chapter twenty-seven
‘Oliver?’ said Erika quietly, just in case he was still asleep. She stood at the end of their bed, looking at him. One arm was outside the covers, bent at an attractive angle to show his very excellent triceps. He was lean, verging on skinny, but well built. (Early in their relationship they’d gone to the beach with Clementine and Sam and Holly, who was a baby at the time, and Clementine had whispered in Erika’s ear, ‘Your new boyfriend is unexpectedly buff, isn’t he?’ It had pleased Erika more than she liked to admit.)
‘Mmmm?’ Oliver rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes.
‘I’m ready to go over to Mum’s place,’ she said.
Oliver yawned, rubbed his eyes and retrieved his glasses from the bedside table. He glanced out the window at the pouring rain. ‘Maybe you should wait till the deluge eases.’
‘I’d be waiting all day,’ said Erika. She looked at her bed, made up with snowy-white, crisp bed linen. Oliver made the bed each day with taut hospital corners. She was surprised by how badly she wanted to take off her clothes and get back into bed with him and just forget everything. She wasn’t normally a napper.
‘How are you feeling?’ she said.
‘I think I might be feeling better,’ said Oliver worriedly. He sat upright in bed and tapped under his eyes, checking his sinuses. ‘Oh, no. I feel good! I should have gone into work.’ Whenever he took a sick day the poor man obsessively monitored his health the whole time in case he was misusing his sick leave entitlements. ‘Or I could help you at your mother’s place.’ He sat up and swung his feet onto the floor. ‘I could change it to a day of personal time.’
‘You need one more day of rest,’ said Erika. ‘And you’re not going near my mother’s place when you’re sick.’
‘Actually I do feel a bit dizzy,’ said Oliver with relief. ‘Yes, I am now experiencing indisputable dizziness. I could not run the audit clearance meeting. No way.’
‘You could not run the audit clearance meeting. Lie back down. I’ll make you some tea and toast before I go.’
‘You’re wonderful,’ he said. He was always so pathetically grateful for any nurturing he got when he was sick. He had been making his own doctor’s appointments by the time he was ten. No wonder he was a hypochondriac. Not that Erika had got much nurturing from having a nurse for a mother, certainly not for sniffles (no warm chicken soup on a tray like Clementine got from Pam) although the few times in her life that Erika had got properly sick her mother had nursed her, and nursed her extremely well, as if she’d finally got interesting.
‘Did I hear you talking to someone on the phone before?’ said Oliver as she was about to leave the room.
‘Clementine,’ said Erika. She hesitated. She didn’t want to tell him she’d said yes. She didn’t want to see him sit bolt upright in bed, the colour back in his cheeks.
Oliver didn’t open his eyes. ‘Any news?’
‘No,’ said Erika. ‘Not yet.’
She just needed to think about it. Today she had that ‘emergency’ session with her psychologist. Maybe that would get things clearer in her mind. So much to cover at today’s session! She might need to bring along an agenda. That wouldn’t make her look like a type-A personality at all. Not that Erika had a problem with being type-A. Why would you want to be any other personality type?
As she made Oliver’s tea and toast, she thought about the first time their doctor had said it was time to give up on Erika’s eggs.
‘We can pay someone to donate to us, right?’ Erika had said. She didn’t care. She was almost relieved, because she could forget now about her secret fear of passing on her various genetic stains. There had never been any particular pleasure for her in imagining a child with her own eyes or hair or personality traits. Who would want her thin lifeless hair? Her skinny knock-kneed legs? And what if the child hoarded? It was fine that the child would not be biologically hers. She was ready to move on almost instantly.
It was Oliver who had seemed to genuinely grieve. It was odd. Touching but baffling. She knew he loved her. It was one of the most wonderful surprises of her life. But to actually want a child who looked like Erika, who behaved like Erika, who shared her physical and mental attributes? Come on now. That was going a step too far.
Anyway, they had money. They could pay for someone’s eggs. They would get this job done, finally, once and for all.
But apparently not.
‘Well, no,’ said their doctor. ‘That’s illegal here.’ Their doctor was American. ‘You’re allowed to pay your donor for her time and medical costs but that’s it. It’s not like back home where young college students donate their eggs for money. So Australia does have a real shortage of egg donors.’ She looked at them sadly, resignedly. She’d obviously given this spiel so many times before. ‘What you’re looking for is an altruistic donor. There are women who are prepared to donate to strangers, but they’re difficult to find. The easiest, least complicated option, which I would suggest you consider first, is finding a good friend or a relative to help you.’
‘Oh, that’s fine. We wouldn’t want a stranger’s eggs anyway,’ said Oliver immediately, and Erika thought, Wouldn’t we? Why not? ‘We don’t want to just build a baby from spare parts,’ he said. Their doctor’s face went blank and professional as she listened to Oliver. After all, that was her trade: building babies. ‘We want this child to come from a place of love,’ Oliver said with a tremble of emotion, and Erika blushed, she literally blushed, because what in the world was he going on about? She had no problem talking about ovulation and menstrual cycles and follicles in front of her IVF doctor, but not love. That was so personal.
Oliver was the one who had suggested Clementine, in the car on the way home, and Erika had instantly, instinctively baulked. No. No way. Clementine didn’t like needles. Clementine was so busy trying to balance her family and career. Erika didn’t like to ask Clementine for favours, she preferred doing favours for Clementine.
But then she thought of Holly and Ruby, and suddenly she’d been overwhelmed by the most extraordinary desire. Her own Holly or Ruby. Suddenly this abstract idea she’d been working towards for so long became real. Ruby’s beautiful blue cat’s eyes with Oliver’s dark hair. Holly’s rosebud lips with Oliver’s nose. For the first time since she’d begun the IVF process she felt true desperation for a baby. For that baby. She wanted it as much as Oliver did. It almost seemed like she wanted Clementine’s baby far more than she’d ever wanted her own baby.
The kettle boiled and she remembered how she had walked down that bouncy, soft-carpeted hallway at Tiffany and Vid’s house, encased in that strange bubble where nothing seemed quite real, except that she’d overheard Clementine’s voice perfectly: It’s almost … repulsive to me. Oh God, I don’t mean that, I just really don’t want to do it.
Why did she remember that part of the night so clearly? It would be better if Clementine’s words had vanished from her memory, but her memory of that part of the afternoon was crystalline, more distinct even than a regular memory, as if the tablet and the first glass of champagne had produced a chemical reaction that had at first heightened her memory before turning it murky.
She heard Clementine say, What if it looked like Holly or Ruby?
Even after all these weeks, her cheeks burned at the memory. Clementine had spoken Erika’s secret, most precious hopes out loud in a tone of disdain.
She remembered walking into that room and seeing Clementine’s horrified face. She was so clearly terrified that Erika had overheard.
She remembered how she’d carried Ruby downstairs on her hip while rage and pain raced like bacteria through her bloodstream. Rage and pain for Oliver, who had so blissfully, innocently assumed that if they asked Clementine to donate her eggs his little baby would come from ‘a place of love’. A place of love. What a joke.
They’d gone out into that preposterous backyard and Tiffany had offered her wine, that very good wine, and she’d drunk it faster than she’d ever drunk a glass of wine before, and every time Erika had looked at Clementine, laughing, chatting, having the time of her life, she had silently screamed, You can keep your damned eggs.
And it was at that point that her memories of exactly what happened that afternoon began to loosen, fragment and crumble.