When we found out our donor sperm had taken, my wife and I couldn’t stop crying with joy. Phoebe took each side of my face in her hands, and layed kisses across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. Her homemade lipstick left faint marks on my face, smelling like the small amounts of orange zest she infused in it. Her little burst of laughter between tears were sweetly feminine and she had rubbed a thumb over the soft part of my lower abdomen like she could already feel the baby.
That was weeks ago, but I still feel elated. My belly is now swollen a little bigger than I had expected at fifteen weeks. The morning sickness that had plagued me for far too long, is now finally gone. I am feeling better than I had for months, my energy has shot through the roof in last week compared the start of my pregnancy.
Phoebe hadn’t stopped smiling at me with little smirks, and despite my protests, doing every little thing she could for me. She takes me on ‘walks’ on our low grade government provided treadmill. The old sidewalks on our narrow packed city streets were only permitted to government officials or if you had already set appointment checked at the door of your apartment building whenever you left. Not that that made the streets clear, what-so-ever. They were still packed shoulder to shoulder.
“Loa Kade?” A female voice calls from a nearby door, I raise my hand and wave.
“That’s me,” I reply back, standing up from my lobby chair, I followed the woman wearing a sharp lab coat that had called my name. She’s short, asian, and naturally beautiful with plump heart shaped lips and sharp chin.
“Hello, Ms. Kade. Unfortunately, this will have to be quick, I have other patients waiting on me as well,” She doesn’t really look at me as she talks, as if her mind is already beyond our appointment.
“That’s fine.”
“Perfect,” She leads me into a small room, and gestures to the patient chair with an already blue gloved hand. “We’ll just check up on how your baby is doing, and then you’ll be free to go.”
In the next minute she has me on the chair, my jeans zipper undone, and shirt rolled up to expose my belly. As she begins to slather cold gel onto my abdomen, a puzzled look creases her brows.
“How far along did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. Fifteen weeks,” I say, a knot of worry forms in my throat. “Why?”
“You’re just a little bigger than what I had expected,” She presses a plastic device against my gel covered tummy, and moves it smoothly across my skin. Her head tilts to the side as she looks at the screen near my head. Then, she sighs and frowns. As her lips turn even more down I notice how tired she looks, but I'm not really surprised. The world’s medically trained are overworked in our overpopulated society.
She silently wipes up my belly with a soft paper towel, and helps me pull my shirt down and I zip my pants back up. It takes a second for her to finally meet my eyes with her deep brown ones. “Ms. Kade I’m afraid you’re expecting twins.”
The little fluorescent light above my head seems to sway a little, “no…” I shake my head at her because of course she’s wrong. “That’s not possible.”
My head begins to hurt as I see the pity in her eyes, “I’m truly sorry, Ms. Kade,” She pauses, “but you know the law. We’ll have to terminate one of them. You’re only allowed one.”
I rub two fingers against my temples, “fine,” I whisper. She sighs once again and reaches for her com to no doubt contact a nurse to prepare. Before she can reach the little device in her ear my hands reach for her throat. My muscle memory takes over as my brain remembers my training my father had given me when I was young. I shove her against the nearby counter, one hand wrapped around her throat the other holding her small hands behind her back. Being pregnant changes things for me in a fight, but this technician was so slight I doubt I would have any trouble.
We were so closely pressed together I could feel her rapid heartbeat, and every detail in her wide eyes. “No.”
“No?” She says shakily.
“Please, I can’t do it,” I squeeze out, I slowly lower my hand from her throat but keep her wrists together behind her back. “I love both already. They’re both my babies.” My anger comes back, and bare my teeth a little.
The pity I saw in her eyes fills them up again and she thinks for a minute, her eyes going distant. Then, she nods to herself, and then nods to me. I release her and back a step away, ready to grab at her again. I rest a hand against my abdomen and give her the best pleading eyes I can muster.
The tech shifts to type on a computer that stands stuffed in the corner of the room. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to inform you that you’ve miscarried.” She says with a conspiring look in my direction, “it seems you want to give birth to the… um… fetus at home and would like to do so with only your wife and mother present.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I wanna do…” I shake my head slowly and before she can change her mind, I slip out the exam room door and hurry out of the building.
There’s the chance she was tricking me. A chance that a government van will pull up near me and force me into an operating room, but the only thing I can do right now is return home to my wife and try not burst into tears and hide in our little bed for the next four months. Maybe, I could tell Phoebe tomorrow, let her be happy for at least one more day before I drop a moon sized bomb of stinking dog shit on her head.
In a span of one hundred years the world had tripled in population. The world I know is not one that existed back in the early decades of the 21st century. Although still a little packed in some places, most of the world had the freedom to to do basically anything spacewise, or so my 9th grade history teacher had said.
Now, it’s hard not to feel suffocated by the packed streets and skin-on-skin contact. Hard to focus when all you can see, smell, and touch are those pushing past you. When the world got a little more full, each country's government instituted their own population control laws. In America, each family is only allowed one baby. If a person is expecting multiples, they are forced to terminate until there is only one.
Every shoulder that connects with mine as I shuffle down the bustling sidewalk is more jarring than it should be. Every shout from a military officer for us to keep moving has me jumping, and as I board one of the shuttles that will bring home I start to feel my heartbeat in my ears as I witness the amount of people packed wall to wall. The shuttle bright lights burn my eyes an da headache sprouts at the top of my skull.
Was I being selfish for wanting both babies? I knew what state our world’s population was in when I grabbed that techs throat, but I hadn’t been thinking. The only thing I had thought was, how could I live with myself if I had to choose one of my children over the other? How could I love one fully if I knew that I had killed their twin? As other’s bodies pressed in closer, I felt more guilty for not letting the doctors make the decision for me. For not wordlessly going with the process of society, as I always had.
It was too long before I shoved my way off the shuttle and onto yet another bustling sidewalk. The only thing that kept me moving me through the crowds was knowing Phoebe was already home from work, no doubt making dinner in her one pair of pajamas. I get happy for one second as I think about the llamas that she had painted onto to her pajama bottoms. That moment of happiness didn’t last long, but it made me a slight bit more assertive in my fight to our building’s front door.
The apartment buildings in the large citizen district were squished against each other and at least ten stories tall, and made almost entirely of recycled plastic. I doubt a building would even room to fall in this city.
When I get to my building entrance, I swipe a little card through the machine at the door and wait for it it verify my appointments credibility. Hurrying inside I shudder from how cold it actually is. Our apartment is on the fifth floor, and I take the stairs slower than I normally would have, as my body begins to tense up at the thought of my wife’s happy face. My stomach crawls up my throat because I’ll have to take her smile from her. I could wait until tomorrow, give her a little more happy time, but I fear that if I wait I won’t ever tell her.
I opened the little door to our two room apartment, and my eyes immediately find my wife’s as she looks up from the small stove. Phoebe’s black hair is a little frazzled and her face slightly red from the steam that rises from the pot she’s leaning over.
“How’s my little apple?” She bends down and coos at my middle, planting a kiss right above my belly button. Phoebe changes her nickname for the baby, or rather babies, for every stage, as their size correlates to the sizes of food. Poppy seed, strawberry, apple.
I shoo her away with a wave of my hand and plop down on one of the two little chairs that accompany a small table for eating meals. I sniff, and wipe under my nose like a toddler. “What’re you cooking?” I say, as she passes me a tissue from the little pack she always has in her pants pocket.
“Oh, you know, tasteless chicken rations with a side of salted broth.”
“Yum.”
Phoebe chuckles and starts ladling chicken and broth into two bowls. Before I can even think of not telling her yet, I whisper, “there’s two.”
“Two of what?” Phoebe hums as she sets a bowl in front of me at the table, and the spoon she sets in gives a soft plink.
“Twins, Phoebe.”
“What?”
I purse my lips and feel hot tears sting at the corner of my eyes. My wife sits down across from me with a thump, and the pressure of her stare weighs down my shoulders.
“They didn’t force an abortion?” She asks softly, reaching for my hand she lays her slim fingers on top of mine.
I snort through my nose that’s stuffed from crying, wipe at my snot with my tissue. “They tried. A tech helped me by saying that I miscarried, and let me leave with both of them.”
“That’s good.” Phoebe nods and pats my hand.
“Sure it is. For now. What are we gonna do Phoebe?”
“I’ll take care of it. Tomorrow. I have some favors that just might need to be
called.”
Phoebe works in the government. I have never really asked her what she does, why they let her come home early everyday to help me or why she brings home vitamins and meds when I've seen her low yearly salary. But now, as she gives me a confident look, I feel thankful for whatever the good for nothing bureaucrats have her up to.
“Now eat.” She points a finger at my bowl, so I pick up the spoon and set out to eat all of it. As always I don't really think about the flavorless chicken, even higher ups don’t eat as good as they used to.
As time passes, I stay cooped up in the apartment. My belly grows so big it’s hard to walk, but I do my best to stay active. Little walks on the treadmill are about all I can do. Even if I wanted to go outside, my feet have swollen just enough they don’t fit my shoes anymore. I’m hoping that will ease up. Phoebe assures me I’m still the prettiest girl out there, which doesn’t seem possible with her traipsing about with her beautiful dark curly hair and flawless brown complexion. I begin to sulk around whenever I remember walking and running places. Although I wasn’t the slimmest woman out there, at least I hadn’t had the roundest tummy ever.
Phoebe gets home at about four pm every day, though I see her give my pregnant belly looks of concern, she still smiles when she gets home, coos at the babies, calling them whatever sized food they resemble at the moment. She starts dinner and asks me if I want her to do the laundry that day, to which every time I reply “I did it this afternoon, babe.”
The rhythm of our routine lulls me some days, like I don’t even have to be awake to get through it. So, sometimes when she comes home I’ll surprise her with a switch-up, like I’ll make dinner and ask her to do laundry.
One day my body decides it wants to do the surprise when Phoebe comes home. When she opens the apartment door, she sees me on our bed, my contractions are about five minutes apart. Her eyes widen and she rushes over, as much as she can rush over in our tiny home.
“Why didn’t you call me!?” She shrieks, grabbing my hand and pressing a kiss to my forehead. She looks me up and down as if on instinct when I look like I'm in pain. Then, she seems to remember what's happening and goes back to patting my head and kissing my face.
“I don’t know, because I’m not even supposed to be pregnant maybe?” I shoot back, batting her lips and hands away from my head.
“I could have lied, Loa,” she replies.
“Ok, fine, I’m sorry. I’m just in a little pai-“ I stop talking as another contraction comes, and Phoebe starts petting my hair again.
She picks up her phone and calls someone her fingers staying in my hair, “Hey Mrs. Tillman. Yeah. I don’t know, I just came home and here she was, already in labor. Yes, I know she should have called someone.” Phoebe shoots me a look, “I told her that, too. No, she doesn't need them. Ok, hurry.” She hangs up the phone and pats my shoulder. “Your mom is on the way, and she’s doing that thing where she talks way too fast.
“Oh, lucky me.” I roll my eyes heavily and then point to the kitchen. “I made dinner.”
“Thank you, dear. Unimportant in this moment, but thank you. Also, you're welcome. I stopped your mother from bringing her neighbors.”
“Her neighbors? Jesus, what am I going to do with her. I hope to God she hasn’t been talking about this.”
My mother gets to our apartment in record time, and begins throwing questions and advice every second she can. I’m not exactly sure when she’s breathing. She pats my head with a washcloth much more than I need it, and practically shoves the dinner I had made into Phoebe's mouth. Every time my mother swoops in with a spoon to my wife’s face, it’s somehow the least opportune time. Phoebe makes a little surprised noise every time it happens, and then goes back to doing whatever it was she was doing.
I keep as quiet as I can as push the two littlings out, at one point my mother stuffs a rag in my mouth and shushes me. Very helpful. It takes a little over six hours before I get both babies out and the placenta. By the end of it all I want to do is sleep.
I hear their cries, little wails as my mother wipes them up and bundles them in the small blankets I had cut from our spare. I painted a 1 on one in red paint, that contrast against the blue of the blankets. Then, as my mother carries them over, I see the tops of their little heads. Wet tufts of black hair stick to their scalps, and their faces are a little red as they fuss loudly.
A little laugh erupts from my mouth as I see them, and I lift my arms eager to hold them. My mother carefully lowers them into my hands and says, “Well done, Loa. Both very cute girls.” She whispers and moves my hair out of my face gently.
I don’t know how, but I was going to keep both.
“We have to leave.” Phoebe says from my side, touching one of the baby’s noses in awe.
“Leave?” I ask, looking up at her. I have a feeling what she means.
“The city. I think we can do it, I’ve been calling favors. We’ll have to be quick.” She taps the other baby’s cheek and then stands up, her phone already calling someone. She steps into the other room that holds our kitchen, and begins talking in a hushed voice.
I stare at her form for a small moment and then go back to admiring what's in my arms. I motion for my mother to take one as my arms begin to tire, and focus down at the one still with me. I put the pad of my pointer finger against the baby’s small palm. Her tiny fingers curl around it, and she fusses softly. I hum at her and rock her gently, but it isn’t long before my mother takes her from my hands and tells me to sleep. I don’t protest.
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The plan starts the next week. Phoebe tells me what’s going to happen softly in bed the night before we leave, “Cameron will provide a little distraction on the other side of the citizen district, just so we have a little less officers in our way. Then we’ll get in a small business van that is being driven by a person I know well.”
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When we hear the explosion that Cameron, Phoebe’s mysterious coworker, sets off, we rush through the building, clad in worker’s jumpers with the words Freeman Paint on the front. Phoebe bypasses the front door with a card, and we peek outside.
Through the busy sidewalk we see a dark van labeled Freeman Paint Co. In that van is some person that also owes Phoebe a favor. What does she do that makes so many people owe her? I wonder.
My wife squeezes my hand before picking up two duffels from where she had set them by the door, and as calmly as we can, we carry our three small duffel bags to the car and climb in the back. In one bag, lays every item of clothing and belongings we could fit. The other two, unzipped and open rest the babies, being thankfully quiet thanks to the little pacifiers in their mouths. The engine starts and Phoebe pulls me back against one of the van’s walls to sit and I fall asleep against her soft shoulder each of us hold a baby in a duffel against our chests.
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“Then, we’ll pull into a small warehouse where we’ll do a vehicle change. The driver will be disguised as a military officer, pretending to be driving two lawbreaking mothers and their twin babies.”
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The van rumbles to a stop, and as Phoebe had told me, we open the van’s back doors and I see the inside of a small warehouse. I see a black Humvee already running a small distance away, parked right in front of a large garage door. I recognize the man sitting in front as Sanchez, a family friend that sometimes came for dinner and lived a floor up. He was a nice man, and possibly the only man that had even tried to be friends with us. People weren’t very sociable these days, especially with people who couldn’t get them extra rations.
He waves as I hop from the van, and I wave back before turning around to take a baby from my wife’s waiting hands. She carefully hands her down and then goes back for the other, and our duffel of things. It’s warm outside, and I hustle over to the Humvee.
“Hey, Ms. Kade.” Sanchez calls from the driver’s seat, “Just get in the back seat, gotta put you in the prisoner part of the car. I think it’s fine if you have the babies back there with you, but you gotta take em outta the duffels.” He chuckles at the last bit and comments on our creative solutions.
“Right. Thanks for this.” I open the door to the back seat and carefully remove the baby from her bag and set her in the car. As quickly as I can, I tear of the workers jumpsuit to reveal the most durable everyday clothes I own. Which means a pair of cheap jeans I climb into the back seat, and toss the duffel bag at the side of the car for Phoebe to deal with. I hear her shift around, then she pops open the door on the other side of the car and climbs in, one hand precariously balancing her against the door as she does so with a baby in one arm.
“I put the duffels under the car. Let’s go.” She taps the cage that divides the front and back seat with her free hand.
Sanchez pokes a button on his dashboard and the warehouse door lifts with a groan and rises slowly. As we pull out, I grab Phoebe’s hand for comfort and rock the baby a little as she fusses.
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“The driver will have the, hopefully, correct papers to get us through the final gate. With any luck, we’ll be out of the city and into the outside world in two hours of driving.”
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My heart beat painfully fast and I chew on my bottom-lip obsessively at an already sore spot as we near the final gate between us and the outside world. The gate is right up against the tall, metal fence that stands at hundreds of feet.. I don’t know what Phoebe thinks was beyond the mountain of a barrier, what made her think we wouldn’t just pass this wall and come into another city. But I trust her.
As we pull up to the military staffed gate, an armed man steps forward and motions with his hand for us to come to a stop. “Business?” His gruff voice asks when Sanchez rolls his dark window down. His brown eyes rove over me, and I tuck my baby further against my chest fidgeting slightly with the blanket she is swaddled in. A couple days worth of growth shadow his jaw and which he flexes in what I'm sure he thinks is an intimidating manner. His large nose is crooked as it had been broken more than once.
“Prisoner transport, sir,” Sanchez replies, his voice calm and official.
“Papers.”
Sanchez hands a stack of paperwork through the window and I watch as the man takes them and then walks back to his small guard building just feet away. My knee bounces violently, and I nervously peek at Phoebe. She nods assurangly, and I try nodding back.
Through a small window on the front, I see him plop down in a chair and start reading the papers. Nodding every now and then like there’s something to agree with.
It was an eternity later when I see him shift around and hit the front page with a stamp rather aggressively. Then the man saunters back with a bored look, “They been patted down?”
“Yes, sir.”
He narrowly eyes us again and then points to the babies. “Have you searched those, too?”
“The infants have been searched, sir,” I'm not sure how he keeps any condescending tones out of his voice, I sure wouldn’t be able to. “Are the papers in order?”
He hands back the stack rather slowly, and nods “Proceed.” He waves us on, and presses a button on a small phone like device. With a loud creak, the giant gate before us opens.
I sigh quietly, clenching my leg muscles to stop my bouncing knee.
I’ve never been beyond the Fence, and I didn’t know anyone who had. As our Humvee rolls past the gate in a soft rumble, I can’t keep my eyes off the outside world. The ruins of old buildings stand untouched, and I watch as birds part for our car. It doesn't make sense… I think to myself as a watch the scenery of empty space go by, I'm not sure exactly what I expected, but it wasn’t the unpopulated world around me.
My baby shifts in my lap, and my focus shifts to her instead. I’ve been thinking of calling her Kate or maybe Anna. The other, possibly Thea. Doesn’t matter right now, I guess. All that matters right now is that we were out, and all four of us were alive. Our car pulls down the street and deeper into the ruins, and I can’t help but feel happy as we do. Phoebe smiles and squeezes my hand, “we did it.”
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