Shorts from The Lottery World

I gripped my mother’s hand tightly as we sat in the waiting room. The voices of the screaming protesters still ringing in my ears, their slicing words still echoing in my brain. They said they were fighting for me; so why did my heart beat a little too fast?

The waiting room was eerily quiet. My mother sat beside me. My hand still entwined with hers; she had accompanied me to my first mandated pregnancy screening the year I turned fourteen – years before I had lost my virginity - and without fail every sixty days since. And then today, a second screening.

“Alice Avery,” the sweet, chirpy voice of the nurse bounced off the walls and interrupted my spiral. As I stood, all I could think was how out of place it felt, how her sweetness contrasted the swirling feeling of doubt and shame that ebbed inside me.

The nurse led us into a small, segregated waiting room; hiding us away form the other women, ensuring that everyone knew we were different, knew I was different.

When the nurse pulled the curtain shut, we locked eyes and I saw a bubbling sympathy there, hidden just beneath the surface of her tiny, professional smile.

“I’m scared,” I whispered as the nurse shut us in, the curtains ripping, the lump in my throat returning and pulsing.

“It’s going to be ok baby.” My mother stepped in closer, wrapping her arms around me, as if her arms could protect me from the government mandates, as if they could protect me from anything that might come next.

A nervous laugh escaped my throat and I nodded because there was nothing else to be said. All we could do now was wait.

My nervous energy fluttered out in my nails that had been bitten to the quick and my jittery hands that twitched. I couldn’t stop the movement, couldn’t bare to sit still in this sterile cubicle. As a last-ditch effort, I tried to take in the room.

Stark while walls; one door in and one door out; and in the centre the chair of my nightmares. It was leaned forward at an awkward angle, the stirrups and latches hanging limply from the sides.

“It looks like a torture device,” I whispered, my mother’s eyes following mine towards the twisted chair.

She nodded and then shook her head. “It is a torture device.” She smiled at me now, but it was a pinched sort of smile; one that didn’t wipe away the worry lines on her face.

There it was again, a laugh burbling up from my belly, from somewhere deep within.

“Ms Avery?” A knock echoed at the door.

I felt my eyes widen and looked to my support person; she nodded and answered, “come in,” on my behalf. For the first time in my almost seventeen years, I had no words, had lost the ability to speak.

A grey-haired doctor bustled into the room, almost tripping over his own feet, his ear hair and nose hair matching the salt-and-pepper tufts on his head. He smiled warmly at us, clutching my file in his arms.

It felt strange to see Alice Avery scrawled in beautiful cursive inside an office that kept tabs on my body.  As if somehow, I was both a fully functioning human, and simultaneously nothing more than the contents of a manilla folder; boiled down to pages of notes, a history of aptitude tests and test scores. Each of them carefully studied as I grew, each doctor peering at me over spectacles as they recorded mt future within those pages.

My stomach flipped as the doctor made himself comfortable in the sparse room. He didn’t ask me to get into the chair – something I was both relieved and nervous about. It was as if there was something fascinating contained atop my file, as even as the doctor puttered and placed the paperwork down, his eyes didn’t leave the top sheet.

When he finally met my eye, he had that same sympathetic look in his eye. A look I was beginning to fear; his lengthening pause made my mouth go dry. Whatever was coming I wish he would rip off the band aid and tell me.

“Mrs. Avery,” he said, nodding to my mother; her hands tightening around my shoulders. “Alice,” he said, turning to face me.

I could do nothing but nod once.

“You both know we are here due to an anomaly in Alice’s mandatory screening last week.” I looked up at my mother and when she nodded, my body copied her instinctively as I looked back at the doctor, my head still bobbing awkwardly.

“That was all the other doctors would tell us…” my mother interjected, her nails digging into my skin, “…that there was an anomaly. “Her emphasis would have made me laugh normally, but suddenly here it seemed like a looming threat, the unspoken words before you receive a shattering diagnosis.

The doctor nodded his head solemnly. “We needed to run additional tests today to confirm last weeks finding.”

I could have screamed.

“Alice,” the doctor smiled at me now. “How long have you been sexually active?”

I could feel the red flush burn across my face, feel the creeping heat across my chest and up my neck. This was not a conversation I wanted to have with an ancient doctor, and certainly not one I wanted to have with my mother in the room.

My eyes must have flicked towards her as the doctor looked up at her.

“Could you give us a few minutes,” the doctor said quietly, “it is imperative that Alice answers these questions with honesty.”

My mortification was spreading, like a rash along my skin, like a twisting eel inside my gut as my mother gave the doctor a stern look. Her ire was directed at me a split second later.

“Answer him, Alice,” I shrank; I knew she wanted me to be honest, but I also knew she was going to crucify me for whatever I said later – not because she was a prude, but because she was about to hear that I had done the one thing I always swore I wouldn’t – have unsafe sex.

“A-about nine months,” I swallowed down my own rising embarrassment as the red flush spread across my face. I sat still and forced myself to focus on the questions.

 “And how many times have you had unprotected intercourse?”

That might have been the most unromantic line in history and my face burned with the shame of having to answer. “Twice,” in a meek voice.

The doctor nodded and I reeled as I realised that this line of questioning could mean only one thing.

“Have I contracted some kind of disease?” I blurted.

 The doctor smiled kindly at me now, “no Alice.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, the thankful feeling flooding through me for a total of three seconds.

“But you are pregnant,” the doctor said, ripping the band aid off just like I had hoped, and yet shattering my heart in the space of a few simple words.

My mother and I spoke at the same time, one singular word hanging in the air. One single word that tilted the worlds axis, twisted my stomach, and spun my brain all in one.

“Pregnant?”

My breath started to come hard and shallow. The silence spread through the room, echoing through the walls, lifting from the floors, wobbling from the roof.

As I opened my mouth to say something, to say anything that might make the silence break, a nurse bustled into the room. Her high-heeled shoes clipped the floor and echoed; it was as if she cracked the silence the moment she stepped in.

“I-I can’t be—” I tried to speak, and my chosen support person spoke straight over me.

“I told you.” My mothers’ eyes had narrowed to slits. “It only takes once.” It was a chiding and a scolding all in one, and immediately I was five years old again and was in trouble for talking back, or nine years old and in trouble for not doing my homework to a high enough standard.

“You both understand,” the Doctor chose this moment to speak up, “that Alice is underage.” He spoke about me like I wasn’t there, all while looking me straight in the eye.

My mother nodded, I nodded, and to the corner of my vision I saw the nurse nod as well – although her nod seemed solemn as she slowly pulled out files and paperwork as started reading through notes I couldn’t see.

“You understand Alice,” the Doctor said with an air of impatience, “that as you are somewhat untested you are unable to be considered for the lottery.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and managed to move my head in a kind of nod.

I hated the way the Doctor said I was untested – as if I hadn’t been put though every conceivable intelligence test since the mandates passed five years ago; I hated that he implied that even with all they knew about me, it was clear in the eyes of the Australian government, I wasn’t good enough; and what I hated most? Was that I knew deep in my heart I didn’t want any of it.

“Women under the age of eighteen are automatically ineligible,” the Doctor said, with an air on finality. He was like a dad putting his foot down and stomping on the hopes of dreams of little girls everywhere.

“She will be forced to have an abortion?” My mother chose now to speak, chose those specific works to break her silence.

It was a perfectly valid question, one that I needed the answer too, and yet I wished I could have thrown my hands up earlier, so I didn’t have to hear the definitive yes from the Doctor.

“When?” I asked, unable to help myself. It was as if all this information was trickling through me, but I wasn’t really hearing it, as if we were talking about the abortion my friend was having, about the baby growing in my friend’s womb.

They couldn’t be talking about me.

My mother squeezed my shoulder three times hard as her and the Doctor continued to talk between themselves. Their words were a muffled and muddled mess of words, they were static, they were wobbly, they were speaking in a language that I couldn’t understand.

“Alice,” my mother’s face leant close into me. I would have jumped back in surprise if I had had any capacity left to be surprised. “They’re going to be taking you down for the procedure soon.” Her voice was as gentle as her grip was fierce.

My eyes flittered to the Doctor right as he walked out the door. He seemed so casual, not callous but indifferent. How many conversations exactly like this did he had each day? I couldn’t help but wonder if I should shed tears or scream as the door clicked shut.

“Alice,” my mother shifted around to be directly in front of me. Her face was an inch from mine. I could see my eyes reflected in hers, my nose the same shape as her, my lips had the same curve. “Alice, I know this is a surprise,” she said, and I saw the tremble in her lips. It was only now that I realised the woman who birthed me had just been told her seventeen-year-old daughter was pregnant and was about to have an abortion in the space of five minutes.

“I’m scared,” I whispered. For the first time in my almost-adult life I utterly speechless. My brain had short-circuited at pregnant and nothing else was able to go in. I could feel the tears right at the edge of my eyes, and as I blinked, I felt them spill over.

Warm arms enveloped me and three seconds later both of us were sobbing. I was crying for so many reasons – sheer surprise, for being dumb enough to end up here, for breaking my mother’s heart, for the procedure that was going to happen right outside this door, for the lack of choice at any of it.

The Doctors face came back into view at the door. He looked away when she saw us embracing and weepy and looked past us to the nurse. “Prepped. Get her ready.” He spoke softly and shot me a very watery smile.

“Alice,” the nurse bustled around, and gave us a few seconds to break apart and wipe our faces. She talked me through the procedure in bare details while I nodded along. When she stood me up, my mother wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and as we followed her down the brightly lit hallway. I didn’t remember a single word she said. 

The hallway was long, and our mismatched footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. We passed several red doors, each emitting the distinct but soft sound of sobs.

I shuffled closer to my mother, slowly wrapping my arms around her waist. She looked straight ahead, but her fingers crushed my shoulder.

“This way Alice,” came the nurses sweet voice as she cracked open the last door on the left and disappeared within.

I stood on the threshold. If I just stayed on this side, could I pretend for a few minutes more that this wasn’t happening, that this wasn’t how this panned out, that I wasn’t dumb enough to get pregnant and find myself under the governments ever-watchful eye.

“You can do this,” my mother whispered, “and I’ll be by your side the whole time.” She nudged me with her shoulder, our bodies still entwined. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t find any words to thank the woman who bought me into the world and would now stand beside me while mine fell apart.

“Stay,” I whispered, and pulled us both into the room to face doctor and nurse.

They stood on either side of the bed; both now clad in scrubs and bright blue gloves. Neither of them spoke as they ushered me onto the bed. There was no begging, no words to be said, no way that anyone could make this easier or different.

A hiccupping tear escaped, and I slowly walked towards the bed, arm-in-arm with the woman who raised me. She helped me change into the gown they provided, my body breaking out in goosebumps, as her hands shook. We closed the gap between us and the bed together, and as my legs gave out, she boosted me up, just like she did when I was little.

“Alice Avery,” the doctor said quietly, his warm hands resting on my shoulders. “Close your eyes and breathe deeply,” his face was stern, “and leave the rest to us.” He squeezed my shoulder as the nurse placed a plastic mask over my face. My tears fell quick and fast and I looked up, trying to catch my mother’s eye. She was standing just back, just out of reach, her hands cupped over her mouth.

The look on her face made me suck in a deep breath, the mask smelled funny and my head swarm. I fought to keep my mind clear but could feel my eyes fluttering closed.

With all my might, I tried to reach out to my mother, tried to lift my arm up the table but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I breathed again and my vision went black for a few fleeting seconds.

“Stand here Mrs Avery,” I heard the nurse say and as I fought to keep my eyes open, I saw my mother’s face swim into vision. She looked down at me, and I laid flat on my back looking up at her as my world slowly faded to black.