I stopped by Teresa’s office at the end of the day because – once again – I’d procrastinated. Her door was open, but I still rapped my knuckles against the frame.
Teresa looked up, the corners of her eyes crinkling behind her chunky black frames when she spotted me, and in a pleasant tone said, “Ara.”
“Do you have a second?” I shifted uncomfortably.
She set down the tablet she’d been staring at. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
Teresa’s eyebrows jumped in surprise when I stepped into the room and pulled the door shut. She was an open-door kind of boss, but also compassionate and fair, and I’d more than lucked out when she’d hired me, both because I loved graphic design and we had some huge clients, and because she was an amazing boss. Still, this was a delicate matter, and while she was legally required to give me the time off, I didn’t know how she would respond. Reactions could range from excitement that I was going to help the human race to rage at the injustice of the situation, and it was always uncomfortable because other people’s responses rarely had anything to do with me or my body or what I was about to go through. It was always about how the other person felt about the law and not the women affected by it. And since Teresa was in her sixties, she’d never had to deal with The Fertility Act personally.
“Um,” unable to stand still, I shuffled my feet, “I’m going to need to take tomorrow off.”
My boss frowned, looking almost sad. “I knew your birthday was coming up and wondered if this was going to happen.”
Teresa let out a breath, but I couldn’t tell if it was a sigh or a sign of frustration. She got to her feet and moved around the desk, stopping in front of it with a good twelve inches of space between us. It was like she’d wanted to be closer to me but hadn’t wanted to crowd me, and I appreciated it. I also appreciated what Teresa said next.
“I wish I had words to comfort you. Words of wisdom. ButI don’t. And I’m not going to presume to know how you feel or act like I understand what you’re going through. I was, after all, in my forties when The Fertility Act was passed, and have never personally been affected by it. Still, I want you to know how unfathomable I find this situation. But it belongs to women like you, to the fertile ones who have to endure it, and I won’t presume to know how you feel or what you’re going through. Just know that as a company, we are behind you. No matter what happens.”
For the first time since getting the letter, I teared up. Teresa’s compassion and understanding affected me in a way that nothing else had, and even though I appreciated it, it made the whole thing feel more real. It also made me like her more than ever.
“Thank you,” I said, my tone husky.
“I won’t tell anyone why you’re gone.” Teresa made her way back to her chair. “It’s no one else’s business, and you don’t need them bothering you with their opinions on the matter. Just know that throughout this process, you can come to me with anything. If you need a day off, we can work it out. I’m here for you.”
Teresa didn’t look at me as she made the speech, instead busying herself by going through some papers on her desk, which I was more than grateful for since I was on the verge of crying.
I cleared my throat and said, “Thank you.”
“Good luck to you, Ara,” Teresa said, her gaze still averted.
I nodded my thanks, then hurried from the office.
It wasa short walk to the Health Department building from my small, downtown apartment, but wanting to put it off as long as possible, I dragged it out. It felt wrong to be doing this. Like I was surrendering my body. It wasn’t true since I didn’t have a choice, and while my situation was bad, things were worse in other countries.
Mexico, for example, was now in utter anarchy. The back-to-back pandemics had left their population as decimated as the rest of the world, but it had also caused a total collapse in their government. They had none, and drug cartels ruled, often warring with one another in an attempt to gain new ground. In the early days of The Fertility Act, women in the southwestern part of the United States had gone there seeking refuge, thinking they could blend in or hide or whatever. The stories from that time were brutal. With no law, drug lords ruled, and even the smallest rumor that a fertile woman was around sent the men into a flurry. Women were rounded up and used over and over to see if they could be impregnated. If they were found to be fertile, they were used until their bodies gave out, becoming human incubators for men who wanted to carry on their bloodlines. If the women weren’t fertile… Well, I didn’t know exactly what became of them, but I couldn’t imagine it was anything good.
News reports about what was going on in the Middle East and Africa were just as horrific, filled with stories about the injustices against women. In countries where they’d already been second class citizens, they now had no rights. Especially if they were fertile. If they weren’t, they were pariahs. Inhuman. Failures. Cursed by God. They were cast out, shunned, left to die on the streets. If they were fertile, they were often sold, bought, and passed around. Used.
It was why so many people were okay with what our country had become. I heard it all the time. We weren’t being raped. We were treated respectfully, sent to medical institutions, not used and tossed aside the way so many other women were. In America, we were the hope for the future and were treated as something special.
Those people were deluding themselves.
I’d heard the rumors and knew that while I was in the program, I would have to tread lightly. Nothing good happened in the fertility hospitals, and I’d heard, more than once, thathospitalwas a loose term. Medical prisons. That was what they really were. Government sanctioned facilities designed to force women who weren’t on board with The Fertility Act to fall in line. It was disgusting.
I eyed the Department of Health building as I approached it. It was more than a hundred years old and had the charm of the 1950s era with its white and green exterior. That was back when life was simpler. Which was ironic considering women hadn’t had much freedom then either. At least, though, they hadn’t had to experience what I was about to go through.
The entrance was at the back of the building rather than the front, which I knew because I’d come here a little over five years ago to get vaccinated when H4F3 got bad. It was one of two pandemics I could remember clearly, although I’d been born at the beginning of the worst one. RNAB-40 had decimated the world’s population, killing more than three billion people worldwide and severely affecting fertility. It was a miracle I’d survived, considering how susceptible children had been, but I had. Not only that, but I’d also turned out to be one of the fortunate ones. Lucky me.
RNAB-40 was the pandemic that had led the government to establish the Department of Fertility in 2046. The idea had been that we needed a dedicated group of doctors and scientists working toward figuring out what to do about the decline in pregnancies and rapidly decreasing population. Instead of coming up with a solution, they passed The Fertility Act only a year later. There had been no voting, and no feedback from the general population. The Secretary of Fertility had simply submitted an emergency proposal to congress, and in a matter of days, the law was passed.
I was six years old when it happened, and while I hadn’t really understood the importance of it at the time, the preceding months had left an impact on me. Protests and demonstrations followed, leading to thousands of arrests and dozens of riots. The country had been in upheaval, and women everywhere had been outraged by the stripping of our rights. Before The Fertility Act, medical records were private, but not anymore. Not if you were a woman. Doctors were required to share all information about our health with the government under the guise that it would help the Department of Fertility figure out how to fix the issue. Except, twenty years later, no progress had been made. Fertility numberswere the same, and the law was still in effect, and women like me still didn’t have control over their own bodies. And there was no end in sight.
I paused when I reached the building’s entrance, staring up at the unimposing façade. It seemed more like a prison than a government facility, and I felt more like I was leaving death row for the electric chair than heading into a medical facility. I wanted to run but couldn’t. This had to be done. I had to walk in and submit to this horrible, invasive, demoralizing law like a lemming, and there was literally nothing I could do about it if I wanted to avoid fines or prison or an even worse fate in another country.
Yes, Canada was an option. Our neighbor to the north had always been a sanctuary for people wanting to avoid the oppression that had been blanketing our country for the last several decades, but getting in was nearly impossible. Every girl had to submit to a fertility screening at the age of seventeen, and once she was proven fertile, her parents or guardians couldn’t take her out of the country.
Things didn’t get better for the fertile ones after becoming a legal adult, either. Young adult men and non-fertile women were allowed to travel. They could go to Canada, Europe, Asia, or even Australia if they had the means, but women like me couldn’t. No, we were chained to the country, our uteruses acting as shackles. We were told we could travel if we got approval, and I’d known women who’d applied for visas, but they’d all been denied. If your body was fruitful, you were flagged. You were property of the government. You weren’t allowed to have a real life. And if you tried, you were punished.
Which was why I couldn’t talk about my past with anyone. Ever.
