SAGE SACRIFICES

On my knees, forehead pressed against the pearly white porcelain, loose hair spilling into the government mandated, DamNear Wholly Water, I was never happier than I was that morning. Not before. Not since. Never again like that.

With trembling hands, I gripped the custom-made enameled seat ring against another wave of so much nausea. Oh God, how I’d needed that vomigeddon to end. Like, couldn’t I skip that part? Suddenly, I had so much to do. And I hadn’t wanted to make such a big, fucking mess of things. Yet, there I was, face hanging in the blessed void of that porcelain throne.

Exhausted, my weary eyes snagged on the pitiful chip in my Cosmo Not Tonight Honey manicure. I remember thinking—damn it! I broke a nail. That hadn’t crushed my spirits though. Not that day. Crazy right? What did I care then about a broken nail or the cold, Gallistur Grey marble against my sticky, throbbing temples? My cares were incautiously single-minded, and I had reason to be optimistic. Careless Bliss—my mother’s favorite nail color. It blinds us as surely as a long, hard look into the searing indifference of a midday sun.

And believe me, blithe to the bone, my mother would sooner starve than be caught dead with untidy nails. So, I hid the damning defect in the curl of my palm and prided myself for favoring that tankless one-piece, the SweetCheeks Deluxe, an outrageously high-quality commode. A good design choice. Always chic against expensive grout work. Easy to clean.

Take it from me, nothing pleases my toplofty clients more than long. lean, elegant lines, stylish mood lighting, and the unmitigated splendor of a well-crafted honey bucket.

Hit then with another involuntary retching, I coughed and spit through fits of blinding euphoria. Gasping for air, for control of my quarrelsome gut, I did all that I could to be tidy about it. Finally, I could do nothing more than dry heave the remains of my ill-advised breakfast, a stale slice of cold pizza.

It’s funny in its absurdity, what we must be willing to suffer to bring joy to this world. With my weary left hand grasping the back of the seat’s quiet-close lid, I let my heavy head loll to one side and find respite on the soft inner-cushion of my clammy elbow. I wiped my mouth with an Angel-Fine tissue, my misty eyes with another.

That’s when my Thumb-Butler blinked, vibrated on the travertine tile with a succession of incoming messages. The relentless ding, ding, ding had no regard for the persistent ache in my queasy gut. I stretched a leg to reach my handheld and slid it toward me with pedicured toes. Believe me, the awkward move was far preferable to lifting my brain-cramping head.

Roman texted champagne emojis, three of them. I should put on a party dress. He had big news. He was taking me some place fancy for dinner. Like, how was I supposed to make that happen? As if I’d been in any kind of shape for date night.

Married less than a year, I was already Frumpty-Dumpty.

But second marriages were different. Right? Do-overs. Do it right the second time. Though, the second time, you’re pressed for time. Well, not anymore.

Ha! I was the one with big news. Roman’s news was nothing compared to mine. I was already sure of it, in my simple, sweet, blinding happiness. Boy, had I big news for him.

I texted red hearts in reply, Rock His World red.

Wet hair slapping the cold tiled floor, I collapsed into a blissful ball of delirium.

Good God. I’d never before taken in the scope of the powder room from that unseemly vantage point. Completely repulsed, I crushed my brow in a wholly reflexive blitz of micro-wrinkles and scrutinized the ugly underside of the pedestal sink. Like, what was under there? A gross bit of alien slime? What a hellscape. In abject horror, I craned my neck and contorted my face against all conventional beauty advice. Seriously? Why do we never design such spaces for curling up sick on the bathmat?

I wish I could go back to that day, to that moment, thinking about replacing the tilework between intermittent spasms of my convulsing gut, upgrading the vanity lights, concealing better the neglected trip switches that keep us all safe. But I cannot.

Were I to go back, I’d stay behind, redo the bathroom. I’d change everything—do it all so differently. But I was reeling in a daze of starry-eyed happiness. I know that now.

I should’ve trusted my queasy gut.

Hell, I might’ve been the first interior designer with the cavalier audacity to upend social conformity and boldly finish the ugly underside of the bathroom vanity. Lauded for such a discriminating eye, I’d’ve been hailed as a shrewd and perceptive visionary, right? But none of that matters now. I no longer have the luxury to see the world through my mother’s rose-colored glasses. Even so, eyes are useless to the heart that’s blind.

Instead, I crawled into the shower, dialed up a crazy-luxurious six minutes of hot, Wholly Water, and ventured forth into the future with nary a care in sight. And the sheer nirvana of my extra plush, resort-style, KindaCotton bath towel—oh how I miss that truly scandalous weave.

I would never know happiness quite like that again.

***

We were seated at a corner table dressed in fine linen. Candles oozed a romantic ambiance. I hadn’t been in that dining room since before the grand opening, not since my consult with the interior design team. Some of my very best work. Lucrative too.

I held my breath as I took it all in. Oh my. The upmarket synth-flowers were an elegant touch with a hint of neo-lavender and faux sandalwood. How he’d gotten us into Papyrology on the six-hundredth and sixteenth floor of the TELOCA Tower, I’ll never know. Believe me, such a coup was nearly impossible without reservations weeks in advance. No other hot spot in the whole city could claim a perch higher.

Thank God he paid extra and ordered the Hovercab to arrive well-above mid-level. He really was going all out. It took no more than one express lift and a long transversal to get us to the exclusive dining room. Outside the oversized windows, the busy city skyline glittered in its evening glow. Adverts and light air traffic zipped between the many lower skyscrapers, reaching but failing to know such glorious heights.

Such a gentleman. He took the stole from my shoulders, the one he bought for my birthday, the kind with real fur from long extinct creatures—way too extravagant, but that was so Roman—in our honeymoon phase. Spare no expense.

He kissed me on the cheek as he pulled out my chair.

Of course, he frowned. Almost imperceptibly, but I saw it. The corners of his mouth pursed, stiffened, when I had declined the wine menu, and asked for spring water instead. His Friends of the Vine—whomever they were—would’ve been taken aghast in righteous indignation, I know. Hotty-toddy wine clubs can be so snobbish like that. The thought suddenly struck me as funny. So, I bit my lips hard, pressed them together to keep an oversized grin from giving me away. Hell, these days fresh groundwater was more expensive than a decent house wine anyway. I couldn’t look him in the eyes yet. Not yet.

I decided not to tell him my news. How dramatic, right? I would show it to him. Even though my Anarcha 3000 wristband—the one I loved so much because it was the whole reason I even met Roman in the first place—blinked with the likely prognosis, my mother badgered me to confirm it the old-fashioned way. So, I had the plastic stick with my happy results in a Ziplock, jammed into my favorite Been There and Black velvet clutch.

When the moment was right, I would hand it over. Watch the fine lines of his face crease and deepen, his handsome face, as he realized what it meant for us. We were finally going to be the picture-perfect family, climbing the social ranks and, no doubt—the increased square footage of the undeniably pro-natal. And I was eager to see the tears of joy in his eyes. His Blue My Mind eyes. So, I resolved to let him go first. I shouldn’t have.

He was altogether way too grim.

“I have good news and bad news,” he began.

I wrinkled my nose in that little way that always made him smile like a randy schoolboy. “Then, by all means, keep the bad news to yourself.”

Only, he didn’t smile like a randy schoolboy. His face fell even lower.

“There’s no need to panic, darling, but we must be ready for what’s coming.”

“You know me.” I put a hand to my chest. “Life’s too short to wait till you’re ready.”

“Sage. This is serious.” He was killing the vibe. “I need you to trust me here. If we’re smart, act fast, we can be out in front of this thing.”

“What thing?” I reclined in the creamy pseudo-silk wingback.

I had thought we were out for a night on the town.

“It won’t make your tabloid news.” He nodded to my Thumb-Butler. “But they’re doing all they can to conceal a huge collapse in agroecology.”

“They?” I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“Those monocrats at Transglobal.” His contempt for bureaucracy was nothing new.

“It’s always something,” I replied. There never was any shortage of depressing news.

“It’s far more serious this time, a critical failure point.” He tugged at the tablecloth. “Worse than you know.” Roman had always been one to worry too much.

“Worse how?” I leaned in, lowered my voice. “More street-level hostilities worse?”

“The last resurrection of nightcrawlers.” His gaze held mine. “Lost.”

“Earthworms?” My shoulders dropped their tension. “Is that really such a big deal?”

I never understood his politics. But honestly, I trusted Roman with my life.

If it hadn’t been for him, my mother would’ve been thrown into a widow’s reformatory, right? He was the only one who made sure we knew how to void that hideous footnote in my father’s, bottom third, corporate-click-wrap, Final Attestation—fucking fine print. Thank God Roman knew how to authenticate that objection.

No idea where my patrimonial stipend would’ve ended up otherwise.

So, if Roman needed to vent about a little antediluvian worm charming, I was only too happy to oblige. Though eager to get to my news, I may have drummed my fingers on the table.

“Those fools.” He casually flashed his palm to the ceiling. “Sieving nano-trash, they’ve literally stripped the God-damned soil of its vital microbial life.” He must’ve noticed the expression on my face. “Sage, darling. Worms don’t lie.”

“What does that even mean?” I folded my arms and reclined in my chair. “Another market crash? I thought you said you had good news.”

“I do.” He leaned in. “They’ve lifted the ban against off-world horticulture.”

“Space Gardens?” What kind of labor force would that require? I bit my lip. Because the riots that came after the tragic implosion of Oceania Botanicals were fresh in my memory.

“Something better.” His eyes lit with excitement. “We’ve been given the green light.” He waited for my reaction, but I was at a total loss. “Harvesting alien microfauna.”

“Really? That sounds risky.” I had thought a botanist like Roman would be more averse to the potential dangers of an invasive species. “What happened to Earth Only?”

“Risks can be mitigated.” His gaze firmly held mine. “I assure you.” But he suddenly couldn’t contain that adorable hint of enthusiasm in his voice. “For those quick enough to act. And here’s the best part, we’ve already got a qualified crew ready to launch.”

“What do you mean?” I sat forward again. “Ready to launch.”

“This is our chance. We can make a real difference.” His raised eyebrows implored me to share his eagerness. “There’s a huge bonus. For first volunteers.”

“You didn’t.”

“Sage. Sweetheart. There are safeguards, special allowances, but only for early adaptors.”

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“It’s a really big deal,” he said. “We’re lucky to be granted this opportunity. And it’s only for thirty-six months.” I could already see how much it meant to him. “Sage, darling, it’s more money than my father ever made in his whole pitiful life.”

I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t wrap my mind around this thing for which he was asking my approval, as though that were required. My stomach twisted. Could I deny him this dream?

I’d lost the urge to grin wildly. “Roman, is it safe? The Merkabah Mining disaster?”

“There are always risks, sure.” He took my hand in his. “But, darling, it’s not like in the old rocket days. Space travel is so much safer now. You could go with me.”

“What?”

“They’ve asked me to invite you.” His eyes sparkled with the flickering light of the Quik-wick. “Only a few scientists are permitted to bring spouses.” He’d kissed the back of my hand. “Think of it as a long, jet-setters cruise. Sweetheart. It’s an incredible opportunity.”

“I, I can’t.” I raked teeth across my bottom lip. The evening was not going as planned. Thirty-six months, three short years, suddenly seemed like an eternity.

He let go of my outstretched hand.

Empty, I withdrew it back into my lap.

His face betrayed the veneer of disappointment. My chest hurt.

I should’ve let him know I’d quit the birth control, right? I chewed at my bottom lip.

I could tell this was something he earnestly wanted, as though his entire career depended upon it. It hadn’t been that long since his company suffered a deep and early round of personnel cuts. He’d worried then about losing the job. That hardly seemed like a concern now. Outer space? This expedition was sure to cost the company a fortune. Obviously, he failed to fully appreciate how much they valued him. So why couldn’t he wait? Go on the next mission?

I pinched my neck and shook my head. “Roman, I just can’t.”

“Of course you can.” He stared out the window. “You have to.” His gaze dropped to the tightening grip of his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. “Otherwise, we’re apart for the next three years.” His mind was already made up. I saw it in the set of his jawline.

My shoulders withered. He was going, with or without me. Tears flooded the brims of my eyes. Biting my lips, I fought those tears back.

“You can’t go either,” I blurted. “I’m pregnant.”

His back stiffened. He gaped at me. I fumbled with the clasp on my clutch. Before I could even pull out the stupid Ziplock, he took a hold of my hand and smoothly slipped off my wristband. He scrolled through all the many diagnostical screens. The ones I never did learn how to read. Of course, he knew how to decipher all that homeopathic data. His company made those damn things. He’d worked on that project himself.

A single tear slipped from my eyes.

It was the whole reason I’d never, ever part with my Anarcha 3000. It was special to me. I’d sooner give up my Thumb-Butler. He said that wearing mine, paired with his, well, we were always connected that way—a bio-digital bonding. Cyber-fidelity. He’d have it no other way. Oh God, how I’d loved him for that. Something my first marriage clearly didn’t enjoy.

And by the look on his face, he’d never even used it to snoop on me. Had no idea I’d quit the birth control. Because our marriage was about trust. Right? I’d never known anyone more trustworthy than Roman.

Except—my stomach lurched like a twisted, wet knot. Had I just inadvertently broken that trust? I mean, he knew how badly I wanted to be a mother. But I probably shouldn’t have sprung it on him like that. Right? But he had to’ve known.

I only ever did all that I did to make both our dreams come true.

His frown deepened. I could tell from the small muscle that rippled at his jawline, date night was not going as he’d planned for it either. Was he grinding his teeth? I held the plastic baggie, unzipping, then zipping, then unzipping the little plastic zipper along its little plastic track. I mean, c’mon. What was with the tragic expression? It was the very last thing I’d imagined the moment would be for him. For me.

I sucked in my bottom lip. I studied him for any sign of his true mood. But he remained stoic, silent. Did he think I might not be a good mother? I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what else to say. Would he leave me? How could I do this without him?

So many couples had trouble trying to conceive these days. And he’s the one who said we shouldn’t wait too much longer, not at my age. I mean—though, to be fair, he was a bit older. Wasn’t this good news? A happy surprise? For several minutes, neither of us said anything. Then he looked into my eyes, deeply, and his expression finally softened.

“You’re right.” He relented a smile, closing the fold of the small screen from my wristband. “You can’t go in your condition.” He put the wristband aside. “And so, neither can I.”

I melted. Relief swept my brain. He did love me most. Then the tears really began to flow, like when they open the floodgates at New Niagara. I couldn’t stop them.

“Dr. Roman Pherren.” I put the backside of his fingers to my lips and kissed them. “You’re the best husband in the whole of the universe.”

He gently brushed a bead of moisture from my cheek and gazed into my eyes. “That’s all I ever want to be for you, darling.”