My Last Continent: A Novel(31)

Sometimes I wonder how long this alien invasion—the ships, the humans—can continue before the continent strikes back.

Susan opens the door, returning to the closet-size examining room where I’ve been waiting. Earlier, she’d had me pee in a cup, had taken my vital signs and done a quick exam, asked me a dozen questions. I’m starting to feel a bit better, and I stand up as she enters the room, ready to forgo medication and be on my way.

“Have a seat,” she says.

“I’m good to go, actually. Shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“Please,” she says, motioning me back down. Her face is serious, too serious for something like the flu.

I sit.

“Deb,” she says, “I don’t know if this will be good news or bad news, but”—she pauses—“you’re pregnant.”

“What?” I can barely choke out the word. Feebly, I lean back in the chair.

“You’re pregnant.”

“That’s not possible.”

“You mentioned that you had sex—”

“I know what I said.” I can hardly think straight. “What I mean is, I was careful. Very careful. Can you run the test again?”

“Already have.” Susan looks at me. I’ve known her for years; like so many, we see each other down here and nowhere else. “You’re going to have to take extra care on the landings. You’re about eight weeks along.”

She doesn’t bring up options, as most doctors would, because down here there are no options for something like this.

“This can’t be right,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She begins talking about what foods I should avoid, what activities I should let other crew members handle, but I’m barely listening. When I leave her office a few minutes later, promising I’ll return, I can’t remember anything she’d said.

“There you are.” It’s Glenn, jogging behind me in the passageway to catch up. “You all right?” he asks. “What did Susan say?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not food poisoning. The ship’s not contaminated with norovirus. I’m fine.”

“You sure about that?” He studies my face. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“Residual jet lag, probably. I just need a bit of rest, that’s all.”

He nods. “Take the rest of the day off. We don’t have another landing until tomorrow. You’ll probably feel better then.”

I nod back, then make my way to the sanctuary of my bunk. I lie down and lay my hands across my belly, which feels the same as always. I think again of icebergs, of how much is hidden away under the surface of the water. How appearances can be so deceiving. I can conceal this pregnancy for the duration of the voyage, but then what? My mind can’t move beyond this concept of ice, how everything you have to fear is what lies beneath, what’s unseen and unknown.





THREE MONTHS BEFORE SHIPWRECK


Eugene, Oregon





I cross the garden from my cottage to the main house, a light rain dampening my hair. As the austral summer begins in the Southern Hemisphere, October in Oregon is much the same: gray, rainy, a chill that sinks into your bones. A few strands of hair stick to my forehead, and I pause on the back porch, securing the bottle of wine I’ve brought between my knees as I release my ponytail and shake out my hair, slipping the band around my wrist.

I hear the sounds of raised voices and laughter, and before I reach the door, it bursts open. “Sorry!” a woman says. The guy beside her is laughing, his arm around her waist, and they stumble out into the garden.

As usual, I’m late to the party and a bit too sober.

For the last five years, I’ve rented the little cottage behind this restored Craftsman where my landlord-now-friend Nick Atwood lives with a fluffy white cat named Gatsby. Nick and I basically share custody of Gatsby—Nick’s an entomologist at the university, and his house is so often filled with colleagues and friends that Gatsby frequently comes to my place for some peace and quiet.

Nick’s kitchen is warm and smells of his famous Brazilian risotto cakes. I put the wine on the counter. Gatsby comes over, tail in the air, and lets me scratch him behind the ears. “What’re you still doing here?” I ask him. “I expected you at my place hours ago.” He flicks his tail and stalks into the laundry room.

I head toward the living room and immediately bump into Nick, who’s on his way to the kitchen. He gives me a big hug, and a kiss somewhere around my ear. “I was about to give up on you.”

“Sorry. Traffic was brutal.”

“Right.”

Nick draws me into a circle of colleagues and their plus-ones; he slips a brimming wineglass into my hand, makes introductions, and leaves me with the group. I wish for a few familiar faces, like my friend Jill, a fellow bio lecturer who’s away visiting her boyfriend in San Francisco. It’s much more fun when she and I can be each other’s date for the evening amid all the couples.

“So you’re Deb,” says a professor from Nick’s department.

I turn to look at her—a dark-haired woman named Sydney, sharp-featured but soft-eyed, her slender body standing very straight. “Have we met before?” I ask.