The Mothers

by Genevieve Gannon

  When the shop owner returned with a large plastic container of capsules, Grace tried not to let her smile falter. ‘Thank you, no, I need the jelly,’ she said. ‘The pure jelly?’

  He shook his head, and she backed out onto the street, defeated. She needed to be at school soon for her night shift.

  ‘Damn,’ she said, looking at the time as she ran to catch her bus.

  Grace’s desk phone was ringing when she entered her office, its red light flashing. She had three missed calls.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Grace, can you see me please.’ It was a statement rather than a request. Paul Lombardo sounded like an undertaker.

  ‘Right away?’

  ‘Right away.’

  She arrived in the principal’s office to find her boss standing behind his desk looking agitated. Grey sweat rings were visible under his arms.

  ‘Ah, Grace,’ he gestured towards a chair. He was a mousy man with a pointed chin. ‘Mr Bishop said there was a mishap at the bake-off.’

  Grace silently cursed. After her failed cycle, she had forgotten to report what had happened. ‘Yes. That is, we sorted it out.’

  ‘Grace, three of the girls went missing. Why didn’t you tell me about this?’ His voice was stern.

  ‘Oh, Paul, I meant to.’ He twitched, annoyed—she suspected—at her use of his first name.

  Teachers at Corella addressed the principal as Mr Lombardo, but Grace was not a teacher and many of her interactions with Paul Lombardo happened late at night or early in the morning, in a state of emergency or circumstances that were otherwise delicate. In these dimly lit interactions, a whispered ‘Paul’ and ‘Grace’ had become the norm.

  ‘Mrs Arden,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘When did you plan on informing me about this?’

  ‘I was going to email you.’

  ‘Why not on the night, while they were gone? You didn’t think to call me?’

  ‘It was after hours. I found them straightaway. They snuck off to a party.’

  ‘Mr Bishop said you were gone for forty minutes, and that he and the other girls were sitting in a cold school bus on a dark street waiting for you.’

  Grace nodded, dismayed at what she feared was coming. ‘Right.’

  ‘We have policies.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Procedures.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They’re there for a reason. I am shocked at you, Grace, truly shocked.’

  He employed this exact turn of phrase with students and Grace bristled at being spoken to like a teenage girl who’d snuck off campus during class time.

  Paul Lombardo was shaking his head. ‘Grace, this is a serious infraction.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’

  ‘If something had happened … If the parents found out nothing was done about it—’

  ‘I’ve disciplined the girls.’

  ‘The girls?!’ His cheeks flushed red. ‘If something happens to one of our students, I assure you, Mrs Arden, the parents aren’t going to blame the girls. The parents aren’t going to sue the girls.’ ‘Right. Of course. Again, I’m sorry, Paul. It was a momentary lapse.’

  ‘This is not what parents who enrol their daughters in an institution like Corella expect.’

  As he muttered about responsibility and diligence, memories of her horrific night flashed through her mind: the blood, the fear, the white-hot pain that had followed her into her dreams and stabbed her stomach while she slept. Nobody at the school knew she was going through IVF. She wanted to shout, Don’t you understand that every day I’m being put through an emotional meat mincer? But she would sooner die than let her private pain taint her professional life. Instead she sat silently before Paul Lombardo with clasped hands, penitent, knowing that contrition was the only thing that would appease him.

  Paul was pacing the room, sliding his hand through his hair. ‘Truancy is serious, but we have a duty to protect our students, in particular the boarders whose parents trust us as guardians.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to suspend the bake-off.’

  ‘What?!’ Grace wanted to protest further but she sensed now was not the time.

  ‘We’re going to have to review whether the benefits of running the program outweigh the … risks.’

  ‘It’s a good program, Paul. The girls love it,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not the opportunity to sneak away that they love?’

  ‘It’s the first time it has happened. If you could only see what they’ve achieved—’

  Mr Lombardo cut her off. ‘It’s not the actions of the girls that’s the problem, it was the school’s failure to prevent them. Grace, they’re teenagers.’

  She wiped her clammy palms on her skirt. When she spoke again her voice was calm. ‘When will a decision be made on the program?’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’ He took a seat and leaned back. ‘Grace, you know I think you’re an excellent boarding-house mistress. But this could have gone badly. Very badly. You should have called me immediately. If the parents knew about this, it wouldn’t just be your program they’d be wanting to review.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lombardo.’

  Grace stood to leave. She was at the door when the principal called out again. ‘Grace.’ She stopped and turned.

  ‘Yes?’

  He furrowed his brow. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Of course, Paul.’ She gave a firm nod.

  ‘Okay. You had better get back to work.’

  Back at the boarding house, Grace broke up a squabble over who owned a half-empty bottle of perfume, then went to the kitchen to lay out some gingerbread she had bought for the girls.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Arden. What’s that?’ Bridget Hennessy entered, carrying a calico bag.

  ‘A treat for after dinner,’ Grace said. ‘But only for girls who have done their trigonometry homework. Doesn’t Mr Park’s class have a big test tomorrow?’

  Bridget sighed as she placed her swag on the countertop. Her blonde waves were swept off her face by a white elastic headband. ‘I hate trigonometry. I wish we could do the bake-off every night.’

  Grace felt a pang of guilt.

  ‘Next time can we do something a bit more exciting than the same old casseroles?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘I don’t think there will be a next time,’ Grace said. ‘Mr Lombardo has cancelled the bake-off.’

  ‘What?’ Bridget’s eyes welled up. ‘When will it start again?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘It’s because Stacey and the others snuck off, isn’t it? It’s so unfair,’ Bridget said hotly. ‘Why should the rest of us be punished because of what those other girls did? They’re such … such … bitches.’

  ‘Bridget, language.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Bridget said. ‘Do they think they’re the only ones who hate being cooped up at night? And now they’ve spoiled the one cool thing we had to look forward to.’

  Grace offered Bridget a piece of gingerbread, inwardly pleased at the one cool thing comment. ‘Graduation will be here faster than you think. Have you put any more thought into your university preferences?’

  ‘I feel like I should put down things like engineering or law. If you can get into those courses you should do it, right?’

  ‘If that’s what you want. You seem hesitant.’

  Corella College had an unspoken policy of nudging the girls towards blue-ribbon courses and top-tier universities. They wanted acceptance rates that would look good on prospectuses and marketing material. Grace disagreed with the policy. She believed the girls would have the best chance for success if they pursued something they were passionate about.

  ‘I want to be a chef,’ Bridget said. ‘But Dad says I have to do something more serious.’

  Bridget pulled open her drawstring bag and took out a tin, an egg and some spices. She poured milk from the fridge into a saucepan, which she put onto a hotplate then added chocolate and nutmeg.

  ‘There’s a class at the Cordo
n Bleu in Rozelle every Saturday morning.’ Bridget’s face lit up. ‘I can pay for it with my pocket money but Dad would never let me go. I heard him tell Mum my cooking was a fad.’

  Bridget strained her mixture into a jug, and poured two glasses and passed one to Grace. It tasted surprisingly good—rich and spicy.

  ‘If you explain to him how serious you are he might consider letting you do the course,’ Grace said.

  ‘No, he won’t.’

  ‘Bridget, I’m sure if you appeal to his sense of reason, he will realise it’s your choice.’

  Bridget hung her head. ‘Mrs Arden, there must be something you can do. Please. You have no idea what it’s like to be told you can’t have the one thing you want most in the world.’

  The next night, Grace sat at her dining room table drafting a letter that implored the parents to support the bake-off. She promoted the program as something that could increase the girls’ chances of getting sought-after jobs. It would look good on their résumés, she argued, and elevate them above their peers.

  ‘What’s this?’ Dan asked, stooping to kiss the top of her head when he arrived home.

  ‘Paul might cancel the bake-off. I’m writing to the parents of boarders, appealing to their mercantile sensibilities.’

  ‘They can’t cancel it! It’s a great program. Probably the most worthwhile thing they do at that school.’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly popular,’ she murmured.

  ‘The parents can’t all be so short-sighted.’

  Grace sighed. ‘No. But like anything, there’s a line of resistance and the hostile minority are the most vocal. A few parents were against the program from the start.’

  She stabbed at the keyboard savagely, reminding the parents that the bake-off was merely cooking and charity, and it was voluntary at that. The girls are free to join in, or not, she typed.

  ‘I’ve got something that might cheer you up.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Dan rummaged in his work satchel and pulled out a red-and-white box. The lettering was in Chinese and it was illustrated with gold bees.

  ‘Royal jelly?’ Grace’s face broke into a smile. ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘A good reporter can find anything.’

  ‘The perks of being married to a journalist,’ Grace said.

  She slid her fingernail underneath the seal and flipped opened the lid. From inside she plucked a plastic vial. She opened it, brought it cautiously to her nose and sniffed. ‘Pew, Caroline was right.’

  ‘Let me have a whiff.’ Dan leaned towards it. ‘Oof. It’s a bit ripe.’ ‘I’ll get a spoon.’ Grace disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later. She squeezed some jelly onto the spoon, closed her eyes and put it in her mouth. ‘Argh!’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Ooh, yes, it’s bad. Ugh. Ack. Oh, that must mean it’s good for you, right?’

  ‘I know something else that might be good for you.’

  ‘Mm?’ Grace was studying the back of the Royal Jelly container.

  ‘There’s a press junket on the Gold Coast. They’re putting me up. You should come. It could be our last hurrah if that jelly does the trick.’

  Grace felt a twinge of annoyance. ‘Why do you have to talk about parenthood like it will be the end of our lives?’

  He laid his hands on her shoulders and said gently: ‘We can still enjoy ourselves while we’re waiting for it to happen for us.’

  ‘I’m just so scared we’re going to miss our chance,’ she said.

  ‘I know you are, but this is exactly why we need a holiday. All this stress can’t be good for you.’

  Grace looked at his pleading eyes. Dan was indefatigably positive. In her peripheral vision she could see the squeezed-out tube of royal jelly, and she felt her throat tighten. An accusation was forming: he had only bought the jelly to bribe her into saying yes to the holiday. But before she spat the words at him she took a breath, and thought of everything else he did for her. It was, she suspected, just the hormones making her defensive.

  ‘Perhaps a holiday in the sun is a good idea.’ She pursed her lips. ‘They say vitamin D helps conception.’

  Dan laughed. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  That night, they made love. And not because an ovulation calendar said they had to.

  It was with a renewed optimism that Grace floated to school the next day. She covered Therese Swan’s homeroom class again, and asked Bridget Hennessy to read the morning’s announcements. When the bell rang the girls collected their books and headed to their first class.

  ‘Well read, Bridget,’ Grace said. ‘How did things go with your father?’

  ‘Why would you care?’ Bridget replied, shouldering past the other students.

  ‘Bridget,’ Grace called her back, surprised.

  The student halted. Her shoulders rose and fell as she huffed and turned, but she wouldn’t look Grace in the eye. A scowl crossed her face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Grace asked. Bridget’s bottom lip trembled. Grace softened her voice. ‘Bridget, if something’s troubling you, it always helps to tell someone.’

  ‘But you’re the one who gave me the bad advice in the first place,’ she blurted.

  ‘What?’ Grace felt a pang of alarm. Calmly, she said: ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I-told-my-father-about-wanting-to-be-a-chef-and-he-said-no-daughter-of-mine’s-going-to-work-as-a-common-cook-if-she-wants-to-remain-a-part-of-this-family.’ The words rushed out of Bridget and culminated in a torrent of tears.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Grace, rankled by the man’s callousness. She passed the box of tissues on her desk to Bridget. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’

  Bridget blubbered loudly. ‘He did. He said he didn’t spend a hundred thousand dollars on tuition just so I could make pasta for people who had actually done something worthwhile with their lives.’

  ‘Maybe you just surprised him,’ Grace said, keeping her voice low and soothing.

  ‘Dad says I have to do medicine or law. He said if I say the word cooking one more time he’ll pull me out of Corella and enrol me in the public school down the road where those boys got arrested for making homemade bombs.’

  ‘Well,’ said Grace, ‘let’s not lose hope yet. In the meantime, I’ll talk to Ms Collings about letting you practise in the kitchen here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. But you have to do it during your free time. No cooking during study hour.’

  ‘Of course, yes. Thank you, Mrs Arden.’

  ‘Now off to chemistry or you’ll be late. Scoot!’

  On Saturday, Grace and Dan returned to the world of stirrups and speculums. The Empona waiting room was busy, as always, and packed with aspiring parents seated two-by-two staring with fixed determination at magazines in their hands. The air was charged with apprehension. Grace’s eyes skated over the couples. One pair looked much older than her and Dan, which gave her a guilty sense of comfort. She reasoned, if the doctors had told this couple they had hope, her odds must be even better. The woman’s hair was permed. Her partner’s sea captain’s beard was neat and white. His whalebone corduroys spoke of tastes formed long ago.

  In the far corner, beneath a mute flat screen TV, was a pair still tuned into the younger generation. The woman had a blunt fringe, mulberry-painted lips and shiny plastic arrow earrings. Grace could see from the fluttering of her lashes that she too was assessing the other patients and probably feeling grateful she wasn’t as old as Grace and Dan. Grace tried to ignore the latent envy stirring in her blood. The woman with the arrow earrings had years of possibility ahead of her, and though they might be filled with disappointment and tears, her window of opportunity was open far wider than Grace’s.

  Grace’s nose twitched with the prickly tingle that meant she might be about to cry. This was yet another side effect: her hormone treatment ushered in the full gamut of emotions at the slightest provocation. Telstra ads reduced her cheeks to riverbeds. Sentimental movi
es left her openly sobbing.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Arden,’ the receptionist called. ‘Please go through.’ The small act of standing and walking towards the office where their hopes had been raised then dashed so many times already was enough to make Grace tremble.

  After the appointment, Dan and Grace stopped at the supermarket. Grace was staring, dazed, at a crate of spinach when a voice snapped her back to reality.

  ‘Folate?’ asked the woman, as she reached for a bunch of the leafy vegetable and placed it in her own basket.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Grace looked at her, her mind still blank. Then she realised: it was the woman with the mulberry lips and the arrow earrings. Up close she was even younger than Grace had first thought.

  ‘I eat it raw, for all the good it does me,’ the woman said. She clocked Grace’s confusion. ‘You were just in Empona, weren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry. Just a bit dazed.’

  The woman’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘Bad news?’

  ‘Not yet. Just bracing myself, you know. Mentally. We had a transfer today.’

  ‘It’s brutal, isn’t it? This is my third go.’

  ‘Seventh for me.’

  The younger woman’s face was a collage of pity and empathy. Looking closely, Grace saw the fringe hid a rash of pimples across her forehead. ‘I had a friend who got pregnant first time. It seemed so easy,’ the woman said. She gave a quick shrug. ‘I’m doing everything I can, but I feel like I’m trying to start an engine that’s missing a spark plug. Doctor Osmond suggested some new pills but I keep thinking he’s just throwing darts in the dark. If they really did work surely he would have prescribed them upfront.’

  ‘Doctor Osmond is your doctor?’ Grace asked. She loved Doctor Li, but the name Roger Osmond evoked the messiah’s halo and a heavenly hum. Li was the standout prodigy, but Osmond was the grand master. ‘Do you mind if I ask you the name of the new supplement?’

  The woman dug into her handbag and pulled out a plastic bottle. ‘They say it’s a sort of embryo glue, to help the embryos stick to the uterus wall. At least, that’s the layman’s pitch. I’m sure the reality is more complicated.’