There are no portholes in the exam room of the medical suite, and though I can feel that the sea is calm, my nausea is getting worse. I’ve managed to put off Glenn’s insistence on a doctor’s visit until today, and now I’m hoping my queasiness is only because I can’t see the horizon. I know Susan has something stronger than meclizine for seasickness—she doesn’t prescribe it except in extreme cases, but I’m getting to the point where I think I qualify.
I always feel a little out of sorts when I can’t see the ocean—which is strange for someone who grew up in the Midwest and spends most of the year landlocked in Oregon. Growing up, I loved the water and would often swim in Shaw Park’s public pool in Clayton, Missouri. I’d dive off the ten-meter platform, pretending it was a seaside cliff. I’d put on my mask and snorkel and imagine that people’s limbs, in their myriad shapes and sizes, were sea creatures. I’d see their colorful swimsuits as brightly hued fish.
My other favorite place had been the geodesic dome at the botanical garden. My father used to take me there when he was in town, which wasn’t often, and the rainforest inside, with its tropical humidity and mist, with waterfalls and wildly exotic plants, made me want to explore the world. By the time I was in junior high, my neighborhood had gotten one of the first outdoor-gear stores in greater St. Louis—it was a small store, but just walking through its narrow aisles felt like adventure. I’d try on the extreme-weather clothing and imagine myself at one of the poles.
I didn’t know back then that I would, in fact, end up spending much of my life in one of the polar regions, and, over the years, I’ve come to think of the continent not only as a place but as a living, breathing thing—to me, Antarctica has always been as alive as the creatures it houses: Every winter, the entire continent fattens up with ice, then shrinks again in the summer. When I’m here on the peninsula, looking out at the green and white of young ice and the deep, ancient blue of multiyear ice, I feel as though the bergs, too, are alive, sent forth by thousands of miles of glaciers to protect the continent from such predators as the Endurance and the Erebus, the Cormorant and the Australis.
And this is what worries me.
Keller knows as well as anyone that the Australis isn’t equipped to take on these icy sentinels. He knows what an iceberg looks like underwater, that beneath the exquisite beauty above the surface is a sharp, jagged, nasty thing that will destroy ships if they attempt to pass too close. Even for an experienced captain, miscalculating the distance is not difficult to do, with the constantly shifting winds and waters, the continual calving of new icebergs. Charts of this heavily traveled area have regions not properly surveyed, and every captain knows there is nothing more dangerous than unseen ice.
Sometimes I wonder how long this alien invasion—the ships, the humans—can continue before the continent strikes back.
Susan opens the door, returning to the closet-size examining room where I’ve been waiting. Earlier, she’d had me pee in a cup, had taken my vital signs and done a quick exam, asked me a dozen questions. I’m starting to feel a bit better, and I stand up as she enters the room, ready to forgo medication and be on my way.
“Have a seat,” she says.
“I’m good to go, actually. Shouldn’t have wasted your time.”
“Please,” she says, motioning me back down. Her face is serious, too serious for something like the flu.
I sit.
“Deb,” she says, “I don’t know if this will be good news or bad news, but”—she pauses—“you’re pregnant.”
“What?” I can barely choke out the word. Feebly, I lean back in the chair.
“You’re pregnant.”
“That’s not possible.”
“You mentioned that you had sex—”
“I know what I said.” I can hardly think straight. “What I mean is, I was careful. Very careful. Can you run the test again?”
“Already have.” Susan looks at me. I’ve known her for years; like so many, we see each other down here and nowhere else. “You’re going to have to take extra care on the landings. You’re about eight weeks along.”
She doesn’t bring up options, as most doctors would, because down here there are no options for something like this.
“This can’t be right,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She begins talking about what foods I should avoid, what activities I should let other crew members handle, but I’m barely listening. When I leave her office a few minutes later, promising I’ll return, I can’t remember anything she’d said.
“There you are.” It’s Glenn, jogging behind me in the passageway to catch up. “You all right?” he asks. “What did Susan say?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not food poisoning. The ship’s not contaminated with norovirus. I’m fine.”
“You sure about that?” He studies my face. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“Residual jet lag, probably. I just need a bit of rest, that’s all.”