Fletcher held up her hand. 'Please. I understand your posi-tion, and I accept it. Let's separate that from why we're here. There's a little baby down the hall who's in great danger. Usu-ally there's enough time for me to confer with prospective donors and give them a few days to think things over. As it is, I'm going to explain the procedure to you and give you only a few minutes to consider.
'A bone-marrow transplant is far easier on the recipient than the donor. What we'll do when we have the bone marrow is inject it into Renata's bloodstream. The stem cells will find their way to her bone-marrow cavities and set up shop, turn-ing out the three kinds of cells she needs. It will take anywhere from two to four weeks, though, for us to be sure that all three cell lines have taken hold and are producing.'
Valerie reclined a bit in her seat, unconsciously worrying at the nail on her left index finger. All her nails were in disre-pair, opalescent polish chipped and dull, but the left index had cracked near the quick. She levered the nail back and forth gently, without even noticing her action.
'What happens then?'
'Then we'll know whether she'll be all right or whether we have to try again.' Evelyn shifted in her seat, craving a ciga-rette. 'The marrow creates the red blood cells, the white cells of the immune system, and the platelets that are essential for blood coagulation. If any one of those three is missing, life is impossible. We already have to keep her in reverse isolation to prevent others from infecting her. Luckily, her infant's di-gestive system lacks the bowel flora that could turn deadly in such a condition. That's why a transplant is of crucial impor-tance.'
'That's why I'm here,' Valerie said, puzzled.
'I hope that's why,' Fletcher said, 'because a bone-marrow transplant is a far greater trial for the donor.'
Valerie's nail snapped between her fingers.
'
She lay on the table in the same small operating room where, months ago, her baby had been taken from her. Entering the room, she caught memories of the operation, flashes of re-membrance that caused her to tremble with fear and anger. She steeled her nerves and concentrated on a mental image of Renata lying helpless in her electronic cradle. She stared over-head at the red-brown spot on the ceiling. Its familiar pres-ence comforted her. Amidst all the madness of the past two days, it had appeared to her, when she lay down, as a steady, old friend. All the activity that must have taken place in here between March and October had not changed it. Scores of women must have stared up at the ceiling. Had any of them seen it? Could any of them have missed it?
She felt a kinship with all of them, all the women who had given up their unwanted children to Evelyn Fletcher. What were they thinking about at this moment, hearing the news of transoption?
As Dr. Fletcher explained it, this would be a simple but slow operation, assisted only by Nurse Dyer and an anesthetist. Nurse Dyer looked different. Valerie realized that the tall woman wore a minimal amount of makeup today. The pants and short-sleeved shirt of hospital greens showed beneath her lab coat instead of a dress. She could not have had a good night last night, Valerie thought, and probably wasn't expecting one tonight.
'Do you and Dr. Fletcher work very closely?' she asked im-pulsively.
'I'm her right hand,' Dyer replied with brusque formality. 'Please roll on your side into a fe-Into a curled-up position.'
She curled up as requested, sensing the hostility. 'She didn't really do it for the money, did she?'
'No more,' Dyer said, 'than I presume you're suing her for the money. She did it because it was right. Knees up toward your chest.'
Valerie knew the dangers of anatagonizing a nurse. Dyer exposed the patient's back, swabbing a small patch high on the back with Betadine.
'How could she be so sure it was right,' Valerie asked, 'if she never sought the opinion of other doctors?'
Dyer snorted. 'If she couldn't figure out on her own whether it was right or wrong, how could any other doctor or group of doctors? She knew at the outset what she wanted. And she worked for years finding a way to do it. That's what nobody seems to see. It's not as if she stumbled onto transoption in an old book and thought, `Gee, let's try it.''
'Drugs, anyone?' The door to the room opened, pushed by a rolling cart maneuvered by a smiling older man in greens, surgical gown, and cap. Sallow but cheerful, his face regained decorum when he saw the two serious gazes turned his way.
'Riiight,' he said with a pronounced drawl. 'Dyer.' He nod-ded curtly in her direction while pulling on a double pair of surgical gloves.
'Tom.' A reply just as curt.
