The Last Mate on Earth

Part 1 - Chapter 23

* * * Hope’s POV * * *

They might have created this pretty facility for me to grow up in, but the laboratories of my early years have never been far away.

They followed me here.

Specially built stark white clinical rooms for me to visit twice a month for scans and blood tests. It’s so routine and monotonous that I’m usually unfazed by having to recline in a hospital chair and splay my legs in stirrups so they can get to work.

Today is different.

I’m nervous. I’m tense. Usually I’m here so they can observe any changes in my body. They practically held a party when I first started ovulating. Today the room feels even more cold and barren now a serious task is at hand.

“Hold your knee up into your side,” Dr Bayman says, without looking at me as she adjusts her prodding stick, causing me to wince at the sensation. I’ve had the same doctor my entire life but there is no personal relationship between us, no niceties, even though she’s seen more of me than almost anyone else.

I am a scientific puzzle to her, nothing more. I wonder what would happen if I successfully had girls and this doctor were to die – she must be in her seventies at least, judging by the multiple folds in the skin around her almond eyes and the S-shaped curve of her spine. Her white coat hangs loosely over her skinny frame, and her walk has turned into a shuffle since I’ve been seeing her.

She’s not ageing particularly well. At some point she will perish like the rest of them. Will my female children be studied like this, exposed to a man? My body constricts at the thought.

“Keep still,” Dr Bayman snaps, her large nostrils flaring angrily.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“What do you think?” Parent Rita asks over me. She has been standing silently in the corner for the last few minutes. She doesn’t usually bother coming, but today is different.

She didn’t seem surprised when I told her I was choosing not to meet Prospect Number Three – in fact, it was the first time I’ve seen something resembling relief flit across her stony features.

“We’re a little early, but I should be able to retract in a week or so. We’ll need to monitor closely until then,” Dr Bayman replies, squinting at the screen in front of her through her thick-rimmed glasses.

Retraction is nothing new. They probably have a freezer drawer somewhere full of my unfertilised eggs, but this time my eggs are being taken on a different journey.

Rather than being stilled and preserved, they will be encouraged to live and flourish – to help me fulfil my destiny.

“How many eggs will there be?” Parent Rita asks, walking around so that she has a clear view of the screen. I never get to see what’s on it. I’m never shown my insides – although I doubt I’d understand what I was looking at even if they pivoted the screen in my direction.

“It can be hard to tell, but I’d predict only one or two this cycle,” Dr Bayman replies, the tip of her index finger tapping twice on the image before them. “The good news is they’re a good healthy size, though. Exactly what we want.”

“Perfect.” Parent Rita’s eyes are glued to them.

“Don’t worry though, there’ll be more next month if things don’t work out this cycle.”

“They will,” parent Rita declares, with the forward tilt of her head that I know means she’s demanding her desired outcome.

She doesn’t want to think about what will happen to society if this fails. She doesn’t want to think about plan B.

“Science can only do so much. I can only do so much. There are still some variables, as we know,” Dr Bayman reminds her.

“Well, do your job and limit them.” The two women look at each other and, for a split second, it seems they’re about to clash. Then Dr Bayman nods multiple times, conceding to the one in charge.

“One more thing then, I’ll need a fresh sample from the donor,” Dr Bayman tells parent Rita, as she taps at the screen.

“Fine.”

“Daily,” she adds authoritatively.

“Fine.” Parent Rita forces the word out in a growl. I can practically hear her teeth grind at being given orders to follow.

“Bryce is already here,” she adds. I decided not to look at Prospect Number Three’s file, but now I have a name: Bryce. I wonder what his background is and where he’s come from, what heritage he’ll be passing on along with his aesthetics.

The donor. That is what I’ve demoted the possible father of the future to: some swimmers in a cup. The rod is moved and I yelp.

“Honestly, child.” Dr Bayman hisses, before turning back to parent Rita. “We’ll fertilise all the eggs that ovulate and pick the one with the stronger grading. If all are outstanding I’d advise against implanting them together at this time.”

“We can discuss that if it occurs.” Parent Rita clearly disagrees with the medical advice.

“Miss Rita, it’s early days and I advise we take things slowly. There is the risk of it being too much of a strain on her body. Given the medical history of her mother …”

“Doctor!” Parent Rita spits. “Know your position.”

Dr Bayman is stunned into silence, her cheeks burning a bright red. She doesn’t utter another sound as she peels off her surgical gloves and leaves the room.

Parent Rita gives the screen one last hard stare then, without a glance in my direction, follows her out of the open door. I breathe a sigh of relief that it’s over, taking a second or two to stop myself crying, then freeing my legs from the stirrups.

I sit up on the bed and take a moment to still my racing heart.