Free In the Middle of All This by Fred G. Leebron Page B

frame.
    â€œGit!” he shouted. It scampered. Hard to tell which one it was, they both looked exactly the same, one the mother, the other the son. But the son was twice as large. He wondered if they had sex. He and Lauren hadn’t, since his declaration.
    Then the phone rang, and it was the hospital calling, apparently to tell Lauren that Richard’s stuff had arrived. “Just have her call us,” the woman said for the second time, after Martin had prodded again for the reason for her call. He left a message on Lauren’s voice mail.
    â€œRichard.”
    It was her calling him. It was him calling himself. Wasn’t he asleep? Didn’t he have to get in early tomorrow? Didn’t he have another evening course?
    â€œRichard.”
    It was her. “What?” he said. “What is it?”
    â€œI am,” she said. “I am feeling better. A lot better.”
    â€œI know.” He reached and held her hand. She was sweet. She was brave. She still should have told Martin and Lauren about the last tests. They should know. They should know everything if they were really going to inject his swimmers in her. Hard for him to believe, actually. Maybe they wouldn’t. They probably shouldn’t.
    â€œI’m going to call that guy tomorrow,” she said. “Or today.” She laughed. “Whenever.”
    â€œWhat guy,” he yawned. It was impossible to keep up with all the people she had to see and all the people there remained to see and the pools and pools of unknown people that she hadn’t even dipped into yet. It was quite a little industry, all these people. Not that they weren’t good. Even the guy with the pendulum who dowsed their house pinpointed the exact reason why all the food molded on the western quadrant of the kitchen counter. Elizabeth found and went to only the good people, only the people who charged a small fortune, only the people who weren’t covered by their insurance. Not that that was a problem. It wasn’t a problem. It was just making them skint, was all. Now he was waking up. He didn’t want to know what time it was. It wasn’t time.
    â€œThat ayahuasca guy,” she said forcefully.
    â€œOh.” He was all for that guy—he was offering some kind of medicinal hallucinogen. It sounded kind of fun. It sounded like it could be an opening. He was all for openings. None of this closing-you-down nonsense. There were lots of openings left. She still looked pretty great. Just a bit of a slide here. “I’m all for that,” he said.
    They squeezed hands.
    â€œI’m afraid I really have to get some rest, sweets,” he heard himself murmur. “Epiphany again tonight, you know.”
    â€œIf we all go through with this,” she said, “which room do you think should be the nursery?”
    â€œWhichever you like.”
    â€œOrange or yellow or peach?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œI think I want to get up,” she said.
    â€œSweets.” From his point of view it was just too soon, yet here she was, keeping him up another night, or dragging him from sleep, or whatever was happening. She had to speculate—which kind of nappies, which kind of formula, which kind of ointment, which kind of changing table, which kind of crib, which kind of carpet, which kind of window dressing, which kind of wall clock, which kind of night-light. He’d always wanted a child, and when he saw that they couldn’t, he’d wanted them to have as much comfort and pleasure as possible. Now there was little of either, and they might after all have that baby. It was actually kind of exciting. Cripes. “Sweets, I can’t do this again,” he said.
    â€œI’m not asking you to.” She was already out of bed and pulling on her robe, the one her sister had given her for the wedding shower in New York. He’d thought those were awful days, in that tiny condo with the sole