The Baby Trail

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘Come on,’ said Babs, looking at me in shock. ‘You must have one decent CD, surely. We can’t dance to this crap.’

  ‘Hold on, found one,’ Sean said, as he held up Sash’s ‘Encore Une Fois’.

  It was one of the only dance songs I liked so I’d bought the twelve-inch.

  ‘God, it’s so nineties,’ said Babs dismissively.

  Well, it’s going to have to do, because I don’t fancy dancing to Garth Brooks,’ said Sean, laughing.

  ‘I don’t feel any different,’ I said. It was true, I was feeling no effects whatsoever from the E I had taken. I had expected to be bouncing around like Zebedee by now. Babs and Sean looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘Just give it a few more minutes,’ said Babs, handing me a stick of chewing-gum.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘You’ll need it when the pill kicks in, trust me. Just chew,’ said my drug-pushing sister.

  Five minutes later I felt butterflies in my stomach and a tingling sensation down my arms and then I felt fantastic – really happy and full of energy. Sean put on my one and only decent CD and I leaped like a maniac. I could dance, I could feel the music right through my body – the same body that I now realized I loved. I was dancing like Jennifer Beals (well, her body double) in Flashdance. I had rhythm.

  For the next four hours we danced to ‘Encore Une Fois’ over and over again. We hugged each other and told each other we loved each other and we leaped and jived and I chewed on the Wrigley’s gum, thus preventing the alarming involuntary jaw movements I made whenever I stopped chewing. I loved everyone, I wanted to go and tell all our neighbours how much they meant to me, but Babs and Sean stopped me. They were having great fun watching their E-virgin sister freaking out to the music.

  The unsuspecting James came stumbling in after a heavy night boozing with the boys, expecting an earful from me for being so drunk and so late on Christmas Eve when we had to be up early next morning to spend Christmas Day with Mum and Dad. Instead he walked in to see his wife throwing herself around the room like something possessed with the stereo on full volume, while his brother- and sister-in-law rolled around on the couch, crying laughing.

  ‘James,’ I squealed, jumping on top of him, ‘I’m so glad you’re home, I love you so much. You’re wonderful. Come on, dance with me, feel the music’ I grabbed his arms and swung him round and round. He extracted himself from my grip and ran to the bathroom, where he proceeded to throw up violently.

  ‘Classy couple,’ said Babs, roaring with laughter. ‘I hope I grow up to be just like you.’

  20

  When we woke up we were both fully clothed lying on top of the duvet. I was still twitching from the Ecstasy and James was lying with a bucketful of vomit at his side.

  ‘And we want to be parents.’ I giggled as James threw up into the bucket again.

  ‘Don’t,’ he croaked. ‘I can’t laugh and puke at the same time.’

  We dragged ourselves out of bed and over to Mum and Dad’s house, which looked a bit like Santa’s grotto. To my mother’s great dismay, my father was a huge fan of ‘the Christmas decoration’. Every year he set about decorating the house with great gusto. Rudolphs, Santas and elves hung from the ceilings, surrounded by lots and lots of tinsel. We always had the biggest, bushiest Christmas tree and it always groaned under the weight of the baubles; the pièce de rèsistance was the buxom platinum angel perched on top. Every year my mother would put her foot down at having flashing fairy-lights, much to my father’s disappointment.

  ‘Over my dead body am I having tacky flashing lights. It’s bad enough with all these ridiculous decorations hanging from every corner and a tree the size of Mount Everest with an angel at the top that looks like a stripper.’

  That’s not to say she wasn’t into Christmas, because she was. She loved Christmas, especially as it meant having Sean home for a few days, and she always cooked us a feast fit for kings.

  We arrived late, because James had to pull over every mile or so to retch out the window. He looked positively green. Babs and Sean – our resident drug pros – were fine, but although I didn’t feel too bad, I was beginning to panic because my heart was racing at a hundred miles an hour and my pupils were so dilated that my eyes looked as if they were black. I kept checking them in the mirror and taking my pulse to see if the bloody E had worn off. I didn’t want it in my system any more. What if it never left me and I had flashbacks while I was driving, crashed the car and killed someone? Or, worse, what if it leaked into my eggs and made our baby a drug addict or deformed or something? I was breaking into a sweat thinking about it. I needed reassurance so I dragged Babs into the bathroom.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘When does this drug wear off? I’m still twitching.’

  Babs grinned at me. ‘Relax, it’ll be out of your system totally by tonight. You’re just reacting strongly because it’s your first time. It’s good stuff, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘I feel really guilty and paranoid now. What if I’ve done permanent damage to myself?’

  ‘God, Emma, you’re such a drama queen. You took half an E tab, not a heroin overdose. Chill out.’

  Mercifully, by the time we settled down for present-giving, the twitch had subsided and I was feeling more normal. Mum fussed over ‘poor James and his terrible food poisoning’. Every time she left the room Dad put a drink in front of James and winked at him, saying, ‘Go on, are you man or mouse? Get that into you – the hair of the dog and all that, you’ll feel better if you have a drink,’ and laughed as James turned a deeper shade of green.

  I opened my present from Mum and Dad. It was a book – The Art of Zen and Meditation: how to de-stress our bodies and minds. I looked up and Mum nodded. ‘I think you’ll find it most useful. The woman in the shop told me her daughter was transformed by it. Not a bit uptight or snappy any more, she said.’

  ‘I see – and you think I’m like that woman’s daughter, do you? Uptight and snappy?’ I said, in an uptight and snappy tone.

  ‘That’s not what I said.’ Mum sighed. ‘Just read it, Emma, it’s supposed to help you. Now, Sean, this is for you,’ she said, and handed him an envelope.

  He opened it and grimaced. It was a weekend for two in a luxury hotel in the Cotswolds. He took a deep breath. ‘This is really thoughtful of you, but I’ve split up with Amy, so I’ll give it to Emma and maybe she can give me her book on the art of Zen. I could probably use it.’

  ‘Oh, Sean, what happened?’ said my mother, doing a very good impression of someone who wasn’t delighted that their son had just escaped from the claws of a girl to whom she had taken an instant dislike. Mum made all the right noises as Sean explained that it had ended rather abruptly – until she heard the part about Amy running off with the married agent. ‘Nothing but a cheap slut,’ she said. ‘Good riddance to her. You’re far too good for that kind of a girl. Don’t waste your time and energy pining over her, she’s a no-good Jezebel.’

  ‘What the hell–’ Babs interrupted, staring at her present.

  ‘It’s called a winter coat, Barbara. It’s to cover you up when you go out half naked. In future you’re not to leave this house without wearing it. Do you hear me? I’ll not have the neighbours saying my youngest child is a wanton hussy,’ said Mum, deflecting on to Babs her anger at Amy for dumping Sean and having an affair behind his back.

  I was feeling a bit left out. The coat was lovely and looked very expensive, and Sean’s weekend away was generous too. Why did I only get a book?

  ‘And this is for you too, Emma. Just something for work,’ said Mum, handing me a beautiful set of handmade makeup brushes that I had been coveting for ages.

  I had a lump in my throat as I hugged her. ‘Thanks, Mum, sorry for being an idiot earlier. I promise to read the book from cover to cover.’

  We spent the rest of the afternoon stuffing our faces with chocolate and drinking wine – even James managed a few glasses and began to feel better. When I
went to get us another bottle Dad followed me into the kitchen and began shuffling and clearing his throat. ‘Emma, I wonder if I might have a quick word …’

  Whenever Dad cleared his throat you knew he was about to enter into areas where he should never go – areas where he felt exceedingly uncomfortable and you could be sure that he was only broaching the awkward subject with you because Mum had prodded and poked him into it. The last time he had cleared his throat before speaking to me was when I moved in with James – unmarried. My mother didn’t approve at all and had badgered Dad into saying something to me. So he had mumbled about rushing into cohabitation without commitment and English boys being a bit fast and the importance of contraception – at which point he was purple in the face and sweating.

  This time he looked directly over my shoulder, out the window. ‘I just wanted to see how things are going, you know … on the … eh … ah … well … baby front. Your mother feels you’re a little uptight and maybe a bit tense, you know, that things might be a bit tense at home and maybe you should try to, you know … uhm, relax a bit and be a bit more cheerful with James. These things can take time and best not to get too wound up. OK? Great, right … excellent … OK, so … let’s say no more about it.’

  Typical! My mother had blown everything out of proportion and had obviously decided that James and I were heading for a break-up due to my mishandling of my infertility. God, she was annoying sometimes. What did she expect me to be? The Doris Day of wifely perfection? Aaargh. Still, it wasn’t Dad’s fault, so I patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Dad, James and I are fine, everything’s fine. You can tell Mum that we won’t be getting divorced any time soon and I’d greatly appreciate it if she kept her nose out of my marriage.’

  ‘And pigs will fly, Emma, and pigs will fly. You know your mother. Still, she only interferes out of concern. Anyway, enough about this. Drink?’

  When we went back inside, Babs had put on EastEnders and was tormenting poor Sean. ‘Is she good-looking? Yes, I think she is. Is she too good-looking for EastEnders? No, I don’t believe she is. OK, what about her? Is she not very attractive? Come on, Pooh Bear, work with me here –’

  Sean threw a cushion at her. ‘Just because you have a nose that makes Barry Manilow’s look positively tiny doesn’t mean you should be jealous of other women.’

  ‘Jealous of that retard Amy? I don’t think so,’ snapped Babs, who always reacted violetly when her big nose was mentioned.

  ‘It’s such a pity about your nose. You’d be quite good-looking if you had a small one like Emma,’ said Sean, turning the screws.

  ‘Well, at least I’m not a loser who gets cheated on and dumped by his one and only girlfriend,’ shouted Babs.

  ‘Don’t get angry, Babs, your nostrils flare when you get het up and you draw attention to your schnozz – and let’s face it, that’s the last thing you want. By the way, I’ve always wondered, doesn’t it get in the way when you snog?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, and I’d rather have a big nose than be barren,’ she roared, and then her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Shit, Emma, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You know how angry I get when you slag off my nose. I’m sorry, honestly, I didn’t mean it. I’m sure you’re not barren, and if you ever were, I’d give you some of my eggs.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Babs, but we don’t want our kids having your considerable nose. If we ever reach that stage I can assure you that the only person allowed to donate her eggs will be Cameron Diaz,’ said James, defusing the situation.

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ said Mum, popping her head round the door.

  21

  I woke up on New Year’s Day, and all I could think about was that it had been a year. A full calendar year and not a baby in sight. Lots of sex, copious amounts of peeing on sticks and temperature-taking and no sodding baby. I was sick and tired of the natural methods and of being patient. It was time for action.

  I went to see my gynaecologist, Dr Philips. He told me once again that I was not to worry about it, that I was young and healthy and it would all happen soon if I just tried not to focus so much on getting pregnant … Sure a year was nothing, it took six months for your body to adjust from being on the pill, so it was really only six months that we’d been trying and that was no time at all … I just needed to relax and it would all come together …

  Relax! Do they not teach them in med school how annoying it is for a patient to be told to relax when they are wound up like a tightly sprung coil?

  ‘The thing is, Dr Philips, I can’t relax. It’s just impossible. Please stop telling me that relaxing will make it all happen because it’s not something I’m capable of doing. Believe me, I’ve tried.’

  ‘Ah, now, Emma. A lovely young girl like yourself will be pregnant in no time. You just need a little patience. Babies don’t happen overnight. Go out and enjoy yourself and don’t be wearing yourself out worrying.’

  Overnight! What was this? Some form of torture? Could the man not see I was going out of my mind? I gripped my bag and willed myself to be calm and not cry. My voice shaking, I said, ‘Doctor, I realize that I seem a bit impatient to you, but I have now been trying for over a year. I’m thirty-four – which may seem young to you, but does not seem young to me. I want to go on fertility drugs or do IVF or whatever it takes to get pregnant. Please understand that I’m not leaving this office until you refer me to a fertility specialist. I’ll go mad if I don’t do something.’

  Dr Philips looked at me and sighed. He could see he had a lunatic on his hands. ‘Well, now, Emma, you don’t want to be jumping into fertility treatments. Have you tried yoga? Apparently it works wonders. Only the other day I had a patient who had been trying to conceive for three years and then she took up the old yoga and a month later she was pregnant. Your mindset has a lot to do with it. A positive frame of mind works wonders.’

  I ground my teeth. ‘I have tried yoga and found it to be a modern form of torture. It’s just not for me, Doctor. I’m a doer. I can’t sit around waiting for things to happen. I need to move forward on this. I don’t want to spend another year trying with no results. Please, Doctor, I want the fertility drugs.’

  Dr Philips shook his head. ‘I can see there’s no persuading you to wait another few months, so I’ll make an appointment with Mr Reynolds at the Harwood Clinic. He’s considered the best fertility consultant in the country.’

  A week later when I arrived to the Harwood Clinic I was impressed. My feet sank into the plush cream carpet in Reception and they had proper magazines to read – Vogue, Elle and In Style– not the usual outdated medical journals that talked about ingrown toenails and hernia operations. I sank back into the soft red sofa and opened Vogue. I was drooling over an outrageously expensive Louis Vuitton bag when a heavily pregnant woman and her doting husband walked in. What? I had presumed that only women who couldn’t get pregnant came here. The last thing I expected was to have to sit with expectant couples. I tried not to look at them as he placed his hand on her stomach and they giggled in amazement as the baby kicked or farted or sang or whatever it was doing in there. I hated them. I hated them for their happiness and excitement. The man caught my eye and smiled at me. I scowled and hid behind my magazine. He might have had lots to be cheery about but I didn’t. They should have separate waiting rooms for women who are pregnant and women who are not, I thought, because we live in two very different worlds. And us barren gals don’t want to have to deal with glowing pregnant couples.

  After a thirty-minute wait, pretending to read Vogue and trying not to have a nervous breakdown as two more happy pregnant couples arrived into the waiting room, I was asked to follow a glamorous nurse to Mr Reynolds’s rooms. I trotted down the corridor after her, feeling confident that this man was going to cure me and save me from spiralling into insanity.

  I walked in and a small, young, scruffy-looking man in a crumpled suit smiled at me. He looked like a refugee fresh off the boat from Outer Mongolia or somebody selli
ng the Big Issue rather than his services as a fertility specialist. He stood up to greet me, still only reaching my shoulders, and gave me a wet-fish handshake. Where was my middle-aged bellower? I wanted one of those loud, noisy, over-confident doctors who bellowed at you and crushed your hand when they shook it. I immediately felt at ease with those men. The louder the doctor bellowed at me, the safer I felt. It was ridiculous, pathetic, even, but it worked. I wondered if they taught them that in college: ‘Shout: the patients find it reassuring.’

  Mr Reynolds was pale and hunched. He had blond, wiry, unkempt hair, thick National Health-type glasses, and was chewing the end of a Bic pen. Where was my tall, tanned, athletic-looking doctor? I wanted my specialist to look as though he’d just swooped in from the slopes of St Moritz or from a week in the Caribbean on his yacht. Loaded. I wanted him to look loaded. Stylish suit, crisp white shirt, trendy, but not too trendy, tie and a big fat gold pen – they always have big fat gold pens to match their big flash antique desks.

  Mr Reynolds peered at me over his ordinary-looking desk and smiled awkwardly. I wondered for a moment if I had the wrong guy. Maybe the nurse had made a mistake. I looked around the room. It was full of thank-you cards and pictures of women with babies. All very well, my dear Watson, but they might have been planted there. They might have been pictures of his fifteen brothers and sisters with their offspring for all I knew, and he might have written the cards himself.

  ‘Mr Reynolds?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Christ, it was him. Maybe this was some kind of a wind-up. Maybe James had set it up to distract me from my obsessive path, in a lame effort to ‘lighten you up’. I looked around for hidden cameras.

  ‘So, what seems to be the problem?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry, uhm, well, I can’t seem to get pregnant so Dr Philips suggested I come and see you, so here I am …’ I mumbled grumpily, at the man-child.