the fruit of the womb is a reward.” Psalm 127:3
 all around the In the Spring of 2014, the United States is amid economic good times. And, Allanna and Tom MacKay— |
…Three years after it mysteriously began, The Pandemic was suddenly over. Fertility was all at once as potent as previously.
…Still today, medical scientists can provide no clear answer as to what caused the universal fertility breakdown. But it is primarily those people who possess profound spiritual beliefs who view it as the workings of a God.
...And in the United States of America—two years after The Pandemic vanished as mysteriously as it had arrived—the 29th amendment to the nation’s constitution was ratified and became law. The new amendment’s singular purpose was to void the amendment which immediately preceded it—the 28th amendment: The Human Life Amendment.
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The young man silently steered his wife up the hospital corridor. Sitting somberly in the wheelchair, she was dressed in a white cotton robe—her left arm in a cast.
He stopped when they came to an intersection. He looked both ways, then leaned over her and gently kissed her. “I love you, pretty lady,” he told her. “I promise—it’ll do you a world of good to get up and out for a while.”
Allanna MacKay said nothing. She continued to stare straight ahead…
She believed she would never stop crying over it all—ever. She used to be so optimistic about life, but now she dwelled on its futility.
But she was a lot tougher than she would ever give herself credit for. Though right at that moment she lacked confidence she could ever again pull herself totally together emotionally, she was destined to do so…
When they arrived at the end of the wing, Tom MacKay revolved the wheelchair so he could back Allanna through the doors of the sun room. “Darling, I forgot to mention that there’s a little someone waiting for you inside. She wants to know if it’s okay today to visit with mommy.”
The young woman perked up. “Grace? Oh, Tom, you brought Grace!”
Tom wheeled Allanna into the room. When he swung the chair around toward the wall of windows, Allanna saw her daughter there on the lap of a smiling nurse. The little girl was cuddling a teddy bear that was outfitted in a flannel shirt and blue jeans—the same clothes that Grace herself was wearing. Grace MacKay saw her mother and wanted down. Now.
“Maw-mee!” she exclaimed as she chugged across the room to be with the one she most loved in this whole world. She plopped the bear onto Allanna’s knees.
Tom grinned at the sight. He massaged his wife’s shoulders. “Grace and I agreed that she should bring her special furry friend with her today to help us love you.”
Allanna kissed her daughter. The little girl nuzzled her cheek up against her mommy’s leg, and Allanna placed her uninjured hand atop the precious head.
The young woman looked up at her husband. He covered her neck with the full of his hands—and she found herself enjoying the soothing affection. When she saw Tom smiling down with boundless love at both her and their daughter, Allanna’s lower lip began quivering. She swiped at her eyes. She sniffled.
And then...She quietly returned the smile to her husband—the tears now just cascading down her face.
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“Tom, I’m sorry. Words are inadequate, I realize that. And we continue to offer our deepest condolences...”
Les Wesmore and Tom MacKay were alone in the director’s office. The physician was standing behind his desk. Tom—across the room by the windows—was looking out at the city, the mountains, the setting sun.
“In hindsight,” resumed Wesmore, “The argument could be made that we erred. If we had only been more instinctive of the apparent fanatical environment. In retrospect, enhanced safeguards were warranted...
“And, Tom, I’m sorry to still report that we still don’t know who is responsible—who it was who hired those terrorists. The pilot and the one other who survived are still refusing to cooperate. But, trust me—we will reach the truth...
“Tom, it’s my hope that you honestly believe that we did everything we could to try and save them—the twins. The boys. But, we can be grateful for Allanna.”
Tom MacKay had been voicelessly listening to Wesmore in what was an attempt to rationalize what had happened. And, the longer the physician spoke, the more furious the young man was becoming. He spun towards Wesmore.
“Grateful for Allanna? Why don’t you drive down to the city and share your words of inspiration with her over at the hospital. Her beautiful face bruised and battered and burned. Fractured ribs, a broken arm, all sorts of internal injuries. No chance of ever again carrying another child. But other than those things, Allanna made it through our little adventure amazingly well! Sure, Wesmore—go visit her. Because I’m sure your stellar bedside manner would really cheer her!”
Hearing all that, Wesmore lowered his head.
Awkward silence.
Tom turned his wrist, and tapped his watch. Noting the time, he started for the door. “Excuse me, sir—Grace has been stuck with the sitter all day…I’m going to go spend some time with my little girl before I tuck her into bed.”
The door slammed, leaving the physician alone in the office.
Wesmore sat down at his desk.
He folded his hands in front himself…
It wasn’t the right moment to bring it up—to approach Tom about it.
That is, to appeal to Tom for him to continue on as part of the project. Allanna wasn’t due to be discharged for another week, so the MacKays would be around for at least that long. Therefore, Wesmore could afford to wait a few days before he had his talk with Tom about staying. By then, Allanna would be up and around—and hopefully, foul feelings would have mellowed...
To Wesmore’s thinking, his proposition was reasonable. He wouldn’t even request that Tom and his family reside at Hightain. Instead, they were welcome to return to Maine—and Tom could then fly out by himself for several days each month. And if Tom MacKay rejected the idea of any further volunteer work, Wesmore would entice the young man by offering him lucrative financial incentives. True, there was no money formally budgeted for such, but Wesmore had access to a substantial discretionary fund—and he would have no problem about using some of the cash to compensate the MacKays.
Still, the physician was debating over how much of the completed research should initially be disclosed to Tom. Perhaps, it could follow something along these lines:
Tom, it’s true that Allanna will never again conceive. But on the upside, our research has profited immensely because of both of your participations here. Primarily because of you two, for one we now are convinced that the fertility malfunction is in some way tied to the human male—and that the female is the non-factor. What we now hold to be true is that women are as fertile as they’ve ever been, and that it’s the males of the human species—who for some still undetected reason—are carriers of the infertility factor. You are the factor, Tom—not Allanna. Because—as of this moment downstairs in a freezer unit—are stored a total of ten embryos from female donors. From women ranging in age from thirteen years to forty-five. Each of these embryos was conceived in-vitro—all of them were successfully fertilized by using you...
The more Wesmore pondered it, the more he was convinced that such was the sum total of what Tom should be told. No, Tom would not be told that two of the embryos he had fathered had already been successfully replanted in two unrelated females. And, that these two women were now respectively three and four weeks pregnant.
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It was closing on two A.M. as the helicopter—crossing over the city—suddenly banked away from the valley and targeted the wooded slopes of Hightain.
Inside the noisy aircraft, the pilot motioned at the illuminated complex at the top of the knoll. He glanced aside at the American—and then behind at the two Asians who were tucked in the rear, each toting an automatic rifle. All of them were outfitted in combat fatigues and helmets.
The pilot wiped a forearm across his sooty colored beard, then quickly returned the hand to the controls. “How is it looking there to us, States?” he asked the American.
Two pistols strapped to his belt, States lifted the night vision binoculars to his eyes—he focused on the roof of the seven story building:
No visible activity surrounding the helipad—a single soldier inside the security station.
“Tranquillity,” States concluded.
By midday they would have the married couple safely overseas. And they would collect the balance of their compensation—enough for all of them to live in grand style for a long while.
Overhead, the helicopter swung out wide. And then started circling.
Allanna MacKay turned over in the bed in the dark to check the clock. Two past two. Tom was gone now for nearly twenty minutes.
He awakened her while changing into his workout clothes. He complained again of being unable to sleep, and asked if she cared if he jumped downstairs to the gym to drain some adrenaline. No problem, she told him—though it was not the truth. Because whenever he wasn’t in bed pressed up against her, she herself had trouble sleeping.
And so, Allanna had tossed about since Tom left. It bothered her that this seemed to have become a habit with him—it was the third time in the last week that he had gone down in the middle of the night.
During his absence, her thoughts sprinted in multi-directions. Apprehensive thoughts concerning the health of her unborn babies, happy thoughts about all of them returning home to normalcy as a family once the twins arrived.
On the whole, she remained in fair spirits these days—due to her conscious decision to be happy. And, she was beginning to see the end in sight—she was now halfway through her pregnancy.
Allanna reached over and touched Tom’s side of the bed. “Please hurry,” she whispered. “I miss you...”
On the roof, from inside the security station Corporal Brad Bridges heard then saw the helicopter. He tossed aside his magazine, wheeled his chair over to the computer, and brought up some information on the monitor. No, there was nothing posted as far as scheduled arrivals tonight.
He reached over to the radio and tried unsuccessfully to establish contact with the incoming flight. He phoned downstairs to central security and inquired if they were aware of anything.
Negative. It’s probably just another one of those late night lab deliveries that the medical minds neglected to log, Bridges was advised.
“Their typical take out order—a pint of chilled seminal fluid and a super size bag of ova eggs to go.”
As the helicopter began to descend from overhead, Bridges leaned over and flipped a set of switches, turning on the roof helipad lights.
Jogging in the gym, Tom MacKay slowed to a stop—ending his laps. And he continued to think about things. For a while, his life at Hightain had evolved into something routine, almost approaching tolerable. But over the course of the past week, the anxiety had returned. And, Tom was aware of why:
Night after night Tom was tortured by a recurring nightmare to the extent that he dreaded falling asleep…Alone in his car he pulls up into their driveway at twilight, and their home is underwater—but nobody in the neighborhood is giving it any attention. He wades to the front windows startled as he watches through the waters a frantic, submerged Allanna paddling desperately for freedom, a flailing Grace under her arm…From room to room they scoot searching for any way out, the water choking them. And, then they spot him at the windows! With fresh smiles, they extend their arms out to him. We’re saved, Daddy is here! But within seconds, the smiles are gone and they are clawing at the glass and they are again choking. They are pleading for him! Daddy, daddy, please, my dear daddy! But no matter how forcefully he tries, he can’t break through the windows to rescue them. And he watches with paralyzing helplessness as all body coloring leaves his wife and little girl—and their limp bodies drift noiselessly through the deep waters...
Tom pressed his palms against his forehead, pushing away the images. He would take a final walk around the gym before he returned upstairs.
When the helicopter touched down, Brad Bridges moved out cautiously towards it—shielding his face from the swirling gale of the blades. As the corporal saw the side door being dragged open, he raised his arms overhead—beckoning the pilot to cut the engine…Suddenly those arms were spiraling across his chest, automatic weapon fire pummeling through him.
“What the—” Downstairs in the central security room, two soldiers had just witnessed it together on the video surveillance monitors. One of them pounced onto the radio and signaled a code alert.
The pilot stayed inside the helicopter while his three comrades hopped out, raced across the roof—and heaved open the stairs door… Spreading out onto the seventh floor, they immediately recognized the layout from the diagrams that were provided to them. In the lobby, States stepped over to the fire alarm—and yanked the lever. Blaring buzzers at once were resounding on all floors.
Allanna heard the alarms as soon as they went off. Her instinct was to scamper out of bed and dress quickly. She was knotting her tennis shoes when she heard the knocks on the front door.
She hurried across the suite and put her eye to the spy hole: Two soldiers in the corridor. “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas MacKay! Please—we are evacuating the building—we have ourselves a fire downstairs!”
Tom was her fear, and she panicked. She rushed to unbolt the door. “My husband, he...Tom is down there! At the gym, he—”
On the other side of the door, States stabbed his fingernails into the frame upon hearing that Tom MacKay was not inside. Not the ideal scenario—however, they had prepared for such a possibility.
“We must leave this very second, Mrs. MacKay!” he said, increased urgency in his voice. “We will be airlifting your family out from the roof. Mr. MacKay—he has been located and is currently being escorted up to join you.”
Hearing that calmed Allanna. She rushed to Grace’s dark bedroom and lifted her from her crib. She laid her sleeping child against her shoulder and hurried into the corridor. Looking towards the lobby, she saw staffers scurrying down the stairs. One of them—catching sight of her holding the little girl amid the soldiers—broke away and trotted forward a few steps onto the residential wing. “Good deal—you’ve already got the family in tow! Need any extra help?”
“We are okay!” States relayed pleasantly for everybody.
The staffer flashed a thumbs up sign, then vanished down the stairs.
At ground level, after having gathered to discuss strategy, a team of eight soldiers were now storming up the stairs, <!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->their climb slowed by the oncoming rush of those evacuating the building.
On the roof, the stairwell door was pushed open ahead of Allanna.
The young woman gasped and froze at what she saw on the walkway. Corporal Bridges, bloodied and unmoving...
Allanna was nudged forward toward the waiting aircraft.
As Tom MacKay tried to return upstairs to his family, he was prevented from doing so by two soldiers who assured him that everyone in the building including Allanna and Grace were currently being evacuated: No one but authorized rescue workers were being allowed to reenter.
So Tom was relegated to joining the hundred or so people who had abandoned the building and were now grouped in the cold along the front parking lot. The slopes were echoing with shrill emergency alarms—from down in the city, sirens yelped from the approaching metro fire trucks.
While Tom stood there watching all of this, it struck him—sickening him: The dream.
Seconds after they had guided her into the rear of the helicopter, Allanna happened to look out through the windshield and saw soldiers bounding from the stairwell. Assault rifles drawn, they spread themselves across the roof, and surrounded the aircraft.
States—outside the door of the helicopter—boosted his arms overhead in surrender. “Yes,” he said, “We have the pregnant woman Mrs. MacKay—but I advise that you do not attempt anything stupid!” He then demanded that the husband Thomas MacKay be brought to the roof. Failure to comply, he warned, would result in the worst of consequences for Mrs. MacKay.
Cradling her whining daughter, Allanna cried out, “Oh, dear God,”—fully realizing what was happening to her and Grace.
The one nearest to the mother touched her arm—and she yanked herself and Grace away from him.
“Missy, we won’t harm you or child or husband. Soon all of you will be at very nice place—where you are loved and cared for like royalty...”
As Les Wesmore sped out of the city and toward Hightain, he slugged the steering wheel—as he continued to listen to the voice on the phone. The voice was that of army captain Sid Brock, whose tactical squad had been summoned in—choppered over from their command post at Denver.
“…These people are saying, Doctor, that if we do not send up Mr. MacKay that they will kill Mrs. MacKay,” Brock reminded him.
Wesmore nodded at the rearview mirror. “But, again, what you’re telling me is that in your opinion it’s just a bluff on their part?”
“Yes, sir, we believe it is. These guys have all the markings of soldiers of fortune—hired guns. Recruited by whom, who knows. But it’s not hard to recognize the abduction motive, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, we’re confident that they won’t under any circumstance deliberately harm the lady—being that she’s worth zero to them dead. While our guess is that they are assuming that we won’t risk any rescue that would endanger Mrs. MacKay.”
Wesmore cursed. “I still can’t comprehend any of this! The MacKays were brought to Hightain for the benefit of the research project—to provide them the best possible prenatal care for the babies! And, we assured the MacKays that Hightain was the absolutely safest environment for them all!” He swore some more. Finally, “Tell me, Brock—what are the odds of successfully rescuing Mrs. MacKay?”
“We all need to accept that there are sizeable risks involved. But, if you allow that whirlybird to leave with the lady—you are likely writing-off your chance of restoring custody of her babies. But give us the word go, and you have a fighting chance at a happy ending.”
Wesmore had no trouble making a final decision. “Do your best to rescue Mrs. MacKay—even if you can’t assure us of a good outcome. But let me make one thing absolutely understandable to you, Brock—under no circumstances are you to allow Tom MacKay to surrender himself to them. Are you hearing me crystal clearly, Captain? Do not let Tom MacKay walk out to that helicopter!”
The front of Hightain was full of flashing-light emergency vehicles—fire trucks and police cruisers—and the two grounded tactical squad helicopters. From among the many onlookers, Tom MacKay was located and brought to the central security room. Brock briefed him on what was happening upstairs.
“This is insanity!” Tom exclaimed, kicking over a chair. “All this because Allanna is carrying twins—and some lunatics or some crackpot government wants them badly enough to do this?” He swung away from Brock and harbored his head in his hands. “No, I don’t care what you think is the smart thing to do—it’s my wife and baby girl up there. I don’t want anything attempted that might cause them to hurt Allanna or Grace.” He revolved to face the man. “I’m going to the roof. If they want me, they got me.”
Brock squinted at him. “If it was my family, I’d probably do the same. Okay, then. But, Mr. MacKay, let me recommend that we first try and negotiate an exchange—your daughter for you. It would be in the best interest of your child to get her as far removed from this as possible. We’ve got nothing to lose by asking. And if they buy into it, we can at least assure her safety.”
The word was relayed to the captors: “Mr. MacKay is on his way up.”
States—still outside the helicopter—saluted, having agreed to free the little girl. The standoff was beginning its second hour.
Allanna’s eyes stayed on the stairway door. Finally, it opened—and she saw her husband at the top of the steps, amid a pack of soldiers. “Oh, Tom…” she cried softly.
States smiled. He reached over his shoulder and pounded on the door. One of the Asians tugged the door aside and traded places with him.
States crawled over to Allanna. “Your husband has consented to join you—but only if we release the child. If that is what you both want, we can agree to that. Taking the child with us or leaving the child—it does not matter.”
Her eyes widened, then soared out the window at her husband. She cried quietly into Grace’s hair. “Tom don’t do this to me...” Allanna looked down at her daughter and felt she was losing her mind at the prospect of never seeing her baby girl again. But without question, it was the right thing—Grace’s safety was their most important concern.
“Mommy,” the little girl whimpered groggily, rubbing her closed eyes. She was in a poor mood, still mostly asleep.
“Grace, I…I…your mommy so loves you!” Cradling her daughter, Allanna was kissing her face, rocking her. “Dear God—let her always remember me!” the young woman sobbed. “Father in heaven, let Grace forever remember the time in her life when her mom was there with her and for her each and every day. Let her always remember how much I love her! Every day. Oh, God…”
Steadying herself, Allanna readied Grace. The little girl opened her eyes and when she saw the menacing bodies reaching for her—she was suddenly wide awake. She wound her arms around her mother’s neck and started wailing, “No, mommy, no!”
The harder Allanna struggled to push her daughter away, the more the little girl fought it. Clawing savagely for her mother, the child cut open the young woman’s lip. “Stop it, Grace! Just stop it!” Allanna cried, blood trickling—and as she shook her daughter, the blood spattered onto Grace. Finally, Allanna dispatched a stern slap to Grace’s leg. The whack stunned the child long enough to allow Allanna to push her away. Once accomplished, Allanna buried her face in her hands—weeping in spasms. Her final image of her daughter was that of a shivering Grace—the pleading little eyes speaking of incomprehensible betrayal.
Bracing the child, States vaulted from the helicopter. Halfway to the stairs, he stopped and set Grace down on the walkway.
Under the bright lights, the little girl stood in her footed flannel pajamas—the fluffy outline of a diaper beneath. With her mother’s blood smeared across her face, she was tossing her arms and turning circles in confusion—frantic for someone familiar.
From inside the stairwell, Tom MacKay swallowed hard, then raised a foot onto the roof. He got down on his knees. “Grace! Grace, come here—come to daddy!” he shouted across, holding his arms wide for his little girl. “Grace!”
Hearing her daddy, she spun in his direction. Seeing her daddy, she scurried towards him, pumping her short legs as fast as they would carry her.
As Grace fell forward into his arms, Tom found himself being tackled and thrown backwards into the stairwell—the door was yanked shut, and Tom and Grace’s tumble was blocked by soldiers halfway down the flight.
“No!” Tom roared, hearing the gunfire outside on the roof—the soldiers restraining him.
States was shot down without mercy while grabbing for both pistols. Instantly, the elevator rolled open—inside, a huddled trio of soldiers geared in gas masks and chemical suits—each aiming a rocket launcher from the top of a shoulder. One of them fired and that was all that was required—the flaming gas canister exploding through the helicopter’s windshield. The blinding black smoke released itself, surging throughout the interior—clouds of it pouring out its open door. Amid this, the aircraft’s engine was throttled on—the blades began revving, soon spinning speedily.
The helicopter began rising. Wobbling higher…Five, fifteen, twenty-five feet. At that height, it paused and began rotating on its vertical axis, oscillating like a pendulum. All along the roof, mesmerized eyes watched.
Then down it tumbled—galloping across the walkway, soldiers leaping for new cover. The security station ruptured into blasting tidal waves of glass and debris as the aircraft smashed through the structure.
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“It is now four P.M. in the east—and while the voting places are all still open throughout the country, we are now able to project with certainty a winner in the presidential contest…
“Our exit polling everywhere is confirming to us in a huge way what everybody was anticipating—that President Paige Piper will be defeated in her bid for a second term. And, it is likely for the first time in history that a presidential candidate will not capture one single electoral vote…
“So at this hour, the breaking news is that the Hispanic governor from California—Quin Cortez—will become the next president of the United States...
“For Paige Piper, mostly no chance to win. Still, we wonder—what are the thoughts of the president? What will she say? Wherever she is.”
Wearing a half-zipped eagle patch navy windbreaker and black capri pants, Paige Piper continued to stare across at the television on the wall—watching the rogue internet broadcast. She was standing in the middle of the elegantly decorated living room, her back to the wall of windows that looked out upon the sand and sea. From a corner, brother Price was mostly watching her rather than the political coverage and commentary. Though the two were alone in the room—elsewhere inside and around the luxuriously large beach house, secret service agents were close by.
“What will she say? I say—mostly no chance to win, you got that part right,” Paige Piper responded to the digital voice. The president tapped the remote and the picture went dark. She limped over to a wall of bookcases.
She brought her hand to her neck and poked her fingers in sequence at the muscles. “And, I say how classless all of you are—you misfits can’t even wait until after dark to start your celebration.”
The president settled her elbows on a shelf. “Price, how is it that all those who loved me four years ago now hate me?”
It wasn’t a serious question, and she quickly laughed. She was never in denial, always realistic about how this day was going play out—and she had already come to terms with losing. It hurt not to win, but she was able to be a good sport about it. “Although, you still love me—don’t you, Baby Bro?” she added jokingly.
She didn’t need for him to reply, and he knew that she wasn’t expecting it. So, Price Piper simply stood up. He took a couple of steps towards her. “Paige, they don’t hate you. The thing is—we can’t take it personally. Anybody would’ve gotten the boot—it’s happening everywhere. People—voters—are demanding satisfactory answers, but they are getting none.”
Madame President continued to massage her sore neck, moving her head in slow circles—her ashen hair swaying. “Ugly moods are popular, but why is that supposedly our fault?”
Price crossed his arms over the front of his sweater. “At least we’re being sent to the sidelines comparatively gently. Unlike, say, Mugo over in Osaze—overthrown in the morning, an afternoon trial, bullets by firing squad under the moonlight.”
Paige Piper withdrew a handkerchief from her jacket. “The economy is perfect. But do they give us credit?” She unfolded the cloth and dabbed her face.
Price stuck his hands in the front pockets of his cargo pants. “For what was ultimately responsible for our undoing, there was no way we could control it—nobody can.”
From across the room, Paige Piper suddenly swore—striking her palms against a tall pile of travel magazines. “Maybe not. But it startles me to tally the number of times that I flip-flopped my core values during these last four years. And for whose benefit? Certainly not mine—because I’ve just been fired from my job!”
Paige Piper started wandering across the shelves. “You want an excellent example? Let’s recall my much publicized enthusiasm for the Human Life Amendment. That thing! There was never any need whatsoever for it—and I should have lobbied vigorously against it. The assumed crime that the amendment addressed—an abortion— in more rational times, such behavior never warranted even a slap on the wrist.” She tugged out one of the books and held it out towards Price. “They would sooner lock you up for the crime of not returning an overdue library item!”
Surprising him—instead of her tossing the book at something—his sister rather calmly returned it to its spot on the shelf.
“But it’s outrageous,” she complained. “It’s illogical to judge the legality and morality of abortion based strictly on society’s degree of fertility. No, the answer must be anchored singularly on the concept—not the circumstances. Either abortion is morally right or abortion is morally wrong—it can’t logically be both…
“Either abortion is the killing of another human being, or it’s not. It’s not a subjective issue—there’s no gray area. And since abortion was previously defined by the courts as legal and moral—why the difference now? Unless you believe that all the courts were all wrong all along the way…
“The procedure itself hasn’t changed—an abortion is still an abortion. If I was convinced that life begins at conception, I would agree that abortion is wrong. But I am not convinced.” Paige Piper was quiet for several seconds. “Am I making any sense whatsoever, Price?”
From across the room, Price Piper gazed in absolute sorrow at his sister—the president of the United States. In a major way, he was glad the whole thing was coming to an end. For him, there was now no further worry about the potential exposure of their uncommon relationship. Yes, America was a tolerant society that encouraged diversity—and although he and she were actually only half-siblings—still, the idea of the president sharing intimacies on occasion with her brother…However, none of it had ever interfered with their job performances. Each of them possessed a disciplined ability to compartmentalize—to stoically separate work from non-work…
“But, I’m not in any way bitter,” she confessed. “Paige Piper has lost an election only for the first time in her political life—listen, nobody’s perfect…But oddly—I am optimistic…
“Now this is exactly what we are going to do,” she said brightly, all her gloom gone. “They loved us once, they will love us again. I’m not too terribly ancient—and you, Baby Bro, are better every day…So, let the new campaign begin—and, four years from today, we will be back in business. To return in triumph!…
“And once I complete my second term—the Oval Office can be yours, Baby Bro. Work with me, Price—and I will do anything and everything to make it happen for you. We will stake out a political dynasty—a co-presidency—the two of us!”
Price quietly just continued to let her think aloud. When he arrived in Europe and found himself a place to live for the rest of his life, Price would contact his sister.
“So,” Paige Piper said, “I refuse to hide out on the island any longer. What do I have to be ashamed of? So, tell the boys to fire up the chopper, we’re returning to D.C. tonight—graciously. Today we cry—tomorrow we will again try!”
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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.
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Chad Wade smiled in satisfaction as he looked out upon the vast spirited crowd who had gathered together to fill the streets of uptown. The chubby businessman was perched atop a wide speaker’s platform—waiting for his turn to talk, he along with a collection of other local dignitaries. In a too tight space in front of the stage, a high school marching band was gallantly giving its all—but with the students all crushed together too closely, feet continued to tangle and musical notes clash.
At what was once the site of the Patriot Center, the city’s new Life Park was today opening to the public. The damaged building was razed rather than renovated. It was replaced by walking paths, botanical gardens, fountains—and the thematic centerpiece, the bronze art sculpture Angel & Unborn Child: It was a gloriously large messenger angel who between uplifted hands was embracing a thirty-eight inch long fetus—complete with a lengthy umbilical cord, roped wildly around the celestial’s torso.
The city’s Human Experience Place was also on the grounds, having recently opened to much acclaim. Inside the building was a celebration of humanity—multimedia exhibits honoring each stage of human development—from embryo to oldster. Included in the museum’s display cases were relevant artifacts from the conference center, including a selection of bomb-blemished furniture and fixtures.
Through the marketing savvy of a chamber of commerce committee created by Mister Wade, Charlotte was now a destination for a certain class of the devoted: The city was proudly promoted as the birthplace of The Unborn Rights Movement. Tourism was up, thanks to those wanting to touch their toes on the honored acre.
Chad Wade pushed his unwieldy blueberry glasses to the very top of his nose. As he continued to enjoy the day, he raised his eyes above the crowd and marveled at the high-rise bank buildings comprising central uptown: It was thrilling, all of this prosperity!
Moments from now, he would go over and embrace the podium and take his turn speaking. And, before he yielded, his plan was to lead everyone in a sing-a-long of The Battle Hymn of the Republic: “…truth is marching on...”
He was aware that his critics would fault him for his melodramatics, but Chad Wade couldn’t care less. These were his genuine emotions at this heightened moment. So then—so what.
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The research facility was built along a mountainous edge of the city. Atop the seven story building, the aircraft’s blades were still spinning and clacking in the sunlight—as the soldier drove the cart out of the elevator and then across the roof over to the helipad.
Moments later, the soldier’s face entered the inside of the helicopter. “Welcome to Hightain!” he shouted with a smile.
The soldier helped them down one by one. First, the mom, then the toddler, finally the dad, each dressed for the cool weather.
Once the soldier had the family reunited on the roof, he introduced himself as Army Corporal Brad Bridges. He smiled down at the little girl. “Hi there, lollipop! Was it fun riding way up in the clouds?”
Grace MacKay grinned shyly. With a finger hooked over her lower teeth, she bounced her head up and down.
Corporal Bridges laughed, bending down to her, hands on his knees. “And just how many years young are you, lollipop?”
She turned away playfully.
Tom MacKay put his hand on her golden hair. “Grace, tell us how old you are.”
“Al-most two!” she exclaimed to her dad and nobody else. Everyone laughed, and her daddy scooped her up and kissed her giggly face.
The family was assigned the rear seat of the cart, where Grace started bouncing on Tom’s knees. Bridges slid behind the wheel and spun the cart towards the elevators.
“Corporal,” Tom said, “Can you give us some idea of what will be required of us here? Not much has been shared with us so far.”
Brad Bridges smiled. “Sir, you’re asking the wrong guy. All that us military personnel do here is provide the security.” He pointed up ahead at the glass-enclosed security station. As they passed by it, the soldier sitting inside waved. “We keep it locked at Hightain. Maybe you’ve noticed that the grounds below are fenced with chain link and barbed wire. No one is allowed to pass through that front gate without an ID.” He motioned down the mountain and out at the city. “Not that we tend to get a lot of street traffic—being way up here, we’re kind of isolated.”
The cart coasted into the elevator enclosure. One of the two elevators was already open, and Bridges eased the vehicle inside of it.
While Tom explained to Grace the theory behind an elevator, Allanna contemplated the events of the last twenty four hours. Yesterday morning—Saturday—she attended her required weekly prenatal monitoring session over at their local hospital. A routine ultrasound, some blood work—nothing unusual. Then Saturday afternoon, this sudden invitation. Presto—today a private jet flying them clear across the country to Colorado.
The elevator stopped after descending one floor.
“That was a short trip,” Tom remarked, jostling Grace’s nose.
“Yes, sir. They have it all set up for you along the upper floors.”
The elevator doors opened onto a central lobby, where the building’s twin wings connected. Directly across from the elevators was a work station, around which a small group were congregated. The arrival of the vehicle onto the floor had gotten everyone’s attention. Two of them were now approaching the MacKays. One was a studious older man wearing a suit and tie, and reading glasses—the other a friendly young woman dressed in a colorful medical uniform.
Doctor Les Wesmore—Hightain’s director—introduced himself to the couple, shaking the hand of each, heartily thanking them for agreeing to come. He quickly informed the couple that he and some of his colleagues were assembled down the hall, prepared to meet with them. The physician recommended the services of a supervised playroom for Grace. Her parents found no problem with that, and neither did Grace—with no coaxing, the little girl was scampering adventurously down the corridor hand in hand with the woman.
When the MacKays were guided into the room, the pair who were already there, stood.
“I’d like to introduce you to two of our reproductive endocrinologists—specialists in fertility,” Wesmore said to the MacKays. “Doctor Isabel Hubbard and Doctor Sajag Yadav...”
And, everyone was soon seated around the table.
Wesmore, with pen and notebook, smiled across at the married couple. “What have you been told thus far regarding us here at Hightain, and the reason why we asked you to come visit?”
Tom glanced aside at his wife. “We’ve been assured,” he began, “That nothing is wrong with our baby. We were told that specialized neonatal and genetic testing is routinely requested these days of expectant parents. And that the more elaborate tests are conducted at federally funded places, such as Hightain. That our giving permission to these tests will serve as an important contribution to the research...”
Tom deferred to Allanna, and she smiled. “But, so far,” she said, “Everybody who’s talked to us has hedged on giving us a definite answer to how long the tests are going to take. So I guess that’s our number one question.”
Wesmore peeked at the other physicians. “Just to reassure you again, Mrs. MacKay, everything is telling us that all is well and healthy with your pregnancy.”
Wesmore leaned forward toward the couple. “Hightain has been designated by the federal government as the flagship research institute of our Pandemic Project. Hightain’s stellar reputation for genetic and reproductive studies is long-standing.”
“According to our latest daily census tally,” Isabel Hubbard told them, “The number of women in the United States that we are aware who are pregnant is five fifty five. Just five hundred and fifty five pregnancies. That’s why you two are such assets to all of us.”
Wesmore’s eyes were shuffling between husband and wife. “We are requesting that both of you—and of course your daughter—that you stay with us at Hightain for an extended interval. To assist us with our work. Let me explain by telling you that on this same floor—but along a segregated wing—we’ve constructed a number of attractively designed living units available for the use of our guests.”
“However,” added Sajag Yadav, “We would only expect you to remain with us until you, Mrs. MacKay, give birth.”
Tom and Allanna turned to each other, dazed. Tom probed the faces of the three physicians. “Let me get this straight,” Tom said. “You’re asking that we live here full time for seven months?”
“Mr. MacKay,” said Wesmore, “We have marvelous amenities for both living and recreation, as you’ll discover once you and Mrs. MacKay have had an opportunity to tour the complex.”
Allanna could sense the turbulence beginning to churn in her husband. Her hand journeyed under the table to soothe his knee. “So, how many other couples are there here at Hightain?” she calmly asked.
“We have couples checking in and out nearly everyday. But residing here on a more permanent basis—you two would be the first.”
Tom shook his head. “We’d be happy to do the patriotic thing and come out here regularly for whatever. But, realistically, that has to be where it ends. I’ve got a business back home to help run.”
“If that is what is distressing you,” Sajag Yadav interjected, “Then you should know that it’s already being handled.”
Wesmore looked aside somewhat irately at his associate, then turned again to the married couple. “Mr. and Mrs. MacKay, we’re not much further along now than from where we began in seeking a solution to the fertility breakdown—let alone identifying the basic cause of it. Let me share with you some background...
“In prior times—in normal times—anywhere from fifteen to twenty percent of all couples of child bearing ages suffered from infertility. For ninety percent of them we could diagnose their specific problem. Roughly, in a third of the cases—male factors were involved. Another third, female factors. The final third, combined factors were judged responsible...
“In prior times—utilizing methods ranging from teaching relaxation techniques, to drugs, to surgery—we had much success in treating infertility. Actually, in more than half of all cases we were able to attain a pregnancy. Overall, for approximately one out of ten infertile couples, no physical or metabolic factor could ever be identified to account for their inability to conceive. Such couples were labeled as normal infertile. But now, normal infertile categorizes virtually every healthy couple—no identifiable reason for the inability to conceive...
“To date, exhaustive analyses of the historical causes of infertility have offered little insight. There’s proven to be no degradation in the quality of spermatozoa—sperm counts are normal, as are sperm motility, fluid volume and liquefaction. No evidence of disruption by either organic toxins or industrial poisons. Blood studies inclusive of both sexes have disclosed no pervasive hormonal or biochemical imbalances—nothing whatsoever is testing faulty within the endocrine network...
“Interestingly, women are ovulating normally, and experiencing regular cycles. There are no apparent structural problems with the ovaries, nor the fallopian tubes. No common dysfunctions have been documented in either of the sexes. Chromosome or genetic abnormalities? No trends. In other words, we in the reproductive business are still bewitched, bothered, and bewildered...
“It was—and is—our optimistic expectation that if we closely work with fertile couples such as both of you, we can strengthen our discovery process. That is, to allow us to learn what makes couples like you two so wonderfully different.” Wesmore stood up. “Although we do have the authority to keep you at Hightain, that is not the way we want to conduct our relationship with you. It is our preference that you would agree to stay as willing volunteers.”
Tom turned to Allanna to measure her reaction to all of this. Her expression was one of resignation and exhaustion. She said nothing to him, but instead reached aside and covered her hands over his. Tom slowly nodded at his wife, then pivoted towards the trio of physicians. “Explain something to us. If you supposedly possess the power to imprison people, why aren’t any other couples being warehoused here?”
Still standing, Les Wesmore folded his arms over his tie. “As you are about to learn, Mr. and Mrs. MacKay, you two—apart from all the other pregnant couples—are truly cause for celebration and hope...
“You see,” he said, speaking to the young woman, “You, Allanna MacKay, are the only expectant mom in the United States who is known at this time to be carrying...twins.”
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The herd of reporters began to scurry as soon as the bus appeared from out of the depths of the federal prison.
The vehicle chugged across the grounds, drawing near to the area outside the front gate where they were all massed. When the bus pulled up, two guards filed over from the gate house.
The door to the bus swung open. Then, ducking his head, out stepped the source of all this fuss…
“Krykor, you were convicted of igniting explosives that killed sixty six people—and now you’re out of jail and on the street again after less than three years. Do you consider that to be fair justice?”
“Krykor, many consider your early release as political grandstanding by the Piper administration. With only nine weeks remaining until election day, all the polls now are projecting that Paige Piper is going to lose big. So, the cynical view out there is that President Piper commuted your sentence only as a desperate ploy to pick up votes. Would you care to comment?”
“Krykor, eighty eight per cent of the American people now believe that by killing all those abortionists, you did the right thing. And most agree that to parole you is proper. So, do you feel like a folk hero, Krykor?”
The giant remained stoic, unspeaking, throughout the siege of questions—not acknowledging the existence of any of them, nor their cameras, nor their sound equipment. He stepped through the prison gate, and fitted himself into the back of a van that was awaiting him with motor running.
When Krykor slid the door closed, they all descended on the vehicle. Some of the more tactless ones began pounding on the tinted windows, demanding attention to their inquiries.
The van started to creep away from the gate. As the vehicle accelerated, the hounds gave up the chase—one of them screaming expletives in agony as he was thumped on the nose by a carelessly aimed microphone.
And, almost as immediately as the party began...it ended.
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Allanna MacKay had something to tell her husband, and she was hesitant because of the magnitude of it. Seated together at a front corner table, she was looking away from Tom—instead her eyes were canvassing the coffee shop, making certain that nobody was watching or listening to them. Finally, she glanced out through the canopied street windows to check if anyone was out there on the sidewalk spying.
She looked straight at him, took one big breath—and said it.
“Tom, I’m pregnant.”
As he continued to clutch his tall coffee between both hands, all he could do was stare blankly at her.
“Lanna,” he finally said, leaning across the table towards her. “How could—” He was fumbling to find the words. “Do you realize what you are saying? Are you—well, are you absolutely positive?”
Interpreting his stark reaction, she shook her head and dropped her eyes away from him. “Positive? The pregnancy test sure was. All three of them.” She informed him that she had just come straight from the doctor’s office—and, the two doctors and three nurses were all in agreement. She was pregnant.
She smacked her lips. “So now you know why I called you at the last minute to meet here in the city. I didn’t want to tell you this over the phone—and I couldn’t wait until tonight.”
When she started crying, it occurred to him how his poor response must have wounded her. He reached across the table and embraced her hand. When she felt his touch, she slowly looked up at him through wet eyes. “Tom, I’m feeling so overwhelmed,” she said between sniffles. “But, this is good news—isn’t it? Tell me that it’s good news, Tom—will you?”
He set his other hand against one of her cheeks. He touched her tears. He smiled at her. “Lanna, as much as I love you—how could another baby for us be anything but totally terrific?”
That did wonders for her. She couldn’t help but to grin at him.
He collected both of her hands. He kissed her fingers. “Honestly, darling, I’m happy about it. I am. It’s just that I’m awed by it, that’s all. Think about it—with all of our previous fertility struggles—and now we’re practically the only couple on this whole planet who are pregnant?”
She freed her hands and withdrew them to her lap. “I know we should feel gifted, Tom. But, still, I’ve got to admit it—I’ve been shaking ever since I found out.” She looked away, then down at her coffee. “And...I’m ashamed for having these stray thoughts spinning through my head that maybe I wish I wasn’t pregnant right now—” She looked up at him. “Only because it just doesn’t seem like a safe time for being pregnant.” Again, she lowered her eyes. “All those many years that we waited for Grace—and the way I felt when I first learned she finally was really coming to us…But, this time—I’m not feeling that same way, and it’s really bothering me about myself….Am I a terrible person for thinking such thoughts?”
She opened her teary blue eyes fully to him, and Tom cradled her chin. “Allanna—to me you are the kindest, the sweetest, the nicest person ever. And everyday I consider myself fortunate to be the one married to you.”
He took her hands to his lips and he kissed her fingers. “Up front—starting right this moment—let’s agree that things will only work out for the best. Okay?” With tender strokes to her cheeks, he began tidying her tears.
She nodded, sniffled, and nodded some more. And then he stood up halfway, and kissed her on the lips.
That done, he pulled out his phone. “So, who do we share this with first? Our moms?”
She looked at him with new uncertainty. “We’ve been asked, at least for now, not to tell anyone. That is, not until we’ve met with a government consultant. That we’ll likely be contacted by tomorrow. Apparently such a get-together is a standard thing these days for all pregnant couples. I was told that both of us will be asked to participate in some medical testing and studies—as part of the research project.”
He considered it. “Tests, you say? I say, bring it—I’m a fairly decent test taker.” He then grinned mischievously, pushing a finger to her forehead.
“What is it?” she said, finding it irresistible not to smile back.
He winked at her. “I’m taking the afternoon off in order to spoil my pretty lady pretty rotten. We’ll stroll the streets—stopping and shopping. How about that we buy you a new dress? Something super stylish.”
She laughed. “Oh, yes—something I can enjoy for exactly a week before I start getting fat again.”
To hear his wife again laughing—that was a special sound to Tom, and he grinned. “Or maybe you’d prefer all new furniture. Lady, I understand that you pregnant creatures are carriers of quirky cravings—so, Lanna Love, do you have a sudden craving for a brand new sports car?”
Allanna brought both of his hands to her face, and she cuddled them. “You’re crazy! And…I just love you so much!” she told her husband, new tears now falling upon a radiant smile.
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The presidential plane was once again airborne, hurtling across the Pacific waters on its way to China. As the jet ascended into the clouds, Paige Piper watched from her window as the Hawaiian islands vanished from view. She lifted a mug of steaming tea to her lips. The stopover at Honolulu was a profitable one—the political fundraiser luncheon yielded a million dollars. Not bad, for a frivolous fifteen minute political pep talk followed by a casual hour of circulating about a banquet room of affluent party supporters. The president looked away from the window and returned to critiquing the trade speech stacked on her lap—the one she would deliver in Beijing tomorrow.
She reached aside and set her mug on the desk. She was flipping pages when a knock was placed on the partially open door of her office compartment. She swung around in her chair and saw her brother standing outside in the aisle.
“Paige, something new—and it’s messy,” the White House chief of staff said, leaning forward.
“What do you got?” she asked him, removing her reading glasses.
Price Piper—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up—approached his sister. Good-looking and approaching forty, his dark hair was all still there. Whenever a celebrity magazine published a hot bachelor cover story, Price Piper was usually somewhere inside the issue. A brilliant advertising consultant, he had masterfully managed the marketing of his sister—selling her to America. He had moved into the White House at her request, and he often assisted his unmarried sister at social functions as sort of a substitute first gentleman.
Price pushed back against the door and it clicked shut. He stood there swaying some fax sheets. “It’s not good, Paige. We’ve got yet another storm that’s coming our way.”
Paige Piper cleared her throat as she was handed one of the pages. “A storm? Why do I suspect that this is not the latest advisory from the Weather Service.” She put on her glasses…
Spotting the headline, she was already asking Price for an explanation. “Wik Isaac has been murdered? He, along with a State Department aide?”
The brother remained standing. “First, understand that our own intelligence coming out of Osaze contradicts the story Mugo is telling. Paige, are you ready to hear the official Osaze statement?” He began reading from another of the pages:
“Ambassador Isaac and his associate were touring a construction site in the capital city when a forklift truck load of concrete blocks most lamentably collapsed on them—instantaneously crushing them both. The citizens of Osaze join in grief with the families of these two and their government, the United States.”
Paige Piper simply looked at Price, waiting for him to resume.
“As for what we believe really occurred—this is what we’ve been able to patch together thus far from initial reports out of our embassy. Apparently, our boy Wik had taken it upon himself to try and shake things up over there. Speaking out frequently and loudly against Mugo’s brutalities against his fellow Africans. Isaac—we are told by our people—was in the process of drafting a grievance document that he intended to hand deliver to Mugo. Isaac was summoned by Mugo for purposes of clearing up any misconceptions. Actually, some of Mugo’s thugs showed up at our embassy to escort Wik. The ambassador freely walked away with them—and that was the last anyone saw of Wik.”
Silently, the president turned toward the windows and peered outside at the emptiness. “Will we be able to substantiate how they actually died? Are we beyond conjecture?”
Price wet his lips. “This just gets better. Autopsies—quite naturally—would be telling. But Mugo is claiming that their bodies no longer exist. It’s a bona fide comedy-of-errors: Supposedly a communications foul-up at the morgue sent the wrong two bodies over to the crematorium. And Mugo—the charming guy that he is—wishes to make amends, pledging his full cooperation if a request be made by us to extradite the ashes.”
Paige Piper settled her palms over her eyelids and hauled her fingers down her cheeks. “Why was Wik still over there in Osaze, anyhow? I recollect that that we were working to replace him.”
“Priorities—it was still in process.”
The sister nodded, then shook her head. “If it’s true that Mugo is responsible, then what are our options? Would there be any opportunity whatsoever for us salvaging a relationship with the government of Osaze?”
The brother sat himself on a front corner of the desk. “Ultimately, without the bodies, the probability exists that we might not ever be able to authenticate what really occurred. Allowing us, then, the option of accepting Mugo’s explanation.”
“A load of concrete blocks?” Paige Piper exclaimed. “Price, the press would skewer us!”
“Paige, I’m talking of it only in terms of a possible interim strategy we could utilize to optimally safeguard our business interests over there. Something to prevent—or at least postpone—any retaliatory subversive acts against our corporate citizens. Lending us time to send in the cavalry—if it need come to that.”
Paige Piper touched her fingertips to her earrings. “Well... thankfully election day is still twelve months away—an eternity in politics. So, I imagine whatever course we chart for the short haul, it shouldn’t cause our congressional allies to lose courage.”
“Maybe not.”
“Maybe not what?”
“Maybe maintaining the status quo is not our top option—short term or otherwise.” Price got up off the desk. “All of our polling data confirms that the central concern of voters is the birth crisis. Suddenly, sanctity of life is the trendy fashion of the season. Or, putting it in the language that we always use to describe an exploitable issue—it’s politically correct.”
He continued, “So, therefore, we indict Mugo. Make much of the genocide. Make it massive. Discipline Mister Mighty Majestic for his irreverence towards humanity. And—specifically—make Mugo fully answerable for the death of our saintly ambassador.”
Paige Piper smiled, always thankful for her brilliant brother. “Abandon our Fortune 500 friends, Baby Bro? If we put the screws to Mugo, our corporations will likely lose everything they’ve got invested in that country—it’ll give Mugo the justification to grab it all for himself.” This said, the president peacefully drank her tea.
Price laughed. “Paige, you’re a skunk. You so enjoy always making me the villain. Always expecting me to be the one to first suggest the very type of sinister things that you are always so fast and eager to approve.”
Paige Piper put down her mug and also laughed. “Isn’t that what pretty baby brothers are for? Anyhow, you tell me. It’s not as if Osaze is controlling strategic petroleum reserves.”
“Hardly. Nothing we export from them could ever be considered vital to national security. It’s really just extravagance, all of it. Every bit of it, we can acquire elsewhere. But if we did dump them as a trading partner, several individual companies will get spanked. But, would there be a broad detrimental effect on our economy? No, of course not.”
Paige Piper pushed aside her speech. “Then, let’s have it studied.”
The president was smiling at her brother as she rose from her chair. She reached over and locked the door. She then moved over to him, slowly brought her arms around his waist and tenderly drew him up against herself—pressing his middle firmly against hers. She kissed his lips lightly, and smiled. “Price, you are such a very good one. Always.”
He rested the side of his face against the top of her breasts. He just quietly held on there for a moment while she rubbed his shoulders. He closed his eyes and thought about their relationship. How would the American people react to the actuality? That the affection between the president and her brother often went far beyond a kiss to the lips.
She was playfully tapping his nose. “Baby Bro, it’s amazing. Remarkable that that we’ve been able to hide it from everybody for so long.”
Startled by her words, his eyes jumped open—
Big sister was smiling at him. “You know—hide it from them that I’m in reality such an astounding hypocrite,” she resumed, having no clue as to his current thoughts. “That I’m the prototype for survival of the fittest. That I do whatever it takes to stay alive. That I’m ruthless, opportunistic—and I manufacture my own moral code.” She lifted his face from her breasts, took firm hold of his neck, and kissed him hard.
He grabbed hold of her thighs and squeezed. I’m not her full brother I’m her half-brother, he justified it again to himself yet one more time as they continued to kiss. We write the rules for ourselves…
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section 1. | The right to life is a paramount and |
section 2. | With respect to the right to life, |
section 3. | No unborn person |
section 4. | The congress and the several states |
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