From Under the Overcoat (2 page)

‘
I’M SARAH
,’
SAID THE
woman doing the ultrasound.

Trudy’s belly was smooth and round and white and in the darkened room it reminded David of a photo of the moon. The gel glistened in the faint green light of the screen. The handpiece passed over the tight skin, backwards, forwards,
then across sideways in slippery waves.

David held Trudy’s hand; a corny gesture he’d always thought, until he sat down next to her. Their hands had crept around, found each other independently. The baby’s profile was clear on the screen before he noticed how tight Trudy’s grip was.

‘So, you see here, one leg, and the other.’ Sarah spoke softly, staring at the screen with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. ‘And the feet! See? Toes, there … sorry, I forget … do you want to know the sex of the baby?’ She turned to David and Trudy.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

‘Do we?’ said David, finally, looking at Trudy.

‘No, we don’t. Remember?’

‘No, we don’t,’ David repeated. It didn’t matter. He was pretty sure he’d already seen — he caught Sarah’s eye and smiled back at her.

The handpiece moved on, over the tiny torso, the pumping heart. Around, gently, the head, then back again.

‘So amazing, just perfect, isn’t it,’ said David.

Sarah lifted the handpiece and put more gel on Trudy’s belly. She placed it on her again. Over the belly, up and down, backwards and forwards, before moving it back to the baby’s head.

‘Isn’t it,’ said David again.

One last time down the length of the foetus, slowly, then back to the head.

IT HAD STARTED OUT
as a discussion — discussion was the honest term for the words that were exchanged at the beginning.
This was weeks later, after more scans and blood tests and an amniocentesis and God knows what else by way of invasive procedures that David believed would do more harm than good.

The discussion took place in the car leaving the hospital, after they’d sat, stunned, in the obstetrician’s office and listened to talk about risk.

‘Fifty per cent, David,’ said Trudy. ‘One in two chances of bringing a terminally ill baby into the world.’

‘No,’ David said. ‘That’s not what he said.’

‘What did he say, David? That’s what I heard.’ Trudy’s head was down. ‘A fifty-fifty chance of the baby having a serious genetic disorder, of some sort.’ She was crying. Tears fell on to the top of her belly; they sat there for just a second before soaking into the fabric of her skirt. She smoothed the material flat, down over her bare legs.

‘He said that he didn’t know what the problem was, or even if there was a problem. He wasn’t sure about anything.’

‘And then he talked about fifty per cent. Didn’t he. He talked about one in two. Half half. It all adds up to the same thing, David. The same risk.’

David looked at the ordinary world occurring outside the car. A woman hurried past, dragging a tired child by the hand. The little girl wrenched her hand free and crouched low on the footpath, picking at something on the ground. Chewing gum, probably. The woman grabbed at the girl’s elbow, pulled her up again, and muscled her down the street. A healthy child, David thought: one more healthy child in the world, one of the lucky chances already taken.

Fifty-fifty. A clean split down the middle of a circle.

‘I wish the risk was greater,’ Trudy said, as though reading his thoughts.

The discussion turned into an argument, then a fight, then a screamingly silent ceasefire that lasted days. Late one night, Trudy stood in the bedroom doorway, her arms folded.

‘I’m having an abortion,’ she said.

‘No,’ he replied.

THE SMELL OF TOASTED
sandwiches makes David’s stomach groan. He wants it again, the argument, the shouting, the accusation. He’s tired of wanting it, then not wanting it, then wanting it again.

‘It’s a golfing thing, a guy from work.’ The TV screen flickers in the dark room. ‘Freebie, more or less. Some new golf course in the Coromandel.’

‘You should go, David.’

He listens for sarcasm, but Trudy is not a sarcastic person. She sits next to him, on the arm of the chair. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses the top of his head.

‘It would do you good to go.’

‘Yeah … well.’

‘I mean it. How often do you do it? Take a break from everything … from Jamie?’

A FEW MONTHS AFTER
Jamie was born, Trudy’s parents Ross and Vivian came for Sunday lunch. The dishes had been cleared. David noticed the looks between them: Ross nodding at Vivian, Vivian reaching for her handbag.

‘We wondered … if you would have a look at this?’ Vivian took a pamphlet from her handbag, pushed it to the centre of the table.

It was bright green. On the front a little boy was playing on a swing. David stared at the photo, at the features of the child: the pronounced forehead, the puff y eyes, the flattened bridge of his nose.

Trudy was sitting next to him and he took her hand, under the table, and held it tightly. She too was mesmerised by the image of the boy: David watched as the word Jamie passed silently from her lips.

Ross and Vivian sat across from them. Vivian was nervous, David could see. From the day Jamie was born his
mother-in
-law had been on hand to help. Careful, at the same time, not to interfere.

David and Trudy read the pamphlet silently. It was for a drug, Prolaze.

‘It’s not a cure,’ Vivian said quickly. Her manicured nails drummed on the wooden table. ‘But they say it can help a lot. It’s brand-new, the only one available for babies. Replaces the missing enzymes and it can make a real difference. To walking … apparently … and other things, too, possibly … as time goes on.’

Vivian faltered and Ross put his hand over hers. The drumming stopped.

‘Where did you get this?’ Trudy grabbed at the pamphlet. She turned it over, reading quickly.

‘Jeff Strange gave it to me, when I went in for a check-up last week,’ said Ross. ‘I’d already told him about Jamie.’

Trudy’s gaze flicked back and forwards, between David
and her parents. ‘Why didn’t the hospital tell us about this … this Prolaze?’ She said the word slowly, rolling it around her mouth like a stolen sweet. ‘If there’s something out there, why didn’t someone tell us?’

Vivian hesitated before she spoke. ‘They probably didn’t discuss it at the hospital because it’s not funded,’ she said. ‘That’s what Jeff told your father. The government won’t pay for it.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Trudy. ‘Can we even get it? If it’s not funded?’

David heard irritation creeping into her voice. He took the pamphlet from her and held her hand again, threading their fingers so they locked tightly together.

‘Yes, yes you can,’ said Vivian. ‘You can get it if you can afford to pay for it.’

From the bedroom came Jamie’s cry — a startled squawk that would quickly become a piercing scream. David thought Jamie had slept a long time but when he looked at the clock it had been ten minutes. Just the usual.

‘How much is it?’ David scanned the brochure, looking for a price. There was no mention of money. He looked at Vivian, eyebrows up.

‘It’s $8000.’

‘A year?’ Trudy asked.

‘A month.’

There was just the sound of Jamie for a moment, then Trudy began to laugh, a strained, tight giggle that changed mid-breath into a choking sound, as though someone had put their hands around her neck.

‘You’re joking,’ she said. ‘Who can afford that? We can’t
afford it. There’s no way we could find $8000 a month …’

‘We’ll pay for it.’ Ross spoke quietly. ‘We’ve got the money. We’ll do it for Jamie.’

The words hung between them. Trudy pushed back her chair. She walked slowly around the table, as though she was sleepwalking. David watched as Ross stood and wrapped his arms around his daughter. She was crying. Jesus, she cried so much.

‘No,’ said David.

‘What do you
mean
— no?’ Trudy was frowning, staring at him.

‘We want to do it, David. He’ll be our only grandchild …’ said Vivian.

‘Oh really? The only one? When was that decided?’ David was relieved to find something tangible to be angry about. ‘Trudy? I don’t remember that discussion.’

Trudy stepped away from her father. She put her hands on the back of a chair and stood quite still, with her eyes closed, leaning into it for support.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ said David. ‘I didn’t mean
no
— it’s not what I meant, at all.’ What
did
he mean? He had no idea. ‘It’s um … look. It’s incredibly generous of you. Ross — Vivian — it’s a wonderful offer. For Jamie, for us … for everyone.’ David looked around the circle of confused faces, saw the mess he was making of it.

‘I can pay for it … for most of it. Probably quite a bit. I’ll work out how much. Then we can talk about the rest.’

THE LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON
drive east to the Coromandel
Peninsula from Hamilton is easy at first — small hills giving way to the outer lip of the Hauraki Plains. But as the Range Rover crawls through the hairpin corners on the steep Hikuai road, David’s breakfast curdles in his stomach.

He’s doing everything right — keeping his eye on the scenery, head up, focusing on the conversation. They’re talking about the last golfing trip, how the fourth guy — the one David has replaced — cheated. How they eventually pulled him up on it but still, he’d persisted. It had been funny, then serious, then too awkward to include him any more.

It’s not all travel sickness. The moment he met Mitchell and Ciaran at the airport, David felt it; the familiar jolt. The guys were loaded. There were the obvious things — the top of the range travel bags, Majesty Prestigio golf clubs, clothes — and the intangible, the self-confidence that comes with knowing that all of life’s problems can be paid to disappear. It’s nothing new to David, but it sits there anyway, a tiny cold stone in the pit of his stomach. He slips into his silent habit — dividing the wealth of others by $7000. That’s what he and Trudy ended up putting towards Jamie’s monthly treatment, after weeks of humiliating negotiation with Ross and Vivian. It was thousands more than they could afford, but every time he and Trudy talked about it, the debate ended up at the same dead end: the potential quality of Jamie’s life versus every material good. Jamie won, of course.

They’re nearly at the summit. Punga trees form a thick canopy over the road. Steam rises from the tarseal after a downpour. Full charcoal clouds drape over sharp mountains, waiting to burst.

Mitchell and Ciaran are from Auckland. They drove to Hamilton, picked up Neil and David at the airport. Mitchell’s an orthodontist. He’s driving. He’s talking about women who insist their children have braces, whether or not they need them.

‘Look at my bloody teeth,’ he says. He stretches his mouth wide and pokes his face into the rearview mirror, revealing a neat rectangle of crooked incisors and big gaps. ‘I tell them they’re wasting their money — that their kids’ teeth are fine. Do we all have to have American smiles?