Here's another excerpt from my near-future SF novel Donation. This one is the beginning of Chapter 3.
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Poloma Clark relished days like this one. Whatever the demands on her, she almost always made time two or three times a month to put aside managerial duties and do the work that felt more important, helping distraught women and their future offspring and society all at the same time. She dropped her briefcase on the reception desk, smiled at the security guard, made sure the Open sign was illuminated, and went back to the desk to extract her tablet. One of her cousins, a software maven, had sent her a new puzzle program for her last birthday; she could work on it between arrivals, and perhaps get past the “expert” level.
Almost immediately, a girl and an older woman — from the resemblance, probably her mother — came through the door and approached the desk, the girl tugging the mother along. Interesting family dynamic there. The girl bounced a little as she walked, full of energy, fit and muscular — probably active in sports, in pursuit of a championship or medal. The mother might have wanted the girl to keep the child, but realized there was no way to force the issue, not with social services and the courts ready to support the girl’s decision. Poloma greeted them, invited them to sit, reassured them, took down the necessary information, and summarized what would happen next.
As she had expected, the girl had no questions except “How long will it take?” and “Can I do whatever I want to afterwards?” The mother looked as if she had questions aplenty, but no hope of liking the answers. She opened her mouth a couple of times, once looking at Poloma and once at the girl, but closed it again, her face sagging further into sadness.
When she was sure no more questions were forthcoming, Poloma summoned a guide. The daughter looked the young man up and down, and followed him with that same spring in her step, already looking forward to the freedom she was about to regain. The mother trudged after.
There was a lull after the two of them vanished inside. Poloma opened her puzzle, racing her previous record. She was almost annoyed for a moment when the door slid open again, but she shook off the inappropriate feeling, paused the program, and turned toward the newcomer with a smile. Young, a few years out of the nest; medium to tall; short pink hair that used to be blonde, a light pink Poloma could not have attempted without bleaching her hair first; lean, if not so thin as Poloma. Boots so bulky they must be some kind of ironic statement. Loosely fitting clothes in various colors of faded denim — not Poloma’s style, but an aesthetically agreeable effect. And smart. Smart showed, in the eyes and even the posture. Overall, potentially simpatico. It would feel especially good to help someone like this, help her preserve and pursue what was probably an interesting life.
Poloma was already welcoming the woman while she sized her up. She was prepared for the woman’s first words to be a little different, original. She listened with a sense of pleasant anticipation.
“I’m not — I don’t need a tour.”
Was she a repeat client? Poloma would not let herself frown. There might have been some good reason for the woman not to accept an implant. Though two unplanned pregnancies, even without an implant, suggested carelessness. It would be a shame if this woman was careless.
“I was here nine days ago.”
She couldn’t possibly be pregnant again that soon. Not carelessness, then, good.
“I was wondering whether I could see it. The — baby.”
One of those. Not what Poloma had taken this shift for. But it would be a useful exercise, and would help her train receptionists in dealing with these awkward situations. And at least the woman cared. That smug teenager would never reappear with such a request. “I’m sorry. We’ve found that any further contact isn’t helpful in the donor’s adjustment process.”
The woman stood up straighter and lifted her head a little. She probably didn’t like the bland social-worker language. Understandable. If they ever got to know each other, maybe she could give Poloma some ideas on a less cookie-cutter response. But their getting to know each other was looking less likely.
Some reassurance was indicated. “I assure you the embryo —” A guess, but if the pregnancy had been far enough along for “fetus” to be accurate, the woman would probably show more signs of the pregnancy. “— is doing just fine, developing every bit as well as before the procedure.” With some reluctance — Poloma thought this policy ill-advised — she added, “And if you look at the literature we sent you, you’ll see that when the baby is delivered, you’ll receive a thank-you note from all of us here.” At least the actual date wouldn’t be included for donors to obsess over.
Would the woman give up and go home? No, she wouldn’t. If anything, she would probe further. Yes, there she went: “Do adoptive parents get to visit, before the baby is, is . . .”
“Once applicants for adoption go through an extensive process and are approved, they’re allowed to visit before the delivery, most often once a week. The incubators are mobile and can be taken to visiting rooms, so the parents can talk to the fetus more freely. A microphone system lets their voices pass through to the fetus much as a biological mother’s and even other family members’ voices would if the fetus were still in utero.”
Poloma’s fondness for detail had led her into a misstep. The woman winced at the words “biological mother,” or the reference to hearing a mother’s voice, or both. Poloma softened her tone. “I’m sorry. What I was going to say is that only approved adoptive parents have visiting privileges. It’s better not to raise anyone’s hopes prematurely. Or to confuse the fetus with extraneous voices.”
The woman flinched again at “extraneous.” Poloma’s sure touch with clients had somehow gone missing this morning. What else could go wrong?
“What if I, if I wanted to adopt my own baby?”
To think she had felt an initial interest in, even kinship with, this troublesome client! Poloma’s disappointment had a sharp edge almost like betrayal. “Such an application would not be considered.”
Not that she actually knew as much.
One more excerpt (at least) still to come!
. . . and I'll post a cover image One More Time. 😊
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