  And, frequently in the middle of the night—saying he couldn’t sleep—he would walk down there to work out some more.  It was obvious that he—like herself—was annoyed by all the confinement and disruption, the unending impositions by the professional staff, the daily sessions of tests, the fetal monitoring.  Though Tom never spoke negatively about it—not one word—his countenance was frequently one of sadness and distraction.  Yet, whenever he caught her appearing disheartened, he was automatic in dispensing optimism to her.  And as for her—she would swiftly put on a smile to show that she was really okay.  Oh, she was quite a trooper:  Two minutes after Tom was out the door, typically she would burst into a storm of tears.

            Often, she felt as if her entire self was being slowly squashed between the jaws of a tightening vice. You’ve gotta produce, gotta produce, you’re the hope of our world, Lanna, it’s all within you, you’re the hope of our world...

The labs—the specialists and technicians.  In both her directed and stray thoughts, she couldn’t elude them:  Lanna, Lanna, you’re the hope of our world, they would chant as they groped at her vulnerable body parts.  You’re our new Eve, from you we’ll all spring anew, Mother Lanna, Lanna, Lanna— 

            The young woman was staring hard at the pen, clutching it with  watery fingertips, trembling.  She sniffed, put aside the letter, then pulled a tissue from the box.  She wiped her nose.  She dismounted from the stool, and got down beside her daughter. “Grace, let’s pick up.  Mommy will help...”

            Two floors below on the opposite side of the building, Tom MacKay was balanced on an elevated exam table.  Amid a rectangular room steeply stacked with modules of electronic diagnostic equipment, Tom was buttoning his shirt.  Lively control lights of every color were blinking all around him, digital readouts rolling at assorted speeds. 

            “Tom,” said Les Wesmore—as a colleague toggled a switch, causing the tabletop to smoothly descend, “Once again, we thank you.  We can never tell you too much how we value you and Allanna.” 

            The young man stood, and adjusted his collar.  “Since you and your friends go at it nonstop seven days a week, should I remind you that tomorrow is Sunday—the MacKay family’s day off?”

            Wesmore smiled at Tom as he led him out of the lab.  “Actually, the very next words out of my mouth were going to be:  We’ll see you on Monday afternoon.”                

            The two filed into an outer office and then over to the door which fed into the main corridor.  There they parted company.  As Tom headed for the elevators, Wesmore watched him momentarily from the doorway. 

            When the physician reentered the lab, an engineer looked up from his computer as he pressed a function key.  A screen of information on Tom MacKay appeared. 

            Wesmore pulled up close to the monitor.

            “At what point,” the engineer inquired, “Are we going to tell the MacKays about this?”

            Wesmore’s eyes were roving up and down the screen.  “We,” he answered, “ Have yet to work out a timetable.  But, honestly, none of us can see how the MacKays knowing about it would be of any benefit to them—or to us.”

            The engineer raised an eyebrow.  “Then we don’t see an ethics issue arising?”

             Wesmore turned aside. With a face full of indignation, he clobbered the man. “That’s right.  We don’t see any problem at all.”            

            Tom arrived in the central lobby, smiling.  Strangely, he discovered himself feeling...happy.  It was no doubt a consequence of his having spent a good portion of the day reflecting upon the past and present components of his life—and coming away from the process realizing how mighty fortunate he actually was:  Allanna, Grace—and the twins. 

Happy.  Could it be that he had finally adjusted to this strange situation?  If true, much of the credit belonged to his newfound mood therapy—fitness training.  Taking advantage of the downstairs health club—it even incorporated an indoor track—he was into a self-directed strength building program, and obsessively ran an hour to start each day.  Because of it, he was in the best shape of his life.   

            He stopped at the elevators.  His thoughts were of his wife.  Although Allanna never voiced concern, Tom was attuned to her underlying discontent.  All was not right with Allanna—but given the context, why wouldn’t that be the case?  Part of it was likely traceable to his negligence—he should have been more attentive to her emotions throughout.  After all, she was the one who was actually carrying the babies.  But, instead, he had been too preoccupied with feeling sorry for himself. 

He decided he needed to apologize to her.

Downstairs outside the front entranceway were planted some late blooming rose bushes.  Tom touched the elevator button.  Flowers never failed to make his lady smile...

The roses, the verbal affection, the many hugs—he did boost her morale that evening.  They put Grace to bed early and the two of them dined by candlelight, enjoying a vegetarian dinner sent up by the cafeteria. 

Afterwards, as they sat together on the sofa, the windows opposite—the city lights below and far, calm music on the stereo—he held her face, probed her eyes, and urged his wife to be totally honest and share with him what was going on in her life.   At first she shied away.  But when she returned to his face and saw the infinite kindness there, she yielded and began to sob—and then conveyed to him precisely how she was feeling these days.  And, when she finished—and while he had her in his arms—he spoke of his own roller coaster emotions.  As she adoringly listened to her husband—she was smiling at him, realizing that his love for her was secure.

            She was soon across his lap—her arms strung about his shoulders, her check resting against the roughness of his.  For awhile he simply held her, no talking between them.  And, then, he proposed his idea, something he knew which always helped her unwind.  A bubble bath.

            He led her into their shadowy bedroom—and in the low light, he sat her down at the bottom of the bed.  He left her there and went to start the  water—he poured the soap into the wide whirlpool tub, and as it filled with warm bubbles, he pulled down some towels.  After everything was fixed just right, he returned for her.  He grasped her hands, and helped her to her feet.

            He untied her robe at the waist then lifted it off her shoulders, allowing it to slide down onto the floor.  He paused to admire her in her underclothing.  He ran his open hands over her rounded abdomen.  He kissed her neck and as he did he freed her of her bra. He knelt before her, settling his fingers at the small of her back, kissing her belly.  He lowered his hands along her backside, bringing the last of her clothes to the floor.

            They stood together in front of the mirrored wall tiles, her body up against his.  She studied their full-length reflection.  One moment she was feeling playful:  “I ask you, Thomas—is this really fair?  I’m not wearing a stitch and here you are fully clothed.”  Seconds later, brooding:  “I’m fat and ugly, aren’t I...”

            He collected her in his arms and cuddled her. He raised her face and kissed her... 

            “Just close your eyes, and let me do it all for you,” he suggested, once she was settled in the water. 

As soon as she shut her eyes, she felt a kiss on her forehead.  She enjoyed the crinkling bubbles being ladled onto her shoulders.  She smiled but nearly started bawling—all day she had been just so teary...                 

            He effortlessly moved the washcloth up and along her arms—he fondly flexed her legs and tended to each.   With the soapy water he catered to her completely, making time midway to work the stiffness from her shoulders. 

And she was thinking:  Yes, he loves me. Tom really does love me. Dear Heavenly Father, don’t let Tom ever stop loving me...

            It had been her furthest thought when her husband had first walked through the door that evening, but now as he continued to nurture—circling the washcloth upon her belly—she found herself wanting to get as near physically to him as she possibly could.  Suddenly she was wishing that he would touch her in the places that were meant for his touch only. But as he leisurely washed her, he was deliberately keeping himself from those places. Such teasing restraint drove her wild on occasion—and as he observed her slender legs squirming together beneath the clearing water, he could tell that this was such an occasion…

            She climbed atop the patchwork comforter which covered their bed.    She watched him follow her into the room. “Would you want me tonight?” she asked him,  “Unattractive and pregnant me?”

            While they loved one another, she started to weep.  So, he stopped.  His hands on her face—he sweetly asked her what was wrong, darling.

“Tom, it’s silly—I really don’t know why I’m crying.  I’m okay, Tom—I really am.  I want this—I need to feel you.”

            And, his mouth took turns with each of her ears—he was whispering melodious things to her, conveying the dimensions of his love for her, his commitment towards her.  All the while he moved delicately over her, cautious not to apply too much of his weight upon her.  With his thumbs, he alternately polished and prodded her wet lips and front teeth— drawing circles over her closed eyelids—his fingers cupped protectively over her forehead.

            His words and touch were magical to her…“Allanna, my  love for you is more than you could ever imagine…”  And, she began letting herself go…

When at last he saw that his wife was riding along the edge and accelerating, Tom began telling her again and again—I love you, Lanna. 

 I love you, Allanna, I love you…

            She braced her fingertips along his shoulders just as he dropped a hand down beneath her body. And for one splendid moment, all of her fears left her undisturbed.