versus CASEY
Speculative short story — in support of diversity and choice
As I finish the last of my steamed mushrooms, The Minister enters from the galley door, signalling that a rotation is happening today. Sarah’s bold brown eyes meet mine — pray we do not know anyone in the new group.
Whispers abound that a shift has occurred, Prudence alluded to a relocation only yesterday. I shift my gaze to the far end of the hall and as the doors open, black tunics signal the arrival of freshies. My stomach churns breakfast into butterflies. They are shunted into the dining hall, nervous faces searching for light, and as we march to our exit, their protests begin to diminish. I turn to look back, not a woman aged under fifty in today’s group. Our forced silence belies the voices of confusion swirling about in our minds. These women have emerged from circumstances markedly different from our own; it seems punishment may not be the only purpose of the program.
One hundred and twenty days have passed, yet the seconds and minutes of that fateful day are etched forever in my regret. We had arrived at the clinic at 10am. The waiting room appeared to have changed little in ten years. It was a relief to have Tricia returning the favour, accompanying me this time. As we approached the front desk the fraught energy in the room was palpable. A sadness prevailed, every woman seated, silent and sombre, inspiring my imagination with the range of unique and personal stories hidden beneath a diverse array of faces.
The receptionist greeted us warmly, gesturing to a bright teal coloured chair, she said, “thankyou Alexandra, please take a seat”.
Tricia squeezed my hand, a much-needed affirmation of strength and tenderness. As I leaned to express my gratitude, a tall man in a white medical tunic approached us, advising that my friend must now leave.
“But I wish to remain with Alex for the counselling session, she is very nervous, and I have done this before”, she said, looking directly at him, squeezing my hand tighter.
“Procedures have changed”, he said.
He shifted his focus to me, and said, “Alexandra, we are obliged to ensure your wellbeing is not compromised, the quality of care you will receive here is first class”. For a moment my spirits were elevated from doubt, and I felt some comfort in his words.
Tricia had not been convinced, and as she prepared to protest further, the man’s demeanour stiffened, he frowned and in an authoritative tone said, “you will be notified when Alexandra is ready to be collected”.
His blue eyes, and ruggedly handsome face, was the last image I saw as the anaesthesia took effect.
In my dream I am awake, weary, lying flat on a single bed, face up to a flickering light above. Or am I awake? Is this how it feels afterward, as though drugged with a heavy sedative? It only took a minute to remember where I was. I had not been dreaming. The anaesthesia had worn off, yet the familiar cramping ache was not present, as Tricia had explained it would be. A short time passed, my mind cleared a little, as the room took shape around me. It was not as I expected, nor was I in a private recovery cubicle.
It was a white room, glistening bright, except for the one flickering light. I recognised the auburn flamed hair of the woman beside me, and the young brunette who was fidgeting furiously in the waiting room. There were six beds, housing women with familiar faces from earlier in the day. I glanced around to see if the Aboriginal lady was among them, our gaze had lingered in a space that felt like solidarity hours before. She was not here. Nor was the strikingly beautiful woman of Indian descent. I turned to speak to the redhead, and as she sat up, shifted her legs to the floor and stood with her back to me, a uniformed woman entered the room.
“Remain on the bed please, you will be instructed when to move”, she said, sternly.
The uniform was dark green, trousers and jacket, with an unfamiliar insignia stitched into the collar, followed by Facilitator.
“What is going on here?!”, exclaimed a woman who was not content to remain on her bed.
“I have been here for hours longer than normal, I feel fine, and I’m leaving”, she said.
The Facilitator approached her bed, pointed to the woman, and said, “ah ha, we have a repeat offender among the wretched women — meet Lydia, and let this be an example to you all”.
With that statement, Lydia screamed, fell to her knees, at first clutching her stomach, and then both hands moved to cup her ears. Her body stiffened, before lurching into a full grand mal like seizure. My instinct was to rush to her side, protect her head from the thrashing, which could result in injury, as so often does in those suffering with epilepsy. Survival instinct over-rode the carer in me, and it seemed to have also registered with the five other women; all sat still. I thought to retrieve my phone, but none of our possessions had accompanied us from surgery. The youngest began to cry. I turned to the redhead, who gestured shhh!, and mouthed her name, Sarah.
Hours later, we reached the compound, blind-folded, and as they removed the eye coverings, we were corralled off the bus into a yard encased in fencing designed to keep us quartered and huddled together, as beasts awaiting slaughter. Our numbers had swelled to around thirty pale faced women. I had assumed, correctly, that the other women had also been transported from a specialist medical clinic.
The smell of eucalyptus was the only recognisable feature of the place, and while a distant hum breathed a sense of civilisation, evidence of benevolence was lacking. Steps lead to a landing platform, with a single door in the side of what appeared to be a large shed. A woman stood on the landing, in corporate attire, flanked by men in dark green uniforms. Her cold eyes scanned from left to right, and in a quiet, measured, manner she said: “I am Prudence. Rights to freedom and speech are not extended to you wretched women here at OP513. You will follow directions.”
Talking with our eyes became the main mode of communication; lip reading was discoverable almost everywhere, but from behind our blankets, and in the shower rooms, we managed to risk mouthing an exchange of information. Sarah was trying to teach Makaton signing to Marcie, the youngest among us. I silently gave thanks for having once worked to support people with hearing impairment. Our twice daily walks in the exercise compound afforded us a modicum of sharing, being careful to disguise hand signals within our tai-chi movements.
Our sleeping quarters were housed in the re-modelled abattoir. Soft vinyl floor covering, in hues of grey, sat atop a solid foundation of concrete. Aromatic diffusers wafted essential oil fragrance through the dormitory, mostly marjoram. Occasionally our olfactory senses would be enlivened by the equally herbaceous rosemary, signalling that the day would involve lessons. I yearned for the sweetness of ylang-ylang, rose, neroli, lavender and clary sage — feminine scents, forbidden and forever lost to the likes of us. Sometimes I thought I could smell the pigs and cattle, blood-stained concrete oozing death through the vinyl floors. Perhaps this was the purpose behind the aromatics? The place had surely been cleansed and disinfected, heavily infused with chemicals that no red, oxygen carrying, liquid would withstand. But marjoram was chosen for its sleep-inducing properties, a subtle method to subdue any disquiet.
The disused buildings, discretely concealed from the bitumen byways of town, now seem an obvious choice. For Sarah and I, the dormitory was not altogether alien. Others, who had not experienced boarding school in their youth, suffered the claustrophobia, and caustic tongue of Prudence. The bank of fluorescents attached to the old pulley rope system glared us awake, flooding memories of Mrs McIntyre, “right you gals, rise and shine”. Cradles, which once contained the cattle carcass after bleeding, supporting the flaying and dressing, were positioned at the end of our single beds. I had to concede the cradle design was a stroke of genius. No need for Prudence to carry a weapon of submission in the dormitory — electric cattle prods were old technology. But this was not boarding school. No remaining under the covers until the last possible moment.
The colicky waaa reaches decibel ten, signalling we rise from sleep, with military precision. Time here is judiciously signalled by a piercing irony, no bells as in a nunnery, or the sirens of a school, or prison. The nursery laboratory is located some distance from the old abattoir, on the other side of the dining hall, but electronic signals are used everywhere to remind us that babies require attention. We have yet to see a baby.
Today appeared to be a normal day, as the smell of rosemary wafted through the dormitory on waking. Scripture sessions were torture, but the freshies were all I could think about — those women were beyond child-bearing age, and my soul was heavy with fear for Tricia. We had no news of outside. Life here did not reflect the diversity of our civilisation; colour was a mere memory.
The Minister had delegated lessons, within weeks of our arrival, to Father Stowell. We called him Poon. His small stature concealed an ego that did not correlate with his receding hairline, slanty eyes barely visible beneath hooded lids, or the pasty white pallor of his skin. Even if the delivery of Genesis 1:27, or the daily rant from Jeremiah 1:15, were to have any instructive effect, his sustained slurping from that hideous vessel between sermons served as a constant distraction. I survived lessons by concentrating on his eyebrows, another tactic learned at boarding school. The size of bible group was dwindling. Many of the women who arrived after us, were transferred out. They were not showing signs of fetal development when they were taken.
Poon’s fervour was heightened this morning, such that I was almost grateful for the arrival of Prudence. As she began to talk my heart sunk so low, as though it might refrain from its rhythmic beat. I daren’t look at Sarah or the others. Her words wafted in, slowly at first, gradually becoming more animated, to an eventual frenzy of missile like attacks to my mind. Some of us in Batch1 have reached the stage of artificial womb transfer.
“The women from Batch2 to Batch16 have paved the way for the viability standard of a fetus to be lowered, to the moment of conception, making Casey an irrelevant legal construct”, she said, as though we were all supposed to know who Casey was.
I withheld the impulse to break down in sobs, but my heart was torn apart for them; Yvette, Terri, Ruby, Kate, our sisters for such a short time. No explanation was given as to their whereabouts. Prudence demands we look up, then continues with her sermon.
“Your right to abort a fetus may be legal, however there is no legislative right for you wretched women to not be mothers, to not create a child”, she instructed vehemently.
The cradles would now serve a dual purpose in the dormitory, which was undergoing phase two of its design this week. One biobag would be nested in each cradle. Each vessel, a closed fluid circuit in the shape of the uterus, is pumpless and will not interfere with our sleep, should we survive our scheduled surgeries.
“You will learn to sleep with the lights dimmed”, she said. Her tone had changed to that of a motherly matron.
“The morning alarm will be adjusted to two hourly intercepts”, she continued.
Prudence talked for what seemed an eternity. For just a moment, I wanted to be among the forty percent of us who would not survive the procedure to extract the growing child within. After all, I had been content with my decision to donate my physical body to science when I died. For now, I must dwell in hope, and pray for a miracle — keep strong, believe in the world outside, the diverse and colourful culture we had been extracted from, months before.