Chapter 7
Seven
Hilary picked up the remaining papers we needed to go over, tapped them against the table so they were uniform, then dove into the next part.
She droned on, outlining the program and how it had come about like I’d been living under a rock and had just today emerged.
It reminded me of a history lesson and made it impossible to focus, and my mind began to wander, going over possible scenarios for my future, then shifting back in time.
To the year my friends and classmates began to turn seventeen.
As juniors and seniors in high school, we’d been so young.
Had had our whole lives ahead of us. Yet for so many of us, what those lives would look like had hinged on what that single test would tell us.
I could remember the nerves of the other girls as their birthdays approached, how devastated most of them were when they learned the bad news, as well as the elation and even fear the few special ones had experienced when they were told they were fertile.
Then it was my turn.
My mom had brought me to this very building on my seventeenth birthday.
It was the law, so we’d had no choice, but just like today, so many people had treated it like it was a thrilling event.
It hadn’t been. I remembered it all. The blood test, the physical, the exam, then the internal ultrasound.
My nervousness. The doctor’s joyful proclamation that I had two good ovaries hadn’t been a surprise.
I’d known for almost a year that I was one of the few women in the world who could still get pregnant.
Still, hearing those words hadn’t been any less devastating.
Even at the age of seventeen, I’d known I didn’t want to have children, and I definitely hadn’t wanted anyone to force the decision on me.
But there was nothing I or anyone else could do.
Under The Fertility Act, my womb was no longer my own. It belonged to the human race.
As Hilary continued the unnecessary history lesson, my attention bounced from what she was saying to everything I went through ten years ago.
I’d been so young and na?ve, and I’d had this huge thing happen to me that I could never talk about because, officially, it hadn’t happened at all.
No one knew that shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I’d discovered I was pregnant.
No one knew the trip I’d supposedly taken to visit a distant aunt in California had been a decoy, or that I’d really gone to a home for pregnant teens.
Not an official one, but an underground railroad of sorts.
It had been necessary because had the government found out about my condition, they would have taken custody of me.
As a pregnant minor, I would have become an official ward of the state, would have been transported to a home for teenage girls until I’d given birth, at which time, my baby would have been taken from me.
Not that I would have wanted it, but I’d still wanted a say in the matter, which was why I’d gone to the secluded farmhouse in California.
I’d arrived alone, scared, and pregnant, but had left a week later as a normal teenage girl.
What I’d done was a felony in our country and if anyone was to find out, I would be punished.
It didn’t matter that almost ten years had passed or that I’d only been a child when it happened, because there was no statute of limitations on illegal abortions.
If my secret was ever discovered, I would immediately be arrested and sent to a prison hospital.
There would be no trial – the courts wouldn’t waste time and resources on such an abhorrent crime – before shipping me off, and I’d still have to fulfill my commitment to the Department of Fertility.
Once I had, though, I would be sent to a real prison for at least a decade.
Any accomplices, including those associated with the procedure, would also be punished.
Not that anyone was left.
My mom was the one who’d found the home, the one who’d made the arrangements, and put me on the plane that had taken me across the country.
But she was dead now, and I had no idea where the facility was or if it still existed, nor did I know the names of anyone I’d met there, so it wasn’t like I could give anyone else up.
All I knew was that a plump woman had met me at the airport, had blindfolded me, driven for at least two hours, and had arrived at a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
The procedure had been performed two days later, and I’d stayed for a few more days so the doctor – an elderly man with squinty eyes but a sharp mind – could make sure I was okay.
Then I’d been driven back to the airport, and I’d flown home.
“Are you listening?” Hilary snapped.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. Sorry.”
“I know this is a lot of information, but trust me, you are going to want to hear it.”
“I’m sorry. I just got distracted.”
“Well, try not to,” she barked, then went on.
“As I was saying, failure to follow the rules we’ve already discussed or breaking the nondisclosure agreement can and will result in hefty fines and even imprisonment.
You must adhere to all the guidelines set forth in this document as well as any instructions your doctor gives you.
All procedures are compulsory including but not limited to regular ultrasounds, an amniocentesis, genetic testing, gestational diabetes testing, and a cesarian if your doctor determines it’s necessary.
Failure to comply will result in fines and possible imprisonment for the duration of your time in the program, as well as forfeiture of compensation. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling suddenly exhausted by the weight of this whole situation.
Hilary scribbled furiously on the paper in front of her, and I cringed, imagining her notations about how distracted and uncooperative I was being. Oh, well. I was here, I’d done my duty, and it wasn’t like they could punish me for not being happy about it. Right?
When she finished writing, she shoved the papers toward me, a scowl on her face that reminded me of the sullen nurse from earlier.
Did no one who worked for the Department of Fertility have any empathy for what I was being forced to go through?
Hilary sure as hell didn’t, and the nurse had thought I should be happy. How delusional.
I signed and initialed, then slid the papers back, jumping a little when Hilary snatched them up. She tapped them against the table violently before setting them with the others and returning to the stack we still had to go through.
“This goes over your wristband.”
I blinked, confused. “My what?”
“Every woman enrolled in the program is outfitted with a wristband,” Hilary explained in a voice that wasn’t even a little patient.
“You’ll get yours when you report here on the first of the month.
Wearing it is a requirement, and it cannot be removed for any reason whatsoever.
It will monitor your temperature, so we know when you’re fertile, keep tabs on your blood pressure, as well as give us other important information about your health and wellbeing. ”
In a sudden rush of understanding, I recalled all the women I’d seen wearing identical wristbands over the years.
Gray with a small rectangular face, the bands had reminded me of smart watches but were much less stylish than the ones most people sported.
Still, I hadn’t thought much about it, had just assumed it was a cheap brand or maybe a style I wasn’t privy to.
It wasn’t like I went out of my way to keep up with things like that.
Now, though, I realized that the seemingly innocuous looking wristbands had been a way for the Department of Fertility to keep tabs on the women in the program.
Like the scarlet letter Hester Prynne had been forced to wear, they marked each and every woman wearing one as fertile.
And soon, I would be wearing one as well.
I shuddered.
Hilary was still talking, but she was mostly repeating herself as a way of hammering in everything that was required of me.
None of it was much of a surprise. I learned I’d be flagged once I was in the program, preventing me from buying alcohol or tobacco.
No big shock since part of The Fertility Act stated that any woman who appeared to be of childbearing age had to show her ID before the purchase of such items could be completed, and since the government owned those women body and soul, I’d figured they had a way of preventing them from destroying their bodies.
I wasn’t an idiot. There were ways around the law.
Have a friend buy you cigarettes or booze.
Easy. To me, it wasn’t worth the risk, but I was sure it happened.
What I didn’t know was if what I actually put in my body was trackable via the wristband.
Probably. I wouldn’t put anything past the government.
When we’d finished with that section of the contract, I signed and initialed where indicated.
Hilary put the papers aside before picking up the final stack, the bright smile from earlier back on her face. “Now it’s time to go over your compensation and how you can potentially earn more. We like to save the best for last!”
I had to bite back a bitter laugh. This woman really was kidding herself.
“As you know,” she began, “you will be financially compensated for participating.”
Participating? She made it sound like I actually had a choice.