Life Blood --VII---Page 25

abnormalities. But everything turned out to be fine. Depression
City.

"Well," she said, "maybe your body just thinks you've

released an ovum. We need to do an ultrasound scan to make

doubly sure an ovarian follicle has ruptured when it's scheduled to and dropped an egg."

It turned out, however, that all those hormonal stop-and-go

signals were working just fine. In the meantime, Steve and I were doing it like bunnies and still no pregnancy.

Okay, she then declared, the problem may be with your

Fallopian tubes after all. Time to test for abnormalities. "This is not
going to be fun. First we have to dilate your cervix, after which we
inject a dye and follow it with X-rays as it moves through the
uterus and is ejected out of your Fallopian tubes. We'll know right
away if there's any kind of blockage. If there is something, we can
go in and fix it."

"Sort of check out my pipes," I said, trying to come to grips with the procedure. I was increasingly sinking into despondency.
        She did it all, and for a while she suspected there might be
some kind of anatomical problem. Which brought us to the next escalation of invasiveness.

"We've got to go in and take a close-up look at everything,"
she said. "It's a procedure called laparoscopy. I'll have to make a
small incision near your navel and insert a tiny optical device. In
your case, I want to combine it with what's called a hysteroscopy,
which will allow me to see directly inside your uterus for polyps
and fibroids."

But again everything looked fine. I began to wonder what had
happened to everybody's mother's warning you could get
pregnant just letting some pimply guy put his hand in your pants.
        Prior to all this, I should add, Steve had provided samples of
sperm to be tested for number and vigor. (Both were just fine.)
Then, toward the end of all the indignities, he actually paid to have
some kind of test performed involving a hamster egg, to see if his
sperm was lively enough to penetrate it. No wonder he finally
went over the edge.

Now I was reduced to Alex Goddard. I'd brought a complete
set of my medical test records, as Ramala had requested on the
phone. I'd also brought a deep curiosity about what exactly he
could do that hadn't already been done. I further wondered how I
was going to talk Steve into coming back long enough to share in
the project. As I motored up the driveway to Quetzal Manor, I told

myself he loved me still, wanted a baby as much as I did . . . Well, let me be safe and say almost as much. The problem was, he was so demoralized about the whole thing. And then what? What if
nothing happened?

I started to park my car where I had the last time, then noticed
the place actually had a parking lot. It was located off to the left
side of the driveway, near the second, modern building, and was
more or less hidden in amongst the trees. The lot was filled with a
lot of late-model but inexpensive cars, basic working-girl
transportation, and it seemed a better bet for long-term parking.
        The front lobby, which had been empty the first time I was
there, was now a minimalist reception area, a long metal desk
rolled in from somewhere. I had the odd feeling it was there just
for me. The woman behind the desk introduced herself as
Ramala, the same person I'd talked to twice on the phone. She
looked to be about my age, with long dark hair and quick Asian
eyes, punctuated by a professional smile.

She knew my name, used it the minute she saw me, and then abruptly handed me a twenty-page "application" to complete.
        "It's not just a formality," she explained, businesslike and
earnest. "Dr. Goddard feels it's essential that he come to know
you as a person. He'll read this carefully, believe me."
        She ushered me to a chair that had a retractable table for
writing, then gave me a ballpoint pen.

The document turned out to be the most prying, nosy thing I'd
ever filled out. The pages demanded what amounted to a mini life
history. One of the things that struck me as most strange was the
part asking for a ten-year employment and residential history. If
you've moved around as much as I have, worked freelance a lot,
you'll understand how difficult it can be to reconstruct all those

dates and places, but I did my best.

There were, of course, plenty of health questions too. One page even asked whether there was anything out of the ordinary about my own birth: Was the delivery difficult, a cesarean, a breach baby? It was, as noted, a life history.

"Why does he need all this information?" I asked finally,

feeling the onset of carpal tunnel syndrome in my right wrist. "I brought all my medical records."

Ramala gave me a kindly smile, full of sympathy.

"He must know you as a person. Then everything is possible.
When I came here, I had given up on ever having a child, but I
surrendered myself to him and now my husband and I have twin

boys, three years old. That's why I stayed to help him. His

program can work miracles, but you must give him your trust."

Well, I thought, I might as well go with the flow and see where
it leads.

When I'd finished the form, she took it back, along with the
pen, then ushered me into the wide central courtyard where I'd
met Alex Goddard the first time. He was nowhere to be seen, but in the bright late-morning sunshine there was a line of about
twenty women, from late twenties to early forties, all dressed in
white pajama-like outfits of the kind you see in judo classes, doing coordinated, slow-motion Tai Chi-like exercises. They were intent, their eyes fixed on the fringes of infinity.

These must be some of his acolytes, I thought, the ones I

heard in their nuns' cells the first time I was here. What on earth
does all this orientalism have to do with fertility? I then found
myself wondering. I've studied the Far East enough to do
"penetrating" documentaries about it, and I still can't get pregnant.
        I took one look at them—none of them looked at me—and my
heart went out. They were so sincere, so sure of what they were
doing. For somebody who's always questioning everything, like
me, it was touching, and maybe a little daunting too.
        Without a word, Ramala led me past them and on to an
entryway at the far end of the courtyard, past the giant Dancing
Shiva. The door was huge and ornate, decorated with beaten-
copper filigree—much like one I'd seen in a Mogul palace in
Northern India. Definitely awe-inspiring.

She pushed open the door without ceremony and there he

was, dressed in white and looking for all the world like the miracle worker he claimed to be. He seemed to be meditating in his chair, but the moment I entered, his deep eyes snapped open.

"Did you bring your records?" he asked, not getting up. While
I was producing them from my briefcase, Ramala discreetly
disappeared.

"Please have a seat." He gestured me toward a wide chair. The room was a sterile baby blue, nothing to see. No diplomas, no photos, nothing.

Except for another, smaller bronze statue of the Dancing

Shiva, poised on a silver-inlaid table. I also noticed that his own
flowing hair seemed to match that of the bronze figure.
        Yes, I thought, I was right. That's who he thinks he is. And he
has complete power over the people around him. How many