“Do you think we should try again?” Petr asked me abruptly and carefully at once.
“What, IVF?” I stopped pedalling and so did he; our little vessel was being rocked in place by the gentle waves.
“Yeah. Do you believe it has any chance whatsoever of succeeding?”
“I’m not sure I ever believed that,” I replied honestly. “Our chances were never good. Not with my uterus.”
The short silence that ensued was only interrupted by the soft, lapping sounds of the surrounding water. A gull flew nearby with a low, piercing screech. Loud voices reached us from the shore.
“Would you perhaps ever consider adopting?” I asked Petr cautiously.
His eyes widened in a grimace of complete and not wholly pleasant surprise.
“Definitely not,” he replied briskly. “I’m sorry, but no. It wouldn’t be fair. I know I couldn’t love the child properly, knowing that it wasn’t really mine.” He paused momentarily, but his lips remained slightly parted and his eyes worked to and fro, both indicating that he was merely figuring out how to say whatever he wanted to say next.
“I mean, the ugly truth of it is, I couldn’t love an adopted child knowing thatI canhave one that shares my genes.”
He could, too. Just not with me. And he felt wretched about saying it, about even thinking it. That much was clear from the way his shoulders slumped as he hung his head, not meeting my eye.
“What about surrogacy? If we saved up for it?” I suggested unenthusiastically, already knowing what answer to anticipate.
“No way.” He shook his head fervently. “Too weird and controversial. How would we ever explain it to my parents or our friends?”
The sun hid behind a cloud, and the soft breeze felt cooler all of a sudden. I pulled my sweater tighter around my shoulders.
“Can you imagine not having children? Living together just the two of us?”
I saw no point in concealing the scepticism in my voice.
“No.”
“Me neither,” I admitted defeatedly before gathering the courage to ask plainly: “Do you think we should split up?”
I held my breath until I could no longer hold it, and Petr still didn’t reply, looking resolutely at the little puddle of water beneath the pedals of our flimsy vessel. When it became clear that he was too slow to answer for the response to be a clear, unwavering ‘no’, I pondered what my feelings would be if he said a resolute ‘yes’ instead. Would I be crushed or relieved or a combination of the two? My heart sped up at the thought, but as terrified as I was, I also detected a certain loosening sensation in myself, like unzipping a dress that was two sizes too small.
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I just don’t know what to do. I’m sorry, Renata.”
We didn’t speak of it again until we got to Cinque Terre. Not having enough time for a longer stay, we only stopped there to take pictures of brightly coloured houses perched on a sea cliff. As we drove on, Petr raised the subject as suddenly as before.
“I truly don’t know what to do here. I cannot live with either option available to me. There’s just no acceptable way forward ...”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“Trust me.” I fixed my eyes on the zig-zagging road.
Cinque Terre was an assortment of five hamlets. As we passed through the vivid, narrow centre of one of these, there was a huge dark red puddle on the hot tarmac. It looked disturbingly like blood, and I tried to push aside thoughts of what might have happened there.
“I have no idea how to live with it either,” I continued, feeling a little nauseated.
Petr briefly took his eyes off the road to shoot a baffled glance in my direction.
“Growing up the way I did, I’ve always wanted a proper family. You know, one where all the kids have the same father. And where they know who that father is instead of always wondering. I wanted them to have a proper home too, not just a place where you live for a few months at most. I wanted to be the opposite of mymother...” I scoffed, making the word sound like an insult. “And I guess I am. Any man who as much as looked at her gotherpregnant.”
Petr stifled a laugh.
“God, that’s true, isn’t it? When did she have the youngest one?”
