The Mothers

by Genevieve Gannon

  Nick was treating Priya like a queen. Jacker was giddy to have someone home during the day and when Nick arrived at night, the three of them would cuddle up on the couch under a blanket to watch a film. She was beginning to believe things would turn out okay.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Time for a rest. I’ll heat up some lasagne. You sit down, put your feet up.’

  As she dropped her paintbrush into its pail of water and stood up straight, she felt a slight ache in her back and a tightness around her abdomen.

  ‘Here we go,’ Nick said, taking her by the hand into the lounge room. A few minutes later he brought in two steaming plates. He was bending down to arrange them on the coffee table when there came a tingle from his back pocket. It cut through their domestic scene like lightning. Priya’s heart was slammed by the sharp-edged memory of all the intimate communications she had seen. ‘What was that?’ she asked. It was a noise she’d never heard from his phone.

  ‘Erm, an email, I think,’ he said. ‘Hang on a tick.’ He disappeared into the kitchen again. When he came back carrying the cutlery he had forgotten she was standing and was halfway into her jacket.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Wednesday. I’m going to go to class.’

  ‘But we’re about to eat dinner.’

  ‘I’ll heat it up when I get back.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes as one word played again and again in her mind. Megan. Megan. Megan.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, uneasy.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She hooked her handbag over her shoulder, wincing a little as an ache radiated at the base of her spine. ‘I think it will be good for me. I need to get out of the house. Use my brain.’

  ‘You spent all day painting.’

  ‘Drawing relaxes me.’ She picked the car keys up from the sideboard.

  Nick’s eyes followed her, unconvinced. ‘Okay,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’ll see you later, I guess.’

  When Priya arrived at the Fairfield Art Factory she dropped a ten-dollar note into a jar in exchange for access to the open bottles of wine and a cushion on the floor with a view of the naked woman who had hung herself over the edge of a chair like a discarded overcoat.

  ‘That pose is a bit personal,’ her friend Husani whispered, nodding at the model as Priya settled herself next to him. He was holding a piece of charcoal delicately between his fingers, which were blackened around the nail bed and tips. He kept his head down, trying to copy the model without looking directly at her.

  Priya smiled. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. It’s art,’ she said, and drew a thick black line that mimicked the curve of the woman’s torso. Out, in, out. ‘Damn, proportions are off.’ She softened the line, smudging it with her finger.

  ‘Change,’ their instructor, Suzette, called. ‘A horizontal pose this time, I think.’

  The model contorted her body into a new shape. Priya turned the page of her sketch book.

  Husani leaned towards her. ‘When are you going to come and see my art?’

  ‘I see your art every week.’

  ‘Not this. My real work. It’s crying out for a professional critique.’

  Husani had just completed a fine-arts degree, and though Priya didn’t know exactly how old he was, she figured he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.

  ‘I don’t specialise in contemporary art,’ she said.

  ‘Art is art. You know what’s good and what isn’t.’

  He was always needling her to come to his house. Maybe he imagined her job at the auction house came with useful connections and hoped she’d introduce him to the right people.

  ‘We’ll see. I have a lot on this week,’ Priya said. ‘We acquired a Blackman.’

  He gave a low whistle. ‘Niiice. How much will that go for, then?’

  ‘Why, are you looking to buy?’

  ‘Just getting a feel for the market.’ He tossed his head back to flick the curls from his eyes. His movements were languid, almost floppy, as if his actions were controlled by marionette strings, not muscles.

  ‘Maybe I can come on Sunday afternoon. Though I don’t know how my husband would feel about me spending an evening at the home of a young artist.’

  Husani’s eyes glimmered, proud to be considered a threat. Priya threw a nub of charcoal at him. She imagined he wouldn’t look so bold if he saw the colossus she was married to.

  ‘Yesss.’ He pumped his fist with comic emphasis and Priya, despite herself, laughed, pleased that the class had succeeded in taking her mind off the messages in her husband’s phone. If only for a few moments.

  Priya had lingered after class, talking to Husani and Suzette, so Nick was in bed when she got home.

  ‘You’re back,’ he said sleepily when she entered the room after showering away the day’s paint and dust. As she got into the bed he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. He was on his side, forming a human fortification for Priya to lean against.

  ‘Good class?’

  ‘Mm-hm.’ She felt a moment of remorse for running out on him so suddenly and remembered, with a rush of guilt, the mild flirtation she had enjoyed with Husani and how harmless it was. She pictured Nick alone, on the couch, wondering what had caused her to leave. Then, the imaginary Nick picked up his phone and the taunting returned. Megan. Megan. Megan. Priya licked her lips and laid her palm on his chest, trying to summon some faith in her husband. The familiar bedtime smell of him, soap and freshly laundered pyjamas, helped. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘We found a concealed fireplace at the house over the bridge,’ he said, moving onto his back and talking with his hands as he described pulling down some hastily thrown-up drywall. ‘Original grate and everything. It had these beautiful pea-green tiles. I was thinking I could build a fireplace into our front room. Imagine it in winter—a crackling open flame, the smell of burning wood.’

  He was staring at the ceiling, drawing the picture with his hand and Priya knew he could see it. He looked at her, on her back, passive and still.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  ‘We could toast marshmallows over our very own open fire.’ He slid his hand over her belly and let it linger there.

  Priya remained motionless. She was envisioning the scene, but with not quite as much optimism as Nick.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘I feel okay.’

  ‘And you’re seeing the doctor on Monday?’

  ‘Eight am.’

  ‘I’ll take the morning off work.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to.’

  He slid his hand across her nightdress. It was forest-green silk that she hardly wore because it had to be dry-cleaned. Who dry-cleans their nighties? she’d thought as she’d fished it out of a half-off bin during the Boxing Day sales. But feeling the fluid fabric between her fingertips had been irresistible.

  ‘The doctor really seems to know what she’s doing, doesn’t she? Did you notice when we were leaving, the car in her reserved car space? Mercedes. Customised paint. That lemon yellow’s not my taste, but it’s a good sign. You don’t get a Mercedes from being a useless doctor.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s very competent,’ Priya said.

  He stroked the fabric again. ‘You left so suddenly tonight,’ he said, bringing his face close to hers. She felt his weight shift as he leaned into her. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Priya’s heart started to thump. This was her chance to clear the air before they committed themselves to something irreversible. Now the cyst had been removed, there was nothing stopping it. Soon she would begin to alter her body with hormones. If they succeeded, there would be another person who could be hurt if their marriage failed.

  She wanted to ask him about the beep his phone made before she ran out. She knew the sounds of his phone, but even her own phone sometimes trembled with an odd notification from a little-used app.

  The discovery of Bumble, and of Megan, had
shoved her onto a dangerous precipice. She realised in that moment in the dark that she was afraid to find out how bad it was. She feared that the truth could force her into a position where she could not in good conscience go through with IVF. And then what? No Nick and no baby.

  Her silk gown was working its magic on him now, and as his excitement built, his touch loosened her resolve. The memory of their recent passionate night was fresh in her mind.

  ‘Nick,’ she began, intending to tell him she was tired, as she had so many nights this year. But he covered her mouth with his own, kissing her. ‘The other night was great,’ he murmured, kissing her again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find the will to push him off. But her arms refused to obey. When she opened her eyes she saw the man who loved nothing more than to smash through brick walls with a sledgehammer to the beat of Metallica turned up full-bore, but who also cared deeply about authentic filigree tap enamel. He was flirtatious, but it was a manifestation of his flaws, his insecurities, and an inextricable part of his personality. It was just one thread of what made him who he was, but it was woven into the fibre of his being. There was no way to cut it out, or remove it. It would always be there. If she and Nick broke up, and he started seeing someone new, that woman would have to deal with this strand of his personality too. The new woman would get wonderful, happy, energetic, hurricane Nick, but she would get the threat of infidelity too. And Priya had always known this.

  At their engagement party, he’d been on the dance floor with Eliza Gray, holding her hand, and touching her waist as they performed a poor man’s cha-cha, twirling and zipping to Billy Joel. Priya had worn a sari, and she could see the way her aunts and uncles, in their lehengas and kurtas, were looking from her to Eliza, to Eliza’s legs, to Nick.

  Viv, noticing this, had cut in. ‘Nick, I think Priya needs reinforcements. She’s fighting off a gang of judgmental relatives.’

  ‘After this song!’ he’d called without missing a beat. Viv had taken his hand and dragged him to the front of the room for the speeches. Priya, the dutiful bride-to-be, had smiled with a veneer of happiness, but inside her chest felt like it was caving in and she was fearful of how many more times in her life she would be made to feel this way.

  In their bed now she felt that same collapsing feeling. ‘No, Nick,’ she said and pushed him off.

  He lay on his back, rubbing his brow. ‘Priya, what’s going on?’ His voice was taut with frustration.

  ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘You’re never in the mood. No wonder we can’t get pregnant.’

  She sat up. ‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’

  ‘No, just—’ He was exasperated. ‘Certain things need to happen if you want to have a baby.’

  ‘I’ve just had an operation. You were hurting me.’

  She was lying and they both knew it.

  ‘You said you were fine. You spent all day moving furniture.’

  ‘And now I’m sore.’

  He rolled off the bed and disappeared downstairs.

  ‘Nick,’ she called. ‘Nick!’ The sound of the television drifted upstairs.

  When Priya woke up the next morning, her phone was glowing yellow. Rose’s Bumble profile was strobing with excitement, and a message: You have a new match!

  Monday morning. The day of the appointment. Priya pulled out her phone and contemplated Rose. She rubbed her thumb back and forth over the screen, agitated.

  She and Nick had barely spoken since their fight, and Rose hadn’t spoken to Nick either. He’d slept on the couch. Priya was still in bed when she heard him return from his run. When he came into the bedroom, pulling off his T-shirt, she was staring at his face on her phone screen via Rose’s Bumble profile.

  He paused when he saw her, then kept walking. She could feel irritation radiating off him. She clenched her jaw in righteous anger. When he came out of the ensuite she was still in bed.

  ‘Are you going to get ready for the doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she shot back.

  ‘You’re just staring at your phone.’

  She gritted her teeth. Anger gave her the courage she needed to confront him. ‘You know how mesmerising these devices can be.’ Her voice was icy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ She narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He turned his back and pulled on a T-shirt.

  Priya leapt out of bed. ‘Your phone, Nick. I saw the messages on your phone.’

  ‘I—’ He was trapped. She could see him calculating his next move.

  ‘Megan!’ she yelled, to short-circuit any more lies. ‘I saw your disgusting, sleazy messages to Megan. You’re cheating on me.’

  His eyes widened in shock and alarm.

  ‘Look,’ his voice faltered. ‘Is—is that what all this has been about?’

  ‘What do you mean, “Is this what all this has been about?” Like it’s nothing. We’ve been trying to get pregnant for years, and you’re cheating on me!’

  As she heard the words aloud she felt the full horror of them.

  Nick was rubbing his face. ‘It’s not like that. They’re just messages.’

  ‘Just messages?’ She snatched his phone off the dressing table. She scrolled, searching until she found it, then started to read from the app: ‘At night in bed I dream about your perfect breasts. At night? At night! When you’re lying next to me? ME who, sorry, doesn’t feel like fulfilling your every desire because I’ve just had an operation to help conceive your child.’

  ‘I don’t care about her, she’s just a face on a screen.’

  ‘Tits on a screen!’

  ‘It’s not like that. She’s not real. I just wanted something uncomplicated.’

  ‘What?!’ Her rage was explosive. Priya felt like her soul might split through her skin.

  ‘It’s been stressful. I just needed a little release.’

  Priya squeezed her eyes shut. Her voice was deathly quiet. ‘Can you hear the words coming out of your mouth? I mean, can you actually hear yourself, Nick?’

  ‘I know,’ he pleaded. ‘I know it sounds fucked up. But I’m telling the truth. The whole infertility thing has really thrown me. I’m stressed because I’m worried about you. Please believe me.’

  ‘Oh, you’re stressed? You’re worried about how your body’s going to change, are you? You’re worried that there’s something wrong with you, because my tests came back perfect!’

  She could feel tears building up inside her, like the tide rushing in. She didn’t want to cry, but she couldn’t hold it back. She tried to breathe. To regain some control. But the messages were flashing before her eyes. Sexy. Breasts. Hard. Taste. Wet. Want. She had memorised them, like a playground rhyme. Eenie. Meanie. Miney. Moe. Catch a cheater by his toe. She was looking at her coward of a husband who was desperately trying to convince her not to believe what she had seen with her own eyes, and what her brain had absorbed, against her will, and forced her to replay over and over again. In traffic. In the lift at work. On the examination bed, while her legs were spread open so strangers could prod and poke her soft, sensitive folds with cold metal instruments.

  ‘Nothing happened. We just talked,’ he said quietly as her tears began to flow. ‘Pri.’ His voice was soft, pleading. ‘Pri, come here. I never meant for you to see those.’

  ‘And that makes it okay?’

  She threw the phone at him. He turned away from the projectile and it struck him on the back, making a satisfying thwack before clattering to the floor. Nick followed it, falling to his knees.

  ‘Pri, please.’ He shuffled to her. He put his arms around her waist and rested his head against her belly. Priya became rigid, but didn’t pull away.

  ‘I love you so much. And I want us to have a family together. You’ve got to believe me.’

  She removed herself from his embrace and sat heavily on the bed. ‘How can I?’ And when he didn’t answer,
she added: ‘I think we should cancel the appointment.’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘No? Nick! You’ve been writing to other women.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with this. We’ve waited months to see Doctor Carmichael. Please, can we just go?’

  ‘How can we commit to a child when I can’t trust you?’

  He ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Sometimes—’ he began. ‘Sometimes when I’ve been feeling, I don’t know, lonely, I’ve found myself talking to strangers online. Not for sex or anything, just—I don’t know. They flirt with me and it makes me feel better about not being able to get you pregnant.’

  Priya closed her eyes.

  ‘You don’t get to use that as an excuse. Like, you’ve failed me so now I have to feel sorry for you.’

  ‘I know, but it’s true. You were never supposed to find out.’ His voice quavered. She looked at him and saw tears in his eyes.

  When she spoke, her voice had softened. ‘How do you think it makes me feel? I can’t get pregnant and you’re off sniffing around other women.’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but with the pain came relief. These accusations had been festering inside her. Expelling them was cathartic.

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be—I didn’t mean—it was never like that.’

  ‘What was it like?!’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He threw up his hands. ‘I know it’s shitty. But it seemed harmless and it made me feel better. I thought if I could deal with it online I wouldn’t have to trouble you with it.’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to me if you feel lonely? Do you think you’re the only one who feels alone?’

  ‘I try, but you never seem to want to talk anymore. You didn’t tell me you feel lonely. You just went cold on me.’

  ‘That’s because I know you’re talking to other women.’

  ‘Pri, I’m so, so sorry you saw that. But believe me, there’s nothing to it. It’s like pornography, but not. With this, the person talks back. They respond.’