*
Elise could smell the stink of iron and sweat under the disinfectant and pharmaceuticals. It was in her hair, under her fingernails, between the folds of her skin. Her mind drifted. To the monotonous chit-chat outside her door, footsteps pushing carts, newborns squawking, the beeps and buzzes of distant machines.
“You need to concentrate dear.”
Elise tried to remember what she’d learned in antenatal class, but the fog wrapped around her brain like a thick, grey, merino scarf. She craved the feeling of being back on her bike. Endorphins rushing, music pumping, freedom. But her body failed her. Exhaustion prevailed, leaving her trapped.
She shifted the weight in her arm to the other side, fighting against the urge to drop him. Her body stiffened.
“Tilt his head back. That’s right. Now, scoop your breast into his mouth.”
Elise gasped. Sandpaper on bleeding wounds, she pushed his head away. He bawled. An alarm bell with no off switch, his face turned a brilliant shade of tomato sauce. Elise grunted, letting him fall back onto her belly.
She bit her lip, turning her head in search of her husband. He was curled up on a lime green sofa in the corner of the room. His mobile phone sat in the palm of his hand, his finger jabbing strategically at the screen to the whistling melody of Candy Crush. He had a look of determination on his well-rested face that Elise hadn’t seen before. She blinked the tears away.
“Now, let’s try it again dear. This time with effort.”
*
Wendy scanned the room for a place to sit. Her back ached. Her swollen feet tired from well-meaning small talk. The smell of greasy, fried food playing hide and seek in the kitchen, made her queasy. Her baby kicked. Stretched out in her belly as if doing the downward dog pose. Wendy tried to make eye contact with her wife but she was too busy schmoosing her boss. Everyone’s partners will be there; she had told her the night before. “We’ll just stay for an hour, just to make an appearance.”
That was three hours ago. Wendy moaned under her breath, the reprieve of bed, an eternity away.
8 months, 10 days and 41 seconds. She needed a drink. Brilliant, pale gold in colour. Zingy tropical fruits with a nutty hint. Wendy clenched the stem of the wine glass in defiance to the hum of snide remarks and shifty glances. Just one drink. Blonde bitches in designer jumpsuits, hissing judgements behind manicured hands. Random horn-bags with dicks for brains, ogling her engorged breasts. 8 months, 10 days and 43 seconds of restless sleep, of the constant urge to pee, of waddling like a sumo wrestler. One drink to ease the greyness. To feel like more than just an incubator. One drink.
Wendy’s wife grabbed her by the arm and jerked her head towards the gaggle of gossipers. “Honey, I think it’s best if you have a glass of water instead.”
*
Molly scrolled through the pictures on her smart phone. Perfect hair, perfect make-up. Bodies destined for worship not food. She gnawed the edge of her thumb. Holding the phone up in front of her, she mimicked their poses, pouted her lips, pushed her bottom out, sucked in her tummy. But the photos staring back at her looked ugly. That all too familiar smell of sickly, sweet depression engulfed her.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Molly spun around too quickly, the phone dropping to the floor with a revealing thud. “You look dumb,” Stacey said, popping her gum like an exclamation point. “I don’t know why you’re even trying. You’ll never be pretty.”
Her sister was right. She could never be like them. Never be like Stacey, with her thick blonde hair, perky boobs and crystal blue eyes. Molly’s tangled hair was too curly, her chest was as flat as her dad’s starched shirt, and the circles beneath her eyes darkened with each restless sleep. And yet, if only she wore tighter clothes, make-up, stuffed her bra with toilet paper. Maybe then she’d be the sunset she always wanted to be. Until then, she was a common, grey, garden-dwelling slug.
*
Amy fingered the small hole, the size of a cigarette burn, in the padding of the armchair. She grinned. The idea that someone had smoked in a doctor’s office was the first thing that had made her smile in months. Jack placed his hand over hers.
“The implantation has failed.” The doctor was peering over his thin, metal rimmed glasses. His brow wrinkled. The excess fat under his chin wobbled as he spoke. “Unfortunately, neither of the two eggs have stuck.”
Amy exhaled deeply. Maybe Jack would stop pressuring her now. Endless hours of nausea, headaches, bleeding and depression had possessed her life. The injections made her feel like a hatchery. She snuck a side-ways look at her husband. He was sitting bolt upright, lips drawn into a thin line, his eyes fixed straight ahead to the chart on the wall.
“After four unsuccessful rounds of IVF, we believe your uterus is inhospitable.”
Inhospitable.
The word bounced around Amy’s head like a pinball, rebounding off bumpers and ramps to the tinny sounds of the Star Wars theme. Her uterus was a grey wasteland. Drones buzzing around in an attempt to populate lush, green growth, only to be gridlocked by a megalomaniac virus, ending Jack’s dream of parenthood.
“Perhaps if you were younger. If you hadn’t waited, we may have had other options.”
Jack snatched his hand away from Amy’s, leaving hers warm and slightly moist. “I knew this would happen. Your bloody work means that much to you, right? Well what about what’s important to me? I waited. Stood by while you climbed the corporate ladder. Babies just get in the way. Isn’t that what you said?”
The doctor grimaced. Public shows of emotion were not welcome here.
“Jack, please. Not now.”
Jack flinched at the touch of Amy’s hand on his knee. He pushed it away roughly, stood up, and headed for the door, slamming it behind him like he was finalising his point. Amy sank into the chair with teary clouded eyes. Crushed under the weight of her own inadequacies, she clawed at the walls of her mind, gasping for air, for light, for the understanding she knew she would never get — entombed in the shadows of her mind.