Mother

“This will be the last one for the day”, the surgeon informed his assistant. “Your first implant removal, right?”

The assistant, a teenage boy, nods as he finishes scrubbing the metal surface of the industrial kitchen island at the center of the derelict restaurant. The surgeon trades out his latex gloves and places his apron in the dish sanitizer at the corner of the room, procuring another apron from a hook nearby.

“This procedure will be more complicated than treating injuries and wounds” the surgeon assures. “Watch closely. This is where the real money is made.”

The assistant spreads a clear plastic shower curtain over the kitchen island.

“… and for your own sanity, don’t listen to their story”, the surgeon continues.

“She has a story?”, the assistant asks

“They all have a story”, the surgeon replies with an exhausted tone. “They come in here with some pathetic rationalization or irrational conspiracy theory about why they failed their parental assessment.”

“If they’re not fit to be mothers …”, the assistant begins to ask

“no no no”, the surgeon interrupts. “don’t finish that thought. Ethics are all relative. If they don’t come to us, these girls will take whatever street drug promises to neutralize the enzymes from the implant. Which leads to diseased and malformed babies, and broken mothers.”

“So we’re making the world better?” the assistant asks sarcastically.

“We’re making money”, the surgeon replies with a chuckle. “This colony will eventually run out of resources like all the others, and then earth will be a big desert. Survival has always been about having enough wealth to barter for it, and it always will be.”

The surgeon pulls his cloth mask over his nose and gestures for his assistant to open the door to the kitchen. A young girl, barely older than twenty, steps into the clean room and looks around nervously. This kitchen is clearly a drastic juxtaposition to the state of the building just outside the door.

“Leave your belongings by the door”, the surgeon instructs the girl.

The girl slips her feet from her dress slippers which are noticeably larger than her appropriate size, then scoots them against the wall by the door. Her dress is light and simple, and drapes below her knees, though the waistline seems to fall lower on her than its design would have intended.

“There are … risks?” she asks nervously

“What?” the surgeon replies aggressively. “This isn’t a hospital! We do surgery the old way. With knives, and Narcotics! Make a choice, girl!”

The girl grasps the silver heart-shaped locket at the end of her necklace and summons her courage.

“I was born to be a mother”, she asserts confidently. Tears forming in her eyes. “This is all I ever wanted, and nobody has the right to tell me …”

“I don’t want your story!”, the surgeon interrupts angrily. “I already have your money, so lie down on the table or get out!”

The girl steps toward the table

“Ah ah” the surgeon snaps. “Your dress and jewelry”

The girl removes her dress and takes one last look at her necklace before placing them on the metal counter by the doorway. She lies down on the plastic curtain and shifts to the center of the countertop. The surgeon’s assistant picks up a rubber tube with a makeshift face cover, attached to a tank of compressed gas, and places the mask over the girl’s nose and mouth.

“Breath deep and slow” instructs the assistant. “Try to think relaxing thoughts. It’s important that you move as little as possible”

The surgeon stands over the girl from the side of the kitchen island with a scalpel in hand, waiting for his moment. Beside him is a tray of surgical tools atop a small rolling table. He watches her face carefully waiting for her to lose consciousness. At the right moment, he gently runs his gloved finger across the sole of her foot. No reaction. Swiftly he makes a large incision across her lower abdomen to create a flap and pins it back. Inserting a tube to drain the pools of blood into specially designed bottles.

“ugh” the surgeon exclaims under his breath after only a few seconds

“What is it?” asks the assistant curiously

“These implants sometimes migrate as children grow” the surgeon responds impatiently. “I need to search for it”

The assistant walks over to the surgeon to observe

“Stay by the gas!” the surgeon barks “If she starts to move around while I’m cutting, she could bleed out”

After about two minutes of searching for the implant in the girl’s womb, she begins to squirm. The assistant adjusts the gas. The surgeon keeps working quickly, compensating for the girl’s movements, until she goes still once again. He continues his work, moving tissue aside while reaching into the opening with forceps and draining blood.

“Well, that’s it”, the surgeon says in a sigh, dropping a small metal bead onto the table beside him from his forceps. He reaches for a thick needle-like tool and begins using it to seal the girl’s incisions up with glue.

“You found it”, the assistant affirms

“She’s cut up pretty bad”, the surgeon states. “we’re done here. I’m just going to stop the bleeding.”

The surgeon closes up the surgical flap and glues it. He steps away, removes his gloves, and tosses them into a bin at the corner of the kitchen. The assistant looks curiously the surgeon.

“What do we do?” the assistant asks.

“Keep an eye on her and prep a bottle of O positive”, the surgeon replies. “We’ll keep her here until she recovers. If she doesn’t, I’ll show you how collect and store organs.”

“Should we drop her at a hospital?”, the assistant asks with concern.

“No, we don’t need the police at our door when she recovers”, the surgeon responds calmly. “We need the word of mouth and she won’t want to spend the rest of her life in prison for removing her implant.”

The surgeon sheds his apron as his assistant exits to the kitchen’s walk-in freezer. He then walks over to the counter with the girl’s dress and necklace and looks down at the locket for a moment before lifting it up to dangle it in the light. The silver chain and locket shimmer in the florescent glow of the overhead lights.

“I’ll name her Rhea” the girl says groggily from the tarp covered kitchen island.

The surgeon looks at the girl, eyes half open, smiling at the locket as he holds it to the light.

“… after my mother”, the girl continues before falling out of consciousness once more.

The surgeon opens the locket. A small picture of a woman holding a baby is pressed inside. The corners of the picture are crumpled and worn to fit the interior of the locket. He peels the picture out. The paper has a glossy quality, but more like a publication print. That reverse side of the picture has a sliver of some other image. He drops the picture onto the counter near the dress and slips the necklace into his pocket.

“I’ll be back in an hour”, the surgeon announces. “You can handle this until I get back.”