The Mothers

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘We’ll deal with it in the morning,’ she said.

  Dan looked ready to argue, and Grace knew he was reading her mind. This was who she had become—a woman too scared to call a tradesman in case he discovered their secret. But Dan didn’t put up a fight. They ate by candlelight, brushed their teeth in the dark and went to bed.

  When Grace laid her head down her mind wouldn’t stop firing. During the days her limbs were heavy and her mind was like a wet sponge—but the second she tried to sleep, her imagination started darting around like a sparrow trapped in a room. The prospect of an outsider seeing Sam had riled her. She knew the fear was irrational, but that was how she felt these days—in a constant state of paranoid readiness.

  She managed to drift off but at two am her eyes snapped open. Her face and chest were slick with sweat, the back of her pyjama top soaked through.

  She rose from their bed and walked to Sam’s room. He was lying peacefully, with his little hands curled into fists. She knew if she gently prised his fingers open they would be full of lint. His face crumpled and he began to grizzle. ‘Sh-sh-sh.’ She gave the cradle a gentle rock. She hummed and rocked, and soon enough he settled. ‘That’s my boy,’ Grace whispered. He was easily soothed. He got it from Dan, she told herself.

  She leaned down and kissed her sleeping boy’s forehead. The thought of Sam being Dan’s son and another woman’s biological child did not injure her as much as the thought that her egg had been fertilised by another donor.

  She didn’t know why this was so, but she guessed it was because she already felt connected to him. His bones had drawn strength from her body. His blood was her blood. How did that make her less his mother than the woman who had provided the originating egg? That woman had given just one cell. Grace was responsible for all the rest. Each day Sam grew stronger because of Grace and Dan’s love. What was one cell compared to all that?

  She rocked in the chair, realising as she made these arguments in her head that she was imagining them being read out before a judge.

  Grace reluctantly called an electrician first thing the next morning, then hovered near the bottom of the stairs like an over-caffeinated royal guard as he replaced a circuit breaker.

  After he left she picked up her car keys and told Dan she was going to the shops.

  ‘I won’t be long. I’ll be back before you have to leave for work. Is there anything you want?’

  ‘OJ?’ he said hopefully. ‘And maybe some decent cheese.’

  At the supermarket she filled a basket with groceries. Bread, olives, juice, lamb chops and a wedge of blue cheese for Dan. All misdirection.

  Her last stop was the toiletries aisle. She selected a box of dark brown hair dye and held it next to a photo of Sam on her phone to test how closely the tones matched. His hair was blacker. She returned the brown to the shelf and selected a different brand that had a colour called ‘ultra onyx’. The model’s hair was ebony. Grace tossed it into her shopping basket and made her way to the register.

  When she got home Sam was asleep. Grace kissed Dan goodbye as he left for the office then put Sam into his pram and wheeled it into the bathroom.

  She had never dyed her hair before. Everybody always said they wanted a gold mane like hers, and around the age of sixteen her friends all started experimenting with different colours. Grace had been tempted to try a shocking shade of red but Fiona talked her out of it. ‘Blonde hair like yours won’t ever go back to its original colour after you’ve dyed it. You’ll have to grow it out. Can you wait three years to get it back to your original colour?’

  That didn’t bother her now. She didn’t ever want to be blonde again.

  ‘You’re getting a new mother, Sammy,’ she said, tearing open the box of dye and pulling out a pair of black latex gloves and two small plastic bottles. She momentarily regretted not booking an appointment with a proper colourist. But she dreaded being asked why on earth she was dying her blonde tresses dark. Besides, she wanted it done immediately.

  She mixed the toner into the solution and squirted a dollop into her gloved palm. It looked like thick, pearlescent oil. Grace’s eyes flicked up to the mirror and she took in her blonde reflection one last time. With her clean hand she patted down the flyaway wisps. She took a deep breath and slid a streak of black goo through her hair.

  When the bottle of dye was empty Grace looked like she was wearing a glistening black swimming cap. The solution was hot and made her scalp itch. She let it sit for thirty minutes then showered, thinking of the shower scene in Psycho as she watched the dirty water run down the drain. The solution clung stubbornly to her follicles and she had to rub hard to shift it. Sam, still in his pram, stirred and began to cry. She turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel and leaving dirty grey spots on it. She could still feel the dye residue in her hair.

  ‘Sh-sh,’ she soothed as she tucked in the corner of her towel to hold it in place. She grabbed one of the old towels from under the sink and covered her half-clean head with it. ‘Sh-sh.’ She rubbed Sam’s belly with one hand as she tucked her hair away with the other. Would he notice the new colour? The dye reeked of chemicals. He wouldn’t like that, she thought guiltily.

  He squirmed and resisted as she lifted him from the pram. He straightened his back, trying to twist free from her arms as he cried.

  ‘Sh-sh, little one,’ she said. Grey water was trickling down her back and onto the tiles. ‘I’m sorry, little one, I have to put you down,’ she said. ‘I’ll only be a minute. Just one little minute.’

  She didn’t want the dye getting on him. She hugged Sam to her chest and padded quickly to his room. ‘Sh-sh, there, there,’ she cooed. Sam wailed as she lowered him into his cot. She could feel water dribbling down her back and knew it would be dirtying his bedroom carpet.

  Sam wailed harder, opening his throat and baring his tonsils. ‘Sh. I’ll be right back,’ she said, dashing again towards the bathroom where she skidded dangerously on the wet tiles. She turned on the shower taps, cranking them up harder than normal so a heavy stream of water blasted from the jet. Grace scrubbed and scrubbed her head, releasing a seemingly endless stream of murky water. Despite the roar of the shower, she could hear Sam howling. She dug her nails into her scalp and raked them rigorously back and forth, needing to banish every last trace of chemical. Her hair looked so strange, hanging from her scalp like black squid tentacles.

  When the water finally ran clear she turned off the tap, grabbed a fresh towel and wrapped up her long hair. She put on her dressing-gown and ran to Sam’s room, where she scooped him up and held him to her chest. ‘There, there, little man,’ she said. She settled into the rocking chair to see if he would let her feed him. He latched on greedily and began suckling, clawing her breasts with his tiny nails. She felt another pulse of guilt at having let him go hungry while she washed her hair. She leaned back in the chair, taking the weight off her back. Her energy was sapped. She closed her eyes as Sam suckled, then swapped him to the other side. After he was fed, burped and changed he was content and drifted off to nap for a few hours.

  ‘What’s this?’ Dan asked when he arrived home to find a stew bubbling away on the stove.

  ‘It’s poor man’s beef bourguignon.’

  ‘Not this, this.’

  ‘Oh.’ She put her hand to her head, still covered by her towel turban.

  ‘This little rascal gave you time for a shower, I see. What luxury.’ He leaned closer to the bassinet on the marble bench, where Sam kicked and cooed. ‘What luxury, Sammy.’ He took the scrubbing brush from her. ‘Sit down. Let me do the dishes. I’ve been in meetings all day. I’ve barely moved.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I bought gelato,’ he said.

  ‘The good stuff?’

  ‘Burnt fig. It’s in my bag.’

  She retrieved it, smiling. ‘My hero.’

  ‘How was he today?’

  ‘He was perfect.’

  She unwound the tow
el from her head, black hair falling down to cover her shoulders.

  Dan gave a start. ‘What have you done?’ He touched it. ‘It’s real?’

  ‘It will grow out, but yes, for now, it’s real. You don’t like it?’

  He brushed it with his hand sadly. ‘It’s just … different.’

  ‘I’m tired of feeling like I have a big flashing neon sign on my head that makes people wonder why I don’t look like my son.’

  She got up to look in the mirror that hung on the wall. Her entire face had changed. Her hair colour looked flat. Unnatural. The individual strands were no longer silky but coarse. Against her golden hair her complexion had a summery, apricot hue. The matte black washed it out, tinting it a jaundiced yellow. Though the sleepless nights certainly didn’t help. Her eyes were receding into her sockets and her face had grown hollow. She now weighed several kilos less than she did before she got pregnant. Despite this, she felt a distinct hint of something she hadn’t felt in months: relief. Repose. She touched the black ends of her hair; perhaps now she could relax, so she wouldn’t look so suspiciously tormented all the time; and by extension, maybe she wouldn’t feel that way.

  The doorbell rang bright and early the next morning, an impatient dingle-tingle-tingle echoing throughout the hallway.

  ‘Yoo-hoo! Gracie! It’s me, Caroline.’

  Grace stayed perfectly still, like a savannah zebra sensing the presence of a big cat.

  ‘Gra-ace!’ Caroline rapped her knuckles on the door’s frosted-glass panel. Tap-tap-tapper-tap-tap-tap. ‘Yoo-hoo!’

  Sam was in his bassinet sucking on his thumb. Grace crept to the dining-room doorway so she could peer down the hall. Caroline’s silhouette was framed by the white frosted glass. Her hair was blonde and fluffy like a poodle’s. She was holding something in her left hand as she banged on the door with her right. She wasn’t going to give up. Fastidious, unwavering and always prepared, Caroline was born to be a mother.

  As the doorbell chimed again Sam started to grizzle.

  ‘No, sh-sh, please, not now,’ Grace whispered. Sam ignored her, escalating to a full-blown cry.

  ‘Grace, I can hear little Sammy! I’m not going away until you open this door.’

  Grace picked up Sam. If she let Caroline in now she would have to show her the baby. She couldn’t leave him in his room crying while the self-appointed mother of the year was perched on her couch admonishing Grace’s choice of nipple cream.

  ‘For God’s sake, Grace, if you’re worried about looking like a dishevelled new mother, I’ve seen it all before. I’ve got GMO-free ointment and some lanolin. Trust me. I’m here to help.’

  The knocking started again. Grace cursed quietly.

  ‘Caroline!’ she called out, trying to sound surprised. ‘I didn’t hear you. Ah, just a minute.’

  A virus, she thought. I’ll say Sam has a terrible, contagious virus and I want to keep him away from everyone. But what? Caroline, that walking syllabus of baby maladies, would want to know what Sam had and how he had contracted it. She’d probably have a list of a dozen remedies on hand. Grace picked up her phone, balancing Sam in one arm, and Googled common baby viruses. Meningitis? Measles?

  Tap-tap-tapper-tap-tap-tap.

  Grace slipped a pacifier between Sam’s lips, took him upstairs and wound up his musical bear. ‘Greensleeves’ began to play from the furry stomach. She shut the door, smoothed down her hair and shirt and then headed back downstairs to open the front door.

  ‘Hi-ya-oh! Grace, your hair.’ Caroline’s Avon-lady smile faltered.

  ‘Hi, Caroline.’ Grace’s hands went self-consciously to her blackened hair. ‘Um, come in.’

  Eying her friend, Caroline shuffled sideways into the narrow hallway. The lofty expression on her face said: It’s worse than I thought. One arm was weighed down by a basket. The other cradled a Mason jar containing what looked to be a homemade unguent. ‘Come into the dining room.’ Grace practically pushed her friend down the passageway.

  ‘Is the little man of the house asleep? I just heard him.’

  ‘Yes. Finally. He’s upstairs. I don’t want to disturb him.’

  ‘Oh, Grace, let me just take a little peekaboo. We won’t wake him. I’ll be quieter than a church mouse.’

  ‘He’s been really hard to settle—’

  Grace had almost manoeuvred Caroline into the dining room when Sam started to cry. Her heart sank, while Caroline’s face lit up gleefully.

  ‘There now, he wants to say hello,’ Caroline said, pushing the jar into Grace’s arms and making her way upstairs. A word drifted into Grace’s head, as it so often did when Caroline was around: busybody.

  ‘Caroline—’ Grace searched for something to say, but Caroline was pushing Sam’s bedroom door open, placing her basket on the changing table.

  Grace stepped past her to the cot and reached in to lift Sam, whose cries quietened to a whimper.

  ‘Well, hello there,’ Caroline said, a shocked smile plastered on her face. Her manners and her curiosity were locked in a battle. Grace knew she would tell everyone about Sam. They would comment that none of them had met him. They would begin to make connections and wonder why he was being kept hidden. She should offer an explanation to stem the gossip, she thought. But what? Her tongue was paralysed.

  ‘Isn’t he just the most perfect little thing?’ Caroline said, regaining her composure. Sam was watching her with his big brown eyes, taking in her poodle hair and rabbity teeth. Caroline was looking back with matched curiosity.

  Dan had been right all along, Grace thought. They needed to see a lawyer.

  ‘I’m really glad we’re doing this,’ Dan said.

  He and Grace were in a waiting room on level twenty-seven of a skyscraper, their fingers knotted together. They could see for miles through the reception area’s floor-to-ceiling windows. It made Grace dizzy and it felt prescient, like they were poised for a great fall.

  A young woman took them through to a long boardroom with padded, panelled walls.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Arden.’ A man came towards them with his hand held out. ‘Elliott Jones; I’m one of the partners here.’

  Dressed in a banker shirt of blue stripes with a white collar and cuffs, Elliott Jones exuded success. His impeccable grooming distracted from the fact that he was not naturally handsome. His face had a wolfish quality.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Elliott said, gesturing to the table, where a yellow legal pad lay waiting. ‘You were a bit vague on the phone. You’re going to have to tell me exactly what your problem is.’

  Grace and Dan looked at each other.

  ‘Nothing you say will leave this room. Promise.’

  ‘Perhaps we could show you,’ Dan said. He took his phone from his pocket and opened his photo gallery. It was a mosaic of tiles. There was Sam in his first sun-hat. Sam having tummy time. Sam sleeping off a milk coma. He passed the phone full of images to Elliott. ‘This is our little IVF guy.’

  The lawyer smiled. ‘What a strapping lad. Let me guess. Custody issue? You used a donor egg and now the mother’s making a claim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Donor sperm? You didn’t get the result you expected.’

  Grace and Dan shifted in their seats, embarrassed. ‘No. The embryo was created using our egg and sperm.’

  The lawyer leaned back in his chair and regarded the couple. ‘I’m guessing neither of you have relatives who look like Sam.’

  Grace twisted a strand of her lank, black hair. ‘To be honest, Mr Jones—’

  ‘Elliott, please.’

  ‘To be honest, Elliott, we really don’t know what happened. But our best guess is that there was some sort of mix-up. That maybe the clinic used the wrong egg or the wrong sperm.’

  ‘And you want to sue them?’

  ‘No! The opposite. We want to make sure we can’t lose him. We want to make sure nobody can take him away from us. Ever.’

  The lawyer leapt to his feet and started pacing the boardroom. Fissure
s of excitement rippled across his face. Grace could picture him sitting in expensive restaurants regaling his colleagues with the details of the predicament. Men like Elliott Jones, she sensed, lived for this sort of professional intrigue.

  ‘We just want to shore up our parental rights,’ Dan said.

  Elliott nodded as he paced. ‘Okay. Okay. Have you done a DNA test?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d say that’s the first step so we know what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘We’re only guessing it was a mix-up. The doctor said it could be a recessive gene that’s surfaced again,’ Grace said hopefully.

  Elliott pursed his lips. ‘Perhaps.’ He tented his fingers. ‘Can I be honest with you? I’ve never heard of anything like this happening before. Ever. Can you sit tight for a day or two while I investigate the legalities?’

  ‘There have been a few cases around the world,’ Dan said. ‘I looked into it. The outcomes were … mixed. Depending on the jurisdiction.’

  ‘You know, if there has been a mix-up you could sue the clinic for malpractice.’

  ‘What if they try to reconnect him with his parents?’ Dan asked.

  ‘And risk a public outcry? Exposure? Penalties? No, if there has been one guiding principle that I have relied on all my professional life it’s to always back self-interest. They’ll be eager to throw money at you and quieten you down. This is a big problem for them. They’ll just want it to go away.’

  ‘I can’t sue for damages when the so-called accident gave us Sam,’ Grace said. ‘He’s the best thing that has ever happened to us.’ ‘And what if a family appears claiming Sam is theirs?’ Dan said. ‘Won’t it look bad if we’ve sued?’

  ‘I understand your concerns,’ Elliott nodded. ‘But the clinic should be held to account for this. They could do it again. Do you want to put other families through what you’ve been through?’

  ‘Right now I’m just concerned with our family,’ Grace said, reaching for Dan’s hand.