"Cosima!" Delphine is breathless, completely in awe as she finishes reading the test results. "You're in full remission! The lesions are gone."
Cosima smiles weakly at her from where she sits on the exam table, legs swinging gently. "Woo," she hoots unenthusiastically.
Taken aback, Delphine scoots her stool over until she is directly in front of Cosima. "Cosima," she begins to explain, barely containing her enthusiasm, "if the tissue is viable, you may be able to have children."
Cosima's face hardens. "That is the next step, isn't it? Test the viability of the healed tissue." She speaks matter-of-factly, without inflection. "Implantation, let alone carrying to full term, is highly unlikely given the trauma sustained by the tissue. Still, we need to test the full extent of the treatment before we can conclude clinical relevance."
Taken aback, Delphine leans against Cosima's knees and forces Cosima to meet her eyes. "Cosima, we are talking a child. Your child. This is not an experiment, nor is it a decision to make lightly."
Cosima slides off the table and heads towards the door. She calls over her shoulder, "Set up the procedure for next month."
Delphine winces as the door clicks shut behind her.
Delphine spends the month trying to talk Cosima out of it, but Cosima is grimly determined.
"It's good science, Delphine. What good is healing the uterine tissue if it isn't viable for pregnancy? We need to test the full extent of the treatment before we can conclude anything clinically relevant about it's efficacy. If we ever want to publish this work, this is the next step."
Cosima's lab notebook reads:
Null hypothesis- There is no significant difference in viability of uterine tissue for full-term gestation when untreated and when treated with the D2015 stem cell protocol.
It makes Delphine stomach clench. Her tongue is sandpaper against her teeth. She tries to talk to Cosima, to make clear the weight of this decision. A life is quite literally at stake. But Cosima rebuffs every advance.
In another world, they should have been grinning like idiots, excited and holding hands tightly through the procedure. In this world, Cosima stares blankly at the ceiling and Delphine looks away.
Delphine finds herself hoping the implantation doesn't work. Cosima speaks of the process, of her potential pregnancy, in cold scientific terms. An experiment, in which she is one variable and this theoretical fetus is another.
She maps out the next series of tests to be undertaken after this one fails. She's already written the abstract to the case study she will publish one day, leaving only one line blank. "Although free of lesions, the uterine tissue was able to support fetal growth for only _ weeks."
When the pregnancy test comes back positive, she makes a few notes in her lab notebook and goes back to her workday.
When the first signs of the baby bump begin to change the landscape of her abdomen, she doesn't smile and turn to admire her new body in the mirror. Delphine isn't even sure she notices.
When her pants grow too tight to fit around the petite swell, she switches to skirts with elastic waistbands and moves on without comment.
It's terrifying to Delphine. Cosima is herself in all respects- bright and cheerful. Except for this. Where the pregnancy is concerned, she shuts down. She relates to the infant growing inside of her only in scientific terms, and without any trace of her familiar enthusiasm. She avoids all discussion of the future, all daydreaming about the child. She rejects all of Delphine's concerned questions, all her worried glances.
Delphine tries to engage Cosima, to wake and nourish some maternal instinct within her, but Cosima seems to see only the science. Like this, Cosima might be mistaken for the people who designed her thirty years ago. Her mindset is identical. Baby as a means of scientific discovery. Baby as experiment.
At moments when Cosima's apathy scares her enough to trigger anger, Delphine considers explaining this. If you go on like this, you will be no different than they were, Cosima. But she keeps her mouth shut out of fear that voicing the words might make them true.
Instead, Delphine stays awake late into the night, whispering to the baby, words of love and promises of the life to come. When Cosima is deep asleep, Delphine whispers to her too, words of encouragement and faith.
When they hear the heartbeat, Cosima makes notes of the rate and regularity in the notebook. She doesn't smile. Delphine cries and asks for a recording.
When the baby kicks, hard enough to make Cosima wince, she doesn't raise her hand to sooth her fidgety occupant. She doesn't smile and feel the taut skin.
As her abdomen grows tight and round, she doesn't rest her hands absentmindedly along the curve. She acts as though it isn't even there. Moves around it, as though it weren't part of her.
Delphine paints the nursery with sunshine yellows, clinging vines and tall giraffes. She paints alone.
Cosima grits her teeth through labor, sweats and pants, but no pain or excitement reaches her distant eyes. She alarms the nurses. She ignores their encouragement entirely and refuses to squeeze Delphine's offered hand.
And then, after hours, after months, there is a baby. Naked and pink and screaming.
Delphine is hesitant to hand the infant to Cosima, for fear she will pronounce the null hypothesis rejected, hand the baby back and start making notes in her notebook.
There is no need to worry, though. Cosima, face hidden in her hands, sobs as hard as the screaming infant.
Delphine kisses her temple, brushing back the hair clinging to her forehead. Cosima looks up, face streaked with tears and gasping for air. She reaches out shakily to accept the infant Delphine hands her.
"I was so afraid you wouldn't make it, Love," she whispers into the infant's ear, hugging the tiny bundled body to her chest. "I was too afraid to believe you could really exist."
She leans her head against Delphine's shoulder, and lets out a long shuddering breath. "I was so afraid."
