by Kate Hewitt
‘I did not use those words.’ I’m sure of it. I never would have even thought of it like that. ‘All I meant is, we can all be involved, to some degree—’
‘Which sounds great, but it still feels very complicated, and emotionally quite dangerous. What if, for example, Jack or Anna decide they want parental rights?’
‘They wouldn’t, and anyway, sperm and egg donors are never considered legal parents. They have no legal or financial responsibilities or rights, ever. It will be our names on the birth certificate, Matt.’ I have definitely done my research about this.
‘Still, it feels different because we know them,’ he insists. ‘If it was someone anonymous, someone we could just forget about…’
‘But we can see this as a plus,’ I argue. ‘Have all the information upfront. And when our child is curious about his or her origins, they won’t have some official-looking file, they’ll have us, and Jack, and Anna. That makes a difference.’ I pause, to let him absorb that, and my own experience of having never opened that file. ‘If you agree to it, of course.’
He sighs. ‘I just don’t know. I still need to think about it.’
‘How about this?’ I suggest. ‘We have Jack and Anna over for dinner, to discuss things. Talk it through. And if, after that, someone decides it’s not going to work, we call it off.’ A prospect that makes my stomach swirl with dread. I already feel as if I’ve invested so much in this. But I hope having the four of us sit down together might make Matt see how it could work. How it could be something good. Assuming, of course, that Jack agrees. That Anna doesn’t change her mind.
‘Dinner,’ Matt says cautiously.
‘Yes, dinner. Just dinner.’
He sighs again and then nods. ‘All right, fine.’
* * *
Two weeks later, I am bustling around the house, plumping throw pillows and lighting scented candles. A Moroccan chicken stew bubbles in a casserole dish in the oven, sending out tantalising smells of cumin and ginger. The lighting is low, and Matt has started a cosy blaze in the wood burner in the sitting room. Everything feels happy and warm. Promising.
Two days ago, on my initiative, Matt met with Jack and asked him to be a donor. Even Matt saw that he had to have a conversation with him, before this dinner. It was a big step, and it was both a huge relief and a little frightening when Jack agreed quite readily. Matt came home a little shell-shocked, a bit incredulous. This really could be happening. Now Anna and Jack are coming over so we can discuss the future, our future. Our family.
The doorbell rings, and I hurry to get it. Jack stands there, smiling and looking relaxed. When I first met Jack, back when Matt and I were dating in uni, I thought this was someone I could be good friends with. He’s easy-going, kind, a good listener, with a dry sense of humour. In short, a great guy, but fifteen years on, I haven’t gone much deeper with Jack than at that first meeting. He keeps things at a chitchat level, affable and easy but no more than that, and that seems intentional. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never had a serious relationship, although I know there have been women. Just none he’s brought home for Christmas or a family get-together.
‘Jack.’ I stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He’s a few inches taller than Matt. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘And you, Milly. Wow, this place is amazing.’ He glances around in appreciation. ‘I haven’t been to Bristol since you moved from your flat.’ He nods towards the open-plan kitchen. ‘They must have knocked that wall through at some point… do you know when?’ Jack always views houses this way.
‘A long time ago, I think, way before we looked at it. Come through.’
He comes into the kitchen, and he and Matt do that manly half-hug thing, more of a clap on the shoulder than anything else.
I open the fridge. ‘Beer?’
‘Sure.’
We stand around, smiling a bit inanely. Jack is Matt’s brother, but we hardly ever see him, and we’ve just asked him to do this major thing for us. It makes me feel awkward, which I suppose I should have expected.
Then the doorbell rings again, and I hurry to answer it.
‘Anna!’ I hug her tightly. ‘Come meet Jack.’ Despite our years of friendship, they’ve never met; Jack has always been in France, or we’ve seen him at Matt’s parents’ in Reading.
She comes into the kitchen, and I notice how Jack’s eyes widen as he catches sight of her. So often Anna hides her beauty in shapeless trouser suits or baggy jumpers and jeans, but tonight she’s made more of an effort, perhaps for the occasion. She’s wearing a corduroy miniskirt in vivid green that makes the most of her long legs, with woolly purple tights and a fitted button-down shirt in mustard yellow. You’d think it would all clash, but somehow it doesn’t. She looks vibrant, the skirt bringing out the sea-green of her eyes, and her hair, instead of pulled back into a standard clip, falling in loose, honey-coloured waves around her face.
Jack springs forward, one hand outstretched. ‘Hi, I’m Jack.’
‘Anna.’ She ducks her head, smiling shyly, as she takes his hand and he holds it a second longer than necessary. I watch, uncertain how to feel about this interchange. Of course, I want them to get along, but Jack is a bit of an affable ladies’ man, and Anna has had so few relationships. My inner alarm pings quietly. The last thing I want is for Anna to be hurt by all of this.
‘I guess we know why we’re all here,’ Jack jokes, and Anna gives a little laugh. Matt and I both smile self-consciously. Then I busy myself taking the stew out of the oven while Matt gets Anna a drink.
In the end, the evening goes well, despite my nerves. I feel as if I’ve climbed a mountain to get to this moment – the four of us around a table, the possibility of a family, my family, in the air.
We don’t talk about anything serious as we eat and Matt pours more wine. Jack tells us about his latest house project, and Anna regales us, rather cautiously, with the latest horror story of her boss Lara, whom I’ve never met but I’ve heard about. I tell a few stories about some of the six-year-olds in my Year One class; how Toby, a gap-toothed ginger boy, asked if he could marry me.
‘I hope you told him you were already taken,’ Matt teases, and I smile.
‘I let him down gently.’
I love my class, but lately it has been hard to go in every day and see all their smiling faces, fearing that I’ll never have a child of my own. I watch the mums at the school gate; one has a lovely, huge bump that she rubs with unthinking possessiveness, and another had a baby a few weeks ago. She brought her for the first time on Friday, all bundled in pink, with a tiny face peeking out so all I could see were her navy eyes and little rosebud mouth. I made all the right noises, exclaiming and cooing, but inside I felt as if I could break into pieces. I want that so much for myself that it is a physical pain.
‘So, do you have a prospective timeline for this?’ Jack asks, gesturing to the four of us, as we finish the white chocolate mousse for dessert. I glance at Matt, uncertain. We haven’t discussed it, not officially.
He glances back at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘I suppose as soon as possible,’ he says, and my mouth drops open. ‘In fact…’ He goes to the fridge and produces a bottle of champagne he must have bought on the sly. ‘I thought we could celebrate. Toast the future, because Milly and I really appreciate you guys doing this, and you know, you’re both family.’ He glances at Anna. ‘Really.’
I have to blink back tears as Matt pops the cork on the champagne and then pours four glasses of bubbly. I’d expected a more difficult, awkward conversation, not a simple celebration. And yet it is simple, in this moment. It is wonderfully, miraculously simple.
‘To all of us,’ Matt says grandly, raising his glass. ‘And to our baby.’
And as we all clink glasses in the cosy warmth of the kitchen, everyone smiling and happy, I feel more hopeful than I have in a long time. I feel buoyant, the bubbles fizzing through me. I am finally beginning to believe that this is going to happen. As
we drink, I catch Anna’s eye and, over the rim of her glass, she smiles at me. It’s all going to work out. Everyone is going to get the happy ending we’ve all been trying for.
Later, after Anna and Jack have gone and Matt is loading the dishwasher, I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘I know you’ve had concerns.’
‘I still do, but not enough to keep us from trying this. From making you happy.’ He turns around so he can give me a proper hug, resting his chin on top of my head. ‘When I talked to Jack, he seemed so okay with it, it made me think it doesn’t have to be as complicated as I first thought it was.’
I remember Anna’s smile. ‘I don’t think it does.’
Matt tips my chin up with his finger and gives me a kiss. ‘Just think, Mrs Foster, this time next year we could have a newborn baby upstairs, wailing away.’
‘Or peacefully sleeping.’ The possibility causes a thrill to run through me, so visceral I nearly shiver with the delight of it.
This time next year. The words feel like a promise.
I had no idea they would one day be a threat.
Six
Anna
‘Are you comfortable?’
The nurse smiles at me as I adjust my position on the examining table. ‘Yes, I think so.’
It is six weeks since we all had dinner at Milly and Matt’s, and it has been a roller coaster of emotions, thanks to the injections of hormones I’ve had to take every week. Milly has had to take them as well, and several times we’ve been at the clinic together, laughing at how ridiculously teary we were because of it all. It has felt unnervingly intimate, doing this together, bringing us even closer.
Besides the excess emotion, I’ve also had headaches, mood swings, and despite my daily running, I’ve gained half a stone, all of which are apparently normal side effects of the cocktail of hormones I’ve been taking.
It’s all worth it, though, as I keep telling Milly, because she is still so anxious that this is proving too high a cost for me, that somehow she will owe me more than she can repay, even though I tell her, I promise, it isn’t like that. It’s never been like that.
The reality, though, is that it’s all a bit more invasive than I expected. Besides the hormones and the scans and the medical screening, I also had to have counselling, to make sure I was all right emotionally. It felt like a test I had to pass, navigating questions about personal beliefs and feelings, unsure what the right answers were, although the psychologist assured me there weren’t any.
It also felt revealing. She asked about family, romantic relationships, and earlier pregnancies, and that’s when I lied. It was instinctive, a basic need to protect myself. I wasn’t about to spill my secrets to some stranger, not even for Milly’s sake. And it wasn’t relevant, anyway. Or so I believed.
So now I’m here, lying on a table, about to be sedated. My lower belly has felt tender and swollen for the last few days; the only way to describe it is ripe.
In three days, Milly will have the embryo transferred to her waiting womb, and in another twelve she will be able to take a pregnancy test. But whether she is pregnant or not, my part will be over; the eggs retrieved today will be used in any further IVF attempts. After today, my job is done, and yet this feels like the beginning.
‘You have someone to drive you home?’ the nurse asks, and I nod. Milly has promised to come for me after school finishes. I’ve taken the afternoon off work; Lara wasn’t pleased, but I hardly take any holiday so she couldn’t do much about it. As I left during my lunch hour, I saw Sasha again, smoking furiously outside and looking rather miserable. She has not been in touch since our meeting six weeks ago, although I sent her a couple of emails encouraging her to reach out.
As I walked past her I gave her a fleeting smile, but I didn’t have time to talk before my appointment at the clinic. As I headed towards the car park, she called out to me.
‘Hey, can I talk to you sometime, after all?’
I half-turned, keeping my smile. ‘Of course. I’m out this afternoon, but why don’t you come by next week?’
Sasha nodded rather grimly and again I wondered what she had to tell me.
Now I push thoughts of Sasha away as I lie back and the anaesthetist begins his work, fitting a tube into the canula in the back of my hand. The nurse pats my leg.
‘Could you please put your feet into the stirrups?’
It’s an obvious request, and yet an unexpected, visceral response rushes through me. Panic. It feels shocking, the suddenness of it, the way my breath hitches and my mind blanks. The stirrups… the needle poking into my hand… the way the doctor adjusts the bright light so it’s aimed right between my legs… suddenly I am eighteen again. Eighteen and so very alone.
The nurse touches my shoulder, her eyes full of concern. ‘Are you okay, Anna?’
‘Y-y-y… yes.’ I realise I am shaking. There is a metallic taste in my mouth, and the vinyl table beneath me feels slippery and cold. The nurse advised me to keep my socks on because the stirrups were cold, and inside the thin cotton my cold toes clench and curl around the metal. I try to breathe in and out, evenly, but I still feel faint. My body trembles. If I turn my head, I feel as if I could be back in that other office. I would see the technician at the ultrasound machine, the screen angled away from me so I wouldn’t see the tiny image curled up on it. The not seeing has tormented me as much as the seeing would have, if not more. What if…?
But I can’t think that way now. Thankfully, the anaesthetist has finished his work. ‘Count back to ten for me, Anna,’ he says and I swallow and nod, trying to keep back the icy tide of panic that doesn’t make sense. It’s just a memory. That’s all it is.
‘Ten, nine…’ I begin in a trembling voice, and that’s all I remember.
* * *
I wake up in a dimly lit recovery room, feeling achey and disorientated. I put my hand on my belly, expecting some difference, but it feels just the same, a little bloated from the hormones. My mouth is dry and when I sit up the world rushes around me, a fuzzy kaleidoscope of muted colour. I sink back on the pillows and wait for my mind to clear. It’s just the residual anaesthetic making me feel woozy. I remember it from before, and so does my body.
And it’s because of the before, or maybe just all the excess hormones zooming around in my body, that a tidal wave of grief suddenly rises up in me and I have to stifle a sob.
‘Anna?’ A nurse appears at the door, her head haloed by light from the hallway. ‘Are you awake?’
I press my fist to my mouth to keep back the guttural sound I can’t believe I feel like making. ‘Yes,’ I finally manage to croak. ‘I’m fine. A bit groggy.’
‘Let me bring you a cup of tea.’
By the time she returns, I have regained my composure. I am sitting up on the chaise, the thin blanket that was covering me folded by my feet. I take the tea with murmured thanks, and sip the hot, over-sugared liquid, grateful to ease the dryness in my mouth.
‘Was it… successful?’
‘Yes, everything went perfectly.’ She doesn’t offer any more information, and I realise that’s intentional. My part is over. I am not privy to anything more unless Milly and Matt choose to tell me. I signed the documents; I knew that. Yet in this moment it stings a little. ‘You can leave in half an hour or so,’ she continues. ‘Assuming you feel well enough.’
‘I will.’ I want to leave now. Now that it’s over, I want nothing more than to be in the cosy familiarity of my own flat, curled up on my own bed, with Winnie purring as she snuggles against my stomach. In a strange and unsettling way, I want to forget this ever happened. I feel raw and wounded when I thought I would be feeling excited for Milly. I don’t understand myself at all.
‘And when the person who is driving you has arrived,’ the nurse finishes, and I look at her, surprised.
‘Is Milly not here? What time is it?’
‘Quar
ter to four.’
She should be here by now, and I feel a prickling of unease. Where is she? This isn’t something she would forget, or even be late to.
I sip my tea, trying to remain calm and positive as my stomach cramps, apparently a normal occurrence after the procedure. When I go to the loo, I see a bit of blood, which is also normal, but it freaks me out all the same. It all feels a bit too familiar. And Milly still isn’t here.
Then, about half an hour later, the nurse appears in my room again. ‘Your lift is here,’ she says, smiling, and relief pulses through me.
‘Milly…?’
Her smile falters. ‘No, not Milly. He says his name is… Jack? Jack Foster?’
Jack? Jack, Matt’s brother, Milly and Matt’s sperm donor, whom I’ve only met once? I feel completely gobsmacked, and oddly vulnerable.
‘Is that okay?’ the nurse asks, and I’m not sure what to say.
‘Yes, yes,’ I finally answer. ‘Please tell him I’ll come out to the waiting room in a bit.’
After she leaves, I take a few minutes to check my appearance, brush my hair and wash my face. I still feel a bit groggy, my belly tender. And I have no idea what to say to Jack.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks, standing up with alacrity when I venture out to the waiting room. The brochure I’d been given advised comfy clothes for the procedure and aftercare, so I am dressed in a hoodie and yoga pants, which in this moment feel like pyjamas.
‘I’m okay.’ I shake my head, feeling entirely discomfited. ‘I’m sorry, but I thought Milly was coming…?’
‘I know, I’m sorry about that, and she is too, of course. Her school had an Ofsted inspection called at three this afternoon. They’re coming to inspect it tomorrow.’ He gives a grimacing shrug and I put on my coat.
‘Right.’ I know a little bit about the inspections from Milly – how important they are, how everyone has to hustle to get their classrooms in shape, all the paperwork ready. I understand, but I still feel disappointed, a little bit hurt. ‘Bad timing, I suppose.’