Authors: Liane Moriarty
There were plenty of spare seats, but for some reason, he chose to plonk himself down next to me. It was uncomfortable. He’s not a large man, but he did seem to take up a lot of room. I found I was pressing myself against the side of the bus, so our thighs didn’t touch. Also, he was close enough that I could smell some sort of aftershave or cologne. I’m not saying it was unpleasant. It just seemed overly
personal
.
I said something about the weather but he ignored that and said, “How’s that honorary family of yours?”
I found myself telling him about Alice’s accident and how she didn’t remember anything about her marriage breakdown. I told him how worried I was about the children. He told me a rather sad story about his own son, who had gone through a divorce, and how his daughter-in-law didn’t let them see their grandchildren anymore. “It broke my wife’s heart,” he said. He told me that his wife had died two years ago and that he truly believed she would have lived longer if her grandchildren hadn’t been taken from her.
When we got to the shopping center, I naturally assumed he would go off and do his own thing, but he cheerfully admitted he didn’t have a thing to buy and he’d be happy to keep me company. I’d had enough of him by now but I couldn’t think of a polite way to get rid of him.
So he followed me around while I bought talcum powder for Alice. I needed some new deodorant at the chemist’s, but I was too embarrassed to buy it in front of him, as if deodorant could only be purchased in private. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard?
Also, we couldn’t seem to synchronize our walking. We kept bumping into each other and treading on each other’s toes. It was driving me a little batty, to be honest. (I’m sure it was his fault, not mine. I’m perfectly able to walk alongside other people. You and I used to go on such long walks! Never a problem!)
At one point we saw a toddler sitting in one of those toy cars. The child was having a tantrum, screaming, “Just one more turn!” at his poor harassed mother. Next thing, Mr. Mustache took a coin from his wallet and leaned past the toddler and popped it in the slot to activate the ride. Of course, the toddler shrieked with delight, while the poor mother didn’t know what to do.
We were having quite a spirited argument about this (I felt that he had rudely undermined the young mother’s authority) when he suddenly got all excited by a pink neon sign advertising free iced doughnuts with your coffee. He insisted on buying me a cappuccino. For something to say, I told him about Ben and how he designs rather beautiful neon signs for a living, and that led to us talking about Elisabeth’s problems.
He was very sympathetic to Elisabeth and, strangely, that made me want to argue with him. I said that babies weren’t the be-all and end-all and that Elisabeth might do better to concentrate on her marriage and her lovely husband.
He asked whether I’d ever had a “lovely husband” myself.
I said no.
Then I got a little snappish and said that my doughnut was stale.
That was a fib. It was actually quite delicious.
Elisabeth’s Homework for Dr. Hodges
It was surreal hearing Alice ask me if I tried again, so wide-eyed and respectful. I nearly laughed. I wondered if it was an act.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought properly about those early “losses,” as you call them with a straight-mouthed grimace, as if you’re constipated. I sort of hate that face you pull, Dr. Hodges. I bet your wife does, too. It always makes me think about what else I could be doing with the $150 I spend on you. I remember in one session you wanted me to start talking through the “early losses” (grimace, grimace), and I gave a dramatic sigh and said I didn’t think I could, but really I was just so irritated by that expression on your face.
Mostly now I just think of my “losses” as bullet points on my medical history. If a doctor asks me for my history I can reel off every single procedure and test and crushing disappointment without even a tremor in my voice, as if they don’t mean a thing, as if they happened to somebody else.
So I can say “second first-trimester miscarriage in April 2006” without blinking, and I don’t even think about what it was like, or how it felt.
I want you to know that I’ve missed all of
Grey’s Anatomy
now. I’m really working hard on this therapy. I wish you were grading me. You should give grades to your approval-seeking patients.
I remember how happy we were when we got pregnant again, because this time, for some reason, we managed a “natural” pregnancy.
That was to be my January baby, due on 17 January (the day after Ben’s birthday; imagine if it was born on the same day! But no, shhhh, don’t say that out loud). We kept the pregnancy a secret this time. We thought that telling everybody about the first baby had been our beginner’s mistake. I imagined announcing my second pregnancy with calm, womanly confidence after I’d passed the first trimester. It seemed a more grown-up, safer way to handle things. “Oh no, not an IVF baby this time,” I’d say casually. “A
natural
pregnancy.” This time we didn’t talk about names, and Ben didn’t pat my stomach when he kissed me goodbye each morning. We said things like “
If
I’m still pregnant at Christmas” and lowered our voices to a whisper when we used the word “baby,” as if getting our hopes up had been the mistake, as if we could trick the gods into not noticing us sneakily trying to have a baby.
This time Ben was there for the first ultrasound and we both dressed up carefully as if it was for a job interview, as if our clothes would make a difference. The woman doing it was young, Australian, and a little cranky. I was worried, but on the other hand I was faking it for the cameras, if you know what I mean. I was all twitchy nerves on the surface, but deep down part of me was enjoying observing my anguish:
Ooh, look at her digging her nails into her hands as she lies down, the poor, traumatized thing, when of COURSE there is going to be a heartbeat THIS time because this sort of thing doesn’t happen twice!
I could already feel the huge rush of relief that would be released. I had tears of joy banked up, just waiting for me to push “go.” I was ready to send a poignant message of love to my first baby, something along the lines of “I will never forget you, I will always hold you in my heart,” and then it would be time to focus on this baby: our real baby. Alice’s baby would only be a few months older. We could still call them twins.
The cranky girl said, “I’m sorry . . .”
Ben clenched his jaw hard and took a step back, as if someone had just threatened to hit him in a pub brawl and he was trying not to get involved.
I’ve heard so many professional “I’m sorry”s now, Dr. Hodges. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Yes, your colleagues in the medical profession are all very sorry. I wonder if one day you’ll be the next to say, kindly and sadly, “I’m sorry but I can’t cure you. You’re a nutter. It might be time to look at other options, like transplanting somebody else’s personality.”
I was embarrassed that it had happened twice in almost exactly the same way. I felt as if I was wasting people’s time, constantly turning up for ultrasounds of dead babies. What? You thought you had a real live baby in there? Don’t be ridiculous. Not you. You’re not a proper woman with these half-hearted, faintly ridiculous attempts to have a baby. There are women out there with proper swollen pregnant stomachs and live kicking babies.
Afterward, I felt it had been wrong not telling the family about the baby, because then I wanted them to know about the miscarriage, so that they knew the baby had existed. But when I told people, they seemed more interested in the fact that I’d kept the pregnancy a secret. They felt they’d been tricked. They said things like “Oh, I did wonder that day when you didn’t drink at the Easter BBQ but you said you just didn’t feel like drinking!” In other words, LIAR.
Ben’s mother was offended. We had to take her out twice for a “buy one, get one free!” meal at the Black Stump before she forgave us. The point of it seemed to be that I’d hidden the pregnancy, not that I’d lost the baby. People weren’t as upset as with the first one, and how could they be, when they’d only just heard it existed in the first place. I felt this ridiculous protective feeling for my January baby, as if nobody loved her, as if she wasn’t as pretty or as smart as the first baby.
I know she was a girl. This time they sent off the “fetal material” for testing and told me it was a chromosomally normal female. They said they were sorry but they couldn’t find any reason why I’d lost the baby. They said there was a lot they didn’t know about miscarriage, but according to the statistics I still had an excellent chance of having a healthy baby next time. Chin up. Try again.
A week after the D&C (such a chipper name for something so horrible; I never feel so desolate as I have after waking up in Recovery from a D&C) I went to visit Alice in hospital and see her new baby girl. Of course, Alice said I didn’t need to go and Ben said he didn’t want me to go, but I went. I don’t know why but I was determined to do everything I normally would.
I went to the greeting card store and chose a card frosted with pink glitter saying “Congratulations on your darling little girl.” I went to Pumpkin Patch and bought a tiny yellow dress with embroidered butterflies all over it. “It just makes you long to have a baby girl, doesn’t it!” cooed the saleslady.
I wrapped up the dress in pink tissue paper and wrote on the card and I drove to the hospital and found a parking spot and walked through the corridors with the present under one arm and some trashy celebrity magazines for Alice under the other. The whole time I floated alongside myself, impressed. “You’re doing fine. Well done. It will all be over soon and you can be home watching television.”
Alice was on her own in the room, breast-feeding Olivia.
My own breasts still ached and burned. It’s so mean-spirited of your body, the way it keeps acting like you’re pregnant, even after the baby has been scraped out of your womb.
“Oh,
look
at her!” I said to Alice, ready to begin the new-baby patter.
I’m so good at it these days. Just last week I went to visit a friend who had given birth to her third child and, even if I say so myself, my performance was flawless. “Look at his tiny hands!” “Oh, her eyes/nose/mouth is just like yours!” “Of
course
I’d love a hold!” And, breathe. And, chat. And, smile. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it. There should be Oscars for that sort of thing.
But Alice didn’t let me get started on my act.
As soon as she saw me, she held out the arm that wasn’t holding the baby and her face crumpled and she said, “I wish it was me visiting you.”
I sat on the bed with her and let her hug me. Alice’s tears dripped straight onto Olivia’s soft, tiny, bald head, but she kept right on sucking Alice’s nipple, as if her life depended on it. She’s always loved her food, that kid.
I’d forgotten all about that day until now—how much it meant to me that Alice cried so genuinely for me. It was like she was taking on some of my grief. I thought, It’s okay, I can do this, I can get through it, I’ll be fine.
I just didn’t realize that “this” would keep on going and going and going.
Mmmm. I think we may have just had a mini-breakthrough in my journal-writing therapy. Although no need to get too big for your boots, Dr. Hodges. It wasn’t like I’d
repressed
that memory with Alice. I just hadn’t thought about it for a while, but still, bravo, maybe there is something in this, even though I’ve just missed what was promised to be an “explosive” episode of
Grey’s Anatomy
.
I’d toughened up by the next “loss.”
Elisabeth said, “You’re not just pretending you don’t remember, so you can make some sort of point, are you?”
Alice felt the same punched-in-the-stomach feeling as when Nick had yelled at her on the phone. He’d said something about her making a point, too. Had she become a person who had points to make?
“What sort of point?”
“Forget it. I was just being paranoid.” Elisabeth stood up and walked into the kitchen. She stopped in front of the refrigerator. It was covered with magnets, notices, photos, and children’s drawings. “I wonder if there is an invitation here for this party of yours.”