By Kim A. Gillett
Kim A. Gillett graced our first anthology, 2034: Writing Rochester’s Futures, with “Picoat.” Her first published story, “The Bird Reader’s Granddaughter,” was a winner in the 2008 L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest. She is a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop. In Rochester, workshops at Writers & Books with Nancy Kress and Nick DiChario helped her to hone her craft. She is actively seeking representation for her Peerian fantasy duology and is midway through another novel based in the same world.
“Vixxed” invokes biotechnology to transform Rochester into a haven of peace, just in time for a Christmas miracle. Set amidst an international stew of political intrigue and religious devotion, Kim’s story explores the effects of creating a truly peaceful city.
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Yesterday, after the dress rehearsal, the pageant’s photographer told me I made the Baby Jesus seem real. “It’s the little gestures,” he said, “and the loving glances. You make that baby doll come alive. I thought you were too old to play Mary, but the director cast you perfectly.”
The director hadn’t. I had specifically asked for another part—one that didn’t involve mothering. If he had known how desperately I wanted a child, he would have understood my reluctance to play the Virgin Mary.
I can’t get angry at my situation, though. Not with my vixxing. But vixxing can’t stop my yearning for a family.
“Hey, Mary,” a woman shouts in my ear, over the din of actors gathered in my church’s low-ceilinged basement cafeteria.
An elbow jostles me and someone steps on my foot as I turn toward the voice. It’s Martha, one of the costume dressers for the Boar’s Head Festival, an ancient ritual held during the Epiphany season, mixing pagan Yule log celebrations with the Christmas story. Every other year, she helps two hundred members of the congregation and choir dress in elaborate medieval costumes for the pageant.
I’m confused at first, since my name is Elisabeth—Beth for short. Then I realize she’s calling me by my pageant name.
She tugs my robe, rearranging the folds on the sleeve. “Did you bring the new doll? Time to get it swaddled.”
I hand Martha the bag holding Baby Sam, then follow her as she slowly moves through the noisy crowd. Everyone waits in high spirits for the performance to begin. It’s the show of a lifetime …with an audience of kings, queens, presidents, prime ministers, chancellors, grand muftis, grand ayatollahs, archbishops, rabbis, and the like. All are participants at the first World Harmony and Peace Conference taking place in Rochester this January.
I wince as Martha throws the bag on the prop table. All my life I’ve treated Baby Sam with the greatest respect. My grandfather gave him to me the day I was birthed. Baby Sam was a special-made doll, one of the more expensive ones, modeled from womb images to look exactly like the expected child. Old pictures show us side-by-side, looking forever like twins. Except, as I grew older, I pretended he was the brother I longed for but never had.
Martha pulls Baby Sam from the bag. “Ah,” she sighs, “much better. I had nightmares about using that old Jesus doll in front of all those important people.” She strips off the bunting and holds Baby Sam at arm’s length. “Nice doll. It’s so real. A womb baby?”
I nod.
“My nephew had one,” she says. “He was a gorgeous child. You were, too, by the looks of it.”
She places the naked Baby Sam next to the old Jesus doll I used during rehearsals. The old Jesus doll is dressed in swaddling clothes. She picks him up with time-bent fingers and unwraps him like she’s unraveling a mummy. “This is the kind of doll I played with in the seventies. It’s at least as old as I am. Maybe older. The Marys have used this chunk of plastic since our first Boar’s Head performance, some forty years ago.”
She peers at me over the rims of her glasses. “That is, unless the couple playing Mary and Joseph had a newborn. Like your folks. You were Jesus, once, weren’t you?”
I clench my fists and hope she doesn’t notice the raw nerve she’s touched. So many other Marys with their own children. Real children—not Baby Sams, but no one in the congregation had a baby young enough this year. “Yes. Thirty years ago.”
“Has it been that long? You look so young.” Her eyes twinkle. “Next performance is two years away. Time it right and you can be Mary again, this time with your own child.”
Her smile is kind, and I try not to let desperation disfigure my face. That empty place inside threatens to grow, engulfing me with a desolation so broad and so deep that I fear I shall one day abandon myself to its storms and hidden reefs.
Barren.
The word shouts at me.
Barren!
“Ouch,” Martha says, holding up her thumb. Slowly, a drop of bright red blood forms on the pad. She sucks it off and then draws a large safety pin from the rags. “Ever seen one of these? It’s as obsolete as a can opener, these days.”
She turns the doll over and unfastens two more. She sticks the points of all three pins between her lips, and holds up the old Jesus doll. One leg is held on by gray duct tape, frayed and stiff at the edges. The face and body are encrusted with grime. Someone blackened the molded hair years ago.
“It’s a good thing we won’t need this doll anymore,” she mumbles, pins still in her mouth. “Yours is perfect. Smooth the rags, Beth. Would you, please? I don’t want to get blood on them.”
I straighten the rags, fingers hesitating as I touch the soft, finely woven wool—authentic-looking, like the material in the simple costume I wear.
Martha picks up Baby Sam and leaves a blot of blood near his belly button. The blood smears into a pickle shape as she wipes it off. “Oh no!” she cries.
The director barks, “Five minutes! Get in line everyone. Remember, folks, we’re live today. Quiet while you wait for your entrance.”
I grimace, staring in dismay at the blot, yet I feel no anger, not even a tinge. Not like I once would have, pre-vixxing, when someone injured Baby Sam. Besides, womb babies are famous for their bathtub-ready, impervious skin. Absolutely nothing taints them.
“Leave it,” I say, resting my hand on her arm. “It’ll wash off later.”
Martha places Baby Sam in the center of the rags, then swaddles him, stopping three times to pin the rags in place. Keeping her thumb away from the wool, she holds up Baby Sam. “He’s a real Savior. And he’ll look great on TV. Go on. Get in line. Hustle now.”
Baby Sam is transformed. I reach out and cradle him in my arms as I have for many years. Oh, how my heart aches for a real child! Someone to call my own. Someone to call me mom and my husband, Braydan, dad. Especially at this time of year. Nothing can replace the unabated joy of a child during the Christmas season. Nothing. I clutch Baby Sam to my bosom, as if holding him tightly will vanquish my grief.
He seems foreign, wrapped in soft rags. He’s mine, though. No matter what Martha thinks, I’ll not leave him behind as a prop for the next childless Mary. But I won’t argue with Martha or distress her in any way. Not with my vixxing. I smile and reach inside for a solution. I’ll use Baby Sam for today’s special performance, and then tonight I’ll buy the church a new baby doll for tomorrow’s final pageant.
Braydan grabs my wrist. “Come on, Beth. I hear the organ. The show’s about to begin.”
As the lights dim, an expectant hush falls over the sanctuary.
Braydan and I stand in the narthex, straining to see the audience through the rippled leaded-glass windows. More than a thousand guests jam the pews arranged under high-vaulted ceilings. Tiffany windows glow in the dying afternoon light. The rest of the sanctuary is dark, and I can no longer distinguish any of the dignitaries assembled inside.
Behind us, heavy wood doors mute the whir of generators outside, used by TV stations from around the globe to power their live holo-broadcasts. A reporter from a Tibetan station interviewed my husband on our way into the church. She assured us in excellent English that everyone from the farthest reaches of Tibet would be watching this performance, 3-D, via satellite.
So will the rest of the world.
I marvel at the honor of our church’s Boar’s Head Festival being chosen as an official entertainment venue for dignitaries participating in the World Harmony and Peace Conference. Only a few events outside of the conference’s itinerary were selected, and this pageant is the only one with a religious affiliation. Of course, not every conference participant is attending the performance, but many are. A few moments ago, I listened in stunned astonishment as one of the ushers whispered some of their names.
A muscle at the corner of my eye twitches. I’m nervous, performing in front of these important men and women leading nearly every government and religion in the world. Our national news station dubbed them “The Peacemakers,” for their mission is to find ways for the world’s burgeoning population to live in harmony, in peace, despite cultural differences and contrary religious beliefs and fractured economies and age-old rivalries.
Outside greater Rochester, the world is a troubled place. It took six years to organize this conference. Six years! But now everyone is here. Less than a week ago, on New Year’s Day, the dignitaries flew to Greater Rochester International Airport and settled into housing around the university for a few weeks.
It wasn’t surprising that Rochester was the only city that participants could agree on to host the conference. With our grand experiment in vixxing, we’re the most peaceful place on Earth … and one of the most prosperous. People come from all over to be vixxed, and then they stay in the area, which is now protected by the federal government from people living outside the city’s ever-expanding boundaries. Others may consider the personal cost high, but people here believe we did the right thing. Life is good—at least better—for almost everyone.
Braydan leans close. He raises an eyebrow and says, “No one’s arguing. I thought there’d be squabbles in the aisles.”
I can’t help chuckling. Braydan always imagines the worst about people who aren’t vixxed. He should know. Until age twelve and before his vixxing, he was a holy terror. I reach up and trace the white scar above his right eye, remembering the blue bandage with silver stars that hid ten tiny staples, remembering the fight that left him almost blind and the other child in a wheelchair for three years, remembering the adults who wanted to take him away and place him in a detention home. He hid in the church for two weeks while people tried to find him.
My fingers linger on his cheek. “You don’t need to be vixxed to be calm or polite or peaceful. Take Gandhi. Or the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. Or my dad. Besides, anyone inside the sanctuary who isn’t a head of state or a religious leader has been vixxed. They couldn’t get into the city’s secure zone, otherwise.”
He shrugs. “No one should be allowed in the city without it! Even for a day. And it would be best if the remaining unvixxed residents left the city.”
“There are fewer than two thousand unvixxed adults left, all of them over ninety. They’re no threat.”
“What about the children?” Braydan asks.
“My God, Braydan. Everyone is vixxed by age ten—most when they’re newborns.”
Braydan nods that he hears and understands me. Patiently, he says, “All it takes is one.”
“This is still America. Be glad that people can choose to be vixxed or not.”
“Only if they live here or visit, Beth. It’s an illegal operation everywhere else.”
He’s right, of course. Outside the city’s borders, people actively protest vixxing. Both of us were vixxed right here at the church, one after another, with many of the congregation. The whole procedure took less than twenty minutes. First a needle prick, then a walk through a portable booth that magnetically positioned the inserted module correctly. Almost immediately, the tendency toward solving problems with violence, anger or deceit vanished. Our congregation was one of the first to undergo the transformation. Others followed in quick succession. We all wanted peace so much. Who cared if the operation was irreversible?
“Imagine,” my husband says, fervently, “how constructive this conference would be, if everyone inside the sanctuary were vixxed. That’s when you’d get real solutions to problems. Real peace.”
I can’t help but agree.
“Shh,” another cast member says as a door opens at the far end of the sanctuary. “It’s time!”
“Ready?” Braydan asks, gently touching my elbow.
Anticipation builds. I nod, gazing at him fondly. This is our twelfth Boar’s Head festival together.
“There’s the Yule Sprite,” he whispers in my ear. “In the doorway.” Our fingers entwine, and he squeezes gently. “She’s almost as cute as you were when you played the part.”
I can feel his mischievous smile, the one that once goaded me into trouble in Sunday school classrooms, in the junior choir, and at every church social function prior to our vixxing. But being vixxed doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. I take a deep breath and lean against him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks as I rub the tic near my eye.
“Nerves, I guess.”
Braydan squeezes my hand. “Who cares if the Dalai Lama and the Pope are in the audience? Be honored, not nervous. Don’t worry, Beth. You don’t have any lines. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
“I could trip over the hem of my robe and fall flat on my face.”
Bells tinkle, and the darkness is speared by a spotlight falling on the young Yule Sprite. How clearly I remember the thrill of skipping around the darkened church, then down the center aisle to the chancel steps, with everyone watching me. The Sprite is dressed in the costume I once wore—a white leotard and foamy white knee-length skirt. A crown of white leaves interwoven with lights rests on her red hair. She holds a candle in her hand. From here, the flame appears real, but it’s just an illusion.
She transfers the light to the hooded monk, dressed in brown sacking, who waits at the altar. He uses a real flame to light the candelabras standing on the table at the front of the chancel. When he finishes, trumpets blare, and the boisterous Royal procession begins with the Minstrel singing the “Boar’s Head Carol.”
The King and Queen parade regally around the church to the chancel and sit center stage on their thrones. They’re followed by Lords and Ladies who sit on the left. Two stately Beefeaters, dressed in red skirts as brilliant as the poinsettias clustered around the chancel steps, carry in the boar’s head, then stand on either side of the thrones. Holly Bearers, Cooks brandishing rolling pins, the Plum Pudding Lady, Flower Girls and Cookie Bearers mount the stage to the right.
It’s not long before two goofy Woodsmen jog in, carrying a coffin-sized faux log on their shoulders. I laugh, joining the audience’s delight in their antics, and then clap with approval at the Jugglers and the feather-bedecked Acrobat as she flips down the aisle.
When I’m not belting out the audience’s refrains, I rest my head on my husband’s shoulder. His arms are around me. A circle of love. “It’s almost time, maiden most gentle,” he whispers. “Got Baby Sam? I mean, Jesus.”
We solemnly walk down the center aisle of the darkened sanctuary as the ten young Ladies-in-Waiting sing Mary’s song. Candles, held high on beribboned stakes at the end of pews, light our way. The sanctuary smells strongly of the balsam trees and wreaths and branches decorating the pillars and walls near the lectern and pulpit. I hesitate before each step.
The girls sing like angels, beckoning us forward. The chancel and stage are bathed in soft blue light. I make the tiny mother gestures that the photographer said made the baby doll seem so real. It’s not hard to express the look of love and adoration I hold for Baby Sam.
A Beefeater places an old piano stool in front of the thrones for me to sit on. We climb three steps onto the stage, and my husband leads me to the stool, his hand lightly touching my elbow. When we turn to face the congregation, he stands behind me, on my left side. Behind us, the girls continue to sing. I bend my head, close my eyes and listen to the pure sweet notes. To my ears, I am in Heaven.
I don’t know how it happens. Perhaps I’m not paying attention, or maybe it’s the safety pin that pops open and jabs my side, but Jesus falls out of his rags and bounces hollowly down the steps. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
My hands fly to my mouth in horror.
Everyone in the church gasps and leans forward. Several men sitting along the center aisle rush forward and stoop over Jesus. One picks him up by a plastic arm and holds him high for all to see. “He’s not real,” he says above the music.
Pews groan as everyone in the sanctuary sits back. Faint smiles replace shocked expressions.
My face is redder than a Beefeater’s tunic as the man hands Jesus to Braydan. My husband tenderly passes him to me. I reswaddle him as best I can, then sit on the stool. All the world is staring at me, in 3-D, no less, so I do my best to remain dignified. Softly, I coo to the baby.
Behind me, my husband stiffens, and his hand tightens on my shoulder. He bends over and whispers, “Stop cooing or I’ll laugh.”
The Shepherds proceed up the aisle, walking slowly, gazing and pointing at the beautiful Moravian-style Epiphany star hanging high above me, following its light to where I sit holding the Lord’s child. They kneel at my feet.
I shift ever so slightly on the stool and concentrate on Baby Sam, smoothing the soft rags about his face. His glass eyes are closed as I rock him, softly humming my favorite carol, as Christians around the sanctuary sing “Silent Night” in hushed, reverent tones.
Solemnly, the Three Kings file in with their pages, bringing the gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Epiphany. For years, I never grasped the significance of the Three Kings arriving twelve days after Jesus’ birth. When I understood these men were the first non-Jews to recognize and pay homage to Jesus, they became my favorite part of the Christmas story.
As King Balthazar sings his solo about gathering gloom, my eyes wander around the sanctuary. They get no further than the first pew. There, in the best seat in the house, sits the young Dalai Lama. His grin is wide as he winks at me. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Beside him sits the wizened Pope and the white-bearded patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church. From news broadcasts, I recognize the faces of several Muslim and Jewish leaders, the Archbishop of Canterbury and an elder of the Iroquois Nation. She sits regally, a slight smile parting her lips.
My eyes travel from person to person, but without the face-recognition feature of my surround glasses, I have no way to identify everyone. Yet the most holy people in the world sit at my feet. The power emanating from them catches me off-guard. Love and kindness and humility. My heart is light, and being in their presence is a blessing. Pure magic. Maybe I am in Heaven.
The choir begins “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” the final song before the recessional. Their voices fill the arches of the sanctuary with exaltation. On cue, everyone in the cast turns to face the Holy Family.
“King of Kings,” they sing.
The entire cast kneels. Chills wiggle across my back.
“Lord of Lords.” Their voices swell.
Slowly the cast stands, their arms reaching toward the Epiphany star. “Light of Light.”
The bundle in my arm squirms. I’m frozen by the shock of it. The baby cries. Loudly. His arms fight to be free of the rags.
My husband leans over me, his face close to mine. His eyes widen, and his mouth opens. “What’s going on? What are you doing?” He struggles to say something more, but now he’s as speechless as I am.
Baby Sam lets out a spine-tingling yell. His eyes—real ones, not the glass ones I stared at for years—open and glint in the light from the Epiphany star. I swear his face crinkles into a smile.
Braydan drops to his knees and looks into my face, his eyes searching. “Is this the answer to our prayers? This real baby.”
I find it hard to catch my breath. A child! We have a child. A beautiful child. God has answered our prayers. Thank you, Lord! I feel full, like I’m about to burst. Is it joy? Pride? Love? Awe?
Beside me, Braydan whispers a prayer. I snuggle closer to him, and his arms circle us protectively.
The baby’s fingers are tiny, thin and long. The nails perfectly shaped. Such hands. Such beautiful hands.
“Samuel,” I say, testing the name, my voice hoarse with excitement. “Samuel.” I clasp our child tightly. Tears of joy wet my cheeks.
His Holiness the Fifteenth Dalai Lama slips in front of the confused Wood Elves and stands gawking at the baby. Someone from a news crew in the back balcony shouts, “Down in front!” A photographer races up the center aisle. For a moment, his thudding boots are the only sound in the sanctuary. As other photographers follow, pandemonium breaks out. The organist, seemingly unaware of the commotion, breaks into the spirited recessional, “Joy to the World.”
But no one sings. No one moves, except the cameramen who crowd around me, each jostling for the best angle. Everyone starts talking. A woman shouts, “A miracle!” Others echo her cry. Surprise and joy are expressed in a hundred different languages.
As organ notes trail into silence, the young Dalai Lama lifts his hands. The people in the sanctuary hush, and many sit down. He reaches toward the baby, who somehow, despite my intentions, wiggles out of my arms into his. The Dalai Lama holds the gurgling baby high. The pair—a Holy boy and a newborn—emit a glow, filling the sanctuary with a new light.
I stand. My husband’s arm catches me at the waist, and he holds me steady. He beams.
Under the gleaming Epiphany star, the grinning Dalai Lama faces the congregation. The photographers and cast shrink back. The boy, holding the baby high for all to see, walks to the front pew and presents him in turn to each religious head. Some stand, others kneel. Solemnly, each conveys blessings.
It’s the holiest moment I’ve ever encountered. Goosebumps prickle my arms, and tears continue down my cheeks. Others sniffle loudly. The organist is playing again, softly, something sweet, punctuating the moment.
Suddenly, my chest feels heavy and my garment wet. Turning to my husband in horror, I look down, expecting blood.
The Plum Pudding Lady sees my distress. She rushes to my side. “This isn’t how or when it usually happens, but it looks like you’ve just let down.”
My husband and I stare at her dumbly. “Let down?” he asks.
“Your milk! It’s come in,” she says.
“Milk?” my husband says, still not understanding.
At that moment the baby squeals. My robe grows wetter. I reach for Samuel. As the spotlight follows the Dalai Lama back to the altar, I collapse onto the stool, feeling nothing and everything. With a beatific smile, the Dalai Lama hands back my baby.
Unsure how to salvage the pageant, I do the most natural thing possible. In front of the entire world, I loosen my robe and put the baby to my breast.
MIRACULOUS DECEPTION.
WOMB BABY LIVES!
ALL HAIL THE NEW MESSIAH.
REPENT, THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH.
WHAT CHILD IS THIS?
Headlines around the world scream fraud, hope or fear. Replays of the pageant, from the moment I drop the baby to when the Dalai Lama lifts the squirming baby high, are broadcast continuously, anywhere there’s a screen or holo stand.
For the past week, Braydan and I have been sequestered along with Martha, the costume dresser, in a privately owned East Avenue mansion. Everyone who sat in the front pew is here too, but they aren’t restricted like we are. The curtains are drawn, yet the house is filled with the lightness and confusion of many happy hearts, Braydan’s and mine included.
Hundreds of peaceful people sit in the grass outside the house. More gather in the streets. According to the newsbytes broadcast into my surround glasses, thousands upon thousands of people—pilgrims, they say—are arriving daily at the airport. Rochester is now heralded as the one true City of Hope and Miracles. Lines are long at the airport’s vixxing machines, for—with the exception of the conference dignitaries and some of the medical staff investigating what happened—no one is allowed into Rochester without being vixxed. Security is tight.
My husband and I and Martha were interviewed, separately and together, dozens of times. Martha even explained how she pricked her finger and bled on the baby doll. They asked her dozens of questions about this. I feel bad that she’s caught up in our drama, but I’m glad for her assistance and advice in mothering Samuel.
This morning, our family photo albums—including those belonging to my parents and grandfather—were laid on the vast oak dining table. Every picture of me and Baby Sam was scrutinized under magnification, then slipped through a scanner and compared to stills taken during the pageant.
Now the men my husband calls “the fraud detectors” scratch their heads and point to the pictures showing the womb baby at my birth, a naked Baby Sam with blood stain, lying on the floor of the sanctuary after I dropped him, and Samuel as he appeared yesterday and this morning.
With rapid gestures, an aide from the Vatican points between pictures and says, “It’s the same baby, except for the birthmark on its belly. And, well, his male parts after the miracle. The birthmark is shaped identically to the pickle-shaped blood smear described by the lady who swaddled the baby. It’s evident in this picture.”
He and the others go meticulously from frame to frame. “There’s no way the babies could have been exchanged,” says another, watching the surround holo playing on the center of the table.
“She was wearing little more than a shift,” says the aide. “She couldn’t have hidden anything. No one got near enough to exchange babies.”
“Every master magician has reviewed the holos, seeking a trick. They find nothing.”
Finally, they agree, preliminarily, there’s been no fraud or slight of hand. That’s when a courier brings my medical records.
I protest … at least as much as my vixxing allows.
So does my husband. “Those records are confidential,” he says. “Private. We’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
They ignore him, of course.
One man says, after viewing the data in his surround glasses, “On her last visit to Dr. Staten, six months ago, all tests indicate that she wasn’t pregnant. There’s no way she could have birthed this baby. Yet she’s lactating.”
Dr. Staten says, “Beth has been trying to conceive for years. She’s had no success.”
My doctor, assisted by a dozen others from as many nations, completes my physical examination. While Dr. Staten is gentle, other men and women prod, touch, point. I’m humiliated. My emotions are raw, but I can’t get angry. “Please, Doctor Staten, let me get back to my baby.”
“Not your baby,” one corrects with a clipped British accent. The man has narrow shoulders and no neck. “We haven’t established that yet.”
“Well then,” I say, misunderstanding his meaning, “he’s my doll. Let me get back to my doll.”
My vixxed doctor leans in close. “The baby is human, all right. His humanity is not in question. We need to establish who he belongs to.” He says this evenly, like he’s telling me it’s a pleasant day outside.
My jaw drops, and I don’t quite get it. “Belongs to?” I sputter. “Why, he’s mine. That’s my baby. He looks just like me. Just like Baby Sam. He’s my Samuel.”
Dr. Staten shrugs, and I get worried. Was someone talking about taking away my beautiful child?
“It may be up to lawyers and the courts to decide,” says the man with the clipped British accent.
Several doctors groan. “That could take years,” a woman doctor from South America says.
“Samuel is mine!” As inadequate as it felt, with vixxing it was the biggest response I could muster.
“Hush now, dear,” a nurse says. With her hand lightly on my back, she leads me out of the makeshift examining room into a small sitting room tucked in between the elaborately furnished living and dining rooms. “The doctors need a short time to decide what to do next. Let me bring you something to drink while you wait.” She shuts the door. A key scrapes loudly.
I try the handle. The door’s locked. I rattle it, but no one responds. Calm down. The nurse said she would return. Taking a deep breath, I turn to survey my cell.
The room is paneled from floor to high ceiling in dark oak. Five oils in ornate gilt frames depict scenes of old Rochester—skating on the Genesee River, Sam Patch going over the Falls, Frederick Douglass holding a copy of The North Star, barges on the Erie Canal, and a stern rendition of Susan B. Anthony’s profile. Rose-colored velvet drapes cover the fourth wall. I wrestle with the folds, trying to find the opening. As I peek through the drapes, it’s easy to hear the chanting outside. “Baby. Baby. Baby.”
Dust on the tiny diamond panes blindingly catches rays from the setting sun. I squint through the bright light, watching the happy crowd, until someone notices and points. People rip off their surround glasses and stand. Hastily, I shut the drapes, not wanting anyone to see me disheveled and shivering in a hospital gown.
Exhausted, I collapse onto the room’s solitary chair—a rush-seated ladder-back placed between two of the oils—and lean my head against the wall. It’s a few minutes before I realize that I can almost hear the conversation in the adjacent room. I turn and run my hand over the paneling. Grooves mark a small hidden door. My fingers find the recessed handle, turn it, and then ease the door slowly, opening it just a crack. They’re discussing Samuel’s DNA results. I try to see who is speaking, but the angle isn’t right—only a portion of a blue velvet couch is visible.
A voice sounding like my doctor’s says, “The baby shares her DNA. There’s no question about that. But not her husband’s. In fact, the Y-DNA matches no one else’s, in all available data banks worldwide.”
Silence, then a thickly accented male voice says, “So it is a miracle. A plastic bebe doll becomes real in front of the entire world.”
Someone harrumphs.
“But what does it mean?”
“People ask if it’s the Second Coming,” a woman says with a distinct Boston accent. “Others think he’s the true Messiah. Some believe the baby is a sign and promise of peace to come. The one true light. It doesn’t matter what religion—or even whether a person is religious—everyone believes this child is special. Everyone who witnessed the transformation.”
“He is not a new prophet,” claims a man with a different accent, “that I know for certain. But the child is a miracle.”
“There’s no denying that a change took place. The real question is, How do the participants at this conference respond?”
“Quickly,” a woman says, thumping the table. “We must respond quickly. Millions—billions—witnessed the miracle. The people want answers. They demand to see the child. Already thousands of pilgrims gather outside. Hear them chanting? According to the newscasts, Rochester is being hailed as the new holy city.”
Another woman, her voice slightly higher, asks, “If people—witnesses—believe a plastic doll turned into a real child … how should religions and governments and individuals … respond to the miracle?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Is this … a miracle … from God?”
“Is there any other kind of miracle?” asks the Pope, his soft, rolling voice easily recognizable.
“Many of us do not believe in your God,” a woman says gently. “How do we explain the miracle?”
“Right now, I think a different question is more important. To whom does the child belong?”
I recognize the clipped British accent. My blood runs cold. I want to fling open the door and say, “Samuel belongs to me and my husband. I know this beyond a doubt. This child is the answer to my prayers. My husband’s prayers. That’s the true miracle.”
A fifth woman says slowly, enunciating each word carefully, “If any of us could own—pardon, that’s not the correct word—parent this child, what would we do with him? How would we treat him? What would we call him? What expectations would we have of him? What expectations would we let others have of him?”
The key scrapes in the lock.
Hastily, I close the secret door. The nurse comes in holding a glass. “No one bothered you, did they?” She winks and dangles the key.
I give her a tiny smile. I hadn’t been locked in; the world had been locked out.
“A locked door keeps them away every time. Just like Rochester’s secure border keeps the unvixxed out, not the vixxed in.” She offers me the glass. “Drink up.”
I obediently sip the juice, then wonder, horrified, whether it might be poisoned.
She senses my fear, takes the glass from my hand, tilts it back, then licks her lips. “Poor thing,” she says. “It’s no wonder you’re scared. All those rumors about the president.”
Startled, I stare at her. “What rumors?”
“You didn’t know? The president proclaimed Samuel a national treasure. She wants him protected. Claims it’s the federal government’s job to ensure his safety. She didn’t say what that means though, beyond that he won’t be allowed to leave the country while he’s underage.”
Her look of sympathy reduces me to tears.
I collapse onto the chair. Chin in hands, I stare at the portrait of Frederick Douglass opposite me. It’s a mammoth painting, floor to ceiling, with him positioned by a long window in a darkened room. A small table with a lighted candle stands in front of the window. He holds a copy of The North Star at an angle to read by the candle’s light. Only after wiping my tears do I realize there’s a hilly landscape bathed in starlight outside the window—almost a picture within a picture. In silvery white dabs of paint, the Drinking Gourd is clearly depicted. Above it, one star is brighter than the rest. The north star. On the ground, men run toward it, with dogs snapping at their heels.
It’s a magnificent piece, and I wonder why it’s hidden in this small room when it could be seen by millions at the Frederick Douglass Museum downtown or at the newly finished reconstruction of his home on South Avenue.
Through the open door, I hear Samuel’s wail. My body responds. When the nurse notices the growing wet splotches on the front of my hospital gown, her lips twitch. She holds her head high and says, “Baby comes first, dear. The doctors and lawyers and holy men and women will have to wait.” She lowers her voice and whispers, “And don’t worry about the president taking your child before he’s vixxed. Dr. Staten said he’ll vix him tomorrow.”
Meekly I follow, ignoring, as she does, the entreaties from the doctors and others as we climb the stairs to a front corner bedroom. She raps softly on the door and opens it. “Go right in. I’ll be up later with some dinner.”
As I enter the large pink corner room with four green-draped windows, Martha embraces me. I’m glad she’s here to help. There’s so little I know about babies. I expected these things to come naturally. Instinct. But I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know everything I should.
My heart pounds as I reach for Samuel. I hold him tightly, nuzzling my nose in his wispy dark hair. Martha bathed him again, and he smells good.
“Lock the door,” I suggest, as I suckle my child,
Braydan turns the old key and sighs. “Enough is enough. We’ve got a bowl of fruit, the little fridge is well-stocked, and I’m happy to stay locked in here until everyone leaves us alone.”
“So am I,” Martha says. “This child is a miracle. Why is it so hard for everyone to believe?”
Braydan touches his surrounds. “According to the news, millions do.” He turned to me and says, “Did you hear, Beth, for the first time ever, Rochester’s borders are closed to people? Anyone! Vixxed or not.”
“Closed? Why?” I sit up, and the baby whimpers, lips puckering like a fish’s. Martha fusses over me as I reposition his mouth.
“Apparently,” Braydan says, “too many people want to come and pay homage. There aren’t enough resources to feed and house everyone. You know how particular Rochester’s government is about keeping things in balance. The crowd outside goes for blocks. Down the street, all the pilgrims want to see where he was born—well, transfigured is what they’re calling it—the church hasn’t closed its doors since last week.” His mouth settles into an impish grin.
Martha asks me, “Did you learn anything downstairs?”
“They consider the baby to be human, not a doll. Otherwise …” I shake my head. I’m unwilling to tell my husband about the results from the DNA test. At least not right now. Why make him wonder and worry? It doesn’t seem fair to him, for truly Samuel is the answer to both our prayers.
Martha can’t guess my unspoken concern. She puts her hands on her hips and says, “You’d think they’d test the baby’s DNA and be done with it.”
“What would they find?” my husband asks.
“Well, I’m not sure,” she says. “But if they’ve concluded that Samuel is human, then he must have DNA.”
“They’re trying to determine who Samuel belongs to,” I blurt, wiping a tear from my face.
This startles my husband. “Why? Samuel belongs to us. Who else would he belong to?”
“The church,” Martha says to me. “You donated him as a prop.”
“I didn’t.” The protest dies on my lips. The baby whimpers as I jerk around in my chair to face Martha. “How could I give up my womb baby?” I say evenly. “I planned to buy the church a new doll for the last performance.”
Martha snorts. “It’s a good thing I didn’t throw the old Jesus away.”
“No one in Rochester would take our baby,” my husband says. “That’s for certain. It’s not in anyone’s nature to do such a thing. Unless, of course, they haven’t been vixxed.”
I think of the two thousand unvixxed residents, now, with a little trepidation. And the experts in the room below. With the exception of the nurse and Dr. Staten, I’m sure that none of the rest are vixxed.
“What about the federal government?” Martha asks. She touches my cheek lightly. “Did you hear the president’s press conference?”
I shake my head. “The nurse told me a little.”
Martha says, “The president claims that Samuel is a national treasure. You realize she could send in the army and kidnap the child faster than you can say the Lord’s Prayer?”
Horrified, Braydan and I stare at each other. “She can’t do that,” he says. “She can’t take our baby.”
“Why not?” Martha asks. “What vixxed person will prevent her? And think of how much power she’ll have, if she controls the miracle everyone witnessed. Can you imagine it?”
I shake my head, not following. “Surely, they’ll be stopped. No one will be allowed to take our child.”
“Who’s going to stop U.S. military helicopters staffed with personnel intent on a mission? They can fly in and out in minutes. It’s some consolation that they won’t have an easy time landing on these grounds, not with the pilgrims crowded around. Someone could get hurt.”
“Surely, she’d bring us with the baby,” my husband says.
“Why?” Martha asks. “Why would she bother? For politics’ sake she may have to. What would the world think if she kidnapped a baby who everyone believes is a miracle and leaves his parents behind?”
I can’t stop the moan that permeates my being and exits my lips. Braydan kneels by my side and embraces Samuel and me. My family. The thought of losing our child makes me wretched. “Let’s appeal to the Pope and the other holy men downstairs. Surely they’ll help.”
Martha shakes her head. “How? How can they stand against an army, despite their best intentions?”
“Perhaps,” my husband says, “we could make our way back to the church. It’s not too far.”
“Be reasonable, Braydan,” Martha says equably. “Do you think our president will honor a church’s asylum? I don’t think so. Not if she wants this child badly enough.” Martha takes the sleeping Samuel from my arms and rocks him gently as she moves slowly to the wicker bassinet.
I walk over to the dresser. Its mirror is old silvered glass, and my face ripples as I peer at the side of my forehead.
My husband, his face drawn and almost gray, stands beside me. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Trying to find where they vixxed me,” I say. “It seems that I have no choice. I may have to fight for Samuel. Yet I can’t fight, if I’m vixxed. Could you remove whatever they inserted?”
“You know it’s permanent,” Braydan says.
“That’s what they say. But what if there’s a way?”
“It would be meaningless,” Martha says gently, “to ask people to be vixxed, if they knew they could undo what had been done.”
“And that’s another thing,” I say, turning to face them. “The nurse told me that Dr. Staten plans to vix Samuel tomorrow. They haven’t even asked us. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. Not now. Not if they are trying to take him away from us. Not if he might be—”
“Vixxing is good, Beth,” my husband says. “Look at me. I’d be in jail or worse, if I hadn’t been vixxed.”
“It’s not right, Braydan. Not for Samuel.”
“The baby’s a miracle,” Martha says, nodding her understanding of my concern. “A gift from God. Why would you want to change what he is?”
Braydan shuts his eyes and doesn’t speak for several moments as he works out a solution. “It’s important to me that Samuel is vixxed, but I agree that it should be our decision and not Dr. Staten’s or anyone else’s. We’re Samuel’s parents. We should determine when this happens.” He takes my hand. “If it happens.”
“But they may not agree that we’re Samuel’s parents.” I wring my hands and pace across the room, careful to avoid the bassinet. The thick Oriental carpet cushions my footfall. I barely notice its intricate ‘tree of life’ design, but I do notice the gilt-framed pictures covering the walls. None are as spectacular as the Douglass portrait downstairs. How cleverly the artist depicted the escape scene in the picture’s background.
My mind races as I return to Braydan and take his hands. “If reason doesn’t prevail and vixxing doesn’t allow us to fight, then there’s only one thing we can do.”
“What, Beth? What choice do we have?”
“We flee. We flee as slaves fled their masters in the South. As Mary and Joseph fled King Herod’s wrath. As the Fourteenth Dalai Lama fled the Chinese when they invaded his monastery in Tibet. People in Rochester will help. Maybe people everywhere. But we must go. It’s dark out now. We may have only the night ahead to disappear.”
The glimmer of hope in Braydan’s eyes fades quickly. “We can’t leave Martha behind.”
“Of course you can.” Martha stands with her hands on her hips. “I’m old and slow as molasses. Since I know nothing of where you plan to go, I can’t help them find you, whatever they threaten.”
Ever efficient, Martha turns off the lamps and dims the overhead light.
“We’re on the second floor,” I whisper.
“Ooch,” she mutters, pointing to a long window. “It’s easy to climb down. There’s a tiny balcony out the side window. And overgrown shrubbery surrounds the house. I stood out there today and wondered why no one has tried to climb up.”
I’m still wearing the hospital gown, so I change quickly into some clothes from the overnight bag my parents left for me. My husband hands me his sweatshirt.
“Grab some diapers,” Martha says. “Too bad we don’t have a baby carrier.”
“We could fashion something out of a sheet,” I suggest.
“Good idea,” my husband says. “You go first. I’ll help you down, as far as I can reach. It’s a short jump to the ground. Then we’ll use the sheet to lower Samuel.”
My heart races fiercely as Braydan pushes up the window to the balcony. A few people still chant, “Baby, Baby, Baby.” Martha gives me a fierce hug before I crawl over the low window ledge onto the balcony.
“God speed,” she says.
The rough, gravel-like surface bites painfully at my palms and my knees. Braydan’s right behind me. He grabs my left hand. Quietly I slither off the balcony, legs dangling.
“I’m letting go,” Braydan whispers. “Drop!”
I do.
Strong arms catch me.
My heart is in my throat as my feet meet the ground. Slowly I twist around. I do not recognize the bald man smelling of spice who holds me. But I do recognize the boy beside him.
“How did you know we would leave?” I ask.
“I’ve done this before,” the Dalai Lama says simply.
He reaches for my hand and squeezes. I feel his smile.
“Beth,” Braydan whispers anxiously. “Is everything all right? Are you ready for the baby?”
I can’t help my smile. A sense of peace floods my being. We’re not out of danger yet, but people will help. Good people. Unexpected people. And someday, we’ll find out together who our son is—whether he’s solely the answer to one couple’s prayers or whether, somehow, he’s the answer to the prayers of many.
And then there’s the other miracle. Millions may come to pay homage at Samuel’s place of birth. If the authorities continue to require vixxing of all visitors, then those pilgrims will leave this city transformed. And those people will return to their countries bringing peace.
Imagine the power of one single birth.
“Yes,” I call to my husband. “Everything is all right.”
Beyond the bushes, the chanting stops and the night is silent. I gaze above the shrubs and rooftops. The Drinking Gourd hangs low in the northern sky. Above it hovers a wondrous star.
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