Even Steven by John Gilstrap Page B

wrong.” A crimson flush worked its way through the pallor of his cheeks. “How do you know that you’re not wrong?”
    Dr. Samson blushed as he opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it when he thought better of it. “This is terrible news for both of you, I know. I wish—”
    “What did you do?” Bobby asked, moving in close to the doctor. “What did you do wrong?”
    Susan gasped and reached out for her husband. “Bobby, please…”
    “What did you do?” His tone dripped accusation, and his posture said that he wanted to exchange blows with the man.
    Dr. Samson didn’t even flinch. “It’s not like that, Mr. Martin. There’s nothing anyone did or didn’t do. Casting blame accomplishes nothing.”
    To Susan, Bobby said, “Did he give you any drugs, honey? Any new medications?”
    “Not a thing. Not a thing.”
    Bobby looked unsatisfied. These things didn’t just happen. His son didn’t just die. For Christ’s sake, somebody had to be held accountable here. Susan had never seen him like this, and the image of her trembling husband frightened her. Ever the source of calmness in their lives, she wasn’t ready for him to lose control.
    But then, just as suddenly as the anger had flared, he seemed to find the handle for it, and he wrestled himself back under control. His jaw locked, his eyes hardened, and he grasped Susan’s hand hard enough to crush it.
    For her part, Susan remembered entering a space in her mind where she’d never been before, an emotional closet of sorts, where she could shelter her sanity from the rush of pain that welled up inside. She remembered feeling as if she were floating as she listened to the doctor explain why she needed to carry Steven’s remains in her tummy for another couple of weeks, while her own body adjusted to the changes in chemistry that were on their way. She didn’t understand the logic of it then, and she still didn’t, even today. All she knew was that her son—once such a source of pleasure and anticipation—now rolled around dead inside her, his real and imaginary movements a disgusting, sickening parody of those smiling babies on the doctor’s wall.
    As she lay in bed those nights, she would dream of young Steven, afloat in his amniotic cocoon, eyes open, tongue lolling off to the side, like some prop from a horror movie. She’d wake up drenched with sweat and once didn’t quite make it to the bathroom before she vomited up what little dinner she’d been able to force down.
    They’d wanted her to wait for two weeks, but after nine days, Bobby called the doctor in a panic. “She’s not going to make it,” he’d said to the answering service at four o’clock one morning. “This thing is killing her from the inside. Please, you have to do something.”
    The very next morning, they took Steven from her. They gave her the shot to induce labor at about ten-thirty, and by two o’clock, he was on his way out. Susan insisted that she remain awake throughout the ordeal, and Bobby sat in a chair by her side, coaxing her along, just as they had learned in class. She breathed and she rested and she sucked on her ice chips, and as the intensity of the contractions peaked, she imagined things the way they were supposed to be, with family and friends waiting out in the lobby, and the room decorated with flowers and balloons. In her wide-awake dream, everyone smiled, and they cheered when Steven emerged and surprised them all with a boisterous wail.
    Instead, her son passed from her womb into a silent room, where the lights had been dimmed out of respect for the dead. In those last moments of her labor, Susan watched Bobby. She saw his face cloud and his eyes redden, even as his mouth remained firmly set. He would not break down, he’d told her. He would be strong, and they would somehow put their lives back together when all of this was done.
    But as Steven emerged, and the last of their unreasonable grasps at hope evaporated, so did her husband’s