I turn the radio down and wind my window up. ‘Oh, that’s okay. Sorry if I’ve interrupted dinner.’
‘It’s fine,’ she says, almost cutting me off. ‘It’s just me tonight. Will’s at basketball with his granddad.’ The line goes quiet for a beat. ‘I’m glad you called. Were you calling to take me up on that offer of a chat?’ she asks, and I admire her directness. Actually, I’m thankful that she said it so I don’t have to. Admitting I need help isn’t one of my strong suits by any means.
I must take too long to answer because she lets out a melodic little laugh. ‘It’s okay, you don’t need to confess to that. So, tell me… how are you?’
‘Are you going to regret that you asked?’
She laughs again. ‘God no. I’m about to pour some wine. My brother’s a sommelier and brought back a case of something or other from Bordeaux. All I know is it’s red and good.’ It’s refreshing to hear someone laugh so easily. I wind the window back down and it occurs to me suddenly that I’m not bothered by the bumper to bumper traffic any more. Before I know it, I’m pouring everything out on the phone to Miranda, and by the time I pull into my driveway, not only does she know all about my favourite wine but I feel like a different man. A weightless man. A man who isn’t heading home to problems.
That of course changes the moment I get home. Whatever I was feeling in the car is gone by the time I put my bag down. There are dirty dishes in the sink, a pile of unfolded washing on the sofa. I haven’t seen the house like this since those early days after Max. To be clear, I don’t expect my wife to keep the house looking pristine – we have always shared the load when it comes to domestic chores, even though I’ll admit that Paige does more than I do, but that’s mostly due to the fact she’s home more than I am. We love this house, and while we’re not tidy according to Caitlin’s standards, breakfast dishes in the sink at nine thirty at night can only mean one thing: Paige has other things on her mind.
I find her in the bathroom, in the tub, surrounded by a mountain of bubbles, green face mask on, a stack of paper on the small table beside the tub next to a glass of champagne and what’s left of a block of chocolate. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, trying to get a better glimpse of the printouts. They look like academic research papers I would read, not something Paige would opt for. She’s more like a Kristin Hannah groupie ever since she read that book of hers that was set during the Second World War. So, of course, my mind wanders to why the house is in disarray, and how these papers have something to do with it.
I bend down and kiss her.
‘You taste like alcohol – were they serving late-night cocktails at the hospital?’ she asks. Surprisingly, her mood is lighter than I thought it would be. Lighter than it was last week at Caitlin’s place. Caitlin, who she hasn’t spoken to all week. I have no idea if Evelyn knows about this but she won’t be happy when she finds out.
Paige tilts her head, waiting for an answer.
‘Um, no actually, I stopped somewhere for drinks with a friend.’ This isn’t exactly a lie of course, but it also isn’t exactly the truth of my detour off the freeway to Miranda’s. That wine from Bordeaux turned out to be a 2015 Château Vignol Clairet and it was every bit worth the glass. I eye the paper she’s been reading, which looks like it’s been dunked in bathwater. ‘So… the papers?’
‘Oh,’ she says, taking her reading glasses off. ‘I’m trying to find that information you were talking about. About the surrogacy and my egg…’ She waves a hand in the air, splashing some bubbles around. ‘Problems. Problematic eggs.’
‘You know what they say about looking for problems,’ I say, perching myself on the side of the tub.
‘I printed out all this stuff but I couldn’t find the information, Nick. I want to know exactly what the issue is.’
I should have known mentioning things would lead to this, which is why I never should have said anything in the first place.
‘What the issue could be,’ I point out. ‘We don’t actually know for sure. There isn’t conclusive evidence around this side of things because there aren’t any formal reports on this. There was just one case I read about that talked about PPCM transferring to a surrogate, so it doesn’t mean we need to be alarmed – we just need to be aware.’ It’s not clear if this reassures Paige or not because she rolls her eyes and starts wiping the face mask off with a face washer.
‘You’re always so careful about what you say,’ she says shortly. ‘Can’t you just come out and tell me exactly what the issue is? I’m not a patient, you know.’
‘Well, there could be a genetic factor playing a role.’
‘Oh, great.’ She reaches for her champagne glass and finishes off what’s left in it.
‘But we don’t know for sure,’ I quickly add. ‘Honestly, I don’t think we need to be concerned about this right now. I also don’t think it’s a huge risk. Like I said, it’s simply worth noting.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I searched the literature already.’
‘You could have told me that and saved me all this trouble.’ She steps out of the bath. I hold out a giant fluffy towel for her and she wraps herself in it.
‘I didn’t know you were going to go looking for it.’
She shakes her head. ‘Why wouldn’t I? This is the most important thing to me. I wish you’d told me earlier.’
I frame her face with my hands and meet her eyes. ‘So you could start thinking about surrogacy prematurely? I wasn’t going to do that to you, Paige.’
She bites her lip. ‘I think I’m just nervous about tomorrow.’ Tomorrow Paige is having another echo with Victoria.
‘It’s not a race. Just because Caitlin—’
‘This isn’t about Caitlin.’ She shuffles closer and hugs me, her wet skin still warm from the bathwater. ‘I just feel like I need to prepare myself for the worst, even if I don’t want to.’
We’ve been through the worst already, I think to myself. There’s nothing that could beat what we’ve just been through with losing Max. Nothing.
‘Course,’ I say, kissing the top of her head, wondering what happened to my once relatively optimistic wife. ‘My calendar’s free until midday tomorrow, so why don’t we go for an early lunch after the appointment?’
It’s an offer that brings a smile to her face, but to me, it’s an insurance policy. There’s no way of knowing how she’ll take the news tomorrow if Victoria doesn’t tell her what she wants to hear.
Nineteen
Paige
On Tuesday morning, the day of our appointment with Victoria, I choose three outfits from my closet and lay them on the bed. A floral skater dress (too pretty), a grey pencil dress (too formal), a pair of white capris and a poplin shirt (just no). Finally, I settle on a navy-and-white spotted shirt dress with a pair of white tennis shoes.
Nick and I return to Victoria’s consulting rooms for my latest echo results. It’s eight months to the day since my diagnosis. My insides are sloshing around like milk in a butter churn.