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Gyro lost track of how many days he’d been at Duckburg General. At least four or five. More recovery time than most patients were given. It was a perk of joining the one percent via marriage, along with a private room more akin to one found at a reasonably priced hotel. It even had a small kitchenette and a bathroom with a shower.
When he awoke from surgery, the first thing Gyro was told was that his eggs were fine. It was also the first thing Mark gushed about when he arrived at his bedside. It was only when Gyro stared silently at him did Mark think to ask his husband how he was doing.
Gyro saw the eggs once or twice. He couldn’t recall exactly. They were kept in a separate room, a short distance from his. As sore and fatigued as he felt, the hospital staff encouraged moderate physical activity, and visiting the eggs sitting in an incubator was as good a motivator as any. In theory, anyway.
Four of them. He would be astounded at how many could have ever fit inside his body, if he could bring himself to care about them.
“They look kinda pale compared to the first ones," Mark had mused during one of his daily visits. "Don’t you think so, Gyro? More grey than blue? I hope they’re okay. I wish we could know right now.”
Gyro processed Mark’s chatter as incessant buzzing. Boyd, like Gyro, stayed mostly quiet, pressed against his creator’s side, idly wringing his hands. Gyro noticed that the feathers on his son’s wrists had become more sparse. He’d have to fix that once he returned home.
He remembered now. The eggs would be checked for viability the same day he was to be released. And this was the last night of his stay.
A sharp sensation of clarity suddenly cut through the fog of Gyro’s mind. His throat clenched and he choked out a sob. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take deep, concentrated breaths. The incision on his abdomen throbbed from the abrupt movement. A stray tear trickled down his cheek.
Though it was late at night, he did not want to risk alerting a passing nurse.
Gyro rolled to his side and pressed a hand to his face. He wanted his eggs. Not the ones down the hall, the two from his first clutch. The ones with shells reminiscent of an early morning sky after sunrise. The ones he spent five blissful days nestled in a den of blankets and pillows within a cozy bed nook. Five days, until the viability check revealed empty vessels. Never containing any life within. Had they been viable, Gyro would currently be tending to a pair of fluffy, peeping chicks instead of stuck alone in a dark hospital room.
He sniffed. His throat hurt, his head ached, and the incision pulsed dully. Residual tears had formed a damp spot on the pillow. He inadvertantly laid like he were curled around his eggs.
“Nothing,” Gyro mumbled hoarsely. Fully convinced that this current clutch would all be just as lifeless as the first. The operation not only removed the eggs, but also his ability to carry more, as he requested. He idly wondered if the additional void carved inside him contributed to his sullen mood.
Gyro could tell that this would be one of those nights where sleep evaded him. He finally accepted that he felt just a bit lonely. Mark had offered to stay with him, but Gyro declined, seeing no point. Even if Mark had diverted his attention away from the eggs and towards his recovering husband, Gyro just did not want to see or hear him right now.
He was tired of it all- the constant discussions about eggs and babies, the perpetual soreness and fatigue, the need for so much bedrest, the dense cloud of sadness, anger, and disappointment permeating his thoughts. He hadn't felt like himself in months. He just wanted to put all of this behind him and move on.
Gyro reached for his phone on the nightstand. He put on his glasses and scrolled through his contact list. The urge to talk to someone was strong, yet he did not want to pour his heart out to anyone. Perhaps just perusing names would help somehow. Nearly a minute passed before he realized he had been staring at one name in particular.
Sonia Gearloose. His mother.
They’d had their rocky moments, especially in the aftermath of the Tokyolk disaster. Yet after Gyro and Boyd reconnected and lived as parent and child, he reconsiled with his parents. Sonia was deeply apologetic about her treatment of her son. Since then, they’d visit his parents’ rural home every so often. Fulton, Gyro’s father, jovially accepted both the robot child and, eventually, the tech billionaire as part of the their family. Though Sonia loved Boyd and acknowledged him as their grandson, she remained wary of Mark.
Neither of Gyro’s parents knew about he and Mark trying to expand their family. And they would not learn of this tonight.
After thinking it over for several minutes, Gyro wrote up a text. A simple one stating that, whenever Sonia had the time, he’d like to chat for a bit. There was a strong possibility his mother would be awake, as both of them had the habit of burning the midnight oil, engrossed in their work. He with drawing up blueprints and tinkering on his prototypes, she with managing the paperwork involved in museum curation and working on her taxidermy projects.
The phone chimed before Gyro put it back down. He cringed, instantly overcome with regret. Ignoring the call would just invite more problems. So, reluctantly, he answered.
“You certainly responded quickly,” Gyro said with a small cough. He hoped that his voice didn’t sound too rough.
“Well, you know how it goes when inspiration strikes. So... tell me what’s wrong.” The old hen’s accent dripped with the sweetness of warm honey, yet held the direct tone of authority.
“Nothing is...” Gyro sighed. He didn’t have any fight left in him. He sat up as straight as he could in the bed. “I’m at the hospital. Just had a small procedure, but they wanted to keep me overnight for observation.”
“Oh? What’d you have done?”
“It’s... private.” He hoped he gave enough indication that he did not want to discuss it further.
“I see.”
“And I... hm. Well. I am not accustomed to the crushing boredom of staying in a hospital room overnight.”
“It’s a good thing that you’re staying for only one night, then,” Sonia replied pointedly. Something about her inflection made Gyro’s heart lurch, like she knew more than he let on. He touched the gauze pad covering his incision.
After a beat of silence, Sonia continued the conversation. “You’ve been good otherwise, right? Mark treating you well? Been taking care of you?”
“Yes, we are both doing fine. Boyd too.”
Picking up on her son’s irritation, Sonia softened her tone. “I’m mighty glad to hear that, Sugarpea. As for myself, well, I’d been up to my eyeballs wrangling this mess of a new hire at the museum. Kids these days! Lordy!”
“Oh dear. Tell me all about it.”
“You sure? It’s a long story, going back since last summer.”
Gyro put the phone on speaker and gently placed it back on the night stand. “Start from the beginning. I’m listening.”
A shuffling was heard as Sonia made herself comfortable. She began her story with a click of her beak. “Remember Betsy, your third cousin? Well, her daughter Jubilee, step-daughter mind you, she-”
Gyro sighed and closed his eyes. The timbre of his mother’s drawl carried him a thousand miles away, back to his childhood home in Steamboat Junction. Back to his father’s garage workshop, where Gyro was taught how to repair vehicles and machinery, and which later became a source of scrapped parts he’d scavenge for invention materials. The walls of his mother’s home office, displaying both her framed achievements and preserved animal remains. The screened-in back porch where Gyro liked to do his homework in the evenings, when the oppressive humidity of the day dissipated and the nocturnal insects began to emerge. His late pet goat, Dotty, now immortalized as a stuffed mount in the foyer to greet (or startle) any visitors to the Gearloose household. She even wore a little hat with a flower pinned between her horns.
Neither invested in Sonia’s story nor dwelling over eggs, Gyro drifted off into a deep sleep.