Robert Sawyer - Quantum Night

But I thought Kayla looked absolutely stunning: smooth skin; flat tummy; small, high breasts; and a landing strip that was presumably her hair’s natural dark brown. She also had a gorgeous tattoo of a turquoise butterfly, its body running parallel to but just above her panty line. I traced the leading edge of its upper wing with my fingertip and was surprised to find that it covered a raised ridge.

She must have anticipated my question. “That’s why I got the tat,” she said. “Looks so much nicer than an appendectomy scar.” And indeed it did; it was lovely, just like its bearer.

Kayla had condoms in her night table, and we rolled around, most pleasantly, for half an hour—until she had to return to work.

Kayla returned four hours later, accompanied by her six-year-old daughter. Ryan bounded into the living room, where I was sitting reading, to say hello. She had long light-brown hair and brown eyes, and, when she smiled, a dimple in her left cheek; she was wearing a T-shirt showing a singer named Lorde (helpfully labeled beneath her photo—otherwise, I’d have had no idea).

“Ryan,” Kayla said, catching up with her, “this is Jim.”

“‘Jim,’” she said, trying it out. “I think I’ll call you ‘Jiminy,’ like Jiminy Cricket.”

“Then I’m going to call you ‘Ginger Ale,’” I said.

“Why?”

“’Cause adults sometimes drink rye and ginger ale.”

She frowned, puzzling it through, then, “Oh!” Her smile was radiant. “Okay, Jiminy!”

Our secret names established, Ryan said, “Do you like Taylor Swift?”

“Are you kidding? She’s one of my top-ten favorite Taylors!”

“She’s got a new video!” exclaimed Ryan. “Let me show you…”

I smiled at Kayla, who smiled warmly back at me, and Ryan took my hand and led me over to the couch, where a MacBook was sitting. She opened it up, went to YouTube, and as she played me a string of her favorite videos, I ooohed and aaahed appropriately.

Having not yet had a chance to shop since returning from Winnipeg, Kayla didn’t have much food in the house. I volunteered to pay for pizza to be delivered, Kayla recommended a place called TJ’s, and we got two pies—a large #14 (pepperoni and mushrooms) for the girls, and a small #19 (“veggie supreme”) with no cheese for me.

After dinner, I watched while Ryan showed off her skills at Minecraft and Platypus Pirates. When it was time for her to go to bed, she gave me a big hug. Kayla took her upstairs, and I read news on my phone. Appallingly, three Latina women—maybe illegally in the US, maybe not—had been found shot to death just outside Dallas. Meanwhile, the NDP caucus, which had almost immediately declared Naheed Nenshi party leader, was getting good press: The Toronto Star had an editorial with the headline “We Need Naheed,” which was fun enough to say that I suspected it would become a meme.

When Kayla returned, she sat next to me on the couch and put a hand on my thigh. “Ryan really likes you. Normally, she can’t wait to get away from my friends.”

“She’s sweet,” I said. “I enjoyed every minute.”

“You’re really good with kids. Seriously. Ever thought about having one of your own?”

I looked away. “Yeah,” I said. “From time to time.”

“Anna-Lee, Jim, thanks so much for coming in,” Dr. Villager had said—three years ago now, I guess it was.

“Sure,” I replied, taking the left-hand seat facing her desk, and, “Of course,” said Anna-Lee, settling into the right-hand one.

“I have some news,” Villager said. Anna-Lee must have heard something in the doctor’s voice; she reached over and took my hand, squeezing it. “As you know, I always recommend amniocentesis for women over thirty-five, purely as a precaution. And, well, there’s good reason for that. The risk of certain anomalies goes up dramatically after that point.”

“My God…” Anna-Lee’s voice was almost inaudible.

Dr. Villager nodded. “The fetus has Down syndrome.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, knowing, of course, that she must be.

“Yes, absolutely. He—it’s a boy—has three chromosome twenty-ones. The provincial health plan will pay for an abortion if you wish.”

“My God,” said Anna-Lee, again. “My God.”

“You don’t have to decide today,” Dr. Villager said. “But you should decide soon.”

Anna-Lee and I were lying in bed, side by side, each of us on our backs, each staring up in the dark at the featureless ceiling. “Sweetheart,” I said, “we talked about all this before you took the test.”

I was hoping for a verbal acknowledgment, or, at least, the rustling of the pillow to indicate that she was nodding in agreement. But there was nothing.

“I mean,” I continued, “since we’re only planning on having one child, we need to consider whether this child is the best use of our resources, right? There’ll be enormous extra expenses, and, no matter what we do, the child will almost certainly have a life not only of lesser quality but also lesser quantity; people with Down rarely live past their twenties.”

She was immobile, a toppled statue.

“And, well, you know the utilitarian position: one can’t give special consideration to one’s own needs; you can’t put them above those of others. But you can factor them in as you would anyone else’s. This isn’t the life we wanted. Yes, sure, parenting is always a full-time job, anyway, but this will leave no room for anything else. And the economic impact…”

I trailed off, wishing she’d give some sign—any sign—that I was getting through to her.

“That’s our son you’re talking about,” she said at last.

I blew out air. “An embryo has no—”

“Please,” said Anna-Lee firmly.

But I pressed on. “An embryo has no more moral standing than what we’d give to an animal with a similar level of self-consciousness, rationality, ability to feel, and so on. The utilitarian position—”

“Fuck utilitarianism,” she said, and rolled onto her side facing away from me.

I rolled onto my side, too, wanting to spoon her, but I knew enough not to reach out and touch her just then. With my ear pressed against the pillow, I could faintly hear my heartbeat.

Or—

No, no. Of course it was my own heartbeat. Who else’s could it have been?

I was there in the delivery room when Virgil came out into the world. He was quiet; even after Dr. Villager slapped him gently on the bottom, he made no sound. I’d hoped, against all logic, to see a normal child, but even with his features squished and wet, it was obvious the prenatal diagnosis had been correct. Virgil’s face was flat, and his tongue protruded slightly. Dr. Villager handed him to Anna-Lee, who still had tears on her face from the pain of delivery, but her expression was joyous as she held the boy—until she looked up at me. Although I was doing my level best, her gaze went cold.

They kept Virgil and Anna-Lee at the hospital for four days after his birth; apparently there was a whole suite of things that could go wrong early on for a Down child—respiratory problems, difficulties suckling, and more. I spent as much time as I could at the hospital; Anna-Lee’s mother was there during those visiting hours when I couldn’t be.

When they were finally ready to discharge Virgil, I came to take him and Anna-Lee home. I went into the familiar hospital room, with its pale-yellow walls; my faculty health plan covered the extra cost of the private room. I was surprised to find my mother-in-law there, too, standing silently next to the bed.