Chapter Text
The cold sting of the sterile air made Amanda’s skin panic with goosebumps. The quiet consistent hum of the white fluorescent light above her head made her wish she was hearing more noise; a voice beside her saying everything would be alright, or her own breaths at ease like they were before the jolt of pain from her womb, followed by the sudden rush of blood. Her fingers, they felt like long stones to her hand; unmoving, cold and solid as the skipping pulses of her heart ran through each of them. She blinked down as another tear glided down her cheek, studying the simple platinum banded ring her husband wore through a blurry image. Beside his ring was her own, which she hadn’t broken the bond of just yet. It still had some phantom warmth left behind.
Should I still even call James my husband?
She was clinging on to the hope that James would somehow come back, opening the door up and telling her he was sorry for yelling at the doctor, then herself. But he never was that kind of man; he was never one to look back after a decision. That was one of the few things she wished didn’t apply to her. For that, now she’s lost two.
She sucked in another breath and cried much more quietly than before. She was certain James’ outburst and her bawling just as loud had made the entire floor of the Maternal-Fetal Medicine office listen in silence. His deep voice rang from ear to ear internally, echoing in her mind as she tried to think of something better and happier than today. His well-trimmed beard and hair, the chiseled nose and eyes just as green as hers kept flashing incessantly.
She tried to think of her boy, or what was supposed to be her boy, now somewhere along the drops and puddles of blood she left in a trail up to this point; on a cold clinic bed wrapped in blue plastic leather, a tearing sheet of waxed paper and a white towel soaked in blood. She remembers how excited they were when they had put all the preparations forth for the day their son would enter this world. The baby blue room they painted together, the children’s books and toys they found in the attic of the house and the old crib they fixed and painted pearly white next to the horse stables in the barn.
All of that time, all of that love they spent for their future son. She looked down at the bloodied towel she was given to clean herself with.
It was all for nothing.
A gentle jiggle of the doorknob stopped her thoughts. She looked up and as the door opened, saw the same doctor that gave her and James the news that ruined her life further. There was a hint of hate for the doctor within Amanda as their eyes met, but she knew just as well as anyone, all she did was her job, with no intent on doing any harm.
“I tried to get him to come back, Amanda, I’m so sorry,” the doctor took her face mask off and pleaded as she closed the door behind her. She set her paper thin tablet down onto the counter beside the sink, letting out a deep sigh. “He wouldn’t hear a single word from me, he just went right out the door. I hope he doesn’t have the keys to the car.”
“He does,” Amanda mumbled and wiped the tears from her eyes. “He drove the both of us here.”
She caught the doctor’s name from her badge when she turned her head in disbelief – Olson – looked back at her with a hanging mouth. Her beautifully chocolate skin on her face showed no aging or wrinkles, unlike Amanda’s pale crow’s feet and laugh lines. She was certain her skin looked as white as a ghost now…it would stay that way for a while, no doubt.
“Jesus,” Olson mumbled, shaking her head. “Do you need a ride home? I can get an auto-trav for you, no charge.”
Amanda shook her head as well, “I can call my brother, he lives close by, I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she asked, the interior corners of her thick eyebrows curled upward.
“No,” she tried to say as her throat pinched and raised. She wished it wasn’t so hard to speak.
Olson grabbed a few tissues from the wood-veneered cabinets above the counter and handed them to her. Amanda gladly took them and cleaned her eyes and face of tear trails once more.
She wondered about her past and why she decided at some point within that time, trying out life in the traditional sense was a good idea. Since birth a traditional lifestyle has helped her more than her peers; it has kept her grounded both mentally and, well, physically. With her time then and now on the farm it’s helped earn her doctorate in Extraterrestrial Biology, granting her the position she’s always wanted as a child. She found a bit of irony; how her profession lies in the stars beyond humanity’s origin solar system, yet can’t help herself to leave the comfort and security of Earth. Despite that, of all things, that thought process didn’t work for the one thing she felt she was fully prepared and ready for. She stared at the Harper Biological laminated posters of what a healthy, chubby infant should look like. Had it not been for the miscarriage, it could’ve been hers. Had it not been for her infertility…James would not have left. 3 years and all it took was the rare chance she could not bear children of her own. She thought - she believed - all the love he gave her was real. A thorn twisted deep in her side as the horrific irony settled further into her hollow heart.
“Let me see what I can do to help you out,” Olson said, grabbing the tablet, tapping and swiping. She pulled a drawer out and set a few pamphlets and packets on the counter. Amanda lowered her eyebrows as she read the bold text on the tops of the pages and sides. Most of them read therapist offerings or grief consolation programs. She sighed quietly, looking toward the door.
“I don’t want therapy, if that’s what you’re about to offer,” she said, resting her palm under her chin.
Oslon stopped adjusting the packet she was putting together and turned her head again. “Oh, no, you’re definitely going to want someone to talk to,” she insisted. “After what he just did to you?”
“Hence I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” Amanda shook her head, she closed her eyes as her voice wavered. “Thank you, but no.”
She clenched the end of the towel she was sitting on, feeling moist cold blood seep out a little from her grasp. The pain below wasn’t there anymore, but the aftershock lingered cold and numbly. Emptiness has never felt so vast and lonely for her until now. She felt a warm hand gently land on her knee. She opened her eyes to look at Olson, holding her tablet now.
“Honey, as a mother, you’re gonna need something or someone to be with. Let me look at what I can offer you, okay?” she asked with eyes pleading back.
All Amanda wanted to do right now was to go home and wrap herself in the warming blanket that was big enough for two. She wanted to forget about everything, drink a few glasses of something with alcohol to make the sting manageable.
There was little hope she had for what was going to be offered, as it was always the usual “therapy” sessions, which was more or less talking to someone who couldn’t care less about what they had gone through. She had dealt with the same situation when both her parents were killed in a freak accident, she remembers giving up on the 4th therapist after finding James through a mutual friend of theirs. She doubted things would line up as well as it did before, but she didn’t want to leave without some kind of compass.
“Okay,” she whispered through another set of tears, her eyes drifting away from focus and back toward the door, noticing the irregular lines of the wood they used to make it.
“Thank you,” Olson said, before returning to her tablet and tapping in information. “I see You’re a research-analyst for Harper Biological Corp?”
“Correct,” she said, looking down at the bloody towel she was sitting on; her hand was smeared in blood from holding it too tightly. She wiped her hand on the cleaner parts of the linen.
“Well, that opens up a few more things, but you don’t want to see a therapist…so that takes out almost everything,” Olson said, shaking her head. “What about an artificial assistant?”
“No thank you,” she answered a little louder than she wanted.
Whatever hope there was left in her heart began to be eaten away from the strings within that kept her alive, at least it felt that way. She was fully aware that Broken Heart Syndrome was a medically proven occurrence that can happen to anyone, though the predominant sex that tended to be affected more often was her own. If she woke up the next day and found herself in a world with her infant son, she would be certain she had left this one and entered heaven. She returned her focus to Olson, finishing up the filtering process of what could be offered.
“Well…” she began, “that leaves one option, you were selected for your contributions in research of a habitable planet as well as your employment position according to this. It’s a service animal program but-”
“Service animal program?” Amanda asked as her brows lowered, “you mean like a support dog?”
“Honey, just let me explain, please,” Olson said softly, raising her palm.
She readjusted her posture from her slump, clearing her throat despite the dryness already there. “I apologize.”
“It’s okay. This program does provide a support animal for as long as the patient would like to have it. But from what I’m looking at here, this program has not been the most popular.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Animals are probably one of the best companions you could have other than a…”
She hesitated as James’ face flashed in her mind once more. “...a husband, typically.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more there, Miss Amanda. The thing with this program is…it isn’t a dog or cat you’ll receive. It’ll be something bio-engineered, designed to be a service animal, created by Harper Biological.”
Amanda had heard before - through internal rumors - there was a sub-division of the bio-engineering department of her employer that focused on the gene-splicing and combining of animal DNA and plant DNA. Some kind of process to create protein out of plant-life for superfood consumption on habitable planets being colonized. She hadn’t heard of, or didn’t realize, they had changed their focus for something that concerned the emotional well-being of people. That alone sounded more outlandish to her than the gene-splicing part, considering Harper Bio’s track of focusing more on production and profit, than caring about ethics for anything off of Earth. Could they have changed where their scope focused on?
“I don’t understand,” she finally said.
“I don’t either,” Olson added. “According to this, these service animals are bio-engineered and tailored to be a close companion to the handler in an emotional capacity, in a beneficial way. They are designed to be loyal, obedient and above all else, there when in need.”
Amanda nodded slowly, questioning whether or not what the doctor was reading out was a real offer by Harper Biological. It just felt so out of place that all of the sudden they cared enough to offer more than just the usual therapist, who felt like had more problems to be concerned with than herself.
Besides, animals have always been a part of her life, though the majority of them have been horses, goats and cows. Since she’s owned the farm for the last 5 years, she can remember each of the animal’s names better than she can name the Extraterrestrial lifeforms she’s remotely studied from home. If anything, all of those animals have been emotional support for her over the years, in terms of stress from work. Though, never once was she offered a service animal to directly help her with emotional trauma, be it natural or man-made.
Flashes of James reappeared in her mind with the baby-blue room they painted together again. She lowered her head again, wanting – wishing – for all of that to disappear like a popping bubble. But that wasn’t possible and she understood that fact. If she grieved, she didn’t want to do it alone in an empty house.
“I wish I could tell you what these service animals looked like but all there is, is information,” Olson said, “no pictures, no descriptions of their appearance. Just an offer for a bio-engineered service animal with the promises I just read out to you. I’m not sure if this is something you should sign up for.”
Amanda nodded, letting the mystery of the entire offer slide. “I think I’ll sign up for it.”
Olson’s brows bent up slightly. “Are you sure? I mean, there’s no additional charges but-”
“It doesn’t matter, just let me sign the pages, please.”
“Okay, but before I do, there’s another piece of information I need you to know, it’s in thick bold text,” she began, “These service animals are not intended to be closely bonded as if they were a pet. Doing so will result in the service animal developing a dependency on the handler, causing more conflict during animal transaction or return.”
Like a service dog being given to someone for training, nothing new. She thought.
The legal jargon to her sounded more like not wanting to deal with productivity issues on the company’s end rather than figuring out a replacement. Either way, she had no intention of returning a service animal. If anything, a service animal would be a breeze in comparison to keeping a horse from jumping the fence…then again, this one is manmade, not natural.
Bonding was a natural and inevitable part of being with and working around animals in general though. So…what in the hell kind of bio-engineered service animal could this be?
“Okay…” she mumbled, gathering strength in her voice. “I don’t care, just let me sign what I need.”
“Yes ma’am,” Olson said, handing her the tablet and stylus.
There were more pages she had to sign here than there were for the non-disclosure agreements she had to sign when she began her career with Harper Biological. By the time she reached the end, she wished that copying her signature and printing it on each page was a possibility like it was before she was hired. To her that meant two things: They really wanted her to read the information – which she didn’t save for a quick skim of the first two pages – and they wanted to make sure she meant every signature, which she did.
On the final page below the last signature she needed to fill, there was an open rectangular box with the text “Designated Service Animal’s Name” in bold above it, and beside that were two other empty boxes indicating male and female. She paused for a moment at the large box after checking male, thinking of what name it should be given. Her thoughts were frozen once again, like before.
Then she blinked down at the bloody towel she was sitting on, and her brows shifted up as she glanced at the empty box again. She felt something flutter within her heart; a spark of hope that flourished wildly amidst what had destroyed her constitution.
There was a second chance to make things right, a second chance to try again.
A second chance for her son.
After a deep, hopeful and grieving sigh, she wrote in that empty box, “Charlie”.