In the living room, Marc and our son were rolling around on the floor, my husband laughing while he attacked Trevor with tickles, who giggled uncontrollably in return. It was a common sight, but like every other time, I marveled at it. This almost didn’t happen for us. We came so close to losing everything, and yet here we were.
After being taken to the hospital, we’d been interviewed by Canadian immigration officers. I’d been granted asylum at the border, but not only had Marc been too injured to ask for it, it had been unclear if it was even possible. At the hospital, the officers asked about our relationship, where we were coming from, and if the baby was Marc’s. Not wanting to be caught in a lie, I’d told them the truth. I had no idea. I hadn’t known if it would matter, if they would send Marc back if it turned out he wasn’t the dad, but I’d always heard that the truth set you free and decided to trust that. It had worked, and Marc and I were both granted asylum.
Since then, we’d focused on building a life. He found a job as a security guard at a bank in downtown Regina while I got our home ready for the baby, and we settled into a routine as much as we could in the middle of a pandemic. It wasn’t easy, especially because the United States was actively working to have us extradited, but we managed, and less than ten weeks after arriving in Canada, our son was born. Yes,ourson.
From the second I laid eyes on Trevor, I knew he belonged to Marc, and the resemblance between the two had only grown stronger. Trevor had his father’s big, brown eyes and smile, right down to the dimple in his left cheek, and his facial expressions were nearly identical. They were like little clones of one another, especially when they were playing.
I watched as their wrestling match continued, my smile so wide it hurt and my thoughts going over everything that had changed and everything we’d been given, but also about everything we’d left behind and the things that had been restored.
The second I was sure Marc was going to be okay, I’d contacted Trevor immediately. He’d been overjoyed to hear fromme, and I was relieved to learn that both he and Owen were healthy even though I’d been saddened to learn of other losses. Sophia, who’d survived every other pandemic, Stormy from my favorite bar, and my boss, Teresa, had all succumbed to the pandemic, as had dozens of other friends and acquaintances. I’d sobbed as Trevor told me, wishing he could hold me, all the while knowing it might never happen again. At least not for a long, long time.
I’d tried to get in touch with Bette as well, looking her up as soon as I had Internet access, trying to find any clues as to where she and her son might have ended up. I’d even contacted her husband, who apparently still lived in their massive historic home, but he hadn’t responded. All these years later, Bette’s whereabouts were still a mystery, but given the condition of things in the United States, it wasn’t that surprising.
Nearly all my fears about how the Department of Fertility was going to handle things had come true. The women who’d been taken to secure locations were still being held, even though the most recent pandemic had petered out. More women and even girls younger than seventeen had joined them, and the stories on the Internet about what was going on in those facilities and in the government neighborhoods were rampant and terrifying. Contracts had been extended both in how long the women had to serve and how many babies they had to have, and the penalties for not complying were harsher than ever. Families still had no contact with their loved ones all these years later, and it was even rumored that none of the women got to keep the babies they gave birth to. Supposedly, they were given to wealthy families who paid the government exorbitant amounts of money.
Things were just as bad in the government neighborhoods. They were fenced in, and the families who lived there were secluded from the general population. It was even said that fertile women were only allowed to stay with the children they already had in exchange for more time in the program. Based on everything I’d seen, I believed it. Being fertile had never been a blessing in my eyes, but I hadn’t thought it was a curse either. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I felt for Bette every time I thought about what she might be going through, prayed she was okay, and hoped one day I’d be able to find her. It didn’t seem very likely but that didn’t stop me from clinging to hope.
The biggest surprise that had come about shortly after my arrival in Canada had been the publication of the letter I’d written while in solitude. In light of everything that had happened, I’d completely forgotten about it until the day I logged onto social media and saw a post shared by an old friend. It was a scan of the original document, and I’d recognized the handwriting, which was the only reason it had caught my attention at all.
When I’d read the things I’d written in the Stanley hotel, I’d felt as if I was reading someone else’s words, experiences, and feelings. None of it had felt real, but at the same time, I’d known it was because I’d lived it. Had been through each of the invasive procedures, had cried as my freedoms were ripped away, and had stood beside other women who were in the same boat as they, too, suffered.
Having never intended for anyone to see the letter, I hadn’t signed it, so it had come as no surprise that it was credited to an anonymous source. It also hadn’t bothered me because while those experiences had been mine, I’d shared them with thousands of other women.
By the time I came across the letter, it had been shared hundreds of thousands of times. It was removed less than an hour later but popped up again not too long after. And again. And again. And again. The United States government tried its damnedest to hide the truth by removing it every time, but the letter had a life of its own, and for every post they removed, three more popped up. It had been shared millions of times by this point and had led Canada to broaden its amnesty guidelines as well as cut off commerce with the United States. Europe had followed their example, then Asia and even parts of Africa. It was rumored that the underground in the United States had expanded since then, and that now, fertile women were being smuggled into Canada on a daily basis.
Marc and I weren’t fools. We knew our new country’s goodwill was only partly for the women’s sake. Like the rest of the world, their population had been declining even before the most recent pandemic, and things were more dire than ever. Letting anyone into the country added to their economy, but letting fertile women in did more than that. We were the hope for the future, and the more of us living in Canada, the better that future looked.
I just prayed things never got so bad that Canadians started to believe the United States had had the right idea all along.
My son giggled when his father swept him into his arms and stood. Marc turned, grinning when he saw me, which made the dimple in his left cheek deepen. Even after years together, the sight of it still affected me. Especially when Trevor’s own dimple was on display.
“Mommy!” my three-year-old son exclaimed, his hands outstretched.
“I see how it is,” Marc said, faking irritation. “I’m second best as soon as Mom’s around.”
He tickled Trevor, who giggled again but still reached for me.
My chest tightened when I took him in my arms, hugged him close, and kissed the side of his head. I’d never known I could love anyone this way, had thought that my fierce love of my best friend had been the most intense thing I’d ever feel, but I’d been very, very wrong.
“Food in the oven?” Marc asked.
“And looking good,” I replied with way too much confidence.
My husband lifted his eyebrows doubtfully but didn’t reply.
“Is he coming soon?” my son asked.
“Soon,” I said, already tearing up.
I’d been waiting for this day for three long years, and finally it was here.
We’d been in contact with Trevor and Owen since arriving in Canada, but the pandemic had made it impossible for us to see one another. Even once it petered out, we weren’t sure if we would be able to pull it off. Marc and I were fugitives, meaning we could never cross into the United States again, and with relationsbetween the two countries as tense as they were, getting into Canada wasn’t easy. I’d had to petition the government, fill out forms, vouch for both Trevor and Owen, and basically beg every representative I could. Finally, just two months ago, my request had been approved.
I couldn’t wait to see my son’s namesake again.
My phone dinged, and I shifted Trevor so I could pull it from my back pocket, then instantly teared up when I saw the text.
