My towel clutched tightly to my body, I unlocked the screen and tapped the phone icon, then put the voicemail on speaker. Hilary’s voice filled the room.
“Ara, this is Hilary Tantor from the Department of Fertility. I woke to a couple worrisome reports and wanted to not only check in with you, but to also remind you of the contract you signed. I understand you’re new to the program, and I am aware that you can’t always control what’s going on around you, but you need to be more mindful of the company you keep. And it’s important to avoid dangerous or even risky situations, including being around excessive smoke.” She paused, making it seem like she’d finished, then went on to say, “And I’m concerned about your sleep patternfrom last night. You seemed to have trouble falling asleep and even when you did, you got very little rest. I understand you might have a lot on your mind, but it’s important to look after your health as we move further into the program, so do try to get better rest. If this persists, we can discuss a sleeping aid, although we obviously prefer to avoid such things if possible.” She blew out a long breath. “Anyway, I don’t necessarily need you to return my call, but you can if you have any questions. If not, we’ll talk in a couple days. Bye, now.”
The voicemail cut off, but I stayed frozen in place, my focus on my phone. I supposed the call wasn’t a shock, but it did have me rattled. Again. Would she receive daily reports about me? If so, what would be in them other than my sleep pattern and body temperature? A lot, probably. Even more importantly, would she be honest if I asked her about it?
Since nothing about the program was transparent, I seriously doubted anyone was concerned with honesty or how I felt about the situation. The law made it clear I had no choice in any of this, and the contract bound me to silence about anything that went on while I was enrolled in the program. Hilary could force me to shave my head and perform fertility dances during the next full moon and I wouldn’t be able to tell a soul. Even if I did, who would listen or care? Almost no one.
Thirteen
It felt like my life had turned into a ticking clock over the next couple days. Twice a day, my wristband chimed, and my temperature appeared on the screen. It stayed fairly consistent, ranging from ninety-seven point five degrees to ninety-seven point nine, which after a quick Internet search, I learned was normal. Not that the increase would be significant when I finally did start ovulating, which I supposed was why they were taking my temperature two times a day. So they had a good base to compare the numbers.
As expected, I was more than a little self-conscious about the wristband when I returned to work on Monday. Hoping I could pretend I was chilly, I’d brought a sweatshirt, and was successfully able to conceal the thing thanks to the long sleeves, but it was a temporary solution because there would be no way to hide what was going on forever. Even something as small as lifting my arm could give me away since my sleeve slipped down, revealing my wristband for all to see, but that was only the beginning. As my time in the program progressed, I would miss more and more work. For appointments, ultrasounds, counseling, and possibly even morning sickness. I’d had it the first time I was pregnant, which was what had tipped me off, and just thinking about the nausea had my stomach prematurely roiling. Even if by some miracle I didn’t have that problem this time around, I wouldn’t be able to hide my condition once my body started changing.Eventually, my secret would be revealed to everyone who looked at me.
My boss, Teresa, eyed me warily when I stepped into her office halfway through the day, my sweatshirt zipped to my chin and the sleeves pulled down, so they were practically covering my hands.
“I wanted to talk to you about the Fulton account,” I said, pausing in the doorway like I thought the space separating us would protect me from curiosity.
Teresa nodded slowly, her gaze sweeping over me like she was trying to see if I’d changed but her expression guarded. “What can I do for you?”
It was such a relief to have her acting normally that I almost burst into tears, which pissed me off. I wasn’t even pregnant yet, and already my hormones were out of control. What would I be like once I was expecting?
“Um,” I kept my voice level as I said, “I’m working on the ads for their upcoming summer promotion, and wanted you to take a look at them. The client asked for a lot of color, but I think it’s a bit too much. Blinding, almost. I’d like some tips on how to tone it down, if you don’t mind.”
Teresa listened calmly as I spoke, and with each second of normalcy, I was able to relax a little more. It helped that she didn’t ask me any questions or act like I was a different person, and since she was the only one at the office who knew what was going on, no one else had either. Which was a huge relief.
I got out of work late and was so mentally exhausted by then that I couldn’t even think about making dinner, which was why I popped into my favorite sports bar instead of heading straight to my apartment. My insides quivered thinking about the last time I’d been here, and I shifted the sweatshirt I had draped over my arm, double checking to make sure it concealed my wristband.
As usual, the place was booming with activity, with most of the tables filled and only two lone barstools empty. Families gathered around steaming pizzas, talking and laughing, while groups of adults chatted loudly, raising their voices to be heard over the music thrumming through the building. A classic wasplaying, the beat loud and boisterous, and behind the bar, one of the evening bartenders, Salvador, bobbed his head to the beat.
I pushed my way through the crowd, my sweatshirt held tightly against my body like it was the only thing keeping me safe, while returning the greetings of the people I recognized. There were a lot of regulars tonight, which made sense considering there was a game on. It was being broadcast on nearly all the televisions, the subtitles scrolling across the bottom so the people watching could read the commentary. The two TVs that weren’t showing the game were playing one of the dozens ofLaw & Ordershows that had been made over the last several decades, although it was impossible to tell which one since they all pretty much looked the same and I couldn’t remember which actor had been on what show.
Salvador nodded in acknowledgment when I slipped into one of the empty barstools, his head still bobbing as he artfully mixed some kind of fruity drink. The twenty-something woman he set it in front of a few seconds later gave him a seductive smile as she pushed her long, blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing more of her cleavage. The display filled me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Amusement because while I understood her attraction to Salvador, she wasn’t his type. He was gay. My curiosity, however, was about her.
She was a little younger than me, twenty-two or possibly twenty-three, which meant if she was one of theluckyones, she could be in my shoes in just a couple years. Was she fertile? Did she dread her twenty-sixth birthday the way I had for more than a decade now, or did The Fertility Act have no bearing on her life?
Even in my current state, I knew better than to think non-fertile women were lucky. They would never have their bodies commandeered by the government, but they were as trapped by their circumstances as I was. Only for different reasons. No, from where I was sitting, there were no lucky women in this new world of infertility.
Somehow, Salvador managed to extract himself from the flirtatious ramblings of the blonde and made his way to me.
“What can I get you, Ara?” he asked as he wiped at a sticky ring on the shiny bar top.
“Club soda with lime,” I said, trying to make the words casual and unimportant. “And a pecan chicken salad. To go, please.”
Salvador lifted his thick, dark brows, curiosity brimming in his eyes.
Before he could say anything, I nodded to the girl who was still eye fucking him as she sucked down her sugary drink. “A new fan?”
He smirked and winked. “It brings in the tips.”
Despite my morose thoughts, I let out a little laugh. “You do savor being a heartbreaker, don’t you?”
“Only because it pays the bills,” he said, lightly patting my hand – my right hand since the left one was safely hidden in my lap. “I’ll put that in for you.”
He winked again before walking away.
I’d been a regular for years, but he’d only been working at the bar for going on two. Nearly six months had gone by before I’d discovered he was gay and that had only been because Trevor let it slip. Later, I’d learned from Salvador that he intentionally left his sexuality ambiguous while at work to bring in more tips. He wasn’t delusional about his looks and knew women would tip better if they thought they had a chance. It typically worked.
I scrolled through social media while I waited for my drink, more because I wasn’t in the mood for small talk than out of a desire to see the cheery posts of friends and acquaintances. It was the usual stuff. Pictures of family and food and pets, people sharing political posts or funny memes. A few made me laugh, others I rolled my eyes at, but for the most part, it was light. At least until I spotted the picture of a high school acquaintance standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. My finger froze in the middle of scrolling, my gut clenching uncomfortably as a pang of jealousy shot through me.
