by O M Faure
‘Not that I can recognize. But it resembles a genetically abnormal pattern I have seen before. So, probably steer clear of the candidate on the right.’ I laugh.
‘Actually, Ms. Carpenter, you misunderstand, these are the qualities we’re looking for in our candidates. We require them to have that particular abnormality; otherwise, they cannot be selected.’
That’s just fucking great, what a waste of my time. There’s no way I’m going to spend the next few years of my career poking around the brains of ‘special people’. I look at my watch and think of how to turn down this post politely, when he says something interesting.
‘We have found out the hard way that we can only send certain people on missions. All field agents must have this specific brain configuration in their sternocleidomastoid muscle and the extra folds in the fusiform gyrus.’
‘What happens to the ones who don’t?’
‘The process damages their brain.’ His face twists in a grimace of distaste. I guess he’s seen it happen and it’s not pretty.
‘You mean they suffer long-term consequences?’
‘Yes, very much so. The technology mangles their minds. They spend the remainder of their lives in bed restraints with no control over their bladders, or their sphincters for that matter. As you can imagine, the Programme is very keen to avoid this outcome and started including the MRI in the recruitment process a few years ago.
‘Oh and by the way,’ he continues, ‘this means that if you ever wanted to become a field agent, you’d be eligible. But we’re probably getting ahead of ourselves, here.’ He chuckles. ‘You’re just here to apply for a position on the medical team, aren’t you?’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Oh yes, didn’t I mention? The scan on the right is your own, Ms. Carpenter.’
My stomach drops. That’s just not possible.
He sees my face and backtracks. ‘You didn’t know?’
I shake my head. ‘Why would you look for abnormal candidates for this job?’
He frowns. ‘This isn’t an abnormality, it’s in fact an incredible evolution of your brain and it opens a door for you to a new world of possibilities…’ He stops mid-sentence and checks himself. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say any more at the moment. I’m sorry.’
‘But I—’
He interrupts me, getting to his feet. ‘So thank you for your time today. If all goes well, we’ll meet again, Ms. Carpenter.’
He walks around his desk to stand in front of me as I get up, towering over him. He takes my hand in both of his. ‘I was very impressed with your qualifications. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’ And with a smile he walks me to the door of his office and I find myself out in the corridor, aghast.
3
Olivia
London, United Kingdom, June 2016
* * *
I’m lying on a hospital table, legs akimbo, a penis-shaped camera rummaging in my vagina. The nurse is speaking to my business end about Brexit. She talks very earnestly to my pubes about how she’ll vote to leave the EU. She’s currently extolling the virtues of Boris Johnson, who she believes is acting in the best interests of our country. But really he’s a hapless idiot and Brexit would be a monumental mistake. He doesn’t stand a chance anyway. We’re far too sensible a people to vote Leave.
The nurse is in her late fifties, she’s the kind of thin person who’s dried up and shrivelled like a dehydrated apple. Her office is wallpapered with photos of her dead dog (I asked). She spends her days talking to the vaginas of desperate, middle-aged women embarked on a journey that in most cases has less than a 10 per cent chance of success.
I’d start to talk about politics and books and general stuff as well if I were her. I mean, she’s no different than a cabbie really; another customer every ten minutes, in and out, done and dusted. For her, this is a normal day; no pressure, no stress. Shoot the breeze, next client – and voilà.
Meanwhile for me this is a Hail Mary pass. My money, my hope, my health are all spent. This all-important scan will reveal if the treatment has produced enough follicles to go into egg retrieval, the next step. If there is only one follicle or if the drugs have not worked, all my hopes will splatter like a suicidal jumper reaching the pavement.
This has to work; I want to hear that my womb has obeyed my panicked commands, that God has listened to my fervent prayers, that Life has been swayed by my positive meditations. Instead I’m hearing about Boris Johnson, the dishevelled moron. Happy days.
‘All is well,’ she finally condescends to let me know. ‘We can proceed to egg retrieval.’
How fantastic!
On go the blue cap and slippers as I change into the hospital gown, clutching the open back to conceal my nakedness.
This nurse is not so bad, really, dead dog and all. I mean, I’ve had worse.
For example, the cute Greek doctor who all the online-forum women swooned over; he checked his texts and ignored me while I waited silently for him to be done, sitting at his desk, an arm’s length away. Or the crazy acupuncturist who was supposed to be the best in London but had her wig on askew and wanted £300 for ten bags of magic fertility tea. It smelled and tasted so bad that her receptionist recommended I drink it with a straw while pinching my nose shut.
I practically know by heart all the books about positive thinking and attracting what you want. So I think happy thoughts, as I lie down on the trolley bed.
But still, doubt creeps in, through a chink in my positivity armour. I’ve left it too late. Forty-one. The years and probabilities of success are slipping away. My insides are old and my pipes are rusty. After all the IUIs, IVFs and ICSIs, this twelfth try will be my last.
The hospital bed rattles into the operating theatre, where the medical team greets me with kindness perhaps mixed with pity; they all know me by now. They put me under and proceed to puncture my ovaries to suck out the precious eggs.
A few hours later, groggy, bleeding and nauseous, I pull my pants, my trousers and my dignity back on.
Outside, torrential rain greets me, but I couldn’t care less. I float inside the familiar bubble of hope and denial, whispering to myself in a singsong voice,
‘This time it will work!’ My left ovary whimpers with pain but I just press down on it and think positive thoughts.
4
DeAnn
Baltimore, Maryland, USA, June 2016
* * *
‘You fucking evil bitch!’
‘Please watch your language or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ I don’t think the nurse, what’s her face, will help. She looks down at some paperwork with a smirk and pretends to be busy.
‘My language! My language? You just told me my child has a genetic condition as if it were an inconvenience interfering with your busy day. How about you learn some fucking bedside manners!’
The blonde woman is hysterical. At least her husband has the good grace to look embarrassed. He has one hand on her wrist and is staring at the screen where the deficient fetus is floating, oblivious, in its black and white amniotic fluid.
She shakes him off angrily and continues to shout emotional nonsense.
I tune her out and turn to the nurse. ‘Call security.’ Now she can no longer ignore me.
I am not responsible for this patient’s poor genetic stock, her choice to settle down with an older man and her decision to leave it too late to have kids. I don’t care really. This is nothing to do with me. I just gave her the news.
The day worsens when the Dean calls me into his office to demand I take a sensitivity class. It’s hard not to snort.
‘I really don’t think I need to.’
‘Did I say you should take the class? I meant that you must, DeAnn.’
‘Look, Jeff, I don’t really have time for—’
‘When you came to me a few years ago, looking for a place on my team, I warned you that you’d have to work outside the lab and interact with patients regularly. You agreed.’
&nb
sp; Today is making me regret that choice in spades. I’m much better with test tubes and petri dishes. People are incomprehensible.
He leans forward on his desk. ‘Do you know how many people would kill to have your position? You can’t have our benefactors thrown out by security for God’s sake.’
I’ve been silent for a while, so he lays it on thicker. ‘It’s your second strike, DeAnn. There will not be a third. Do you understand?’
I nod, gritting my teeth. Why do I even put up with this? That mysterious Programme is looking more appealing by the day.
‘OK, that’ll be all.’
All the histrionics and the drama have exhausted me and I am now winding down by working away on a pet project of mine for a few hours. The lab’s hubbub recedes little by little as everyone leaves for the evening and I can finally hear myself think. I’m deeply immersed in my research when my phone beeps.
It’s Trevor; I completely forgot that we have plans tonight. I hurry to the restaurant, drop my car keys with the valet and make my way to our table. As soon as I’m seated, his hand reaches for mine, before I have time to remove it. Looking at my fawn-colored fingers trapped under his dark brown hand, I wonder why I’ve always been attracted to dark-skinned guys; maybe so I can add richer color to my mix. Trevor, with his tall, toned body, shaved head and business-like demeanor, is perfect in theory. His corporate job’s not great, but I make do with his MBA-level intelligence.
I don’t know why the media harps on about women’s ticking clocks. Men are the same or worse. All my male friends hit thirty-five and started asking their girlfriends to marry and have kids. It was like a fucking epidemic.
We used to rent small yachts and spend days at sea. Now I can barely get them to a bar on a Saturday night. They all have bags under their eyes and the only topic they seem capable of talking about is their progeny. It’s worse when I visit; then their little monsters get their sticky hands all over my clothes and draw on my shoes in the hallway while I chat with their disheveled mothers in living rooms that look like war zones.
Trevor, by contrast, was cautious. He was older and made it clear he was interested in a relationship but not kids. Fine by me.
I liked that he kept to himself, that he didn’t chase me all the time, that he wasn’t head over heels for me. I could maintain my space, continue to live in my own condo, see him when I wanted sex. It was perfect for about two years.
Then things started to go south.
Last Sunday we went to have tea (tea!) at his parents’ place and I got the distinct impression I was being discreetly vetted. His mother even eyed my hips at one point, for childbearing purposes, presumably.
After a little Bible reading, some of the kids put on a recital. Relatives all sat around watching their offspring sing with ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. So fucking wholesome I could have puked. My hands were literally itching to grab the Blackberry out of my Prada to check on work emails. But I behaved.
On the way back, Trevor was quiet.
So here we are, a few days after that God-awful family reunion; I’ve only had one glass of wine so far because he doesn’t drink and I moderate myself around him.
Thankfully after fifteen minutes of awkward silence and stilted how-was-your-day-honey, our friends make their entrance. Philip’s tall, blond and lanky with a permanent three-day beard. His eyes are hungry, his teeth too sharp, his handshakes too long. Philip gives me a one-armed hug, his hand sliding under my shirt and along the small of my back, sowing goosebumps in its wake. I readjust my blouse and kiss Carla on the cheek as I sit back down. She and I used to work together.
I don’t think they’ll last the year. They have two kids and she wants a third. Philip would rather stab himself in the eye. He texted me a couple of times over the last few months. His messages always appear benign at first, but between the lines...
A few weeks ago, Philip came by my place to vent about his marriage. We opened a bottle of Syrah and talked until late on the balcony, overlooking the bay.
Things got complicated pretty fast after we opened the second bottle in the kitchen. His hands found their way into my bra, mine frantically unfastened his belt. Then the overpowering hunger bit and nothing could have stopped us as we ripped each other’s clothes off and he took me hard, on the kitchen counter. He looked hungry and mean.
He hasn’t called me since, which I simultaneously resent and am grateful for.
Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, I flinch but it’s only Jordan. I get up and he hugs me; a full-on, friendly, comforting embrace. He smells of fresh laundry and something else as well, something pleasant. Two steps away, his girlfriend, Aliyah, is looking like she’s just bitten into a lemon. Her black skin seems even darker against the too-short, bright yellow dress that hugs her thin, muscular body, stopping mid-thigh. The tips of her long black hair sway against her waist as she flicks it with her long, red, pointy nails. She always makes me think of a panther, ready to pounce and kill. But not before she has fun with her prey – and that would be poor Jordan right now.
Jordan and I met a long time ago. He had just returned from the Gulf War where he’d earned a scholarship. We met on the first day of med school. He teaches in Boston now and we have dinner every once in a while, when he’s in town. He’s pussywhipped but happy enough as far as I can tell. Of course, Aliyah hates my guts.
Jordan sits next to me and asks me how I am. For some reason I actually tell him about the MRI and the upcoming London interview. His head is cocked toward me, elbow on the table, full lips resting against his right hand. The wine brings the words more easily to the surface, as I look into his eyes and see understanding there, empathy and acceptance.
Aliyah laughs loudly at something Philip said and the spell breaks. Jordan puts a hand on her bare knee and starts a conversation with Philip. Soon they’re immersed in their pissing contest about who has the fastest, most expensive, most obnoxious car.
The meal ends; it was good but I have my reservations about the place making it to Michelin-star status. Everybody else likes it. I guess I have high standards. We all wait for the valet, ignoring the homeless man on the sidewalk. I can’t believe they allow them here. That’s just not right. I should complain to the management. I’ll write them later.
Back home, Trevor starts to touch me and I wish I’d had more wine because the sex is particularly bland tonight. I haven’t told him but actually I like more spice in my sex life. He just isn’t the type to oblige.
Soon, he’s humping me in the missionary position, eyes closed, avoiding eye contact. His dark, muscular body is slick with sweat and the veins in his throat are bulging. Soon now; I repress a yawn.
It’s definitely time to cut him loose. I move my hips a little faster and moan, running my nails along his back, digging in ever so slightly. That should do it. A big raspy groan and he’s finally come.
He flops over next to me, cursorily pets my arm and gets up immediately to wash himself. Trevor doesn’t do body fluids. I used to like that about him: he was always so clean. It appealed to the doctor in me, I suppose. I didn’t realize that it also came with a side of compulsive showering before and after sex and no kissing after blowjobs.
‘Was it good for you as well?’ he says, as he walks back from the shower.
‘Mmh?’ I ask, checking my Blackberry.
He lies down and turns off the lamp on his side.
‘Did you come?’
Well, it’s too late to wonder about that, Trevor. ‘Uhu.’
‘Good night then.’
‘Good night.’
The next morning, I wake up at 5 a.m. and go to the gym, as I’ve been doing every morning since 2005. I figured that if Condoleezza Rice could do it, then so could I. The gym part, not the Secretary of State part.
I come back an hour and a half later, and get ready for work. Finally, about five minutes before I have to go, I look in on Trevor in my bedroom. He’s getting back into yesterday’s clothes.
‘Trevor, I
’m leaving.’
‘Have a good day.’
‘No, I mean, it’s over. I’m leaving you.’
He’s hopping on one foot, pants around his ankles, pulling them up. Maybe I should have chosen a better time to do this. Hindsight twenty-twenty.
‘What? Can we talk about this?’ He stumbles, flails and catches himself on the side of the bed.
‘Not now, I need to leave for work.’
There’s a crestfallen look on his face. I guess his wholesome upbringing only prepared him for soft, malleable women who would have jumped at the opportunity to marry him.
‘I’ll call you later,’ he manages.
‘I’d rather you didn’t. But you can if you have to.’
He finishes dressing and leaves the condo with me. There is an awkward moment when he starts to kiss me goodbye, out of habit, then stops.
Thankfully, it’s over in a few minutes and he drives away as I get into my BMW. It was definitely the right decision.
5
Olivia
London, United Kingdom, July 2016
* * *
I clutch the banister of the scenic lift and suck my breath in as St Paul’s white and grey cupola comes into view. It’s incredibly close.
‘Oh.’
Aileen Foley looks up from her clipboard. ‘Yes, it’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?’
The ‘second round’ was surprising, to say the least. I couldn’t believe it when they said it would be a medical. I mean I know I’m healthy, given the amount of tests I’ve done in the last four years of IVF, but surely having a blooming MRI was a bit much just for a job, wasn’t it? At least it dispelled any notion that it might be a law firm position, as I can’t imagine any lawyers caring about my brain configuration.