May #4
‘Do you think they know something we don’t?’
‘They might. Or they might just feel a pull that, for one reason or another, hasn’t exerted itself on us quite so forcefully.’
My thoughts wavered to the sea, pushing and pulling against the beach.
‘So, your turn,’ he said. ‘What does “not exactly” mean?’
‘God, where to start.’ I told him about my almost-missed period, Anna’s pregnancy, and the way both had made me feel. The way that, lately, thoughts of responsibility and care were slipping in and out of my consciousness with greater frequency. ‘Maybe it’s an age thing.’
‘Maybe.’
‘A phase, even.’
‘Could be.’
I gave him a small smile. A phase. Like flares and skinny jeans.
‘I take it Noah isn’t experiencing the same awakening – if we can call it that?’
‘No, he isn’t.’
‘Well, take your time, think about it – you owe it to yourself, and to him.’
It was that afternoon that I began what I’d envisioned would be a brief foray into Dutch marine biology, culture, theology.
I discovered that, as well as bringing wealth and wonder, these beached sea monsters were bad omens, warning signs of an impending disaster or God’s wrath.
I peered at an etching on my laptop of a whale stranded on a beach and, above, the calamities that ensued : plague, an earthquake, solar and lunar eclipses.
When I tried to predict what kind of misfortune was lying in wait for me, I pictured Noah sleeping first in the spare room, then in a separate flat.
Making dinner for one. Showering alone. End credits.
A closed curtain. When the visions threatened to pull me under, I cast around for an alternative, and at last one came to me, a bitter blow I told myself I could cope with : I’d been so stumped by the way I was feeling, or not feeling, lately that I hadn’t stopped to consider the fact that me having a baby might not be possible.
A calamity, yes, but also a life raft for my marriage.
I had no idea what state my ovaries were in.
How could I? But there was that inconclusive smear test a couple of years back – a letter typed out in small black font had informed me that my results were ‘abnormal’, and I would have to book a biopsy.
After, the young male doctor said I was fine ; everything looked healthy.
I think he might have even compared my ovaries to a type of fruit.
But still, it was something. Then there was the cyst I’d had removed in my late teens.
And simply the fact that my childlike body – straight, hipless – didn’t feel capable of growing and giving birth to a baby.
I’d certainly started my periods later than most of the girls in my year at school.
I looked again at the foreboding etching and wondered, maybe procreation isn’t possible for me.
Maybe Noah and I can move on, forget the whole thing.
That accident early on was a one-off, our only shot.
The prospect brought with it both pain and relief, like when you tweeze a splinter out from under your skin.
I touched my fingertips to my keyboard and felt a current run through them.
Not really, but all of a sudden I experienced a sense of urgency, my heart rate quickening.
Whether he’d picked up on my inner frenzy and was actively trying to counterbalance it, or whether he was simply absorbed in his task, Frank was slowly and carefully placing a new tissue facing over his canvas.
I watched as he started in the middle and moved outwards, taking care to avoid creating any creases.
As he worked, the painting – a tender self-portrait of the artist, Italian, eighteenth-century – started to re-emerge, first vague shapes and colours, then finer details.
When he was done, he checked the new facing was even and removed his gloves. He asked, ‘Are you staying late?’
Thoughts of my fertility, or lack thereof, were churning in my head, and it wasn’t until he cleared his throat that I registered the question and gave him an answer.
‘I’m just going to finish some reading, I think.
’ I tilted the screen of my laptop towards me, even though I hadn’t yet started the search I had planned.
He smiled a knowing smile as he shrugged on his coat and rummaged around in his pockets for his tobacco. I recalled what he’d said earlier – it’s better this way, to think it through – and wondered what he would say now if he knew I was trying to convince myself that I wanted my body to fail.
‘Frank?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for today.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be back in the morning to iron through the beeswax.
’ He walked away, and, as he did, I considered how this kind of moisture barrier would make the canvas less susceptible to changes in the environment, how the hope was to preserve the lining for as long as possible.
I also considered what it meant, the fact that I was seeing fertility in everything .
Left alone, I moved my laptop screen back to its usual position and opened a new tab.
I think the words I typed were ‘fertility test’.
I stared at the text cursor, blinking, waiting for me to either continue typing or press enter.
I picked up my phone and scrolled aimlessly through social media until I felt my eyes glide back to it, still blinking, still waiting.
I started googling.
There were a few clinics to choose from, but the first in the list looked and sounded as good as any.
On the homepage was a wholesome-looking mother and a toddler on a beach, both smiling candidly, wearing chunky knitwear, their skin kissed by the sun.
I ignored the sceptical voice in my head telling me she was just a model and let myself wonder whether she was a single parent, or if there was a father or maybe a second mother in the background, just out of shot.
My resolve began to waver as a very different set of visions flashed before me : the two of us on a beach – no, wait, not just us two, but us three.
For a moment, I allowed myself to get swept up in them, even though something wasn’t quite right – the visions were too polished, too saturated.
I switched to WhatsApp, selected my conversation with Noah, and started typing : How would you feel if …
I heard him exhale, loudly, felt his shoulders slump with disappointment, telling me I knew how he would feel.
I felt a sharp stab of guilt. I deleted it.
Back on the website, my eyes skimmed the drop-down offerings running along the top and settled on Investigating Infertility, which lead me straight to something called a Fertility MOT.
Really? My body a vehicle, my ovaries fiddly parts that had to be checked to ensure they met the required standards.
I pictured an overalled man with oily hands standing between my legs, whistling.
Before I had a chance to change my mind, I scrolled down to the get-in-touch box and tapped in my details : name, date of birth, email address, telephone number, service (I decided to skip the offering of an initial consultation and go straight for the MOT).
The final line was for the name, date of birth, email address and telephone number of my partner (if applicable).
Again, I felt Noah’s disappointment – this time because I’d lied to him.
But if all was as I hoped – it was what I hoped, I told myself, loudly, firmly – this would make everything better again.
My thumb hovered over Submit. I closed my eyes and clicked the trackpad.
As I collected my things and walked towards the door, glancing back just briefly at the solemn face of the dead whale beginning to emerge on the wood panel, I wondered if the leviathan would be my one and only warning sign, or if there would be others.
I heard back from the clinic the following afternoon.
A sprightly email landed in my inbox, thanking me very much for my ‘recent enquiry’ and informing me of the price (four-hundred pounds!) and what was included : a blood test and a transvaginal ultrasound examination, plus a follow-up consultation about a week later.
I was asked to send some suggested dates, which I did.
Within the hour, a second email informed me that my appointments had been secured and requested that I call the clinic to provide payment details.
The singsong tone of the woman on the phone matched that of the email. ‘Lovely,’ she said, with a high-low lilt. ‘Perfect, that’s all gone through. Have a wonderful weekend!’
As I was leaving work, my fingers started to itch.
Noah and I were going to see a new and apparently brilliant period drama at the cinema that night, but not for a couple of hours.
He was having a drink with colleagues first, so I decided to do the same, except with a friend.
Anna. In an instant, I pictured her face as I told her what I’d done and what I hoped would come of it : tilted up and a little to the left, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
The face she pulled whenever she didn’t understand something and was trying to visualise it.
Walking towards Covent Garden, surrounded by strangers, I called her. I breathed in and out and rehearsed in my head what I was going to say : I need to know that I can’t have a baby, because if I can’t, my marriage is safe. That, and : Will you come with me?
I was about to hang up when, at last, she answered. ‘Hi.’ Her voice sounded small and far away.
I pressed the phone hard against my cheek and poked a finger in my other ear, muting the flurry of passers-by and churning rush-hour traffic. ‘Anna, is that you? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’