Hatching: A Novel

By Margaret Blanchard

A sick child's fate falls into the hands of a psychology intern. What he chooses to do secures her future. Manuel Flores, shattered by war, builds a shelter for Brigid, who has SCID (severe combined immunodeficiency ). This solution protects her, provides sanctuary for Manuel's restless spirit, and allows them both access to a natural setting.

As Brigid grows, this nest starts feeling like a prison. She longs to get outside, beyond what she can see. Though it ultimately separates them, she pushes through cracks, then barriers, to open possibilities for Manuel. His mother, Elena, helps reunite them and, in turn, grows beyond her own boundaries of grief and aging.

Although of different generations, each main character hatches. Each emerges into a wider sphere after struggling out of a tight shell. Exploring the theme of containment this novel reveals security's limits as three very different persons nurture each other through passages of growth, loss, commitment, parenting, discovery.

From the sterile atmosphere of an urban hospital to mesas of the desert southwest, Brigid moves, by way of eastern woodlands, from cell to cosmos, from confinement to freedom, from cramped city to the vast expanse of starry night skies.

Insightful, engaging, touching.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 20, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469787688

Book preview

Contents

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Part Two

One: Escape

Two: Family Life

Three: Others

Part Three

Strangers at her Gate

Making the Rounds

Time Out

Winding Up

About the Author

Epigraph

No one claims to have ‘solved’ the origin of life problem. Yet, although we cannot create cells from chemicals, cell-like membraneous enclosures form as naturally as bubbles when oil is shaken from water. In the earliest days of the still lifeless Earth, such bubble enclosures separated inside from outside.

Lynn Margolis, Symbiotic Planet (New York: Basic Books, 1998)

How concrete everything becomes in the world of the spirit when an object, a mere door, can give images of hesitation, temptation, desire, security, welcome and respect. If one were to give an account of all the doors one would like to re-open, one would have to tell the story of one’s entire life.

Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969)

Prologue

First Year

Light dark light dark light dark.

Light winks, dark blinks.

Light doesn’t touch her, dark leaves her alone.

The child reaches for the light, fingers clenched, hands empty. She rolls into a sit, watches light fade, dark grow big.

She sits and sits, waiting for the dark to hug her.

Suddenly light breaks through, shine slides through slats of dark on the horizon. The child smiles. No one sees her. Only the dark light knows.

Beyond the bars a radiance. The child crawls toward it. She reaches out for it. Her hand touches something else. Some nothing suddenly solid. Not just darkness. It has shape. It fills her hand. It is deeper than dark, rounder than light. She grasps with both hands. Both hands work together for the first time, pulling on identical poles.

Gradually her legs join. As arms pull, legs push her up. Then tumble out from under her. She falls onto the soft ground of the crib. Rolls over, crawls back to the friendly poles, grabs one in each hand and pulls again. Again her legs unfold, pushing her sturdy body high into emptiness. She dips and wobbles, twists and wavers. Her hands hold tight, her arms strain at the weight, her whole body strives for coordination.

Finally the child is standing. Nobody is there to witness this accomplishment, no gasps or groans, no hands clapping, no exchange of grins. She doesn’t miss them. She doesn’t know the difference.

Before her a grid of light and dark, horizontal and vertical. Her horizon is sun shining through unseen shifting shades, bright one moment, then dimmed by a passing cloud. Its darkness is a scale of tilted venetian blinds,

blank hierarchy of slant white shadows. Within arm’s reach are the dark bars of her crib, light the emptiness between them. Poles she can touch,

grasp, hold. Her first companions.

* * *

Second

No, she wants the lap to last. She wants to lean against the soft rubbery fullness at her back, merge into it, carry it with her like wings as she squirms down off the lap and runs away from it. No, she wants to turn back to those soft eyes and calm smile, laugh and dart back to hug those sturdy knees. She wants the lap, yes, to last while she, no, dashes back and forth. She doesn’t like the lap to leave.

No, she wants to sit forever, listen to that lively voice read magic out of colorful books. No, she wants to hear that story first, the one about the little dog, then that one, the one about the sad princess, then that one, the one about the three bears. No, this one…please. No, show me pictures. No, read me stories No, tell me a story. Sing me a song. Let me go flying off and come back to find you here, still reading.

No, she wants the lap to hold her, not to move, not to disappear. No, she wants the arms to hold her, not be busy, not disappear. No, she wants the eyes to watch her, not close, not disappear. No, she wants the voice to touch her, not hush, not vanish.

No, no, no, she doesn’t want to go to sleep. She doesn’t want the light out. She doesn’t want to be alone again.

The arms carry her to the bed, place her under the covers, no. The gloved hands tuck her in, no, on all sides, arms, legs, feet and toes too so she feels, no, safe all around until the light comes on again. The shiny fingers run through her tangled hair, the voice sings a lullaby, no, the eyes behind the mask wait until she falls into her dreams. No, no, don’t go.

Nitey nite, sweetie pie. See you tomorrow, the voice whispers into her dreams. No, she’s sweet. No, she’s alone. No, she’s a pie. No, she holds onto her soft, furry friend in the dark. Yes, she dreams she flies.

* * *

Third

Joy’s magic hands people the child’s world. Fingers small enough to fit two into one rubber digit puppet characters from worlds Brigid hasn’t seen and can’t imagine.

Joy visits those worlds and lives to tell tales of dragons and monsters, princes and princesses, flying ponies and talking bears. Characters who could scream and rage and talk back, who could bellow fire, make ugly noises and disobey.

Brigid also loves stories about Mommies and Daddies and little children, about families and suppers together and bedtime and outings. Even though they sometimes make her squirm, leave her feeling a little lonely.

Through the rubber she can touch Joy’s hands. Not just paddy cake, but also a kind of talking, usually in play but sometimes fighting. They both find it funny when she swats at the black gloves and discovers them empty because Joy anticipated an attack and withdrew. Or when Joy goes after her, stretching the built in hands and Brigid skips back tantalizingly out of reach. Then it isn’t Joy’s hands she watches but her face, the turn of her smile, the tease in her eyes, the way her ears wiggle when she laughs.

Mostly they use their hands to move people and things and places around: little people, little vehicles, little houses, the blocks, legos and amorphous pieces of glass, wood or plastic which can shapeshift into people or animals or objects or mythical creatures as needed for the drama. I’m Toto. I’m Tinker Bell. This is the Swampy Marsh.

Joy knows names for everybody, everyplace, everything. Joy knows all the stories. Joy knows how to make her laugh. And she holds her hand when Brigid cries, ifBrigid lets her. Brigid hardly ever cries, and when she does, she feels like curling into herself and pulling up the covers. But the first time she felt Joy’s fingers inside the rubber hand patting her arm and saying something soothing, it seemed as if she’d been trapped inside a giant bubble which suddenly popped.

* * *

Fourth

Sometimes it’s just Bear Man. Sometimes Funny Man is with him. She likes having Funny around when Bear is gloomy. He makes her laugh. Not because of his stripes or horns or anything like that. Because of how he moves. He is like Tinker Bell. He can fly. Mostly though he does flips, turning circles in the air, head over heels, feet first, sideways. No matter which way, he always lands back on his feet. Then he taps his head with his hand and grins at her.

She tries to imitate him. She wants to fly too. Finally Bear brings her a little stretchy circle she can bounce on, up and down, up and down, up and down. But he won’t let her try to flip. Instead, on the soft rug, he shows her somersaults and cartwheels. Behind him Funny Man claps his hands whenever she flops herselfover.

Finally she has something to show Joy. She knows something Joy doesn’t know. She can teach her how. Joy learns fast, but Brigid is better than Joy. It bores Joy.

Whenever she points out Funny Man to Bear Man, he pretends he can’t see him. That must be a game, like hide and seek. Only Bear never finds Funny. Sometimes when Bear isn’t looking, Funny looks at her sympathetically, shakes his head, and gives a big sigh. Then they smile.

But mostly he teases. Once a small bear suddenly appeared in his arms and Funny rocked him like a babydoll. She picked up her Pooh and rocked him. Funny pointed at Manny Bear and then at the baby bear. She laughed. Bear was so big she couldn’t imagine herself being big enough to rock him in her arms. But maybe somewhere there is a mommy much bigger than her mommy who can take care of him. An angel of God, maybe.

Funny is like the angels. Sometimes they are there and sometimes not. She told Joy about him. Joy said she saw him too. But he didn’t delight Joy the way he did Brigid. One night she told him to go away so Brigid would play with her. Funny laughed and disappeared. He came back next time Bear was sad.

* * *

Fifth

Now she has lots of friends. She talks to them every day. She hears their voices. She looks at their pictures. Some of them she likes and some she doesn’t. Some are smart or funny or interesting. Some are whiney or stupid or mean.

They’re not like Joy. She can’t touch them or watch them move or see how they act with other kids. But they are her friends. They listen together to stories. They solve problems in a group phone call. They do projects together, like designing a playground for when they all get out of the hospital.

Where is out of the hospital? Is that where Mommie and Joy and Manny are when they aren’t with her? Is that where the light and the dark live the rest of the time? Is that where going home is?

Timmie went home. But now she can see him and hear him and watch him move. Before he was only a picture and a voice on the phone. Her favorite voice. He is silly and he is also kind. He tells her not to be afraid to go home. He tells her he’s happy. But he doesn’t seem happy. He seems sad.

He says he’s a little homesick sometimes. That’s why he visits her. If he went home, why is he homesick? He says he misses her. He says she was his best friend.

This makes her sad. She misses him too. But he isn’t her best friend. Joy is her best friend. She doesn’t tell him this. She has learned from the other children it’s ok not to say everything you think. It’s ok not to hurt somebody’s feelings.

Hurting people’s feelings is a new world to her. At first she didn’t know about feelings. Then she didn’t know about hurt, although she recognized the feeling when Joy explained it to her. Then she didn’t know she could hurt somebody, until Joy cried and told her she’d hurt her feelings. Joy cries easily. This puzzles Brigid. She hasn’t learned to cry very good.

It’s harder to tell when you hurt a grownup’s feelings. They don’t cry. Manny Bear cried once. She didn’t think it had anything to do with her. She was scared.

* * *

Sixth

She feels herself divide into two streams. One is awake, lively, chatting on the phone, learning how to write and spell, how to draw and add numbers together. The other is asleep, dreaming. Sometimes the dreams are fun, like flying or playing with animal friends. But sometimes they are frightening, even after she wakes up. Especially when it’s still dark outside.

One night she dreams that Manny has been snatched up by a huge dragon. She yells and yells at the dragon to let him go, but the dragon ignores her. Manny dangles at the end of one claw as the dragon flies into the air. From the ground, people are shooting at him. She’s not on the ground with the people and she’s not in the air with the dragon, she’s not sure where she is—on a mountain or a cloud maybe. She wakes up screaming, No, no, no as he writhes.

Her night light is on. Mommy is gone. The guard’s ancient face is lined with worry. But she doesn’t want him to talk. His voice sounds mechanical, like a robot talking. She tries to imagine he’s the tin man, but the inhuman tone is not comforting to her. So quickly she waves to him, buries her head under her covers and pretends to fall back asleep.

When she tells this dream to Manny, he seems surprised. He tells her it sounds like what he went through in the war. The dragon might be a helicopter. Not as bad as she imagined.

What’s war? she asks.

When countries fight with each other, he says.

Then she dreams there’s a baby inside of Mommy. The baby is screaming to get out. The baby is getting too big to be inside all the time. But Mommy can’t move. She can’t help the baby get out. They’re both stuck.

Brigid wakes in a sweat. Her voice is caught in her throat. The guard is asleep in his chair. She’s even more scared by this dream and she doesn’t tell it to anybody. It’s getting easier to forget her dreams, to let her lively, curious, intelligent waking self block them out. They trail into her waking moments like the rose of dawn, fading as the noise begins again.

* * *

Seventh

How come I can’t go out like the other kids?

Behind his mask, the doctor’s bright eyes squinch with worry. She knows his every expression. He’s easy to read. Not warm, full and sloppy like Mommy and Manuel, hard to anticipate and challenging to manage. The doctor’s mind is neat, his manner polite, his movements predictable.

She’s known him all her life. She knows he cares for her. But she still calls him Doctor.

Now she’s upsetting him. She hates to do it. But she has to know. How come I can’t go home?

Home? he asks slowly. Isn’t this your home?

Why can’t I go home with Mommy and Joy, Doctor Greene?

She can see in his mind that red haired woman who used to come on Sunday mornings to pray at her, and she understands his puzzlement. Why would she want to go home with that Mommy? It’s too complicated to explain. He’ll turn it over and over in his head and then tell her why she’s wrong. He’ll forget to answer her real question.

Why can’t I go outside?

Outside is not safe for you, Brigid.

Why not?

You don’t have enough protection.

Manny can protect me.

He smiles thinly. He likes Manny too. No, he can’t. He’d like to. But the protection has to be inside of you—and it isn’t…yet.

When will it be? Her voice begs. A tone, she’s finally realized from listening to Joy, which usually brings results. But he’s lost in his thoughts, his brow wrinkly.

I don’t know, he finally answers, then hesitates and sighs. Maybe you’ll grow into it.

When?

Maybe when you’re twelve. When your body starts to change.

She groans. How long is that?

Five more years. I know it seems like an eternity to you, but it really isn’t so far away.

It’s so unusual for his mind to fork out like this she isn’t sure which way to follow. What does he mean by her body changing? How long is an eternity?

Before she can ask about either, he glances at his watch and their weekly

session is finished.

* * *

Eighth

Brigid feels a cloud pass over her. She’s never seen the sky or how sun goes behind a cloud. She just feels a shadow slowly shutting out the warmth.

Mommy doesn’t smile so much anymore. Brigid can see Joy’s worry beneath her bravado. They exchange glances, their eyes full of questions, but can’t talk about it.

There’s some new tension between Mommy and Manuel, some murmured argument which they keep hushed in front of the children. Brigid knows it’s about the baby in Mommy’s tummy, about her getting rid of it. She wants to tell Mommy it’s ok for her to let it go, it wants to get out anyway. But somehow she realizes it’s a secret she’s not supposed to know, not about the baby and not about the question of what to do with the baby.

The baby can live in here with me, she tells herself. I’ll take care of her. Only they won’t let me touch her. They won’t let me touch anybody. I’ll wear gloves. Mommy wore gloves with me. I hate gloves. But they’re better than nothing.

One night Mommy and Joy don’t come. Manny comes, looking sad. He says Mommy is in the hospital. She’s sick but she’ll be better soon. She sends her love. They play chess. He’s teaching Brigid the chess moves. They listen to a basketball game on the radio. She practices her basketball moves with the net he set up on her wall. She’s tall. He tells her she’s a good shot.

In her dream she sees the real sky for the first time. It’s bright, bright blue and curves over her like a huge bubble, full of lights and colors. As it turns dark, tiny dots of light begin to appear and twinkle at her. They must be stars. At the edge of this dome a line of yellow turns orange then red then brightens as the sky’s blue lightens.

A cloud drifts across the highest point. Her neck aches as she watches it glow. It looks like a horse. Now its legs are filling into a head turned sideways. The face looks down at her. It’s Mommy’s face. Now she’s standing next to the bed, tucking Brigid in. I love you, she whispers.

Brigid drifts off, then stirs. She opens her eyes. At the doorway to the germ chamber Mommy is standing. She waves goodnight and blows a kiss. Goodbye, she says. Sweet dreams.

Night night, Brigid calls out her usual chant. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. See you tomorrow.

She tries to dream herself back into the sky but all she can find is a dark wet tunnel.

* * *

Ninth

Outside her new window Brigid sees a bird’s nest with three blue eggs inside. She didn’t notice the bird building the nest, she didn’t notice the bird laying the eggs. Manny tells her to watch the eggs carefully now, and she does. But she doesn’t see the first fledgling come out of the egg. She wakes to hear the peeps of a scrawny, naked baby bird, wisps of feather on its head, its mouth wide open for food a big bird drops into it.

She does see the next egg hatch. She watches a tiny crack split into a fracture, then grow into a crevice out of which a sharp beak emerges, followed by a tiny, tense body pushing aside the shell gates as it stumbles out of the egg. A breeze stirs the downy feathers on its body as it opens its beak wide for food.

Brigid is astonished. That’s what hatching’s all about. When a bird grows too big for the egg, it pecks its way out to the nest, a more spacious home where it’s safe to grow some more.

She watches the hatchlings become so big they crowd the nest. She watches them grow feathers. She watches them stand on the edge of the nest and flutter their wings. One morning she wakes and the nest is empty. On the ground no baby birds have fallen. They must have flown away.

Did the big bird fly away too? Did they all fly away together?

* * *

Tenth

Brigid dreams she lives inside a transparent egg. She’s growing bigger, she’s growing feathers, but she can’t break out of the egg. She can see the sky but she can’t feel the air. She can observe trees outside but she can’t smell them. She can watch for animals but she can’t touch them.

She butts her head against the glass wall, but it hurts. The wall is too thick, too rigid, it does not give like an eggshell crumbles. She’s afraid she’ll never get out. She’ll grow and grow until she curls into a ball and suffocates.

She wakes in a sweat and calls out to Manny who is watching her through the glass, worried.

Nightmare? he asks.

She nods. I was trapped inside an invisible egg. I couldn’t get out.

Manny knows right away what her dream is about. We hope one day soon you’ll be able to walk out of your bubble, Brigid. Don’t worry. If you can’t, we’ll build you a bigger bubble.

It’s not fair, she complains. She knows she can’t live without protection, without a glass membrane between inside and out. She knows her skin, her individual shell, is too permeable. She knows she has no immune system. This isn’t a real bubble. It can’t pop!

"But it keeps you safe for the time being, Brigid. Until you re ready to fly.. She’s ready now. What happens if a hatchling can’t get out of the egg? What would happen to her if she did get out? Would she die? She sits inside her enclosure and wonders.

* * *

Eleventh

While Manuel watches over Brigid, she watches him. He’s gentle, caring, respectful of her. His world seems to revolve around her bubble, but she knows his sphere expands beyond her range ofvision.

The more she watches Manuel, the more she imagines being the one outside, the one who can see her bubble from every angle, the one who is free to fly away. The one who chooses not to fly away.

What would she do if he flew away? Who would take care of her? She’s lucky to have these people who care about her, this odd ensemble, not of her feather, who’ve been willing to keep her egg warm until she hatches, if she can hatch, if she can survive the hatching. She’s glad Manuel freed her from her hospital cell and built her this sanctuary in the woods, gave her a view of the horizon. She’s safe and comfortable here. But still she’s restless. She’d like to walk to the edge, where earth meets sky.

As she watches Manuel, she tries to figure out what it would mean to become an outside person. Does being outside make you walk with long strides? Make you look around a lot? Build your muscles? Make you want to whistle all the time? Help you feel less afraid? The more she pretends to be him, the more she imitates him, in her head or in the confines of the bubble. When she steps into his larger world, the part of her who feels stuck inside, on display, disappears.

Or so it seems.

* * *

Twelth

Brigid overhears Manuel’s friend Rachel teasing him about some woman he’s dating.

You sound like my mother! he protests. I can’t get married. Who would want to live this way?

Brigid tries to imagine not just an outside life but a different way for Manuel to live. Is what’s peculiar about his life not his living in the woods but his being caretaker of her and her bubble? Would he rather be living somewhere else with someone else?

She thinks of the acorn he showed her, how it grows into an oak tree, its roots flowing down into earth, further and further away from its branches rising into the sky. She wonders if the branches remember the roots, if the leaves know they’re connected to a hidden underground network.

She thought that even though he’s free to wander outside, Manuel was rooted here, with her—but maybe not. Maybe he feels stuck too, tied to her survival like a restless horse. Roots, she imagines, feel more flowing, more mobile, than the invisible cord which tethers you to someone’s welfare. Is he waiting for her to break out so he too can be free? Maybe her bubble is like an anchor around his neck, keeping him from sailing off somewhere else.

Where, if she were him, would she go?

* * *

Thirteenth

The more she imagines escaping from the bubble, the thinner its walls seem to become. In her mind’s eye she watches the walls grow translucent and brittle. She fantasizes a crack opening up in the darkest wall, the one without windows, a crack the shape of a stroke of lightning, large enough for her to step through.

Suddenly she doesn’t want the bubble to break. She’s afraid that as soon as she steps out of it, she won’t have a home to return to. She’ll never find another nest.

She turns away from the windows, the view of the horizon, and plays with her stuffed animals. Even though she’s too old for this now, it’s a way of remembering, a way of taking care of companions she was only too willing to abandon moments before.

She sits on the bed, her back against the dark wall, the nubs of what Joy calls her wings pressed shut against its comforting solidity. Here she feels safe, protected, unafraid.

Part One

Image3029.JPG

One

He refused to wake the sleeping child. Damned if he’d obey their orders again.

She lay sprawled on her back, one leg bent as if it had just stopped running, one arm flung open, the other tilted toward her head, the thumb slipped out of her mouth. A loose strand of auburn hair fell across her closed eyes. He could imagine how it must tickle and felt an impulse to brush it out of her face, but even if he could have reached through the glass between them, he didn’t want to risk waking her, her sleep was so serene. A smile lingered on her lips. He’d forgotten such innocence existed. Why should he disturb her peace? Time enough for it to be shattered.

He looked over her file. She’d just turned three and had been here since she was eight months old. He was amazed they’d been able to keep it such a secret. Even more amazed she had thrived in such an environment. Thrived at least until a month ago when her doctors decided she was depressed. Slept too much, they said. Slept all day. That’s why they’d brought him in. To keep her awake, to observe, to diagnose what was wrong with her.

He didn’t know how Brindle had wrangled this transfer, how he’d saved him his internship after what happened in the monkey lab. He didn’t know and he didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay. But where would he go? He was far from home on purpose; he couldn’t return, a stranger now.

The child stirred. The blanket slipped down and twisted around one of her knees. He would have liked to untangle her. He felt toward her the same protective feeling he’d felt toward his youngest sister when he was ten years old and she was just a baby. Odd to feel such tenderness after such brutality. But he couldn’t do anything for this child. Instead he observed.

If I were depressed, he thought, I’d be buried under that blanket and on my stomach or curled into a ball. I’d have trouble sleeping. He was depressed. He did have trouble sleeping. He’d never sleep again like this child was sleeping. Even when he drank enough to knock him out, his dreams were full of violence.

Restless he stood up. A white blur rose in the glass. Light from inside the enclosure bounced off his jacket and reflected back in the glass. Like a ghost of my former self, he thought. Maybe I need somebody to exorcise me. He imagined his mother praying over his lost soul, the priest in purple chasuble signing crosses in the air above his spectral head. Neither of them would ever know why or where he’d disappeared. He himself had lost the person he’d been before the war and despaired that if anyone eliminated the phantom who remained, he would be completely invisible. Living in this city, working in this hospital assured his anonymity. He had a gift, from being a traveler, for fading into the background, for not calling attention to his foreign self, but this anonymity was no longer a choice. Alienated from family, afraid of making friends, he felt truly one of the walking dead, with only his brother for companionship.

If that scene in the lab didn’t exterminate me, he thought, I don’t what will. He should have guessed what working with animals would mean, but in some ways he was still wet behind the ears. He’d been hoping the animals might help cure him of his touchiness. Might heal his cynicism about humans. But he hadn’t been allowed to work with the animals; he’d been expected to work on them.

Why were they holding onto him? He was cynical enough to know that it wasn’t his good looks or his medical know how. It must be affirmative action. They must have a quota for the grant; clearly he was one of their tokens. That’s why Brindle went out of his way to save my chi-cano ass, he thought. Any idiot can sit here and watch this child sleep.

They don’t need me for anything I’d be good at doing—although at the moment he couldn’t think of anything he’d be good at doing that he’d want to do.

He was as jumpy as the monkey they’d separated from his mother at the age when human psychologists believe sons should be separated from their mothers. Not like Harlow as a conscious experiment but simply out of their unquestioned assumptions about the good of the monkeys. Those monkeys, particularly that young male, still played, and raged, inside his head. Having witnessed their suffering, he himself felt strung taut. As one of his coworkers put it, It plucks my nerves the way they treat these monkeys. They our ancestors, maybe. Ought to be more respect, you know what I mean? Yeah, he knew. His own nerves felt ready to snap. In the dark of night the monkeys screaming in pain, his comrades screaming in pain. And he, trained to heal, inflicted by empathy with their suffering, unable to help.

So what’s my complaint? he asked himself, calling upon his pragmatic, surviving self. They’re paying me for doing nothing; even though what they’re paying is practically nothing, it’s a step up a pretty prestigious ladder. Given the odds for my climbing it any other way, I should just keep my mouth shut and get through this year with no hassle. Watching a child sleep was better, at least, than watching monkeys being tortured to death.

Two

Restless and raunchy he’d gone back to the bar near the hospital. What else was there to do? He wasn’t making any friends at work. What it takes to win security clearances didn’t seem to match what it takes to win popularity contests. After the scene in the lab, he didn’t trust many of them and most didn’t trust him. Brindle had been friendly enough, in his patronizing way, but it was all front and no substance.

Anyway anonymity had its appeal these days. Manuel didn’t need some mama questioning why he was drinking so much. The bar was dark, noisy, and by this time, almost like home. A busy cave he’d crawl into after a day in the cage with the monkeys. Nothing like the home he’d grown up in, but familiar enough these past few months. His mother and sisters would be shocked to know this was where he hung out, but they were behind him now. Once he’d put on that uniform, he’d stepped out of that cozy nest forever.

Last weekend the regular exotic dancer didn’t show up for her performance. Home with her sick mother, he figured. She’d sat next to him one night at the bar and of course he ended up hearing her whole story. Nothing exotic or erotic about it. Up close, Brenda looked a lot older and a lot more worried than she did on the platform. He took pleasure in how the icy mask of her face melted as he listened. It took him back briefly to how Lupe used to love how well he listened to her stories, to the days when he dreamed of becoming a psychologist. He used to enjoy discovering how people felt, what they wanted, what happened in their dreams.

He recognized the young woman who took Brenda’s place. One of the waitresses. Most of the men were so focused on her nubile, agile body that they didn’t know it was just Teresa disguised as an exotic dancer. Trouble was, she really was exotic. Even the regulars were getting turned on and, he could tell from their expressions, it was making them nervous. Brenda’s act might kick off some guy who was really horny, but mostly it was so tight and controlled that the men found it reassuring. They were cool, they could go home and make love to their wives or jerk off without a qualm. They hadn’t been sucked into that twat, he thought, reassured by how automatic the armor of his cynicism had become. Before the war he never thought of women as body parts, he thought of the faces of his sisters and Lupe. Now he felt protected by this male solidarity. Now only his father and brother could understand how exposed he felt without it. Having left the women behind when he crossed into the war zone, he found it easier sometimes to detach from them in other ways as well.

Watching the men watching Teresa, he saw expressions on their faces which reminded him of the faces of the guys in Nam. Vacant. Lost. Dangerous. One of the younger men reached out to grab her. No one would have dared do that with Brenda who kept the boundaries very clear. Anybody who risked sticking any part of himself into her psychic cage risked having that part bit off. Knowing this they could all relax into their own privates. But Teresa had a youthful flirtatious prettiness which made her vulnerability irresistible. She didn’t know or didn’t want to know how to fend off advances so that every man there could secretly possess her without any of them trying to claim her. She didn’t know or didn’t seem to care how dangerous a feeding frenzy could be for her.

Another man reached out to grab her ankle and she fell to the floor. Instead of scrambling up she seemed paralyzed. Again that blank expression on the men’s faces—and hidden deep in a few eyes a glimmer of fear, a flicker of recognition. No way any of these guys was going to help her out. No way any of them would risk ending up on the bottom of the pile.

Manuel couldn’t help realizing this could be one of his sisters. Although he was sure neither Gabrielle or Gloria would be this stupid or this desperate for attention, they’d changed so much in the past few years, he couldn’t be certain they’d never get themselves caught in such a fix. And who was he to judge? A bit woozy, Manuel stood up and bumbled up toward the platform as if he were another thrill seeker. At full height, even shaky, he was a formidable presence and the other men leaned away from him automatically. The girl’s face tilted up at him in terror. Gone was the coy, the cute, the alluring mask she’d concocted for her audience. With surgical decisiveness he reached out, grabbed her under the arm and lifted her to her feet. Relieved she looked at him for rescue. But he wasn’t going to carry her out of danger like some goddam hero. For one thing he wasn’t no goddam hero. And for another, vestiges of his old morality told him she’d asked for it. In any case, he decided in his liquid state, if she’s old enough to play this game, she better learn to play it tougher. Finish your routine, he muttered. Just keep it simple. He sounded gruff, but he needed to protect his own flanks in this combat zone. Big as he was, if he showed a soft underbelly, some guy with a grudge and knife might decide to prove his manhood by taking him down, like one shoots a big, dumb animal, a moose or a buffalo.

Theresa did a few more bumps and grinds while the crowd, breathing away the threat of violence, cheered. Then with a glance at him at the bar, she fled into a back room.

About an hour later, he felt a hand on his back, a finger running down his arm. He turned to face Teresa, her dark eyes full of gratitude and something masquerading as lust. Thanks, she said.

Aw, it was nothing, he said, using bashfulness to cover up his discomfort. He could feel her finger lingering on his arm and the uninvited sexual rush it triggered.

You wanna come back to the dressing room with me? she said.

You don’t owe me, he said, resenting her touching him. He felt manipulated. He felt like jumping out of his skin. Touchy as he was, he’d locked himself up in there. He didn’t like spilling over, even if it was just a craving. Beneath the surface of his desire was his longing for Lupe, memories of the tenderness between them before the war, the pull of passion softened by the ease of sharing affection.

She shrugged, pursing her pretty lips. I know. But I’ve never been rescued before. It felt good.

Well, feel good then. He pulled himself back from the stickiness of her appetite. No strings attached. Enjoy that too.

She pouted, twisting her body in what was either desire or a very good imitation of it. As she glanced seductively he saw in her dark eyes something like pity. This was just what he had been trying to avoid. Lupe had pitied him when he returned from the war. Lost had been the sweet magnetism between them. Instead he’d felt like a mine ready to explode at just the slightest touch. He’d kept his distance to protect her, even when all she wanted was to comfort him.

Now a rush of energy surged up into his arms. He felt enraged. How dare this scrawny little whore pity him? He imagined his hands clutched around her throat, choking her; the image bowled him backwards, away from her.

Horrified, he choked, Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need to be rescued, he told himself.

Whether it had been Lupe’s pity or something else which had turned him into combustible metal, he couldn’t forgive himself for having pushed her away, even to the point, that one time, of slapping her face. He would never forget the hurt in her eyes, the twist of her lip as her soft hand covered the red mark on her cheek.

It was his turn to flee the scene.

Three

The child was, again, asleep. This time on her stomach. As if she knew he’d be there watching her. No more exposure of the soft underbelly. Again, her leg stretched out, as if arrested while racing, again the thumb yearning toward the mouth. Again, the hair screened her eyes.

She’d been confined in this incubation chamber since she was eight months old. Since her mother’s milk stopped flowing, and they were forced to wean her away from the breast, from the home, from the whole family. No sign of illness yet, but every medical indication that she was vulnerable to any little germ, any stray virus. She looked healthy enough. Long limbed, if anything tall for her age, her skin somewhat pale but not pasty looking as one might expect.

He’d have to wait until she was awake to see how stunted she’d been by such an upbringing. No actual human contact since she was an infant. No room to run and climb and explore like most kids. No following her brother into the desert looking for Gila monsters. No mud fights with her sisters. No taking turns swinging out on vines over ravines. No splashing through cold streams looking for magic rocks. No sliding down clay banks. No poking flashlights into caves. No running barefoot through sand away from giant waves, shrieking.

The mother visited every Sunday, her day off from work. The medical personnel shifted in and out. One of the doctors checked in on her every other week. Otherwise there was no consistent caretaking. His all too extensive knowledge of psychological experiments with baby monkeys deprived of contact with their mothers told him that this child should be a basket case by now. The babies who clung to their mothers, still touching and touched by those soft firm hands which caressed and groomed them, were calm and playful; the babies who’d been wrenched away and put in separate cages within view of their mothers were angry and hyper; the babies who’d been confined to isolation, away from any contact with their mothers, including visual, were apathetic and depressed. We weren’t made for seclusion, he thought; even hermits had mothers, perhaps even sisters and brothers.

Maybe he could come in on a Sunday and speak to the mother, get some idea of the child’s development up to this point, find out if indeed she was depressed or if the doctors were just conjecturing that because she slept all day. Dr. Brindle, although he expressed pity for the child, seemed more concerned with keeping her alive than with keeping her happy. He realized, of course, that serious depression might weaken her chances for survival. She might just curl up in a corner and lose the will to live.

That’s where Manuel came in. As a research assistant in psychology, with some background in medical school but little stomach for psychological experimentation, he seemed an apt candidate to observe this apparently healthy child and maybe even make some suggestions for her future.

What kind of future could she have? Manuel wondered. Solitary confinement without parole? And yet, as he observed her sleeping peacefully in her cozy little nest, he felt a glimmer of envy. She’d never have to deal with violence or poverty, pressure to get ahead in life or betrayal. Lupe’s face flashed through his mind, the wounded confusion in her eyes painful to recall. And yet, Lupe was free, free to accept or reject, free to walk away, as she had finally chosen to do, while this poor child was trapped in this cage for the rest of her life.

As he peered through the glass at her, the child rolled over and opened her eyes. They were very large and very blue. They stared into his eyes without blinking. There was such depth of presence there he felt he could be looking into his grandmother’s brown eyes. Captivated, he smiled, softening his own stare as the child solemnly returned his gaze.

Then suddenly she glanced at something behind him and laughed. When he looked puzzled, she