The Goodnight Room

by Rachael Washington

“And I told her, a baby! Don’t you remember what happened to the dog?”

Jesse shrugged. “You can’t tell Veronica anything. How many times in med school did they tell her not to resurrect babies? They’re just not developed for that sort of procedure.”

As the touch medics talked, Amber looked at the deformed bundle on the bed. One eye was swollen, almost protruding from the baby’s head. The other was a puss-filled slit. From the corner of her eye, she could see Dr. Veronica pacing outside the room.

“If she was so set on it, she should have checked with Mental. They could have given her a percentage,” Beth continued. “How irresponsible.”

“I heard she did,” Jessie said, lowering her voice. “They told her thirty percent.”

Amber cringed and looked outside. Dr. Maria, the head touch medic, had arrived and from the wild hand gestures it looked like things weren’t going well for Dr. Veronica.

“Resurrecting with a thirty!”

The two women were quiet. It was the quiet that followed any talk about Mental.

Then Beth’s lowered voice. “Could you imagine working there?”

Jessie shuddered. “If I could see the future, I would want to die.”

Beth laughed. “They would just resurrect you. Can’t waste a touch medic.”

Amber could hear the underlying bitterness in Beth’s tone, but that, too, was familiar. She picked up the bundle and wrapped it in a black sheet, careful to keep the body still. She hated when the heads flopped. It gave her nightmares. Carefully, she placed the baby into the biohazard tub.

“All done,” Amber said.

The two touch medics turned to her.

“Great job, Amber. You’re a godsend.”

“Thanks,” Amber muttered.
All three headed out of the room. Dr. Veronica and Dr. Maria were already gone.

Beth patted Amber on the shoulder. “You’ll want to be ready in an hour. Mental said we’ll have a squad coming in at ten. Ninety-eight percent.”

Amber nodded and pushed the car down the hall. The wrapped bundle hit the side of the tub the entire time she rolled the cart to the elevator. Inside the elevator, she hit the button for the basement and slowly began to hum to herself. Riding the elevator was the worst part of the job. She heard of people getting into elevators with a failed res or parts, and then the next time the elevators opened they had a look in their eyes, like they had been working on clean-up for years instead of just days. The crew always knew they wouldn’t come back. It happened a lot until they got approval for headphones. She didn’t bother with headphones. She hummed, because it made her feel better, like she was connected and not just ignoring everything. The res, even the parts, deserved that much.

The elevator doors opened and Amber stepped into the clean room or, as the crew called it, the goodnight room. She rolled the cart and pushed past the crew hall and entered the documents room. She picked up the chart for res f2647, also known as Alexander Richards Jr. The chart had a checkmark next to photos, it usually did when it was a failed res or a baby. She reached into the cart and took the bundle and placed it on a metal table. Unfolding the black sheet, she positioned the baby on the table.

“I wonder if you would have been Alex or Rick or just Junior. Let’s go with Junior.”

She plucked the camera off the charge stand and began snapping pictures. After taking photos, she put the camera in a bag marked f2647 and dropped it in the development bin. She looked back at the chart. No ceremony, straight to the incinerator.

Amber wrapped the baby back in the black sheet and put him in the tub. She pushed the doors open and stared. Dr. Veronica sat next to the incinerator, smoking. For a moment, Amber just stood, staring at the touch medic. Then she made herself move. She rolled the cart to the incinerator and pushed the button. Five minutes until it was hot.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Amber said.

Dr. Veronica nodded. “Is that him?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Veronica didn’t say anything else, just took another drag on her cigarette.

Amber tapped her finger on the handle of the cart and then nodded at Dr. Veronica’s cigarette. “You shouldn’t smoke. You’ll get a fine.”

Dr. Veronica shrugged. ‘There are a lot of things I shouldn’t do.”

They were quiet for a while until the timer buzzed. Dr. Veronica stepped back as Amber put on her goggles and then opened the incinerator door. She turned to the cart and lifted Junior out.

“Wait.”

Amber turned. Dr. Veronica stubbed her cigarette out and then walked over to Amber. She held out her hands. Amber hesitated, then handed Dr. Veronica the baby. Gently, Dr. Veronica peeled away the sheet and looked at him. His skin was gray and starting to sag, causing his distorted features to stand out even more. She looked at him for a long time and then, ever so lightly, brushed her fingers over his cheek. Her touch was tender and filled with regret, but regret for what? Was it her actions or the circumstances that had birthed him into this hospital, this world? Amber wanted to ask her, but asking might break the film that kept her separated from Dr. Veronica and all the bits and pieces of what remained of the people that came to the Goodnight Room.

Dr. Veronica took one shuddering breath, before wrapping the baby and handing him back to Amber, who turned her back on Dr. Veronica and placed the baby in the incinerator. Amber shut the door.

When she looked back, Dr. Veronica was gone. Amber sighed and went back to the cart. She glanced at the incinerator before she returned back to work.

“Goodnight, Junior.”

—

Rachael Washington has been published in AlienSkin, A Fly in Amber, and Everyday Weirdness.