tried to take care of all the serious business that occurred to her as their boat lurched in the horrific swells of some Pacific storm. That was what Emma wanted: to take care of the serious business of defacing her God-given temple before the baby came to do it for her.
Plus, if anything ever happened to her, they’d be able to identify her body.
“You’re sure you don’t think it’s too risky?” Stu asked now. “Did the doctor say anything about flying at seven months?”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, glancing down at her phone so he wouldn’t see her face, unsure of what expression he would read there. If she was too afraid, or not enough. ARAMIS seemed distant and far-fetched compared to the more pressing concerns of a feeble bladder and broken sleep. The truth was that Emma already felt as though she’d contracted an affliction that was wreaking havoc on her body and mind.
But ARAMIS was alarming enough that there were travel advisories in place. The E.U., Mexico, and the United States had gone so far as to ban their citizens from travelling to and from China. In retaliation, China had called for certain debts to be repaid, and the President of the United States of America had gone on television and tried very hard not to say that his country couldn’t quite afford to buy enough antivirals for everyone who might need them. The media, however, had no compunctions about spelling it out. Sales of guns and generators were through the roof all over the country, even as the overcrowded American ICUS reported a survival rate above 60 per cent for adults—a statistic that Emma did not find altogether comforting. They had no comparable data for children, who by and large remained comatose. But so far, there had been no cases reported in Canada. Or in Austin, for that matter.
Emma waited a beat before turning to grin at Stu. “Besides, the doctor said I needed more freedom in my life. And more fun. He actually recommended a tattoo. Can you believe it?”
Stu frowned, but she just kept smiling as though she’d somehow forgotten last week’s fight, when she’d shown him the sketch of the tattoo she wanted. Stu had barely glanced at the design before pushing it back to her along the kitchen counter.
“I really don’t see why you need one,” he had said, dismissive. “Do you want to look like every other washed-up musician in twenty years?”
He was dead set against her getting a tattoo, but only nominally for the baby’s safety. There was something ever-so-slightly uptight about Stu, a purity streak, or maybe just some strain of aspirational upper-middle-classness that made him think tattoos always had to be trashy, like a type of body graffiti that the taxpayers were going to have to pay to take down. As if her body were a kind of monument that the public could reasonably expect to be unsullied. All the more reason why she needed to reclaim it for herself.
Emma had looked over her drawing, a dove foregrounded by four blooming roses, petals unfurled and stems intertwined. Amateurish as it was, she was proud of it. “And why exactly will we be washed up by then? I intend to keep writing songs until I lose my marbles.” She folded the sketch and pressed it back into her notebook, trying to shrug off how hurt she really was. “Listen to yourself. Stop telling me what to do like some fifties husband. You’re oppressing me.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but Stu’s face had clouded over. “Don’t say things like that. There’s nothing funny about not respecting women.”
Emma thought her eyes might roll right out of her head. “God, you’re such a Boy Scout. It’s crazy that people think you’re some kind of rock god, when deep down you’re completely conventional.”
Stu scowled and threw down the book he’d been reading. “As if tattoos weren’t the most conventional thing possible for someone in a band. Careful you don’t become a cliché yourself.”
Emma’s cheeks felt as though she’d been slapped. “How about the cliché of running your mouth off to any reporter willing to sit down and listen? You’re such a…a…a blabbermouth,” she finished, feeling lame.
“And you’re selfish and completely wrapped up in yourself.” His tone was calm and diagnostic as he stood up and pushed in his stool. Then, seeing her face collapse, he softened. “Em, why can’t you understand that the choices you make affect me, too?”
The argument had continued,