Farewell My Ovaries

by Wendy Harmer

  She had attempted to work all this out in therapy with Hope. She had found Hope (how inconvenient to have a noun for a name!) at her rooms in Double Bay one afternoon when she was shopping. She had seen the sign ‘Relationship Counsellor’ on the wall of a terrace and, on impulse, knocked on the bright blue door. When a short, middle-aged woman with her head wrapped in an African print scarf and the kindest grey eyes Claire had ever seen opened it, Claire had thrown herself into her arms and sobbed.

  Claire sat in Hope’s front room nursing a box of tissues every Thursday night for the whole of her thirty-second year. Even now she could remember the affirmations that Hope had clipped from self-help books and stuck on the wall, her favourite being: ‘Life is short. Try to make every mistake possible.’

  After hearing tales of Claire’s life, Hope had settled on a pathology for her particular affliction. Her affliction being that she was thirty-two and sadly single. She decided Claire was commitment-phobic. But then again, there seemed to be only two choices in the early nineties—commitment-phobic or co-dependent. It was just like when you went to the naturopath’s with a sore toe and were told you were allergic to wheat. Hope, however, had made a pretty good case. The problem seemed to be that Claire’s father had been so ground down by her mother’s constant criticism that he had retreated into himself and become ‘emotionally unavailable’ to Claire. She in her turn had retreated from family intimacy. And then, because we are all doomed to repeat the patterns of childhood, Claire now only felt comfortable with a man who was distant.

  This was a good theory, but it didn’t quite explain to Claire what she saw as pure bad luck. Louie had been ready to make a commitment. He always told Claire that he would never love anyone else. After he left her, she asked him why he’d said it. He answered off-handedly, ‘I hadn’t met Zoe then.’ And, in the end, you couldn’t argue with that.

  Ellery? Well, that was stupid rebound stuff. An experiment with pure psychic pain. How low can you go? But despite being propelled through Hope’s front door because of him, Claire felt that she had been ready to make a commitment to any number of men. If they had reciprocated.

  ‘It’s about smart women and dumb choices,’ Hope said in her Colorado drawl. ‘Honey, you have to make yourself emotionally available to a man who is in the same head space!’

  Yeah, and then Hope would have described her as co-dependent. The trick was to be self-aware, but not needy. Independent, but not distant. Open to change, but ready to steer your own course. All this sounded to Claire like that childhood challenge of patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time. It didn’t take into account getting tricked by men who lied. And it didn’t take into account getting addicted to a man who gave you multiple orgasms for the first time in your life.

  Enter Simon Hammond.

  ‘I’m single,’ he had said as her head banged against a bedroom wall in the Adelaide Hilton.

  ‘I’m separated,’ he said as her knees scraped on a floor rug in the Melbourne Regent.

  ‘We’re giving it one more go,’ he said as her back slammed against bathroom tiles in the Canberra Hyatt.

  But by then it was all too late. At thirty-five she found herself with a husband, a wife, three kids and another one on the way. With expert bad timing, ‘the other one on the way’ was Claire’s. So, you could talk all you liked about being ‘emotionally available’. Christ, she’d even made her ovaries available, and still she was let down.

  ‘But you know I love you,’ he’d said as an ashtray ricocheted off his forehead at the Sydney Wentworth.

  Ten years later Claire still thought about the child that never was. He would have been a boy, she was sure, and the same age as Max, Meg’s eldest, who was walking up the driveway now.

  ‘Hey there, Claire Bear,’ he said as a basketball bounced off her car window.

  ‘Hey there, Maxie boy,’ she said back.

  Max led Claire indoors to a Saturday morning madhouse. The living room was given over to a giant cubby hut made of blankets and brooms. Madeline emerged dressed in a pink ballgown and greeted her mother with extravagant hugs. Meg’s twins, Steffie and Sophia, this morning taking the role of the Ugly Sisters, pelted Cinderella with cushions.

  Claire retreated too, after copping a blow to the head, and eventually found Meg making a bed in the kids’ room.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous!’ Claire stepped forward for a hug as Meg bustled past her.

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ she muttered as she punched the daylights out of a pillow. ‘NICHOLAS ANGELUCCHI, GET OFF THAT BED RIGHT NOW, I’VE JUST MADE THAT!’

  Nicky pinged off the bed and out the door as fast as he could.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘That bloody husband of mine!’

  Claire was used to this opening line in conversations with Meg. ‘What’s he done now?’

  Meg threw a blanket on the floor and slumped on the mattress. ‘I told him about the baby.’

  ‘And . . .?’ Claire sat beside her. She couldn’t imagine Tony would be anything but pleased.

  ‘Oh thrilled, of course. Thrilled with himself.’

  Claire was relieved. So the argument was probably the usual ongoing squabble.

  ‘Last night we’re at his brother’s engagement party and the subject of vasectomies comes up. Have a guess what he said?’

  Claire could only imagine that a classic Tony blooper was imminent.

  ‘He says he doesn’t want to have one because, and get this, he says he’s worried about what effect it will have on his masculinity.’

  ‘Oops.’

  ‘You’re fucking right, “oops”. I said to him—and, really, I didn’t care who heard me, I was that pissed off—“You self-centred egotistical bastard. What do you think having four kids and being pregnant again is doing to my femininity? My tits are halfway to my knees. My arse is dragging on the ground. I can’t remember the last time I went to the hairdressers or put on makeup. My wardrobe looks like a fucking ragbag. When was the last time I felt beautiful? When was the last time a bloke looked at me? Apart from you jumping on me whenever I look sideways?”—SOPHIE, STEPHANIE GET OUT OF OUR BEDROOM. YOU KNOW YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED IN THERE. GET OUT RIGHT NOW!— Fuck him! I tell you what, Claire—you’re lucky you’ve only got Maddie. You can still have a life. I look around me and I have got no idea who I am anymore. I don’t even know what I think about anything anymore. I’m just putting one foot in front of the other, every single minute of the day. I haven’t read a book in months. I used to write. I used to read newspapers! I was sitting in the coffee shop in Ikea the other day, thinking, How the hell did I get here?’

  Meg stopped and fell back exhausted.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Claire. ‘I mean, what the hell’s a coffee shop doing in a furniture store in the first place? Did the people come in looking for a coffee table and start thinking they wanted a coffee? Or did they come in for coffee and think, we might as well get a table to take away?’

  Meg looked at her and, much to Claire’s relief, threw a pillow at her. ‘You stupid cow! I’m serious!’

  Claire lay back on the bed with Meg and clasped her hand. ‘No, you’re not. For a start, I would give anything in the world to have had more kids. OK, maybe not five . . . maybe not at forty-four. I’m not saying that’s not hard. It’s almost impossible! But they are the most divine kids. They love each other so much, and they worship you.

  ‘And, guess what? You are the most beautiful woman! No wonder your handsome husband can’t keep his hands off you. I know he’s a bit of an idiot. No, that’s wrong—he is a serious idiot. But, Meg, you and the kids are his whole world.

  ‘And as for not having time to think? Here’s a bulletin. When you have time to think, all most of us think about is ourselves. And sometimes we’re not worth thinking about. Charlie is always saying: “The unexamined life is not worth living”. I reckon that’s crap. The more you examine life, the more it doesn’t make any sense. All that makes sense is what you’ve got crammed und
er this roof. These kids growing up with each other, into themselves, with you.

  ‘I was reading this article about people choosing not to have kids anymore. And then there’s my grandmother who had eight! She had fifteen grandchildren. So I reckon you and I are in the middle there where, no matter what we do, it doesn’t feel right. We’re just making it up as we go along. That’s all anyone’s doing, really. But what you’ve brought into being in this house— it couldn’t be better, it just couldn’t.’

  Meg and Claire were quiet with each other, just looking up and holding hands.

  ‘So, what do you think, Meg?’

  ‘I think . . . the ceiling needs painting.’

  And the two of them laughed and rolled around on the bed until they realised that five children were standing looking at them as if they had lost their senses.

  When the beds were all made and the kids were having lunch in front of the television and the house had been restored to a semblance of order, Claire debriefed Meg on last night’s party. Meg had plenty to say and gave Claire the reality check she always looked for.

  On Carolyn’s new lesbian relationship

  ‘Carolyn! Not tennis-playing, charity-ball Carolyn! My God! Still, it makes more sense than sitting in that big house in Vaucluse all by herself, waiting for Mr Booker Prize to come back from Florence. I suppose we should keep our options open. There’s this cute blonde I do canteen duty with . . . nah! What woman would have me with five kids?’

  On Claire’s suspicion that Patrick, the lawyer, was unfaithful to Laura

  ‘I’d never send Tony to the herbalist for me. When I’m menopausal I’m telling him nothing. I’m going to keep the whole thing secret as long as I can. It’s like when women started blabbing about their cellulite. Up until then men thought it was some kind of ceiling insulation. Don’t even give them a chance to think about a younger woman. You have to keep being his wife, not his mother. Believe me, I know.’

  On Claire’s worries that she’ll never be a Nanna

  ‘You’re being an idiot. Of course you will. Next!’

  On breast implants and Botox

  ‘Wish I had the money for that. Then again, I’d rather have a new kitchen.’

  On Brazilians

  ‘Forget it. Tony would hack through the Amazon rainforest to get to me. Let him keep on hacking, I say.’

  On the categories of sex

  ‘I’ll bet no one came up with “married sex”. Look, you can talk all you like about all the different varieties of sex, but it comes down to the same old in-out. The only thing that makes sex different is who you have it with . . . I’ve just realised, I’m doomed!’

  On Steve’s chemically enhanced escapades

  ‘Up his bum? No! Really? Holy hell!’

  On Steve generally

  ‘It’s about time he grew up. He’s a twerp. He looks like an idiot walking around with those twenty year olds. I’ll bet they laugh at him behind his back. They reckon that using Viagra destroys your sperm in the long term. His will have to be using flippers and a kickboard soon.’

  More on Steve

  ‘So who sticks it up there? Him or . . . No, it’s too much information. Don’t tell me.’

  On Helen’s hysterectomy

  ‘Poor Helen! She’s lucky she’s got Phil. He’s a good man. And she’s got the girls. I reckon they’ll see her through. She’s too strong to let it get her down. I’ll send her a card. Although I’ll bet Hallmark don’t have any Happy Hysterectomy cards.’

  And, finally, on Connor’s phone call

  ‘He called you in the car? Claire! Have you thought what would happen if Charlie just punched redial?’

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Claire. ‘Well, I don’t think he did. The phone was where I left it when I woke up.’

  ‘What did he say this morning?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Aaargh! He knows, he knows, he knows!’

  ‘He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t! Stop this, Meg—you’re making me nervous.’

  ‘No, you are making me nervous. Just hurry up and get this whole thing over with. I can’t stand the suspense.’

  ‘It’s not suspense, it’s anticipation. Remember that? It’s half of what makes sex really good. Antici . . . pation. Anyway, I’m getting on a plane on Monday morning and I’m going to see him.’

  Meg let out a huge sigh of exasperation and her head dropped into her hands. ‘What are you going to tell Charlie?’

  ‘That I’m going to see Mum and Dad. I’ll come up with some reason.’

  ‘How about that, since you’ve found out you’re periwhatsit, you’ve lost your fucking mind.’

  Later that afternoon Claire was at home playing with Madeline and her harem of Barbie dolls. They had set up an elaborate ballroom scene in which one Prince Charming was to have his pick of seventeen gorgeous dollies with waist-length hair in shades of blonde from strawberry to platinum. You’d be forgiven for thinking that he was a very lucky Prince indeed, except that there was a button in his back which, when pushed, said either, ‘Will you join me at the ball?’ or ‘I love you’, or played a snatch of the ‘Wedding March’.

  If only all men came equipped with a button like that, thought Claire. Instead it seemed most blokes she’d met came with phrases like: ‘I need more space’; ‘It’s not you, it’s me’; and ‘I’ll call you’. And thinking about that made Claire wonder again how she was going to find time to call Connor tonight. Charlie was in the kitchen making one of his elaborate Indian dinners. There was a video on the hall table.

  It was Unfaithful, of all bloody things! That one where Diane Lane has the hot affair with Olivier Martinez and pushes her loyal and loving husband to murder. Charlie had brought it home, seemingly without a trace of irony, and told Claire he wanted to ‘see what all the fuss was about’.

  Claire had already seen it and knew exactly what the fuss was about. The scene where Diane Lane is coming home on the train squirming with guilty pleasure after having sex with Mr Hunky Martinez. Claire only had to think back to last Saturday night to attest to how accurate that was!

  ‘Mummy, you have to choose now. Come on!’ Maddie saw her mother’s mind was wandering.

  ‘Oh, alright. Um . . .’

  ‘He has to choose the most beautifullest one.’

  ‘But, honey, they all look the same.’

  ‘Hurry up! The carriage is waiting.’ Maddie was keen to get on with this part of the game. There was a wedding to organise!

  ‘Alright, he chooses this one—and then they’ll go off and get married and have lots of babies together.’

  Claire took every chance to talk to Maddie about having babies. Even if she was only six. Claire had bought her baby prams, bassinettes, cots and highchairs, and at last count Maddie was the mother of quintuplets.

  How the child-rearing orthodoxy had changed in thirty years! Back in the seventies Claire would have felt guilty about pressing dolls upon her daughter. She would have been encouraging her to think about being a spaceperson or a firewoman. It would have been non-gender-specific jigsaw puzzles or even toy trucks. But Claire was determined that her daughter would come to see motherhood as the crowning achievement of her life. Yes, Claire wanted her to explore the universe, inspire the world. But she didn’t want her to miss out on the joy of a child.

  Claire had waited so long for her own baby. The constant demands of her newborn daughter had been attended to as if they were a sacred duty. She had cried when she saw the tiny clothes hanging on the line. She had cried when she bought baby wipes at the supermarket. She had cried when she wheeled the pram down the street. Passers-by would have thought it was mad new mother hormones but, for Claire, it was an overwhelming surge of love and pride. She’d done it!

  Claire had beaten Meg’s fourth by only a few months. Their shared pregnancy had deepened the bond between the two friends, although Meg often laughed at Clare’s dotty sentimentality.

  ‘Oh look, Meg, it�
�s gorgeous. It’s pink and got little lambs all over it.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Claire, it’s a nappy bucket. Get a grip.’

  Claire looked at her daughter now and felt the same rush of emotion she had felt the day baby Maddie had first been placed in her empty arms. There was an old Scandinavian proverb a friend had written in a card for Madeline’s christening: ‘Never is a house so full as when a baby is sleeping in it.’ That was true. Claire hadn’t realised how much empty space there was in her life until Maddie. Having a baby was the chance to experience the purest love there was. While you loved your family and loved your partner, there was no love on earth to match what you felt for your own child. That’s what she wanted Maddie to have for herself one day.

  Madeline crammed Prince Charming and the future Mrs Charming into their carriage. ‘No, Mummy,’ she said in her serious little voice. ‘They’re not going to have babies. They’re going on an adventure around the world—like Rose and Dermott.’

  Not Maddie too! Rose must have got to her.

  ‘But, darling, what about me? Don’t you want to have babies so I can be a grandma?’

  Madeline looked up at her mother and turned down her mouth. ‘No. Because grandmas are old and I don’t ever want you to be old. I want you to stay beautiful Mummy for ever and ever.’

  ‘But you know, Maddie, everyone gets old. That’s the way the world goes. Everyone in the whole world starts out a tiny baby and then grows up.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m never going to grow up. I am staying the same for my whole life. And I want you to stay the same too.’

  Claire sighed. Mother and daughter were thinking the same thoughts. Like Connor said, everyone’s thinking the same things. And ‘I don’t want to grow up’ was the most basic thought of all. Only you thought about it more and more the older you got.

  If Claire could pick an age to stay at for ever and ever, which would it be? Not as a child—although time seemed without end then, you were already haunted by the unknown. She had watched Maddie have the night terrors when she was just three. What could she be thinking about? Just three years old and already trying to make sense of her existence.