A Mother’s Sacrifice

by Gemma Metcalfe

  Doctor Hughes cocked his head to the side, his face moulded into one of professionalism. ‘Your results are back.’

  I looked into his eyes, everything I needed to know resting in his pupils. ‘It hasn’t worked, has it, Doctor?’

  ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t.’

  My lungs deflated as the already small office closed in around me. Your hand slipped away from mine, your cry going beyond anything I have heard before or since. I swallowed down the bitter aftertaste of stale hope, knowing in my heart that I would never be a father, that the dream I’d carried around my whole life had been snuffed out there and then.

  ‘Doctor, I did everything you suggested,’ you cried, the pain in your voice excruciating to my ears. ‘I did yoga and drank pineapple juice and ate walnuts. The only thing I didn’t do was swim because I can’t. Is that why it didn’t work?’

  ‘Of course not. You did brilliantly.’ Doctor Hughes smiled at you, and I hated his easy way, hated how he could reassure you in a way I never could.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I heard myself saying, my voice barely a whisper.

  ‘We can do this,’ you said, hope seeping into every syllable. ‘I believe in you.’

  Happiness swelled inside of me. You still believed in me, still believed it was possible. You trusted that I could make things right, just like I always had done. I glanced over at you, a smile breaking out onto my face despite the situation. But you were staring at Doctor Hughes, your eyes burning holes into his.

  You believed in him. Not me. I no longer mattered.

  Doctor Hughes stared at you without speaking a word, his dark-brown eyes focusing on you and you alone. His eyelids were partially hidden under jet-black eyebrows which knitted together, revealing deep-set frown lines. ‘We can do another round,’ he explained after what seemed like for ever. ‘But I’m afraid your husband’s sperm is very low quality, meaning, even with the best treatment, the embryos may always be mediocre at best.’ He rubbed a hand over his chin, his prominent jawline and speckled grey moustache an almost physical sign of his intellect.

  The electrically charged silence buzzed around the room, creating an almost audible white noise. My eyes fell to a silver-framed photograph of a woman and baby which sat at an angle on the doctor’s pristine desk. ‘Is that your wife and child?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  My eyes glistened as I sat mesmerised by the baby; his hair the colour of a sunset, his eyes a dark brown like the doctor who sat before me. In the photo, the baby’s mother gazed down at him, a look of pure adoration on her face, her hair cascading down onto his head so it wasn’t clear where hers ended and his began. The woman and child were the mirror image of each other, almost as if they had been sculpted by hand to fit together, two halves of a whole. I noticed you eyeing up the picture, an almost primal longing in your eyes. It hurt me to see you like that so I averted my gaze and looked instead at Doctor Hughes, saw the love which poured from his eyes, bouncing off the glass and right back into his pupils. That’s when I knew what I had to do.

  ‘So you’re saying a success is unlikely?’

  The doctor turned to me, slightly shocked, as if only just realising I was present. He ran his tongue over his teeth, his eyes smudging with what appeared to be turmoil. ‘I don’t want to take money off you if I’m not confident of a result. This is my practice and my clients are of the upmost importance to me.’

  ‘We’ll just do it,’ you said, sitting up in your chair and rubbing the tears from your eyes. ‘We’ll do another round. We might get lucky.’

  ‘No!’ I heard the sound of my voice before I even realised I’d spoken ‘No more.’

  You turned on me, your eyes blazing. ‘We can afford it! James, please! Why are you saying that?’

  ‘And what did you say, Mr Carter?’ DC Lawrie glues her eyes to me, as if genuinely interested in my answer.

  ‘I told her it was too much money and I was unwilling to pay. She went crazy, said she would leave me. That I wasn’t going to stop her having a baby.’

  ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  ‘Relieved.’ I hold out my hands in front of me, my wedding band catching against the overhead strip light. ‘I knew she was going to say it, that’s why I was so cold, to force it from her. I suppose I wanted to make her feel like I had left her with no choice. Then the doctor mentioned a sperm donor and, well, she jumped on it.’

  ‘And you just went along with it?’ asks DC Lawrie.

  ‘Yes. I just wanted to make Lou’s pain go away.’

  ‘Seems a little too good to be true if you ask me.’ DC Kennedy’s mask slips once again, his words not marrying up with the admiration in his eyes. At this rate he’ll be getting the sack. I almost want to reach over and pull his bad cop mask back up.

  ‘Can’t you see?’ I say instead. ‘My wife was severely depressed, proven by how she reacted in the days that followed. If I’d allowed her to go through one more failed IVF attempt there was a serious chance she would harm herself, even take her own life.’ I let the truth hang in the air for a few moments. ‘I needed to protect her, needed her to think I had left her with no choice or she’d be for ever eaten up by guilt that she’d prevented me from having a biological child. I sacrificed my own chance of parenthood to save her.’

  ‘That’s very honourable, Mr Carter,’ says DC Lawrie, her perfectly plucked eyebrows furrowing together.

  ‘And you never had any direct dealings with this donor?’ asks DC Kennedy.

  ‘No. He was anonymous, and we were to him. We could choose basic things of course: hair colour, eye colour, educational status.’ I laugh, even though it’s anything but funny. ‘A catalogue dad so to speak. Will you be requesting his details now?’

  DC Lawrie tilts her chin. ‘We can’t really discuss that with you, Mr Carter. Just know that we’ll be looking at all possible lines of inquiry.’ She taps her manicured nails on the desk. ‘So, what information were you given about this donor?’

  ‘Why are you so interested in him? You don’t seriously believe…?’ My words fall away, another lump of guilt wedging itself into my throat. ‘Do you? Do you really think he could have had something to do with this?’

  DC Lawrie sucks in air. ‘Just tell us what you know about him.’

  ‘A university graduate,’ I say quickly, sure she already knows more about him than I do. ‘Tall, average build, blue eyes, red hair. Lou was very specific about the type of man she wanted. I had thought she’d try and choose somebody similar to me, but no.’ I pause in order to compose myself, to stop myself from getting angry. ‘She said she wanted somebody with the same physical characteristics as her, so when the baby arrived he or she would look familiar. But well… I think it was for another reason.’ I close my eyes, wanting nothing more than to speak to you, like I should have done before all of this spiralled out of control. Did you know how I felt about the donor? Did you ever stop to consider how it made me feel, watching you cradling your child while I sat on the sidelines, feeling like an outsider in my own home? Knowing that no matter what I did he would never love me as much as he loved you? And I love him, Louisa, I love our baby boy more than you can ever imagine.

  ‘What other reason, Mr Carter?’ DC Kennedy’s question hardens on my name.

  I tell him… I tell him what I now know happened to you all those years ago.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Louisa

  Now

  I didn’t send the email, I’m almost certain of it – and yet there isn’t an alternative explanation, not unless Cory’s donor somehow managed to steal my phone when I fainted, sent the email out to all my contacts, then deposited the phone on the garden bench for James to find. Meaning he was here, in my garden, metres away from my son! I shudder, almost hoping I am going crazy, as surely that’s preferable. Regardless of how the email came about, a can of worms has now been opened, and I know they’re far too wriggly to put back in. People are bound to want answers, my mobile phone already pinging inces
santly with emails. I can’t bear to look at them though. How do I even begin to explain?

  I watch James undress, notice how he purposely turns his back on me as he steps out of his trousers and unbuttons his shirt, leaving the items discarded on the floor like an empty version of himself. Even though he is approaching forty, he’s still in good shape, his shoulders broad and stomach taut. His Calvin Klein briefs remind me of a time gone by, a time when he’d happily subject himself to Asda’s own-brand boxer shorts because they were loose fitting and he thought it would help the blood flow to his testicles; a time when hope still burnt deep in his eyes at the prospect of being a father. A lump rises in my throat as I watch the way he now carries himself, his movements sluggish, his posture hunched, like he has all but given up.

  ‘James, I know you’re angry. And I know we promised to never speak of the donor, but…’

  ‘But what?’ He turns to face me, his glare ripping me in two. ‘But nothing, Louisa. You’ve fucked this up well and truly. One thing I asked of you. One tiny thing and not only do you bring it up, you tell the whole world I’m not his dad in a fucking email!’

  I blanch, his use of language shocking me. ‘There’s no need to swear. Cory might hear you.’

  A condescending laugh flies out of his nostrils. ‘He’s two weeks old, Lou… or is the little miracle baby going to be speaking by his six-week check?’

  I bat away his snipe, determined that I will keep a level head in order to make him realise I’m not crazy. ‘Don’t take it out on Cory, please… he’s innocent in all of this.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ He slumps down onto the edge of the bed, now facing away from me so I can no longer see him. ‘I just can’t understand why you’ve done this. Do you know how it makes me feel, knowing the whole world is out there laughing at me? And I’m not sure my parents believed a word I was saying. How do you think they feel, eh, Lou? They thought they had a grandson and…’

  ‘They still have a grandson!’ I snap, sitting up in order to hammer my point home. ‘Cory is your son. And believe me, nobody is laughing at you. It takes more than DNA to be a father.’

  James looks over his shoulder at me and for the first time in all the years I’ve known him he looks small, vulnerable, almost as if he’s desperate for my words to be true but can’t quite believe them. I want nothing more than to hold him in my arms, to make all of his pain go away.

  ‘But you didn’t have to make out like I was crazy,’ I hear myself saying, finding an argument somehow easier than having an honest, intimate conversation. ‘I think it’s best if you come clean with your parents, don’t you?’

  James lies on top of the bed covers and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer my question and I realise, possibly for the first time, just how deeply this whole thing has affected him. In hindsight we should have agreed to counselling, and yet talking to a stranger about our thoughts and feelings wasn’t something either of us wanted.

  ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me the donor has come back to take Cory from us?’ James turns to look at me, anger now masking his hurt. ‘You heard what Doctor Hughes said when we signed the paperwork. We’re anonymous, there’s no way on earth the donor can find us.’

  ‘Maybe I should go and see Doctor Hughes myself,’ I say, not daring to meet his eye. ‘Ask him for the donor’s details so we can visit him.’

  James scoffs. ‘You know that’s not possible. Only Cory can request his information when he turns eighteen… and there’s no reason to try and track him down anyway because he hasn’t come back for Cory! You’re being absolutely ridiculous!’

  ‘I’m not!’ I suddenly remember the card, still positioned on the mantelpiece. In all the confusion regarding the email, I had forgotten all about it. Hope flutters through me. Surely once James reads the card, he’ll have no choice but to believe me. ‘You need to come and see something,’ I say, having already jumped out of bed. ‘A card came this morning, the same card I opened at the hospital. Only I threw it in the bin and now it’s back!’ I pull my dressing gown from the back of the door, eager to make James see that I’m anything but mad.

  ‘Which card? The one with the stork carrying the baby?’

  ‘Yes! I threw it away this morning because I was so afraid of telling you about the donor. There was a message from him inside. I know you think I don’t care about your feelings but I do. I wanted to protect you.’

  ‘Lou…’ James sits up and sighs. ‘I think we need to talk.’

  ‘No, later, first you need to see this card.’ I pull down the door handle, impatient to prove my sanity. ‘The card, it has a Bible quote inside, about a son, about being pleased with a son.’

  James’s eyebrows knit together, seemingly in confusion. ‘That card arrived today, while you were out. I put it on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ The door handle remains in limbo as my brain works overtime in order to process what this means. If I put the card in the bin this morning and it was posted back through the letterbox this afternoon it means the donor must have been in the back garden. ‘Oh shit!’ I say, my mouth now dry. ‘We really need to ring the police.’

  James leans back against the headboard and squeezes his eyes shut. ‘You’re going mad, Lou,’ he says, taking a deep breath. ‘You really are.’

  ‘I’m not mad!’ I try to suppress the rage which rolls up into my stomach, a feeling which has been slowly building since this morning. ‘Did you even read the card? Or are you just assuming I’m crazy because it’s easier than facing the fact that another man’s sperm impregnated me?’

  James drops his gaze, every muscle in his face clenched, as if he too is desperate to hold on to his anger. ‘Just come with me,’ he says after a second. ‘You need to see this.’

  I follow him down the stairs, not bothering to switch on the landing light. Once in the lounge, I make my way over to the card which is still positioned on the mantelpiece. I’m terrified to touch it and yet at the same time thankful for its presence. Picking it up, I hold it out to James.

  ‘No, Lou,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I think you ought to look.’

  ‘But I’ve already read it.’ I try once more to give James the card, unsure as to why he’s turned white. ‘Don’t be scared. The donor might be trying to tear us apart but he won’t succeed. We’re Cory’s parents and that’s all…’

  ‘Open it, Louisa!’

  Realising he isn’t going to take the card any time soon, I open it myself, slightly peeved that I’m now being shouted at in my own home. I understand James must be angry about the donor reappearing but it’s hardly my fault. I haven’t caused this to happen.

  ‘There, look!’ I point down at the writing inside the card, the words somehow off kilter. I look again, this time reading one word at a time, a cold dread working itself through my insides as I realise what it says.

  ‘James… it wasn’t. I promise.’ I trip over my words, my brain and mouth seemingly disconnected. ‘The donor, he must… he must have switched the cards.’

  ‘No, Louisa, just stop this please!’ James reaches out to grab hold of my arm. I take a swipe at him, suddenly suspicious of everything.

  ‘Get away from me. What did you do with the cards? Is it you? Are you doing this?’

  ‘What?’ He takes a step away from me as if I’m dangerous. ‘Just what are you getting at?’

  ‘It isn’t the same one as earlier.’ I hold the card up to James’s face, my hand shaking so badly I’m certain a panic attack is imminent. ‘Come, I’ll show you!’

  Running out of the lounge, I dart down the hallway and into the kitchen where I unlock the back door. Once outside, the ferocity of the wind almost knocks me off my feet. I push through it, my bare feet stinging as they hit the icy path.

  ‘Louisa! Come back!’ James grabs the sleeve of my dressing gown as I approach the wheelie bin.

  ‘It’s in here, I’ll prove it!’ I yank my arm away from him and pull off the bin lid. The smell of rotting
food hits my nostrils as I stick my hands down into yesterday’s leftovers, feeling something cold and slimy squelching between my fingers. ‘It’s in here somewhere. Just wait. Give me a minute.’ Tears stick to my cheeks as I continue to pull out boxes and cigarette butts for what seems like hours, all the while feeling James’s hot stare on the back of my neck.

  Finally, when I’m nothing other than a sobbing wreck, James reaches over and gently pulls me away. ‘It’s all right, Lou,’ he says, his voice laced with regret. ‘I never should have made you keep the donor a secret. It’s my fault you’re ill. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not ill,’ I say, my voice too small to be convincing.

  ‘You are, sweetheart. But that’s okay.’

  A moment later, I allow James to guide me back into the kitchen. ‘There was a Bible quote in the card, I promise you,’ I say, no longer sure who I’m trying to convince. ‘The donor must have removed the original from the bin and posted the new one.’ Even to my own ears I sound delusional, and I start to wonder if it’s possible I imagined the message inside the card this morning. After all, I was convinced Carol was about to take Cory. Is it not possible that I looked at one thing and saw another?

  ‘Look at it, Louisa!’ James prises the card from my hands and holds it up towards me. His voice is gentle, and for some reason that scares me more than if he’d been shouting.

  I see the writing for a second time, the typed font like a mirage in front of my eyes.

  To Mr and Mrs Carter,

  Congratulations on the birth of your baby.

  We at SureLife family clinic wish you much happiness for your future x

  ‘Will you let me take you to the doctor now?’ he asks, the fear in his voice palpable.