Also by this Author

Novels

Gutted- you are currently reading this novel ☺

The Leron Series

Empyrean (The Leron Series Book One)

Empyrean’s Fall (The Leron Series Book Two)

Empyrean’s Future (The Leron Series Book three)

Short Stories

Fairy Tale Redux: A short Story

The Mortal Years – Published in TV Gods Anthology released by Fortress Publishing, Inc.

Chapter 1

A stiff breeze rippled the surface of the steel blue ocean causing tiny waves that chased each other across the water and headed straight for me. Goosebumps trailed up my exposed forearms when the chilly air contacted my bare flesh. I inhaled the scent of cold salt, fish, and lilacs. While the intoxicating smell of home filled my nostrils, my fingers deftly fileted a five pound salmon. After separating the firm, pink flesh from the scaly skin and slippery entrails, I tossed the filets into a tub of circulating sea water. I pushed the head, skin, and bones down a tube on the top left side of my work station. The guts went down a tube on the top right side. Nothing on Cliff Island Sea Farm was wasted.

A lock of chestnut hair worked its way loose from the elastic tie that attempted to bind it in place. The long copper-streaked strand curled around to tickle my pale, freckled face. I tried to brush the wayward tendril back with a shrug of my shoulder, but it refused to stay put. Having no desire to touch my face or hair with slime covered fingers, I tried to ignore the tickle across my chin. This, of course, made me think about it constantly until I was sure it would drive me insane.

I tried to shift my focus to the ache in my lower back and the dull throb of my swollen feet. This would be my last day on the docks for at least a month. Tomorrow I would be leaving Cliff Island and heading for a new island, a human-made island. I was booked for a one week stay in the state-of-the-art medical facility which had been built on a floating ecopolis. I tried to think of it as a vacation. I tried not to think about the fact that I’d have to deliver a baby during my stay there.

Before the next fish swam into the holding tank, I dipped my hands in my personal salt-water sink. After pulling them out, I flexed my cold, chapped fingers in an effort to regain some feeling in my most important tools.

What will it be like to be a mom? I wondered. Will I really be able to do this on my own?

My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of yet another salmon, brought up from the net pools just below the dock on which I stood. After scooping the fish out with my gill hook, I slid the air gun from my belt, pressed it to the salmon’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The bullet of concentrated air impacted the fish’s fragile skull at exactly the necessary velocity for a quick and painless death. I clamped the mouth in place on my filet board and returned the hook and gun to my belt before unsheathing my knife.

Cleaning the salmon took little conscious effort. Two years of ten hour days on the docks had firmly implanted the necessary muscle memory to complete the task without thought, though my job had grown increasingly more difficult when my fingers started to swell along with my belly. I couldn’t get quite as close to the fish anymore either. My shoulders throbbed with the effort of holding my arms extended in an unnatural position.

After depositing the pieces in their respective places, I pulled my arms back and pressed my shoulder blades together to ease some of the tension burning its way down my spine.

The last fish of the day bled out on my cutting board while the sun sank slowly into the red-tinged sea. When the bell rang to announce the end of the work day, I sighed with relief. I submerged my hands in the lukewarm water of my rinse sink for a full minute before attempting to wriggle my way out of my oil gear.

Here, let me help you, Lana. I glanced back and smiled my thanks to James Straum. He and his wife, Evelyn, had been close friends of my parents. After my parent’s deaths, James and Evelyn had treated me like their own daughter.

Thanks, James.

Are you excited about tomorrow?

Well, I’m excited about staying at the hospital, watching movies and reading all day, eating eggs and tomatoes…

James chuckled.

"Well, I’m excited to meet that baby."

I nodded and smiled, but my grin disappeared the moment I bent down to pull off my boots.

You’re going to be a great mom. No need to worry, James said, reading my thoughts.

Yeah, it’ll be great. I really tried to sound positive, for James’ sake.

We hung our waterproof overalls on the hooks behind our stations.

Oh, Lana, I’m just going to be on pins and needles waiting to hear from you! Evelyn wrapped me in a quick side-hug before we passed through the big automatic doors that led to the main facility.

The doors closed behind us. I marveled at the sudden stillness, at the complete cessation of wind and noise. I took a moment to pull my hair back into a ponytail and finally scratch my chin.

I’m headed straight to the commons, James stated, his stomach growling on cue. You want to join us?

Not yet, I replied. I need to put my feet up for a few minutes, and maybe take a shower.

All right, but you better not leave without saying goodbye. Evelyn hugged me again and then joined James, linking her arm through his. I watched them follow the crowd to dinner. I envied them. I longed for their confidence in themselves and in each other. I wondered if I would ever have that.

The soft slip-ons I wore under my boots stuck to the smooth tile floor forcing me to exaggerate my knee lifts. I worked to pull the sticky soles from the tile, no doubt making me look even more like a duck waddling down the hall.

When I arrived at the door to my room, I held my right hand in front of the scanner on the wall and waited for it to read the ID chip implanted in the meaty part of my palm. After a few seconds the red light turned green and the rectangular silver door zipped open. The door disappeared into a recess in the wall. I stepped across the threshold and barely waited for the door to close behind me before I began to strip off my stiff, stinking sea-farm issue wardrobe.

Slip-on shoes slipped off. Socks, body suit, and sweaty undergarments all sailed straight into the mini wash-box which had been built into the wall of my room. I pressed the button for soap, and then started the extra-heavy wash cycle.

I retrieved my thick terry-cloth bathrobe from the hook on the wall and slid into the cozy warmth of the material. It barely stretched all the way around my swollen belly. Even after I’d tied the belt as tight as I could, a good draft entered through the gap below my abdomen where the sides of the robe didn’t quite meet.

Finally, I padded over to my desk and sat down with a sigh of relief. The scanner on the desk read my ID and a screen materialized on the table-top before me. I tapped the icon for my e-mail. Unfortunately, it was no surprise to see fifteen spam messages and only one e-mail that I actually wanted to read. After all, my closest friends all worked within fifty feet of me all day long and were now devouring some variation of fish stew in the dining hall.

With the tip of my finger I tapped the one I did want to read, a reminder e-mail for my pick-up at the harbor at eight a.m. tomorrow. I tapped the confirmation button. The subsequent click stirred the butterflies in my stomach.

You’re not due for six more days, I reminded myself. This is just a boat ride to the mainland. No big deal.

Next I scrolled through my favorites and tapped the link to the stats page on the Portland’s Main Medical Center website.

Five more stillbirths reported today. The worldwide stats indicated that one in six live births were diagnosed with strong potential for developmental delay. One in ten diagnosed with early-onset neurological disorder.

I closed out the screen and sat back in my chair, staring up at the wall.

What will I do if my baby becomes one of those statistics?

I felt a solid kick directly in my ribs, no doubt a response to my elevated stress levels. I smiled and looked down, then pressed the spot where I’d felt the kick. I was rewarded with another firm push against my fingertips.

You’re going to be just fine aren’t you, I whispered. I’m sorry for worrying so much. I’m just scared. I have no idea what I’m doing.

I missed feeling my baby roll inside of me, of watching the impressions of hands and feet appear against my abdominal wall. The baby was too big now. He or she didn’t have much room to move anymore.

The drawer to my right held a stethoscope that I’d ordered online. I pulled it out now and adjusted the eartips until they were firmly in place. I then held the diaphragm against my skin below my belly button. The whoosh of blood coursing through my body seemed so loud. It made me wonder why I couldn’t always hear the sound of life rushing through my veins. It took a few seconds of sliding the smooth disc around before I heard the sound I’d been searching for, my baby’s heartbeat.

For several minutes I sat there and listened with my eyes closed, reassured by the steady rhythm of my child’s strong heart.

It must be so loud in there, I thought. I wonder how she sleeps.

I didn’t actually know if I carried a boy or a girl. I’d told the Doctor that I wanted to wait and be surprised. In reality I was afraid that if I knew I would become too attached. For those couples who did manage to conceive in the first place, the rate of miscarriage was astronomical. Combined with the rate of still births, the live birth rate had neared a point of an actual state of global emergency.

Six more days before I would know if my baby would live, and then what?

One in six diagnosed with strong potential for developmental delay. What did that even mean? How would I know if my baby would be all right?

Dr. Myers had recommended that I deliver in the new facility. She’d said my baby demonstrated an accelerated rate of cerebral growth, which could indicate early-onset neurological disorder. The Doctor in the birth center specialized in treating infant developmental disorders.

No longer soothed by the white noise, I removed the stethoscope and turned on some music. I needed something mellow, almost jazzy but less random, and it was definitely time for that shower.

After switching the music to the bathroom speaker, I walked across my tiny apartment and entered my four foot by four foot bathroom. The lights slowly brightened to my preset levels of preferred wattage. My swollen fingers fumbled with the knot in the belt of my bathrobe, but finally managed to release the ties. The robe slid off my arms with a shrug of my shoulders and collected in a lavender pool around my feet.

Two steps carried me into the shower stall. I selected my water temperature and waited ten seconds before I felt the scalding rain fall on my scalp. Finally I began to scrub the salt and sweat away. Funny to think it was actually desalinated ocean water.

I scoured and rinsed and reveled in the heat sliding across my skin. My fears and worries seemed to rise up through the vents along with the steam. I stepped from the shower feeling like a new woman, ready to take on any challenge, maybe even motherhood.

With a deep breath I reached for my towel and rubbed myself dry. After wrapping the towel around my torso and tucking the corner in just over my left breast, I walked back into the main room and pulled out a standard issue white bra, white synthetic briefs, one of my three synthetic maternity body suits, and one pair of matching thermal socks.

Maybe I should invest in some new clothes.

Truly, I’d ceased to pay much attention to my appearance ever since Jack, my baby’s father, had decided he’d experienced all he wanted of island life and disappeared, without a word, the day after I’d told him I was pregnant.

That’s okay, right baby, we don’t need him. We’ve got each other. I tried my best to sound confident, convincing.

Once I’d dressed, I pulled my auburn hair into a knot at the base of my neck and secured it with a clean elastic band. I slid into a clean pair of shoes and waved my hand in front of the scanner to open the door.

A few people walked the halls, heading back to their rooms after dinner. The logos on their collars identified them as workers from the seaweed processing docks. We waved in passing.

The doors to the commons slid open. Noise and the concentrated scent of hundreds of unwashed bodies overwhelmed me. I walked toward the chow line, happy to have a good excuse to turn down a shot of the home brew that passed for liquor on the station. I’m pretty sure it was derived from fish broth but contained such a high concentration of alcohol that after a few sips no one cared.

Tonight’s menu included salmon cakes. I took my plate of round pinkish patties and sautéed seaweed, carried it to table number eleven, and squeezed into the space beside Evelyn. Staring down at my plate, all I could imagine was the raw flesh and slippery guts I’d spent the last ten hours handling. I swallowed down my gag reflex and took a small bite.

Hey, Lana, tomorrow’s the big day! What are you going to do with all your time off? Trevor, another dock worker, asked from across the table.

Um, let’s see, deliver and take care of a baby? I replied with a hint of sarcasm, but softened the words with a wink.

Trevor smiled.

I might try it if it meant I didn’t have to stand on those docks for ten hours a day, Trevor joked.

Now, that’s something I’d like to see, James retorted.

Did you pick out a name yet? Mark asked. Mark was two years older than me and generally very quiet. So quiet that when he moved here a year ago we weren’t sure he could speak. He’d quickly proven himself to be the fastest fileter on the docks, so no one much