woman he saw, one he had made up in his mind.
She’d found a way to almost never let him near her.
Almost: because you couldn’t not lie with your husband. Is he tender with you? her mother had asked her. Is he kind? Does he care about what’s happening to you? That’s all I want to know. But Galen was too happy to be tender. I can’t believe it! his face and body said. I can’t believe you’re mine! Which she wasn’t; while Galen huffed and puffed above her in the dark, Mausami was miles away. The harder he tried to be a husband, the less she felt like a wife to him, until—and this was the bad part, the part that didn’t seem fair of her—she’d found herself actually disliking him. By the first snowfall she’d caught herself imagining she could close her eyes and simply wish him off the face of the earth. Which only made Galen try harder, and left her disliking him even more.
How could he not know the baby wasn’t his? Could the man not do basic math?
True, she’d fudged the numbers. The morning he’d caught her throwing up her breakfast into the compost pile, she’d told him three periods, when it was really two. Three and it was Galen’s baby; two and it was not. Galen had come to her only one time the month she’d gotten pregnant; she had refused him on some pretense, she couldn’t even remember what. No, it was all perfectly clear to Mausami, the when and who. She had been down at the station when it happened; Theo was there, and Alicia, and Dale Levine. The four of them had stayed up late playing hands of go-to in the control room, and then Alicia and Dale had gone to bed, and the next thing she knew, she and Theo were sitting alone together, the first time since her wedding. She began to cry, surprised at how much she wanted to and by the sheer volume of her tears, and Theo had taken her in his arms to comfort her, which was what she wanted too, both of them saying how sorry they were, and after that it had taken all of about thirty seconds. They never stood a chance.
She’d barely seen him after that. They’d ridden back the next morning, and life returned to normal—though it wasn’t normal, not at all. She was a person with a secret. It lay like a warm stone inside her, a private glowing happiness. Even Galen seemed to detect the change, remarking something along the lines of Well, I’m glad to see your mood has picked up. It’s nice to see you smiling. (Her response, wholly absurd and nothing that could be acted upon, was a friendly desire to tell him, so he could share in her good news.) She didn’t know what would happen; she didn’t think about it at all. When she missed her period, she gave it scarcely any thought. It wasn’t like she was anything close to regular; she’d always been that way, it came and went as it pleased. All she could think about was the next trip down to the station, when she could make love to Theo Jaxon again. She saw him on the catwalk, of course, and at evening assembly, but that wasn’t the same, it wasn’t the time and place to touch or even talk. She would have to wait. But even this, the waiting, the torturous crawl of days—the date of their next departure for the station was plainly listed on the duty roster, where anyone could see it—was part of her happiness, the blur of love.
Then she missed another period, and Galen caught her throwing up into the compost pile.
Of course she was pregnant. Why hadn’t she anticipated this? How had this eventuality escaped her attentions? Because the one thing Theo Jaxon wouldn’t want was a baby. Maybe under the right circumstances she could have won him over to the idea. But not like this.
Then another thought had come to her, dawning with a simple clarity: a baby. She was going to have a baby. Her baby, Theo’s baby, their baby together. A baby wasn’t an idea, as love was an idea. A baby was a fact. It was a being with a mind and a nature, and you could feel about it any way you liked, but a baby wouldn’t care. Just by existing, it demanded that you believe in a future: