Dan tickled Sam’s clenched fist with his finger until the baby curled his fingers around Dan’s and held tight. The difference in tones was stark. Like chalk and chocolate.
‘Grace,’ Dan said. ‘If something went wrong, if there’s been a mix-up, we have to be prepared. People are going to notice. This won’t just go away.’
PART TWO
Eighteen
Doctor Ashley Li’s patients were looking at her with wet-eyed hope, their fingers entwined, knuckles white. There was a dull ache beneath her breastbone that was empathy but also disappointment. She regularly had to explain to desperate parents-to-be that something had gone wrong, and it never got easier. The first time she had to break the news to someone that the procedure had failed, she found herself stammering and apologising profusely. On that first day, Ashley was still a stranger to failure and so overcome with guilt and anguish, she had cried. She and the would-be mother had held each other until the patient had pulled away, betrayed, and said: ‘I don’t know what you’re so upset about.’
Today, this day, the man’s face was red by the time she finished explaining what had happened. Tears spilled from his eyes. ‘You’re a cheat!’
Ashley trained her gaze on the floor.
‘Martin,’ his wife said, ‘it’s not Doctor Li’s fault.’
‘I understand you’re upset, Mr Crawford,’ Ashley said. ‘It’s a tricky process. Sometimes this happens.’
Martin Crawford kept his mouth shut. He was holding back gulps, choking and fizzing, as if he had swallowed a small explosive and wanted to contain the blast.
In these situations, it was best to use clinical language and stay detached, Ashley had discovered. That didn’t mean being unkind. Just professional. She picked up the box of tissues on her desk and passed it to Martin. Today’s failure was the worst kind. More had been lost than an ovum or embryo. She had had to explain that the eight-week-old baby that had been growing in Leslie Crawford—which they had already started affectionately referring to as ‘little bean’, and for whom a grandmother had started knitting booties—had not survived. It was their third miscarriage.
‘We knew this could happen,’ Leslie said gently to her husband, whose shoulders were heaving as he sobbed noisily.
Leslie Crawford had first presented at the clinic a year ago with irregular periods and an unshakable desire for a child of her own. Tests confirmed what she had already sensed: she wasn’t ovulating. When Ashley delivered this crushing news, she also offered a solution: they could import donor eggs from the World Egg Bank. This is what the Crawfords had eagerly done, ordering a batch of seven.
‘Promise we won’t end up with half a dozen mouths to feed, heh-heh,’ Martin had said, in a more optimistic mood at the time. But as was so often the case with this delicate operation, there were casualties. Three had failed to thaw. Four had been fertilised and, of those, two had been fit for implantation.
‘Two is a solid number,’ Ashley had reassured them, coaching them through every step of the way. She was fond of the Crawfords; Martin with his nervous jokes and Leslie with her determined pragmatism.
One of the embryos had attached, and at seven weeks Leslie’s progress had looked promising. The ultrasound showed a small kidney-shaped blur in her uterus. As Ashley smoothed the wand over Leslie’s still-flat belly the machine amplified the thrashing heartbeat. It came through like a broadcast from underwater, mighty and clear, and they had all laughed, delighted and surprised by the volume. ‘It’s so strong,’ Martin said. ‘He’ll be a footballer.’ ‘She’ll be a footballer,’ Leslie countered.
But the following week Leslie Crawford had noticed spotting and called the clinic, concerned. The receptionist had told her to come in on Friday—three days hence—for a check-up.
‘If the bleeding gets worse go immediately to the emergency department.’
The next morning Leslie was rushed to hospital with pain so acute she thought she might faint. It subsided and the hospital sent her home. At her follow-up appointment with Doctor Li, the ultrasound confirmed what they’d all feared. The baby had not survived.
Ashley opened her drawer to retrieve the business card of her preferred grief counsellor. ‘I want you to take care of each other through this difficult time. And when you’re ready, we can try again.’ ‘Oh yes, it’s all so easy. Just do it again. How many more times are you going to take our money?’ Martin Crawford spat. ‘Where does it end?’
‘Martin! We knew this was a possibility.’
‘It’s okay, Mrs Crawford. If I were in Mr Crawford’s shoes I daresay I’d be feeling the same way.’
Ashley’s empathy took the heat out of Martin’s rage. He took a deep shuddering breath and let his face fall into his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to help you bring a baby into the world. The fact you were able to get pregnant is a very good sign. But—’ And here she paused for emphasis. ‘It was not good sign that we were not able to detect a heartbeat at five weeks.’
Martin Crawford lifted his crumpled face. ‘There was a heartbeat. We heard it.’
Doctor Li tapped at her computer, entering details into the couple’s record.
‘Of course,’ she said calmly, her eyes on the computer screen, ‘our policy with Egg Bank procedures is that if a heartbeat is detected at five weeks the transfer is deemed a success. If it fails after that the whole process must begin again. But since no heartbeat was detected, as I see it says on your file, you are entitled to another round free of charge.’
The Crawfords looked at her.
‘Yes, well.’ Martin nodded, his eyes shining with tears. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry about—’ He blubbered a little. ‘About my outburst. It’s just, we’ve been trying for so long. We were so excited. Already started picking out names.’
‘I understand.’
‘Thank you, Doctor Li,’ Leslie said.
‘You’re a good woman, Doctor Li,’ Martin said, holding her hand between both of his. ‘Everything we read about you is true.’
‘That’s kind of you to say, Mr Crawford.’
After the Crawfords left, some of the day’s burden lifted from Ashley’s shoulders. Patient outbursts were part of the job, but they never got easier. Ashley preferred it when they yelled. She could calm them, then. Tears were harder to stop.
She had never been good at navigating social interactions. As a student, parties terrified her, and since she spent most nights in the company of Kumar and Clark’s Cases in Clinical Medicine and Berek and Novak’s Gynaecology, she had never had much chance to become more confident through practice.
As she made notes in the Crawfords’ file an email arrived from her boss, Roger Osmond. Dinner at my place? Nine?
Doctor Ashley Li smiled and leaned back in her chair. It was an ergonomic thing that tilted obligingly. As she composed her reply she noticed Leslie had left her office lanyard sitting on her desk.
‘Oh, Mrs Crawford,’ she called, leaping up off her chair.
She hurried down the passageway through to the reception area where she spotted Leslie and Martin paying Doris.
Ashley held up the plastic card. She was about to call out to the Crawfords when her gaze fell on a dark-haired woman, alone, in the corner of the waiting room reading a battered paperback. The young woman looked up at the commotion of Ashley rushing into the room, and Ashley felt a jolt of electricity. The woman had straight black hair and Asian features, but light, stony eyes. Their eyes met for a moment before she turned her attention back to her book. Ashley shivered, as happened from time to time when she encountered someone—usually a woman, but not always—who resembled her. A person who made her think: could you be my half-sibling? It was like a ghost blowing icy breath on the back of her neck. She had never known her father, and these occasional encounters left her with a vague sense of loss.
‘Doctor Li?’
‘Yes?’ Leslie C
rawford was standing right in front of Ashley. ‘Oh, Mrs Crawford, Mr Crawford. You left your security pass on my desk.’ Ashley held up the plastic card.
‘Oh dear,’ Leslie laughed. ‘How careless. Please don’t take this as an indication of the sort of parent I’m going to make. Thank you,’ she said, sliding it into her bag.
Ashley said goodbye to the Crawfords again and, with a final glace at her doppelganger, she returned to her office.
Nineteen
The wind chilled the back of Priya’s neck as she hurried along the beachfront. She lay her palm across the bare skin, still unaccustomed to her short hair. She had spontaneously cut it the day she moved to Coogee. New life, new look, she thought, as the kitchen scissors sheared through her plaits before they tumbled into the sink. The thrill was brief. What remained of her hair stuck out like bottle-brush bristles. She had tidied it as best she could and placed the two plaits into a snap-lock bag to post to a charity that made wigs for children with cancer.
She walked along Coogee’s main street, planning to spend the afternoon paddling her feet in the glassy rock pools. Under her new white dress was a new red one-piece and she was wearing stiff leather slides purchased on a whim the day before. Old Priya never made impulsive purchases. New Priya could do what she wanted.
Crowds had descended on the foreshore in coloured droves. Zinc-nosed men in sunglasses stood with their hands on their hips. Women in broad hats chased toddlers in rash vests. Children and couples played amid the lapping waves, and Priya’s good mood shifted. She retreated to the beach’s grass fringe where she settled herself and opened her book.
Coogee was not quite the fabled Bondi, but it was as close as she could afford, and far enough away from her old life to offer a semblance of a fresh start. Following her separation from Nick the landscape of her life had changed. She tried IVF again after her first round didn’t work. When a second attempt failed too, the blow was heavy. She found herself sitting up late at night once her nieces were asleep, drinking vodka straight, alone, and finally judged it would be best to cash in her long-service leave, take a few months off work, collect her thoughts and figure out what to do next.
‘You need to start fresh,’ Darsh had told her over dinner one night. ‘Come live by the beach.’
Viv encouraged Priya to move too. ‘It will be good for you. And we’ll visit all the time. Promise. It will give us an excuse to come to the seaside.’
Priya had moved and she still hadn’t had a single visit. She was lonely. She felt it keenly.
A high-pitched squeal broke the calm. A little boy was rolling around on a picnic blanket near his mother. Nine months old, Priya guessed. He was chewing on a plastic ring with tiny milk teeth. Behind him was the plate-glass side of a bus stop. Priya caught sight of her own silhouette: a stranger in sunglasses with a choppy pixie cut. She was putting on a brave face, but she couldn’t even convince herself she was anything other than a lost soul. Losing Nick had hurt, but losing the chance to have a family with him broke her heart.
She patted down her wayward hair and scanned the grassy verge for another corner where there weren’t so many children and smiling families. She considered retreating to her balcony, which she had fashioned into an al fresco studio to make use of the strong northern light. She had produced more paintings in a month in Coogee than she had all year. That, at least, was something to be proud of. And even though she often had to rescue winged creatures from the sticky surface of her canvasses, the balcony gave her an empowering, room-of-one’s-own sense of independence. She packed away her book and brushed the grass seeds from her legs. On the way home she stopped at the grocery store where she loaded up with milk, oranges, coconut water, bay leaves, butter and eggs. The price tags—five dollars for a packet of bay leaves—made her miss the Lebanese nut shop near her old house where she could buy any spice she could imagine, as well as freshly baked zaatar and tubs of labneh, with loose change. The closest thing to that in Coogee was a grease-splattered kebab shop that mostly serviced late-night clientele.
As she stepped out into the sunshine she rummaged in her bag and realised something was missing. Keys, she thought. Where are my keys? She found a patch of grass and emptied out her bag, hunting for the bunch of keys she knew wasn’t there. Annoyed at her carelessness, she pulled out her phone and searched for the number of a locksmith as she trudged up the hill to her apartment. Trent from 24-Hour Locks said he would be there in an hour. The security light flicked on with a bink! and moths gathered to hover around it.
Priya’s consolation was that she had an excuse not to see Rajesh’s friend, Morgan. She clicked into her text messages. I’m really sorry, Morgan. I’m locked out of my flat. Do you mind if we do it another time? I’m waiting for a locksmith, she typed to the number Rajesh had given her.
She got a reply immediately: I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to have a coffee while you wait? I’m not far from Coogee.
My clothes are wet from the beach, she lied, hoping to be rid of him.
He buzzed back straightaway, refusing to take the hint. How about we postpone until nine tonight? That will give you a chance to clean up, then we can meet for a nightcap?
Priya didn’t want to see him, but she knew that saying no would only delay the inevitable. When Rajesh had given her Morgan’s number, he and Viv had made her promise she would go out with him just once.
‘He’s a great guy but he doesn’t know many people in Sydney,’ Rajesh had said.
Morgan had recently transferred from Melbourne and Rajesh had presented it as a favour. Would Priya meet his friend who was new to the area and make him feel welcome? It was a poorly disguised set-up, but one she couldn’t get out of without seeming rude.
Okay, I’ll meet you at nine, Priya wrote. She sat in the fading light, watching bugs land on her shins, and tried to empty her mind.
It was dark by the time the locksmith arrived.
‘Sorry, busy day,’ he said as he emerged from the branches that crowded the pathway up to Priya’s apartment block. He had broad shoulders and was wearing his cap pulled low over a shaved head. Dark tattoos peeked out from the collar and cuffs of his uniform like a black undershirt.
‘That’s okay, it’s up here,’ Priya said, taking him into the stairwell. The building was a brick, nineteen-thirties block filled with the smells of other people’s dinner. Of Gravox and steamed vegetables. Frying onions and roasting meat. The sounds of TV shows drifted into the hall. As she climbed the stairs, with the man’s heavy footfalls close behind her, Priya chatted idly about how she had just moved to the area.
He set his toolbox down on the landing outside her door. ‘Let’s get some light,’ she said.
Seven slow minutes later the lock clicked and he pushed open Priya’s front door.
‘What a relief,’ she said.
‘Those hinges could use an oil,’ he told her, following her with his toolbox as she slipped inside.
‘It’s fine, really, you don’t have to,’ she said, backing into the apartment.
‘I’ll just give it a quick spray. Part of the service.’ He took a can of lubricant from his metal case and shook it.
Priya searched for the remote control to switch on her living-room light. She blindly felt the top of the coffee table, then stuck her hand between the couch cushions, wishing the owner had just put in a regular light switch.
The locksmith sprayed the door hinges, swinging the door to test them.
‘It’s fine, really. You don’t have to bother,’ she said, patting the top of her television cabinet hoping to locate the block of plastic.
‘No point doing it if I’m not going to do it right,’ he said, filling the air with the hiss and fumes of the aerosol lubricant again. ‘That should do it.’ He shut the door all the way so that they were in complete darkness. Priya took a step backwards into the kitchen and flicked on that light. It shone a triangle of yellow into the lounge room, leaving the locksmith concealed by shadow. All she could see of h
im was his steel-capped boots and the sharp corner of his metal toolbox.
Her heart rate quickened. She flexed her fingers and told herself not to be paranoid, she had nothing to fear.
‘Good as new,’ the locksmith said, his voice coming closer. ‘Is this what you were looking for?’ He picked up the remote from her key table and clicked on the light.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, pulling her credit card from her wallet. She paid him and opened the door.
‘You have yourself a good night,’ he said, with a smile.
‘Thanks,’ Priya said a little too loudly, trying to hide her nerves.
After she carefully clicked the door shut behind him, Priya wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. Living alone had bequeathed her with a new jitteriness. The western suburbs were as rough as guts but at least there she had Nick, and her sister down the road. In Coogee, she was utterly alone, surrounded by miles of ocean and rich, unfeeling strangers.
Priya sat on her couch wishing she hadn’t said yes to meeting Morgan. She longed to phone Viv but knew the household would be in the middle of the raucous dinner–bath–bed routine.
Her Coogee rental wasn’t what she had hoped for but she had attempted to make it homely. The walls were crowded with paintings and prints she had collected and mounted in two-dollar frames from Ikea. The centrepiece was a reproduction of a very old Indian painting of a young couple in a garden. It was slightly gauche, but it had belonged to her mother, Dyuti. The palette reminded her of the way Dyuti would hum at the stove while Priya and Viv did their homework at the kitchen table.
She must have drifted off, because the next thing she knew she was waking up sideways on the couch. She sat bolt upright, disoriented. Her phone was flashing with a message from Darsh. Let’s go out!
Where are you? she texted back.
Coogee Pavilion. Come!
I can’t, she typed. I have a date.
The Mothers Page 15