When I’d first learned about the wristbands, all I could think about was the scarlet A Hester Prynne had been forced to wear after committing adultery in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic work, and the feeling was magnified on my walk home. The weight of my new accessory seemed to grow with each step I took, and it felt like it was calling out to every person who glanced my way, branding me as one of the fertile ones. I hated it, tried to hide it by tucking it into my side, but ultimately, there was nothing I could do. It was too hot for long sleeves, and crossing my arms was both awkward and uncomfortable since the gesture pressed the silicone band into the sensitive skin on my wrist. Even worse was that it didn’t hide it completely and probably drew even more attention to its presence. How would I manage three years with this thing? I didn’t know, and despite my earlier uncertainty about how quickly I was being thrust into the program, I suddenly found myself wishing I got lucky, and the first round worked.
Nine months. That was all I’d have to serve if it did. I could handle that. Yes, it would be awful, and my body would go through hell during that time, but then it would be over, and I could return to my life. Could forget it had happened. Just like I’d done before.
It was a lie I regularly tried to tell myself because pretending I didn’t remember the harrowing trip I’d made to Californiawhen I was sixteen was easier than reflecting on everything that had happened. Easier than remembering how scary it had been to walk away from my mom and board that plane alone, then get in a car with a stranger and allow her to blindfold me. The farm itself hadn’t been too bad since the people working there had been kind, and I’d made friends. Not friends I’d been able to keep in touch with, but girls who’d touched my life and whose stories had stuck with me even as I’d tried my best to forget them.
There had been Camille, who’d been nine months pregnant and ready to pop, and her mom, Genevieve. They’d come from Oregon, all their worldly possessions packed in a rusty old station wagon. The trip had been as much to save fifteen-year-old Camille from becoming a ward of the state as it had been to escape her stepdad, Patrick. Genevieve had sobbed as she talked about how she’d had no idea her husband was raping her daughter for years until Camille got pregnant. The fear Genevieve had felt when she thought about the government taking her daughter had made her desperate but had also made her determined to get as far away from Patrick as possible.
A friend of Genevieve’s had heard about the underground and somehow managed to make contact with the people running the farm. At the friend’s prompting, Genevieve and Camille had packed the car while Patrick was at work and driven off, stopping at various points along the way where they waited for someone to get word to them. A seedy motel, a pay phone that was somehow still working despite cell phones, a locker at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. It had been like a scavenger hunt and had taken weeks, but eventually, they’d made it to California where someone had met them. Like me, they’d been blindfolded so they would never be able to reveal the location of the farm, but unlike me, they’d chosen to go through with the pregnancy. Camille had the baby while I was there, a healthy boy, and within days, the records had been falsified so it looked as if Genevieve was the one who’d given birth. I had no idea what happened to them after that since they’d still been at the farm when my short stay came to an end, but I’d never forgotten them. No matter how hard I’d tried.
There were more stories like that, both from people I’d met while I was there and from the volunteers who came and went. No records were kept of those who spent time at the farm since leaving a paper trail was too risky, but the women and few men working in the underground wanted to keep what they’d done alive, and so they talked. Every night, someone told the story of a girl who’d come through, affected them deeply, then moved on never to be seen or heard from again. They were stories of heartbreak and hope and desperation, but they’d all been beautiful, and I wore each of them on my soul despite my desire to shake off that time in my life. I also couldn’t help thinking about my own story and about someone sharing the details of the scared teenage girl who’d come all the way from Ohio. Had I inspired anyone, or was my story too mundane? I didn’t know and I probably never would, but I liked to think it gave someone courage to do what they knew was best despite the pressures of this world. I liked to think that my time there had made a mark.
As I walked the streets of my small town, I allowed myself to do something I typically avoided. I thought about the days I’d spent at the farm, recalling the volunteers, the other girls, the mothers who’d made the trip with them, and the fear. There had been so much. Fear that I was making a mistake, fear that I’d be caught and would never see my mom again, fear that I would burn in hell for the decision I was making. That was what the preachers on television shouted, after all. The infertility epidemic was women’s fault, a consequence of sin much like what Eve had sentenced future generations to in the Garden of Eden. Had we been more chaste, more moral, the human race wouldn’t be facing its own demise. We should have been better. Godlier.
Few people took the time to point out that almost fifty percent of men were also infertile. But that had always been the way of the world, hadn’t it? Women got the blame for everything. A man slept around, and no one batted an eye. A woman did the same thing, and she was a slut. A man was praised for being assertive and driven, but a woman acting the same way was a bitch. We’d always been held to a different standard, so it was no surprise that when the shit hit the fan for real, women were the ones the worldblamed.
I was halfway home, my left arm tucked against my side like that would hide my wrist, when I caught sight of a woman a couple years older than me. She was headed my way, but there was still a good six feet of space between us when I noticed she wore a wristband identical to the one I’d just been given. A jolt went through me, and my steps faltered, but she was too focused on her phone to notice me.
I didn’t know this woman, had never seen her even though this was a small town, but it felt like we were connected. And we were, weren’t we? Didn’t the program link us in some way? Didn’t it make us allies? I thought so, but it suddenly occurred to me that she might not. There were women who thought The Fertility Act was a good thing. Women who were happy to do their time, women who went above and beyond. Yes, some did it for money, but others out of a sense of duty.
I studied the woman as she approached, trying to guess what her part in all this was. At first glance, I’d thought she was my age, but now that I was closer, I could see the fine lines around her eyes that told me she was most likely in her thirties, as well as the subtle swell of her stomach.
She was a volunteer.
It sickened me, but my reaction wasn’t fair. She’d chosen to do this, which was her right. And after all, wasn’t the fact that I’d had no choice in the matter the whole reason for my anger? I wanted a choice. I wantedeveryoneto have a choice. If she chose this, good for her. Which meant there was no reason for me to be so furious. Not that I could stop myself.
I kept moving, walking faster with my head down and my gaze averted because the rage surging through me was so intense I thought I might actually lash out at the woman if I looked at her again.
It was a relief when I’d finally passed her, but I didn’t slow even though I had nowhere I had to be. Since my boss was one of the few people who seemed to understand how difficult the situation was, she’d given me the whole day off. It had been a nice gesture, but a wave of loneliness swept overme as I neared home and realized I had hours before Trevor got off work. My instinct was to go into one of the restaurants open during the day so I wouldn’t be alone, but I hesitated when I remembered I couldn’t drink. No, I didn’tneedto drink, but I wasn’t stupid. I was a regular, and sitting at the bar without ordering a drink would draw attention I didn’t need or want.
I was still trying to decide what to do when I reached the square, and I looked around. This was my hometown, the place I’d lived my entire life, and after the invasive appointment I’d just had to endure, it was comforting to be surrounded by something so familiar. The bustle of people enjoying the beautiful day or going to and from work combined with the laughter of children wrapped around me like an embrace, and I closed my eyes. The sun shone on my skin and a breeze blew, sweeping my hair across my face, and I released a long breath, blowing out the anxiety and worry. Everything was going to be okay. This wasn’t my choice, but Trevor was right. I could get through this. I was strong. Resilient. I would be okay.
By the time I opened my eyes, I’d come to a decision about what I was going to do with the rest of my afternoon.
My steps were a little lighter and already my mood had lifted when I started walking again, heading to my favorite sports bar. No, I couldn’t drink, but I could talk and laugh, and right now, that was what I needed more than anything else. To feel like I wasn’t alone.
The interior was dimly lit, the lights low and the dark walls and floors making it seem like the room was cloaked in shadows. Even so, it was welcoming because I recognized most of the people at the bar and several at the tables. I waved to people whose names I didn’t know, called hello to the patrons I was acquainted with, and smiled at the daytime bartender as I slid into one of the only empty seats.
“Hey,” Stormy said, returning my smile as she finished filling a pint glass with one of the beers on tap. “Wine?”
I loved coming here because, as a regular, the staff usually just brought me a drink, but appreciated that Stormy had taken the time to ask. It saved me from having an awkward conversation.
“Actually,” I said, my voice low as I leaned closer, “I think I’ll do a club soda and lime.”
I held her gaze after I said it, waiting for a reaction or possibly even questions, but to my relief, she barely blinked. She did glance at my wrist, and there was a slight twist of her lips, but after she’d taken in my wristband, all she did was nod.
“Got it.”
I exhaled when I sat back, relieved but also surprised that she’d understood without me having to say anything. I came here a lot, lived just over the bar, but it hadn’t occurred to me that Stormy would know about the wristbands. It made sense, though. She worked in customer service and had probably come across this situation more than once, whereas I didn’t work with people directly – most graphic design stuff was done online – and had never taken the time to think about what happened once a woman was enrolled in the program. I should have, to prepare myself if nothing else, but in truth, I hadn’t wanted to face it.
Stormy served a few other people who’d arrived before me before making my drink, and her face was still expressionless when she set it in front of me, but not her eyes. They held mine, the gray depths serious and her hand still on the glass, telling me she wanted to say something but was asking permission.
I gave a slight nod.
“I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through,” she began in a low voice, “but I’m sorry, anyway. I’m not one of you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t empathize. You should have a choice. Everyone should.”
Against my will, I teared up and had to look away. Damn my emotions. They were all over the place already, and I couldn’t imagine how it would be if I did get pregnant. I was going to be a snotty mess.
Still not looking at her, I swallowed my tears and said, “Thank you.”
