chapter sixty-eight
‘So it looks like Mum is not going to cancel,’ said Erika. She’d been waiting all day for a phone call from her mother saying that she had a headache or she ‘didn’t feel up to it’ or it was too rainy, or, outrageously, that she ‘was catching up on a bit of housework’ so she wouldn’t be able to join them at Clementine’s parents’ house for dinner after all.
But the phone call hadn’t come. In a minute they’d be picking Sylvia up and discovering what personality she’d selected for the evening.
Sylvia often went for a dreamy, bohemian persona when she was seeing Clementine’s parents, as if she were an artist of some sort and they were the stuffy, suburban couple who had stepped in to help take care of her daughter when she was distracted doing her art. Another popular option was jaded, alcoholic sex kitten (channelling Elizabeth Taylor), except Sylvia didn’t drink, she’d just hold her glass of water with careless elegance, as if it were a martini, and speak in a low, husky voice. Whichever personality she chose, the point was to make it clear that she was somehow special and different, and there was therefore no need to feel guilty or especially grateful for how much time Erika had spent at Clementine’s home as a child.
‘Oh well,’ said Oliver. He was in a great mood. Clementine had filled in all the interim paperwork, she’d been for a blood test and she’d made an appointment to see the counsellor at the IVF clinic. Things were progressing. Each time Clementine passed him something across the table tonight he’d probably be checking out her bone structure and imagining his super-efficient sperm (tests indicated perfect motility) zipping about the petri dish with her eggs. ‘Clementine’s parents can handle her.’
Erika’s phone beeped just as Oliver turned into her mother’s street and her heart lifted. ‘Eleventh-hour reprieve!’ she crowed. But it was her mother saying to let her know when they were close so that she could be waiting out the front.
Erika texted back: On approach right now.
Her mother texted back: Great!! xx
Good God. Double exclamation marks and kisses. What could that mean?
‘Looks like the neighbours have got their For Sale sign up already,’ said Oliver as he parked the car. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘She’s outdone herself.’
‘Told you so,’ said Erika. Erika’s mother’s front yard looked as it had on her previous visit. Maybe worse? She couldn’t remember.
‘I think we need to call in the professionals,’ said Oliver, his eyes on the yard. ‘Take her out somewhere, do it while she’s gone.’
‘She won’t fall for that again,’ said Erika. She’d taken her mother away for the weekend once, and sent in cleaners, returning her mother to an unrecognisable, beautiful home. When they’d got back her mother had slapped Erika across the face and refused to speak to her for six months because of her ‘betrayal’. Erika had known she was betraying her. She’d felt like Judas that whole weekend.
‘We’ll work it out. Here she comes. She looks … gosh, she looks great.’ Oliver jumped out of the car in the rain to open the back door for Sylvia, who carried a large, white, wooden-handled umbrella and wore a beautiful, tailored cream suit, like something Jane Fonda would wear to accept a lifetime achievement award. Her hair was bouncy and shiny, she must have been to the hairdresser, and as she got in the car, all Erika could smell was perfume – nothing damp or mouldy or rotting.
It was a trick. The ultimate trick. Tonight they weren’t going to pretend that there was a reason why Clementine’s parents had virtually adopted Erika. Tonight they were going to pretend it had never happened at all, and of course they would all go along with it and let her get away with it. They’d all behave as if Sylvia lived in a home that matched that beautiful brand new outfit.
‘Hello, darling,’ said her mother in a breathless, feminine, I’m-a-lovely-mother voice.
‘You look nice,’ said Erika.
‘Do I? Thank you,’ said her mother. ‘I called Pam earlier to ask if I could bring anything and she absolutely insisted I come empty-handed. She said something very mysterious about how the evening was in honour of you and Oliver, although she knows you both don’t like to talk about it, but obviously she was forever in your debt. I thought, goodness, is dear old Pam finally losing her marbles?’
Oliver cleared his throat and shot Erika a rueful half-smile.
Naturally Erika hadn’t said a word to her mother about what had happened at the barbeque. You would think it was a straightforward story but who knew how she’d react?
‘We were at a barbeque with the next-door neighbours and Ruby fell into a fountain,’ said Erika. ‘Oliver and I sort of … rescued her. We had to give her CPR. She was fine.’
There was silence from the back seat.
‘Ruby is the littler one, right?’ said Erika’s mother in her regular voice. ‘How old is she? Two?’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver.
‘What happened? Nobody saw her fall in? Where was her mother? What was Clementine doing?’
‘Nobody saw her fall in,’ said Erika. ‘It was just one of those unfortunate things.’
‘So … she wasn’t breathing when you pulled her out?’
‘No,’ said Erika. She watched Oliver’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
‘The two of you worked together?’
‘Oliver did compressions, I did the rescue breaths.’
‘How long before she responded?’
‘It felt like a lifetime,’ said Erika.
‘I bet it did,’ said Sylvia quietly. ‘I bet it did.’ Then she leaned forward and patted their shoulders.
‘Well done,’ she said. ‘I’m very proud of you two. Very proud.’
Neither Erika nor Oliver said anything, but Erika could feel their mutual happiness filling the car; they both responded like thirsty plants to water when it came to parental approval.
‘So Little Miss Perfect Clementine isn’t so perfect after all!’ crowed Sylvia as she leaned back in her seat. There was a triumphant, bitchy edge to her voice. ‘Ha! What did Pam have to say about that? My daughter saved her grandchild’s life!’
Erika sighed, and Oliver’s shoulders slumped. Of course she would ruin the moment, of course she would.
‘Pam is very grateful,’ she said flatly.
‘Well, that certainly evens up the score then, doesn’t it, for all that family supposedly did for you.’
‘They didn’t supposedly do anything, Mum,’ said Erika. ‘Their home was a haven for me.’
‘A haven,’ snorted Sylvia.
‘Yes, that’s right, a haven, with running water and electricity and actual food in the refrigerator. Oh, and no rats. That was nice. The lack of rats.’
‘Let it go,’ said Oliver quietly.
‘Well, all I’m saying, my darling child, is that we don’t have to feel quite so grateful to them now, do we? Quite so subservient. Like they’re our feudal overlords. You saved that child’s life!’
‘Yes, well, and now Clementine is going to donate her eggs to help us have a baby, so we’re going to be back to feeling grateful to them,’ said Erika.
It was a mistake. As soon as she said it she knew it was a mistake.
There was a beat. Erika looked at Oliver. He shook his head as he resignedly flicked on the indicator to turn right.
‘I’m sorry … what did you just say?’ Sylvia leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would let her.
‘Dammit, Erika,’ sighed Oliver.
‘We’ve been going through IVF for the last two years,’ said Erika. ‘And my eggs are … rotten.’ Because of you, she thought. Because I grew up in filth, surrounded by rot and decay and mould, so germs and spores and all manner of malignancy found its way into my body. She hadn’t been at all surprised when she couldn’t get pregnant. Of course her eggs had gone off. No surprises there!
‘They’re not rotten,’ said Oliver in a pained way. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘You never told me you were going through IVF,’ said Sylvia. ‘Did you just forget to mention it? I’m a nurse! I could have given you support … advice!’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Erika.
‘What do you mean, “yeah, right”?’
‘We never told anyone,’ said Oliver. ‘We just kept it to ourselves.’
‘We’re strange people,’ said Erika. ‘We know it.’
‘You always said you never wanted children,’ said Sylvia.
‘I changed my mind,’ said Erika. You would think she’d signed a contract the way people kept reminding her of this.
‘So Clementine offered to donate her eggs?’ said Sylvia.
‘We asked her,’ said Erika. ‘We asked her before … what happened with Ruby.’
‘But you can bet your bottom dollar that’s why she’s doing it,’ said Sylvia.
‘Look, none of this is definite yet,’ said Oliver. ‘We’re right at the early stages. Clementine still has to have tests, see a counsellor …’
‘It’s a horrible idea,’ said Erika’s mother. ‘An absolutely horrible idea. Surely there are other options.’
‘Sylvia,’ began Oliver.
‘My grandchild won’t really be mine!’ said Sylvia.
Narcissist. That’s how Erika’s psychologist described her. Classic narcissist.
‘My grandchild will be Pam’s grandchild,’ continued Sylvia. ‘It’s not enough that she has to take my daughter, oh no, now she can lord it over me with this: “We’re just so happy to help out, Sylvia.” So condescending and smug. It’s a horrible idea! Don’t do it. It will be a disaster.’
‘This isn’t about you, Sylvia,’ said Oliver. Erika could hear a pulse of anger in his voice. It made her nervous. He rarely got angry and he always spoke with such scrupulous politeness to his mother-in-law.
‘Why in the world did you ask her?’ said Sylvia. ‘Find an anonymous donor. I don’t want my grandchild to have Pam’s DNA! She’s got those big elephantine ears! Erika! What if your child inherits Pam’s ears?!’
‘For heaven’s sake, Mum,’ said Erika. ‘I read somewhere there’s a gene associated with compulsive hoarding. I think I’d prefer my child to have big ears than become a hoarder.’
‘Please don’t use that word. I abhor that word. It’s so …’
‘Accurate?’ murmured Erika.
There was silence for a few seconds but Sylvia rallied fast.
‘What will you say when Clementine comes to visit?’ she said. ‘ “Oh, look, darling, here comes your real mother! Off you go and play the cello together.” ’
‘Sylvia, please,’ said Oliver.
‘It’s unnatural, that’s what it is. Science has gone too far. Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.’
They pulled into Clementine’s parents’ street. It used to take Erika only ten minutes to walk here as a child, to leave all the dirt and the shame behind. Erika looked out the window as they pulled up in front of the neat Californian bungalow with its olive-green front door. Just seeing that olive-green front door used to make her heartbeat slow.
Oliver turned off the windscreen wipers, twisted the key in the ignition, undid his seatbelt and turned to look at his mother-in-law.
‘Could we please not talk about this over dinner?’ he said. ‘Could I ask you that, Sylvia?’
‘Of course I won’t.’ Sylvia lowered her voice. ‘Take a look at Pam’s ears, though, that’s all I’m saying.’ She caressed one earlobe. ‘I myself have such dainty ears.’