Callisto
written by: Christie Walker Bos
As I approach the restaurant, I remove my health monitor from my wrist and tuck it into my purse. Tonight, I’m going to drink and eat whatever sounds good. The last thing I need is an incessant beeping warning that I’m off my plan. I’m celebrating!
At the door, posted bold and proud, is a large triple-A sign – a triple-A rating is the best air quality possible.
Trish went all out for this, I think, as I reach for the handle.
Once through the double-door airlock, I remove my ventilator before following the hostess to join my friends. Upon seeing me, a shout goes out, “She’s here!” All eyes turn to me.
Several people rush to greet me. I return their hugs and cheek kisses with equal enthusiasm. Trish hooks my arm with hers and leads me to my place of honor, the head of the table. That’s when I see the banner.
Happy Embryo Transfer Day!
“Oh my God. Who came up with that?” I’m undecided whether to be mortified or thrilled.
Lionel raises his hand, a pleased smile on his face. “It was Trish’s idea, but I added the swimming sperm.”
Looking more closely, I make out what appears to be little tadpoles all swimming towards what I assume is an egg.
Turning to Lionel, my cheeks flush pink. “You know that’s not what is going on here. It’s all done in a petri dish. Then the fertilized egg is transferred,” I tell him, keeping my voice steady and the information clinical.
Lionel shrugs. “My way is more romantic.”
Of course, Lionel would think that. Most guys do. They want to keep trying again and again. “It’s all about enjoying the process,” he’d said after our fifth attempt at making a baby.
For me, while the “process” was okay, it was the results that mattered, especially since my biological clock continued its relentless countdown. In another year, I’ll be forty and officially disqualified from any breeding assistance. Between population control restrictions (one child per person) and health code regulations (DNA testing for inheritable diseases), I needed to stop dicking around—literally and figuratively.
Like most women of the twenty-fifth century, I opted for The Vault, the worldwide sperm bank where each donor had their DNA and IQ tested. I found the selection process fascinating. Using filters—ethnicity, eye color, height, hair color, hair type, and so much more—I narrowed down the field. With one click, the system combined my genetic features with my selected donor’s features, creating probable outcomes for a girl and a boy. It then presented me with 3D models of each child at ages three, seven, eleven, fifteen, and nineteen, including the disclaimer: “Results may vary.” Duh.
Dozens of matches later, I found the guy … Donor 275632. Tall (5’11” – two inches taller than me), athletic build (passed all the cardio and physical tests) thick, wavy brown hair (that will hopefully counteract my thin, straight chestnut mane), and deep blue eyes, the color of the pre-war ocean (My eyes are chocolate brown but include a recessive blue gene giving me a chance at a blue-eyed baby.) I’d left the ethnicity box unchecked, not concerned about skin tones and casting a larger net.
Donor 275632 hails from what used to be Italy before all the country lines were blurred and half the population fled off planet, leaving the rest of us behind. I purposely picked a donor who had died years ago, to eliminate the possibility of randomly running into the guy, or my child doing a search for their biological parent. Don’t need that kind of drama.
Trish takes her flute, lifting it high. “To baby 275632-A and his or her fabulous mother.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
***
Baby 275632-A had stopped being a number to me the first time I felt movement. Then, when I found out I was carrying a boy, I named him, Callisto, after one of Jupiter’s moons. His friends can call him Cal for short.
Ripe and ready to burst at the seams, I have my feet up, and my eyes closed, imagining my life as a mother… watching my sweet baby boy sleep, encouraging his first steps, placing a sterile strip on a scraped knee, cheering him on as he plays soccer under the park dome. In my mind, I’m cheering and clapping for my little man when I feel a gush of warm water wash down my legs.
This is it. Before I have a chance to stand up, my health monitor signals an incoming call.
“Hello.”
“According to our data, your water just broke. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I was just about to call you.”
“No need. We are sending a car. Be ready in fifteen minutes,” the very efficient voice instructed.
Not a person, I think, or there would have been a hint of excitement, an encouraging statement.
I texted Trish before standing. “It’s D-Day!”
In the bathroom, I fold a towel and place it between my legs. The first contraction hits as I brush my teeth. If my water hadn’t broken, I probably would have ignored such a weak spasm. When the flow of amniotic fluid slows to a drip, I change my clothes, securing a pad in place. My suitcase has been packed for weeks, so there isn’t much to do except grab my stuff and head downstairs to the lobby. Right on time, the transport pulls in front of the building. I watch the ventilator-wearing driver stretch the accordion tunnel from the transport to the entrance of the building so I can walk ventilator-free to the waiting vehicle. I feel like a celebrity.
***
The contractions come fast and hard. Months of classes didn’t prepare me for this. My nurse, Agnes, has kind hazel eyes, which is the only feature I can see since a cap and mask cover the rest of her face. She wipes my forehead. “You’re almost there. Keep breathing.”
A piercing alarm echoes off the walls of the delivery room.
“What’s that?”
Agnes checks the baby monitor. “No. No, no, no. Not again.”
The distress in Agnes’s voice blankets me with a feeling of dread and has my heart racing. What does she mean by “Not Again”
“What’s happening?”
Before she can explain, a masked doctor and another nurse enter the room, take one look at the monitor, and announce, “The baby is in distress. We need to do an emergency C-section. Nurse. Call the OR.”
Agnes is frozen in place, staring at the monitor.
“Nurse!”
Agnes turns, looks directly at me. Her eyes look so sad. A tear glistens. As she reaches to take my hand, the other nurse, tall and lean, pushes between us, saying in a harsh voice, “Go.” Before lifting the side rails of my bed and unlocking the wheels.
Bright, harsh lights have me closing my eyes. The contractions are still coming. There is a bustle of activity.
“This can’t be happening. No, no, no. Please, save my baby,” I manage to say before my nose and mouth are covered, and I’m instructed to breathe normally. I open my eyes only to watch the light fade into darkness.
***
I’m swimming up, up, up, through an inky blackness to a ripple of light above. I work to open my eyes, my eyelids heavy and uncooperative. Eyes finally open, an unfamiliar ceiling stares down at me. It takes a moment to remember where I am and what has happened. I reach for my stomach with both hands. The hard mound is deflated into a soft, wobbly pancake. My baby.
I look around the room. There is no clear hospital bassinet, only stark white walls and a monitor beeping rhythmically.
“Hello.” My voice is weak and scratchy.
Searching, I locate a call button. Within moments, a nurse appears. “Yes. Do you need something?”
“My baby. I need my baby.”
The nurse shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Your baby didn’t survive. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his throat. We did everything we could. I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft and kind, but her eyes are cold.
“Can I get you something for the pain?”
I’m confused. Is there something you can take to erase the pain of losing your baby? Before I realize it, an anguished wail escapes my lips, sounding like a wild animal caught in a trap. I move to sit up. I must escape this place, this fate. That’s when the physical pain hits me.
The nurse gently pushes me down. “You need to calm yourself. Your cries will disturb the other mothers on this floor. You’ve had a C-Section. You need to rest. We’ll be sending you home in a couple of days. I’ll get you some pain meds.”
When the nurse leaves, I pull the pillow from under my head and press it to my face. I scream and scream and scream until my throat is raw.
***
I’ve been home for two days now after spending three days in the hospital. Work has given me another week off to “get over my loss.” If I’d had the baby, I would have received six months of maternity leave … but no baby, no leave. Trish came over the first day I was home and stayed the night. We drank wine and cried, then drank more wine and cried some more. Trish must have said, “I’m soooo sorry” dozens of times before I told her to stop. She wanted to stay longer, but she’d used all her personal days and had to return to work.
A postpartum nurse is due to arrive shortly to “counsel” me. Unless she brings my little Callisto, I don’t know what she can do. This grief is a physical weight pressing down on me, making it difficult to breathe, get out of bed, and walk across the room. I wish my Mom were still alive. She lived through three miscarriages before she had me. She would understand my pain in a way Trish or some random nurse cannot.
My security camera alerts me that someone is coming up the stairs. A hooded person, short in stature, wearing a respirator, approaches my door. While my apartment has a B+ air rating, our apartment corridors are only C-. The owner justifies this by explaining, “Why spend money purifying spaces that aren’t lived in.”
Two gentle knocks. I open the door and look into familiar hazel eyes… Agnes. I motioned her inside. She removes her ventilator and slides the black hood from her head, revealing a curly mass of gray hair. I had no idea she was so old. She steps forward and embraces me in a hug. She pushes up on tiptoes until her warm breath tickles the hairs near my ear. “They are listening. Don’t react.”
I pull out of her embrace, confusion furrowing my brow. I open my mouth to speak. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.
“My name is Agnes. I will be your post-partum nurse. May I have a seat?”
I nod and gesture to the sofa. “Can I get you something? I have UV-purified water. I could make tea.”
Agnes smiles and nods, giving me a thumbs-up. “I’m good. Thank you. The real question is, How are you?”
I shrug. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. Who is listening? What is going on here?
“It’s okay if you are sad. That’s very natural.” Agnes pulls a three-ring binder from her bag and hands it to me, pantomiming that I should open the binder. She points at the words on the first page.
I read. We will be having two conversations. The verbal conversation is for those listening. The other conversation is written out. If you wish to continue, nod. Now say, “I am a bit sad,” then turn the page.
“I am sad. I lost my baby. It’s a difficult time.”
“Yes, I know. I’m here to help you.” Agnes smiles and nods as I turn the page.
What I’m about to tell you is shocking. You mustn’t react. If you do, I will make up something to cover your reaction. If you are ready to learn the truth about your baby, take a deep breath and turn the page.
What could this possibly be about? My hands tremble as I turn the page.
YOUR BABY IS ALIVE.
I can’t help it. I grasp.
“Now, now. Please don’t cry. I know this is difficult.”
Agnes keeps talking while I take a minute to compose myself. I sniff a couple of times to sell the idea that I’m crying.
“Here’s a tissue,” Agnes offers, although her hand is empty. She points to the book and motions for me to turn the page.
I’m going to keep talking and “comforting” you, while you continue to read. Remember, don’t say anything.
I look up. Agnes points to the book and starts talking. “Post-partum depression is a real thing, even for women who deliver a healthy baby. So, it’s only natural that you would be depressed. I’m here to help you. Your insurance plan provides for three visits … “
Agnes’s voice drones on about I don’t know what, as my mind tries to comprehend what I’m reading.
Yes, you read that correctly. Your baby is alive and well. You did not need an emergency C-section. The baby was not distressed. What you saw on the monitor was pre-recorded and patched in … everything planned from the day you applied for IVF. You were on a watch list. You checked all the boxes … no husband/boyfriend, no parents, no siblings, few friends, no genetic diseases, no addictions, pleasant features, and above-average IQ.
I look up to see Agnes watching me intently, a finger to her lips, even as she keeps up the one-sided conversation. She points to the book and indicates that I should keep reading.
There is a group of people, people with money, lots of money, who, for whatever reason, can no longer have children. So, they steal them, steal them from women like you who have no support, no money, and no means to question or investigate what has happened. They are very good at what they do. They have friends in all the right places … the hospitals, the police, the politicians.
The good news is that there is another network of people who attempt to steal these babies back for the rightful mother. We have a 60 percent success rate, and we, too, have infiltrated the hospitals, law enforcement, and government, although not high-ranking people … worker bees like me. If you are interested in learning more, nod your head.
I nod my head so hard I think it might pop off my neck. I reach over and grab Agnes’s hand and squeeze it, hoping to convey the strength of my commitment.
Agnes nods. “I have a small supply of anti-depressants I can give you. I will also need to collect your government-issued health monitor. I’ll come back tomorrow, if you like, to check up on you and answer any questions you might have.”
“Yes, that would be great.”
Agnes points to the book, I flip the page to read, “DO NOT TELL ANYONE. ANYONE! IF YOU DO, YOU’LL NEVER SEE YOUR CHILD OR ME AGAIN. THEY ARE LISTENING BUT SO ARE WE. This is going to happen quickly for the sake of you and the child, but some sacrifices must be made, sacrifices that once set in motion cannot be undone. Nod if you understand.
I mouth the words, “I understand,” even though I don’t. At this point, I will agree to anything if it means seeing my baby and holding him in my arms.
Agnes stands. “Okay. Does the same time tomorrow work for you?”
“Yes. That would be fine. I appreciate you coming.”
Agnes motions for me to flip one more page. I do and read. Open the binder and pull out these pages. Take them into the bathroom after I leave, rip them into tiny pieces, and flush them. There can be no traces of our conversation, for all of our sake. No phone calls, texts, emails. I’m your contact, and I will meet with you two more times. I’ll explain everything.
“Let me walk you to the door.”
“That won’t be necessary. I can let myself out. You rest up now. Put on some calming music and relax. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
In the bathroom, door closed, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, I can hear the music from the living room. I re-read each page, especially the page that says my baby is alive, before tearing the sheets into pieces the size of my thumb. Unanswered questions race inside my head… Who are “they”? How can they get away with this? Who is the network? What sacrifice will I be asked to make?
As I flush the last of the pages, I feel something new … hope. And more importantly, determination.
***
At the end of Agnes’s third and final visit, she gave me a fierce hug and whispered, “Good luck,” before walking out the door, never to be seen by me again.
Today, I’m disappearing from the world. I feel bad for Trish, the only person on the planet who will care that I’ve died. My instructions are simple. Write a letter, a suicide note, and leave it in the apartment along with everything I own … phone, purse, respirator. I’m to pack no bag. New clothing will be provided. During her last visit, Agnes left me a mini respirator to use for my journey. I’m to wear a heavy coat with a hoodie underneath. I’ve been given a route to follow through the park to the river. At a specific location where there are no cameras, I’m to toss my coat and shoes into the water. Another woman will meet me, with a different-looking coat, scarf, and hat, plus a new pair of boots. Arm in arm, we will walk out of the park to a waiting van. Agnes told me if I follow their instructions, this will work. Do not deviate from the plan. Have faith, she told me.
Opening the door, I stop and look back at my apartment. It’s not much, but it was mine. The credits I had saved for my son’s future have been donated to various charities, all of which are fronts for the community where I will be living … living with my son. The thought fills me with joy.
A small voice, my father’s no doubt, puts my fears into words. This is all a scam. They’ve taken all your money, and now they will take your life. You’ve made it easy for them, even writing the suicide note. No one will look for you. No one will question that you killed yourself. You were always so weak.
No. I saw the picture. My baby is alive.
How do you know that was your baby? It could be any baby. You’re such a fool.
Well, at least I’m willing to sacrifice everything for my child, which is more than you ever did for me. And with that, I close the door on my former life.
***
Slowly, I regain consciousness. Muted voices and, strangely enough, birds singing, coax me awake. My first thought was, This must be a dream. Then I remember where I’m supposed to be and what I have done… no, it’s a nightmare.
I remember climbing into a van, fastening my safety belt and harness, and then a hand reaching around from behind, covering my mouth and nose with a damp, sweet-smelling cloth. I was drugged.
I force my eyes open to find I’m in a hospital bed, but unlike the hospital where I had my C-section, the walls are painted a sunny yellow, and a huge picture window frames a large tree, where several blackbirds take turns chirping. Birds outside. How odd.
I push myself up, the effort making me gasp in pain.
A door opens. A woman about my age enters. “I’m Claire. I know you must be scared, confused, even angry. I know I was, but I know someone who will make it all better.”
Claire walks to the corner of the room to a bassinet I hadn’t noticed. Carefully, she lifts a small bundle. “Would you like to meet your son?”
I have no words. Tears cloud my vision as I stretch out my arms. Claire places a sleeping child in my arms. A living, breathing angel. Cradled in the crook of my arm, pressed against my chest, I bend my head until our noses touch. I inhale deeply his sweet smell. A tear lands on his forehead. He flinches. Arching his back, his forehead wrinkles, his mouth opens, making a perfect little O. When he opens his eyes, I stare into a pair of indigo eyes.
“He has blue eyes,” I say in wonder.
Claire steps back. “He’s going to be hungry soon. He’s a good eater. Really latches on. But let me know if you need help. Let him cry a bit. It will help trigger your milk.”
I barely notice when Claire leaves the room. I only have eyes for Callisto.
***
Callisto and I live in a small cottage that is part of a circle of small cottages with a fountain and grass in the middle. The dome overhead means we can move about freely without respirators. The outside world thinks this is a colony for the diseased … people infected and contagious. It used to be, but those people died, and the nurses and workers who lived here secretly repurposed the place.
To keep the outside world away, news stories of The Terrible Sickness, in all its gory details, are released to the press and social media. No one would willingly come here, and that is just the way we want it.
We will live here until Cal is ready to enter first grade. Then we will emerge from our domed chrysalis like a butterfly from the past, with new identities, fresh opportunities. We have options as to where to put down roots, even off-planet. Once safe, we will start again, Callisto and me.
