All My Children

There hasn’t been a true redhead in ages. People dye, of course, but it’s really never the same. I sigh as I look in the mirror, my dark roots peeking through my vibrant crown. Must make an appointment to fix that soon.

I pad from the bathroom back to the bedroom. He’s waiting for me there.

We fuck for maybe twenty minutes, starting out like rabbits in heat, and ending up sweaty and panting to the metronomic thrusts until we finish. It’s not spectacular, and it’s certainly not love, but it’s satisfying as hell.

He leaves after washing off the residue that’s bits of him and me all swirled together. It’s in me, too, already turning tacky between my thighs.

I return to the vanity and open the left-hand drawer. It’s empty. “Shit.”

Clothes, of course, are never to be found when you need them. I find my discarded underwear in the sheets, smelling of my sex. I pull on a sweater and gym shorts. I’m not going far.

Leaving the apartment building while making as little eye contact as possible is not terribly difficult. The pre-dawn streets are empty. Too early for decent people, but he works nights, and it’s this or only seeing him on weekends. My libido won’t stand for that.

The pharmacy sign is already glowing, but I don’t need to go inside. I stand in line for the vending machine, tapping my scuffed shoe on the damp concrete. The street is an empty stretch of grey, except for the spray of blue neon winking across puddles and windows.

The girl in front of me is maybe sixteen. She blushes at the machine’s questions but the voice that answers does not quaver. Good girl.

She finishes and scuttles off without a look back, a flash of blue slipping into her pocket. I step forward.

“Welcome, I am PharmTech. I notice you have not had a preventative dose today. Shall I prescribe one?”

“I’ll take a pack, if you have one.” I’m leaking. I shift my feet so my legs press tighter together.

“Certainly. Please wait while I verify your preventative licence is current.”

The machine whirs softly. I stiffen ever so slightly. But the screen goes green and I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, that’ll do it.”

“Please sign the screen to charge your account.”

I sign with my finger. A scrawled, barely legible mess, but I have to leave for work in fifteen minutes and there’s semen creeping down my inner thigh.

A slot opens and a small blue box sticks out. I grab it and leave without waiting for the machine to say goodbye. When I’m back in the safety of my apartment, I open the box with a pop. The lid says “PREVENTION” in large black letters. Stacked inside are squares of sky blue paper, as big as my thumbnail, as thick as cardstock. I fumble one out and press it into the pale skin of my stomach, just below my belly button. It dissolves instantly, leaving no residue behind.

It’s raining solidly when I emerge from the building again. At least my unkempt hair is less noticeable in the wet.

My great-grandmother Elsie thought, as many did, that her civic duty was to repopulate after the decline. And when she put her mind to something, well, she had twelve kids to show for it. Eleven pairs of great-aunts and great-uncles means more cousins and half-cousins and second cousins twice removed than I can count. Most of whom I wouldn’t recognize if I bumped into them on the street, and yet somehow I always get invited to this one’s birthday party and that one’s anniversary celebration. How was one supposed to have a social life with so many family obligations to keep track of?

I am still trying to wrap my mind around why I’m here now. Children run past me in herds of chaos, startling the elders and whipping the middle-aged mothers into a frenzy across the backyard.

“Robin, sweetie, I’m so glad you came! I wasn’t sure you got my messages.”

My mom kisses my cheek. That’s why I’m here. How could I forget the endless needling voice mails?

“Your great-grandma is sitting inside. Why don’t you go say hi?” She flashes an encouraging smile, teeth unnaturally white.

“In a minute,” I say, and she sighs but says no more about it for now. The yard is decorated in pink and blue balloons. A streamer shouting “Congratulations!” is taped crookedly above the sliding door.

I don’t even remember whose house this is, though I think I might have been here before.

“Hello,” a quiet voice says to my right.

One of the cousins, Lisa, smiles at me. She’s fourteen or fifteen, I think.

“Want to come inside? They’re starting to open the presents and Jen said to fetch all the girls.” Lisa gives a sheepish grin, pushing her black-rimmed glasses up her wide nose.

“Jen is your older sister, right?” I ask.

She giggles. “Yes. It helps if you keep a chart, to keep track of everyone.”

She pulls out a tablet from her furry leopard-print purse and flashes a colour-coded diagram at me.

“Smart thinking.” I nod at her.

“So you’ll come with me? I think we’re the last.” She hovers on her tiptoes.

“If I must. Lead the way.”

The living room is enormous, bigger than my entire apartment. I think Jen’s husband is one of the many family lawyers, or something of equal pomposity.

As big as it is, every inch of space is occupied by a female presence. All eyes snap to us as we enter. I lean against the back wall while Lisa slips through to sit at Jen’s feet.

“Good. Everyone’s here now.” Jen claps her hands together. Her belly bulges to excess like a balloon that’s taken on too much water. Her oversized shirt has drifted up to reveal pasty, stretched skin.

My great-grandma Elsie is in prime position on the centre couch, almost blending with the grey leather. But who wouldn’t look worse for wear at 135 after twelve kids?

“Get on with it, Jen, some of us have medicine to take with our cake,” she croaks.

A few titters of amusement, but Jen flushes.

“Of course, Granny. Let’s start!”

The presents are typical. Plenty of tiny clothes, outgrown so fast why bother? Several bassinets, a host of feeding bottles and breast pumps. Jen will have to spend the rest of her last trimester sorting through

receipts. My mom, I notice, has thoughtfully given the mom-to-be what must be the thirteenth pacifier with a card from me. I shoot her a look and she shrugs with a self-satisfied smile.

“Aww, thank you, Robin, how did you know our theme for the baby’s room would be elephants?” Jen coos.

I notice the plastic elephant dangling from the end of the pacifier. “Intuition?”

“Well, you better put that intuition to good use and start having children of your own.”

That gets a good chuckle from the room. I’m prepared to let it slide but Jen continues.

“Did I see your boyfriend here today? What’s his name again?”

“We broke up,” I say. Three years ago, but I don’t say that. I could’ve brought my long-term fuck buddy but he probably would’ve had too much to drink after the cake and puked pink and blue all over your marble toilet. I don’t say that either.

“That’s too bad. You can’t wait too long, you know.” She rubs her bloated belly as though that were the answer to all life’s problems.

I catch Elsie’s eye then, the brown clouded over with cataracts. She holds me in her milky gaze for an uncomfortable minute, then turns away again.

Maybe she unnerved me, or maybe emboldened me. Either way, what came next was definitely not in the plan for the day.

“I have forever to wait. I don’t want kids.”

The silence is unexpectedly uncomfortable. My mother has her head in her hands, so I can’t even look to her for reassurance. Not that I expected to anyway. It ends eventually, of course, but presents go on with a weirder energy than before. When it’s over, I slip outside before anyone can corner me, to make me see the error of my ways, and nearly collide with an eight-foot-tall man.

Not eight feet, I realize, a regular-sized man with a small humanoid perching on his shoulders. Another cousin of unknown nomenclature smiles at me.

“Robin, long time, no see!” He clasps my hand warmly, the other hand firmly grasping the child’s ankle.

“Yeah, I’ve been . . . busy.”

The child peers down at me with wide eyes.

“I know how that is. Got a fourth one on the way now—didn’t think we’d get pregnant again, but it’s amazing, of course.”

He grins, and I nod, not sure what else there is to say. Just as I’ve formulated my escape line he frowns at me, leaning in close. I think he’s going to kiss me and I step back. I’m up for a lot in the bedroom but incest does not make the cut.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, leaning away again. “Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just . . . wow, you really have eyes like my son. I’ve never noticed before.”

“Don’t you mean the other way around?” I ask with a nervous little laugh I wish I could take back the moment it escapes my lips. I glance up at the boy again, but he’s buried his face in his dad’s hair.

“Of course, yes. Must run in the family!” He grins again. “Those strong genes we have.”

“Must be,” I agree.

And suddenly I’m anxious to be in my own tiny, crappy place with no people and no pacifiers. I use my line and escape, though not before catching a glance at my reflection in the bay window. The roots have gained an inch. They’re winning the war.

The salon is filled with men and women of all ages waiting to be made perfect. My regular consultant Bex calls me up the moment I step through the door, tapping his foot impatiently.

“And how are we today, Miss Robin?” Bex asks, continuing before I can answer. “Because I can tell you that your hair has seen better days.” He clucks his tongue.

I groan. “Yes, I know, I should have been in ages ago, berate me all you want.”

“Oh, I will, believe you me.”

I laugh as he leads me to a private room, number four in a long corridor of identical doors.

“How’s the love life?” Bex asks as he sits me down and opens a drawer. A silver hose slithers out into his hand. The black orb at the end runs over my hair, soothing all my snarls as Bex watches with a critical eye, making slight adjustments as he goes. I feel the slight pings of the electricity against my scalp.

“Same as ever, and just the way I like it. And you?”

He grins. “Asexually loving life. But my adoption request was just approved yesterday. I’ll be a father in two to three weeks!”

I smile. I am genuinely happy for him. I think it was our second appointment together when he told me he wanted children, no matter

what. But he also never judges my thoughts about it, and that is why my hairdresser is the best man I know.

Adoption is only beginning to gain popularity again. Before, there just weren’t enough children. The return of adoption means we are finally turning a corner, making progress again instead of merely clinging on. Though Bex never can explain where all these mysterious orphans came from. From what I can see, people keep their kids, and they keep lots of them. Even so many years after the decline, the government is still pushing population regrowth. Technically voluntary. But then why do I have to complete five hours of paperwork every six months to secure my preventative licence? I find it hard to believe that there are just children milling about waiting to be adopted, but the tiny part of compassion in my brain always told me not to crush his dreams. “So you’re really going to do it?”

I watch in the mirror as the black orb fades to perfectly match the colour still valiantly clinging to my split ends. He points to it and I nod. “Yup. Baby-proofed the house and everything. Still not tempted?” There is nothing but curiosity behind his question, and I answer him honestly, as I always do. The hose proceeds to run down my scalp in sections, muffling the brunette in red.

“My mom has told me for years that this is a phase, that I would want my own little mewling ball eventually. I think partially out of guilt, that she only had one kid, that she didn’t contribute enough, somehow. But there is no desire whatsoever. I know that offends a lot of people, but I can’t change the way I am. If I could take a form of permanent prevention, I would, just so I’d never have to worry about the possibility again.”

I shut up then, realizing I’m mostly talking for myself. But Bex pauses in his inspection of the hose’s work, gloved hands holding a piece of my newly dyed hair.

“Robin, if you’re serious—”

“I am. But please don’t be mad.”

He lowers the strand of hair.

“I’m not mad. And you can’t tell anyone I told you. But I think I can help.”

“I’m still not sure I understand.” I hear my words echo slightly in the cold room. I’m sitting on a metal bed, inhaling faint formaldehyde fumes.

Dr. Collins smiles calmly, sitting with her legs crossed and hands placed precisely over her knee.

“It’s a simple incision into your abdomen where I’ll then—”

“No, that part I get,” I say, loathe to hear another graphic description. “But what about afterward?”

The smile never leaves the doctor’s face, resigned to the fate of having to give this speech again and again. I wonder exactly how many times it’s been given.

“Well, by law, we cannot waste them, of course, nor would we want to. Quite the opposite, in fact. After the horror of the decline, the ability to create life is so precious. And since you don’t want your potentials, we simply . . . repurpose them.”

“How?”

Dr. Collins begins to sigh, but turns it into a delicate cough, the first sign of faint irritation.

“Please, I just want to know. I’m going to do this. I want this . . . I just want to see first.”

“Very well, we’ll be quick.” The doctor stands, and I jump off the cold table.

We walk down the long corridor. It ends in a single door that Dr. Collins presses her hand against. The door slides open silently.

Before me is what I interpret to be a viewing room. It’s empty, but there are tables and chairs, and chilled drinks in the back. The front of the room is one enormous window.

I step forward and look out into the factory. My breath fogs the glass. I wipe it away with a smear of my arm, staring down at the thousands of artificial wombs entangled with flesh and blood.

“Is it dangerous?” I press my nose to the window, melting the chill against my nasal cavity.

“Not anymore. When we first started out, yes. The technological setbacks of the decline were a great hindrance. We could get what we wanted pretty efficiently, but it was an unpredictable process. People died, of course, but it was never really the same. The product wasn’t as healthy as when the host lived through the procedure. So every effort has been made to ensure your health. We haven’t had a fatality in ninety years.”

I glance over at her, still standing guardian by the door. “This was being worked on during the decline?”

“Yes.” She nods curtly. “An outcome of critical population decay had to be planned for.”

I turn back to the window, watching the people and machines and all hybrids in between work below me.

“Some would take that as a sign that it might be time to let go.”

“Of what? Of life? Of humanity?” She laughs, and though the sound is harsh, it softens her face immeasurably. “The very nature of humanity is to strive for more. Even you, prepared to forever erase this innate ability, with no future offspring’s interests at heart, you are here. We exist to endure.”

My breath fogs up the glass in little puffs of white.

“I didn’t think there would be so many.”

“You’re not alone in this, Robin. Did you think you were alone?” I can’t rip my eyes away. There’s something so fascinating about seeing women being unmade and reformed into something new.

When I am healed up enough to drive again, I head out of the city. The skyline fades behind me in a sea of morning smog and then it’s just the trees along the highway to keep me company. Her house isn’t far now.

I pull off the highway and into a cul-de-sac of a handful of houses, each on its own acre or two. Hers is at the end, the property ending at the tree line.

I walk slow, stiff, careful not to swing my arms. The pain is manageable, but I don’t want to rip the stitches.

The door opens before I’m able to knock.

“Did your mother send you again? Because I’ve told her a million times, my will is set, I’m not changing it again for her vagabond child.”

I shake my head. “No, Granny, I was just hoping to . . . talk, I guess.” My great-grandma Elsie looks me up and down, then steps back. “Come in then.”

I step inside; it’s airier than I remember, with windows open to catch the light and breeze. There’s a small couch, a coffee table, pictures of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren plastering every inch of exposed wall. It’s downright cozy, not the ominous cave I remember from forced childhood visits.

“You’ve changed your hair,” she says.

I tug at a deep brown strand. “I guess I just got tired of maintaining the red.”

She nods before disappearing into the next room.

“It’s foolish to attempt to be what you’re not. At least you figured that out for yourself.” Her voice carries from the kitchen. I hear water running.

I choose a high-back chair and perch stiffly on the cushion embroidered with clouds.

She returns with a cup of tea and settles into the couch.

“So.” She takes a sip, her wrinkled lips leaving smudges of pink on the rim of the cup. “What do you want, if not my money?”

I wince slightly as I lean forward, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Would she even understand if I told her?

“Just an answer to a question, if that’s okay.”

“I’m dying by the minute, Robin, spit it out.”

I want to laugh, but my next question is too sobering to allow it.

“Do you ever regret having so many kids?”

I half expect her to kick me out right then, but she pauses, turning her answer over on her greying tongue before replying.

“You know, women are so lucky these days. Prevention wasn’t available when I was young, after the decline. It was expected that we all pitch in, and I took that to heart. I was going to do my family and my community proud. Still . . . I never did know what to do with all my children.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

This time she throws me a sharp look. “I did my duty to society.” I stand up, feeling my recently sewn skin and muscles protesting at the sudden movement. “I should probably go.”

She shakes her head. “You always were a strange bird.”

Two steps and I’m next to her. I kiss her crown briefly, though I know she’d never reciprocate. But that was okay. Everything was okay.

I guess I’m not quite ready to go home. I walk the length of the culde-sac, breathing in the cleaner air, softly running my palm over my stitches. The difference is subtle, but immeasurable. I breathe deeper.

I turn to get back to my car and see a woman attached to a stroller. She smiles and I smile, and for once I don’t feel imposed upon by her presence. I’m not even annoyed when she reaches out to stop me. The infant coos, and she bends briefly to settle it. The baby can’t be more than a week old. When she rights herself again, her eyes zero in on mine.

“Wow,” she says, her voice high with surprise, “I know this sounds crazy, but you look just like my daughter.”