105 ten The next eve ning we did it all again. This time we col lected the sam ple (col lected? the sam ple? as if all we hoped for was a sci ence fair rib bon!) at home, in our very own bed. Then we swathed the cup in a microwave-warmed towel and hur ried it across the Cape to Debora’s. Again we sat down stairs (no Libby, now, loom ing); again De bora called us to her side: a rou tine of sorts, but one, like a jet lift ing off, that still felt sol emn and un canny. Then we waited. Two weeks till we’d know: a find-religion fort night, pray ing for the preg nancy test to pinken. We tried to trun dle on with life as nor mal: I was plug ging away at the reading-comprehension quiz to go with my new text book unit; Stu was shut tling in and out of Logan. I shopped for socks, a shower-curtain liner, a faster toaster. Took two months’ bot tles to the dump. But I couldn’t quit ob sess ing, my mind like a muddy grey hound track: thoughts in chase of the out-of-our-reach rab bit of what would hap pen. All I could do was to keep call ing De bora, to ask how she felt— queasy, per haps? (If only my own nau sea were a sign that she was preg nant.) “I’m per fect,” she said. “Every thing will be per fect now, be lieve me.” 106 “But how does this com pare to when you—” “Pat,” she said. “Come on. The Bra zil ians, we have a say ing, okay? ‘Between the be gin ning and the end is al ways a mid dle.’ You under stand? So please, now. Please try to relax.” Yeah, I wished. I kept try ing to pic ture what was going on in side her. If life was being formed—from infin i tes i mal to infi nite— shouldn’t we be able to hear the bang? What do you think it’s doing now?” I asked Stu over break fast, talk ing to the back side of his Times. “As sum ing that she . . . ,” he said. “That every thing went—” “Well, don’t you?” “Of course I want to. Hmm,” he said. He folded shut the paper. Took a bite of his bagel, ru mi nated. “Week one? Swim ming down the fal lo pian tube, I’d guess.” “But what’s it doing? I mean, is it being . . . human yet? Does it have a, like—I wish there were a word besides soul! ” “I think it’s sort of early to get quite so meta phys i cal. Re mem ber, hon, right now, it’d only be as big as—” “I know,” I said. “A pe riod.” I tapped the Times. “I know.” Pe riod was the fall back word the op-ed writ ers used in their jus tifi ca tions of stem-cell re search. When chur chy types, against de stroy ing em bryos, preached of “human life,” the col um nists all scoffingly re sponded: Human life? At that stage? It’s barely the size of the pe riod after this sen tence. I’d tossed off that ar gu ment my self, on oc ca sion, and I was still in favor of the re search. (Sac rifice some em bryos to save whole groups of peo ple? A trade I was more than glad to make.) But not with glee or glib ness now. Not lightly any more. Now I felt what an em bryo could con tain, how huge it was. Which scared me. And also hon estly thrilled me. If Stu felt the same, he wasn’t let ting on. “A pe riod,” he said. “A pe riod. Can’t those guys come up with some thing smarter?” [18.209.230.60] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 08:55 GMT) 107 “What should they say? Isn’t that just the size?” “Fine, but do they all have to use the same com par i son? Why not some thing . . . I don’t know . . .” He fid dled with his bagel. “Like poppy seed! It’s per fect, right? ‘Seed.’ The dou ble en ten dre?” When I didn’t re spond, Stu flicked one such seed at me. “Well?” he...