by Emily Brewin
‘Have you got someone with you?’ The young woman stares at her in the unabashed way of a toddler. ‘You won’t be able to drive after the anaesthetic.’
The air freshener dispenser releases something florid from the wall nearby.
‘My husband will be here later.’
The young woman’s expression softens to something resembling sympathy.
‘He has a meeting.’
She nods and looks back down at the computer. ‘Take a seat. We’ll call you when we’re ready.’
Isobel wants to assure her that Marcus really does care. He’d told her this morning. He’s just busy at work, that’s all. She was beginning to dislike the word, busy. He seemed to use it a lot, as if highlighting her life was the exact opposite of it.
A nurse in blue catches her just as she’s about to sit down. ‘Isobel. Isobel Hutchins?’ She smiles. ‘Follow me.’
The nurse leads the way to a small change room then hands Isobel a pair of socks, a cotton gown and a robe. ‘I’ll be back in a tic.’
There is barely room to move. She struggles into the flimsy gown and robe then wrestles the fat terry-towelling belt around her waist. She leaves the socks on the floor. Each time she twists, her stomach aches. She catches her reflection in the mirror, head poking out of the oversized garb, and is suddenly glad Marcus is busy.
The nurse returns, taking her clothes and handbag. ‘Okay?’
Isobel nods. She isn’t about to tell the woman how nervous she is, that secretly she fears she might not wake up from the anaesthetic or that the thought of the needle piercing her ovaries makes her giddy.
In the end, Marcus is late. She waits under the concerned gaze of the fresh-faced young woman at reception because the recovery room got too full. The nurse has given her something for the pain but her stomach still cramps and she struggles to get comfortable in the plastic seat.
With every squirt of floral air freshener, her frustration at him grows. The nurse called him over an hour ago, just after she announced they’d collected four healthy eggs. She said it brightly, although the number didn’t sound promising even in Isobel’s post-anaesthetic state.
She checks email on her phone before trying Marcus again. Usually it’s tedious, trawling through appointment times and meeting reminders from Penny. But now a quiver of anticipation runs through her as her mailbox opens. Nothing. She scrolls again in case she’s missed something then checks spam. There’s an email from someone called Cindy spruiking the benefits of herbal Viagra and a sale message from an online store she visited once on a whim. She clicks back to her inbox. Suddenly it’s as if she doesn’t exist.
Almost an hour after this Marcus walks through the door. She can barely contain her rage, seethes with it. She was about to call a taxi. The young woman at reception had offered her another cup of tea, with a biscuit this time. He smiles sheepishly.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ she says through gritted teeth.
Marcus glances at the receptionist then picks up her handbag. ‘Ready?’
She refuses to move. The painkillers aren’t doing the job and a hot wash of fury flows through her body. She adjusts her jacket and thanks God she isn’t wearing the dowdy gown anymore.
‘I’ve been ready for two hours.’
Marcus looks sideways. The young woman is bringing over more tea despite Isobel telling her she didn’t want another.
‘C’mon, Bel.’ Her bag dangles at his side. ‘I wish I didn’t, but I’ve got to get back to the office once I’ve dropped you home.’
The receptionist stops at the sight of them and almost turns back.
‘Thank you,’ Isobel says to her, looking at Marcus. ‘I’ll have it before I go.’
He exhales and adjusts his tie but doesn’t argue.
She takes her time, even nibbles the biscuit.
They don’t talk in the car until they are close to home and the silence is beginning to bite.
‘So, how did it go?’ he asks cautiously as they turn left up Elgin Street.
Even the slight bounce of the car causes her to flinch. She chews the question over. Part of her wants to withhold the information but deep down she’s glad he’s finally asked.
‘They got four eggs.’
Marcus raises an eyebrow.
‘The nurse seemed to think it was a good outcome.’
‘She would say that though, wouldn’t she?’ He sniffs. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be in the clinic’s best interests to say otherwise.’
She lifts herself slightly from the seat as they brake suddenly and she frowns, not in the mood to listen. She’s heard it all before, the cynicism. He doesn’t understand the depth of her longing, couldn’t possibly. It’s akin to looking at the family Christmas photograph again.
Somewhere at the edges of her body, the feeling is still there. That warm sense of belonging that had lifted her up and carried her through childhood, certain in the knowledge she was loved. It had felt just out of reach for so long.
For a while their marriage went some way to recreating it, but something cracked after she took the promotion, letting the chill back in. Some days she worries she might float away, high into the endless sky because there’s nothing to anchor her to earth.
She stares out the car window as they pull up to a red light, willing him not to continue. She doesn’t have the energy to argue. To remind him all over again that she’s the one doing the hard yards, injecting the hormones into her stomach each day and undergoing the unpleasant procedures. It’s her body, her sanity, her career under pressure.
‘Just remember the odds aren’t great.’ His voice softens as he glances at her and he places a hand over hers. ‘You still sure it’s worth it?’
The question stops her heart.
‘It depends on the quality of your sperm too,’ she snaps, snatching her hand away.
He shakes his head as if to say it’s all her fault. And maybe it is. She postponed their plans after all. It was a relief at the time to have the promotion as an excuse. It meant the fling with Bernard lost its power over her too, and things returned to normal. Or so she thought.
She recalls Marcus’s face on the morning she told him children would have to wait and begins to understand the distance that’s developed between them.
‘It’ll happen,’ she says, reaching back and placing a hand over his.
The light turns green and the tension fades into the background like it always does. They’ve missed the boat because of her. It’s getting harder to argue with that.
Rosie & Isobel
SHE LOVES THE PARK, probably even more than Petey does, the wide-open spaces free of tower shadows and the earthy scent of the overgrown garden beds after the rain. She loves the big peppercorn trees that line the path to the lake and the way Petey tears around the place like his bum’s on fire. For a little while, life’s okay. It’s easy to believe she’ll get into uni next year and that down the track she’ll find a good job too. Then they’ll move to a house with a real backyard, a space of their own. God, Petey would love that.
‘Muuuuuuuum.’
He does laps of the playground. It’s his favourite thing to do, run circles around things. Always circles. Over the years she’s come to realise the shape makes him feel safe. So she lets him go and wonders what he’s thinking while he’s doing it. Then she lies down on the wooden bench to soak up the winter sun.
‘Muuuuuum, I wanna go to the lake.’
Her phone vibrates in the bag beside her, making her tense. Seeing Kelly again has made her jumpy and the calls don’t help. She sits up, unzips her bag and yanks the phone free. Number unknown. Her hands tremble. She answers it, even though yesterday she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
In bed last night, she listed the ways she could creep him out, turn the tables, make him feel the same spidery fear she does.
She waits, focuses on an ant crawling up her jeans and listens for background noise. Clues. There’s nothing
except the faint whisper of breathing. She imagines his lips, the full chafed shape of them pressed against the phone and his ear listening. Waiting.
‘I’ll call the cops,’ she says calmly, slowly, glancing up to check Petey. ‘They can trace calls like this, you know.’ Her voice is steady. She’s not going to let the arsehole think he’s got her again. She’s past that. ‘I know it’s you.’
There’s a small tick on the end of the line.
‘Last warning.’ Her voice is steely. ‘Leave me the fuck alone.’
He hangs up. Silence. She listens to the dial tone for a moment. It sounds like victory.
She exhales shakily. Joel always liked to keep her keyed up, alert. It was a game. Like the punches he landed on the wall beside her head or the gear he’d hold up, just out of reach when she was gagging for it. He knew how to taunt her. He was cunning that way, like a cat tormenting a mouse. He’d bat for a while then dig his claws in when she least suspected it, just to remind her who was boss.
But she’s not playing now. That’s the difference. There was a time when she couldn’t survive without him. Then Petey came along and everything changed.
At the thought of Petey she looks up. Last time she saw him he was an aeroplane, arms stretched wide, head thrown back exposing his throat to the sun. But he’s gone. She stands for a better view then climbs up on the bench so she can see the whole playground. Frustration then fear puddles in her stomach. There’s the bright blue slide attached to the plastic turret and the swing set beyond. There’s the scuffed orange tunnel and the monkey bars and the replica car, but Petey’s nowhere in sight.
‘Petey,’ she calls, trying to stay calm. ‘Mate!’
She strides across the playground. Peers up into the turret, then walks towards the tunnel. He often curls up inside. He loves hiding but knows he’s supposed to stay close by. She bends down. The tunnel’s empty. Breath snags in her throat. She straightens and twirls around.
‘Have you seen a kid in a red puffer jacket?’ she demands of a woman pushing a toddler past in a stroller. ‘Blond hair, wavy?’
‘No, sorry,’ the woman replies as Rosie strides away.
She walks to the edge of the playground and scans the area beyond, the bushy garden beds close to the road and the hill that swoops down to the lake.
‘Shit.’
What was she thinking taking her eyes off him? She knows he gets caught up in his imagination. He could be anywhere. She starts to run.
The hill leading down to the lake is wet and she slips as she calls to a pair of joggers. ‘Have you seen a little boy?’ She scrambles to her feet and meets them on the path that circles the lake. ‘Blond.’
‘No,’ one of them says, ‘but we’ll keep an eye out.’
Her head swivels, searching both directions before stopping straight ahead. Past a useless metal rail is the water, vast and mirror-like so she can’t see the bottom. Helplessness spreads like liquid through her, making her legs weak. She can’t leave to get help, but she can’t stay here and do nothing either. She slaps the railing with an open hand. What kind of mother is she? The familiar voice lurks in the back of her mind. She hits the rail again, harder, making her hand sting. Then she takes a chance and runs in the direction of the boathouse.
As she approaches, a woman hurries onto the path wearing patterned lycra pants. ‘Are you missing a child?’
Rosie sees the woman’s mouth move but it takes a moment for her brain to register.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, I am.’
The woman looks stern. ‘Well, he’s hiding under one of the rowboats.’
The relief is instant and makes her lightheaded. ‘Thanks,’ she gushes before following the woman to the other side of the weatherboard shed, eyes darting, desperate for the sight of him.
Wooden rowboats lie upside down in neat lines ready to be turned and dragged to the water.
‘There.’ The woman points to one in the middle. ‘He poked his head out as I was running past.’
Petey peers out, hair roughed up and grinning. ‘You found me, Mum!’
She strides over to the boat, awash with relief then fury, and tries to extract him.
‘Out!’
Petey baulks at the tone in her voice. His bottom lip quivers.
‘Now, mate.’
She props the boat up further with her pack and grabs him. He goes jelly-like, the way he does when he’s protesting, and starts to whimper. The sound makes her fume, and suddenly it’s all so exhausting. Other mothers of eleven-year-olds are supervising sleepovers and internet use while she’s still dealing with tantrums.
The woman in lycra watches, hands on hips, sizing up the situation, sizing up Rosie.
Isobel glances at the young woman’s boots as she grabs at her son under the rowboat. They’re black, chunky, like the ones her father used to wear to work. They lace halfway up her shin, tight in comparison to the sloppy khaki jacket covering the top half of her. She’s speaking too loudly.
Isobel clicks her tongue. The boy is obviously petrified, she can tell by the way his hands grip his pants when he emerges. She used to do the same, hold onto her school dress for all it was worth, as if it would save her.
He is the blondest child she’s ever seen, hair like snow, skin like bone china. His eyes are the exact opposite, so dark they might swallow her. He’s odd, too, in a way she can’t put her finger on, dreamy, as if he’s watching a play in his head. He probably has one of those modern-day defiance disorders caused by too much sugar and screen time. It makes her mad.
The boy starts crying, thrashing his arms about in an attempt to break free from his mother.
‘If he was my child he wouldn’t be wandering around the lake on his own.’ Outrage rises in her throat, sharpening her voice. Something’s terribly wrong with the equation in front of her. A woman incapable of caring for a child shouldn’t have one. The injustice of it stings before the righteousness sets in.
If this mother is anything to go by, having a child should be easy. After all, she’s a woman who knows how to make things happen. Ask Marcus or any one of her colleagues. She has a reputation for winning.
Isobel examines the mother reprimanding her son. She reminds her of her clients’ victims. Pale-faced and worn-out, old before their time. It softens her a little and she almost apologises, but then the young woman turns on her with a ferocity that almost knocks her backwards.
‘But he’s not, is he?’
The comment finds the rawness in her. No, he’s not her son. She crosses her arms quickly, a shield, and wonders when her longing became so obvious.
‘So piss off.’
Isobel stands gobsmacked as the boy’s cries revert to a whimper. It’s turned cold again. The crisp afternoon air blows off the lake and across her hot cheeks, bringing her back to her senses. He had smiled when she first saw him beneath the boat, a big open grin that kneaded the stony spot in her heart.
His mother shakes her head, then bends down and whispers something in his ear. A secret. The crying stops instantly and she kisses his face. Then, ignoring Isobel, she walks away, holding tight to her son’s hand.
He turns and waves before they disappear, and Isobel isn’t sure if she should laugh or cry.
Isobel
ISOBEL STEPS OFF THE TRAM to make the call. She was going to wait until she got to William Street but the anticipation proves too much.
Somewhere, across town, microscopic pieces of her and Marcus have joined forces. Out of the four eggs retrieved last week, three have fertilised. The clinic called a couple of days after the procedure to tell her the good news.
‘Call whenever you like to see how they’re progressing,’ the nurse said. ‘If all goes to plan, we’ll have you back in for a transfer next Friday.’
She’d called every day, already maternal, already acutely aware of the tiny formations’ vulnerability. It’s all she can think about and the thrill it gives her makes everything easy.
She retrieves her pho
ne from her handbag and ducks into a quiet doorway on Bourke Street. By now she knows the number by heart. She dials it slowly, feeling like a child on Christmas morning, too excited to let any doubts enter her mind.
People stream past, mainly in suits. They walk as if they know exactly where they’re going, not only for the day but also for life. Finally a woman answers the phone then asks Isobel to hold. ‘Greensleeves’ plays on loop, but even it can’t dampen her mood.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. This is Isobel Hutchins. I’m just calling to check on my eggs.’ There’s a ring of the absurd to the comment.
‘Just one moment, please.’
‘Greensleeves’ again.
She sucks her cheeks in hard, focusing on the streaks of dirt on the wall in the doorway and the empty yoghurt container near her feet.
‘Sorry for the wait,’ the woman comes back on the line. ‘All three eggs are progressing well. Have you been given a time to come in on Friday?’
‘No.’ Isobel can’t hide the childish thrill in her voice. She tones it down. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Does eleven o’clock suit?’
Maybe she should run the time past Marcus first, but instead she says, ‘That’s fine.’
She hangs up and steps out onto the street. Suddenly, the tram bells and car horns make music and she can’t help smiling at a homeless man sitting two doors down. She drops ten dollars into his ice-cream bucket. It must be uncomfortable sitting on concrete all day long.
Her head is high as she approaches the office. Part of the ‘H’ in Wesley and Hoop has come unhinged. Normally she would be too determined to get in the door to notice. But today, her senses work overtime. She’ll let Penny know about it.
She’d called Penny on a whim, partly to find out what was happening in the office and partly to pad out her day. She decided to tackle her boredom head-on when she found herself watching Oprah two days in a row. Daytime television is for housewives and the unemployed, and she is neither. She spent the next hour breaking her upcoming week into two-hour slots, which she filled with worthy pursuits. Penny is one of them.
