Chapter 5: Two Lines

The test had two lines.

I stood in the control house washroom at five minutes to six on Thursday morning and looked at them for a long time.

The first line I had seen four times before.

The second was darker than any second line I had ever been given.

Outside the little window, the lake was black and the lights of the canal were on.

I put the test in my sweater pocket and went back to the console.

At ten past six the radio said, "Bridge, Aurora."

I picked up the handset and found my voice.

"Aurora, Bridge. Request you come up in person after the lift."

There was a pause on the channel.

"Aye, Bridge," Mats said.

I raised the span, and the tug passed under with one long whistle, and I watched it tie off at the dock.

He took the stairs two at a time.

He stopped in the doorway with his cap in his hand and the cold still on his coat.

"You asked," he said.

"I asked."

I took the test out of my pocket and held it up between two fingers.

He looked at it.

He did not say anything.

He took one step and then another, and he sat down heavily on the operator's stool beside my console.

"Two lines," I said. "The clinic does the blood at eight, but I couldn't wait."

"Two lines," he said.

"Yes."

He put the cap on his knee.

His hands were not steady, and he looked down at them.

Then he leaned forward, slowly, and rested his forehead against my stomach.

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