Thirteen
‘We’ve thought a lot about this,’ Dan told Doctor Li. ‘We won’t abandon her just because she might have an abnormality.’
‘We’ll love her no matter what,’ Grace said.
‘I understand,’ Doctor Li said. ‘We’ll need you to sign some fresh consent forms.’
‘Of course,’ Dan said.
‘Would you like to see one of our counsellors before we go through with the transfer?’
‘I think that would be a good idea, but we know what we’re doing, Doctor. We want this.’
‘Of course you do,’ Doctor Li said. ‘And I wish you the best of luck.’ She handed them a printout. ‘Take this to Doris and she’ll book you in for the procedure.’
The waiting room was crowded with couples, all looking a little on edge. Grace rested her head against Dan’s shoulder. The transfer might fail, like all the others had, but at least they weren’t sitting around. ‘What a madhouse,’ she said.
As the receptionist was showing them what to sign, Doctor Li joined them at the front desk.
‘Doris, can you please arrange the earliest possible appointment for the Ardens.’
The receptionist clucked her tongue as she clacked the keys and read her computer screen. ‘The surgery’s busier than a bricklayer in Baghdad.’
‘See if you can work your magic,’ Doctor Li said. ‘Grace and Dan have waited long enough.’
Fourteen
‘He’s handsome,’ Darsh said.
‘I don’t care that he’s handsome, I just care that he has no history of diabetes or heart disease.’
‘You should put that on your dating profile when you’re ready to get back out there.’
Priya gave a hollow laugh.
His name was Braj. He was a twenty-eight-year-old dentist from Bangalore, not far from where Priya’s family originally came from, and thanks to the skilful hand of Doctor Carmichael, his sperm and Priya’s ova had created three healthy blastocysts.
Because Priya had chosen a sperm that had already been donated she didn’t have to wait the usual three-month quarantine period. It was screened and clean and ready to go. Avani, Shanti and Shanaya all had the flu, so Priya had asked her cousin to come to the clinic with her, to hold her hand and help her home.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to shift one region over?’ Darsh asked in a hushed voice as they sat in the waiting room. ‘You don’t want to find out he’s your cousin. You know those IVF horror stories that crop up every few years. “I married my brother.” “My mother is my sister.” And so forth.’
‘There are more than a billion people in India, I think the chance the person I chose to be my donor is somehow related to us is microscopic.’
Empona’s receptionist, Doris, called Priya’s name. ‘Mrs Archer? Mrs Priya Archer?’
Priya flinched. ‘Hopefully that’s the most painful part of the procedure,’ she said. Darsh squeezed her arm.
She walked through to the surgery and soon she was in the chair. Even though she wished it was a partner who was by her side, she was grateful to have Darsh there.
As if sensing what she was thinking, he put his arms around his cousin and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘We’ll all stick by you,’ he said. ‘You won’t be doing it alone.’
‘Thanks, Darsh. That means a lot.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘It’s all happening so quickly, but now that I’m not preoccupied with Nick, I know this is the right decision.’
‘Are you ready, Mrs Archer?’ the embryologist asked.
‘It’s Laghari,’ Priya said. ‘Archer was my married name.’
Doctor Carmichael came towards her with a long, fine tube. ‘We’re putting two in, as discussed,’ she confirmed.
Priya nodded.
‘Here we go,’ Doctor Carmichael said.
Priya felt her heart starting to pound. For the first time in a long time she felt like she had something to look forward to.
Fifteen
The winter sky was squally. Grace had opened all the windows to let in fresh air after she and Dan had spent almost two weeks hibernating inside, hoping with everything they had that this last transfer had worked. The wind was sucking the curtains out the windows, making them dance like ghosts. As Grace pulled them in and drew down the sash, she spied their neighbour Mrs Goss’s spinning weathervane. The cinematic portent of change made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
It’s too early, she thought, touching her belly. And yet, she had an irrepressible urge to do a test.
She guzzled a litre of water, then opened her bathroom cupboard. On the shelf was a leftover pregnancy test at the ready. Her bladder was full but when she sat down and tried to pee on the stick, she found she couldn’t. Her body was clamping up as if protecting her. It was once again betraying her. She took a deep breath and tried to conquer her fear.
This one little girl was their last chance. Everything was hanging on their morula. But how could she survive when three strong boys had fallen?
But then, Grace reasoned, hadn’t she been awfully tired lately? And hadn’t she had an acute hankering for vanilla ice-cream? She had always had a sweet tooth but this was no slight fancy; she craved it physically, like an addict lusts for a hit of heroin. At eleven-thirty the night before she had pulled her jacket on over her pyjamas and driven to the nearby 7-Eleven to buy a litre of French vanilla. She took a plastic spoon from the coffee station and started eating it in the car, sliding the spoon across the lid of the tub and filling her mouth with creamy perfection. Half an hour later she was sitting at her dining table chasing the last milky puddles around the bottom of the plastic container. And afterwards, she wanted nothing more than a long, bumpy, briny pickle. There were none in the house, and so she ate a handful of salted cashews and returned to bed. But as she lay in the dark, trying to sleep, the thought of the pickle took hold. She fantasised about feeling it snap between her teeth, slimy, salty and sharp. It was all she could think about until she threw on her jacket for a second time, grabbed her car keys, drove to the supermarket and bought a half-kilo jar, which she opened in the car park, licking her fingers as she devoured pickle after pickle. The cravings offered dangerous hope and had her heart in a stranglehold.
She felt the release and had to dive between her legs with the plastic test to make sure she caught the stream. And then it was done. The second the test made contact the chemical reaction began. Her nerves fizzed.
Grace did up her pants and looked at her watch. It had been nine seconds. She washed her hands and set the test on the bathroom countertop. She couldn’t bear to watch it. She stepped into the hall and closed the door. For three minutes she paced up and down, mimicking expectant fathers waiting outside nineteen-fifties hospital delivery rooms.
When the time came to look she walked into the lounge room where Dan was reading, unaware.
‘I took a test and it’s ready,’ she announced.
He lowered his tablet. ‘And?’
‘And I haven’t looked yet.’
He leapt off the couch. ‘Well, come on,’ he said. Having borne witness to the French vanilla expedition, and an hour later, the great pickle quest, Dan couldn’t help but draw conclusions of his own. ‘It’s in the bathroom.’
They hurried upstairs, anticipation building with each footfall.
Dan put his hand on the doorknob. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes, let’s get it over with.’
They opened the door and walked towards the counter. When she looked at the test she could hardly believe her eyes.
‘Dan!’ She held up the stick, revealing two little bars. ‘We’re pregnant. We’re pregnant!’
The next hour was a flurry of phone calls. They called Beth, then Grace’s mother, Fiona, who was so happy she cried. ‘Oh, thank heavens.’ They called Dan’s parents, who were equally ecstatic.
‘No more, we have to wait,’ Grace said.
‘How are we going to bear the waiting?’
She took Dan by th
e hand and led him into the untouched room. She lifted the teddy bear off the dressing table and swept the dust from the top with the sleeve of her shirt. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Our little morula. She’s going to be fine, I can just tell. She’s the strongest of the bunch. Stronger than three perfect boys. She’s going to be a hellraiser.’
As the weeks passed, Grace became hyperaware of her belly. She was unable to stop caressing it, soothing herself that it would come to no harm. She had nightmares of waking up with an empty womb, her belly’s contents scooped out while she slept. But she had good dreams too; sweet, fuzzy-tipped adventures with roly-poly babies. Caroline recommended an app that charted the baby’s growth and helped Grace prepare for each stage.
Your baby is the size of a pumpkin seed.
Your baby is the size of an olive.
She would talk to the creature she was carrying inside her. Not out loud, generally, but in her mind. When she was alone, she would whisper.
‘See that, little girl, that’s a labrador.’
‘Smell that? It’s jasmine. That means spring is coming.’
‘That noise is an ice-cream truck. I bet you’ll love ice-cream, my little one.’
At work, she transformed into the most patient, serene person on staff. As the days began to pile up, her pants and skirts grew tight. The skin of her belly became taut. She hugged Bridget Hennessey goodbye after graduation and told her the good news.
‘Oh, Mrs Arden, that’s so exciting.’
‘Promise me you’ll let me know how you go in your exams,’ Grace said.
‘I promise. Send me pictures of your baby when she’s born!’
Your baby is the size of a plum.
Your baby is the size of a peach.
Grace didn’t mind the nausea. She embraced each reassuring heave. The first kick filled her with such delight she thought she would never be happier. The baby seemed to enjoy music, Grace would turn up the stereo to try to coax a wriggle or a kick out of her little seahorse. Driving put her to sleep.
Your baby is the size of a pear.
Your baby is the size of a mango.
Dan would read the newspaper to Grace’s bump. ‘Man survives seven-storey fall. What do you think of that, little Petri?’
Somewhere along the line, the baby girl had been assigned the nickname Petri on account of the dish where her life began. Speculation on her personality and preferences became a favourite topic of conversation.
‘I wonder if Petri will like coriander,’ Dan said.
‘Maybe not at first. But she’ll develop a taste for it. Petri will have a sophisticated palate.’
She became a proxy for making a case against Grace and Dan’s dislikes.
‘Petri won’t like jazz. You’d better turn that down.’
‘Or perhaps it just means I have to listen to it as much as I can before Petri arrives.’
Dan, upon seeing Grace cutting pineapple—which he couldn’t stand—for an upside-down cake, declared, ‘I don’t think Petri likes pineapple.’
‘I think she does,’ Grace said, smoothing a palm over her bump.
‘It’s awfully sugary,’ Dan said. ‘Too much sugar can’t be good for growing Petris.’
Grace pursed her lips, then boxed up the pieces of pineapple in Tupperware and took it next door to Mrs Goss.
As she grew, Petri ruled over their home like a queen.
Grace returned to her yogi-style state of disciplined eating. Cheese and salmon were expunged from the fridge. Booze was not allowed in the house. She even threw out a bottle of vanilla essence because it contained alcohol. The nausea faded. Everything was on track. Grace’s skin glowed. Her breasts felt like cement rockmelons. Her hair became thicker, more lustrous.
‘You look like a goddess,’ Dan said, marvelling at it one night.
Grace felt happier and more content than she could ever remember.
There was a host of tests. Because Grace was over forty, precautions were advised. But everything seemed fine. All the results came back clear. Doctor Li recommended an obstetrician in Camperdown—Doctor Torres—who would see them through the pregnancy. Doctor Torres’s waiting room was full of round women, and had a box of toys to occupy small children. To Grace, it felt like a milestone. From here on, everything would be as with a normal pregnancy.
They both liked Doctor Torres. She was a little older than Doctor Li. A mother herself, she had a relaxed manner.
Doctor Torres squirted the cold gel on Grace’s stomach then slid the wand over it.
‘Does it look like everything is … okay?’ Grace asked.
‘It looks like everything is fine,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ve got a nice strong heartbeat.’
Dan and Grace clung happily to each other.
‘Do you want to know the sex?’ Doctor Torres asked gaily.
‘Oh, we know the sex.’ Dan said. ‘We did IVF.’
‘Ah. No surprises here, then. See the spine? He’s got his back to us. Come on, little fellow, turn around.’
They could see the spine stretch and move. ‘He’s an active little guy,’ Doctor Torres said.
‘It’s a girl,’ said Grace.
‘Oh, she is? Let’s see if we can get another angle on our little miss. Come on, little girl.’ She moved the device over Grace’s belly. ‘Here she is. Oh look! Oh!’ Doctor Torres exclaimed, surprised.
‘What?’ Grace jolted.
‘What is it?’ Dan’s voice shot with alarm.
‘Oh, it’s nothing bad. But I think the lab may have made a mistake. Look.’
They squinted at the screen.
‘Look there,’ the doctor pointed. ‘Can you see?’
They both leaned towards the monitor.
‘It’s a boy,’ Doctor Torres said.
‘A boy?’
‘We were told the embryo was a girl.’
‘See for yourself.’ She wiggled a finger at the blurry creature tucked into the white snow of Grace’s uterus.
‘Huh,’ said Dan. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘But how?’ said Grace. ‘I mean, I’m happy. I’m just confused.’
Doctor Torres shrugged. ‘Clinics make mistakes. It happens more often than you would think.’
Sixteen
Priya stared at the single blue line on the plastic stick and felt a flood of sadness tempered with relief. She was able to embrace the doubt that had been fluttering in the back of her mind, like a moth butting itself against a window pane: insistent but easy to ignore. The symbol was a dash. A minus symbol. You are minus one baby, it told her.
She wanted a child, desperately, but she wanted a child with Nick. Or rather, an as-yet unknown partner. When she pictured motherhood, so many of the images were of a rambunctious toddler trailing after his big strong dad. The vision was Sadavir, curly-haired and chubby-cheeked, playing in the dirt with a plastic spade as Nick spread fertiliser over the crop of carrots, or mowing his Tonka truck across the back lawn as Nick re-staked the tomatoes. Or little Isa, who Nick would let stand on his feet while they danced at a wedding. Her grin, toothy. Her eyes, Archer blue.
Priya didn’t have that lawn anymore. The garden bed was up for sale. There would be no weddings. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and curled into a ball in her sister’s armchair to contemplate this new reality. A secret fear she kept locked away in a hidden corner of her mind was this: if she fell pregnant to a stranger, there would be no reviving things with Nick; they would be over forever. But she couldn’t dwell on that. The only way was forward.
She would have to go in for an official blood test, and when Doctor Carmichael learned of the failed transfer she would ask Priya if she wanted to try again. Priya bit her nails as she thought of it, her movements fidgety and tense. She couldn’t commit to an answer.
It had been one thing when she was doing it with Nick. Creating a family with her husband. All their hope and sadness was shared. His disappointment had been a balm for th
e hurt she felt over the sleazy messages. He wanted this with her, that much she knew. A thought struck her. Would he want to have a baby with Megan? She couldn’t bear to imagine it.
Priya stood up, struck by an urge to see her house. He had been living there but had promised to be gone in time for the house to be prepared for the auction. She picked up her phone and dialled.
‘Priya?’ His voice was in her ear after one ring.
‘Nick. I was going to go over to the house before the cleaners come in.’ She had to steady her voice. ‘One last look around, you know.’
‘And you wanted to know if I’d be there?’
‘Well, I won’t come if you haven’t left.’
‘I have. We’re renting in Chippendale for now.’
Priya’s heart stopped. We?
‘We being me and Jacker, that is,’ he rushed to explain.
‘Oh. Well, lucky Jacker.’
‘Nah, he hates it. There’s no yard. At least, not one big enough to satisfy him. Is there, boy?’
Envy bit again. Priya missed Jacker.
‘And you definitely won’t be there tonight?’
‘Nah, we’ve got an event for—’
‘Okay, I don’t need to know!’ She was terrified of being ambushed by a Megan story. In her mind, the blonde was with Nick constantly. Priya imagined she had ropey hair, a sandpaper tongue, smoker’s breath.
‘Right. Sorry, right. I’m still in the process of moving everything, but I won’t be there tonight.’
‘In that case I’ll head around.’
‘It’s all yours.’
She had thought about taking a souvenir; perhaps an ornamental knob from one of the cupboards. Something to remember the place by. But when she stepped into their old hallway, it felt different. Without their shared furniture, it was as if the house had died. The bedrooms were unfamiliar. The kitchen seemed off balance without the granite-top kitchen island that Nick had sold. She climbed the spiral staircase to their old bedroom.
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