The Baby Gift. Bethany Campbell
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had never so much as heard of such a disease. Now she was telling him his child—their child—might die of it.
“It’ll lead to aplastic anemia,” Briana said. “Her blood count’s unstable. Her system can’t fight infection. She gets tired too easily. She bruises too easily. When she’s cut, she doesn’t heal right. She could have complete bone marrow failure. Or other diseases. Even—stroke.”
Stroke? How could so young a child have a stroke?
He shook his head to clear it. Briana sounded as if she were on automatic pilot now, as if she’d rehearsed saying this to him a hundred times. Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush.
“Wait,” he begged her. “You’re sure of all this?”
“Yes. Yes. I took her to a doctor in St. Louis. She had a complete blood count and a—a chromosome test. It had to be sent away to a special lab. She has what they call chromosome breakage. It’s Yates’s anemia and it’s life-threatening. It’s one of the hereditary anemias.”
He put his hand on his bare stomach because he was starting to feel physically ill. “She inherited it?”
My God, he thought, was it from me? Did I somehow give my own child a death sentence?
Briana seemed to read his thoughts. “Yes. But, listen, Josh. She had to inherit it from both of us. We—we both carry a recessive gene.”
“Briana—I don’t get it. This runs in both our families? I never heard of it.”
“Neither did I. It’s recessive—and rare. Very rare. We couldn’t have known.”
We couldn’t have known. He knew she meant to comfort him, but he felt no comfort, only a growing desperation.
Briana went on as if possessed. “Her bone marrow isn’t at failure stage—yet. It might not fail for years. Or it might start tomorrow. There’s no predicting it. But she hasn’t been well, Josh. Not well at all…”
She talked about strange drugs he’d never heard of. She used terms that sounded as mysterious as witchcraft. But everything she said boiled down to one fact—for Nealie’s illness there was no simple cure and no sure one.
The best chance was a transplant involving either marrow or umbilical cord blood. By far the best donor of either would be a healthy sibling.
Nealie had no sibling.
Briana paused, then plunged on again. “If she has a crisis, she’ll need a donor immediately. But finding a match can take months, years. We need to find a donor before a crisis occurs.”
“I understand that,” he said. “But how much time are we talking here? It’s inevitable this disease gets worse?”
“Yes. It’s inevitable.” In her voice resignation warred with determination to fight.
Josh swallowed. “So…how long could she live?”
He heard her take a deep breath. “Without a perfect donor? The average life expectancy is—she’d live to be fifteen. Maybe longer. Maybe not. She’s—already outlived some children who’ve had it.”
A shifting blackness wavered before his eyes. He shut his eyes and began to think, God, God, God. He didn’t know if he was cursing or praying.
He said, “With a perfect donor?”
“She might get well.”
Might, he thought, pressing his eyes shut harder.
Briana said, “So I’ve thought about it, Josh. I’ve thought about all of it. The best chance for her—is for us to have another baby.”
He fought to think. “But we both carry this gene. We could have another child who’s sick.”
“No. There are ways to make sure we have one who’s healthy.”
He frowned, eyes still shut. “What do you mean?”
“Josh, I’ve talked to the doctors about it. I mean, it can be done. It’s complicated to explain. It’ll be easier to talk about it face-to-face.”
“Just tell me.”
She was silent a moment. “We don’t even have to touch each other. We can have my eggs artificially inseminated.”
His eyes snapped open in shock. “What?”
“There are tests,” she said. “The doctors can tell if there’s a healthy embryo that’s a match for Nealie. If there is, they can implant it in me—”
This was crazy, Josh thought. This was mad-scientist stuff, fantasies out of a future world.
Was she really saying they’d have a child but they wouldn’t touch? That under the cold lights of a lab, strangers would quicken the eggs into life without either of them being there? And that then tests—not nature—would decide which of these tiny entities would survive and which would not?
Something deep within him rebelled.
“You want us to play God, Briana?”
“Josh, it’s for Nealie.” Her voice broke, and with it so did his heart. There was no answering her argument.
Still, he tried. “Look, I love her, too. You know that. But have you thought about—”
“I’ve thought of nothing else.”
“Briana, let’s talk this over—”
“I can’t talk much longer right now or people will get suspicious. Rupert’s already banging on the door.”
Josh could hear him. Larry’s boys were little louts, and they were the plague of Nealie’s life.
Oh, God. Nealie’s life. Nealie’s life.
“Aunt Briana, come out!” It was Rupert’s voice. “Neville made the cat throw up!”
Josh furrowed his brow in concentration, as he tried to block out the kid. He said, “Briana, tell me one thing. Does Nealie know how sick she is? Does she suspect?”
“No. I told her all the testing was for allergies. I told everyone that. I’ve lied to the whole world. Only you know the truth. Oh, Josh, please come home. Together maybe we can save her.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Rupert was banging louder. Josh heard Briana shush him. “Nealie’s asleep,” she told the boy. “Be quiet. You’ll wake her.”
“Nealie’s a wimp,” Rupert shouted. “I didn’t mean to give her a nosebleed. I said I was sorry.”
Alarm and anger rose in Josh. “A nosebleed?”
“She gets them all the time,” Briana said wearily. “I made her lie on the couch with a cold cloth on her face. She fell asleep. I put her to bed. She has no energy lately.” To Rupert, she said, “Rupert, stop that. If you wake Nealie, you’ll be in real trouble.” To Josh she said, “I’ve got to go. And I’ve got to pull myself together before I face them. I’ve been dreading telling you this. I’m sorry, Josh. So sorry.”
“Tell Nealie I love her and that I’m coming home. I’ll let you know when as soon as I get a flight.”
“Thank you. Josh. Goodbye.”
She sounded almost humble—his proud, cheerful, independent Briana.
The line went dead. He sat for a moment, then hung up the phone on its gold-colored hook.
His head swam with sorrow and shock. He did something he had not done since he was eleven years old. He put his face into his hands and wept.
RUPERT WAS JOINED at the door by his brother Neville, who began to kick. “Aunt Bri, Aunt Bri,” Neville called. “You’ve gotta come. The cat threw up. Mama tried to clean