“For you?”
Teresa was in her sixties, and as far as I knew, didn’t have any children. None that she spoke of, anyway. I’d assumed she had been one of the majority of women who were infertile, although now that I thought about it, I realized that she’d been in her thirties by the time fertility issues became prevalent. Maybe she’d had a baby before that, and something went wrong?
“Yes,” she said, giving me a sad smile. “RNA-33 affected so many of us, but probably not in the way you imagine. We talk about infertility all the time now, but no one discusses what it was like after that pandemic. Yes, there was a significant decrease in fertility, but there was also a decline in healthy births. A majordecline.”
I’d known that but had never thought about it before, and I swallowed, for the first time wondering what that meant. Wondering how it had affected my boss.
“My husband and I got married in 2030, just three years before RNA-33,” Teresa went on. “We were in our mid-twenties and in no rush to have a family because despite the pandemics that had plagued our lives, we felt like we had so much time ahead of us. We had no way of knowing that the pandemics would continue, or that they would affect the world in ways we could never have imagined. Even after RNA-33, we didn’t really know, which was why we were thrilled when I found out I was pregnant.
“It was the end of 2035, and life was returning to normal as the most recent pandemic tapered off, and the future was looking hopeful. My pregnancy, too, progressed normally through the first and second trimesters. Even when the news about the decline in healthy pregnancies hit, I didn’t worry because everything seemed okay, and there were still so many unknowns about those statistics. It was why we were so blindsided when things came to a horrifying end at the beginning of the third trimester.” Teresa sucked in a slow, strained breath before continuing her story. “It was devastating, but we didn’t yet know just how bad things could get, so after giving my body time to recover, we tried again. I got pregnant right away.
“Things were the same the second time around, but the doctors had enough information to know what to look for, and they were unsurprised when I lost the baby at the end of the second trimester. By that point, news about the decline in fertility and speculation about how RNA-33 had affected women’s ability to carry babies was rampant, but my husband and I weren’t ready to give up. We tried again. And again. And again.” Teresa shook her head. “By then, getting pregnant wasn’t a problem for most women, it was staying pregnant that was the real issue. I wasn’t alone in that. I guess it made it easier because so many people were going through the same thing, but I’m not positive about that. Either way, I lost a little bit of myself every time I had to say goodbye to my unborn baby. Seven in total. Imagine the tollit took.”
I couldn’t.
She exhaled, her shoulders slumping, then said, “Regardless of my loss, I’ve never thought The Fertility Act was a blessing. I know what it means to have something that’s a part of you ripped away when you can do nothing about it, which is how I imagine women like you must feel about the whole thing. It’s sick, and no matter what we’ve suffered, there’s no excuse for it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said when it was clear she wasn’t going to go on. “For what you went through, I mean.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Again, we lapsed into silence, but this time it was coated with both bitterness and melancholy, which I was ashamed to admit, made me want to leave. What she’d been through was tough, but I had my own issues at the moment and had never really been the type of person who had room in their life for other people. Except Trevor, who understood my need for occasional solitude.
Wanting to get away, I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the time. “I should get to work.”
Teresa shook herself the way a person did when they were trying to clear their mind. “Yes. Me, too.”
“Thanks, Teresa,” I said as I moved to the door.
“You’re welcome, Ara. And good luck.”
Twenty
My boss’ remarks about symptoms starting early for some people ended up being prophetic.
The first change I noticed was tenderness in my breasts. It was mild, and not much different from the soreness that sometimes accompanied my periods, but irritating because I knew what it was from. It put me in a foul mood, which followed me to work and stuck with me throughout the day. My unhappiness grew when I met Trevor for dinner only to realize that not only did food not sound good, but just thinking about eating made me want to vomit.
“Well, shit,” I muttered, slamming the menu down just as he picked up his wine.
My best friend paused with the glass a millimeter from his lips. “Bad day?”
“Bad life.” I glared at his glass when he took a sip, wishing I could shoot lasers from my eyes and make the thing explode. “First, I wake up with sore tits, and now the very thought of eating makes me want to hurl. Being pregnant sucks!”
I uttered the last sentence a little too loudly, causing a thirtyish woman at the table next to us to shoot me a glare. Not deterred from my foul mood, I returned the look with a fiery one of my own, wishing for the second time that I had laser eyes so I could show her just how pissed I was.
It was childish and not fair. She had a diamond ring on herleft hand, telling me she was married, and taking the odds into consideration, it was very likely she was unable to conceive. And here I was complaining about it. It was a shitty thing to do.
That was one of the tougher parts about this whole thing, knowing how much I didn’t want it while so many other women would have sold their souls for a chance to have a baby. But I couldn’t change what I wanted – or in this case, didn’t want – or my circumstances, and if I were omnipotent, I would gladly trade places with this or any other woman.
Trevor set down his glass. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” I huffed to show him I wasn’t ready to give up being pissed. “And I don’t mean to snap at you.” Again, I glared at his wine. “Even though it’s seriously irritating that you can drink, and I can’t.”
The good thing about having a lifelong friend was I could be as bitchy as I wanted, and that even if I was being totally unfair and irrational, he would forgive me.
“I can quit.” Trevor’s shoulders rose and fell.
“Quit?”
