Pump Six and Other Stories(99)

I suck in my breath. Even for Chem-Int, it's a freak of nature.

Dmitri smiles at my reaction. "Ten times oversized. Not from a vulnerable population, either: excellent prenatal care, good filter-mask practices, low-pesticide food sources." He shrugs. "We are losing our battle, I think." He opens another drawer. "Ah. Here." He pulls out a foil-wrapped square the size of a condom, stamped in black and yellow, and offers it to me. "My trials have already recorded the dose as dispensed. It shouldn't affect the statistics." He nods at the flesh gobbet. "And certainly, she will not miss it."

The foil is stamped "NOT FOR SALE" along with a tracking number and the intertwined DNA and microscope icon of the FDA Human Trials Division. I reach for it, but Dmitri pulls it away. "Put it on before you leave. It has a new backing: cellular foil. Trackable. You can only wear it in the hospital." He tosses me the packet, shrugs apologetically. "Our sponsors think too many doses are walking away."

"How long do I need to wear it before I can leave?"

"Three hours will give you most of the dose."

"Enough?"

"Who knows? Who cares? Already you avoid the best treatment. You will reap what you sow."

I don't have a retort. Dmitri knows me too well to feed him the stories I tell myself, the ones that comfort me at 3 a.m. when Justin's asleep and I'm staring at the ceiling listening to his steady honest breathing: It's for our marriage . . . It's for our future . . . It's for our baby.

I strip off the backing, untuck my blouse and unbutton my slacks. I slip the derm down under the waistband of my panties. As it attaches to my skin, I imagine cleansing medicine flowing into me. For all his taunts, Dmitri has given me salvation and, suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. "We owe you, Dmitri. Really. We couldn't have waited until the trials finished."

Dmitri grunts acknowledgment. He is busy prodding the dead girl's bloated pituitary. "You could never have afforded it, anyway. It is too good for everyone to have."

The squeegee hits me on the El.

One minute, I'm sitting and smiling at the kids across the aisle, with their Hello Kitty and their Burn Girl filter masks, and the next minute, I'm doubled over, ripping off my own mask, and gagging. The girls stare at me like I'm a junkie. Another wave of nausea hits and I stop caring what they think. I sit doubled over on my seat, trying to keep my hair out of my face and vomiting on the floor between my shoes.

By the time I reach my stop, I can barely stand. I vomit again on the platform, going down on hands and knees. I have to force myself not to crawl down from the El. Even in the winter cold, I'm sweating. The crowds part around me, boots and coats and scarves and filter masks. Glittering news chips in men's sideburns and women with braided microfilament glo-strands stepping around me, laughing with silver lipsticks. Kaleidoscope streets: lights and traffic and dust and coal diesel exhaust. Muddy and wet. My face is wet and I can't remember if I've fallen in the murk of a curb or if this is my vomit.

I find my apartment by luck, manage to stand until the elevator comes. My wrist implant radios open the apartment's locks.

Justin jumps up as I shove open the door. "Lily?"

I retch again, but I've left my stomach on the street. I wave him away and stumble for the shower, stripping off my coat and blouse as I go. I curl into a ball on the cold white tiles while the shower warms. I fumble with the straps on my bra, but I can't work the catch. I gag again, shuddering as the squeegee rips through me.

Justin's socks are standing beside me: the black pair with the hole in the toe. He kneels; his hand touches my bare back. "What's wrong?"

I turn away, afraid to let him see my filthy face. "What do you think?"

Sweat covers me. I'm shivering. Steam has started pouring up from the tiles. I push aside the cotton shower curtain and crawl in, letting the water soak my remaining clothes. Hot water pours over me. I finally drag off my bra, let it drop on the puddled tiles.

"This can't be right." He reaches in to touch me, but pulls away when I start gagging again.

The retching passes. I can breathe. "It's normal." My words whisper out. My throat is raw with vomit. I don't know if he hears me or not. I pry off my soggy slacks and underwear. Sit on the tiles, let the water pour over me, let my face press against one tiled wall. "Dmitri says it's normal. Half the subjects experience nausea. Doesn't affect efficacy."

I start retching again but it's not as bad now. The wall feels wonderfully cool.

"You don't have to do this, Lily."

I roll my head around, try to see him. "You want a baby, don't you?"

"Yeah, but . . . "

"Yeah." I let my face press against tile again. "If we're not doing prenatal, I don't have a choice."

The squeegee's next wave is hitting me. I'm sweating. I'm suddenly so hot I can't breathe. Every time is worse than the last. I should tell Dmitri, for his trial data.

Justin tries again. "Not all natural babies turn out bad. We don't even know what these drugs are doing to you."

I force myself to stand. Lean against the wall and turn up the cold water. I fumble for the soap . . . drop it. Leave it lying by the drain. "Clinicals in Bangladesh . . . were good. Better than before. FDA could approve now . . . if they wanted." I'm panting with the heat. I open my mouth and drink unfiltered water from the shower head. It doesn't matter. I can almost feel PCBs and dioxins and phthalates gushing out of my pores and running off my body. Good-bye hormone mimics. Hello healthy baby.