Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
As promised, the recovery from my D&C was easy, and since it meant I didn’t have to worry about morning sickness or getting inseminated again for another six weeks, it was actually a welcome break.
I almost felt normal during that time. Almost, because it wasn’t like I could drink with my friends or anything, but also because the pandemic that had been brewing overseas had finally breached our borders.
It was on the west coast to start with, the first reports popping up in San Francisco but quickly spreading.
It was all over the news the week following my procedure, and the week after that, it was all anyone could talk about, and more and more people had started wearing masks.
At work, people wore pinched, apprehensive expressions, their conversations hushed like they were worried talking about what was happening too loudly would allow the pandemic to infiltrate their lives.
Every magazine and newspaper still in circulation reported on the new pandemic the following week, putting special emphasis on expert predictions that called it the possible end of humanity.
They were all American experts, and all of them were employed by the government, a fact few people seemed to realize.
They were the same experts who regularly pointed out how much The Fertility Act benefited the population, which to me seemed like proof that they couldn’t be trusted.
While babies had been born thanks to the law, nothing had been done to change how few people were fertile or to stop the population from decreasing with each passing year.
The Fertility Act wasn’t a long-term solution, and anyone with any common sense should have been able to see that.
“It’s bullshit,” Trevor said, tossing the latest edition of Time Magazine on the table in front of him. “They’re just trying to scare everyone.”
It was the last Saturday in August, and we’d gathered at Trevor’s house for fondue night and wine. Well, the guys got to have wine. I, on the other hand, got to sip water and wish I could somehow figure out a way to overthrow the Department of Fertility.
“And it’s working,” Owen pointed out. “Half the country has already reinstated mask mandates, and thousands of schools have switched to online learning as a precaution. I even heard that in California, they’ve moved all the women enrolled in the program to government hospitals.”
The way he pronounced the word, putting emphasis on the fact that we all knew they were more like prisons than hospitals, wasn’t what made me sit up straighter.
“Where did you hear that?”
Admittedly, I’d paid little attention to the news.
Having lived through four pandemics and watched people I cared about die while taking the same precautions I had, I was convinced it was all random.
Two people walked into a room where the virus was rampant, both wearing masks and using hand sanitizer as instructed.
A few days later, one came down with the virus that would ultimately kill them, while the other went about their life totally unaware that they should be dead.
Plus, listening to everyone worry about what would happen next was a waste of time since there was literally nothing we could do but wait and see.
After Owen’s comment, though, I had to wonder if I should have been paying more attention.
Trevor shot his boyfriend a scathing look before focusing on me. “They’re rumors, Ara. That’s all.”
“But where are they coming from?” I insisted. “The news? The Internet?”
Knowing about the confidentiality agreement, I assumed it was the latter and that someone – in a moment of bravery or stupidity – had leaked the information.
But it couldn’t be accurate, right? The contract said I could be moved to one of the government hospitals if I didn’t follow the rules, but that was it.
It hadn’t mentioned anything about stashing me away during a pandemic.
Then again, hadn’t there been a clause that said certain things would be left up to the discretion of the Department of Fertility? I couldn’t remember for sure.
I focused on Trevor, who, as a lawyer, might have more insight into the whole thing. “They couldn’t really do that, could they?”
He hesitated, his gray eyes flitting to Owen, who looked uncomfortable, before refocusing on me. “Honestly, I don’t know for sure, but I would say yes.”
My stomach bottomed out. “How?”
“Because fertility is considered a national crisis, and the Department of Fertility has been given the power to do whatever they feel is in the best interest of restoring the population. If they decide rounding up all fertile women is the best way to protect them from this pandemic, they can probably do it.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Ara, but it’s the truth.”
I sat back, my body deflating.
“Don’t get too fixated on it,” Trevor said quickly. “We don’t know anything. They’re just rumors.”
I was unable to find my voice because, deep down, I knew most rumors had at least a grain of truth in them. Especially when it came to the government.
After that conversation, I paid more attention to the news, watching as the virus slithered across the country, getting closer to Ohio with each passing day.
More and more states adopted mask mandates, some even going so far as to close non-essential businesses.
Those that didn’t still put strict restrictions on restaurants and stores.
Social distancing, outdoor dining only, no congregating.
We’d been through it all before, but that didn’t stop people from railing against the injustice of it all and accusing the government of taking away their rights.
People protested, boldly disregarding the six feet rule as they screamed for justice.
It would die down once the body count started to grow, but that didn’t stop me from hating those protestors.
They thought their rights were being taken away?
Where was their outrage when the government forced women like me into the program, when I was inseminated with a stranger’s sperm, when my body was used as a human incubator?
It was ridiculous. Frustrating. Infuriating.
The first case of RNA-67 popped up in Ohio on September fourth, just five weeks after my D&C.
It was in Cincinnati, which was no surprise since it was one of the most populated cities in the state, and it was also no surprise that it spread quickly after that.
Being just an hour north of Cincinnati, my small town wasn’t immune to the virus, and only four days after the first case hit Ohio, patients began pouring into our local hospital.
The state already had mask mandates, but with the arrival of the virus, other precautions were put into place.
Outdoor seating only for restaurants and bars, a limited number of people in buildings, social distancing, online learning for schools.
I’d been through it all so many times that it would have been mundane if not for the increased rumors.
They were all over the Internet now, were popping up on social media, and even on some of the bolder news stations.
The ones who regularly questioned the government.
The rumors didn’t just originate in California but came out of Texas and Florida and other states that had been hit hard by the most recent outbreak.
Despite their frequency, though, no proof that anything was going on had materialized, and while the Department of Fertility wasn’t actively denying the allegations, they weren’t confirming them either.
Actually, they weren’t saying anything, not on the news and not inside the walls of my local Department of Fertility.
I’d asked about it at my weekly blood draws, at the monthly support group, and during my counseling sessions and had been totally stonewalled.
It was the government’s silence that had me really worried.
I browsed forums and posts that were taken down within hours, all the comments vanishing with them.
Sometimes screenshots of the original post would pop up the next day, but they never lasted long, and they never garnered proof that anything was actually going on.
Even the fact that they were all similar – a close friend or family member in the program was moved to a secret location to keep them away from anyone possibly infected by the virus – didn’t prove anything because people could easily have been feeding off one another.
It happened all the time. Especially on the Internet.
It wasn’t enough to convince me it wasn’t true, though.
I didn’t trust the government, especially the Department of Fertility, and I wouldn’t put anything past them when it came to The Fertility Act.
Which was something I said to Bette Monday afternoon on September tenth while having lunch at her house.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they did round up all the women in the program. It isn’t like they haven’t done things like that before. Remember the Japanese internment camps during World War II?”
She frowned, set down the glass of lemonade she’d been drinking, and tilted her head. “You really think they’d do something like that?”
“It’s not that far-fetched, really. They already have the hospitals,” I made air quotes, “and they threaten us with being moved there if we don’t cooperate all the time.
What’s to stop them from moving us there for our own good?
” Again, I put air quotes around the last four words to let her know I wasn’t delusional.
Her frown deepened as she absentmindedly rubbed her round stomach. At thirty-four weeks, she looked ready to pop, but she still had more than a month to go. I was hoping for her sake she’d have the baby early.
“The women sent there broke the rules,” she said, “but we haven’t done anything. They wouldn’t move those of us who are compliant, would they?”