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Show Motherlunge a novel 51 bones afloat inside, unconnected, the fingers and toes offgassing from the hands and feet, and the striped ribcage with something boiling inside. "Heartbeat is one-forty. Normal," said the tech. The sound of the heartbeat, normal at a hundred and forty beats a minute, foamed in our ears like surf. Pavia had her hand in my hand and she gripped it hard. The articulate fetus scuttled sideways out of view. Next the tech took some measurements, lite-brighting her way across the screen. I looked at Pavia lying on the table. I squeezed her hand back hard, feeling for the metatarsals. What was inside her, really, that she could make this creature out of her own flesh, blood, genetic material? "Things look fine," said our tech. "But I'll have the doctor come in, too. Do you want to know the sex of the baby?" I nodded. "Yes," Pavia said. More swooping and diving in the brine. "There," the tech said, twisting the transducer. "Can you see it?" "Boy," Pavia murmured. "Looks like." The tech slid the transducer into its holster and pushed down on her thighs as she rose from the stool. She grinned at us, turned, and left us alone in the dim room. The last shot of the fetus stayed on the screen, its tiny phallus like a sea plant anchored between its luminous legs. Pavia hoisted herself up on her elbows and reached for a tissue. She blew her nose and lay back down with her arm over her eyes. This gesture of pathos, of course, would not be possible for someone with corrective lenses. |