| Subject: Prologue (cont'd) |
Author:
Kate
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Date Posted: 20:00:48 03/29/01 Thu
In reply to:
by Kate
's message, "Things My Mother Taught Me" on 19:49:51 03/29/01 Thu
There's always something better, and there's always something worse.
Pain.
It started gently, gradually, snickering lightly down her spine, tingling through her nerves, numbing her fingers. Then down further: past her tailbone, lingering in her hip joints, lacing down her long legs, pooling in her knee sockets, then finally, her ankles. Her toes went numb, her arches ached.
Nikita groaned faintly in her sleep.
It grew stronger. A little angrier. Now, instead of meandering through her body, the pain snapped out: once, twice, jerking her out of her semi-conscious state.
"Oh ..." Nikita sighed, opened her eyes, and lay perfectly still.
It was like an electric storm: the pain was lightning-fast at first, twisting her nerves into miserable knots. Then, when it ebbed, it was like thunder, aching, numbing, stretching.
She didn't move, but in the dark, she could see the cat sitting on the end of her bed, its eyes glittering faintly at her, keeping watch. She tried to greet it, to call it by name, but another burst of pain made her shut her eyes and grit her teeth.
These attacks always scared Nikita. The first time had been the worst, but really, they never got easier. At least the first time she didn't know what to expect. Now, she knew before it got better, it would get worse.
Breathe, she told herself. Breathe. In and out. In and out. In and --
Another spasm of pain zagged through her, and Nikita's breath stuttered in her chest.
It's okay, she told herself. It's okay. It's perfectly normal. Perfectly norm --
Her spine seemed to explode, pain radiating down to her toes, and Nikita arched over the bed. When she hit the mattress, the pain immediately intensified as her joints shifted and moved.
The game, she thought frantically, it's time to play the game Mama and I always used to play. Better or Worse? Better or --
Nikita whimpered as fire lanced through her.
It's better than being in Med Lab, she thought. But worse than being shot.
Another staccato burst of pain, and this time she felt something wet on her face. Nikita gritted her teeth and tears seeped from under her eyelids.
It's better than being tortured. But not much, she admitted to herself, then jerked as another wave hit her.
Okay, okay, she thought, the game. Play the game. Better than being electrocuted. Worse than surgery. Better than ... better than being bitten by rats. Worse than being beaten.
The attacks were further apart now. She counted the seconds like children counted the seconds between thunder and lightening to gauge the distance of a storm. Then, she stopped counting as the pain settled where it would: her knees, her hips, all along her back, her shoulders, her hands. She couldn't flex them and she could feel them slowly swelling.
Exhausted from the ordeal and still miserably aching, Nikita relaxed into the mattress. "It's okay," she murmured, but the cat, like so many of his species, seemed skeptical. It leapt from the bed railing to the floor, then up to a small easy chair that Michael liked to sit in.
The room began to lighten as dawn crept closer, and Nikita wearily closed her eyes. These episodes were getting worse, not better, and they were lasting longer. Still ... she sighed and continued the game, waiting for the pain to subside enough for her to go back to sleep and wishing she'd had the foresight to put her pain medication close by. It would hurt too much to get up to fetch it, and Michael wasn't here ...
Another ribbon of pain weakly pulsed through her. It's worse than being kicked in the kidneys. Better than miscarrying.
The room got lighter, and gradually Nikita slipped into a half-doze. These blinding, debilitating flashes of pain were just another reminder of Section and what they'd taken from her, just like the miscarriages had been a dozen years ago.
The first time she'd miscarried, Milla had been ... what? Eight? Nearly nine? When Nikita told Michael she was pregnant, he'd looked completely flabbergasted, as if the possibility hadn't occurred to him.
"Well? What do you think?" Nikita asked, almost dreading the answer. She'd been standing on her knees on the bed, facing him as he undressed. He'd been right in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt and his hands froze, then, slowly, resumed their task.
"Michael?"
He shed his clothing and came to stand in front of her, then, unexpectedly, he lifted her nightgown off and bent down and kissed her stomach. "It's a wonderful idea. You're wonderful," he mumbled, and her arms went around him.
"Really? You don't ... mind having other children?"
"It will be nice to see them grow up," Michael decided, kissing her again. He moved up, kissing her breastbone, then her neck, then her mouth. They made love tenderly, and two weeks later, in a rush of cramping and pain and watery blood, she lost the baby.
The second time she'd been a little further along. She'd bent down to get something out of the refrigerator, and felt something ... happen. Almost like a tremor in the earth, but this tremor was inside her.
About a year later, she'd conceived again. This time things were different. She'd passed through the first trimester and the second; to her amusement and relief, she finally began to show in her seventh month. Things were progressing so smoothly, Michael began to travel again, never for very long, but quick one- and two-day trips. She hired someone to take her place at the hotel and rested -- a lot. The doctor prescribed bed rest and Nikita faithfully followed his instructions.
One afternoon in late summer she was resting on the patio when she felt something ... that wasn't right. It wasn't like the last two times: there wasn't any pain, no blood, nothing to frighten her. But something was wrong. She'd gone to the doctor, taking only her cell phone and leaving instructions for Milla to go to Aldo's house when she got in from swimming.
The examination was quick, the verdict bad. Confused and scared without Michael, Nikita dialed his number and waited while the nurse tried to prepare her for surgery. "Michael?"
"What's wrong?"
"The baby --" she started crying, and couldn't get the rest out.
"Nikita? Nikita, what about the baby?" From the other end of the line, Nikita could hear the sounds of other people busily going about their daily lives, unconcerned with life or death. Somehow, it was reassuring -- maybe things were upside-down in her world, but there were people out there who were living normal lives, going to work, eating ice cream ...
Nikita took a deep breath and the nurse frowned at her, motioning her to hang up so they could get on with it. "It's stillborne," she said, her voice thin but steady. "And they want me to deliver it."
"What? When?"
"Now."
"I'll be there ... as soon as I can. I love you."
"I'll see you soon," Nikita said, and hung up.
They dosed her up on drugs and, floating in a half-conscious state, Nikita did as she was told. She didn't know what she expected, but when the little corpse came out, the nurse let out an involuntary sound of surprise, and the doctor cursed then crossed himself.
"What is it?" Nikita asked.
"Nothing. It's nothing," the nurse said. "How are you feeling? More pain medication?"
"I don't feel anything," Nikita said, struggling to see what the fuss was about. "I'd like to see my child, though. Is it a girl? A boy?" The sonograms had been inconclusive and Nikita had been curious about the sex.
"It would be best if you didn't dwell on it ..." the nurse came up to Nikita, held her hand and talked soothingly. "I know you must be tired ... why don't you rest for awhile?"
"I want to see my baby," Nikita said stubbornly.
"Now, dear ..."
"Show it to me. Now." Nikita raised herself on her elbows, straining to see past the sheet that covered her legs.
The nurse and doctor exchanged a look, and Nikita repeated herself. "Now. If you don't show me, now, this instant, I'll ... I'll sue you for improper health care." She didn't even know if she could do that in Italy, but the doctor shrugged and handed something to the nurse, who, after a few confused moments with a blanket, brought a wrapped bundle to Nikita.
Nikita had been seven and a half months along. She was prepared for an undersized baby. But she wasn't prepared for this. None of the sonograms prepared her for this.
Silently, Nikita looked at her child. It had a caul on its right eye; the left side of its face was shrunken, caved in. No ear on one side. Nikita bit her lip and folded back the blanket.
No arms. Her child had no arms. On one side there was a sort of growth, like a few extra fingers. Gently, Nikita touched its tiny torso, warped because of a curved backbone, and the nurse shifted a bit, revealing the lower part of the body. One leg was twisted terribly; the other ended in a knob instead of a foot. Nikita tucked the blanket up around the baby and was silent for a few minutes. "I would like to bury him," she said finally.
"Of course." The nurse, as gently as possible, covered the baby's head.
"And his name is Paul," Nikita said.
"Very well."
When it was all over and Michael brought her home, Nikita remained sad and quiet for a few weeks. One evening after checking Milla's homework and tucking her in, Michael came into their bedroom to find Nikita studying herself in the full-length mirror.
"What are you doing?" he asked softly. He came up behind her and put loose arms around her, cradling her against him.
"I was just thinking."
"About what?" Michael kissed her temple gently, and Nikita smiled faintly.
"About what else is wrong with me."
"Nothing's wrong with you. These things happen, Nikita."
"Maybe. Maybe not. It's funny ... I look like a normal person outside. But inside ... I don't know what Section did to me."
"You think this is Section's fault?"
"I think it's a possibility. All the things they did to me ... the medications, the exposures to who knows what kind of biological hazards ..."
They didn't try for more children. Instead, Nikita threw herself into her family. Milla grew older; Nikita began to take some trips with Michael; during the busy season, she worked long hours at the hotel.
All in all, it was a good life. A happy one. Then, a few years ago, things started going wrong again.
At first, she thought it was stress. Milla had just gone off to college and Michael was away a lot that fall. Then, one episode landed her in the hospital and after a barrage of tests, the only thing the doctors could come up with was it was some type of neurological problem.
The sun was fully up now. Outside, the sky was a brilliant turquoise blue, and the water was a shade darker. Sun turned the patio rocks golden, and guests came out on the terrace to eat early breakfasts before going site seeing.
Nikita sighed and turned over in her bed. Across the room, the cat turned himself inside out, belly up and vulnerable to the sunlight.
****************
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