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  ‘Bit tense aren’t we?’

  ‘I’ve had her every time. And she still doesn’t talk to me.’

  Dr Jeff opens his door, smiles widely at Isak. His eyes drop to my belly, growing rounder now.

  ‘Welcome home. We’re all very glad you’ve come back to support Stacey. Well done.’ I feel Isak shrink to child size. ‘Sit down. Now, how are you, Stacey?’ His blue eyes are less intent on mine today. They dart between us, sharing his energy and enthusiasm.

  ‘Still got the heartburn with this Paleo diet but I’m okay otherwise. Getting bigger.’ From the base of my stomach, the hard swelling of pregnancy has risen. Almost imperceptibly, day after day. Forming and assembling, stretching me into its own shape. It takes control, there is nothing clever or noteworthy about my own efforts. Every regeneration of life shares this process but every time it is a miracle. None more so than this. My hand rests naturally on the expanding shape of myself.

  ‘No more cramps or pains?’

  ‘None. They stopped a few weeks ago.’ I have waited for the signs that this has not gone to plan. That constant ache, ever sharpening, whittling into a howl. Clots of blood and spine. The bulge of blank eye.

  ‘Well I don’t like to get too ahead of myself but I do think we are past the danger stage. You could start telling your family about the baby. What do you think, Isak? Do your other children know there will be a new child in the house?’ It’s an unnatural way of putting it—I wonder if he tried to avoid saying ‘sister’.

  ‘Yep, they worked it out.’ He’s already told his mother but he doesn’t say that. ‘Now, maybe you can fill me in, Doctor, on what we should be expecting over the next few weeks and with the birth?’

  ‘Our website has some detailed information there if you’d like to take a look. But I can summarise for you if you’d like.’

  ‘I’m not keen on websites myself. I’d rather have it from the source.’

  I know his belligerent face, his demanding.

  ‘Well we’re expecting a shorter pregnancy and the birth should be normal. We are keen for a vaginal birth to give the baby the best microbial start. We’ve found it helps with immunity. She should be just like a normal baby, perhaps a little smaller. And we expect her to look normal too. Fair skin, red hair. Her facial features will be slightly different but we can explain that away. She has your genes too so she will resemble your other children a little, we expect.’

  ‘How will we explain how different she looks? That she’s retarded?’ Isak is provoking him. The set of his jaw looks ready to receive a blow, slightly raised.

  ‘No. We don’t like that term. We have a rationale for you that explains exactly what to say to people. In short, if anyone questions, you will say she has a rare genetic condition similar to Down’s syndrome so you aren’t sure how her intellect or speech will develop and she may look a little outside the norm.’

  Seems sensible and possible to me.

  ‘Fee was going to talk to you both about it. Talk it through.’

  Isak sniffs, his colour rises a little. ‘Won’t our families worry that they carry the same genetic condition?’

  My family won’t care or ask. There’s no baby coming from my brother.

  ‘The details are all online on a website built for the purpose of explaining the condition. There is enough detail to confuse most people. It will be specific to the child’s likely characteristics and the statistics will show it is so rare it is almost impossible.’ Jeff taps into his keyboard, sends the link to Isak in a message.

  ‘I see. All bases are covered. She’s going to be a bit slow by the sound of it?’ Isak almost taunts him but Jeff is calm, well-practised.

  ‘We don’t know, Isak. That’s part of this. And you two are the best placed to teach her and support her to reach her potential. She might be just as bright as your other children. The fact is, this is a clinical trial and we are breaking new ground. Some questions just can’t be answered yet. You will find the answers. In many ways, you will also be finding the questions.’

  ‘Will she learn to talk then?’

  ‘Signs are that she will. There’s archaeological evidence and genetic markers of speech mechanisms the same as we have. You will be her teachers, so you will need to keep track of this and stay in touch. From our interviews, we know your other children were well within the normal range with developmental milestones and Emilia is quite advanced.’

  Isak flinches at our daughter’s name. ‘You know as much as I do by the sounds of it.’

  ‘Like I said, Isak, what we know and assume is all available for you on our website. Have a good read through it and next time we can discuss more specific questions.’ He sutures the conversation and turns straight to me. ‘Now, Stacey, I had a message from our young radiologist that you were “stressed”, she said, at your last appointment. Are you going to seek some help from our psych department?’

  I submit, nod fervently and try to move us out of here. I will not show up. I know that already.

  ‘And you can both keep seeing Fee too. She says you are doing well.’

  Jeff rests his hand on my shoulder as we leave. ‘The two of you are doing a wonderful thing for this child. Relax and enjoy. It will be a great adventure and you are both very strong people. In three months or so you will have a beautiful baby. And she’ll be very lucky to be with you all.’

  It’s almost as if he gave us this gift, but she is a gift we gave to him.

  Reheated cannelloni for dinner and the kids pick out the pasta, leaving the skinless centres behind in a pool of sticky sauce. After school we mucked out the car so I reward them with a bubble bath, teasing Jake with sprays of bubbles, building him a giant bubble beard. Now the bathroom is trailed with wet towels and toys but I feel like a better mother. Tuck them both in.

  I read to Jake for a while but Emmy rejects my offer and digs herself into a heap of pillows, propping her book up on the tail of a pink swan called Diana. I sit beside her, belly obvious now and she rubs her hand over it. ‘I can’t wait, Mum.’ She pulls up my top and looks closely at my skin. ‘Hello in there,’ she says. I mime hello back to her with my fingers, waving from under my shirt. She closes her book and cuddles the swan, kissing the top of its head. I kiss hers. I can’t help but feel I’m deceiving her somehow.

  Isak has a glass of red wine and looks up the PregCam™ site. Time lapse images of her foot. The form of toes—five of them set wide. Splayed as frogs. The pulse of the heart. Movement of a knee and the foot. Walking the earth again but also for the first time. I sit beside him on the couch, both transfixed by the staccato image moving.

  ‘Is this real time?’ He moves the party invitations Emmy has scattered on the table. Places the wine bottle in front of me. Smell of muted berries.

  ‘I didn’t ask.’ Puts his hand on my belly as if to transmit through my skin to our girl and back to the screen. She rises, the flutter of her trampling near my liver. ‘I think it is. She’s dancing for you.’

  We sit together, three of us mediated by the screen. The glow of it upon us like a holy family. The moment is broken by a pop-up window asking for my password again and an error message.

  ‘Unbelievable. Fuckin security.’ We watch the blue circle swirl around and around, captured like prey. Isak leaves for the kitchen.

  The page loads and a new screen appears—‘LifeBLOOD® children Phase Two’ and asks for my password again. ‘What’s phase one then, if we are phase two?’ He has his hand on my shoulder looking at the screen. I sink inside at the unknowns I can’t even imagine. He puts a wineglass in front of me and half fills it. ‘Won’t hurt,’ he says. Coloured confetti sticks to the base of the glass.

  He takes the screen, seeking answers we are meant to discover ourselves. I lay down beside him and leave him to his reading. Sip the wine and escape into sleep.

  19 WEEKS

  I’ve never really been good with cleaning but today I’ve really tried—for Emmy. Beaming and swirling, she gathers her forces fo
r her birthday party. Here. Isak lured Jake to tidy the yard on promises of taking him to a movie while the partygoers squeal and run around the house, and they straightened up the trampoline, twisted paper streamers around the safety cage and filled it with balloons. Jake had to jump in there and pop a few but it still looks very party-worthy.

  My gluten-free birthday cake has no nuts or sugar and is vegan for all her friends. The rich smell of the cocoa nibs seemed to trigger the baby, who fluttered and turned while it cooked. There are jugs of optional syrup and cream and I adorned the cake with a china fairy.

  Oma’s parcel is early and my mother’s is late as usual, but when my phone rings, I hand it straight to Emmy, who shouts ‘Nine’ into the phone. Something coven-like comes out between my mother and Emmy when they speak and she retreats from me. They are collaborators.

  I pull helium balloons back from the door and tie a few to a pitcher of water which Emmy has set up as a centrepiece for the table and thrown in a few coloured stones and a plastic unicorn. She has called it moon-water because the stones and the unicorn were outside on the trampoline. I love her imagination but it connects her so close to my mother. Despite me, they are alike.

  Emmy comes out of her room with the phone. I can talk to Mum about the food—she’ll be pleased it’s all vegan. ‘Here she is—I love you too.’ I open with the cake story and she praises me. A charade we both know.

  ‘So …’ Someone else’s cat parades silently across the precipice of the back fence. She has issued an invitation with a long pause. I am meant to tell her all.

  ‘How are you, Mum?’ That will distract her for a while. She tells me she’s worried about Marco, who looks a bit grey, and she’s been to Tasmania to visit some old friend I should remember and of course she’s fine because she looks after herself holistically and she hopes I am doing the same. That’s her lead back to me because she has heard from Emmy that I am having a baby, and I didn’t tell her. The accusation. I am not a good daughter, no matter how much she tried.

  ‘She said you’ve been to the doctors a lot.’ She trails off, leading my responses. I know her style so well. I could pre-warn her, tell her things are not quite right. She’ll understand that, the innuendo. That all care should be taken when speaking about the baby. But I let her talk about doctors and interference and the dangers of the medical profession and watch the cat walk back across the fence and drop into our yard.

  Even though I wasn’t really listening I tell her ‘I understand all that.’ And sigh.

  ‘But how are you, darl? I sense your anxiety.’ She leads me to confession. I resist. Tell her Isak went away for a few weeks, to cover the traces of truth. She is forensic and can easily find my hidden cache. I haven’t practised this game in a while and I feel the risk. She rounds back to the doctors’ appointments.

  ‘They are being extra careful because of the last one.’ She will know it’s more than that.

  ‘I’ll do a reading on it, see what comes up.’

  I groan audibly into the phone.

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to know about it. I’ll only share if you ask.’ Snippy now. ‘When’s it due?’

  I don’t know of course so I tell her how many weeks I am instead. ‘Capricorn,’ almost immediately—she could never help me with the home-school maths work but she can work out astrology so quick. ‘Nice with your Leo girl. Are you letting her in for the birth?’

  ‘Mum! Of course not. She’s only nine.’

  She laughs. ‘I was stirring you. You have no sense of adventure left. Is that Isak too serious these days? I doubt it.’

  If only she knew how adventurous we really are. It’s a good time to stop. The mood is light so I say goodbye and she tells me she loves me. So much. Despite my resistance, it is a comfort to know she is there.

  ‘I love you too, Mum.’ And tears prick my eyes. A strange silence when the phone cuts. The connection still feels live and I try to imagine what she is doing across the other side of the country. Like me, maybe she waits for the link to break. I step outside into the weak winter sunshine. The cat is leaning against the wall of our house, eyes closed in the warmth. I startle it, and it saunters towards me, looks up a moment. Rubs against my legs. I scratch behind its ears even though I say I hate cats because they eat the wild birds.

  Someone has come to the front door and the party madness begins. I’ve never really spoken much to the mothers of Emmy’s friends. They are working mothers, or athletic types and I never know what to make conversation about. Some like to complain about the teachers, but I don’t feel comfortable with it. Emmy always does so well academically I feel embarrassed to say anything negative. They all say ‘Hii-ii’ stretching it out a long time to seem like old friends, ‘How’ve you be-eeen?’ The fathers are more relaxed and smile at me, tell me they’ll be back at the appointed time.

  I’ve always felt a bit of an outsider. School was so inconsistent for me I never had friends like this. Emmy holds their hands, drags a posse of them to her room. Presents and paper and the smell of new art supplies. They seem to know her well and she is squawking about how she loves this and that. It’s beautiful and the joy of it lightens me.

  They bounce outside and I warm some arancini in the oven. Balloons pop and there is squealing and laughter. The cat is gone.

  Inside they play music and jump around with the helium balloons. One is lost out the door. Gone into the immensity to wreak disaster on wildlife somewhere. I resisted this disposable lifestyle but the force of it is too much. We told Jeff we would like to move from the city and live down south somewhere, closer to nature. I am hoping the support they give us will drag us out of this suburb. I had feet in the earth for my childhood and Emmy is almost too old to enjoy it already. She wants to play netball, go ice-skating.

  The door wrenches open, ‘Pass the parcel time!’ We used up all the scraps of Christmas paper and old school art and she has a bundle like a large misshapen watermelon. Scattered inside are special notes of love she has written to her friends, magical stones and some handcrafted coloured pencils made from sticks, which my mother sent last year. They hurt her hands so Emmy is giving them away. She hands me my phone with a song queued and instructs me to stop and start randomly. Her friends sit in a circle, serious and focused while the music is on, laughing and talking in between. The melon shrinks to a pip and soon the game is done. Piles of paper strewn everywhere. They eat, sing happy-birthday-to-you and soon parents come to the door again. They all had a wonderful time, thank you thank you they all say, prompted by the parents.

  Gone. Emmy deflates and we lie on the couch together. She curls around me, squeezes tight but she can’t get as close because of the baby. The effort has drained my energy to the last but she is happy and I feel good about myself as a mother. For the moment.

  21 WEEKS

  He has taken a longer break today to come to my appointment with me. In a colourful street close to the clinic we park outside a restaurant and order big bowls of laksa. Smells of garlic and ginger seem trapped in this satin room, trimmed with elephants. I know it will give me heartburn but the spicy liquid and noodles, saturated flora of broccoli and Asian greens is overwhelmingly delicious. We connect in silent food bliss. Isak leans back, hand on his belly.

  ‘So good. I’ll be glad when the kids are old enough to enjoy a bit of spicy food. If I never eat mashed potato again I’ll be a happy man.’

  ‘Or a chip. If I never eat another chip I’ll be happy too.’ We laugh and connect.

  ‘Do you remember when we used to come here and share one of these? It never seems enough now. I’m so deprived of spice I could eat mine and yours too.’

  ‘You’re such a pig.’ I laugh at him, reach for his hand. ‘It’s worth it though, Isak.’ I sip water to quell the chilli burn, watch the staff shuffle around in narrow skirts.

  ‘I know.’ His gaze drops towards my stomach, tucked under the table. ‘Their website has so much advice on what to feed her—raw, Paleo, high protein
. That’ll be your job, I think. Better make the most of this before we have to worry about her diet as well.’

  ‘I won’t be in a hurry to continue the Paleo diet.’ The list of dislikes, don’t-likes and this-makes-me-sick from Emmy and Jake grows every week.

  ‘Laksa maybe—start her early.’ He checks the time and we head off to our appointment.

  Jeff’s beagles are on his screen saver, one caught mid-yawn and the other looking up with baleful eyes. We sit in the familiar seats, constantly rehearsing the same scene. I always forget my lines. They come back in the night, when the chill of realisations wakes me and triggers the nerves in my spine, my neck, making me rigid and anxious. Fee is not much comfort as a counsellor but I have kept the appointments, mostly. Isak has brought notes.

  ‘How are you feeling, Stacey?’ Jeff knows my pulse, my blood, breath and urine. Has seen the inner sanctum of my uterus on a daily basis, thumbing through the images of my fallopian tubes. The inscrutable density of the placenta and the erotic pulse which waves across the screen.

  I don’t know what to say because he must know. He has seen in me. ‘Good,’ inadequate as it is. As she grows, I feel myself recede from everyone. It is hard to focus; to concentrate. Even though I am here I feel transported beyond the path of other people. It is as if I am partly outside my body, like the real me is living in my shadow. ‘A bit of heartburn.’

  ‘Do you still have the prescription for that?’

  I nod.

  ‘Mind if I feel your tummy today?’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Tummy, a children’s word meant to sound casual and friendly. They all use it. Awful. They don’t realise how patronising it is.

  ‘Hop up on the bed for me, Stacey. You’re welcome to come and watch,’ he addresses Isak. I see him flinch, know his thoughts.