I hear shouting as I approach the building.
I clutch my bag to my chest as I walk through the crowd of people. Most of them are carrying signs. I don’t look at their faces and I don’t look at their signs. I can hear anger in their voices.
I feel spittle hit my cheeks as I walk by, and the tang of their hot breath. I do my best to stare straight ahead, but on one of the signs I see a baby. Part of a baby.
By the time I get to the front of the building there are people to open the door for me. I thrust myself inside and walk up to one of the stations. A uniformed woman gives me a sheet full of questions and I sit down on a long wooden bench to answer them.
My number is 7622949. I am to watch the digital board for my number, and then go into a cubicle to talk to one of the caseworkers.
The room is huge, with a high ceiling and concrete walls, and chilly. I hunch down for warmth. As I fill out the sheet, I look around and see many other women.
They are sitting on hard benches too. Some have mothers, friends, boyfriends – or maybe husbands -- sitting with them. Occasionally there is a whoop of joy. Or a sob.
I look up on the board as the numbers appear. They change every few minutes. It looks like a board listing trains arriving and departing from a station. I watch until I see the pattern. The words listed under the numbers are “cubicle,” “termination,” “completion,” or occasionally “donation.”
I think I know what these words mean. I think I am afraid of what these words might mean.
A woman sits down beside me. She has a toddler with her, a little boy. He looks at me and gives me a shy grin. I smile back. I put my hand in front of my eyes and play peek-a-boo. First he hides behind his mother’s knee and then he starts looking back at me. I flirt with him when he looks. His mother turns to me and asks, “Is this your first time here?”
I nod, “Yes.”
“Well, we all have to do it!” she says with a game smile. “These days, anyway. I’m surprised they still let those folks outside march around with their signs.”
“I didn’t expect that,” I say.
“Oh, you poor thing. Did they scare you?”
She reminds me of my mother, though she’s not nearly old enough. She’s very pretty, with long shiny hair.
“A little.”
She smiles. “Well, this isn’t really so bad.” She looks down and uses her thumb to wipe something sticky and purple off her son’s mouth. “I mean, it’s not so bad if you get the answer you want.”
I swallow and nod.
“How far are you along?” she asks.
“Oh, I think, just a month,” I say. “I didn’t plan this.”
She laughs. “Yeah. Most of us don’t.”
“How old’s your son?” I ask.
“He’s two,” she says.
“Is he your first?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “He’s my baby – my good boy. Aren’t you my good boy?” The boy shakes his curls and ducks behind his mother, then peeks out at me.
I smile at him.
I finish filling out my form and bring it back to the woman at the desk. I go back to sit down. Occasionally people in medical clothes come out to escort someone into a door marked “Terminations.” One of them is a big man wearing blue scrubs.
A chime sounds each time a new number appears on the board. I look up when I hear each one. After five minutes I see my number. Underneath, I read “Cubicle 22.”
I stand up and smile at the woman beside me. Her son shyly waves bye-bye. I walk toward the sign that says Cubicles 20-40 and make my way down the hall. I can hear voices, mostly calm, but some angry or tearful, coming from each cubicle I walk by.
The intake workers, in uniforms, are facing outward, and the supplicants are facing inward. I can’t see their faces but I can read the language of their bodies, shoulders hunched or sitting up straight, hands flat and tense on the desk in front of them or folded as if in prayer.
I come to cubicle 22 and look at my questioner. She is a young woman, not much older than I am. She has olive skin and her hair is curly. Her uniform is tight in a way to show off her figure, and she has one more button undone at the top than most of the workers I’ve seen.
She gives me an official smile and gestures toward the chair in front of her. I sit down. I hand her my clipboard with the sheet on it. She looks at the first page.
“So, Lily,” she says by way of greeting.
“Yes,” I answer.
“I see that you believe you are one month along and that you have indicated your preference here at the bottom of the sheet.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you are how old?” Her fingers are on a keyboard now as she looks from the questionnaire to the screen in front of her.
“Twenty-two.”
She looks up at me. “Is this your first pregnancy?”
“Yes.”
“Any prior terminations?”
“No.”
“You understand that we’re going to give you a medical examination, and if we find that you’re not telling the truth, you can be jailed.”
“Yes, I understand. I’m telling the truth.”
“All right. And have you identified a father?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in agreement with your decision to identify him?”
“Yes. He’s my husband.”
“I see. So you’re married.”
“Yes.”
“But your husband didn’t choose to be part of the examination process today.”
“He’s at work.”
“Oh, so he has a job. That’s great.” She gives a small smile. “All right. So. I know that you’ve answered some of these questions in writing already, but we like to connect with the subjects by covering them verbally as well.” She looks down at the paper, then back up at me. “So… are you ready?”
“I guess so.”
“What is your ethnic background?”
“I am… I’m mostly Swedish and German, and a little bit of Italian.”
“And your husband?”
“He’s English and Scottish and something maybe… Russian?”
“Okay. What color eyes does your husband have?”
“Brown.”
“What color hair?”
“Brown.”
“How tall is he?”
“Five eleven. About.”
“And you are?”
“Five six.”
“Do you have any history of mental illness in your family?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Depression?”
“Well, my uncle used to… take pills… I think.”
“Mm hmm. Anybody institutionalized?”
“No. I don’t… think so.”
“Have you been convicted of a crime?”
“No.”
“Your husband? We’ll check the database, of course.”
I nod. “Yes. I mean, yes, I know. And no, he’s never been convicted of a crime.”
“Has anyone in your family committed suicide?”
“No.”
“How much education do you have?”
“I went to college.”
“Did you finish?”
“Yes.”
“And your husband?”
“He went to college too.”
“Where did he go?”
“State University. We both did.”
“And are you working now?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at a pet care place… it’s called Pet Pampering. I walk the dogs and play with them.”
“That sounds like fun,” she says, smiling.
I try to smile back.
“Your household income?”
“Around… thirty.”
“I see you’ve indicated your Social Security number here, so we’ll check with the Internal Revenue Service for verification.” She looks up.
I nod.
“How long have you been married?”
“A year.”
“How’s the marriage going?”
“It’s great.”
“So you think you’ll stay together.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Back to your family… any homosexuals in your family?”
I blink. “Oh. Hmm… I have a cousin.”
“Okay. First cousin?”
“First.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
“Uh huh. And what’s your religious background?”
“Well… I’m not really anything.”
“Your parents?”
“Uh… My mom was raised Lutheran. My dad was raised Catholic.”
“Are your parents still actively religious?”
“Dad’s dead. My mom still goes to church, you know, on Christmas and Easter. And… maybe she does some of the charity stuff. I’m not sure.”
“How about your husband? Is he religious?”
“Um… not really.”
“And his parents?”
“Uh… his mom was Jewish. Is Jewish. And his Dad is… nothing, I don’t think.”
“So was your husband raised Jewish?”
“I guess so. Yeah. I mean… he knows the Hanukkah prayer.” I notice that my hands are sweating.
She smiles. “Any heart disease in your family?”
“My dad died of a heart attack.”
“How old was he?”
“He was 67.”
“And… cancer?”
“Um… one of my aunts had breast cancer.”
“And did she survive?”
“Yes. She’s still alive.”
“Do you have any special talents?
I swallow. “Um… I paint.”
“Have you sold anything?”
“No.”
“So it’s just a hobby, then.”
“Yes. I guess so.”
“In your extended family… any other artists, musicians?”
“My grandfather played the violin. He was supposed to be pretty good.”
She smiles. “Professionally?”
“No.”
She stops smiling. “Any athletes?”
“Um… my brother was a really good swimmer when he was young. He got to the state championship meet in high school.”
“Okay.” She looks down at the questionnaire and takes her fingers off the keyboard. “All right, I think this is enough information for us. You can go back and sit down and we’ll give you your answer in a few minutes.”
“Um… can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“How much will they take into account what I want?”
“Oh, we take that into account. Don’t worry.” She gives an official smile and I push back my chair.
The woman I had talked to in the waiting room is gone by the time I get back. I pick up a magazine that’s been handled many times. “Reproduction Today.” On the cover is a very pregnant woman with long blonde hair and a handsome man behind her.
I start to leaf through the pages and the magazine falls open to the classifieds in back. A smiling couple looks out from a full-page ad.
“Private Arrangements! We could be the parents your child deserves,” the page says. It goes on to describe a woman named Terri and her husband Brad and how they have a three-acre home in upstate New York. They’re looking for a new baby to complete their family. They have a boy and now they want a girl. There are pictures of the happy family on their property romping around with a dog. There’s even a picture of the grandparents smiling into the camera.
At the bottom of the ad I see the smaller type. “Discreet inquiries welcome. We can negotiate government red tape for you, no matter what the official determination. We have the means to change that. Let us have your fetus and the end result will be a happy, healthy child. If you are the right birth mother -- and you decide on us as the loving couple to whom you will entrust the future of your genes -- we are ready to offer a substantial cash reward.”
I put the magazine down and hear the big board chime on the wall above me. I notice the slogan, in small script above it, for the first time.
You conceive. We decide.
The digits change, and 7622949 appears. I look down at my sheet. That’s my number.
I can feel a lump in my throat as I lift my head to see. I already know what it says.
Termination.
No. No.
I stand up. My heart is suddenly drumming. I look toward the front doors, where I walked in just an hour ago.
A sob threatens to escape from my open mouth.
I knew this might happen, but I hadn’t imagined how primal it would feel. I pick up my bag and start to move toward the entrance, wanting to run but trying to look relaxed. I can hear my pulse in my ears.
I see two nurses come toward me. The big man in the blue scrubs wears an official smile as he reaches out to take my arm – kindly, gently.
“Hi Lily,” he says.
My whole body is tingling with fear. No. I will not let them do this. There must be… another option. A scream starts to rise from my gut and I hear the sound of a woman out of control.
I try to twist away, fighting for my life. All my strength goes into getting out of his grip. The other nurse pins my arm behind me.
The big man reaches for the handcuffs dangling from his belt. “Easy sweetheart, easy. It will go better for you if you just come with us quietly.”
He leans down and whispers in my ear as he deftly locks the metal around my wrists.
“I’m sorry, but you don’t get a choice.”