I looked at the rock on her left ring finger, then once again focused on her face. “Where’s your husband?”
“Working. He’s not home all that much, really.”
She gave an unconcerned shrug as she flipped the switch beside the doorway. Light flooded the room, illuminating it and the picture above the fireplace mantel more clearly. Bette was young, in her early twenties, so I was surprised to realize her husband was quite a bit older. Forty-five, I would have guessed. Maybe older. He was good-looking, though, with dark hair and only a touch of gray at his temples, and had the build of someone who made a point of taking care of themselves. There was something about his eyes, though, that seemed cold. Selfish, even.
“He gives me stability,” Bette said, as if reading my thoughts and wanting to justify why she was married to this icy-lookingman. “Walter comes from money. This house has been passed down for generations, and all he’s ever wanted was to have an heir so he could continue the tradition. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.” Bette’s mouth pressed into a strained smile. “He and his first wife got married in 2044, right when fertility rates got really bad, and she was barren. But then the Department of Fertility was created, and The Fertility Act was passed, and they thought, this is it! We can adopt.”
“Did they?” I asked, unable to stay quiet.
Bette’s soft voice with its slight southern twang was mesmerizing, but something about her tone was off. Almost like she was telling me a ghost story, not talking about her husband, and it was unsettling.
“They did,” she replied. “When they were almost thirty, they adopted a healthy baby boy. They were ecstatic, her because she wanted to be a mother, Walter because he needed an heir.” Bette looked down, her hand moving over her stomach as if trying to soothe her unborn child. “Walter Junior was six weeks old when he died. They said it was SIDS, which was common during the RNAB-50 pandemic. Shortly after, the population took another huge hit, and the laws were changed, making it impossible for them to adopt again.”
“That’s awful,” I said, feeling like I needed to fill the silence that followed the statement.
“It is.” Bette’s smile was shaky when she lifted her gaze to me. “They were devastated for so many reasons and it really began to take a toll on their marriage. They hadn’t been happy for a long time before he met me, and I gave him hope. I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t wrong or that we got married for good reasons. It was and we didn’t. His wife was depressed, and he was unhappy, and I was fertile. It made sense.”
“So, he divorced his wife to marry you because you could give him an heir?” I asked, wanting to make I understood.
“That’s pretty much what happened.” Bette gave a small shrug. “I came from a pretty bad place. Really bad,” she explained. “I grew up in the south, and we were so poor. All I wanted was to start over somewhere else and figureout a way to have financial stability. I moved as soon as I turned eighteen, not even sure where I was going but knowing I had to get out. I had a little money,” she flushed at that, telling me there was more to the story, but didn’t elaborate, “so I bought a shitty car and drove until I found a place that looked nice. Somehow, I ended up here and I liked it. So, I stayed.
“I met Walter when I was bartending and could tell right away he had money. I paid extra attention to him, which he loved, and we got to talking. It wasn’t long before he was spilling his guts about his life, and I instantly saw a solution to both our problems. He wanted a baby, and I wanted money. He was on board the instant I suggested we get married.”
“You suggested it?” I asked, stunned.
“I did, and I don’t regret it,” Bette said simply. “No, we don’t love one another, but that’s okay. I have something I’ve never had before, which is a real life, and he’s getting his baby.” She looked at her stomach once again. “It worked out perfectly.”
I wanted to point out that it hadn’t exactly worked out for Walter’s wife, but let it go. The arrangement was a bit strange, but I didn’t judge her for it. It did, however, seem so out of character for someone so selfless and caring. Then again, maybe she was only selfless now because she could afford to be. Maybe if she hadn’t been able to claw her way out of her horrible circumstances, she would have been a different person.
“Anyway,” Bette said, her usual smile back on her face, “I should get started on dinner. Want to come into the kitchen so we can chat while I cook? I can drop you off at home after.”
I stood, suddenly aware that my stomach was growling, and that I actually liked this woman. “Sure.”
Bette smiled, and I followed her from the room.
Twenty-Three
As promised, the recovery from my D&C was easy, and since it meant I didn’t have to worry about morning sickness or getting inseminated again for another six weeks, it was actually a welcome break. Ialmostfelt normal during that time. Almost, because it wasn’t like I could drink with my friends or anything, but also because the pandemic that had been brewing overseas had finally breached our borders.
It was on the west coast to start with, the first reports popping up in San Francisco but quickly spreading. It was all over the news the week following my procedure, and the week after that, it was all anyone could talk about, and more and more people had started wearing masks. At work, people wore pinched, apprehensive expressions, their conversations hushed like they were worried talking about what was happening too loudly would allow the pandemic to infiltrate their lives. Every magazine and newspaper still in circulation reported on the new pandemic the following week, putting special emphasis on expert predictions that called it thepossible end of humanity. They were all American experts, and all of them were employed by the government, a fact few people seemed to realize. They were the same experts who regularly pointed out how much The Fertility Act benefited the population, which to me seemed like proof that they couldn’t be trusted. While babies had been born thanks to the law, nothing had been done to change how few people were fertile or to stopthe population from decreasing with each passing year. The Fertility Act wasn’t a long-term solution, and anyone with any common sense should have been able to see that.
“It’s bullshit,” Trevor said, tossing the latest edition ofTime Magazineon the table in front of him. “They’re just trying to scare everyone.”
It was the last Saturday in August, and we’d gathered at Trevor’s house for fondue night and wine. Well, the guys got to have wine. I, on the other hand, got to sip water and wish I could somehow figure out a way to overthrow the Department of Fertility.
“And it’s working,” Owen pointed out. “Half the country has already reinstated mask mandates, and thousands of schools have switched to online learning as a precaution. I even heard that in California, they’ve moved all the women enrolled in the program to governmenthospitals.”
The way he pronounced the word, putting emphasis on the fact that we all knew they were more like prisons than hospitals, wasn’t what made me sit up straighter.
“Where did you hear that?”
Admittedly, I’d paid little attention to the news. Having lived through four pandemics and watched people I cared about die while taking the same precautions I had, I was convinced it was all random. Two people walked into a room where the virus was rampant, both wearing masks and using hand sanitizer as instructed. A few days later, one came down with the virus that would ultimately kill them, while the other went about their life totally unaware that they should be dead. Plus, listening to everyone worry about what would happen next was a waste of time since there was literally nothing we could do but wait and see. After Owen’s comment, though, I had to wonder if I should have been paying more attention.
Trevor shot his boyfriend a scathing look before focusing on me. “They’re rumors, Ara. That’s all.”
“But where are they coming from?” I insisted. “The news? The Internet?”
Knowing about the confidentiality agreement, I assumedit was the latter and that someone – in a moment of bravery or stupidity – had leaked the information. But it couldn’t be accurate, right? The contract said I could be moved to one of the government hospitals if I didn’t follow the rules, but that was it. It hadn’t mentioned anything about stashing me away during a pandemic. Then again, hadn’t there been a clause that said certain things would be left up to the discretion of the Department of Fertility? I couldn’t remember for sure.
