The Mothers

by Genevieve Gannon

  She felt momentarily grateful to Morgan for giving her an excuse not to face the dewy, nubile patrons of the Coogee Pavilion.

  Call me tomorrow with details!

  She slid off the couch and went into her bedroom to find something to wear. Now that he had saved her from ritual humiliation, she felt Morgan deserved a little effort.

  ‘Do you want kids?’ Morgan asked, as he dribbled miso soup down the front of his shirt.

  Priya forced a smile. A pregnancy inquisition was the last thing she needed.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, cutting her noddles with the edge of her spoon. ‘So, town planning. How did you get into that?’

  ‘It’s a funny story, actually,’ Morgan said, spearing a piece of sushi as he launched into the tale. When he finished he picked up a tempura prawn. ‘I don’t know about the sushi,’ he said. ‘It looks a little fishy.’

  Priya smiled, feeling a little bad that his attempts at humour were being wasted on her.

  ‘So,’ he said, forging on in the face of her polite silence. ‘You work at an auction house. How did you get into that?’

  She managed a smile as she spoke of her love for her work. ‘I wanted to be an artist, but patrons are a little thin on the ground, so I had to look for a more realistic goal. The auction house lets me work with beautiful art every day and I still do some of my own stuff at night.’

  ‘I’d like to see it sometime.’

  Priya put a piece of sashimi into her mouth. He was a nice man. And once, Priya might even have found him attractive. But he was no Nick Archer, and she ended the night after their plates were cleared. She walked home feeling restless. She was miserable and she couldn’t imagine anything could cure her of it. Living in the idyllic suburb of Coogee made it worse. As she made her way to her apartment past groups of comfortable, happy people, she only felt lonelier, and longed for her bed. She clicked on the light in her tiny flat and opened the window to disperse some of the stale air. In six steps she was in her pokey bathroom. She removed her eye make-up and brushed her teeth. Her arms felt like lead.

  Her bedroom was a bare place with cheap venetian blinds that didn’t completely block out the street lights. Here she couldn’t help but think of Megan and Nick, and wonder if they were together. She could almost feel them, next to each other, and she found for the first time she understood the appeal of a warm body, even if you didn’t love the person it belonged to.

  She wondered if Nick pulled Megan into the nook under his arm the way he had with her, their legs twisted together like vines, his arms hugging her body? Did he sleep in the same way with a new person, or did they have their own position? She let the thought burn in her chest for a minute then picked up her phone and cycled through her contacts list. Nick. Husani. Morgan. Nick. It had been nineteen days since their last contact. He’d written to say that if she was ever missing Jacker and wanted to see him, all she had to do was say the word.

  You could take him for a walk sometime. I know I’d miss him like crazy if I were you.

  She hadn’t replied. It had upset her too much. But now, looking at the message, her lack of response seemed churlish. Cold, even. She felt she should explain to Nick why she hadn’t written back. But it was almost midnight. She didn’t want him to think she was messaging because she was in bed, lonely, on a Saturday night. She turned her phone off and tried to sleep, promising herself she would find the nerve to respond to him in the morning.

  Twenty

  Sam loved to blow raspberries. He had a symphonic range, each as distinct as an orchestral instrument. Some strummed. Some tooted. Some hummed. Grace had nicknames for them all. There was The Bugle. There was The Horse Whinny. Her favourite was a half-gulp, half-sigh she thought of as The Harried Businessman. He would part his lips, suck in a breath of air and make a noise: ‘A-humph.’

  ‘A-humph.’ Grace liked to repeat it back to him, leaning over his bassinet, where he lay now, being gently bounced by her foot. ‘A-humph,’ he said. In raptures, in love, she copied it. ‘A-humph.’ It was their own call and respond. ‘A-humph!’

  ‘He’s like a tiny gentleman worn out from his demanding routine of kicking his legs and yawning,’ she said to Dan.

  ‘He is.’ He came, smiling, to her side to watch their baby, who was flapping his arms and looking at them with wide-eyed curiosity.

  ‘A-humph,’ said Sam.

  Grace laughed and touched the baby’s nose, then his stomach, delighting as his eyes crossed then uncrossed, following her finger.

  ‘He knows we’re talking about him.’

  ‘Of course he knows.’

  ‘He’s so perfect.’

  She was tired, of course. To her bones. Her nipples were cracked and sore, and she felt in constant need of a shower. Her hair was lank and thin. Her mobility was restricted by the long seam of stitches the obstetrician had put in. There was a tautness, and a constant fear of ripping, that slowed her movements.

  But nothing mattered when she held her baby in her arms. When she cuddled him she felt restored. And she needed to do this often, not just out of love, but because there was something gnawing away at her insides; the corrosive knowledge of what she believed could be true, and the fear someone else would discover it. A voice whispered from the corner of her subconscious: There has been a mistake. Mostly she was able to push it back into the depths of her mind. But when her guard was down she found herself scrutinising her little boy’s face for evidence he belonged to her and her husband, desperately trying to identify something that linked him to her or to Dan. His rounded nose, for example. Most babies are born with a button nose and she searched Sam’s for signs of the particular stubbiness that made Dan’s nose his own.

  ‘He looks like you, don’t you think?’ she said, as they sat on the couch, watching Sam in his bassinet. Sam watched them watching. ‘A-humph!’

  ‘If he does, let’s hope he grows out of it.’

  A joke. I should laugh, she thought. Instead she nudged her husband, and tried to play along with his valiant attempt at jocularity. ‘You’re not so bad.’

  He nudged her back.

  They had been fighting more than usual. The skirmishes were not about anything substantial. They skirted around the elephant in the room and conducted proxy wars over empty milk cartons in the fridge and forgotten promises to replace the dead light globe. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult,’ she said.

  ‘New mother’s prerogative.’

  ‘No, this isn’t normal new-mother stuff. I know you’re scared too, and I’ve been acting like you’re not.’

  He held her close and stroked her back.

  ‘Does that mean you’re ready to get some professional advice?’

  Her body went rigid. ‘Dan. That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know it feels like by seeing a lawyer and asking questions we’re admitting something could be wrong. But the facts won’t change just because we ignore them. We should prepare ourselves. It’s reckless not to.’

  ‘Why is it reckless?’ This sentence burst out of her. Sam was startled and began to cry. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, little boy.’ She leaned down and picked him up. ‘Sh.’

  ‘I can see him, Dan,’ she said. ‘I know he looks different to us. But he’s our son.’

  ‘This is not about whether we love him—’

  ‘You’re just going to stir up trouble,’ she said, holding the baby to her, sliding her hand down the curvature of his back.

  ‘What if the clinic used the wrong sperm, or the wrong egg? What if another couple had an embryo transfer on the same day as us, and we got their baby instead?’ Whenever he said such things he lowered his voice, as if their house were bugged.

  ‘So what!’ Grace said. ‘That doesn’t mean he’s their son. I gave birth to him. I felt him grow inside of me. From a speck to a being who would kick and punch like he couldn’t wait to get out.’

  A familiar thought flashed through her mind. What if their embryo had been implanted in another couple? She dis
missed it almost as soon as it landed. But the thought left a trail, like comet dust. The implication was clear. That couple could have another, unknown baby—their little girl, their Petri. A complicated barrage of anger and envy filled her chest. It was like a bad nineties melodrama or a glossy magazine cover. Switched before birth! What if that’s what had happened? Would some medical or ethical authority demand a straight swap? Her heart rebelled against the idea and she pulled her son closer. Sam was the one she had nurtured. Sam was the one she loved.

  ‘How would the couple even know this had happened? We didn’t.’

  ‘What if an Indian couple gave birth to a baby with your blonde hair? Don’t you think they’d investigate it?’

  During her pregnancy, Grace had dreamed of a little blonde baby, just like her. Petri’s hair would grow long, and be worn in pigtails that Grace would tie with velvet bows. But that dream was no match for the giggling, raspberry-blowing, dimple-kneed baby Sam. ‘A-humph!’

  ‘Maybe they’re thinking the exact same thing I am. Maybe they just want to be left alone with their blonde baby.’ She stood quickly, her joints cracking. ‘I have to get out of this house,’ she said. ‘I need air.’ She had been sealed inside with her thoughts for too long.

  ‘Grace.’

  ‘What do you say we go for a walk?’ Grace said to Sam.

  ‘Grace!’

  She carried her son upstairs and changed him. Before slipping on his socks she couldn’t resist lifting his left foot and play-chomping the tiny fleshy pebbles on the end.

  ‘Yom. Nom-nom-nom,’ she said, trying to coax out a laugh. Sam squirmed on his change table and kicked his legs.

  ‘Are you ready for an outing?’

  She helped him up into a sitting position and pulled down the jumper Fiona had knitted for him—one of the many gifts she had given her only grandson. Before Fiona came to the hospital Grace and Dan had had an urgent, hushed discussion about how to raise the subject of Sam’s appearance. Fiona had thrown open the door before they’d agreed on anything.

  ‘Oh!’ Fiona had said, popping up like a jack-in-the-box after leaning over Grace to see Sam for the first time. But when Grace had passed the bundle to her mother, Fiona had been enraptured. Grace witnessed the birth of a love so unconditional, and so unquestioning, it made her ache. Soon Fiona was cooing and jiggling Sam, and Grace had felt an immense sense of comfort, and a flicker of hope that maybe everything would be okay after all.

  But strangers were a different matter, she thought, as she lay Sam’s shade cloth across his pram. Since Sam was born she had ventured out with him no more than half a dozen times. She was wary of the lingering looks and could never tell if they were admiring her baby, or pausing to wonder what the Nordic-looking woman was doing with an Indian baby. The world was full of diverse families and she was sure nobody would be rude enough to ask. But she felt like there were prying eyes and double-takes lurking around every corner.

  ‘So, you’re going out?’ Dan said when Grace appeared in the hallway with the pram.

  She nodded, defiant and fearful in equal measure. ‘I can’t stay in this house another second.’

  Dan leaned forward and pulled Sam’s shade cloth down further. ‘Don’t be gone long.’

  ‘He’s covered up,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to the market.’

  Dan put his fist to his mouth. Grace shot him a sharp look. He sighed and retreated to the dining room. Grace stepped onto the porch, relishing the kiss of sunlight on her face. ‘We’ll be back later,’ she called. ‘Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.’

  The Glebe markets were full of human bowerbirds combing through second-hand leather jackets and handmade soy candles. Visiting the markets used to be Grace and Dan’s favourite way to spend a Saturday morning. They would stroll with a coffee in hand then sit on the grass while musicians played. Grace’s mouth watered as she imagined eating a gözleme with lemon off a paper plate while she and Sam enjoyed the fresh air. She had been subsisting on toast and muesli bars for too long.

  The market was set up in a primary school on Glebe Point Road and it was difficult to navigate the pram along the narrow paths between the stalls. She had forgotten how crowded it could get on a sunny day. The dirt thoroughfares were rutted and crammed with shoppers. Grace slowly picked her way towards the food carts, stopping every couple of metres to bend over and make sure Sam’s shade cloth was firmly in place.

  In the distance she saw a mop of blonde curls and panicked, thinking it was Caroline. Beth had met Sam, without probing her friend, but Grace had kept him away from Rochelle, Melody and Caroline. At first her girlfriends had been concerned. Then suspicious. And finally, offended. Every time a woman Grace’s age fell into her field of vision her heart jerked in alarm.

  We just want to know everything’s okay, Caroline had texted a few days earlier. The first few months are hard. Let us help you.

  Melody lives in Randwick, Grace told herself. Caroline is across the bridge in Mosman. They won’t be at the Glebe markets. Still. People milled around, slowing her progress, and she began to turn the pram around. Another woman with a stroller was coming her way and Grace had to wait to let her pass. The two mothers smiled at each other, their knowing eye rolls a salute of weary solidarity. As Grace waited her eyes drifted across the crowd. Cut-off jeans were back in fashion, apparently.

  And then she saw her. Grace blinked, thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her. The woman was carrying a basket and hanging off the arm of an older blonde man. He looked familiar. There was a rakish, Robert Redford quality to his looks. The beautiful woman with large, saucer-like sunglasses and black flowing hair was unmistakable. It was Doctor Li.

  Panicking, Grace tried to back away, but there were people clogged up behind her, poring over a bakery stand. To her right a leather-goods stall blocked her in. Doctor Li and the blonde man turned. Grace slid her sunglasses down over her eyes. Too late. Doctor Li spotted her. She lifted her hand in greeting.

  There was no avoiding it now.

  ‘Hello, Grace.’ Doctor Li waved as she threaded her way through the crowd.

  Grace bent and tugged at Sam’s shade cloth, ensuring his privacy was complete—it was becoming a compulsion.

  ‘Hello, Doctor Li,’ she said.

  The blonde man followed. His hands were sunk in the pockets of his leisure jacket, a satisfied but not unpleasant smile on his face. ‘Roger, this is Grace Arden. She and her husband, Dan, were patients at Empona,’ Doctor Li said.

  ‘Hello.’ The man reached out and shook Grace’s hand. ‘Looks like you left a satisfied customer,’ he added, crouching down to Sam’s level.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace said, reflexively jerking the pram back towards herself.

  ‘Grace, Roger founded Empona,’ Doctor Li said.

  ‘Oh, you’re Roger Osmond?’

  ‘That’s right. Pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘I—how—thank you,’ Grace managed. Her thoughts were jumbled. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said again. She looked from Doctor Li to Doctor Osmond, hanging close to each other. These were the people who were responsible for Sam, Grace thought. They were also responsible for her current predicament.

  ‘And this little bundle is—?’ Doctor Li inclined her head towards the pram.

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Samantha Arden, what a perfect name,’ Doctor Li said.

  ‘It’s Samuel,’ Grace replied automatically, then wished she could take it back. She thought she could see the question form on Doctor Li’s lips, but the woman didn’t say anything.

  The couple stared at Grace, waiting to be properly introduced to the baby they helped create. ‘I’m sorry, he’s sleeping at the moment,’ Grace said.

  She knew in normal circumstances this would be no excuse not to draw open the covering and show off her son, so she offered an explanation: ‘I’d let you have a look but he’s been awfully colicky lately and I’ve only just got him to sleep.’

  ‘Why did you bring him to the market?
’ Doctor Li asked.

  ‘Ashley,’ Doctor Osmond said. ‘You’ve never had a newborn. I imagine poor Grace here has been under house arrest for as long as she can remember.’

  Grace smiled gratefully. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said quickly. ‘I thought, while he’s taking a nap, I’ll get some much-needed fresh air.’

  ‘How long were you with us before little Sam arrived?’ Doctor Osmond asked.

  ‘It took eight rounds.’

  ‘Eight? You and Doctor Li are practically old friends.’

  ‘It felt like a lot at the time, but now that he’s here, it seems like very little work for such a huge miracle.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Doctor Osmond said with a broad smile. He had movie-star teeth and a cleft chin that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Roman statue.

  Grace forced a smile. She knew she was not playing the role of the lucky mother to their satisfaction. The whole scene was unfolding like the stiff first read-through of a bad script.

  ‘He’s just the light of my life,’ she said, in an impersonation of contentment.

  ‘It’s a funny thing,’ Doctor Li said. ‘We’re fertility specialists but our clinic is only concerned with conception. Sometimes couples get pregnant and we never hear from them again.’

  ‘We like to keep track of everyone, but the parents of newborns aren’t the best at returning non-essential phone calls,’ Doctor Osmond said, smiling.

  Grace longed to be able to lift Sam out of his pram and listen to them praise his beautiful face and intelligent eyes, but she couldn’t. Least of all with these people.

  ‘You must bring him by the clinic for a visit when he’s feeling better,’ Doctor Li said.

  Grace studied the woman’s face for signs of contrition or remorse—anything that might indicate she had an inkling of what had happened. She seemed normal. Warmer than usual, if anything, proud to have performed her duty for a satisfied patient. Grace made a noncommittal ‘mm’ sound, then started backing up her pram. ‘I’d better get him home. It was lovely to see you, Doctor Li. Nice to meet you, Doctor Osmond.’