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She had never even considered donation from a stranger before.
The letter said that it would be possible for her to do another round of IVF on her own, if she had a sperm donor. She had always thought that the father of her child would be Paul, but that hadn’t worked. Could she try again, with a stranger’s DNA making up half of her baby? Did she want to put herself through another round of IVF when the likelihood of getting pregnant was so low?
Liz had relocated to Loch Cameron and plunged herself into her new job with the aim of deliberately not thinking about fertility or having a baby. And, yet, the sudden possibility was there. She felt blindsided, realising the possibility that perhaps she’d been too deep in grief to see before. She could still have a baby. Maybe.
Do I want that?she asked herself. She really didn’t know. Somehow, it had been easier when she thought that the IVF was over. That it was a clean break, destined never to be.
Now that she knew there was a possibility to hope again, half of her wanted to jump at the opportunity and call the clinic right away. But the other half felt a kind of grief for the future her who would be disappointed yet again. She’d just started to regain an equilibrium in her new life. Did she really want to upset that?
It would be different, doing fertility treatments on her own. There would be no Paul to hold her at night when she ached with exhaustion. There would be nobody to talk to, to share her fears with. And if the treatment was successful, she would be a single parent from the start. Was she really ready for that?
Carefully, Liz folded the letter and placed it under the vase of flowers that she had picked from the garden the day before. Her heart felt heavy. Her previous lightness had disappeared.
You don’t have to decide anything now, she told herself.Be gentle with yourself.
Yet, as much as she tried not to think too hard about the possibility, the idea of a child – her child, the one she had longed for – filled her head and her heart, and wouldn’t go away.
NINETEEN
‘So, what’s on the agenda this week?’ Liz sat down on one of the slightly rickety wooden chairs that were free in the circle, dropping her handbag on the floor next to her chair and carefully settling her plate on her knee. The Tuesday before, she hadn’t managed to make the crochet club, but she’d put a note in her diary to remember to come today.
‘Hi, Liz. Not much. Same old.’ Kathy flashed her a grin. Today, her two-tone hair was divided into two plaits: one black, one shocking pink. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad. Settling in.’ Liz took a bite of the thick chocolate brownie she’d chosen for lunch this week, feeling like a naughty child for not eating her sandwich first. ‘Mmm! That’s so good. I swear, you guys should have some kind of full-time cake business,’ she said with her mouth full. She was trying not to think about the letter from the clinic. It felt like too much to think about: every time she started to consider the possibility of a sperm donor – and the possibility, once more, of being a mother again, however slight – she became overwhelmed by a wave of hope, and an equally large wave of fear.
‘Ha. It’s a thought!’ Sheila chuckled. ‘I think we’re all tae busy for that, though. Tuesday lunchtime’s one o’ the only times we can ever get together. Mina’s got the business tae run, Bess’s always oot and aboot, fixin’ pipes an’ puttin’ up wallpaper, Kathy’s got her studies – an’ I dinnae think June’s got a cake business in her nowadays. No disrespect, June, aye.’
The older woman gave Sheila a regal stare.
‘How dare you, Sheila Briggs. I could run a cake empire if I wanted to,’ she scolded, poker-faced.
‘Of course. How silly of me.’ Sheila grinned. ‘I know ye could, June. Ye could probably run the country too while ye were crocheting that doily.’
‘This is it. I just choose not to, in my dotage,’ June said, crisply, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Liz. How’s things at the distillery?’
‘Good, thanks.’ Liz reached for a crochet hook and a ball of wool from a pile of materials on a side table and frowned at them, trying in vain to remember how to start. ‘I’ve forgotten everything you showed me last time, Sheila,’ she confessed.
‘I’ll show you. Chain stitch first – make a loop, then wrap the wool around the hook and pull through.’ Mina, sitting next to her, held out her hook and demonstrated the stitch slowly, before pulling the thread so that all the stitches disappeared.
‘Right. Okay.’ Liz started the stitch again, getting something that roughly resembled Mina’s neat loops.
‘Right. Then, remember, go in through the middle hole.’ Mina demonstrated the next steps slowly, letting Liz follow along. ‘Right. That’s it. Now carry on,’ she said, watching patiently as Liz fumbled with the wool. ‘You’re getting it. Well done!’
‘So, how’s the jams and chutneys business, Mina?’ she asked as she frowned at her wayward stitches.
‘Ah, mustn’t grumble. We’re doing very well. And, Ashoka – that’s my eldest – got a special merit in school this week for her spelling. So, we’re very happy.’ Mina glowed with pride. ‘Sanjay reads to the kids every night before bed. We think books are so important,’ she added. ‘Do you have a family, Liz? We didn’t even ask you last time.’
‘Umm… no.’ Liz felt sudden anxiety twist in her stomach. She looked down at her crochet, avoiding eye contact.
‘No? Not met the right guy, eh? Ah well, there’s still time. But the biological clock goes tick-tock, tick-tock,’ Mina tapped Liz on the knee. ‘Perhaps you’ll meet someone here.’
‘I don’t think so. And children aren’t likely,’ Liz said. She didn’t want to talk about it, not least with people that she didn’t know. Even if they were friendly and welcoming.
‘Oh? Why not?’ Mina pressed on, crocheting away.
‘Mina,’ Bess was sitting on the other side of Liz today, ‘that’s personal.’
‘What? It was a normal question,’ Mina protested. ‘Liz, I’m sorry if it’s too personal. You can of course ignore me, I will not be offended.’
