“We also insist that protection be used during everysexual encounter. That includes new partners and long-term relationships. This greatly reduces the risk of sexually transmitted diseases. Are you in agreement with this?”
“Yes.”
The scribble of her pen against the paper was starting to grate at me.
“You are to see a dietician, take prenatal vitamins and folic acid every day, and abstain from any foods that are considered detrimental to the fetus. Even before you are pregnant. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
I thought my one-word answers would start to get to her at some point, but she barely reacted before making more notes.
“Do you have a cat?”
I hesitated before responding to this one, not sure what she was getting at, but finally said, “No.”
“You are not to get a cat, is that clear?” She must have seen the confusion on my face because she added, “Their feces carry toxoplasmosis, which can be transmitted to the fetus and cause blindness and mental disabilities. Which I’m sure you can agree, we want to avoid. Understood?”
“I’ve never wanted a cat,” I said, finally forgoing the one-word answers in favor of honesty.
“Excellent.” Her pen scratched against the paper. “In addition to weekly visits with a medical professional, you must attend monthly counseling, which includes a support group compiled of other women going through the program. We hold it here the first Wednesday of every month at six o’clock in the evening and provide drinks and dinner. We believe it’s important to create a community of people in order to reduce stress and give you a sounding board when you need to talk about something.”
Again, I was taken aback. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would be offered counseling, let alone forced to attend sessions, and while I got what she was saying, I also couldn’t help wondering if this was yet another way for them to keep tabs on me.
“Is that agreeable?” Hilary asked, her pen poised over the form.
“Yes,” I managed to get out even though it wasn’t. Not at all.
“Good.” She scribbled a few more things, signed on the line at the bottom, then passed the new stack to me. “Same as before. Initials at the bottom of every page and signature on the last one.”
Like the first time around, I started by scanning the things she’d written but quickly grew bored and just started initialing. I was also irritated by Hilary’s observations about me, mostly because they were spot on. Either she’d been doing this for a while, or she was very good at reading people. Maybe both.
When I’d passed the newly signed forms back, Hilary set them with the others she’d already filled out and moved on to a new stack.
“Now it’s time to discuss expectations and consequences.”
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.
“After several pandemics not only decimated the human race but also left most of the surviving women infertile, doctors and scientists around the world scrambled to come up with a solution to the problem, but after years of no progress, drastic measures needed to be taken. While other countries came up with their own solutions, the United States established the Department of Fertility in 2046. Only one year later, The Fertility Act was created in an attempt to stop the looming extinction of the human race. Under this new law, all women were required to submit to fertility screenings at the age of seventeen, so the government could ensure that every fertile woman did her part to save humanity.”
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 astheir 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 naïve, 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 weeklater 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.
