Art Ache

by Lucy Arthurs

  I hang up. Absently and automatically. Businesslike. Boundaries. She calls me straight back. I let it go to message. My SELF can’t deal with her right now.

  The lovely Indian doctor breezes back in.

  DOCTOR

  They’re expecting you. Are you okay to drive? I can call an ambulance.

  ME

  I’m fine.

  DOCTOR

  No, you’re not. But I think you’re okay to drive. It’s not far. And contact your obstetrician. She’ll need to know.

  ME

  My obstetrician?

  DOCTOR

  Of course. You can discuss everything with her. If you feel at all dizzy or light- headed while driving, pull over and call an ambulance.

  ME

  Okay.

  I somehow manage to get up, walk out of the room, make my way back to the car and drive the short trip to the local hospital. I don’t feel dizzy, but I can barely see for tears. How life can turn on a dime. I instantly have an understanding of that saying.

  Patrick’s already there when I arrive. He holds me and I sob.

  ME

  They said the baby . . .

  But I can’t get the words out.

  PATRICK

  Don’t worry about the baby. He’ll be fine.

  ME

  It could be a girl.

  PATRICK

  It’s a boy. I’ve got a sixth sense. He’ll be fine.

  ME

  . . . life-threatening, possible respiratory compliations, maybe some form of calcification, even cardiovascular problems and/or limb deformity . . .

  PATRICK

  What?

  ME

  The side effects, if the baby gets it. If it crosses the placenta.

  PATRICK

  They must have been talking about worst-case scenario.

  ME

  Yes.

  PATRICK

  That’s what doctors do. Put the willy up you so you behave.

  ME

  You really think so?

  PATRICK

  Look at me.

  I lift my head to meet his gaze.

  PATRICK

  Shit, you’ve got even more spots.

  ME

  Great.

  PATRICK

  Look at me. Whatever happens, we’ll cope. He’s our little tacker.

  I keep expecting him to break out into a Victoria Bitter beer ad—You can get it workin’. His Australianness continues to surprise me. I love it, but I’m not used to a “real” Aussie bloke. It’s genuine with Patrick. It’s part of who he is. He isn’t acting; he’s just being himself. When theatre actors pretend to be Aussie blokes, it’s all knuckle-dragging, speech-slurring, burping, farting, rhyming slang, bunged on Aussie-ness. They even slap on a Jackie Howe singlet for that added layer of authenticity. But Patrick is the real deal. He doesn’t use words like “tacker” because they’re in the script. He uses words like “tacker” because they’re in him.

  His solid Aussie-ness becomes the firm rock that I lean on over the next couple of weeks. Getting a seemingly innocuous childhood illness when you’re a pregnant woman couldn’t be more complicated.

  My parents haven’t had this delightful childhood disease so they can’t visit me in hospital. Nor my sister, nor Tom. It’s just Patrick and Jack. Bonding over a broken leg and a bout of chicken pox. Not a conventional way to get to know your mother’s new partner, but I think I’ve thrown conventionality out the window lately.

  Mum phones each and every day. Sometimes each and every hour.

  MUM

  Everything all right, love?

  ME

  I’m fine.

  MUM

  I just can’t risk it love or I’d be there.

  ME

  I know that. I’m highly infectious.

  MUM

  And I think it’s wonderful about the baby. I really do. Even if something’s wrong with it. Even if it’s got . . . what did you say?

  ME

  Calcification.

  MUM

  That’s right, love. Even if it’s calcified and deformed, we’ll still love it.

  ME

  I’m sure you will.

  MUM

  And Patrick. Even though you’re not married. It is the modern world, I guess.

  ME

  Yes it is.

  MUM

  We’ll support you no matter what, love. You know that.

  I have a week of this. I feel dreadful. Sad, shocked, disoriented. Jack has the adventure of a lifetime being ferried between Mum and Dad’s, Tom’s, and getting to know Patrick on trips to the hospital, while I’m consumed with the litany of possible side effects from what I previously thought was an innocuous childhood disease.

  And I’ve let the theatre company down. Yes, that seems trivial, but I know the reality of dropping out of a play. That’s why I’ve never done it. It costs the company lots of money and lots of time. There are no covers or understudies for small to medium sized theatre companies, so if someone drops out they need to rehearse a new actor pronto. The only saving grace I can think of is that the company has done the play before. They probably just got one of the previous actors to fill in. I hope so. I hope they didn’t lose money or audience or credibility. It’s already a time of flux for the company with the incumbent artistic director heralding his decision to leave. The last thing they need is an unexpected drama from one of the actors. Oh dear.

  They sent me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers while I was in hospital with a lovely note telling me all was well. I sincerely hope it is on many levels. My agent, on the other hand—wide open spaces and not a bud or blossom to be seen.

  Seven days later I’m discharged with strict instructions to see my obstetrician within the next couple of days. I need to be monitored very closely for the remainder of the pregnancy.

  I arrive at the obstetrician’s on time. She’s a large, matter-of-fact woman who doesn’t have any children or any patience for pregnant women. Maybe her career found her because she almost certainly didn’t find it. She is most definitely a square peg in the round hole that is obstetrics.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  You’ll have to seriously consider termination.

  ME

  I would never terminate this baby.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  I wouldn’t call it a baby yet. It’s still a foetus.

  ME

  To me, it’s a baby.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  Well, it could very well turn out to be a baby with deformed limbs and a calcified brain. Contracting chicken pox in the first trimester is very serious. You’re lucky you didn’t die.

  She says this like I contracted it deliberately and now I’m showing off because I managed to survive.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  There’s only been one international study done on the outcome of the mother and child. Three women died and ten percent of the babies had severe deformities of the limbs and/or calcification of the brain. Think about it.

  I can’t. I can’t think. Again, a medical professional is suggesting I end my baby’s life before it’s barely begun. I respect a woman’s right to choose and understand it’s a valid option, but I know now what I’ve suspected for a long time. I can’t do it.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  You need to make some decisions.

  ME

  I can’t think.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  Yes, you can. Pregnancy brain doesn’t actually exist.

  She reminds me of Trunchbull from Roald Dahl’s Matilda. The harsh, cruel, tyrannical head mistress of Cruchem Hall Academy. I’ve got the feeling
this obstetrician has crutched quite a few in her time.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  Legally I can’t tell you what to do, but if it were me . . .

  She trails off for dramatic effect. I’m frozen. Speechless. Immovable.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  If you’re not going to terminate then I’d suggest an amniocentesis.

  The Indian doctor mentioned that. I find my voice. It’s squeaky and weak.

  ME

  What is that, exactly?

  OBSTETRICIAN

  They drain some amniotic fluid, with a bloody big needle, and test it. It’s the only way we can tell for sure if it’s crossed the placenta and infected the foetus.

  ME

  That sounds like a good idea.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  Potentially. But there’s a one in two hundred chance that you’ll miscarry. Your chance is probably even higher because you’re pushing forty.

  ME

  Not quite.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  Near enough.

  Charming. She’s calling my baby a terminable foetus and me a middle-aged woman. I’ve got to get out of here.

  ME

  I need to think.

  OBSTETRICIAN

  Well, do it pronto. Much harder to terminate after fifteen weeks. Get onto it.

  I’m walking through quicksand as I make my way back to the car. I’m in a daze. The sun is belting down on my forehead and my feet are so heavy I can hardly lift them.

  STRANGER

  You all right, love?

  It’s an old man reaching his arm out towards me.

  ME

  I’m fine.

  STRANGER

  Here.

  He hands me his hanky.

  STRANGER

  I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems, love. Nothing ever is. Take care of yourself.

  I take his hanky and wipe my nose. It wasn’t my nose he was worried about but the tears that are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t even feel them. That’s all I seem to do lately—cry. I’ve sprung a permanent leak. I wipe the tears away with his beautifully ironed monogrammed hanky. “A.” I wonder what it stands for. Maybe Arnold. Or Albert. Aloysius? I look around for him to return the hanky, but he’s gone. I continue mopping up the tears as I make my way to the car. Then I sit behind the wheel and stare blankly into space. I can’t remember how to drive.

  DRIVER

  Come on, love. Back the bloody thing out!

  Toot, toot! An irate driver is behind me flashing his lights and demanding that I vacate the parking space as soon as humanly possible. I oblige. Take it. Park your Alfa and get the hell out of my life.

  Chapter 27

  A week later. At home.

  “He who learns must suffer and even in our sleep, pain, that we cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart.” Aeschylus.

  Patrick’s just brought me back from the hospital. I’ve had the amniocentesis. It was horrible, the longest needle I’ve ever seen and it penetrated my placenta. There was a dull, sickening feeling. Once an actor, always an actor though. I found part of myself taking mental notes of the pain and the emotions, storing them in my memory to be used in the future whenever I need an emotional or sense memory to draw on for a part. Stanislavski would be proud, but I’m dazed.

  Hundreds of thousands of women before me have had this procedure but I can’t understand why they haven’t been shouting from the rooftops, “This fucking hurts!” Why are we women so ridiculously private about our gynaecological experiences? They’re barbaric. As the needle pressed into my belly, I felt I was losing the baby then and there. It hurt, but worse than the hurt was the feeling of letting go. Positive psychology books rave on and on about letting go. They have no idea. This was a genuine feeling of letting go. Letting go in spite of myself. My body was threatening to let go of a life. I had no control over it. I just waited, hoping and praying that the baby would stay inside, that the life would continue to grow.

  And it seems it has so far. I have to stay horizontal with my feet up for 24–48 hours. I feel a dull ache, like a sickly, odd period pain that is very low in the pelvis and very deep inside. I am acutely aware I am the custodian of a life, but I have no control over whether that life stays inside my body.

  Jack is staying with my parents for a couple of days. They’ve been great, my sister too. I feel supported, sore and tired. Patrick has tucked me up in bed and brought me a cup of tea.

  PATRICK

  I think we need a holiday. After all this, I reckon we should take off somewhere.

  ME

  I have to stay still for a couple of days.

  PATRICK

  Not now, in a few weeks. Let’s go somewhere for a week. We’ll take Jack.

  ME

  I’d love it. Something to look forward to.

  PATRICK

  Where?

  ME

  An island. Somewhere remote . . . Fraser?

  PATRICK

  Never been there.

  ME

  Really?

  PATRICK

  No “history.”

  ME

  Me neither. Everyone raves about it.

  He grabs his diary from out of his bag.

  PATRICK

  I reckon I’ve got holidays coming up.

  He flicks through the pages and I see a love heart drawn on the date of my birthday.

  ME

  How cute.

  PATRICK

  Huh?

  I reach over to the diary and flick back to my birthday.

  ME

  That’s my birthday.

  PATRICK

  What?

  He’s agitated.

  ME

  A love heart. That’s the night of my party.

  PATRICK

  Oh, yeah.

  ME

  You liked me. You drew a love heart on my birthday.

  He flicks past the page. I notice something else on one of the other pages. Another love heart. It’s before my birthday.

  ME

  What’s that?

  PATRICK

  What?

  ME

  Flick back. Before my birthday.

  PATRICK

  Do you want to plan this holiday or not?

  He’s flicking furiously through the pages of his diary.

  PATRICK

  I reckon September. I’ll have enough leave by then.

  ME

  Sure. September sounds good.

  PATRICK

  I’ll check when I get back to work.

  ME

  Good.

  He crams his diary back into his bag and crams the bag into the cupboard.

  PATRICK

  Why don’t you have a sleep and I’ll duck out and get something for dinner. What do you fancy?

  ME

  Anything.

  PATRICK

  Leave it to me.

  He pecks me on the cheek and goes to hunt and gather food at the local shop.

  I should just leave it. Put it out of my mind. It’s none of my business, after all. He had a love heart on my birthday—that’s all I need to know. Just forget about the other one you saw. Assume it was for you, Persephone. Move on. Read a book. Do your nails. Check your phone.

  But I can’t forget about it. I want to know.

  I gingerly get out of bed, telling myself I need to go to the toilet, but really I’m going to the cupboard. The bag’s at the front and I grab the diary from it. I gingerly crawl back into bed and flick to the pages before my birthday. The party was on the Friday before my
birthday so that must have been the love heart I saw. There it is. There I am. Pers. With a love heart. How sweet. It was for me. The love heart was for me.

  But there’s one the day before my party . . . Tracey. Who’s that? I flick the pages back another week. Cheryl. Love heart. Julie. Love heart. Mirandaaaahhhh. Love heart. That’s how it’s written. With a big aaaahhhh. And a love heart! Who are these people and why do they have my love heart? He said he hadn’t been dating anyone. That’s okay. He was single. He was a free agent, he could date whomever he wanted. But when we’d talked about it he said he’d dated a couple of women in June last year and then it had been “wide open spaces.” Yes, after the advertising awards thing we established that he’s probably been more casual than he originally said, but just how casual? And how much history does he have?

  Let it go, Persephone.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t go through this process with a liar. I’d rather be by myself. That’s the bottom line. I don’t want another dishonest relationship that ends in a nasty surprise and a divorce. I want to start as I intend to proceed. I need honesty.

  Okay. Don’t condemn the guy before you’ve had the full story. Just get to the bottom of it. And do remember, Pers, that you were trespassing in his private diary.

  My hands are shaking as I dial his number.

  He answers quickly.

  ME

  Would you mind coming back? Don’t worry about dinner. I need to talk to you.

  PATRICK

  Is it the baby?

  ME

  No, the baby’s fine. Just please come back.

  PATRICK

  I’ve barely made it out the driveway.

  I hang up, put the diary away and wait. I need to stay calm, but my head is spinning. Do Re Mi is pounding through my brain—“What am I expected to do? Shout man overboard?” Deborah Conway’s red lips are repeating the words in my brain—“man overboard.” I want Patrick to be who I thought he was. I don’t want to have to put my lifejacket on again.

  What would Marjory say? This is important to you, Persephone. Trust your SELF. Back your SELF.

  Take some deep breaths and ask Deborah Conway to kindly leave your brain alone for a moment. You need to clear your head.