The Mothers

by Genevieve Gannon

  The upstairs bathroom was the only place that felt the same, with its lion-claw bathtub. She gave the iron foot a half-hearted kick. She opened the door to the mirrored cabinet. It had been cleared out, except for the few things Priya had left behind. An ancient pot of lip balm. Half a tube of hand cream. She poked around the drawers and under the basin for other personal items she might have overlooked. In the corner was the old wicker laundry basket they had had since before they were married. The bottom half was a rash of mould from years of soaking up steam. She scooped it up, planning to squash it into the bin. She wanted to break its flimsy slats and feel it crack and crunch.

  Between the clothes basket and the wall she spotted a scrap of fabric she didn’t recognise—pink-and-purple synthetic lace. Priya bent closer and realised with horror it was a pair of women’s underpants. Twisted. Used. She jerked upright and let out a cry of disgust.

  She dropped the basket and hurried down the stairs and out the front door, not stopping to take a souvenir. As she ran down the path, she realised the last thing she wanted was to be reminded of her former life and everything she had lost.

  The sky was a perfect, unblemished blue for the auction.

  ‘This should bring out a crowd,’ said Viv as they parked across the street from the house.

  ‘I still can’t believe he had a woman in our home,’ said Priya, staring at her soon-to-be-former front door.

  ‘Would Nick do that?’ Viv asked. When Priya frowned at her she threw up her hands in a show of innocence. ‘Sorry!’

  In the few months Priya had been living at her sister’s house they had had more than a few fights over Viv being too soft on Nick.

  Viv undid her seat-belt and squeezed Priya’s forearm. ‘Can you imagine living the rest of your life in fear he’s cheating on you? You did the right thing.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘I’m quite sad about the house, really. We worked so hard on it. I loved the leadlight glass we put in the kitchen.’

  The advertising photos had come up spectacularly. Shot with a wide lens, the house appeared spacious and airy.

  ‘It was such a beautiful place,’ Priya said, holding one of the glossy brochures Brett had given her as she stared past her sister to the house.

  ‘They’re bad memories you don’t need,’ Viv said.

  Prices in the area were on the rise as city land values climbed and Sydney’s populous continued its inexorable march west. The local council had announced funding for a neighbourhood renewal program, and the coats of paint and graffiti removal were already making a visible difference to the community hubs. Brett had commented that these factors would all help drive up the price.

  ‘Good,’ Priya had said at the time. ‘I’m going to need every cent I can get.’

  They watched the first trickle of potential buyers arrive for the final inspection at nine-thirty before the auction started at ten. Then the numbers steadily built as batches of people arrived in twos and fours.

  ‘What if we don’t sell it?’ Priya said in a moment of panic. ‘Would one of us have to move back in? Will Nick take it and shift that woman into our home?’

  ‘It will sell,’ Viv said. ‘Look at these hoards.’

  Nick’s ute pulled up. Priya sank into the car seat as she watched him step out alone and scan the crowd. He walked up the pathway and was invited into his own home by a young woman in a red blazer and an overblown smile. Brett jogged to the stoop and shook Nick’s hand.

  ‘You don’t want one last look?’ Viv asked.

  Priya shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. She scowled at the house, as if it were the verandah that had betrayed her, the pitched roof that had cheated.

  ‘Come on,’ said Viv. ‘Let’s get a spot. It’s nearly time.’

  A large crowd had gathered by the time the auctioneer stepped up to the front gate.

  ‘This is a lovely home. Custom renovated with a modern master bedroom and ensuite,’ he began before counting off its many charms.

  Nobody moved. Not even a twitch.

  ‘Perhaps we over-capitalised,’ Priya said, chewing her nail.

  Someone offered five hundred and ten thousand, and the man in grey responded with five hundred and twenty. This back and forth went on until it started to slow towards seven hundred. When they hit the mark and the auctioneer announced that the house was on the market, it was like someone suddenly lit a fire under the street.

  Priya could feel tension rise in the crowd. Her eyes darted from face to face. They landed on Nick. He had his fist to his mouth and was staring straight at her. He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. Priya looked away, the memory of pink-and-purple polyester flashing into her mind.

  The two bidders continued to duke it out up into the high nine hundreds.

  Priya watched the other contenders. The person she considered to be third in the running had gone quiet. He was speaking on the phone, his eyes down, nodding.

  ‘One million.’

  Viv gasped and squeezed Priya’s hand. It didn’t stop there. The price kept climbing and climbing.

  The auctioneer’s face was growing red with excitement. He was a showman, a ringmaster, spitting and launching his fist into the air, trying to shake more money from the crowd.

  ‘Are we all done? Are we all out?’ he called, the contract poised about his head.

  ‘Sold!’ He dropped it into his palm with a smack and the crowd let out a sigh and a cry. The buyer shouted, his supporters slapped his back and cheered. A woman in a striped dress threw her arms around him, and he hugged her, lifting her off the ground.

  Priya watched the celebration, feeling empty. There was a finality to it that hit her with a dull thud. The house was gone. It was over. There was a vague relief too, though. Because she wouldn’t be destitute, or dependent on her sister. The sale had given her options. Freedom. She now had almost half a million dollars free and clear.

  Seventeen

  The bag had been packed for weeks and was waiting by the door like a faithful dog. Routes to the hospital were mapped out and emergency plans were in place. In the end, the careful preparation went to waste, because Grace’s labour started when they were already at the hospital.

  She and Dan were visiting Carla—a woman from their neonatal class—who had just had her first child. At forty-four, she was also an IVF mother, and she and Grace had bonded, sharing fears and advice.

  Grace handed Carla’s husband, Roy, a maroon box containing biscotti and was given a swaddled, pink baby in exchange.

  ‘He looks so much like Roy,’ Dan said.

  ‘Little Maverick,’ his mother cooed. Grace and Dan avoided each other’s eyes, lest Maverick’s parents detect their opinion of the name.

  ‘Here, Grace, sit down.’ Roy ushered her to a chair in the corner of the room. Grace moved slowly these days. She was thirty-eight weeks and it was an abundance of caution, as well as an abundance of belly, that caused her to tread carefully. As she lowered herself into the seat she felt an almighty cramp.

  ‘Oof,’ she said, keeling forward. ‘Dan, you take Maverick, will you.’ Another bolt of pain hit her as she held up the baby. ‘Ah-ohh.’ ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, ah, but you’d better take him.’ She passed the baby over. A switchblade sliced through her abdomen. ‘Ow, I’m not okay, I’m not okay,’ she said, gripping the chair’s arms.

  Roy and Dan gathered around Grace, helping her to the door, while Carla, who now had Maverick in her arms, craned her neck. ‘Is it happening? It’s happening, isn’t it?’ she said, pressing her call button.

  ‘He’s early,’ Dan said.

  ‘Oh God, he’s still in breech,’ said Grace, clutching her belly. Doctor Torres had warned they might have to try to turn him if he didn’t turn on his own.

  ‘It’s okay, Grace,’ Dan said as a nurse hurried into the room. ‘We’re in good hands.’

  The labour progressed quickly. The pain was other-worl
dly. All Grace could think was that this was the final test. She had sworn she would do anything for a baby, and the universe was making her prove it. She only had to survive a few more contractions and she would have her baby. She bore down and breathed and pushed. Soon the pain ebbed away and the room came back into focus.

  And there he was, being held up by the doctor, shaking and purple and utterly perfect. He was slick and covered in blood and vernix, screaming his little heart out. She could see his gums and his tonsils. His eyes were squeezed shut as he howled and his hair was plastered flat and wet against his head. He was taken out of her sight for a moment.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘They’re wrapping him and cutting the cord.’

  Grace shuffled up onto her elbows, eager to see him. It had gone quiet.

  ‘Is he okay?’

  The blessed cry once again filled the room, an irrepressible confirmation of his existence. Dan was shaking her arm and kissing her face.

  ‘You did it. You did it, Gracie. You were magnificent.’

  ‘Can I see him? Where is he?’

  ‘They’ll bring him back soon. He’s a big boy. Listen to those lungs.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’s here.’

  ‘You were so strong.’ Dan kissed Grace’s sweaty head. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it. I want to see him.’

  ‘He wants to see you too.’ The midwife brought the bundle towards them. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘He’s crying for his mother.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’s finally here.’ Grace wanted to cry too. She wanted to cry with joy.

  And then, blinding love. Ten thousand suns’ worth. The world shrank to their hospital room, filled with a galaxy of adoration. Grace felt she would live forever because nothing could kill her love for this little boy. It would burn long after she was dead and had become dust. His eyelashes were a marvel. His fingernails, finer than the Louvre’s rarest treasure. His lips, a Botticelli dream. His dimples, the reason people believed in heaven. They named him Samuel Benjamin Arden. Sam.

  ‘Look at that hair,’ said a nurse. ‘I can see he gets that from you, Dad. It’s like a shock of bear fur.’

  ‘Who does he look like?’ Grace asked.

  Dan, on the bed next to her, squeezed her shoulder. ‘I can’t say.’ Sam lay against Grace’s chest. Dan grazed his fingers through the boy’s fine black hair. Neither of them spoke. They were both looking at the baby, and something was coming into focus. As they processed his features, his arrival, something else became apparent. His face was covered with the waxy substance that protects babies in utero, but there was no mistaking it. His eyes were brown. His skin was dark. His hair was black. There was no biological sense to what they were seeing.

  None of the hospital staff remarked on Sam’s appearance. The only words that passed nurse Janette’s lips were compliments.

  ‘He’s so teeny,’ she gushed over Grace’s shoulder.

  In the early stages of labour, there had been talk of the arduous road to conception. Grace assumed they thought she and Dan had used a donor egg.

  ‘We’ll give him a bath so you can have a break, Mumma. Dad, do you want to help?’ Janette asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Dan said. Grace made a little noise as Janette lifted Sam out of her arms.

  ‘We’ll get him all nice and clean for you.’ She swept him away with Dan following closely.

  Grace watched Sam go, missing him already, but also wondering, how long had he been out of her sight after the birth? She was exhausted and couldn’t think straight. The voice in the back of her head was insistent: he was her son. But he didn’t look like her. Or like Dan. Something, somewhere had happened.

  When Sam was clean, and back where he belonged in Grace’s arms, Janette asked if she was ready to try breastfeeding.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Grace knew it could be tricky and frustrating, but he latched on straightaway.

  ‘There now, you’re a natural,’ Janette said.

  Grace felt a flutter of pride, but she was mesmerised by her son, and her breasts. They were so pale, with veins close to the surface, they almost looked blue. She had never noticed before how very white they were.

  Dan stroked Sam’s cheek and laughed. ‘He’s only a few minutes old. How does he know how to do that?’

  Their son suckled hungrily.

  ‘That’s genius material there,’ Janette said, with pride.

  ‘He gets that from his mum,’ said Dan.

  When the doctor returned, Grace thought he might say something, but he just smiled and asked routine questions. She looked at Dan, who cleared his throat. ‘Doctor,’ he said, hesitant. ‘We were wondering if you were able to explain why our boy looks different to us. His colouring is, well, it’s not like anything in either of our families.’

  ‘Hm.’ The doctor frowned. ‘You were an IVF couple?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s biologically ours.’

  If the doctor was surprised he didn’t show it. He frowned and stepped closer to Grace, who was cradling Sam, and leaned in, peering at their boy like a specimen. ‘How are you doing there, little chap?’ He looked up. ‘He’s both of yours?’

  Dan and Grace nodded.

  ‘No donor sperm?’ They shook their heads.

  The doctor grunted. He pressed his pen to his mouth and regarded Sam for a moment.

  ‘Well, well …’ His eyes darted from Grace to Dan to Sam and back again.

  Grace sensed what he was thinking. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘He’s definitely Dan’s.’

  Dan looked at the floor. ‘Grace, nobody is suggesting—’

  ‘There’s no way he’s not Dan’s,’ she said. ‘Besides, even if I had … if … I mean, I’m the one who had the fertility problems.’

  The doctor sucked in a breath. ‘Well, it’s rare, but this has been known to happen. Sometimes recessive racial features re-emerge. Dormant genes, or perhaps a chromosomal aberration of some sort.’

  ‘An aberration?’

  ‘Yes, a chromosomal aberration.’

  ‘Is it possible that something happened in the IVF process?’

  ‘I don’t quite follow.’

  ‘Because of the way the baby was conceived.’

  He frowned again. ‘I don’t know about that. But … there have been cases of IVF clinics implanting the wrong embryo.’

  ‘What?’ Grace sat up.

  ‘A handful of cases around the world. But those sorts of things are incredibly rare. It’s more likely one of you has a great-aunt or -uncle who had a darker skin tone.’

  All eyes fell on Sam, sleeping in his mother’s arms. Grace’s blonde hair was twisted up onto the top of her head. Strands of it hung down around her face and neck, like trickles of platinum. ‘I’ve got a pretty tangled genealogy,’ Dan ventured. ‘Scottish. Maltese. Lebanese. Italian.’

  ‘That must be it,’ the doctor said. ‘Somewhere in there, there’s a gene that’s popped up in your little boy here.’

  Grace exhaled. ‘So, that’s it, then?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure. If you’re worried—’

  ‘No!’ Grace interrupted. ‘We’re not worried at all. We just wanted your opinion.’

  She looked down at her son, sleeping peacefully. ‘I’m glad there’s nothing wrong.’

  They moved to the family suite—a double room cheaply decorated in inoffensive, unisex yellow. As if displeased with his new home, Sam wailed and wailed. Grace paced the room with him, swaying gently trying to get him to quieten.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Dan whispered.

  ‘Do? What do you mean, do?’

  ‘Grace, there’s obviously been a mix-up of some sort.’

  ‘That’s not what the doctor said.’

  ‘There’s nobody in my family that looks like Sam, and I know there’s certainly no one in yours.’

  He paced, walking from the bedroom door to the dressing table and back again, clenching and unclenchi
ng his fist. ‘What if he’s not our son?’

  ‘How can you say that? Of course he’s our son!’

  ‘I don’t mean it like that. I mean, what if there’s another couple’s genetic material? Mr and Mrs Smith—or Singh—with all their medical history. With grandparents. What if they try to take him back?’

  ‘That’s insane.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Dan, you’re scaring me.’ Grace was still swaying, though less gently. ‘They won’t try to take him because they’ll never find out.’ Her voice was taut. She finally had her baby. After years of longing and painful treatments, she had him in her arms, and even now, something was trying to threaten that.

  ‘Grace, please.’

  ‘What?’ she snapped. ‘What do you want from me?’

  Dan raked a hand through his hair. ‘I just think we should discuss this. What if the clinic discovers they made an error?’

  Her eyes filled with tears. Dan was breathing life into the conclusion she had toyed with. She had tried to block it out but his words made it real.

  ‘They wouldn’t,’ she sobbed. ‘They can’t take him. Why are you saying these things?’

  ‘We should at least speak to someone, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Who are we going to speak to?’

  ‘A lawyer, a family lawyer. We need to know our rights.’

  ‘I gave birth to him. You were there, holding my hand. You saw them cut his umbilical cord. That makes him our son. He’s a part of us.’

  ‘If there is another set of parents, that means they want a baby too. What if they somehow find out they have a son living in Glebe?’

  ‘They wouldn’t!’

  ‘We don’t know that, Grace.’ He took her hand and guided her to the mirror in the corner of the room. They stood in front of it, a trio, finally. Her hair fell over her shoulders, bright blonde. Dan’s hair was dark, but it was brown, not black. His eyes matched hers, a common pale blue.

  Sam’s hair was jet-black, his irises like two pieces of perfectly round onyx. His skin was a faultless brown. Grace pressed her lips to him and kissed his cheek, which had formed inside her, loved and wanted and nurtured for thirty-eight weeks.