The Unit. Part 10

These increased risks are actually very small for the individual, percentagewise; Johannes's age, for example, carried with it a 0.0 percent higher risk that our child would become schizophrenic, and the situation was more or less the same with regard to the link between my age and Down syndrome, for example. But the doctors' recommendation to have an abortion is not primarily about the individual. Children who are born prematurely, or with some form of mental handicap, or who develop schizophrenia as adults, cost society enormous sums of money, and if the overall number of defects and complications can be reduced to a minimum, there are significant financial gains to be made. There must be a couple of hundred children per year in total who end up becoming a complete financial loss to society.

Melinda had been informed-in black and white-how much a decision to give birth to her child would cost society if the child had this or that functional impairment. She showed me the calculations, and they certainly told a very clear story; it was a case of tens of thousands of millions in losses-and that was just for one functionally impaired individual from the age of zero to fifty. Melinda was in despair. She said: "It's not that I want to be a burden on society. Of course I want to be needed in every way, and I want my child to be needed-not to be a drain on the community all its life. Everybody wants to live a life of dignity, don't they? Everybody wants to be respected, and we want our children to be respected too. But I want this child. It's been created, and it's living inside me; there has to be a meaning in that. And irrespective of whether it's born prematurely and might be blind or have some other functional impairment, it's still a child. It's still a person. And we live in a democracy; I do actually have the right to give birth to my child."

But Melinda had had an abortion after all. She already had two healthy children. She was already needed.

But I wasn't. And I was absolutely determined to give birth to my child, to care for it and raise it-regardless of what condition it might be in. I wanted to live as a family with Johannes and the child. I wanted to live a proper life with deep, interwoven relations.h.i.+ps for better or worse, which only death could separate. I wanted to feel real, to feel part of things, and to be honest I couldn't give a s.h.i.+t whether it was dignified or respectable or whether it cost the taxpayer a whole lot of money. To h.e.l.l with the taxpayers! I thought. Just as long as I can have my child, my family, my life! That's why I was immediately on guard with Petra, and why I said that I would never, ever kill my child.

But that wasn't what she meant; abortion wasn't one of the choices I had to make.

"You're not going to have an abortion," said Petra. "At least not until we've taken a sample of the amniotic fluid, which we do have to do, as you will understand. And various other tests-these days it's possible to detect many different defects and difficulties with the child through relatively risk-free tests. Isn't that right, Amanda?"

Amanda nodded. Petra went on: "And we ought to make the most of that opportunity. In view of your age, I mean."

We, I thought. What we? The only "we" I could see in all this was Johannes and I. But I said nothing, I didn't want Petra, or Amanda either for that matter, to get the impression that I was somehow unbalanced.

Petra now got to the point, and she was talking quickly, as if to get it out of the way as rapidly as possible: "Your choice is whether to donate the fetus for transplantation, or to carry it to full term and then have it adopted. The latter is of course the safest option, for the child that is, but it might also be the most painful for you, so think it over carefully. Whatever choice you make, you will be allowed to know something about the people who adopt the child, as with any donation, and if you wish I'm sure we can arrange it so that you continue to receive information about how the child is getting on in its family."

My mouth dropped open. I thought: Is she stupid? I sat up straight, cleared my throat, and said, clearly and lucidly: "You don't understand. I have no intention of giving up this child. It's mine. Mine and Johannes's. We are the child's parents. It is not going to be transplanted or adopted. I mean, we're no longer dispensable, are we? We've become needed."

"No, Dorrit. Your child Your child is-at best-needed. is-at best-needed. You You are and remain dispensable. And as for Johannes Alby ..." are and remain dispensable. And as for Johannes Alby ..."

She broke off. Stared at me-she looked absolutely terrified, all of a sudden, which confused me. Was she afraid of me? I didn't understand. She took a deep breath and approached the issue from a different angle.

"You must understand," she said pleadingly. "At your age, Dorrit ... how suitable do you think you would really be as a parent?"

"I can't see that I'd be any less suitable than any other parent. Surely age can also be an advantage? I have considerable experience of life, and self-awareness. I've had my fun, and all trace of youthful egoism and self-obsession is gone. And I'm strong and healthy, mentally as well as physically. Not so long ago I was told I was as fit as a twenty-year-old."

"It's not just about fitness," Petra interrupted.

"I didn't say it was."

Petra now had red patches on her neck-otherwise she was noticeably pale-and she turned to Amanda, as if seeking help. But Amanda was no help, not to either of us; she sat there in silence, her lips pressed together, looking down at some papers in front of her on the table. Petra turned back to me.

"First of all," she said, "the lifespan of a human being is limited. For many centuries the average lifespan increased, but it has now remained virtually static for several decades. It seems as if we have reached the ceiling when it comes to how long we can live naturally, and the health risks a.s.sociated with the drugs available to slow down the aging process have so far proved to be far too great for them to be launched on the open market. And secondly ..."

I interrupted her. "This child will have plenty of time to grow up before either Johannes or I fall off our perch."

Amanda glanced up from her papers and Petra opened her mouth to say something, but I raised my voice and carried on: "We might not live long enough to see our grandchildren, but we'll d.a.m.ned well have time to fulfill our role as parents. Both of us. Because even if Johannes is thirteen years older than me, he's still as full of life as a thirty-year-old."

By this stage Petra's face was the color of ivory, her mouth a thin, ashen pink line, her neck as red as if someone had poured boiling water over it. I interpreted her expression as a mixture of intense annoyance and the kind of panic that can affect those in a position of power when they feel they are losing their authority. In other words, I thought I had the upper hand in our discussion, and that Petra was losing her grip and was about to collapse in the face of my solid reasoning. She looked pleadingly at Amanda once again, but Amanda looked away again, down at her papers. Petra looked at me. She swallowed, and then she answered me quietly and slowly, as if feeling her way forward: "But Dorrit. Have you thought about the fact that you-that both of you-would be the same age as the grandparents of the child's friends? There is a significant risk that the child would feel different and would be rejected, perhaps even bullied. Besides which, dispensable parents are hardly a good example for a child."

"There are no dispensable parents, Petra," I said smugly. "That equation doesn't add up."

"The dispensable stamp would remain," she said.

"What stamp? I haven't got a stamp. Can you see a stamp?" I spread my hands wide.

"You wouldn't be good role models," said Petra, her face still as white as a sheet, still speaking quietly, but now with a slight quiver in her voice. "You would ..."

She seemed to respect me, that was undeniable; she definitely seemed to be in an inferior position. I leaned back in the chair and let her talk for a while. But as she talked without being interrupted, her voice became less shaky and muted, and she gradually regained her composure, became herself again: "You would-in one way or another-become a burden to your child, Dorrit. Something to ... be ashamed of. It's true. It is of course extremely ... praiseworthy that you have both created this child. And if you you can bring yourself to carry it throughout your pregnancy-provided it goes to full term, that is-then all credit to you. Naturally you will not be expected to go through the process of giving birth. A date will be set for a C-section, when you will be completely anesthetized so that you will not have to see or hear anything. The reserve bank authority will thank you in every possible way you can think of. There will be ... you will receive certain favors, to put it simply. But-and this is and will remain a very definite 'but'-we cannot allow you to act as a parent. Unfortunately that is completely out of the question. And when it comes to Johannes Alby ..." can bring yourself to carry it throughout your pregnancy-provided it goes to full term, that is-then all credit to you. Naturally you will not be expected to go through the process of giving birth. A date will be set for a C-section, when you will be completely anesthetized so that you will not have to see or hear anything. The reserve bank authority will thank you in every possible way you can think of. There will be ... you will receive certain favors, to put it simply. But-and this is and will remain a very definite 'but'-we cannot allow you to act as a parent. Unfortunately that is completely out of the question. And when it comes to Johannes Alby ..."

She broke off once again, and this time I reacted.

"What?" I said, slowly sitting up straight in my chair again. "What's going on with Johannes?"

Petra was noticeably nervous. Or was she distressed? Or upset? In an almost breathless voice she said: "He ... he hasn't told you, then?"

"Told me what?"

She stared stupidly at me. Stupidly and desperately.

"It's been decided for more than a week," she said.

"What has? What are you talking about?"

By this point I should have understood what she was trying to say-what she had been trying to say all along. I'm not stupid, I should have realized. But there are certain things that, despite the fact that they are looming so clearly in front of you, like enormous waves, are just too overwhelming, too huge, too crus.h.i.+ng for us to grasp.

Petra said: "I ... I really am sorry that you have to find out this way, Dorrit, but at this stage it's presumably too late for him to ..."

She broke off again.

"Out with it, woman!" I yelled.

Then Amanda Jonstorp looked up from her papers, and after a quick glance at Petra she turned to me, opened her mouth and said: "What Petra is trying to tell you is that Johannes Alby was taken in this afternoon to donate his liver to a carpenter with three children and six grandchildren. We're very sorry."

23.

I ran. I ran along the hallway into the clinic, past one consulting room after another, past nurses, doctors, patients, cleaners and others who stepped aside, shocked. I ran through the waiting room, past reception, tore open the fire exit door-the elevators were too slow-and raced down the spiral staircase. My footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell; the echo bounced off the walls and hammered into my head, where it got mixed up with the echo of those words: hasn't told you then ... been decided for more than a week ... that you have to find out this way ... hasn't told you then ... been decided for more than a week ... that you have to find out this way ... And I ran along another corridor, down another spiral staircase, a third corridor-alongside the swimming pool this time-and a third staircase: round and round and the words went round and round- And I ran along another corridor, down another spiral staircase, a third corridor-alongside the swimming pool this time-and a third staircase: round and round and the words went round and round-too late for him ... donate his liver ... carpenter ... six grandchildren ... We're very sorry grandchildren ... We're very sorry ...-and the words and the echo and the stairs made me dizzy, and I staggered out into yet another corridor, down one last winding staircase, out into the culvert on the upper bas.e.m.e.nt level, and finally in through the heavy metal doors of the surgical department. ...-and the words and the echo and the stairs made me dizzy, and I staggered out into yet another corridor, down one last winding staircase, out into the culvert on the upper bas.e.m.e.nt level, and finally in through the heavy metal doors of the surgical department.

There I was met-of course I was met, the cameras had been following me, obviously, and Petra had naturally understood where I was heading and had rung down to warn them-by two st.u.r.dy young nurses in green scrubs. They blocked my way, forming a human barricade, like the riot police but with masks and protective headgear like shower caps instead of visors and helmets. One took off his mask, revealing a large birthmark on his upper lip. He said: "It's already happened, Dorrit. Johannes Alby is already on the operating table. We're very sorry."

I stared at him. I stared at his birthmark; it was dark, like dark chocolate, about a quarter of an inch in diameter, and perfectly round. It looked unreal, as if it had been painted on, and in his place I would have had it removed-particularly as he was surrounded at work by surgeons and scalpels. When I had finished staring I tried to force my way through the two-man wall, the living riot s.h.i.+eld, by quickly ducking and diving in between the two nurses, but of course I didn't succeed; they were too big, too strong, too well-prepared, and the second one-who hadn't yet had time to take off his mask-grabbed me, gripped my arms firmly behind my back, and held me tightly from behind so that I was forced to lean forward. All I could see were my own legs and shoes and the dingy green floor. I struggled to free myself, but then the grip tightened so that it hurt my upper arms.

His voice was strangely gentle against the back of my neck as he said: "It's already happened, didn't you hear?" As if he was trying to sound calming, as if he was trying to console me-a stark contrast to the police hold he had on me. He carried on, in the same gentle voice: "There's nothing you can do. The narcotics specialist has already caused his brain to die. Johannes Alby is gone. Clinically dead."

I made a final effort to free myself, but realized that I was only wearing myself out, and gave up. He must have felt in my limbs that I'd given up, because he let me go. I smoothed my s.h.i.+rt and turned to the two men, rubbing my upper arms, and said in as controlled a voice as I could manage: "I want to see him anyway."

"There's no point," said the one with the gentle voice and the police hold, as he took off his mask to reveal a pointed nose and a pair of thin lips. "He isn't alive," he went on, "even if it looks as though he is. His breathing is being supported by the respirator, his heart is beating and his blood is being oxygenated, but there is no real life there, and you know that perfectly well. He has no perception of anything. He can't hear or feel anything."

"But I can," I said. "Let me see him."

"They're operating right now, they're getting ready to remove the liver, and a team is waiting in a helicopter outside the building to take it. It's impossible for you to go in there now. It's too late. I'm sorry. You need to go back, go home. If you want we can book an emergency appointment with your psychologist. Who do you see?"

"I don't need any psychologist. I need to see Johannes. That's the only thing I need, the only thing I want, and the only thing I'm going to agree to. If I don't get it, I shall kill myself. And I can a.s.sure you that I know how I'm going to do it, and it will be so quick and effective that n.o.body will have time to stop me or save me."

Irrespective of whether they believed my threat or not, I knew it was an argument they had to take notice of. It's just like when the police get information about a bomb threat in a department store, for example; they have to evacuate the building whether or not they believe there really is a bomb. I knew I was valuable as a dispensable person; I was in perfect health, had excellent readings, was very fit, still had almost all my organs, and on top of that I was carrying a child-fresh human capital-beneath my heart. I was, literally, worth my weight in gold. They couldn't afford to risk losing me.

The nurse with the birthmark on his upper lip said: "Perhaps we might be able to arrange it. It's possible they might agree to let you in for a short while when they've finished with the liver."

"But then they're going to take ..." began the one with the police hold.

"Yes, but there's no real hurry with that," interrupted Birthmark. "Most of it's only going into the banks anyway."

The banks, that's where they keep the organs and tissues that can be preserved; the other parts of Johannes's body were going to be kept there, the parts they always take if they are medically viable: some of the remaining vital organs plus corneas, cardiac valves, bone and other tissue. Everything that can be used is removed and placed in a nutritional fluid or deep frozen and preserved. It's purely routine, and naturally applies also to needed individuals who are brain-dead as a result of accidents or violent crimes.

The nurses showed me to a small break room, closed the door behind me and tried the handle from the outside, presumably to make sure it was locked.

The room was furnished with a bed, a chair and a desk. And it had a window. Yes, a window, a real one. A real window looking out over a park. There was snow in the park. It was winter. There was a frozen pond with a gap in the ice in the middle, with ducks, grebes and other waterfowl walking to and fro, taking a quick dip like winter swimmers. The pond was partly surrounded by bushes and tall trees, the snow lying on the bushes like little caps, and like a soft, s.h.i.+mmering mattress on the ground. A gust of wind shook the treetops, and the snow drifted from the branches like sifted powdered sugar.

Something didn't add up; I was on level K1. In the bas.e.m.e.nt. But now it turned out that this upper bas.e.m.e.nt level was above ground. There was no doubt that this was a real window and a real view-when I went right up close I could feel the draft through the gaps, a draft that was cold and smelled of winter. In a pure reflex action I grabbed hold of the handles on the window and tried to lift it upward, but it was locked, and I let my arm drop and remained standing there, upright, gazing out at this whiteness, this reality. This outdoor s.p.a.ce.

In the end I managed to tear myself away from the window and allowed my eyes to travel slowly over the walls, the ceiling, the corners, the furniture, the light, and it was as I'd thought: no cameras. At least I couldn't see any. Unless they were as tiny as the head of a pin, there were no cameras. Clearly the two nurses were more afraid that I would run amok in the operating room than that I would kill myself, despite everything.

Birthmark came back.

"That's fine," he said. "But it'll be about another hour, and you'll have to wait in here. And we've been ordered to lock the door. I hope you understand."

I nodded.

"Would you like anything while you're waiting? Coffee? Tea? A sandwich?"

"No."

He had backed out and was about to close the door when I changed my mind.

"Actually, yes. One of those application forms, you know the ones."

"What kind of application form?"

"One of those you fill in when you want to make a final donation as soon as possible."

An expression of dismay appeared on Birthmark's face.

"Are you sure?" he said. "You're ... you're expecting a child, aren't you?"

I didn't reply, just gave him a long stare. He looked away, slightly embarra.s.sed I thought; he looked as if he felt stupid.

He went away, came back with an application form, and left me alone once again. I sat down at the desk. The first question was: This application comprises

[image]A. a request to be moved to another section. (Proceed to question 2)[image] B. a request to be moved to another unit. (Proceed to question 5) B. a request to be moved to another unit. (Proceed to question 5)[image] C. a request to make a final donation. (Proceed to question 8) C. a request to make a final donation. (Proceed to question 8)[image] D. a request for postponement of a final donation (Proceed to question 9) D. a request for postponement of a final donation (Proceed to question 9) I ticked box C and went on to question 8, where I ticked box A: I wish my final donation to be carried out

[image]A. as soon as possible.[image] B. with effect from this date: year _______, month _____, day _____. B. with effect from this date: year _______, month _____, day _____.

Right at the bottom on the other side of the form, under "Further information," I wrote: I am six weeks pregnant. Request transplantation/abortion of fetus to be carried out in conjunction with final donation. I am six weeks pregnant. Request transplantation/abortion of fetus to be carried out in conjunction with final donation.

Then I signed my name, wrote my ID number and the date, then turned my chair to the window. While I was waiting I looked at the pond, the trees, the snow, the birds. Watched a male wild duck as he emerged from the water, shook himself so that the droplets of water formed a ring around him, then began to waddle across the ice, up over the uneven and obviously slippery bank where he stumbled and slid several times before he managed to get up onto the flat, snow-covered ground where he stopped for a few seconds, as if to catch his breath. Then he waddled off across the snow on his orange duck's feet which seemed to work extremely well as snow shoes, because he didn't break the surface once, not until he began to run, clumsy and without any real rhythm, as he flapped his wings, flapped and flapped, and took off. He flew in a wide, s.h.i.+mmering green arc above the pond, then in among the trees where he disappeared from view.

24.

Johannes was breathing. Or to be more accurate: the respirator was breathing for him. The respirator was an air pump with a thick plastic tube going into a mask that covered half his face. The respirator hissed and clicked and sucked, hissed and clicked and sucked, at regular intervals. Meanwhile the heart frequency wrote its monotonous message on a monitor next to the respirator, accompanied by a mechanical beep, also at regular intervals.

I was sitting next to the operating table on a high stool, wearing a protective lab coat, plastic gloves, a hairnet, and a mask. Most of Johannes's body was covered with green surgical sheets, with only his head, neck, shoulders and arms visible. His skin had a yellowish tone. From beneath the covers snaked various tubes containing different-colored fluids, attached to different machines. There was another tube running between a needle inserted into the back of one hand and a drip behind the headboard.

I ignored the instructions I'd been given, took off the plastic gloves and placed one hand cautiously on the green sheet above the left side of his chest. His heart was beating as usual. Exactly as usual, just a little more evenly, the rhythm as steady as a drumbeat, and it was not affected by either my presence or my touch; no increased pulse rate, no surprised or happy double beat, no short, breathless pauses. Just this sucking noise followed by the hissing, the clicking, and the monotonous little beep.

I wished I had lived at the time when people still believed in the heart. When people still believed that the heart was the central organ, containing all the memories, emotions, capabilities, defects and other qualities that make us into specific individuals. I longed to go back to an age of ignorance, before the heart lost its status and was reduced to just one of a number of vital but replaceable organs.

The fact that Johannes's heart was beating, that I could feel the warmth of his body and a steady pulse against my hand meant nothing more than that the blood was being pumped around the body that had been his. He was alive, but he no longer existed. And yet I leaned over, took off my mask and whispered in his ear: "Why? Why didn't you say anything? Why did you say you were happy? Why didn't you let me grieve with you? While we still had the chance."

I got no reply, of course. I straightened up, slid my hand up from the covered chest to his bare shoulder and the area around his collarbone. The skin was so warm, and the throbbing veins beneath made it feel so alive that for a fraction of a second I expected him to raise one hand and stroke my cheek gently, consoling me, just as he had done that first evening at the welcome party, exactly a year ago. I closed my eyes, caressed the length of his upper arm and lower arm, ran my fingers through the coa.r.s.e hairs there and on the back of his hand, grasped his hand between both of mine. It was limp and heavy, but otherwise it felt just the way it always did: broad and rough, like that of a person who did physical labor, but with long, sensitive fingers-dream fingers for a pianist, or why not a surgeon. I turned the hand over, touched its cupped shape: the deep lines in the palm, the smooth calluses on the surfaces of the otherwise soft cus.h.i.+ons at the base of the fingers-the hand's equivalent of pads. With my fingertips I felt his fingertips, which had so often and so pa.s.sionately touched the most sensitive parts of my body. Then I bent over his palm and kissed it. As I did so I felt-close, so close-the scent of his skin, his body. I drew that scent into my body.

"Dorrit ..." The voice made me jump and open my eyes; I hadn't heard anyone come into the room.

I straightened up immediately, let go of Johannes's hand and turned in the direction of the voice. It was Birthmark.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But the team needs to carry on. You'll have to ..."

"Yes," I said. "I know." And without either looking at or touching Johannes's body again I slipped down from the stool and followed Birthmark out.

Outside the operating room he stopped, turned to me and looked at me with the same sincere expression that Petra Runhede favored.

"What is it?" I asked crossly.

"You're very pale," he said. "You look completely worn out. You look as if you need to talk to somebody about what you've just been through."

I didn't feel at all worn out, oddly enough. But life had taught me that reactions after traumatic experiences are sometimes delayed, and perhaps Birthmark could see something reflected in my face that I was not yet aware of. However, I had no desire whatsoever to talk to someone right then, particularly as I suspected he meant that the someone should be him. Because what could someone like him do for someone like me in a situation like this?

As if I had spoken out loud, he said: "As you are perhaps aware, all unit staff are trained in trauma management. Let's go back to the break room."

I didn't know that, in fact, but said nothing, merely shrugged my shoulders and allowed myself to be escorted back to the little room with the view over the park.

The light had altered slightly outside. A bluish twilight was falling slowly over the whiteness.