What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [51]
This is what happened, Dr. Hodges. FYI.
Alice and I were both pregnant at the same time. Her baby was due exactly one week after mine.
Alice’s third pregnancy was another accident of course, something complicated and typically Alice (typically old Alice; not the new and improved pedicured, manicured, peeled, waxed, and tinted Alice) to do with swapping brands of the pill.
My pregnancy was not an accident. The very idea of an “accidental pregnancy” seems so flippant and free. It makes me think of summer holidays, kissing for hours, smooth young skin, and . . . I don’t know, piña bloody coladas. It feels like something that would always have been impossible for me, not just because of my stupid body, but because I don’t have the right personality. I’m not whimsical enough. I don’t get caught up in the moment. I want to say to people, “Why didn’t you just use CONTRACEPTION?” Alice told me once that if she’d just stretched her fingertips a bit further she would have found the condom in her bedside drawer and Madison would never have been conceived. I found that immensely irritating because how hard is it to stretch your fingertips, ALICE?
Ben and I tried to get pregnant naturally for two years. We tried all the stuff people try. The temperature-taking, the charts, the acupuncture, the Chinese herbs, the holidays where we pretended not to think about it, the kits where you check your saliva under a microscope for the pretty fern pattern that meant you were ovulating.
The sex was still nice. It was before I became a dried apricot, you see, Dr. Hodges, and I was thin and fit. Although sometimes I would notice that Ben had the same grimly determined expression on his face as when he was trying to fix something tricky on his car with a wrench.
I was upset that we couldn’t get pregnant, but I was still pretty upbeat, because I was an upbeat sort of person. I read a lot of self-help books back then. I even went along to weekend seminars and found the power within and hollered and hugged strangers. Oh yes, I was a believer. If someone gave me lemons, I made lemonade. I had inspirational quotes stuck on the noticeboards in front of my desk. This was my mountain and I was going to climb it. (I was a nerd.)
So we started IVF.
And we got pregnant on our very first cycle. That hardly ever happened! Well, we were ecstatic. We were giddy with happiness. Every time we looked at each other we laughed we were so happy. It was the proof of positive thinking! It was the miracle of modern science! We loved science. Good old science. We loved our doctor. We even loved those daily injections—they’d been no problem at all, didn’t even hurt, weren’t that scary! The medication hadn’t really made me that moody and bloated. Actually, the whole process had just been interesting and fun!
I despise our old selves and at the same time I feel indulgently fond of them, because we didn’t know any better (and, what, do I think everyone should lead their lives pessimistically, expecting the worst so they don’t end up looking silly?). I can hardly bear to think of ourselves hugging and crying and making giggly phone calls, like we were in some inane sitcom. We actually discussed names. Names! I want to shout back through the years at myself, “Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you get a baby, you idiots!”
There is a photo somewhere of Alice and me standing back-toback with our hands pressed meaningfully to our stomachs. We look pretty. I’m not doing my stupid teeth-gritting fake smile and Alice hasn’t got her eyes closed. We were thrilled when we found out our due dates were only days apart. “They could be born on the same day!” we said, pop-eyed by the coincidence. “They’ll be like twins!” we cried. We were going to take photos of ourselves every month in the same position to record the progress of our bellies. It was so fucking sweet. (I’m sorry to swear, Dr. Hodges. I just wanted to sound cool and angry for a moment. A spoonful