Serenade for a Small Family Read online

  gown and the sheet pulled over me suddenly felt very thin.

  Also, I felt embarrassed that I looked so pregnant when I

  was only about a week along. I felt like some kind of a fake.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said. A pink blush crept up

  his neck into his cheeks. I didn’t know why he was there,

  but I sure wished I could make him feel better about it. ‘I

  just wanted to thank you in person for the good job you’ve

  done,’ he said. ‘Arranging our visit.’

  ‘Oh, no worries—thank you.’ I tucked my unwashed

  hair behind my ears and smoothed it down at the sides.

  ‘I’ve brought you this small memento,’ he said, stepping

  bravely towards me and handing me a white porcelain mug.

  ‘Oh, that’s great . . . thank you . . . thanks.’ I took the cup,

  mindful of the pile of used tissues and puddle of spilt tea

  on my bedside table. And where are my undies, I thought.

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  ‘I won’t disturb you further. Thanks again . . . And all

  the best.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for coming in! It’s lovely to

  meet you.’

  Particles of his captain’s aftershave hung in the air after

  he left. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned the cup over

  in my hands to read the words: ‘CONQUER OR DIE’.

  Benny and I used that line to sign off on notes and emails

  for some time: ‘Hey Benny, gone to get milk, Conquer

  or Die’, or ‘Stinky, your mum rang, Conquer or Die’.

  We even came up with a more constructive alternative:

  ‘NEGOTIATE AND LIVE’.

  For two weeks I lay breathless with stiff and aching limbs

  and a hot, sweaty back—unable to eat, drink, poo or wee

  without assistance. I came to care less about whether or not

  I was pregnant, and railed against the relentless discomfort.

  ‘I can’t stand this!’ I stood leaning with my hands flat

  on the bed.

  ‘You’ll get there, darlin’,’ said Benny. ‘Let’s go outside.’

  I lowered myself into a wheelchair stacked with pillows,

  and Benny wheeled me into the lift, where an elderly man

  turned to me. ‘How long have you got to go?’ he asked

  jovially.

  ‘Oh . . . no . . . I’m only like . . . umm . . . a few weeks. I

  just look pregnant . . . I’m just . . .’ The lift bumped to a stop

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  and the man mumbled an embarrassed apology, indicating

  ‘After you!’ with a wave of his arm.

  Outside, Benny and I lay on our backs on the grass.

  Because I was pregnant, I was famished. Even mushy hospital

  veggies and gravy-soaked lamb made my mouth water, but

  my stomach was too painfully tight and swollen for me to

  swallow a bite. I would pass the plastic tray into Benny’s

  hands and watch with envy as he cleaned up the plate and

  asked what was for dessert. As we lay looking at the sky,

  a man walked casually over to a nearby bench, sat down

  to eat a sandwich and drink a juice, then stood to stretch

  his arms up towards the sun with fingers linked. God, he’s

  lucky, I thought. I will never complain again.

  My body had shut down, and I didn’t know how long

  it would be before it started up again. The hospital had

  no experience with my condition, so reassurances were

  not that comforting. I rang IVF in Darwin—they had to

  know about this stuff. ‘It’s Ingrid . . . Ingrid Laguna. I’m

  in hospital in Alice Springs. I’m really sick with ovarian

  hyperstimulation.’

  The nurse told me it was not possible for the IVF doctor

  to speak with my doctor at the Alice hospital and swiftly

  changed the subject: ‘So are you happy to be pregnant?’

  she asked breezily.

  ‘Well . . . yes . . . yes, of course!’ She was throwing me

  off course, but I quickly veered her back on. ‘But I’m really

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  sick . . . And the doctors here have not seen many patients

  with hyperstimulation . . . Only one actually. Hang on a

  sec . . .’ I was breathless—a horrible suffocating feeling.

  I placed my free hand on my chest as I took a few focused

  breaths, then continued. ‘The hyperstimulation is from the

  IVF and you can’t do IVF in Alice, you know? So they’re

  not used to it here. Please . . .’

  The sun poured in through the wall-to-wall window

  behind Benny, who stood frowning beside me with folded

  arms; I could not see a single cloud—just a typical Alice

  sky, so blue it looked like a painted backdrop.

  ‘It’s really not part of our service,’ said the nurse, her

  tone more determined now. She clearly wanted me to go

  away. But we had paid these people an absolute fortune,

  and we needed help. How could my physical wellbeing,

  every detail of which they had followed through three IVF

  cycles in a year, be suddenly no longer their concern? I held

  out the phone towards Benny: ‘You talk, Benny. I’m not

  getting anywhere!’

  Benny took the handset and pleaded in his very reasonable

  yet authoritarian tone until the nurse eventually conceded.

  Later that day a doctor from IVF rang my doctor and had

  a brief and reluctant conversation that was only minimally

  informative. I was mad, and Benny was madder.

  After ten days in hospital, it was decided that I needed

  to go to Ultrasound so some of the fluid could be drawn

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  out of my stomach, despite a long and ugly list of risks. I

  was wheeled into the lift, where the rancid smell of old

  sweat hung in the air and fresh lumps of spit stuck to the

  back of the doors. I angrily cursed the two guys who had

  just come out of the lift before we went in.

  The radiologist had lank brown hair that greasily touched

  his shoulders. He fumbled clumsily, and something metallic

  hit the floor with a nerve-jangling ding.

  ‘You’ve done this loads of times, right?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘Oh, aah . . . I did it just recently, actually.’ He laughed

  nervously back and I chose not to force the issue. I focused

  my gaze on Ben’s face while the radiologist inserted a long

  needle into my side, guided by the ultrasound screen. ‘Now

  I need to go through the thicker lining,’ he said. ‘Take a

  breath, hold it, and don’t move.’

  He used his weight to shove the needle through with a

  firm jolt, causing me to grunt involuntarily from the impact.

  As the fluid was drawn slowly out, I was relieved to feel

  the pressure coming off my stomach. That afternoon, I ate

  a cracker with cheese and three pieces of a sweet, juicy

  orange, the first bites I had taken in ten days. Heavenly.

  But to my alarm and dismay, within a few days my

  stomach was tighter than ever.

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ I told Michael, tears streaming down my

  cheeks. I was so uncomfortable. ‘My body’s not working . . .

  it’s just fucked up. I’m sorry . . . .’ I blew my n
ose noisily,

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  and nodded yes to his suggestion of repeating the procedure

  that afternoon: ‘Okay . . . okay . . . Fuckit—I’ll do anything.’

  But the morning after the second procedure, I discovered

  to my horror that my labia were swollen with fluid. I lay

  with a pillow under each knee and rang Mum.

  ‘It’s out of control, Mum . . . My body feels out of

  control. And no one seems to know when I’m going to

  start to feel better.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Mum.

  When she walked into the room two days later, loaded

  with books and bags of rags and fabrics, the sight of her

  filled me with relief. ‘Mum! Yay!’ I was so grateful that

  she was in the world and that she had come all the way to

  be with us in Alice.

  Mum and Benny came and went by day, bringing books,

  DVDs, treats and distraction. The nights were long and

  sleepless. Despite the pethidine shots, sleeping pills and

  midnight talks with midwives by night lamp, I lay awake

  and uncomfortable, listening to the tick of the wall clock

  and longing for the morning.

  At first light each morning, I would use the handle over

  my bed to sit myself up, plant my bare feet onto the clean,

  cold f loor and slowly stand. Then I would lean on the

  bathroom door handle and heave myself into the bathroom;

  finally, puffing, I’d lower myself onto the plastic chair under

  the showerhead.

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  After two weeks, my stomach finally began to go back

  to normal, and I started feeling better. Benny brought in

  a pot of homemade chilli tuna pasta, a jar of fresh purple

  veggie juice and a bottle of wine. The midwife leant her

  head in the door. ‘Something smells good . . . We can smell

  it all the way down the corridor and it’s making us hungry!’

  Mum, Benny and I sat poised over bowls of steaming,

  saucy pasta, generously covered in parmesan. ‘Stay for a

  bowl, Maya,’ I said to the nurse on duty. ‘There’s plenty.’

  ‘Really? No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Come on—it’s delicious,’ said Mum, patting the empty

  chair beside her.

  ‘Oh, alright . . .’ She pulled the curtain across behind

  her. ‘But I didn’t see the wine, okay?’

  Ben was at work when Mum peeled the waterfall picture

  off my wall, threw my things into a bag and helped me into

  a pillow-packed wheelchair to take me home. ‘We’re outta

  here, baby!’ she said, nudging off the brakes and wheeling

  me to the car past a Mexican wave of arms at the maternity

  ward’s front desk.

  ‘Good luck, Ingrid!’

  ‘We thought you’d never leave!’

  ‘Keep us posted!’

  As my slippered feet touched down on the gravel of

  our Winecke Avenue driveway, I let out a heartfelt groan

  of relief.

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  I was stuck horizontal on the couch for weeks of recovery.

  I didn’t feel like reading but I had to do something, so I

  made dolls from the silk shirts and bits of Japanese-y rags

  Mum had brought, even though I’d never sewn before.

  ‘I’ve waited all my life to see one of my children being

  crafty and now it’s happening!’ she spouted with delight.

  I lay on my side with a pillow between my knees—

  stitching, cutting and threading, from first thing in the

  morning until last thing at night. Cut-off fabric bits,

  unwanted shirtsleeves, cotton threads, wool and stuffing

  accumulated on the floor and couch around me, and I spread

  it further by swapping ends when my back and neck were

  aching and stiff. Mum drove into town in the baking heat

  to get supplies from the sewing shop.

  ‘I’ve got balls of wool for hair, fabric samples, ribbons,

  beads, buttons, elastic, bags of stuffing and lace from the

  “Oh my god” box . . . The lace is for me. Polkadot’s great!’

  ‘You don’t pronounce the “l” in “polkadot”, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘No, you don’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t be a pain . . . Is it five o’clock yet? I’m ready for

  my glass of wine with lots of ice.’

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  My first doll had gold hoop earrings and silk shirtsleeves

  for stuffing. Later came Rocco with a surfboard and a frizz

  of brown wool hair over his eyes, Pam with plaits and a

  green felt guitar, and Kiko and Shoyu—named after the

  soy sauce—who held hands against a green felt background.

  I made a doll in pyjamas clutching a pillow, a doll with

  a rolled-up newspaper poking out of her handbag, and a

  wall-hanging of dolls surrounded by a moon, a house, red

  flares and a fabric book. Rocco’s Hawaiian shirt alone took

  a day and a half, but I was addicted. Sewing made me calm

  and kept me sane. I may never so much as sew on a button

  for the rest of my days, but I do not know how I could

  have endured immobility for that long without it. And if

  I’m ever stuck horizontal again, I will not hesitate to pull

  out the sewing basket.

  ‘Hey,’ said Benny. ‘Isn’t that our tablecloth?’ He fingered

  the fabric backing of the doll wall-hanging.

  ‘Yep, it is.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘We can get another one for four dollars from the op

  shop, for god’s sake . . . It’s doing a good job there.’

  ‘That’s Madeleine’s influence!’

  ‘Rubbish. It makes sense.’

  The first time a sheep had been killed on our farm,

  when I was eleven, I burst into the dining room to see it

  laid out in pieces on the table—individual chunks wrapped

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  in see-through plastic and labelled with black texta. Slack-

  jawed, I gripped the table’s edge, horrified and sickened. I

  imagined I had known that very sheep, and even named it.

  When I finally tore my eyes from the gruesome sight, I ran

  to my room and lay down on my bed. I didn’t eat meat for

  a long time after that, and have struggled with it ever since.

  But when I was pregnant with twins, my appetite ballooned,

  and with it came a craving for meat, which shocked Mum

  and Benny, and made them laugh.

  ‘Steak, Mum! I’d really love a steak for lunch!’ Mum

  was heading out to get a few things.

  ‘But it’s only ten-thirty.’

  ‘I’m starving. Or a hamburger . . . or meatballs . . . please!’

  I stayed on the couch for my thirty-sixth birthday pancake

  breakfast. Girlfriends brought berries, maple syrup, whipped

  cream and yoghurt, and Mum made oven-baked cream

  cheese pancakes, plonking them onto the table beside me.

  ‘Thanks, Mum! They look fantastic!’ The baked, lemony

  smell filled the room. Seriously mouth-watering.

  ‘I hate the word “Mum”—it’s a fat, round word,’ said

  Mum, leaning out the front door and dramatically waving

  fresh air into her fac
e. ‘And I’m allergic to cooking . . . I

  hate cooking . . . Oof! . . . Get me out of that kitchen.’

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  ‘God, Mum, relax. Ell reckons your fear of kitchens and

  cooking is because you associate it with women’s oppression.’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘Anyway, you’re a great cook—I wish you’d get it into

  your head.’

  ‘I’m hopeless.’

  ‘Okay, you’re hopeless.’ I levered a parcel of pancake onto

  a plate and ran a finger through its leaking cream cheese.

  ‘Mmmm—delicious.’

  Mum came with me to the hospital for an ultrasound

  while Benny was at work. The doctor ran a probe over

  my abdomen.

  ‘How many embryos did you put back?’ She adjusted

  her glasses and leant closer to the screen.

  ‘Two. Why?’

  She swivelled the monitor towards me: ‘I can see two sacs.’

  ‘Really? You mean twins?’

  She pointed to one tiny dot, and then another: ‘There . . .

  And there.’

  ‘Oh my god!’

  When I walked out, Mum and I locked eyes, and I slowly

  raised two fingers.

  ‘Two?!’ she exclaimed. ‘Really? Oh, Inky . . . are you sure?’

  Back at home Mum lit two small candles, and placed

  them on a ceramic saucer.

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  ‘They’re for the babies,’ she said, blowing out the match

  and slotting it back into its box. ‘We’ll keep them burning.’

  It was two long months before I was well enough to go

  back to my council job, proud and excited about sharing

  my pregnancy news and showing off my protruding belly.

  One of the two women with whom I shared an office was

  also pregnant. ‘There’s six beating hearts in this office!’

  I exclaimed.

  Debbie had always intimidated me, but now we talked

  about having babies. ‘There’s a website where you join up

  and tell them your due date,’ she said. ‘Then on Mondays

  they email you an update of what’s happening with your

  pregnancy in that week.’

  I swivelled around in my chair to face her. ‘Sounds

  good!’ I held out a plate of apple slices and chunks of cheese.

  ‘Hungry? We grew up on green apples and cheese,’ I said.

  ‘My mum’s Dutch . . . which may or may not explain it.

  All four of us kids would have an apple in bed last thing at

  night and, when we were finished, we’d throw our cores