The Mothers

by Genevieve Gannon

  When Grace got home the house was empty. She lay on the couch and stared at the TV. The sense that she had caused the transfer to fail weighed heavily on her soul. Her one job was to sustain and protect her baby, and she couldn’t even do that. A tear trickled down her cheek and soaked into the couch cushion.

  ‘Grace?’ The familiar silhouette of Beth’s curly hair appeared at the door. ‘Dan called me.’ Grace’s oldest friend stood before her, holding up her spare key.

  Grace sniffed and wiped her face.

  ‘Oh, Grace.’ Beth wrapped her arms around Grace’s hunched form. At her friend’s gentle touch, Grace let herself sob openly, mourning all the failed transfers—the potential babies she had lost, which now numbered six.

  ‘That’s right, let it all out,’ Beth soothed. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Grace shook her head. Tucking herself into a foetal ball was the only way she could begin to alleviate the gnashing pain in her womb. She refused the blue pills she knew would dull the sharp edges. It seemed fitting that her physical suffering matched her emotional suffering. This was her penance. She had failed and she wanted to feel the pain bite into her soft insides.

  ‘You know, in biblical times Egyptian women used linens similar to the products we use now,’ Beth said, picking loose blonde strands from Grace’s face. ‘In four thousand years we’ve barely advanced at all. If men had to deal with this they’d have invented some sort of space-style laser-equipped flying machine. You’d swallow it in pill form and a highly trained crew of miniaturised military men would zap away the uterus lining.’

  Grace smiled sadly. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing men don’t get them. Imagine PMS weaponised.’

  Beth laughed harder than the joke warranted. ‘You’ll be okay,’ she said, nudging Grace’s chin. ‘You’re tough. How about I make you a stiff drink?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t.’

  ‘I think you get special dispensation after the day you’ve had.’ Beth marched to the kitchen with a take-charge expression on her face. Grace was relived to relinquish her decision-making power to her.

  When Beth returned she passed Grace a weak gin and tonic and pressed two pills into her hand. ‘Take those,’ she said firmly.

  Grace obeyed and washed them down with a large gulp of gin. ‘I should be taking care of my body. But what’s the point? I feel defective.’

  ‘You’re not defective.’ Beth hopped onto the couch and tucked her feet up under herself. ‘And one drink won’t kill you.’

  ‘Don’t you have to get back to your chambers? Who’s keeping the murderers off the streets?’

  ‘I’ve taken the afternoon off. We never get to hang out anymore.’ ‘Hang out?’ Grace looked amused.

  ‘Yes. Hang out. Now give me your hand. You’re in desperate need of a manicure.’

  The next morning Grace woke feeling a little less raw. She was on night duty and so was free to spend the day doing all the things that made her feel good, like the forums advised. She bought a chocolate croissant at her favourite cafe and ate it as she read the paper in the sun, letting the warmth recharge her.

  The sky was pink as she drove up the driveway that cut through the school’s green lawns and parked her car. No matter how long she had been doing it, Grace could never get over the slightly topsy-turvy feeling of arriving at the boarding house after all the day students had left, and the stars were starting to come out.

  The sinking sun cast a soft, gauzy light on the white columns of the convent. Sports practice was finishing, and girls in shorts and knee-socks skipped towards the change rooms.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Arden,’ a little voice chirped.

  It was Hope Harper Hawke. She was dressed in a hockey uniform and had a hooked stick resting on her shoulder.

  ‘How was practice, Hope?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I scored a goal.’

  ‘Did you?’ Grace bent down so she was level with the little girl. Hope had her famous father’s eyes but her mother’s colouring—hair like gingersnaps and freckles to match.

  Grace knew it had taken Hope’s parents eight rounds of IVF to conceive. If they had not persisted, this little creature would not exist. And yet she did exist, through sheer force of will. She wore pink runners that she no doubt picked out, and sported a Minnie Mouse bandaid on her knee from some unknown misadventure. ‘I missed sometimes too,’ Hope said.

  ‘Never mind that,’ Grace said, smiling. ‘You’re bound to miss sometimes. The trick is to keep trying.’

  Four

  Priya tapped her teaspoon impatiently on the tabletop, willing the waitress to leave. The girl had a trainee badge pinned to her shirt and was unsteady as she lowered the brimming glasses to the table. It wobbled as she set the lattes down, causing one of them to spill.

  ‘Oops.’ Her face scrunched apologetically as she pulled a fistful of napkins from the dispenser and, in her haste, kicked the table leg, which sent more coffee sloshing onto the laminate surface.

  ‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ Viv said, dabbing at the milky puddle and waving her away.

  ‘What’s the reason for the category-five emergency coffee meeting?’ their cousin Darsh asked.

  Priya waited until the waitress was out of earshot before leaning forward and saying: ‘Nick’s been messaging women again.’ ‘What? No!’ Viv said. ‘He can’t be.’

  Priya squeezed her eyes shut. ‘He has a dating app on his phone. He’s been chatting to women. One particular woman. Which is worse, I think.’

  ‘Tell us exactly what you found out,’ Darsh said, placing his soft hand over Priya’s.

  Priya dropped her gaze, her cheeks burning. ‘Her name’s Megan. They’ve been writing to each other for weeks. Sexting.’

  Darsh winced. ‘Have they … met up?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That bastard,’ Viv spat. ‘Is she in Sydney?’

  ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘Well, if she was in, say, Broome, we could be pretty sure he had no intention of ever meeting her. She’s just a face on a screen. A cheap distraction. Like the first time,’ said Darsh.

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘I think so. I mean, he’s done this before. But he stopped.’

  ‘And now he’s started again.’ Priya pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. ‘I can’t stop seeing the disgusting words they sent to each other. I feel sick thinking about them.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Viv asked gently.

  Priya shook her head sadly. ‘When this happened the first time I swore if he ever did it again I would leave him.’

  ‘Talk to him,’ Viv urged.

  ‘What will that achieve? He won’t tell the truth.’

  ‘As hard as this is to hear, I think if they’re just texting, it’s not as hopeless as you might imagine,’ Darsh said.

  ‘Sexting, not texting. And these are only the messages I know about. What if it’s been going on the whole time? You know what he used to be like.’

  ‘I’m angry for you,’ Viv said diplomatically. ‘Right now I could wring his neck. But don’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Why are you defending him?’

  ‘Nick has always been a flirt, but we know he loves you.’

  ‘Do we?’ Priya arched her eyebrow.

  ‘People do all sorts of things online they would never do in real life. You love him, don’t you?’ Darsh said, looking at her with big, sympathetic eyes.

  Priya threw up her hands. ‘How can you love someone who makes you feel they could discard you at any minute? We’re about to spend thousands on IVF. How could he do this?’

  ‘How did the meeting with the specialist go?’ Viv asked.

  ‘We’re waiting to get some test results. She said in the meantime we should keep trying.’ Priya shook her head. ‘Nick has filled my phone with apps to monitor my cycle and alert me to my most fertile times.’

  ‘So, he still wants to go through with it?’

  ‘More than e
ver. Nick’s desperate for children.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Darsh asked.

  ‘I want to have a child. I always have.’

  ‘You don’t sound sure.’

  ‘I am sure! But now he’s done this, it changes things.’

  Viv bit her lip.

  ‘In that case, I can think of another app you need.’ Darsh picked up Priya’s phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘An experiment.’ His fingers flew across the screen for barely a minute and then he tapped it several times, causing it to jingle.

  ‘What is that?’ Priya said finally when Darsh slid her phone across the tabletop.

  ‘It’s your Bumble profile.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your name is Rose. You’re thirty-two. You love snowboarding. See, aren’t you cute? That’s you at Jindabyne. Now you can know for sure.’

  Priya looked at a blonde in goggles with teeth brighter than the snowdrift backdrop. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s just some stock photo.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ Priya’s voice went up a pitch.

  ‘It’s not harming anyone. She probably lives in Sweden, or Iceland.’

  Priya stared at the picture. ‘No. I can’t.’ She pushed the phone back across the table. ‘I’d be just as bad as he is.’

  Viv slid it back. ‘This is your marriage. You won’t talk to him.

  How else can you know how bad it is?’

  Priya stared at the profile. ‘It’s entrapment.’

  ‘Not if you trust him,’ said Darsh. ‘If you trust him, I’ll delete Rose and never mention it again. But if you have doubts …’ Darsh nudged the phone closer to Priya’s hand.

  ‘I don’t think this is how adults have relationships.’

  ‘He started it. If he wasn’t messing around you wouldn’t be in this spot.’

  ‘But he’s not messing around. He’s just—’

  Viv raised a brow. ‘What?’

  Priya picked up the phone. Darsh’s idea was tempting. It was a non-invasive test; a way of peeking under the hood of her marriage to check what had gone wrong without having to completely write the whole thing off. She might get her hands burnt, but it was better than the engine blowing up when they were flying down the freeway with a baby in the back seat.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

  ‘Here comes the lady of the house,’ Stavros called as Priya pulled into the driveway. She had always liked their friendly, talkative neighbour, who waved from his position at the back of Nick’s ute. Nick was standing on the tray, gesturing to Stav and instructing him on how they could manoeuvre a bulky item cloaked in the wool blankets he kept in the cab for transporting delicate pieces.

  Jacker barked a hello and Priya gave the excited mutt a scratch behind the ears in reply.

  Nick squatted and began to heave the shrouded cargo towards Stavros, who had his feet firmly planted and his knees bent.

  ‘What’s that?’ Priya asked.

  ‘It’s your new tub,’ Stavros said proudly, as if he had made it himself.

  ‘I salvaged it from that ramshackle Victorian in Woollahra,’ Nick said, straining. ‘I know you’ve always wanted one.’ He stopped a moment to lift the corner of one of the blankets to reveal an old bath with lion’s feet. ‘It needs a clean but that’s no trouble. Plenty of CLR in the shed.’

  ‘You do all right with this weekend work,’ Stavros said. ‘Half of your house fell off the back of a truck.’

  It was true. Their brick three-bedder was embellished with found objects from Nick’s side job. He had sourced and restored ceiling roses, cornices and stained glass, which he then grafted onto their home. A slab of black granite became the surface of a kitchen island. He had rescued cabinet doors, stripped them, punched out the plywood and replaced it with glass. Hector paid him an hourly rate to lend his strong back and builder’s know-how. The cash was good, but as far as Priya was concerned, the loot was better.

  ‘You got it? It’s heavy,’ Nick said to Stavros. Jacker circled and occasionally barked, supervising the work.

  ‘Do you need a hand, Stav?’ Priya asked, wary of the angle the tub was coming off the back of the ute.

  ‘We’re right.’

  ‘I don’t want you injuring yourself,’ Nick said to Priya.

  Nick’s muscles bulged as the two men carried the bath across the front yard. The sight reminded Priya of his Bumble profile photo, and her emotions flip-flopped. He may have messaged those women, but he wasn’t salvaging antique bathtubs for them. His face shiny with sweat, Nick looked handsome and happy, and Priya felt a pulse of possessive desire. He was grinning at her with such high-voltage pride she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back.

  She tightened her grip on her handbag, thinking guiltily of the Bumble profile on her phone.

  ‘Do you want to stay for dinner, Stav?’ she asked. ‘I’m doing a coconut duck curry. There’ll be plenty to go around.’

  Nick whistled. ‘Priya’s duck is pretty hard to pass up.’

  ‘Thank you, Priya, but no. You have yourself a good night. And hey, enjoy the tub. Imagine bathing little Nicky Junior in that,’ Stavros said.

  ‘Yes,’ Priya said with a smile. ‘Imagine.’

  You told him? she mouthed to Nick when Stavros’s back was turned. Nick shrugged, a grin on his face.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Priya,’ Stavros called out. ‘He’s just excited to become a dad.’

  Around one in the morning Priya woke with a jolt to a trill of ascending notes cutting through the quiet. Her phone was telling her that now was the optimum time for conception. The fertility app was illustrated with a silhouette of a baby the colour of alfalfa sprouts crawling inside a black square. A cartoon curl sprang from his head. It was flashing, demanding that she have sex with her husband so that a real baby might come to life. Of all the apps he’d downloaded, this was Nick’s favourite.

  ‘Look at the cute little sprog,’ he had said when the graphic had materialised on her phone.

  Priya had confided her intimate biological details to the app, and it had generated a calendar for conception. She preferred to trust her body’s own rhythms, but as Viv had sagely said, even psychics have to look both ways before they cross the street.

  The alarm trilled again. It was a pleasant, almost celestial sound. Like a doorbell at a centre for born-again Christians. She looked at Nick’s placid face. The alarm didn’t penetrate his heavy slumber. For as long as Priya had known Nick he had gone to bed at precisely ten and woken up at five and not a second before.

  She stopped the alarm, shuffled onto her side and tentatively lay her palm across his chest, testing how it made her feel. The room was silent. Across the expanse of his prone body she could see his phone sitting treacherously on the bedside table. It was next to a bottle of Fertilipill—bullet-sized pellets Doctor Carmichael had recommended Nick take. Priya stared at his phone, willing it to share its secrets. Had he replied to Megan? The thought made her stomach contract painfully. Her eyes flicked back to her husband’s peaceful face. She leaned across his body and stretched her hand towards the device. Nick stirred and swallowed as her breasts brushed against him, but she pressed on. Her legs scissored open across his body. Nick’s thighs were like ballasts. The ridges of his stomach muscles were unyielding beneath her weight. Carnal hunger stirred against her will. Her body was wakening. Goosebumps shot up on her spine and along her arms. The ovulation alarm on her phone tingled again, urging her to slide down her husband’s boxer shorts.

  But she had another mission. She picked up his device and quickly tapped in the security code. She scrolled across to the beehive app, glancing down nervously again at Nick. She felt sure the hammering of her heart would wake him.

  She called up Megan’s face. The sight doused Priya’s arousal. She took a deep breath and opened the conversation. Megan’s tarty responses sat there, unanswered. Priya exhaled with relief and quickly closed the app before h
er eyes could alight on the previous messages Nick had sent. He stirred again, giving off a contented sigh as if he knew she had been comforted. Priya replaced Nick’s phone, rolled over, and tried to get back to sleep.

  Five

  Grace stepped past crates of wombok, daikon and bunches of baby pak choy and checked the handwritten address on the card Caroline had given her. Chinatown was filled with hawkers clutching laminated menus, trying to entice her inside for yifu noodles or sea whelk soup. Diesel fumes and the smell of roasting duck fat greased the air. She turned down a laneway, hoping it wouldn’t be another dead end amid the network of tiny alleys she had been searching all afternoon.

  She slipped into a narrow store that displayed assorted shrivelled ephemera, the fifth such shop she had entered that day. She squeezed between glass cases that held desiccated animal parts, and past shelves stacked with boxes stamped with foreign scripts, until she reached the proprietor. A tendril of smoke uncoiled from the tip of an incense stick. She gave him her best smile and asked, ‘I don’t suppose you have any royal jelly?’

  The old man nodded and shuffled to a back room. Grace knew the pure form was difficult to source. She clasped her hands together, hopeful.

  Since their first round of IVF failed, Grace had been taking the capsule form of royal jelly—a secretion bees feed to the larvae that grow to be queens—but the only thing that really worked, Caroline had said, were the vials of pure jelly, not available at the local chemist.

  ‘It tastes like burnt plastic but it’s supposed to be awfully effective,’ Caroline said. ‘One woman I know tried for years to conceive, only to find herself pregnant with twins two months after starting a daily regime of the pure stuff.’

  Grace, like so many women struggling to conceive, was devoted to a religion of miracle cures. Second-hand tales of success formed the bedrock of her beliefs. If something worked for just one woman it became lore, these urban fertility myths passed around by desperate women like old Italian nuns clicking their rosaries. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Samantha Bricker got pregnant taking royal jelly, please let it happen for me.