How does she do it?
by Jane O'Reilly
Dr. Abram steps away from the waist high, rectangular tank. He has checked the readings for the final time. "It is ready," he says. "You can open it as soon as you want."
There are twenty identical tanks in the room, individually numbered, a screen on the side of each one showing the status of contents. I know what they are, although not who they are. That is kept strictly confidential.
Nerves squeeze my belly. My palms are slick with sweat, though I try to hide it, fiddling with the strap of my crocodile skin bag which I have positioned to hide the post baby belly that I haven't yet been able to completely get rid of. It's been two weeks. I had hoped that I would be back in shape by now, but it always pays to have a backup plan. I can't afford to take too long off. The public has a short memory, and I am not going to risk being pushed aside for someone younger and firmer.
Thankfully, Dr Abram has the solution.
"Would you prefer it if I waited outside?" he asks now. "It is just that some people prefer to do this... privately. It can be quite strange. You might think you know how you are going to react, but it is not always that easy to predict."
I fix him with a smile that hides my nerves. It's an Oscar winning smile and I know exactly how it looks with an added tilt of my head to emphasize my perfect cheekbone and full lips. "Of course not."
I press my index finger against the lock. There's a subtle flash and then a click. It's all very dramatic. There's a huff of smoke as the lid releases, a moment when I have to admit that I hold my breath, and then the lid swings open to reveal the contents within.
These are not so glamorous. Thick yellow fluid fills it almost to the brim, obscuring the contents within. It begins to drain away. I lean closer, desperate to see, to inspect her, to make sure that she is worth the price I had paid.
She is. Oh, she is. Thighs so slender that it seems impossible for them to support the rest of her body. Delicate hands, perfect skin, and the face. The face!
"Thank you," I say to Dr. Abrams. "She's perfect. You are truly a genius. She's exactly what I asked for." And so she should be, given what she cost. The services of this man do not come cheap. I had my DNA samples stored years ago in preparation for this. Everyone does, though none of us will admit to it. Dr. Abram doesn't advertise. Whispered conversations in corners of parties held in dramatic Beverly Hills mansions do that for him.
I knew what sort of business I was getting myself in to back when I first came here, a young but neither naive nor innocent nineteen. I saw how ruthless it could be. Audiences demand perfection, but they want it to be natural. They scorn the aging actresses with their stretched faces, their rubbery lips, their lumpen implants. I was not going to let that happen to me. So I scraped together the money. A stolen watch or two, some unpaid rent, some films I have since made sure are buried. Who has time to recover from plastic surgery, from childbirth? Obviously a surrogate can be used for that, but audiences don't like it. They want to know that we are as real as them. They also expect to see us sewn back into a size-zero couture gown three weeks after the birth.
"You're welcome," he says. He too leans over the tank and checks his handiwork. "Yes, she's a good one."
