by Lauren Sams
‘Oh, Meg’ll be fine,’ I said.
‘Good! That’s so good that you can count on her support,’ she said. I could just imagine the kind of support I’d be given. Did a lump sum redundancy package count?
‘Uh-huh,’ I said, desperate to talk about anything else. ‘Hey, do you think it’s possible to get pre-pregnancy cravings? Because I just saw that they have a flourless chocolate cake on the specials board and I really want it.’
Nina nodded. ‘Absolutely. I’m shouting, too – but only if you tell Jason tonight. Deal?’
I bit my lip but nodded. ‘Yep, deal.’
6
Week 4,
DAY 2
‘And you were planning on asking me about this … when, exactly?’
I felt my jaw unhinge. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Georgie, I cannot believe this. Are you telling me that you’ve just made this decision – this fucking huge decision – without even asking me? What if I had said no?’
‘What if you had said no? It’s not your decision to make!’
‘Don’t I deserve to even be consulted about this? I mean, it sounds like you’ve already made your mind up.’
Jase had stopped chopping the vegetables that were meant to be sautéed for our soup. I wondered if we would ever end this conversation and go back to making dinner. I was famished.
‘Yes, Jason, I have already made my mind up. That’s why I’m telling you.’
‘See?’ he said, accusing me. ‘Even that language: you’re “telling” me. We’ve been together for a year, Georgie. This isn’t something you just go and do without so much as asking me if it’s OK.’
Georgie. He’d called me Georgie. Twice.
‘Well, first of all, I haven’t done anything yet, and second, I don’t have to ask you if it’s OK because it’s my body and my decision. End of.’
I didn’t think Jase’s eyebrows could get any higher, but up they went. Band of bloody Horses played in the background, filling the shocked silences that punctuated each sentence. For god’s sake, couldn’t he ever listen to music that made people happy instead of tracks that made them want to drown their sorrows in a vat of vodka? What was so wrong with Katy Perry? Or Robyn? Or Rihanna? Or Beyoncé? There were four people who made you feel good about life, not as if you were about to be stood up at your own wedding.
‘I have never heard anything quite so selfish,’ he said, with a sort of quiet finality that I probably should have taken as an indication that the conversation was over, for now at least. But I couldn’t handle being called selfish when, actually, what I was doing was really the definition of selfless.
‘Jase, listen to yourself. How can you call me selfish? I’m having a baby for Nina. A baby. That’s, like, the opposite of selfish. It’s as far from selfish as you can get without being Princess Fucking Diana.’
But Jase shook his head. ‘Can you honestly tell me that you don’t see a problem here?’
‘Yes. Well, I mean there’s a problem now, but only because you’re being such a jerk about it. I don’t see how this is going to affect our relationship, Jase,’ I said, lying a little bit and knowing it. ‘I’ll have the baby, give it to Nina, lose thirty kilos and everything will go back to normal. It’s not like I’ve decided to have a baby with someone else and, you know, keep it.’
Jase scratched his head, lips pursed. He sighed, but not in the dramatic, passive-aggressive way I thought he might. Silently, he went back to chopping vegetables, slicing the baby carrots into such tiny pieces they didn’t look real.
I went to the fridge to look for a bottle of wine, and then I remembered I wasn’t meant to be drinking in the lead-up to the pregnancy. Fuck it. I wasn’t pregnant yet and I needed a drink. I found a half-open bottle of chardonnay and motioned to Jason with it. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Are you allowed to do that?’ he asked, tartly.
‘Yes,’ I seethed. Why was he being such a dick?
‘No, thank you,’ he said. Great. Now I looked like an alky and he looked like a saint.
I took my wine into the living room and sank into the couch. I checked my phone – there was an email from Meg with a bunch of links to street-style blogs and Buzzfeed posts. ‘Let’s do more of this in the mag,’ she had written. I skolled the wine and wondered how much upper-body strength would be required to launch myself through the plate-glass windows of the balcony.
Instead, I sat there on the gorgeous chevron lounge I’d bought for us when I moved in. I knew Jase hated it; he hardly ever sat on it. ‘Why did you buy an orange couch?’ he’d asked. ‘Because it’s nice,’ I’d said. And it was. And it wasn’t ‘orange’, it was rusted vintage marmalade. Apart from our bed, it was one of the only things in the apartment that felt like my own – everything else had Jase stamped all over it. It was his apartment, I’d understood that moving in, but I had assumed that, at some stage, it might start feeling like ours. But my books still sat in uneven stacks next to the shelves, because Jase couldn’t bring himself to take any of his to Vinnie’s to make space for mine. My pots and pans crowded in with Jase’s but he always chose his own when he cooked. It was probably a weird thing to notice but it was a weirder thing to do.
I wondered what Jase would say next. Was this it for us? He was angrier than I’d ever seen him: even angrier than the day his ninety-kilometre charity ride had been cancelled due to bad weather.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ he called from the kitchen. It felt like I’d been sitting for a few minutes, but when I glanced at the clock I realised I’d been staring at the living room wall for half an hour. I wasn’t even pregnant yet and I was already losing it.
I sat down at the table, opposite Jason like always. He said nothing, so I didn’t, either. We sat like that for ten minutes, slurping our soup, staring into our bowls, ignoring each other. At one point, I said, ‘Good soup.’ Jason said, ‘Thanks.’
When he was done, Jason pushed his bowl away and crossed his arms on the table.
‘You know what’s weird about this is that you actually could have said something when we were having a conversation about surrogacy just a few days ago.’
I said nothing, dipping my spoon into the soup the way deportment schools taught you to. God, did deportment schools even exist anymore? The prevalence of denim underpants as outerwear would suggest not.
‘You do realise that we’ve never had the baby talk, yeah?’ said Jase, forcing my attention back to the present.
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So you understand why I might be surprised – actually, pretty fucking shocked – to hear that you’re going to have a baby for someone else when we’ve never even discussed the possibility of it, right?’
‘Jase –’
‘No, let me finish,’ he said. ‘I know it’s your body and ultimately, of course, it’s your decision, George. I’m not one of those guys. But we live together. You know my parents, I know yours. I’m in this. Like, for good. I know the tables can’t really be turned but if this were my decision to make, I would have told you right away. I would have asked you what you thought. OK, maybe not for permission, but I would have at least factored you in. You’ve made me feel like I don’t matter at all, like you never even gave me a second thought.’
‘Oh god, Jase, I’m so sorry. Of course you matter. Of course you do.’ I stood up and rounded the table to sit next to him, looping my arms around his waist and pulling him to me. To my surprise, he pulled back.
‘I don’t really know if that’s true, George. I think if I mattered to you in the way that you matter to me, you wouldn’t have lied about this.’
‘I haven’t lied!’
‘George, come on! I gave you an opportunity to say something about this – even though I had no idea that’s what I was doing – and you said nothing. Do you get how stupid that makes me feel?’
‘I’m sorry.’
He shook his head and sighed. He cleared his throat, as if to say something, but stopped short.
&n
bsp; ‘What do you want to say?’ I asked.
‘I think …’ He sighed, running a hand along his face as if talking to me was exhausting him. ‘I … I don’t know where I stand with you.’
‘Jase, you know I love you.’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘But there’s more to it than that. Isn’t there? I mean, we’ve both done this before; we’ve both been in love with other people. It didn’t work out. It’s more than just a matter of loving someone.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He gave me the you-know-exactly-what-that’s-supposed-to-mean look. ‘Are you saying that we’re done? Jase, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I really am. I was just … just trying to figure out the best way to do it. I didn’t want to scare you off or creep you out.’
‘Scare me off? George, the only thing that’s scaring me is the fact that you lied to me.’
‘And I’ve apologised for that.’
Jase made an exaggerated, exasperated face and clenched his fists. ‘Oh my god, George, you can’t just apologise and erase your mistake. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘So what now? Are you not on board with this?’
I looked at Jason – really looked at him, deeply and carefully. He didn’t seem angry, just sad. Like a teacher telling you that you weren’t ‘fulfilling your potential’.
I reached for his hands, folded in his lap, but he brought them to his face again, not so much, I thought, to do anything with them as to get them away from me.
‘George, I would never tell you not to do this. And actually, if you had told me from the beginning, I would have thought it was really fucking cool that you’d do this for Nina. I think, anyway. Maybe. But … I need some time to think. I’m going to stay at Brendan’s tonight. I’ll call you soon.’
Time to think? He’d call me soon? I’d written enough decode-his-text-message articles to know that Jason was essentially breaking up with me, he just didn’t want to do it at this exact moment.
‘But … it’s your apartment.’
He nodded, picking up his phone and sliding it into his back pocket. Ever the type-A clean freak, Jase carried his bowl and spoon to the sink and gave them a quick rinse. Even in the middle of our biggest fight, he couldn’t miss an OCD opportunity.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Look, stay here tonight. We’ll talk about it later.’
If I were Taylor Swift, I’d be writing a song in my mind at this exact moment. But I was Georgie Henderson, and all I could think of to say was, ‘Right. Right.’
Jason stood and picked up his man-satchel. ‘Don’t forget your iPod,’ I said, pointing limply to the dock in the kitchen. Band of Horses was still playing. He nodded.
‘I’ll call you soon, George. Night.’
‘Night, Jase.’
I didn’t let myself cry until I heard the door click shut.
7
Week 6
‘Any STDs?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Have you ever had any STDs? Chlamydia is very common among women your age. Gonorrhoea? Herpes?’
‘Um, no.’ I shook my head. I was already feeling vulnerable in my tissue-thin hospital gown and paper undies so loose they could double as a boat’s sail, so this line of intimate questioning was really pushing it.
‘Have you ever been tested?’
‘Yes.’ I’m a non-Amish woman in my mid-thirties; I grew up thinking the Grim Reaper would literally bowl me over if I had unprotected sex. Of course I’ve been tested. Add to that the fact that I’d written dozens – possibly hundreds – of articles on sexually transmitted diseases over the past decade: I really believed that if it was not on, it was not on.
‘How regularly do you have pap smears?’
‘Every two years.’ Tick.
‘Ever had an unusual result?’ Dr Fisher looked up from her laptop and smiled at me. You know, a casual ‘don’t mind me asking you the most personal questions you’ve ever been asked’ smile. Like we were good buddies who’d go have a chardy after she looked up my jacksie and asked me about my sex life. Except there’d be no chardy for me for a while.
‘Once, about ten years ago. But nothing ever came of it.’
‘So it was benign?’
‘Yep.’ Tick, tick.
‘Mmm. OK, who was your doctor? I’ll need a record of that.’
‘Ummm …’ If Dr Fisher had asked me who’d given me a Rachel cut in 1996, I could have told her without hesitation. If she’d asked me who did my first Brazilian, I probably could have recalled her name, too, if given a minute. But the doctor who had told me I might have cervical cancer? Nope, not a chance.
‘Gee, that was a long time ago.’
Dr Fisher raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Um … not really. Is that bad?’ I tried to laugh it off but Dr Fisher was having none of it. She smiled politely but the judgement was palpable.
‘It would help if you knew. Do you remember the name of the practice, at least?’
All I knew was that it had been the bulk-billing GP across the road from the office I’d worked in back then. I sensed Dr Fisher needed more information than that.
‘I’ll get back to you on that.’
‘OK. How are your periods?’
‘Uh, good.’
‘When did you first experience menarche?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your first period. When did you get it?’
‘Oh. Ah, I was twelve. Funny story, actually – for some reason I thought it was like wee, you know, so I didn’t know it was going to be on my undies, and when I saw it, I totally freaked out. You know?’
Dr Fisher smiled, but looked as if she were about to pat my head. ‘It can be confusing for young girls. Do you remember the month?’
‘Of my first period?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded.
Oh, sure, of course I remember every detail of something that happened twenty-two years ago.
‘Well, it was hot, so it would have been summer, I guess … maybe February? No … maybe January. Maybe we were still on school holidays …?’
Bloody hell. Nina had told me that the doctor’s visits would be full-on, but I hadn’t anticipated this. I could barely remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, let alone how my first period had gone down more than two decades ago. And this was only the beginning, she’d said. I’d already had blood and urine tests to make sure I was healthy. Soon I’d start taking drugs to get my bits in optimum working order, then there’d be ovulation checks and the transfer itself and after all that, if I actually got pregnant, there’d be weekly doctor’s visits and blood tests and ultrasounds and then, finally, nine months later, there’d be a baby. It had only been forty-five minutes and I was already exhausted. How had Nina been doing this for so long? It was practically a full-time job.
‘That’s good enough. And it’s always been regular?’
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ I said, eager to be a good little incubator. The truth was, I’d barely paid my period any attention at all. As long as it was there once a month or so, I was happy. When it came and how long for, I really couldn’t say. I took more notice of my toenail cuticles than I did my period.
‘Are you on the pill?’
‘Not anymore. I stopped after agreeing to be a surrogate.’
‘But before that – how long had you been taking it?’
‘Ah, let’s see … on and off, about … sixteen years.’
‘Any side effects?’
‘Does being a raging bitch once a month count?’
‘No.’ Gee, tough crowd. I made a mental note to stop trying to lighten the mood with Dr Fisher.
‘And how about your general health? Have you ever been hospitalised?’
‘Uh, I had appendicitis when I was, like, nine.’
‘That’s it?’
I nodded.
‘Do you take drugs?’
I paused. ‘Like aspirin?’ I asked, hopeful.
‘No, more like ecstasy,’ said Dr Fis
her with a wry smile.
‘Well, yeah … I mean, not ecstasy. And not anymore, but you know … I have taken drugs. In my life. At some point. Points, really. Plural.’ I waffled on, wondering how exactly I’d come to be answering questions about my sex habits and drug use. I felt like I was back in high school.
‘OK, that’s fine, Georgie. Are you currently taking drugs?’
‘No! No, of course not. I think I had a joint on New Year’s Eve. Actually, it was probably only half. Yep, just half. But that’s it, I swear.’
‘How about alcohol? Are you a drinker?’
Am I a drinker? As she asked the question I heard the clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk of empty wine bottles hitting the bottom of my recycling bin. ‘Ummm … Yes, I suppose I would say that.’
‘How many drinks would you have in a week?’
I mentally tallied my booze intake: a glass or two on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday nights, then probably more like half a bottle on Thursdays. Friday and Saturday nights were usually pretty big, and Sunday afternoons normally involved a beer garden. I realised Dr Fisher was looking at me, expectantly. I was taking too long.
‘Um, ten,’ I said, lying through my teeth.
Dr Fisher nodded. ‘That’s quite high. We recommend that when we start the surrogacy program you cut down to one drink a week. And of course, when you’re pregnant, we recommend you don’t drink at all.’
I nodded sagely, thinking how horrified Dr Fisher would be if she knew I’d divided that number of drinks by at least two.
‘How many sexual partners have you had?’
‘Eighteen,’ I answered quickly, mindful of being judged after my last slow response. ‘No, nine–… Twenty. Yep, twenty.’
‘Are you currently having sex?’
‘No. Not currently.’ If she’d asked me a few weeks ago, the answer would have been different.
Dr Fisher nodded and continued to question the minutiae of my entire life. Had I been pregnant before? Any abortions? What about my family – any disabilities, fertility problems, genetic disorders? Had I ever suffered mental illness? And then, last of all, why was I doing this? ‘You seem like a very good candidate for surrogacy, Georgie. The only thing is, we usually recommend that surrogates have completed their own families before they carry a baby. You haven’t started your family yet.’