Beruflich Dokumente
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the
Mothers
WHAT IF THE BABY YOU GAVE BIRTH TO
BELONGED TO SOMEONE ELSE?
Grace and Dan Arden are in their forties and have been on the IVF
treadmill since the day they got married. Six attempts have yielded
no results and with each failure a little piece of their hope dies.
Priya Laghari and her husband Nick Archer are being treated at the
Mothers
same fertility clinic, and while they don’t face the same time pressure
as the Ardens, the younger couple have their own problems.
TWO COUPLES. ONE BABY. AN UNIMAGINABLE CHOICE.
Priya is booked for her next IVF cycle the same day that Grace goes
in for her final, last-chance embryo transfer. Two weeks later, both
women get their results.
GENEVIEVE GANNON
A year on, angry and heartbroken, one of the women learns her
embryo was implanted in the other’s uterus and must make a
devastating choice: live a childless life knowing her son is being
raised by strangers or seek custody of a baby who has been nurtured
and loved by another couple.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
torso that looked like a piece of meat, eerily congruent with the
disposable cover that had been pulled across the examination bed
like butcher’s paper.
The door opened and Grace whipped her hands away from
the broken baby model.
‘Hello, Doctor,’ she said hastily.
‘Hello, Ardens,’ Doctor Li replied. ‘I suppose you don’t want
me to say it’s good to see you again,’ she said with a wry smile.
Despite the boxy skirt and prim, tightly buttoned shirt she
wore under her white coat, Doctor Li looked breathtaking, as
always. Before their first appointment Grace had thought Doctor
Ashley Li could not possibly be as attractive as the photos of
her in magazines, when in fact, the pictures had scarcely done her
justice. Were it not for her plain clothes and her purple rubber
Fitbit, Doctor Li could be from the distant future when aesthetic
imperfections, such as weak jaws and dry skin, had been bred out
of the species altogether.
‘How are you today?’ she asked, pert and professional.
Dan straightened his back. ‘Excellent, Doctor, just excellent.’
He always turned into a prize student in the presence of their
doctor, as if he were expecting her to reward his good behaviour
by pulling out a vial of magical fluid with a secretive grin and the
preamble, ‘I only give this to very special patients . . .’
Doctor Li walked purposefully across the room to the sink
where she squirted antibacterial gel into her palm and rubbed her
hands together before seating herself at her desk.
‘So,’ she said. ‘We’re going to try again?’
‘We should get a loyalty reward card,’ Dan said. ‘Every tenth
round is free, right?’
Doctor Li opened the Ardens’ file. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come
to that.’
A light wind was blowing crisp autumn leaves along the footpath
when Dan slung his arm around his wife’s shoulder and steered
her out of the Empona clinic. It had become routine for them to
walk to and from their appointments. Parking was impossible—the
clinic was ridiculously busy—and taking the backstreets home to
Glebe gave them a chance to digest whatever the latest appoint-
ment had wrought. They strolled in companionable silence until
Grace said: ‘Caroline Hawkins thinks it was a grape-skin extract
that finally helped her get pregnant with Jamie.’
She was forever venturing theories and half-baked hypotheses
for Dan’s consideration. Often they were things she had read
on the internet and wanted to gauge how batty—or not—they
sounded in the real world.
‘I wouldn’t be taking my cues from Caroline Hawkins,’ Dan
said. ‘Didn’t you say she paid two hundred dollars for a fertility
crystal reading?’
‘She’s a doctor.’
‘She’s a podiatrist.’
‘She’s also a mother. Finally.’
‘To a very nice little boy, even though she made George com-
pletely re-arrange the bedroom to give it a feminine energy flow.
The only time I’d ask Caroline’s advice about anything would
be if I had tinea.’
Grace laughed softly. ‘I know, but maybe there’s a placebo
effect.’
Grace shuffled out of her shoes as soon as she entered their terrace,
the cool hallway a relief after the walk home.
‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said, kissing Dan’s cheek.
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘Showering?’
‘With the jab.’
‘Oh, no, it’s okay.’
‘I’ll get dinner on,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make a curry from
scratch, using only organic vegetables and spices. Let’s see if it
fires up your insides.’
‘Sounds good,’ she called from the bathroom, pulling her dress
off over her head.
Her shoulders tensed at the sound of a crash; he’d opened the
cupboard of haphazardly stacked pots and pans.
‘Sorry!’
She grinned as she listened to him bang around in the kitchen
and rustle the cellophane spice packets he bought in bulk from
a wholefoods store in Marrickville. Grace suspected Dan liked
the process of buying the spices more than actually cooking with
them. The warehouse displayed a rainbow of seasonings in old
scrubbed wine barrels. He loved to browse the aisles, rubbing his
hands together saying things like, ‘I feel like an apothecary of
yore restocking my powdered newt and ground dragons’ eggs.’
The day they discovered the store, Dan had spent almost sixty
dollars on spices whose pinnacle of achievement would be to funk
up the pantry with a musty smell until Grace finally cleaned them
out one empty, industrious afternoon. She had foreseen this when
he’d purchased half a kilo of cardamom, but it was impossible to
reproach him when he was so happy, and every now and then he
would be seized by a fit of culinary enthusiasm that made the
expeditions worthwhile.
Grace lined up her fresh cache of drugs on the bathroom bench,
then peeled off her stockings and underwear and turned on the
taps. She had made it a habit to shower before the hormone injec-
tions. The drum of water on her back helped her relax. She stepped
out, dripping, onto the bathmat and opened her medicine cabinet
in search of deodorant. Here we go, she thought. Day One. Again.
The shelves of her bathroom cabinet looked like they belonged
to someone with a flourishing anti-ageing obsession. But unlike her
friends, it was the ageing of her insides rather than her deepening
lines and crow’s feet that most occupied Grace’s mind. Instead of
employing salicylic acid and weighing up the merits of smearing
caffeine onto her cheeks, she was squinting at the fine print on
bottles of maca root and taking vitamins to thicken her uterine
wall. From the aerial view she had of her stomach now it appeared
thick enough, poking out beneath breasts whose nipples were
slowly starting to point south. She examined her face, turning her
head from side to side. There was a definite softening around the
jawline. And her skin was slackening. She pinched her cheek and
watched its surface crinkle.
This is why we have children, she thought darkly. To distract
us from the ravages of time.
Yet, she worried about ageing only in so far as she feared it
was an outward sign of the gradual winding down of her ovaries.
She had never been vain, though she knew she had always been
considered pretty. Her skin was pale and clear and her cheeks
high and flushed with a natural rosiness. These features were
helped along by her long, swinging platinum hair, which she
mostly wore pulled back in a ponytail. But her weight dragged
down her self-esteem. Childhood teasing had lacerated her con-
fidence. The common schoolyard scars might have healed over
time were it not for the cruelty of an aunt Grace had overheard
one afternoon.
‘You should be relieved, Fiona,’ the aunt had told Grace’s
mother, ‘that your daughter is too heavy to ever be a target for
predatory men.’
Grace wasn’t so big, not really—more voluptuous than any-
thing. Dr Li had reassured her, when she asked, that it shouldn’t
affect her fertility. Still, Grace had been taught to hate the excess
kilos she carried. Even now she averted her eyes from the naked
body in the mirror as she rubbed cocoa butter into her arms and
chest before wrapping a towel around herself. Then, guiltily, she
crouched and reached into the back of the cupboard under the
basin, keeping her ears pricked in case she heard Dan’s footsteps
approach. She slid aside a box of soap and spare toothpaste and
pushed her hand through the folds of old towels until her fingertips
felt the dry cardboard of an airfreight envelope. It was stuffed
with bubble wrap and had a hard, glass heart. She dug inside the
package until her fingers closed around the small bottle with a
pipette’s rubber stopper for a lid.
She unscrewed the top and squeezed the stopper so it emptied
itself of air, then she drew in fluid the colour of ear wax. Grace
brought it to her nose and sniffed. It was an indefinable aroma—
chemical, but also organic, like rotten fruit that was starting
to ferment.
She had placed the order through an obscure website late one
night in a pique of desperation. The bottle had arrived alone and
unmarked, like a prop from an espionage film. The instructions on
the net said to add three drops to a glass of water in the morning
and at night. Grace hadn’t been able to bring herself to use it,
yet she hadn’t thrown it away either. The website, which mostly
sold regulated medicines at massively discounted prices, promised
an eighty per cent success rate for women who were—in their
words—‘reproductively challenged’.
While the package worked its way across the Pacific Ocean,
Grace reassured herself that she would Google each of the ingre-
dients and if any of them sounded even mildly nefarious, she
would bin the whole potion. But the bottle was plain, with no
hint of what was contained within. She rolled it in her palm.
On the one hand, medical history was littered with accidental
successes—during her teaching years she had lectured students
about Alexander Fleming and his fortuitous penicillium spores,
and Joseph Priestly whose recreational enjoyment of nitrous oxide
gave the world anaesthetic. On the other hand loomed the spectre
of armless thalidomide babies and uterine tissue dissolved by
primitive abortifacients.
‘Grace,’ Dan called. ‘Are you all right?’
With a jerk and a shiver, Grace shoved the package back
between the towels. She focused on performing the now familiar
series of injections and pill-popping, wincing as she always did
when the needle punctured her skin. Her rump was tender and
still tinged purple where the bruising from the last battery of
injections had not yet healed.
When she opened the bathroom door she smelled spices heating
in a pan. Dan appeared and pressed a stemmed glass into her hand.
She furrowed her brow. ‘Wine?’
‘Apple juice. From the health food store. Nothing but the best
for our blastocyst. When that little guy is implanted your insides
are going to be so nutrient rich he’ll grow up to be Batman.’
A hundred watts of guilt radiated through Grace’s body, but
she hid every one of them beneath a smile. ‘To baby Batman.’ She
clinked her glass against Dan’s, and as the chime of the toast rang
out, Grace felt almost confident. Doctor Li had shut down her
plan for DHEA but offered HGH in its place. Hope was not lost.
Medical science had yet more tricks in its black bag, and she was
comforted by the thought that if that ran out, there was always
the little glass bottle, nestled between the towels, secretly waiting
in her bathroom cupboard.