Blue Hearts of Mars (33 page)

“I’m not straining,” she said defensively, a frown covering her face.

“She’s fine,” Dad said. My eyes cut to him. He glared at me stubbornly. Was he in total denial?

“I need to talk to you, Dad. Just for a minute. Can we go outside.”

“You guys can’t talk in front of me? I’m tired of not being included.” Marta’s frown turned into a scowl. She slammed her hand down on the bed. It ended up weaker than she intended, which deepened her scowl and she looked away in frustration.

“I’ll talk to you about it after I talk to Dad, I promise,” I said sympathetically.

“Oh no you won’t,” Dad interjected. He stood up. His expression would have chipped diamonds.

I managed to hang onto my positive expression for Marta as I slipped out through the door, grinning encouragingly at her.

I steered Dad to a quiet corner of the hospital wing.

“I know what this is about, Retta, and it’s a resounding no.” Dad crossed his arms and stood with his legs wide as I turned to begin our conversation. We were near a waiting area. I caught sight of a woman with dark circles under her eyes, her head tilted to one side dazedly. She sat next to an old man, maybe her father, whose expression suggested total shock. He stared into space unseeing, and his lips moved occasionally as though he were muttering to himself. I fixed my gaze on Dad.

“From what I can tell this is Marta’s only chance. Her last chance, Dad. The doctors have no idea what to do for her and worse, they don’t seem to care.” He flinched when I mentioned it being her last chance. It was a hard truth. But he needed to face it. We both did.

“Do you even know what you’re suggesting?” he asked bending toward me. “Your answer is to turn her into a blue heart?” It came out a hiss.

“Not a blue heart, Dad, I just want her to live. With a healthy heart,” I said, quietly, nodding my head toward the waiting area, “I mean look at this place, it’s depressing and run down. Most of the doctors seem ragged and indifferent. It’s like they stopped caring years ago. And the patients—they’re worse.” We both looked away when a stream of drool dribbled from the old man’s mouth onto his chest.

“I won’t turn my daughter into a blue heart, Retta. Cyborgism is hated. It’s—it’s repulsive. We’re flesh and blood. Soft, cushy humans. Not hard, metal monstrosities. OK? That’s it. Human heart or no heart.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you listening to yourself?”

His mouth firmed and I saw his jaw muscles flex. He avoided my gaze. “Doesn’t matter. My mind is made up.”

“Dad, would you give her your own heart? If that would save her?”

He nodded immediately, then looked at me askance. “Retta, I don’t like where this is going. You won’t convince me.”

“Just hear me out. It’s for Marta. It’s not about us and all our arguments and head-butting. It’s about my sister.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “Go on.” He rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I know you’d give up your own life to save us,” I said, slowly, studying my fingernails casually. I didn’t want to rush in and blow it. “But Dad, can’t you consider giving up something less precious to save Marta?”

He cocked his head to one side, a flash of irritation sweeping across his face. “Am I to ask what that is, Retta?”

I smiled. “We need you to live. And you need Marta and me. Can’t you consider giving up your obsession about not being a cyborg? It’s—” I wanted to say stupid and bull-headed and unrealistic, but I bit my tongue and tried to come up with a nicer way to say it, “It’s . . . pointless. I’m sorry if you think it’s dumb of me, but all I care about at this point is saving Marta. And I found a way, Dad. It’ll work. I know it will.”

He breathed in and out loudly, fuming, before finally repeating, “So your answer is to turn her into a blue heart?”

“And your answer is to let her die?” I returned coldly, my face stoic and dispassionate.

A group of doctors dressed in white coats passed us, rounding the corner of the corridor and heading up the hallway. The old man and woman got up and shuffled after them. I stepped out of their way even though they’d already passed by.

“My word,” my dad said, stunned. “By the light of Phobos.” I turned to look at him. His voice was anguished. One hand went to his forehead. His eyes widened as he stared into the distance, looking inward, finally confronting his prejudices and motivations. “That
is
what I’ve been saying. The doctors have no answers. They hardly care. What am I doing? Just hanging on until she dies?” A tremor came into his voice. “I told you I’d do anything to save you two, my girls. I’d die for you if I needed to. I’ve been so numb. Scared into inaction. Frozen.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” I said sympathetically. I was floored to hear him talk so. He
had
been frozen. He’d been going on autopilot. Staying up so late every night, sticking to Marta’s side, waiting for the doctors to come up with something.

“I have to let Sonja do the transplant, Retta. You’re right. You’ve been out finding a way to save her while I’ve been motionless.” He rubbed his eyes and blinked. “Who cares if it’s an android heart? If it will save my girl, I—I need to let her have that chance.” He clenched his fists. “And yet . . . ”

“And yet what?” I asked, nervously. He’d been about to give the go ahead. Why change his mind now? Down the corridor, past Dad, I saw Sonja pause near Marta’s hospital room door, spot us up the hallway, and begin marching toward us.

“An android heart,” he said, inclining his head to look up at the ceiling. “It’s so drastic.”

“It’s the best choice. Our
only
choice.” 

Dad began nodding, almost like it was involuntary. “You’re right. You’re right.”

“I
am
right, Dad. You’re a scientist. You know you have to move forward with the options nature gives you, even if they seem scary.”

He suddenly pulled me close into a bear hug. “Let’s do this before I change my mind.”

Sonja met up with us as Dad let me go.

“Sonja,” Dad said.

“Nikodemus. You’ve agreed to it, then?”

He sighed. “It seems it’s the only option.”

“It’ll be all right,” Sonja said, touching his arm lightly. Dad flushed, then covered her hand with his.

“Thank you.”

“She’s waiting. Let’s get going before her condition worsens.”

“Do you trust me?” I wiped the rainbow lipstick away. In a smudged mirror on the wall opposite of me, I could see a bit of lipstick residue on my mouth and the metallic embellishments still covering my cheeks.

Tears streamed down Marta’s face as she gripped the blanket with one hand, clutching my hand with the other.

“Yeah, it’s just . . . I’m scared,” she whispered.

Dad’s eyes flicked to me. He stood on the other side of the bed. He looked about to cry himself.

I leaned down so my elbows were resting on the edge of her bed. The light blue of the coverlet was faded and almost a sickly white. Crying would only make it worse for all of us. I had to be strong for Marta, had to show confidence in the procedure, even though I didn’t know for sure if it would work. Marta’s gaze followed me. She coughed.

“Marta, what scares you more, surgery, getting a new heart, or . . . possibly dying?”

Her green eyes moved thoughtfully before coming to rest on my gaze. “All three.” Her voice was hushed.

“I think,” I pursed my lips and hesitated, “I think we can safely say that if you don’t do this, you could die.” My voice caught on the last word. My little sister. Dying. I didn’t know how a mother felt, but I could guess. Since Mom died, I helped take care of Marta. I looked out for her. I came to her rescue when older kids picked on her at school, I taught her the things I knew she needed to know to survive. I came back to New Helsinki and endangered Hemingway for Marta. And I’d always make that same choice, no matter what happened.

Dad choked back a sob. The only other time I’d seen him this ghastly was when mom died. He stood very still, hands shoved into the pockets of his dress jeans. His button-down shirt was rumpled like he’d been sleeping in it.

“Marta, I don’t want you to die,” I whispered. “I need you to live. You give me a reason to live. You’re my hero. You have more courage than anyone I know.”

She nodded, the tears continuing to streak down her face. Dad reached for her hand and took hold of it. The skin across his knuckles stretched and turned white as he held on tightly. Monitors connected to Marta’s vitals flashed and bleeped at the head of her bed. I ignored them—they only conveyed discouraging news.

I went on. “I know you’re scared. We’re all scared, but you know what I’m the most scared of?” Her eyes searched mine. She shook her head. I went on, “Losing you. This will work, I know it will work. And you’ll be the same Marta afterwards. The same girl who loves to paint beautiful pictures on the Gate, who loves teenage drama shows.” I looked at Dad, then at her. “Mom’s watching out for you. She won’t let you die.”

I leaned over and hugged her.

After a moment, I heard a muffled, “OK.”

I pulled away, leaving my hand on her shoulder and the other holding loosely onto her fingers. They were cold. “OK you’ll do it?”

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her eyes. I reluctantly let go of her hand and gave her a reassuring, confident smile.

*****

After informing Dr. Stebing and Sonja, the operating room was prepped quickly and nurses came to wheel Marta away. I watched with a sick feeling inside as they helped her to another bed. Every movement made her weaker. Her lips were almost as white as her face. She smiled bravely at me as they took her away, the wheels on the bed squeaking as they maneuvered her bed into the hallway.

I followed Dr. Stebing out of the room. I wanted to ask him if he thought it would work, but was afraid to hear a no, so I gritted my teeth and kept silent.

As we went down the corridor, a man in a white lab coat carrying a personal-sized Gate came toward us. He opened his arms wide as though to catch us and Sonja paused. The rest of us stopped. The man held up his Gate, squinted at it, then at us. “I’m the attending on duty.” He paused dramatically, letting that information sink in. “I regret to inform you that this surgery wasn’t properly approved. Therefore, it can’t go on until the correct channels of authority have been observed.” He glanced at Dr. Stebing, then gave Sonja a once over and frowned. She was wearing operating scrubs and her brilliant red hair was stuffed under a cap that matched her scrubs.

Dr. Stebing motioned for the nurses to continue to the OR with Marta. I watched her receding down the corridor, the beds’ wheels squeaking in protest. A wrenching fear pulled my heart open, letting all the blood drain out, or so it felt. Dad excused himself and hurried after Marta.

Sonja turned to observe the conversation, her arms crossed, a foot tapping impatiently. Overhead a light began to stutter like it was about to burn out. A hunched man in a hospital gown and slippers shuffled by, muttering to himself. I covered my nose as a bad odor permeated the hallway.

Stebing spoke in a fierce whisper between his teeth. “Burnham, let the girl have this chance. Not approved? For as long as she’s been here, no one’s even suggested a treatment, not even looking for something experimental. She’s been wasting away. I OK’d the surgery and I’m going to help perform it.” There was a vehemence in his voice that made my esteem for him grow.

The attending doctor listened with his head cocked to one side, a sneer growing as Stebing finished. “That’s not my problem. She’s never been under my care. I’m concerned about protocol being followed.”

Stebing laughed. I was really beginning to like him. If this attending thought he was going to call off the surgery . . . I couldn’t even think of it without my blood pressure soaring.

“Protocol, Burnham?” Stebing spat. “You worthless—you think you can lecture me on protocol after almost two weeks of disregarding the daily appeals for further scrutiny on this case? What if her condition is contagious? What if it’s caused by some dormant—” he looked at me suddenly, as though remembering he wasn’t alone with Burnham. He took two quick steps forward, getting in Burnham’s face, and they both began conversing in a series of hissing whispers, most of which I couldn’t hear.

I strained forward, trying to pick up more of the conversation while feigning serious interest in my fingernails. I caught only confusing snippets.

“Virus . . . Martian dust storms . . . Let happen . . . I will personally . . . ”

Abruptly Stebing finished, turned on his heel and continued down the corridor at a brisk pace toward the OR without looking back. I saw him shake his head once or twice as though arguing internally.

“When the operation fails and the hospital administrator comes looking to see who’s at fault, I will make sure you take the full brunt of the blame, Stebing!” Burnham shouted. The tips of his ears were blazing and his cheeks flushed as his eyes swept over Sonja and me. He sneered at Sonja before turning and moving stiffly in the opposite direction of the OR.