Later that night, while she was at home making dinner, the phone rang. Her heart started to race with anticipation, but she forced herself to stay calm as she answered the call.
‘I’m running late, sorry,’ James said. ‘My probation meeting went over.’
Catriona let out the breath she was holding on to. ‘God, don’t do that to me. I thought it was the clinic.’
‘Sorry, babe. You must be going crazy. So, no call yet?’
‘Nothing yet. How was your meeting?’
‘Oh, you know, the same. I can’t wait to be done with them.’
‘I know. Only one more year.’
Regular probation meetings were a requirement of the three-year good-behaviour bond James had been granted by the court, instead of prison time, after he had been arrested two years earlier for his assistance in the cultivation of a commercial quantity of cannabis.
It had seemed so out of character when James was arrested that Catriona initially asked police whether they had the wrong person. As she told them, James wouldn’t even park the car without putting money in a meter. And to be arrested for growing cannabis? They had once shared a joint with a few friends during a ski trip, but other than that she didn’t think James had ever touched drugs. But when the story eventually came out, and Catriona learned that it was James’s oldest friend, Spencer, who had been responsible for turning a rented country house into a hydroponic marijuana greenhouse, it all made sense.
Spencer’s juvenile and adult life had been littered with drug convictions, assault charges and illegal schemes he managed to coerce friends and family to be part of. Remarkably, Spencer had talked his way out of most of his past offences by paying a fine or doing community service, but this one had rewarded him with a five-year prison sentence. Spencer had convinced James to handle the financial aspects of the cannabis operation – the banking, rent and bills Spencer couldn’t have in his own name without arousing suspicion from the police, given his criminal record.
Catriona still couldn’t understand why James agreed to help Spencer, and how he had kept it from her without hinting that something was awry. She had stopped bringing it up with him because it always caused an argument, but it still concerned her when she allowed herself to think about it. She knew that James felt a sense of loyalty towards Spencer because they had been friends since primary school, and she admired that about him, but surely loyalty could only stretch so far. She blamed Spencer for the estranged relationship James had with his parents. Even though James said he had never been close to them, they had still been a part of his life and had visited him whenever they came down to Sydney from Brisbane, where James had grown up and his parents still lived. But their refusal to lend him the money to pay the bail for Spencer’s drug conviction had led to a huge row. Spencer had ended up in prison, and James said he wanted nothing to do with his parents. The only contact since then had been an impersonal exchange of birthday and Christmas cards. Catriona felt that James had overreacted and hoped he would reconcile with them one day. His parents could become grandparents soon, and Catriona didn’t want to deny her child a relationship with them over something that could easily be resolved.
Ten minutes after she hung up the phone, James walked into the kitchen and kissed Catriona’s cheek. She was standing at the stove cooking dinner, a trail of steam illuminated in the light from the range hood.
‘Why don’t you turn the fan on?’ he asked, leaning past her to flick the switch.
It roared to life above Catriona’s head, startling her. She turned it off. ‘The noise makes me anxious. And I can’t deal with any extra anxiety today.’
James stood next to her at the stove, assessing the contents she was stirring around a wok. ‘Chicken stir-fry?’
She nodded. ‘I can’t concentrate enough to make anything more complicated. So, your meeting was horrible?’
‘It was fine. It’s just annoying that I have to keep going to them. I’m so tempted to blow them off. Especially since we might have a lot more on our plates soon.’ He patted her stomach and walked over to the fridge.
Catriona turned around to look at him, the stir-fry forgotten. ‘You have to go to them, you know that. If you don’t, you’ll go to jail.’
‘Babe, I know, okay? I was joking.’ He took a bottle of beer from the fridge and sat on one of the stools nestled under the breakfast bar. They had bought the designer wooden stools when they renovated the kitchen after moving into the terrace. James found them uncomfortable and impractical; Catriona liked that they matched the dining table and said it didn’t matter if they were uncomfortable. As usual, she had won the argument.
‘If we do get pregnant you can’t use that as an excuse not to go,’ Catriona said.
James thumped his bottle on to the breakfast bar, splashing beer over the stone bench top. ‘I know that. You don’t have to treat me like a child. I’ve been going to them for nearly two years now and I’ve never missed a single one.’
‘Don’t yell at me.’
‘I’m not yelling at you, I just . . .’ He sighed and walked over to the pantry, taking from it a paper towel to mop up his spilled beer. ‘I’m sorry, Cat. I’m just so nervous. I haven’t been able to think straight all day. Why hasn’t Doctor Malapi called yet? What does that mean? Do you think it’s bad news?’
Catriona started to spoon the cooked stir-fry into bowls as she spoke. ‘He’ll call, regardless of whether the news is good or bad.’
She had done her best to hide her nerves from James. He always said she was the strong one in their relationship, and from the state he was in she knew he needed her support more than she needed his.
‘And what if we’re not pregnant?’ James asked.
‘If we’re not, we’re not. You know what Doctor Malapi said: we have a thirty per cent chance with our first attempt. So, that’s a seventy per cent chance against.’
‘Thanks, Einstein.’
Catriona pushed one of the bowls towards James and walked around the breakfast bar to sit next to him on the spare stool. ‘So, how was—’
She was interrupted by the sound of her mobile ringing. It was a noise Catriona heard several times a day but it seemed louder now, more insistent. They exchanged a nervous glance before James picked up the phone from the kitchen bench, looked at the number and then handed it to her. ‘You answer. I can’t.’
Catriona gingerly held the phone up to her ear. She recognised the soothing voice immediately.
‘Catriona? It’s Doctor Malapi. Sorry to call you so late, but I just got your blood-test results back and I thought you’d want to know the news straightaway.’
Catriona paused, waiting for the words she had wanted to hear for the past two years.
‘You’re pregnant! Congratulations.’
Doctor Malapi went on with some other information about ultrasounds and check-ups, but Catriona wasn’t paying attention. She silently repeated his joyous words to herself over and over again. You’re pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’re pregnant. James was watching her intently, trying to follow the conversation from the expression on Catriona’s face. He mirrored her smile and started nodding his head in question, his eyebrows raised. She only just remembered to thank Doctor Malapi before she hung up.
‘We are, aren’t we?’ James asked. ‘We’re pregnant?’
Her heart fluttered in her chest like a trapped butterfly. ‘We are. We’re going to have a baby!’
Later that night, as Catriona lay in bed with James snoring softly next to her, she tried to imagine what kind of mother she would be. Tough but fair, she decided. The type of mother other mothers admired. The type of mother whose child never threw a tantrum in the supermarket, or ran away in a car park, or bit another kid in the playground.
She smiled as she rested her hands on her still-flat abdomen. ‘And I promise, no matter what,’ she whispered, ‘I’m going to love you with all my heart.’
2
CATRIONA
Wednesday, 24 November
2010
The clunk of a coffee cup being set down on her bedside table roused Catriona from her sleep, but after briefly blinking open her eyes she closed them against the light. James had opened the shutters in their bedroom, allowing sunlight to pour across the carpet and on to Catriona’s face. In an unintentional display of colour coordination, this morning her skin was the same grey as the quilt cover and the cushions lying on the floor next to their bed.
‘Time to get up, Cat,’ she heard James say from somewhere in the bedroom. ‘You’re going to be late for work.’
‘It can’t be morning,’ Catriona mumbled into her pillow as she pulled the covers closer around herself. ‘I feel like I haven’t even slept yet.’
‘I made you a coffee. That’ll make you feel better.’
‘Decaf isn’t going to help me,’ Catriona said as she sat up and reached for the cup. ‘I miss real coffee.’
As she brought the cup towards her mouth the smell of the coffee caused a surge of nausea to pass through her. She retched and put the cup as far away from her as she could reach.
‘What’s wrong?’ James asked her.
‘Put coffee on the list of things I can’t stand any more.’
Catriona struggled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. She groaned out loud at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. The bags under her eyes were as dark as bruises. It looked as if she hadn’t slept at all the night before, but in reality she had been in bed by eight-thirty. Pregnancy had sapped all of her energy. Every task felt like a struggle and no amount of sleep rid her of her relentless tiredness.
James’s reflection appeared behind her as she finished putting on her make-up. ‘Are you feeling any better?’
‘No,’ Catriona said. ‘I’m exhausted. I’ve used up the little energy I had to get ready for work. I want to go back to bed now.’
‘Why don’t you take a day off? Tell your boss you’re sick.’
‘I can’t, there’s a nine o’clock meeting I have to be at. I’m sure I’ll be fine once I get to work.’
James leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you’re feeling so horrible. I wish it was me feeling this way and not you. But the book said it’s common to feel like this in the early stages. You should feel better once you’re further along. And once the baby’s born, you’ll forget all about this part.’
Catriona attempted a smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. She hadn’t realised exhaustion was one of the side effects of pregnancy. She let James read the pregnancy books and asked him to tell her only the parts she absolutely had to know. She was eight weeks into her pregnancy and the idea of feeling like this for another thirty-two weeks was more than she could bear to think about. It didn’t help that her job demanded long hours and vivaciousness in front of her clients. She tried her best to act the part while she was at work, despite her sluggishness, but as soon as she dragged herself on to the bus each evening to commute home she felt her posture slump. She wished her pregnancy was evident so she could ask people on the bus to give up their seat for her. As far as she could see, it was the only perk pregnancy offered.
‘Why don’t you invite your parents over for dinner this weekend so you can tell them we’re pregnant?’ James said.
‘But you’re not meant to—’
‘I know. But what’s the difference between eight weeks and twelve weeks? I’m sure we’ll get the all clear at the scan. It might cheer you up.’
Three days later, as Catriona trussed the lamb roast she was preparing for dinner with her parents, she decided James was right. The anticipation of their reaction to the news of her pregnancy had already boosted her mood, and the thought of eating roast lamb for dinner made her feel hungry rather than nauseous for a change.
Her parents didn’t have any other grandchildren – Catriona was an only child – and they had long ago given up hope that she would change her mind about having children. She knew it anguished them to hear stories about their friends’ grandchildren and see their fridges decorated with a collage of photos and artwork lovingly made for them by small fingers. Now they would finally have a grandchild of their own. She hadn’t told them she and James were going through IVF, so her pregnancy would be an even greater surprise to them.
As she placed the roasting pan in the oven, Catriona tried to guess how her parents would react to her news. Her mother would cry, she decided. It didn’t take much to make her mother cry. Her father would probably shake James’s hand and congratulate him as though he was the first man ever to impregnate his wife.
By early evening the smell of roast lamb had permeated the bottom level of the house. James walked into the kitchen, where Catriona was topping and tailing green beans, and sniffed the air appreciatively. He peeked into the oven, where the lamb was starting to brown and pucker in between the trusses of string holding the leg in shape. ‘That lamb looks so good. Is it the one with the date-and-pistachio stuffing you made for my birthday?’
But Catriona wasn’t listening to him. She had felt a dull pain in her abdomen earlier that day and now not only had that pain worsened, but she felt a sudden warm wetness between her legs. She ran up the stairs to the bathroom, racked with fear.
James followed her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he called through the bathroom door, his voice high and pained. ‘Cat, what’s happened?’
Catriona stared at the underwear around her knees, wet and stained with bright red blood. She knew what blood meant. This had happened to her once before, long before she and James had started dating, but she had never told him about it. She couldn’t believe it was happening again.
It took a few seconds for her to find her voice before she managed to answer. ‘I think I’m losing the baby.’
Slowly the handle turned and James appeared, ashen-faced. He looked down at her soiled underwear, still stretched between her knees, and what little colour was left in his face disappeared completely.
‘I think I’m losing the baby,’ Catriona repeated.
Then, as if someone had pressed a button on a remote control, James sprang into action. ‘We have to get you to the hospital,’ he said, taking her by the arm and leading her down the hallway towards the front door. ‘There might still be a chance the baby’s okay.’
‘James—’
‘You never know, Cat, it might be fine. We just have to get to the hospital quickly.’
He fidgeted by the front door while Catriona changed her underwear, found a sanitary pad to soak up the blood that was still seeping from her, and located her handbag. When she met him at the door he already had his car keys in his hand and was halfway over the threshold.
‘Wait, the oven—’ Catriona said.
‘I turned it off.’
‘And my parents—’
‘I’ll call them from the hospital,’ James said as he ushered her down the front steps. ‘I’ll tell them you’ve come down with a stomach bug. Don’t worry about it. Let’s go, Cat, quickly!’
During the drive to the hospital James talked non-stop, quoting paragraphs from the books he had read about how bleeding was common in the first trimester, how there were many reasons for it other than a miscarriage. Catriona remained silent, her hands clutched to her stomach as if that could prevent what she knew was inevitable.
Despite James’s optimism, Catriona’s intuition was confirmed. The emergency room doctor assured her it was nothing she had done wrong, that miscarriages happen all the time for no real reason, but it didn’t alleviate the guilt she felt when she thought back on everything she had done over the past eight weeks. Surely it had been that glass of wine she sneaked in one night, or those prawns she had eaten even though she knew she wasn’t supposed to, or all those times she had worked late when she was exhausted and should have been resting. Whatever it was that had caused it, she knew it was her fault.
The memory of her miscarriage more than a decade earlier came rushing back at her. She had been twenty-four, only three years out of university, and was working
at her first proper marketing job after enduring an oppressive graduate program. She had started dating a colleague five years her senior, an Englishman named Stephen. She was attracted to him from the time she met him. He told travel stories from all over the world, took her to the best restaurants in Sydney and discussed politics with her over glasses of red wine. Her pregnancy was unplanned and when she told him about it he suggested she get an abortion. He told her she wasn’t the motherly type, and if she had a child she could say goodbye to her career. When she miscarried four weeks later, she felt that it was her body’s way of telling her that he was right: she wasn’t supposed to be a mother. It had taken James a long time to change her mind, but even so a sliver of doubt remained.
Catriona knew that James was devastated about the miscarriage, even though he tried to be upbeat. ‘We’ll give it a break before we try again with IVF,’ he said as he drove home from the hospital, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her knee. ‘Let’s wait a couple of months. Maybe we should book a holiday somewhere, give you a chance to rest and get your strength back. How does that sound?’
Catriona didn’t respond. The thought of going through the whole affair again was too much to handle. As if the hormone injections and implantation procedure weren’t bad enough, there was also the anguish of waiting for the pregnancy results, and then the constant nausea if she did fall pregnant. She had already miscarried twice in her life – what if it happened again? She missed the life she had before she started trying to fall pregnant, when her body was still her own and her life wasn’t dictated by a fertility schedule.
Claiming Noah Page 2
