It was Marisa who was the object of Jake’s solicitous enquiries as to how she was feeling, and did she need any help, and could he get her anything from the shops? It was Marisa who was the golden one, the chosen one, the fertile one, the one who would make all their dreams come true except their original dreams never involved a third person; except they had to adapt their dreams, to cut the starry cloth of their imaginings to fit the circumstance of their reality, and although they never spoke about it to each other, they both felt the lack of that ignorant innocence the lucky ones can bathe in, the ones who get pregnant and stay pregnant and believe that’s just how it happens; the ones who never have to think of the alternatives; the ones who don’t check for blood every time they go to the toilet; the ones who take parenthood as their due, as if plucking apples from a tree that will forever grow fruit.
Kate tried in various small but significant ways to make herself a part of it. She told Marisa she wanted to be there for every injection, even offering to press the plunger down on the syringe herself.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Marisa said. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
But I want to, Kate didn’t say.
She included Marisa in their conversations, and asked if she was getting enough sleep or drinking enough water. She wanted to express kindly concern but Kate could tell that Marisa found it annoying coming from her rather than Jake, and even intrusive, so Kate began to censor herself, stopping her thoughts before she vocalised them. She was anxious about doing anything that would irritate or upset Marisa, who must be cocooned and insulated from stress. It meant that at mealtimes, Kate would often be almost entirely silent, while Jake and Marisa chatted easily. Jake was always so much better at that kind of thing.
He was in a good mood about it all, extremely hopeful and optimistic that they would have their baby soon. He took to whistling around the house, and working out more in the garden, his chest lean and shiny with sweat as he performed Romanian deadlifts and lateral raises with ever heavier dumbbells. As the weather got warmer, Marisa would sit outside as he grunted and groaned, reading a book on the bench, saying she liked the company. Kate, observing them through the glass doors in the kitchen, thought how similar they looked: both blonde and glowing and healthy and vital. In the mirror each morning, Kate was met by her own narrow face and darkened eyes. There was a gauntness to her collarbone and her jeans were loose around the waistband. Her natural slenderness had edged into skinniness and it didn’t suit her. It made her look older but she was powerless to change it. Her body no longer felt like hers. It had its own set of impermeable rules. She was stupid to have ever thought otherwise.
One day, she mentioned the pregnancy yoga class to Marisa, telling her she’d read an article about how being around pregnant women could boost fertility. Kate asked if she wanted to go.
‘Sure,’ Marisa said, giving her the luminous smile that always made Kate feel she had imagined any previous strangeness. ‘I’ll give it a try.’
‘Great. Let me know when you go and I’ll come with you.’
Marisa raised her eyebrows by a fraction of a millimetre, then smoothed her face out as if nothing had occurred. But Kate had already seen. Or she thought she had seen, she couldn’t be sure. Marisa never did tell Kate that she was going to yoga. It was only by chance that Kate saw her leave the house one morning with a mat rolled up under her arm. She put in a call to the office to say she’d be working from home and then changed into her tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt. She tried to catch up with her but didn’t make it in time. When she got to the class, all the other women were in situ on their mats and ambient music was playing.
It was a boring class, all the poses designed for the advanced stages of pregnancy, and Kate couldn’t wait for it to be over. Marisa was at the front of the room, trying her best to follow the instructor, but she moved in a lumbering, inelegant way that suggested she was a novice. Kate felt a glimmer of pride that she was better at yoga than Marisa. It seemed one of the only ways in which she was.
After the class was over, Kate waited for Marisa to roll up her mat and leave. She said hello to her and was surprised at how cold Marisa was, how taken aback she seemed to see her. Kate tried to make light of it, filling the awkward conversational gaps with small talk designed to lift the mood.
‘I thought it would be a nice thing to do together, you know?’ Kate said.
‘Except we didn’t,’ Marisa said.
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Do it together. You skulked at the back.’
Kate forced out a laugh.
‘I wasn’t skulking! I just wanted to give you your own space.’
They walked out into the street together and Kate asked Marisa if she wanted to go for coffee so they could catch up and have a chat. Marisa said no, that she had a work deadline, and that was that. Kate stood on the kerb and watched as Marisa walked away from her, then turned back, looking over her shoulder. Kate raised her arm and waved, hoping she hadn’t offended her.
They did the egg retrieval on a Wednesday. They took the afternoon off work to go to the clinic with Marisa. She was in a good mood, the business about the yoga class apparently forgotten. She was wearing a bright blue shirt, tucked into baggy corduroys that had a white paint dot on one knee. There was always something about her that looked unmade, unfinished – as though she hadn’t had time to get properly dressed. But at least, Kate thought, she hadn’t worn those hideous sandals she usually clomped about in when she worked.
Mr Abadi was pleased with Marisa’s progress.
‘Very good,’ he said, checking her charts. ‘That’s looking very good indeed.’
He beamed at Marisa in a way he never had at Kate.
Jake went into another room to provide his sample. He re-emerged half an hour later, hands in his pockets. Kate couldn’t meet his eye. As much as she tried to rationalise the process, it was still disarming to think of his sperm being used to fertilise another woman’s eggs. What did he think of when he masturbated? she wondered. Was he thinking of her? Of someone else? Or was he flicking through the dog-eared porn magazines the clinic provided?
For the collection process itself, Kate and Jake were directed to a waiting area.
‘I promise I’ll come out and tell you how many we get as soon as possible,’ Mr Abadi said, ushering Marisa behind a screen.
‘Bye guys,’ Marisa said as she left. ‘Here’s hoping.’
She crossed her fingers and they crossed theirs back.
‘You’re doing amazingly,’ Kate said, forcing herself to sound positive. She told herself to remember Marisa’s generosity and not to focus on her own sad memories of this exact room in this exact clinic. This was how it had to happen.
Jake gripped her hand tightly.
