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“Carefully, carefully…” Zeke mumbled to himself.
Holding the test tube over the beaker, Dr. Howell was steadily letting small droplets drip into the transparent substance that puddled at the bottom of the container. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a summer storm blowing in. Rain began to splatter against the window pane, but Zeke remained obsessively focused. He heard his front door unlock, bang open, and slam shut.
“Made it! Barely made it! Just starting to drizzle.” Frieda called from the door.
Zeke noted that she sounded quite winded, and assumed she’d been trying to outrun the storm.
“So, last night I was-” Frieda started, but Dr. Howell threw his hand up to stop her talking.
He didn’t turn away from his task, which was frustrating for Frieda, who was admittedly used to this treatment.
“Dr. Howell, I really must-”
His splayed hand turned into a firm index finger, continuing to drip the liquid. Frieda sighed, irritated as ever. She laid her bag on the table in the center of the lab. Leaning back against the tabletop, Frieda’s eyes roved around the laboratory. It was tidier than she’d ever seen it, and a majority of its lingering smell had been aired out. Even the table standing behind her had been cleared off and scrubbed clean. Thinking about what it’d soon be used for, her throat clenched, and suddenly remembered why she was dreading coming up here.
Ezekiel replaced the test tube, corked it, and reached for a nearby glass rod. Gently stirring the substance, he hurriedly wrote down observations in his leather notebook. Letting the mixture settle, he closed his notes, adjusted his shirt, and turned to greet Frieda.
“Good morning.” He said, thunder booming outside.
“If you’d call it that.” She said, eyeing the storm.
“I think cloudy weather is lovely.” Zeke said.
“The poorer lighting may be a bit of an issue, though.” Frieda mentioned.
“No matter. I can get more candles in here.” He said, beginning to straighten his work table.
“Have you eaten breakfast today?”
“Can’t. Anesthesia plus food equals choking on one’s own vomit, and as a result, death. Never good.” He said, smiling uncomfortably.
“Fair enough. What have you been working on?” Frieda inquired, gesturing to the beaker on the table.
“This? It’s a prototype, if you will, of the formula I’ll be using on myself during the experiment. I haven’t quite perfected it yet. It’s very tricky.” Dr. Howell explained.
“What are the ingredients?”
“Mostly vitamins, to promote healthy growth in the fetus, but they’re an easy fix. What isn’t easy is mastering a balance of the synthesized chemicals that makes up a good half of the formula.”
“Chemicals?” Frieda asked, raising her eyebrow.
“Males and females alike produce these sort of chemicals, and though vaguely similar, they aren’t similar enough for the sexes to be completely equal in function and mindset. I believe female chemicals are needed to maintain a normal gestation. I was able to extract some of these chemicals from Emily’s glands and replicate them, but they’re not perfect, and the balance is immensely off.” Ezekiel explicated, passing the beaker from hand to hand.
“Is it safe?” She asked.
“Let’s be honest, nothing in this experiment is inherently safe.” He smirked, staring down at the liquid.
“How will it be administered?” Frieda wondered.
“Orally. There isn’t really another way besides with a syringe, and I don’t want to risk infection every time I take it, which will be at least once a day, maybe more if I find it necessary. It is outstandingly bitter, though.”
“May I?” Frieda asked, reaching for the beaker.
“Just dip your finger in. Take my word for it.”
Frieda did as she was told, a small drop from her index finger to her tongue. As Zeke said, it was amazingly distasteful, and Frieda found herself gagging involuntarily.
“Here, drink this. It’s water, I promise.” He said, handing her a small metal cup.
Frieda gulped it down eagerly as she watched Zeke placing the beaker in the icebox. He shed his apron and laid it over the back of the desk chair.
“I need to get changed.” He said, leaving the room.
“Wait, I have another question.”
“Alright.” He said, leaning in the doorway.
“Yesterday, you told me that this experiment would last forty-four weeks.”
“Right. Problem?”
“I’m merely confused. The normal gestation time is forty weeks maximum. What’s the extra month for?” Frieda raised an eyebrow.
“Recuperation. I’m about to undergo a severe abdominal procedure. I’ll need time set aside to recover. I’ll be on bed rest for the first week, but I’ll need a full month, possibly more, before I’m ready to try implantation. I’ll be spending that time period attempting to perfect the formula. Any more questions?” He said.
Frieda shook her head, and tried to think of ways to further procrastinate the inevitable.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Zeke mumbled, walking from the room.
Frieda turned to her medical bag. She snapped it open and withdrew a large white sheet, a bottle of chloroform, a similar bottle of betadine, a container of large cotton balls, a roll of gauze, and a polished wooden case. Inside were cushioned two dozen or so various surgical instruments. Frieda checked to make sure they were all there, including her scalpels, clamps, scissors, and needle and thread. She took out her own apron and tied it tightly over her dress, and watched the rain come down harder.
“Here are some candles.” Dr. Howell said, reentering the room wearing only a robe.
“Much obliged. This will make things much better.” Frieda said, beginning to position them around the room and lighting them.
“That’s a very nice surgical kit.”
“It was a graduation present from one of my favorite professors.” Frieda said, smiling.
“They must’ve liked you.”
“First of my class of medicine majors.” She nodded.
Frieda rolled up her sleeves and pinned them just above her elbows. While Zeke was getting settled on the table, she thoroughly washed her hands and pulled on a pair of sturdy rubber gloves. She removed the preserved synthetic womb from the icebox. She turned back to find Howell lying on the table, covered modestly by the white sheet.
“You don’t seem particularly comfortable.” Frieda noticed, placing the jar among her equipment.
“A pillow might be nice.” He said.
“Got it.” Frieda said, hanging his discarded robe on the nearby chair.
‘I really have become his maid.’ She thought to herself, grabbing a pillow from the nearby guest suite.
Zeke Howell stared up at the ceiling, listening to the storm, and finding that there was a small leak coming through the roof.
‘That needs fixing.’ He thought to himself, one thought in a massive blur of many.
In fact, Ezekiel had decided to take the next few minutes to contemplate possibly everything there was to contemplate, attempting to squeeze it all into a short time span. Facing the possibility of death suddenly bothered him immensely, and so did the fact that he was an atheist. Though he’d always scoffed at people who, in his opinion, wasted their time attending church every Sunday praying to someone or something that didn’t exist. Still, he admitted, it was nice to have a reassuring concept of what happens after death. It was hard not to have something you could find legitimate research on, or do legitimate research on. And Zeke had never been someone to believe in something blindly. Despite the abrupt inner panic, his countenance remained unchanged.
“Here we are.” Frieda said, walking back into the room.
Zeke felt his head being lifted and placed on a much softer surface.
“You alright?” She asked, fetching his notebook from the desk.
“As alright as I can be.” He said, trying to steady the shake in his voice.
“I’m nervous, too, if that makes you feel better. Spent all night researching and familiarizing myself with the apparatus.” She said, standing to the left of the table.
“Again, I’m terribly sorry about the short period you had to study, but this is a time sensitive experiment.”
Frieda gently pulled back the sheet, exposing Ezekiel’s torso. She stopped short, feeling a sudden inner panic beginning to take hold. She grasped the side of the table, breathing slowly. This wasn’t a cadaver like at the university, and this wasn’t a drawing in a medical journal. The terror of being on the cusp of operating on a living person, alone, at that, was almost too much.
“Frieda?” Dr. Howell’s voice interrupted her thought.
“Yes?” She said, still completely stiff.
“Would you care to start?”
Frieda looked from her tools, to Zeke, to the storm outside several times, without saying a single word. After another minute of this, Zeke reached down and touched her arm. Frieda stared at him, heart pounding.
“I realize you must be very anxious about all this, but I hired you for a reason. You’ve got a lot of qualifications. I’ve worked with you for over a year, and I know you’re smart and resourceful and you’re good at what you do, Frieda. And team of one or not, you can do this.”
Somehow this pep talk worked, and Frieda calmed significantly. She stood up straight and began organizing her work space. She picked up one of the bottles and began soaking one of the large cotton balls in an orange/brown liquid.
“I’ll be applying betadine to keep the area as sanitized as possible. This will hopefully prevent infection. There are no certainties in a surgery of this magnitude, but it’s a start.” She explained, adding observations to the journal while she swabbed Zeke’s abdomen with the substance.
“Indeed.” Zeke mumbled to himself.
Frieda took a small cloth from her bag, and tied it around her nose and mouth. She made sure her bun was tight enough, then reached for another cloth. Taking a small wire net, she positioned the cloth inside of the wire. Then she produced a small, dark bottle of chloroform.
“Chloroform will be used to suppress the nervous system of the patient. The risks are present, but being conscious during such a procedure is not an option.” Frieda voiced while taking more notes.
“Right.” Zeke swallowed, clenching and unclenching a bit of the sheet in his fist.
Frieda prepared to lay the wire apparatus on his face, but he stopped her hand in midair.
“When I regain consciousness, after it’s all over, I want you to take notes on my condition. I might be a little dizzy, but make me tell you how I’m feeling and write it down for posterity reasons.” He instructed.
Frieda nodded, then placed the cloth over his face. She began to slowly drip a small amount of the clear liquid on the material.
“Take deep, slow breaths. Understood?” She guided him.
Ezekiel did as he was instructed, and began feeling what could only be described as “fuzzy.” A sweet flavor filled his lungs, and he became quickly entranced by its taste.
“I feel numb…” He slurred behind the fabric.
“It’s working.” Frieda nodded, letting him hold her free hand.
In that moment, in the last few minutes of consciousness while he was breathing in the chloroform, he decided to think of the one thing that brought his heart peace.
‘Emily.’ The name dashed through his brain, and he smiled. There was a strange ringing in his ears. Then Frieda disappeared from his view, and everything went black.
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Ezekiel suddenly found himself standing on a beach, completely confused to how he got where he was. Icy water washed over his bare feet and the wind made it even colder. Clouds whooshed by overhead, and cracks of lightning and thunder sounded overhead. He frantically looked around for some kind of shelter, but instead spotted a young woman standing in the distance. Wavy brown hair blew about her head, and a huge grin was plastered on her face. Her dress was thin and billowing around her legs. A rose vine tattoo snaked up her right leg.
“Emily…” Zeke breathed, feeling like he could cry.
Without thinking, he took off running down the beach, thinking of nothing else but getting to his beloved Emily. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, and his legs were burning from the effort, but he kept going. Sadly, it seemed the closer he got, the further away his bride became. The sand also became thicker, sticking to his legs with the consistency of mud. He could feel himself slowing down, and was becoming very distressed.
“Why do you torment me so?!” He cried out to someone that wasn’t there.
Zeke watched as Emily’s happy expression changed to one of confusion and sadness. He tried to run harder, but suddenly felt a strange burning wash over his entire person. He cried out in pain and confusion, as he felt both freezing cold and scorching flames pulsing through his body. Zeke couldn’t run anymore, and collapsed in the sand, writhing in white-hot agony. He heard someone calling his name, a woman, but it wasn’t Emily. He was confused and terrified, continuing to struggle as he suddenly felt pinned down, by what seemed to be a strong grip from a pair of hands.
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“Shh. Stop moving.” The calm voice said.
Zeke squirmed fervently against the touch. Wet sand became thick bed sheets, a white candle flame pierced through the smoky skies, but the burning was still immensely present. He blinked furiously, a blurry room coming into view. His heart pounded, he was covered in sweat, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. Zeke’s head swam, as he began to realize he wasn’t alone. Frieda sat beside him on the bed, gently dabbing his face with a cold washcloth.
“You’ve got a fever. You need to keep still.” She said, holding his arm in what felt like a death-grip.
His head twisted this way and that, his eyes desperately trying to focus. After another minute like this, his vision finally cleared, and his body’s struggling was reduced to small tremors. Zeke tried to make words, but his brain felt like oatmeal, and he kept trying to make sense of where he was. The pain was still immense, radiating from his midriff to the very tips of his fingers and toes. He had a pounding headache, which made concentrating even harder. What was this hell?
‘I’m in my bed. This is my boudoir.’ His brain told him, and he relaxed even further.
“Drink this. You need to stay hydrated.” Frieda instructed, holding a metal cup to his lips.
Ezekiel took a few small sips, cool water bringing relief to the drought in his throat. Then he began to cough harshly, the effort making the ache in his abdomen pulse. He felt close to vomiting, but managed to take in more water, and narrowly avoided it.
“Do you know where you are?” Frieda asked.
Though still a little groggy, and on the verge of passing out again, Zeke nodded that he did.
“How are you feeling?” She continued.
This would require words. Zeke cleared his throat, invoking the pain again, and spoke in a raspy voice.
“I ache…and I feel…strangely bloated. There’s both numbness…and immense pain…combined.” He managed, feeling tired just talking.
“Alright. Anything else?”
“Burning sensation…and a migraine.” He finished, sinking into the mound of pillows behind him.
“Headache is from the chloroform. I guarantee it.” Frieda said, taking detailed notes in the leather journal.
“Probably. Frieda…what happened?” Zeke breathed. The sweet taste of the chloroform was still on his breath.
“The procedure went well, and the womb seems to be positioned properly, and getting an adequate blood supply. However, though I did my best, the stitches may seem a bit rough, and you might have a slight infection, thus the high fever.” Frieda explained.
“How long have I been out?” Zeke asked, whispering now.
“The surgery lasted about four hours, but you’ve been out a total of nine. I gave you a bit more chloroform after the procedure to keep you asleep and dull the pain. I know it looks dark outside, but it’s just the storm. It’s only seven o’clock. Here, drink some more.”
Zeke slowly swallowed the water in the cup until it was empty, feeling soothed by the thunder outside.
“Not too fast. I don’t want you throwing-up again.” Frieda said.
“Again?” Zeke croaked.
“You already vomited once. It wasn’t pleasant.” Frieda cringed.
“Sorry…” He said, feeling his face warming.
“You couldn’t control it, I’m not upset.”
He watched hazily as Frieda withdrew a small case that contained a hypodermic needle and a small vial of clear liquid.
“I take it you wish to keep sleeping. I can give you something to ease the pain.” She said, filling the syringe with the substance.
“Morphine? Where did you get that?” Zeke asked.
“I borrowed it from Carla’s supplies. It should keep the pain at bay so you can rest. Give me your arm.” She said.
Zeke outstretched his left arm, and watched as Frieda rubbed more betadine on his skin.
“I’ll be staying the night, in the room across the hall. If you need me, ring this bell. Don’t even think about leaving this bed.” She said, sliding the needle under the skin of his forearm.
“Understood.” He mumbled, eying the small gold bell on the bedside table.
He watched the liquid flow into his vein, and the pain instantaneously dulled. All that was left was pure exhaustion, and with his muscles finally unclenching, sleep took him immediately. Frieda gauzed the small wound left by the needle, and covered Zeke with the bed sheets. She set the cold washcloth atop his forehead, and carried the candle out of the room.
“May sleep bring you healing.” She whispered, then closed the door.