TOMORROW’S CHILDREN
by
Sid Feders

Chapter 1


Catherine Bates is considering only dead men to father her yet-to-be-conceived child. So far she has narrowed the candidates down to a short list, all of whom have been dead for at least twelve years. This is progress—down from the thousands of choices she started with just a few weeks earlier when she first began her search for what she calls the “perfect daddy”—perfect for her child, and perfect for her.
Dead sounds perfect to her.

It all began with her father’s illness—his first hint of mortality and her first glimpse of his eventual death. She needed an answer to a nagging question that began to haunt her just a few days after she learned that her father was ill, and she realized that the time for long-sought answers was slipping away.
At the same time she realized how much she wanted—needed—a child of her own.
“Daddy, why was I born?” The tone was decidedly edgy and adult even if the words sounded more like a pre-schooler’s curiosity.
It was the summer of 1995. Catherine, approaching her thirtieth birthday, could have had—maybe should have had—a pre-schooler of her own to ask the question of his or her grandfather. But as she and her father sat on the sun drenched patio of his suburban estate house, William Bates, no one dared call him Bill, are sizing up, for no apparent reason, their lives together since her mother had died two years earlier.
“Why was I born?”
“Why is anyone born?” he replied.
So like daddy, she thought. Was that a question, or was that the answer?
“I want to know why you and mommy had me.”
“Why does anyone want children? Isn’t it obvious?”
That was an answer, not a question. That one she could figure out. That’s the way daddy answers questions he doesn’t have all the words for.
“Then why didn’t you have more? A brother or sister for me?”
William Bates had long wondered if and when these questions would ever be asked by his daughter. He had considered many ways to answer them, but at this moment none seemed appropriate. He dreaded the consequences of revealing his thirty year old secrets now—what her reaction would be. How the long-buried truth—truths, actually—might hurt her. Would she remain as devoted to him as she had been, especially now when he needs her most. She had a right to know the truths, he knew that. And he had made sure to it that she learned them. Just not now—not while he was alive.
Catherine’s questions were not being asked in anger, or debate, or in any context other than a casual conversation with his grown child as they watched the bees flit to and fro around the prized rose bushes that were the source of the fragrant ambient air that seemed to be setting the afternoon tone.
“Look at that,” her father commanded as if to demand her attention. “I remember when you planted those bushes, when you were studying photosynthesis in your junior high school biology class. You said you wanted to watch it close up, like you could really see it happen. Before long, we were overrun with photosynthesizing shrubs and you moved on to geology.”
“Mom really hated those bushes, didn’t she?” There’s a twinkle of the mischievous in her eye as she recalls how she persuaded her mother to preserve the bushes long after her interest in them had waned. It was one of her adolescent power plays.
“Yes, but she kept them there. You were always the one thing your mother and I could agree on totally.”
“That’s what I mean, Daddy. Why was I born if you and mommy hated each other so much? How did you. . .? Her words trailed off. She knew she could never ask the question so personal and so difficult for her to imagine even in the most private recesses of her thoughts. The very thought, vision, imagery of her parents “making” her, one on top of the other—copulating was the most polite form she felt obliged to go with the thought of her parents making love—probably growling and hissing at one another even as they conceived her. An act of love. But there was never any love between them. At least not as long as she had known them. It wasn’t even correct to call it a love-hate marriage. It was pure hate-hate as she witnessed almost every day of the 28 years she watched them together.
“Hated?” she heard the questioning voice of her father piercing her private flashback through life. “That’s too strong. We drifted apart, but always stayed together because we loved you and because, despite it all, we were comfortable with one another.”
Catherine could see the pensive pause as her father flashed back with the speed of light to that day he first laid eyes on the stunning Elizabeth Covington.
“In the beginning, it was love at first sight.”
Her father knew that was sort of another half-truth, yet he decided that this one was not enough of a lie to try to explain to her at the time.

“Love at first sight.” It stuck in her head. Could it be that easy now? Would she look deep into the photographed eyes of a wannabe sperm donor and know instinctively, immediately and without a doubt that this is the man, this is the person with whose genes she would like to make a child to spend the rest of her days with? Catherine still has several hundred yet left to go. The candidates for fatherhood seem endless. And so far, no love at first sight.

At first she considered mating with someone who was still living, but the living come with too much baggage, too much risk, and at too high a cost. She considered the likes of Bill Bradley, the former Senator from New Jersey. He certainly has the credentials she’s looking for: Rhodes Scholar, boundless ambition, and a perfect physical specimen. An Olympic gold medalist, he is certainly talented enough and smart enough. He played professional basketball for the New York Knicks and yet was still able to achieve intellectual renown. She can imagine how wonderful it would be for her son or daughter—she honestly doesn’t care which, she just wants a child—how wonderful it would be for that child to go to the Knicks games at Madison Square Garden and see its father’s number 24 jersey still hanging proudly from the rafters, retired forever as a permanent tribute to one of the greatest players from the team’s glory-days long since past.
Glory days past. Always “past.” She wonders if her beloved Knicks will ever enjoy glory days present or future. Is this part of the legacy she wants to saddle her child with? But her mind digresses. Back to Bill Bradley as potential father-elect. If it wasn’t that he is so boring in his middle-age, Bradley might well have been both President of the United States and the father of her future child. He was a finalist from the living, but didn’t make the cut. Besides, he probably isn’t available.
Ah, then there is Arnold Schwarzenegger. What a hunk. He’s right up there with the best. Right now he’s the most popular actor and bankable action hero in the world. A physical trophy. Smart, personable, and rich. Very rich. He came from nothing and made a mint on his looks, determination, a little talent and a lot of savvy. And throughout it all, he’s managed to keep himself in perfect physical condition, something which greatly appeals to Catherine. There are a few problems with Arnold, however, not the least of which was that minor and correctable heart defect. And then there’s the money. He would cost far more than she could ever afford to pay. She knows she can generally afford the best of just about anything she wants. Daddy made sure of that without even counting the small but comfortable fortune she earned for herself. But Arnold can’t be bought for just a million or two. That’s loose change to this guy. Even if she could get past the little matter of his wife Maria Shriver’s likely objections to his sperm contributions. Arnold doesn’t make the final cut either.
Besides, she’s been quite successful in her own right—achieving a degree of celebrity as a nationally known television network newsmagazine correspondent and occasional anchor. Of course, her long, slender model-like legs don’t hurt. They show up quite nicely on the wide shots, which her directors seem to prefer as the shot of choice. But she’s smart and clever, as well.
When she auditioned for her first anchor job at the network local affiliate station in Boston, didn’t she cleverly, deliberately flub an important line in the script about the day’s weather? she recalls with more than a modicum of satisfaction. Weather was the one part of the audition she calculated with absolute certainty would be included in any audition. She was seated in a large studio that was unbearably frigid despite the dozens of heat producing Klieg lights that illuminated the set to a sun-bright level. The air conditioning was cranked up to overload to compensate for the intense heat from the lamps, all of which preserved the zillions of dollars worth of electronic equipment in the studio, but froze the so-called talent and crews working inside. The set was strangely familiar to her. She was sitting in the same studio set that she saw every night on the 6 p.m. local news. The fake Boston cityscape stretching majestically beyond the fake picture windows that have no glass, behind which is a floor to ceiling grey cloth cyc—insider’s shorthand for cyclorama, the large curtain that hangs in studios and stages to provide neutral backdrops and deaden sound reverberations. Nothing was real here except for the mostly bored crewmembers who had to forego a longer than entitled to coffee break to help make a videotaped record of this aspiring wannabe’s audition, and the crowd in the control room which included a director, who normally directed the six o’clock news, and the news director who was really the audience of one she had to impress. He was the first hurdle she must jump to get the real decision makers who would pass on her talents as a reporter and/or news reader for the station. If he said no, her audition stopped here. If he said yes, this audition tape would be passed around to the senior management of the station and a decision whether or not to hire her would be made by that committee based on what they saw. They had already passed on her credentials. That was the step that led to the audition. They were all duly impressed with her 3.75 grade point average at Boston University and her degree in journalism. That got her in the door. Now the question is can she perform?
And perform she did!
In trying to explain the predicted morning fog and the warning to motorists, she appeared to get all mixed up. The crew in the control room immediately dismissed her as not ready for prime time. But their dismissals quickly turned to raves and approvals when ever-clever Catherine quickly recovered with grace and charm, reeling in the crew as well as the news director who was conducting the audition right back into her camp. “Let’s just say,” she recovered, “that the fog will be so thick that the birds will be walking. So be careful out there.”
To this day it has been her private little secret that she planned and rehearsed not only the flub but also the incredible “ad lib” recovery many times the night before the audition.
It was a trick she had learned from one of her broadcast news idols, anchorman Dan Rather. She had read that Texas-born Rather would write out an evening’s worth of ad libs and Texas-isms on index cards days before a major live broadcast, such as election night coverage or special events, and call up the cards as required to spice up the coverage. Rather had once ad libbed his explanation of the loss by a politician in a runaway race from his prepared index card at the ready for the long-predicted result. “If dumb was dirt,” Rather opined, “he’d cover about an acre.” Catherine loved that one.
Of course, it’s still a wonder that no one questioned why a Yankee born and bred in Boston would be spouting Texas-ism ad libs. But she got the job and the rest, as they say, is history.
But it must not go unnoticed that today Catherine Bates is also one of the most well-known and popular on air news personalities. Not only with viewers, but with the network’s camera crews—the biggest test of personal character. The cameramen, soundmen, lighting technicians and others are a seasoned, jaded lot. They’ve seen them all—all kinds of personalities—from the ego driven stars and the I’m-better-than-you-are elite, to the meek and talent-less please-help-me wannabes. If the camera crews like you, it’s generally true that you’re a pretty good person. They see your warts and all, more in focus than anyone else. The camera never lies.
No, she will stick with the dead. They are less trouble, are less expensive, and are less likely to cause problems down the road—to stalk her future or that of her child. The dead won’t come back to claim custody, or demand visitation rights, or try to have a say in the child’s upbringing. Nor will they be there to abuse and berate her when their relationship—as it inevitably will—begins to disintegrate, just as she watched in what seemed like slow-motion as it did with her mother and father over many years.
No, she’ll keep looking at the dead.
She spreads them out on the table in front of her, then, looking down on them, she studies them one-by-one. She says to herself, “The dead are perfect.”


Chapter 2


This could be a big week for Dr. Richard Lancaster. The eminent fertility doctor hopes to make medical history. His “twins” have just reached the half way point of their projected eight month gestation period—a critical time for them. If they can survive just a little longer, they’ll have a good chance of going the distance.
His wife Ellen is still in bed watching the first half hour of the Today Show on their oversized bedroom plasma TV. At thirty four, she is just three days younger than her already-famous husband. But when it comes to emotional commitment and family, she is light years older and more mature.
Ellen has always gotten along best on her beauty, something she seems to have been blessed with it in great abundance. She and Richard were late blooming flower children who met in high school, fell in love and have been together ever since. She supported him through medical school, and together, they spent a few years in Africa in the Peace Corps where Richard specialized in family planning and birth control.
To this day they are a popular duo wherever they travel. So stunning together, you cannot help taking notice of them when they enter a room. They are the ideal couple.
Richard is in the bathroom where he is also watching the Today Show news on his own somewhat smaller color TV supported on a post next to his custom made sink that elevates the screen to his eye level. Richard is handsome, dark, and six-four. When he built this house, he—“he,” not “they” as he is always quick to point out—he had “his” sink elevated to make shaving and washing easier. Everything was done to accommodate his height. Why not? He certainly has the money now. The bathroom is marble and gold. The bedroom is plush, elegantly appointed with fine furniture and custom-made built-ins. The bedclothes are made of satin. There are few remnants of the once struggling former Peace Corps volunteers with the liberal determination to save the planet.
As fertility became an increasingly common and lucrative medical problem in the U.S., and astounding leaps were made in treatments, Richard’s practice grew seemingly without limits. Greed and ego supplanted cause and compassion for Richard. He became less engaged with family and friends, and more obsessed with fame and fortune. He was consumed with his practice and himself. His patients now are some the world’s richest and most powerful people. When a King thanks him for the heir he would otherwise never have had without Richard’s intervention, and proclaims him a “God-of-the-Realm,” Richard believes him. He claims he has been doing the work of God for years, and is quick to tell anyone who asks. On the walls of both his den and his office hang identically framed copies of Fertility Today magazine with his picture on the cover and the caption proclaiming, “Where God says, No, He says, Yes.” Richard especially enjoys that the editors chose to capitalize the He, confirming what He has always thought of Himself. Richard has created children where nature has refused to. Now he has it all. Fame. Riches. And a wardrobe to die for. But it has come at a high cost—Ellen.
She is much less driven. There is still a lot of the flower-child left in her. Sure, she likes the material things that the money has provided. But she remains the simple wife and homemaker he married, still with less grandiose ambitions, and still favoring the more basic ethical and social values. In her own mind she is perhaps even a bit behind the times.
She has everything she needs—except for the one thing she wants most. She and Richard have been unable to have children. It frustrates her that Richard can produce a child for the whole world, but never his own. He has helped thousands of strangers to have children when all hope was lost. But he cannot make his own wife pregnant. It is a hole in Ellen’s life.
It is also a desperately agonizing assault on his ego. It’s not so much what others may think of him, it’s what he thinks of himself. Producing a son should have been the easiest thing for any other god to do. There’s ample precedent.

Ellen desperately wants a child. His child. Their child. She knows her biological clock is ticking away fast. But adhering consistently to her old fashioned, and in some matters conservative values, she will accept only her own biological child. The irony of the conflict between her feelings and her husband’s profession is not lost on her.
Richard has repeatedly tried to persuade her to let him do what he does best. She has tried all of the available methods of the day. She takes and records her body temperature diligently every morning. She uses gadgets and gauges and all the latest technology to measure her ovulation and her fertility peaks and valleys daily. She and Richard engage in “appointment sex” whenever the thermometer dictates that her monthly cycle is at the right phase. For the most part, her sex life remains stuck in that rut—she and Richard seem to find time for sexual intercourse only when the calendar indicates it. And not even always then.
Ellen has also endured the months of depressing and demoralizing hormone therapy as preparation for egg extraction. The hormones were debilitating and the procedure difficult. To cultivate and harvest her eggs, she had to inject herself with hormones to stimulate her ovaries. She was monitored with ultrasound to see when her eggs were ready to emerge from the ovaries, and then allow Richard to extract the eggs with a long, thin, frightening needle stuck deep into her abdomen. Richard was able to extract what were believed to be several viable eggs, but attempts to fertilize in vitro were unproductive. The embryos survived only a few hours. Once, two survived long enough to grow to twelve cells, large enough to be implanted into her womb. But for whatever reason, the embryos never attached and no pregnancy resulted.
The final step is the one Richard advocates and has been trying to get her to accept. An egg is extracted from a donor woman and fertilized in vitro with Richard’s sperm. The fertilized egg is than implanted into Ellen and she becomes pregnant with the donor’s egg and carries the baby to term as she would any other pregnancy.
Richard insists, she thinks somewhat selfishly, that if she really wants to have “his” baby, this would really be his.
But she cannot help herself. She will not accept a donor egg from another woman because it is not theirs—hers. She says she will always fear that the biological mother will someday come to claim her child. This has put a considerable strain on their marriage. The spark of love still glows, but both of them know that it is flickering badly and that in the long run they may never overcome this basic difference.
She wants a family and a husband at home. He wants power and success, and to be in his lab. A child would certainly help, though.

“Are you listening to this?” Ellen calls from bed.
On the television, the news reader is explaining the situation in Liberia. “...hundreds are apparently dead and the fighting is still out of control. The President met with reporters in the Oval Office a few minutes ago and said a coordinated multi-national rescue is under way and that all Americans and other foreign nationals are being evacuated...”
“Jesus, Dick, do you remember our days in the Peace Corps over there?” Ellen can remember clearly the two happiest years of their lives together as volunteers in the jungles of Liberia. She felt so useful then and longs for that feeling again.
Richard comes from the bathroom with a razor in his hand, his face covered with shaving cream. “Those were the days...”
Ellen points to the television where split screen scenes of the bloody carnage and death are shown in graphic detail.
“Those poor devils don’t think so.”
Richard returns to his shaving chore. There’s nothing he can do to help them. “I gotta get going. I’m due at the clinic by 8:30.”
“Will I see you tonight?”
“Hopefully, yes.”
“Hopefully? Richard, the calendar says tonight’s the night.” Her hurt is showing. She’s got the temperature chart on the night stand next to her. She still begins every day by taking her temperature. When she spikes, she’s ovulating. That’s their window to make love. To make a baby. It doesn’t require his passion. Just his presence.
“Okay, I’ll try. But honey, why won’t you let me do what I do best. Then you can throw that stupid chart away.”
“Here we go again. Same old debate.” Ellen is not in the mood for this today. “God, Richard. You give a whole new meaning to the term fucking fertility doctor.”
Richard chooses to ignore that barb. His mind is already at work. He’s been practicing again and again in his mind for weeks now, prepping himself for the procedure ahead—the delivery of the twins—and Ellen is not on his radar scope this day.
When he does not respond, Ellen also knows that he is gone. The sounds of the razor swishing through the water in the basin are clues that the doctor is in, but she knows he is already gone. She turns her attention back to the TV. She’ll have to phone him later in the afternoon to remind him to come home tonight to make love to her. She thinks, Maybe she’ll have his nurse put it in his appointment book. “10:00 PM. Go home and fuck wife.”