The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

‘Wow,’ Ollie says. His expression says he doesn’t know if this good news or not. I, on the other hand, am fairly certain it is not. ‘So you guys are going to do it? Use an egg donor and surrogate?’

  ‘Well that’s where it gets complicated.’ Nettie winces slightly. ‘We’d like to but egg donation and surrogacy are only allowed in Australia for altruistic reasons, so we can’t pay anyone. Someone would have to volunteer to do it—’

  ‘Can’t you go overseas?’ Ollie interrupts. ‘I saw a documentary about people going to India to do this. Or the United States?’

  ‘That’s an option,’ Nettie says. ‘But it would be very expensive. More importantly, the baby would be so far away from us while it was in utero. We wouldn’t be able to go to any scans, or check on the mother’s health, maybe not even be there for the birth, if the mother went into labour early. Also, we don’t understand the health system over there. How do we know their systems are reliable?’

  Patrick still hasn’t said a word. Admittedly, it would be hard to when Nettie is saying so many words.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Ollie asks.

  Ollie still has no idea. He must be the only one. I take another very large sip of my wine and force myself to swallow.

  ‘She wants me to do it,’ I say.

  Nettie looks at me. She’s cautiously excited but trying to keep a lid on it. ‘I have some information here,’ she says, producing a clear plastic bag that had been sitting on her lap. I see the words Becoming a Surrogate printed on the front of a purple brochure, next to a picture of a headless pregnant body. ‘It’s actually a pretty straightforward process.’

  Ollie looks at Nettie, blinking wildly; a deer in the headlights. ‘You want Lucy to donate an egg? To be your surrogate?’

  Nettie keeps her gaze on me. ‘I know I have no right to ask.’

  ‘You do have the right to ask . . .’ I say. ‘But—’

  Nettie sits forward in her chair, her hands folded on the table in almost a businesslike fashion. I get the feeling she is prepped and ready to refute any argument I might have. I feel sweat bloom under my arms.

  ‘Wait,’ Ollie says. ‘You do want Lucy to donate an egg? And carry the baby? So it would be Lucy’s child and . . . Patrick’s?’

  ‘No,’ Nettie says. Her nervous energy seems to have abated now and she is oddly calm. ‘It would be mine and Patrick’s.’

  ‘But,’ Ollie is stuck on this point, and I agree with him, ‘biologically, it would be Lucy’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nettie admits, looking at me. ‘I don’t want to put you on the spot, Lucy, but . . . can you tell me what you think about this idea?’

  I push back in my chair. ‘I mean . . . it’s a little out of the blue, Nettie. Obviously I’d need to think about it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Nettie says nodding. ‘Of course you do. But . . . maybe you could share your initial reaction?’

  ‘She said she needs to think about it!’ Patrick says, uncharacteristically gruff. ‘Give the woman a break!’

  In contrast to Nettie’s businesslike body language, Patrick is almost sullen-looking. He sits back in his chair. His arms are crossed and his chin is lowered, almost to his chest.

  ‘Nettie, my initial reaction is shock,’ I tell her. ‘There’s a lot to think about. Ollie and I would have to talk about it—’

  ‘So it is a possibility? It is something you would consider?’ Nettie shuts her eyes tight and squeezes her fists as if making a wish.

  ‘Honestly?’ I say. ‘I don’t think it is.’

  Nettie’s eyes open, but her gaze remains lowered.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve thought about this before, in a philosophical way, and . . . I just couldn’t do it. After all, it would be my child—’

  ‘Half your child,’ she corrects.

  ‘But there’s no such thing as half-children, is there? It would be mine as much as Archie and Harriet and Edie are mine. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t conceive a child, carry it to term and then give it away. I just couldn’t. Even for you.’

  ‘You won’t even think about it? For a few days? Sleep on it?’

  ‘I could,’ I say. ‘But my answer would be the same.’

  Nettie rises to her feet, pushing her chair back hard enough to hit the rail of the deck. ‘Nettie,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Patrick puts a hand to his face, smoothing it across his forehead. I can’t tell if it’s a gesture of sadness or relief. I can tell what the expression on Nettie’s face is though, without a shadow of a doubt.

  Hatred.

  48

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  Ending your own life, peacefully and painlessly.

  I type the words into the Google browser and hit ‘enter’. I can’t remember the last time I used this darn computer, but it must have been a while ago because the mouse has run out of batteries. Now I have to use the darn pad on the laptop and it’s highly irritating. I finally manage to get the cursor to hover over the first link, a website called Lifeline Australia, a suicide prevention organisation. It’s not what I’m looking for, but I suppose it’s quite prudent. Most people doing the same kind of Google search as me need to find Lifeline and call the number. But not me. I am an old lady. I’ve lived a good life, been married, had my children.

  I need help to die, not help to live.

  I fiddle with the mouse again and refine my search. Voluntary euthanasia, Australia. Google tells me some things that I know, such as the fact that euthanasia is illegal in Australia even though it happens routinely in hospitals for the terminally ill in their final days. Google also tells me things I don’t know, such as the fact that it’s incredibly difficult to purchase the drugs or equipment to euthanise yourself in a humane fashion. I won’t qualify to go to Dignitas in Switzerland without being terminally ill, and the medical evidence they require is exhaustive and impossible to fake. Which leaves me, as far as I can see, with the internet.

  I’ve been taking the antidepressant medication that Dr Paisley prescribed for nearly six months now and I think it’s been effective. My sleep has been better. I’m getting more enjoyment out of things. I’m managing to get dressed, feed myself and do a bit of work. But Tom’s still dead. There isn’t a pill that will change that.

  I find a link to an organisation called Voluntary Euthanasia International (VEI). The print that pops up under the link says VEI PHILOSOPHY: That all adults of sound mind should have the right to end their life in a manner that is reliable, peaceful and at a time of their choosing. VEI believes control over one’s life & death to be a fundamental civil right from which no one of sound mind should be excluded. VEI MISSION: To inform members & support them in their end-of-life decision-making.

  I click on the link. And keep reading.

  49

  LUCY

  The present . . .

  I drive myself to the police station. Ollie offered to come with me, but I told him not to be silly, that someone has to stay with the kids. I didn’t tell him the real reason I don’t want him to come. That I can’t bear to see his face when he finds out what I’ve done.

  I go to the desk to announce my arrival, but before I’ve even had a chance to say my name, Jones appears.

  ‘Lucy. Come on up.’

  In the elevator she apologises for calling me this late, and I tell her it’s fine, no problem, happy to help, but my voice sounds funny because I’m abuzz with nerves. Ollie must have been in this elevator not more than an hour ago. Nettie and Patrick have been in here. Eamon too, apparently. A joke comes to mind. How many people does it take to kill a rich old lady?

  I only wish I knew.

  We shuffle down the hallway and into a different interview room that smells of cheap perfume and cigarettes. I take a seat and so does Jones. Several beats pass and she doesn’t speak.

  ‘You had some . . . questions?’ I ask finally.

  ‘We’re just waiting for Housseini.’

  ‘Here I am,’ he says at precisely that momen
t, appearing in the doorway. It’s a small room, and it feels even smaller with three of us in here. It makes me more nervous. The video recorder is in the corner, and they go through the spiel again, explaining that we are being recorded. Finally, we get down to business.

  ‘As I said on the phone,’ Jones says, ‘the reason we called you in is we have become aware that your mother-in-law was a member of a group of proponents for voluntary euthanasia. This organisation holds meetings where they provide information on how a person can humanely end their own life.’

  I keep my facial expression carefully blank. ‘Oh?’

  ‘We have information that your mother-in-law attended one of these meetings and signed up to become a member.’

  ‘She did?’

  Jones regards me head-on. ‘She did.’

  ‘So . . . you think she did kill herself?’

  ‘We think she was thinking about it. It doesn’t explain her death, because she wasn’t found with any poison in her system . . . but it is an interesting development.’

  I don’t know what to say to this, so I say nothing.

  ‘Can you tell me about your professional background, Lucy?’ Jones says after nearly a minute’s silence.

  I find a hangnail and pick at it. ‘I’m a stay-at-home mother.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I was a recruiter.’

  ‘A recruiter?’ Jones glances at Housseini and doesn’t try to conceal her smirk. ‘In which industry?’

  I hesitate. ‘Information technology.’

  ‘And your university degree was in IT and data analytics, is that correct?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So if someone asked you how to encrypt email addresses, you’d know how to do it?’ It’s a question, ostensibly, but Jones makes it clear that it’s actually a statement.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You could figure it out?’ Jones suggests.

  ‘Probably,’ I admit.

  ‘Do you know what bitcoins are?’ Jones’s questions are coming faster and I wonder if it’s a technique to discombobulate me. If so, it’s working.

  ‘Yes. I . . . think so . . . why?’

  They stare at me, a knowing look in their eyes.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ I ask, flustered. ‘Because it’s late. I really need to get home to my kids.’

  ‘Just one more question, Lucy,’ Jones says, ‘and then you can go home. But I want you to think about this one before answering, okay? Really think about it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  ‘Do you know that assisting someone to commit suicide is at present a crime in Australia? Punishable with up to twenty-five years in prison.’

  50

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  There are protesters out the front of the library, which I hadn’t expected. They are not the silent types. They have placards and crucifixes and are chanting about God being the only one who can choose when a person can die. Clearly not, I think to myself, or they’d have nothing to protest about.

  I wish I’d brought a book along. Then I could hold it up and they’d leave me alone. Just returning a book, I’d say. Instead, someone carrying a fluorescent yellow sign with the words Suicide is a cry for help, not a request to die comes up to me with an offer to pray for my soul. I decline, and scurry on. A mother with a pram and a couple of young Asian students with laptops enter at the same time as me and are not approached.

  It was relatively easy to book a ticket. The guidelines said you have to be over fifty or seriously ill, with documentation to prove it, and I quite plainly meet the first criteria. I’m not sure what I expected. Some sort of secret handshake and a dingy back room perhaps. But the meeting is taking place in Toorak, of all places—one of, if not the most affluent area of Melbourne. Leave it to the affluent to want to dictate the circumstances of their own death.

  The meeting is in a large room in the basement of the library. A man and a woman stand at the door. The woman holds a clipboard; the man, judging by his size and the fact that he appears to be serving no specific purpose, is a security guard. I haven’t been to the Toorak library before but it seems unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon. I wonder if this meeting is responsible for all the bustle.

  I approach the woman with the clipboard. ‘My name is Diana Goodwin. I booked a ticket online.’ I produce my folded ticket, which I printed off this morning, and the woman checks it against her list. Online it said that attendees may be required to present identification, and I have mine ready, but after giving me a long look, she doesn’t ask. Still, she is thorough. As she peers at me, I’m reminded of standing at immigration at the airport, being surveyed, questioned, required to be a convincing version of myself. Eventually I pass the test and I’m allowed in.

  The room is underwhelming—mottled blue-grey carpet, black steel chairs with burgundy fabric seats arranged in rows—twenty rows at a guess—six and six with an aisle in between. There’s a whiteboard at the front with markers. I sit in the second row from the back, trying to make myself invisible. A few seats down from me another woman, around my vintage, is clearly trying to do the same. In front of us sits a woman a good deal younger than fifty, alongside an elderly wheelchair-bound man, her father perhaps. He is hooked to a plethora of tubes that meet up to an oxygen tank that sits on the back of his chair like golf clubs on a buggy, and I can’t help thinking of my dear Tom. The rest of the people in the room are in varying levels of health—two wearing oxygen masks, three suspiciously bald. A seventyish man holds the hand of his wife who is clearly suffering some sort of mental condition and is muttering constantly under her breath, and I hear her utter a few of the very worst curses. Only a couple of people sit boldly at the front—they look to be husband and wife, silver-haired but straight-backed. Proud, paid-up members of VEI if ever I saw them. The man wears a shirt with his collar popped up under a navy woollen jumper and he sits back with his arms folded and an ankle balanced on the opposite foot. The woman wears a white blouse, a forest green jumper and a string of pearls, and she is half-turned around, talking to another woman, bizarrely, about herb gardens and the difficulty the other woman is having with her basil. The woman in green seems to know a lot about growing basil. I feel a pang of something looking at her, and I suspect it is to do with the proximity of her husband beside her. To the casual observer he appears to be in fine health, but the casual eye doesn’t see everything: of this I am all too aware.

  After five or so minutes, the door closes and the lady with the clipboard comes to the front of the room, leaving the large man stationed outside the door.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she says. ‘Thank you all for being here. I see some familiar faces and I see some new ones. My name is Dr Hannah Fischer.’

  Dr Fischer is warm, bright, and efficient, and delivers a talk she is clearly familiar with. Indeed, she has dedicated her life’s work to this talk and her belief in assisted suicide and voluntary euthanasia. She talks generally about the history of euthanasia, the current legalities of what we can and cannot do, and preparing a last will and testament. She talks about the importance of being clear about our intentions. ‘If you are going to take your own life,’ she says, ‘you need to be clear that this was your intention. It is important to be as clear as possible to avoid any of your loved ones being held responsible and sent to jail. We recommend writing a letter making your intentions clear and leaving it in a prominent place. In the past we have seen charges brought against family members. If you have a large estate, it might be worth donating it to charity to avoid your loved ones being seen to have a motivation to assist you with your death.’

  I think of my estate. There is no doubt it is large. I imagine Ollie and Nettie’s faces if they were to find out they’d been disinherited. It would be slightly less horrifying, I decide, than being found to have a possible motivation for my murder.

  We are given a handbook called The Serene End, which sets out specific approaches to euthanasia, including how to
obtain the required materials through the internet. ‘How do I purchase the drug you have recommended? The . . . Latuben?’ asks the woman sitting next to the man in the wheelchair.

  ‘We’re going to talk about that in a moment,’ Dr Fischer says. ‘And you’d better have your notepads ready. I can tell you an effective way to end your life, but getting your hands on this drug is going to take some effort and commitment from you.’

  I sit forward, my notepad and pen ready. Finally, the information I came for.

  51

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  ‘Aarash! Put that down.’

  The little boy turns around, holding my blue and white vase in his sticky hands. Tom purchased the vase in Paris several years back. Even then, it cost over ten thousand euros. A ridiculous amount of money, though I’ve always been fond of the vase.

  ‘Just leave him, Ghezala,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  I’m actually rather pleased to see Aarash wandering around my house like he owns the place. His sister, Aziza, looks just as comfortable here. They remind me very much of my own grandchildren, burrowing under furniture and finding little crannies to hide in and fragile things to touch. And why not? What’s it all for if not for children to play with? That’s what Tom would have said anyway.

  ‘How is Hakem?’ I ask.

  ‘Working hard,’ Ghezala says. ‘He’s just employed two more people for his project. One of them from Afghanistan, one from Sudan.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ I try for a smile. I’m more comfortable with Ghezala than many other people, but still, smiles don’t come easily these days.

  ‘We have many friends from Afghanistan here now. Hakem’s sister and her husband are here.’

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ I say, and now a smile does come, a real one. ‘Are they working?’

  ‘They’re looking. But they’ve been looking a while.’

  ‘What kind of work did they do back home?’

  ‘Different things. Some sales, some IT. Aarash, put that down!’