Fauna

by Donna Mazza

  ‘Tell me, how did you meet Isak?’ she leans forward in her chair, as if she’s eager to hear my story.

  ‘We met in Ireland. He was travelling with a couple of friends.’ They drank a lot. He was in a pub in Temple Bar, arms around a group of people, all singing. When I saw him I knew, my chest filled like it would explode. I remember that first eye contact like something blood-borne. ‘I was studying.’ Between the dark buildings of Dublin I found a room at the top of some narrow stairs. A residential college full of school leavers from rural Ireland and countries all over Europe, speaking different languages and smoking. Playing drinking games until late. A dark crevice in a cold, tall pillar. Always cold; noisy. Not conducive to study.

  I am silent a while and she nods, clears her throat. ‘Studying what, Stacey?’

  ‘Archaeology.’ It was the fieldwork that kept me enrolled. The chance of finding something like the bronze bowl and the finger bones Marco kept in his study. His history, he said, from Italy and he told me the stories of his family while I held the bones in my own hands, stroking the convex line between the knuckles. He smelled of basil and tomato, of summer and a real home. ‘I failed the theory units but I loved the practical work.’

  Then my mother would leave again and take us to a gritty shack in a caravan park somewhere on a winter beach. Enrol Alex and me in a strange school again. ‘I had a lecturer who read us “Bog Queen”. Have you ever read it?’ She shakes her head.

  Her ancient hair, untangling the precious beauty of it in the mild sunshine. For me, field weeks spent combing the earth in bare trenches, the chance of discovery, sherds and bone reconstructing lost lives—they were why I pushed myself back to school. Why I worked and saved. And I abandoned all that for the pull of my heart and then the ache for motherhood. To belong and connect. Isak made it all seem so pointless. I stopped caring about the past and lived in the present moments, with him.

  ‘Do you feel any resentment towards Isak for taking you from your studies? Would you go back if you could?’ She nods. A little smile. Perhaps she feels she is making some inroads.

  ‘In some ways I am doing fieldwork.’ I firm up my barricades, know she will want to talk about the pregnancy. ‘And no, I don’t resent Isak. He is a good father and my best friend.’ She’ll love that bit.

  She shifts in her seat, looks at the time. ‘Have you contacted your mother since we met?’ She smiles warmly, I think she knows she’s taking a risk.

  ‘I wrote her a message.’ And deleted it. ‘She often goes on retreats this time of year and is out of contact.’ I did not lie.

  She tips her head on one side. ‘Where do you think she is on retreat?’

  ‘Somewhere in New South Wales usually. She moves around from the coast and into the mountains with my stepfather, Marco, sometimes.’ I’m doing well.

  ‘I sense that you get on well with him.’

  The wise woman ruse with all the sensing and feeling, just like my mother.

  ‘Yes. He was very supportive of me when I was young and I needed him.’ Sent me money, no judgement. But I have not given him much back. I am no daughter for him.

  ‘Wasn’t your mother supportive?’ Finally she digs deep but I expected it.

  ‘She was, in her own way. But she was busy too, working as a healer.’ Healer is a stretch. She was the agent of chaos so often. Plying her wisdom and esoteric methods to the clueless and vulnerable. ‘She always means well.’ And I know this is true. ‘What will she think about you having this pregnancy?’ she asks it with a strange emphasis.

  ‘She will say it is my destiny because if it weren’t then it wouldn’t happen.’ She would say just that.

  ‘But you did choose this, Stacey. You need to be clear that this is your decision, your choice.’ Feels like something she has been told to reinforce with me.

  ‘Yes, it is. And destiny led me to that choice.’

  She smiles at me as if I am silly. I was right to react to her, but I have kept it in check today. We part after making another appointment in a month.

  12 WEEKS

  I wish I hadn’t worn a dress. I feel so exposed here, an audience of six around me with clothes hauled up to my armpits. Jeff is there, standing behind my head. The same officious radiographer tucks the paper blanket into my knickers, pulling them down a smidgen, dark hairs coursing out to remind them where they all came from. She squirts a clear gel onto my hard stomach and moves the scanning device. The screen is turned so I only see a slice of the action. Clearly I am not the main audience.

  When I took this on I really didn’t think about being treated as a science experiment myself. It was all about the baby. This is harder without Isak. He has always been there holding my hand through all our pregnancies and without him I feel hard and isolated. He has seen the scans online, he said. ‘Looks just like a regular baby.’ We can do this, he says. He’s excited, but the words come from far away and I can’t feel it today, in here.

  Everyone tells us we are great parents and we should have more. Our kids are beautiful, sporty and Emmy is very intelligent. It’s easily said, of course, but I’m tired. I close my eyes. I don’t know what to look for, anyway. Surely they have seen it through the PregCam™. Still, the air is thick with audience.

  ‘She’s moving her fingers,’ says the radiographer. There are drawn breaths and I hear news I did not think would make such a difference.

  ‘It’s a girl?’ I whisper, not sure if they will hear me.

  ‘Definitely a girl,’ says Jeff. Bold and smiling.

  Emmy’s longed-for sister—here she is. Just not quite the sister she has been waiting for. In the glimpse of screen I see a baby. Fingers and spine and baby-shaped head looking as normal as my other children, from this vantage point at least. Maybe they won’t notice she is different from them, for a while.

  ‘Looks good,’ Dr Anderson, head of radiography, pats me on the shoulder. ‘Well done, dear.’

  I want to cry. They all clap as if I’m in a circus. Maybe I am. Maybe she will be one day.

  There’s nothing quite as hollow as that little death we saw on the ultrasound screen. That human shape refusing to beat or flutter. It seemed so real, yet fragile as dew; it was gone before it really began. What did it do to us to see that sad little thing? The image forever printed in my memory from the secret room of life. Then months of emptiness. Lifeless—as though I were strewn with salt. I thought I would never feel another burst of life in me but this child is reinforced.

  This time the cells—well, some of them are mine and Isak’s, but others were snipped and sliced and fused into our baby. There is not just us in there. Her whole genome was recovered and reissued: a new work using old materials. Somewhere in prehistory she has another set of parents. She is the child deposited in a tooth found under layers of sediment in a deep cave. Only accessible via a narrow tunnel, amid a ring of stalagmites, an ancient campfire. The fossilised remains of a woolly rhinoceros, butchered mammoths and red deer. She is older than the Bog Queen. Maybe she was buried with ceremony thirty-eight thousand years ago. Surrounded by flowers. A stone axe. From there she has come back. Back to us. I have excavated her.

  At the kids’ swimming lessons I imagined her one day, seven years old in a blue bikini, plunging into the pool, rolling over, skating through the water, shiny and laughing. Chlorinated water dripping from her hair. How much will she have of normal? To learn and talk with other children, not like her. I have watched the mothers with unusual children and I know I will be among them and I wonder how they feel with their little different one out there swimming with the four-limbed bright-eyed kids. I’ve had all that normal and now I will have something more; I’ll have what they have. It doesn’t take much to alter the development of a child. To turn its life and the parents’ lives into something entirely other. For those parents, the child is the pivot around which everything turns.

  Surely she won’t learn to swim like other kids.

  The team point to the screen and discuss th
e growth of my baby, ‘their work’. It is quite in keeping with human embryonic development, apparently.

  ‘What about the forehead?’ They all turn, surprised I am still awake, I imagine.

  ‘Did you say something, Stacey?’ asks Jeff. Naturally he has the best bedside manner.

  ‘The forehead?’

  ‘Can’t tell yet, I’m afraid, dear.’

  ‘We expect some different cranial development to show next ultrasound, in a few weeks,’ says Dr Dimitra, evolutionary paediatrician. I met her briefly in the IVF clinic. Her postdoctoral sidekick stands close, nods seriously at me. He wears a sticky label that says ‘Eugene’.

  ‘Remember, Stacey, the baby is also genetically yours. She will be something in between; we expect she may have a slightly pronounced supraorbital ridge. She will look a little different but not too different,’ says Dr Dimitra.

  ‘Like I said at our appointment, Stacey, don’t worry. There will be some surprises but I think they will all be good surprises.’ Jeff presses his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I think we’re almost done, Doctor.’ The radiographer speaks to the group, probably all doctors.

  A museum piece for the next generation. A living museum piece. Possible titles for National Geographic articles they will write about her one day. Ultrasound images stored on the LifeBLOOD® server will be sold to exclusive media outlets. We’ve already signed the non-disclosure contract to protect our identity and the children. But not this child. They’ll know her inside out.

  Some of the doctors seem to be in a rush so Jeff flurries around the small room, shaking hands while the radiographer cleans up the gel.

  ‘Everything okay, Stacey?’ Jeff finally smiles at me. I nod, gathering my adrift dress back over my body.

  ‘Well, I have one question—are there other mothers?’ He seems surprised at my forthright question in front of his lofty colleagues.

  Dr Dimitra answers me, her scent of spice and cosmetics close to my face. ‘I’m afraid we can’t discuss the details of other pregnancies,’ she says, in a low voice.

  ‘But—are there? Will she be alone?’

  ‘One day there will be other people like her,’ she says, cryptic and aloof.

  A more senior man, one I have not met, seems to outrank the rest of them. He leans in to speak. Cold-eyed and pale. ‘Our girl here will be loved by your family and then—well, we’ll see how things track but all kids go their own way when they grow up.’ He smirks, fat white fingers hovering over my belly. ‘You’d better start thinking of names—maybe avoid Lucy?’ He lets out a little laugh.

  The screen goes still, then blackens. Our little secret is safe inside.

  Outside in the car I search ‘Lucy’ and eventually find an image of Australopithecus afarensis, a crouched and hair-covered beast of a creature. Nowhere near human and much older by thousands of years than this baby’s amended DNA. Hers might be Spanish or from the Steppes, or Croatia. All kinds of life has emerged from the melted glaciers and permafrost. Her ancestors dressed in animal skin, crafted jewellery, buried their dead. They were human, not like us but not an ape. She will not be an ape.

  13 WEEKS

  In the car park at the clinic I park under the same tree. This time I have cleaned out the car. It only takes the kids a couple of days to drop enough socks and food scraps to make it feel filthy again. For a moment, the serenity of order is good. This morning we started the day well but the Paleo breakfast has given me heartburn. My mother would say that means I’m having a hairy baby but that doesn’t really bear thinking about. I have avoided the intranet but check my messages before my appointment in case I’ve missed anything important.

  Dear Stacey,

  Researchers in our actuary dept have been analysing the data on primate gestation across several species and have calculated an approximate gestation based on the size of the embryo at your 12-week ultrasound. Considering also the ratios and comparison to modern human gestation they estimate a 32–34 week pregnancy. I am hesitant to give you a specific EDD but, even in human babies, they are only an estimate. We should get a clearer idea at your next scan. See you at my rooms for your next appointment.

  Kind regards

  Dr Jeffrey van Tink

  LifeBLOOD® Professor of Obstetrics and Paleogenetics

  Human babies. Primates. It is difficult to think my child is not human. Her face, her hands on the screen from the PregCam™ all look the same as my other children. Five fingers, clenching and opening her hand. The curve of her spine. Her delicate foot. The bouncing image of her heart. She is, every part of her, mine. Inside me, growing day by day. Feeding off my scrambled eggs. I don’t really care what they say, she’s human enough to me.

  The appointment proceeds as the last one. The same sensible names, the large glasses testing my blood pressure, squeezing the crimson juice from my finger. The waiting, looking at the plastic uterus. All is well, according to Dr Jeff, who tracks his warm fingers across my abdomen, silent and focused. His competent presence is reassuring, despite his obvious charisma. His ability to make me comply. He stands back quietly, hand resting on my abdomen.

  ‘Stacey, when will Isak be back?’ Gently, he waits for my response. I swallow hard.

  ‘Um, next week he’s due back. His mum is making the most of him being there.’ I avoid his eyes, pull at the rumple of clothing under my back. Jeff waits for more. ‘He might not go back to South Africa for a while after the baby is born so he will have a lot of visiting to do.’ I’ve said this before too. Rehearsed a valid statement in response to a valid question. He holds my hand and helps me sit up from the narrow bed.

  ‘We are concerned that you don’t have enough support.’ Silence for a moment. ‘Is everything okay between the two of you?’ There is no one to support me with this pregnancy, no one who can share all the truths of it. Only Isak. Just the thought of his name scrapes a raw graze in my chest. Jeff returns to his chair, wheeling backwards slowly as I reassemble myself.

  ‘I have missed him, Jeff.’ A lump in my throat, the sprig of tears. I stop myself. ‘I’ve been busy but I can manage.’

  ‘We can bring in a nanny, some cleaners for you if you like and take the pressure off you cooking. Get some help with the driving for you. If you’re tired all the time it isn’t good for the baby.’ The house is sprayed with glue and paper, food scraps and glitter. I have no energy to clean or discipline the children. Their scooters fade in the sun of the back garden, dead oat grass casting seeds for the next season. Washed towels bleach into rigid forms over the clothesline.

  Isak wouldn’t like the invasion of our privacy, no matter how filthy and chaotic our house. But our diet—my mother would cringe at the things I feed myself and the kids. I resolve to accept some help. Sometimes it would be good not to have to cook and LifeBLOOD® seem to have endless money.

  He taps away on his keyboard, practical and immediate. ‘Right. Are you on the Paleo diet?’

  ‘Yes.’ The acid rises to the back of my throat. I swallow it down hard. ‘But I grew up vegan and I think it’s a bit much for me, all that meat.’

  ‘Not so good, huh? Of course we aren’t sure it’s necessary so you can vary it if you need to. You’ve read the material on diet on our website?’

  ‘It gives me heartburn. I’ve read books about it before. I thought it was debunked as being the best diet for us.’ I was a bit surprised that I was meant to eat like that and we can scarcely afford all the meat. Isak loves it. ‘Someone to cook, even just for the kids would be good.’

  ‘We can get a home delivery system. I’ll book it for you. The order forms are on our website. You order and they deliver. The cost is covered by us.’ He is tapping into his computer. Prints out and hands over a prescribed packet. ‘For the heartburn.’

  Sun pours through the window, the shadow of venetian blinds across his desk and the plastic uterus. Silent. I hear his breathing whistle. I am waiting. I stare at his degrees from a German university. Medicine at Princeton. Some inst
itute for genetic research in Barcelona. He is waiting and I’m not sure why. ‘Have I missed a question?’

  His magnetic eyes stare at mine. Anchor me to the seat. ‘Yes—Isak. What’s the situation, Stacey? Do we need to book him some counselling? One-on-one. He’s definitely home next week, is he? You were both selected for this program. To provide a healthy family unit for this baby.’

  I squirm inside. Grasp around for a response. ‘I’ll ask him. He just wanted to spend some time with his mother.’ And get away from this. He knew it would be strange and had to have some space to come to terms with it. ‘Before the baby comes.’

  ‘If he doesn’t come back, Stacey—’ He looks at me sternly. Shakes his head.

  ‘What? He will come back.’ I know he will. He will never abandon me, or the kids.

  He begins to rise from his chair. ‘There’s a clause about this.’ His tone shifts. ‘We will need to plan for it soon if he isn’t coming back. She’ll go to adoptive parents.’

  I stand but I hold the desk. Shaking, the blood seems to drain out of me. I am thick and sticky on the red floor. I shrivel to nothing. Face numb. Jeff leaves the room and the woman with large glasses comes in with a jug of water.

  ‘Vomit,’ I manage and the bile rises out of me into a silver dish. She is quick. Holds out a warm, damp flannel and some water.

  ‘Sit down.’

  My hands shake but I push away from her. ‘No, I’ve got to go.’ And I bustle from the room out into my serene car. My heart racing. Close my eyes and cry silently. They might be watching me so I key the engine and drive through the traffic, tears dropping from my chin into the clean car. Through the traffic and the suburbs and winding streets to my own silent house.

  I make a cup of ginger tea. Our back patio looks over the small yard with its hopeful vegetable gardens, filled with grass and lettuce gone to seed. A spindly lemon tree and a trampoline. Swing set and cubby house, balls, tennis racquets, doll’s pram with a basketball in it, the scooters on their sides. It’s tight but it’s all there. I have a comfortable chair they bought for my birthday two years ago but I rarely get to sit in it. It was to read in, apparently. Today I sit in it. Sip tea. I call him but there is no answer.