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One
"The screening takesabout two weeks, and then it's typically a month to pair you with a family. Once that's done, it's a single cycle of treatments before we can harvest. All told, the process usually finishes in under three months!"
The counselor at the egg donation center says that last part with a big smile, but she knows.
She knows.
"Is there any, umm, fast track or anything? Like, can't you freeze the eggs until someone who wants them comes along?" I ask even though I already know the answer.
Her sigh is an echo of a thousand other sighs to that question that she's likely given over the years. "I'm sorry, Miss Vasquez. It's just not as simple as–"
"As jacking off into a cup," I say for her, and she gives me a pained look.
"I know this may not immediately fix the problems you have, but it's ten-thousand dollars. You should at least go through the screening."
I want to scream at her for not understanding anything, ten or ten-thousand or ten-million dollars, it's all worthless in three months if I have nothing now. I want to tell her aboutmyworld, the world that doesn't have safety nets when you're too stupid to finish high school so you can't milk the foster system's college program like my younger sister. The world that doesn't have an easy out if you're not willing to turn tricks like my older sister does – although she pisses all that money away on drugs and has been sofa-surfing since her own babies got thrown into the foster system.
But the woman knows this already, at least the broad strokes of it. I can tell by her look, just like I could tell at the surrogacy clinic and at the bank and at my former social worker's office. They all know the situation I'm in is bullshit and it doesn't matter who can't help me and who won't help me, only that theydon't.
I shrug and say, "Yeah, I guess we can schedule it," even though we both know I'm not gonna show. She half-heartedly offers me a bus pass, but I flash my card, one of the consolation prizes for surviving the Florida foster care system. And good news, there's a bus stop just a block from the transition housing I'm living at.
Until the end of the month, when I turn twenty-one. And I'll have officially overstayed my welcome as a ward of the state of Florida.
My duct-taped flip-flops slap obnoxiously on the tiles, echoing through the halls of the totally fucking useless egg donation clinic. I roll my eyes at the sun, not in any kind of mood for its shit, and slump down on the bench to wait for the next bus, wherever it may go. They don't like us being at the dorm during the day, especially when they know I'm lying again about having a job.
I was going to stab someone if I spent another day in fast food. Getting fired from Wal-Mart was as good a sign as any that retail's not for me. And the way I quit the gas station when they refused to pay me what the nightshift does or let me just fucking work it, just because I'm a girl? I don't think I'll be getting hired again in that industry.
As I lean down to dig the ear buds I stole from my last foster home out of my backpack, the woman at the opposite end of the bench clears her throat. I'm about to tell her to fuck off, do I look like I have money, but then I get a good look at her.
She's old enough to be my grandmother, which isn't that old since I come from a long line of teen moms. And my Lita Rosa's a real nice lady. She always did what she could to make us happy, even if it was just dropping us off at her sister’s where we could pick strawberries and get fat on empanadas. But she didn't have the money to take care of her own kids let alone my sisters and me. She certainly wasn't affording that balayage or that fancy suit or those high heels with the red soles.
"You look real lost, lady," I warn her. Everything looks clean enough here, but this part of town gets rough when the sun goes down.
She smiles at me, and damn, she looks like Mary Poppins or something. Perfect and matronly but in a no-nonsense sort of way. "No, I think this is the right place for me." She produces from her pocket a small gold box that she opens to reveal a set of black cards.
She hands one to me, and all I see on it is a gold foil border at first. When it catches the light, I see the letters BBHH embossed on it.
I flip it over. The back is white with two long boxes. Each one has a code handwritten in it. "This for a club or something? I ain't twenty-one." Not that my age would stop me if I wanted to go to her club, but I don't.
"No, not a club. Or, not that sort. My club, you'll make money at."
"Ma'am, I ain't a stripper, and I ain't a hoe." I'm not stupid enough to fall for that. I've had to bail Gabbie out of that shit enough times. She runs back every time life gets too hard for her, and I keep stupidly rescuing her. I'm about out of saves, though. I don't know what I'll be able to do next time.
Fancy Grandma nods to the clinic. "The payment they're offering you, is it going to take too long or is it not enough?"
"I ain't a–"
"Answer my question, dear." The words are razor sharp, like a lap cat digging its claws in.
"Both," I admit.
"And the surrogacy program?"
My eyes snap to hers. "I didn't apply for–"
"Sixty grand, right? And full medical coverage? What's their wait right now?"
"Four months," I grumble.
