THE DONOR: a Novel
THE DONOR: A Novel
and
“Father Hunger: Researching and Crafting The Donor”
Catherine Gillard (18909194) BA (Hons) UWA
This exegesis is presented for the Master of Arts (Creative Writing)
for the University of Western Australia
School of Humanities
(Discipline of English and Cultural Studies)
2018
Abstract
My novel, The Donor, tells the story of a middle-aged professor whose large brood of donor offspring begin to appear thirty years after he donates sperm as a student. The story is told from the point of view of the donor and three of his donor offspring, as their lives become precariously entwined when his children learn the truth of their origins.
Inspired by accounts of donor-conceived people and their donors in both mainstream media and social science studies, The Donor is set in Western Australia where commercially available anonymous donor insemination gave heterosexual couples the chance to have children but, until the late 1980s, the anonymity of donors and their right to privacy was regarded as paramount. During this period donor-using couples were strongly encouraged to hide the truth about the conception from everyone, especially the children, and it was not until the early 21st century that the negative psychological and social impacts of this practice were recognised.
The Donor is an extended assertion that human procreation is not merely a matter of individual choice and can never be a purely private responsibility. Instead (like writing fiction) it has social, and sometimes political, significance.
“Father Hunger: Researching and Crafting The Donor,” explores how I crafted my novel to depict the experience of donor-conceived people: the fears and anxieties they face in discovering the truth about their biological origins and the potential consequences of not knowing this basic genetic information about themselves, as well as the related concept of “father hunger” as a driver of narrative. It also examines issues involved in writing within an ethical framework when a story is based on a pastiche of factual accounts by outlining the ethical quandaries that arose from using real lives as fodder for fiction and discussing my moral responsibilities to the people whose stories I used.
ii Declaration of Originality
This thesis contains only sole-authored work.
I certify that the substance of this thesis has not been submitted already for any degree, nor is it being currently submitted for another degree. I certify to the best of my knowledge that all sources of reference have been acknowledged in this body of work.
Catherine Gillard
22 February 2018
iii Acknowledgements
I am most grateful to Professor Van Ikin, Professor Brenda Walker, and Dr Catherine Noske.
This research was supported by an Australian Government Research Training Program (RTP) Scholarship.
iv Contents
THE DONOR: A Novel ……………………………………………………………………………….…… 1
“Father Hunger: Researching and Crafting The Donor”……………………………… 231
Introduction ...... 232
Chapter One: Literature Review and Research ...... 236
Chapter Two: An Ethics of Care ...... 251
Chapter Three: Crafting The Donor ...... 258
Conclusion ...... 268
Bibliography ...... 270
v
THE DONOR
CATHERINE GILLARD
To those people who still haven’t been told how they were conceived
1981
A new species would bless me as its creator. Many happy and excellent creatures would owe their existence to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I would deserve theirs. Victor Frankenstein, in Mary’s Shelley’s Frankenstein
3 DAN
Now that Dan was awake he couldn’t recall what had been chasing him. The last fragments of his nightmare disintegrated as he checked his watch. The numbers glowed 5:13. He licked his lips. Water. He needed water. And a leak. He lay on a two-seat sofa, feet hanging over the edge, sweating pure alcohol. He flexed his head from left to right to get rid of the stiffness in his neck. He focused his aching eyeballs on a crack in the low ceiling, remembering the girl offering him a lift home. Only they ended up at her apartment, because he couldn’t go home. Did he tell her why? All that came to mind was a vision of her astride him. What was her name? She might have been an arts student. Or was that some other girl he was chatting to earlier in the night? And why hadn’t he made it as far as her bedroom? The sex can’t have been great for her—he was smashed on bourbon and cokes, trying to anaesthetise himself. His tongue rimmed his teeth. He needed a toothbrush as well. A thin blueish light stained the window in the galley kitchen, not enough to navigate his way in unfamiliar territory. He switched on the lamp on the coffee table behind his head. Bare walls except for a guide dog calendar. A TV from the previous decade balanced on a crate, not plugged in. Near the front door, two cardboard packing boxes, one on top of the other. He gathered his clothes—borrowed from his friend Simon—dark pants too short, white shirt too large. His brain sloshed in his skull as he dressed, trying to recall if he’d used a condom. His motto was ‘no glove, no love’—he’d heard enough stories on campus about genital herpes and unwanted pregnancies. He felt a stab of regret. He usually carried one in his wallet—large and ribbed for her pleasure—but he hadn’t replaced it after giving it to Simon a few weeks earlier. He pushed ugly thoughts from his head to concentrate on what he needed to do to stop a throbbing headache (brown paper and vinegar, the voice of a long-gone babysitter chimed), and figure out where he was.
4 A choice of two doors for the bathroom. He chose correctly. He didn’t flush in case the sound woke the girl. Should he leave his telephone number? But he no longer even had one. If she wanted to see him again, she knew where to find him. On Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, standing sentinel at Club Bay View, checking for underage girls, keeping guys wearing thongs and boardies out, and ejecting obnoxious drunks, unless they were mates. He searched unsuccessfully for aspirin in the cabinet above the sink. The mirror showed white spittle around his mouth but didn’t otherwise reflect his hangover. He turned the tap, stuck his head under and guzzled cool water. He let himself out of the apartment, quietly shutting the door behind him, and stumbled down several flights of stairs he didn’t remember stumbling up. He vaguely recognised the street before collapsing onto the bottom step, contemplating the very long walk ahead. He noticed a rusted Malvern Star. A girl’s bike. At least it saved him the effort of raising his leg over a cross bar. He dumped Simon’s shoes in the wicker basket. One tyre needed air. Shenton Park. The wrong side of the river from home. Or what was once home. The place where he was no longer welcome. The streets were empty. He passed a lone jogger in Kings Park whose face was so red he almost asked the bloke if he wanted a lift. The cool air was finally easing his cranial plight. After half an hour his thighs burned as the streets began to fill with early-bird commuters. He checked his watch. Still too early. A lie-down on a park bench near Canning Bridge killed some time, though it felt more like time was slaying him. Back on the bike he set off for Millington Street, remembering the last time he was there. His father yelling at him. His step-mother’s cries of pain, her sobbing. His cowardice at running away, bare-chested, no shoes, his backpack stuffed with whatever was close at hand. He’d hitch-hiked to Simon’s and his friend was satisfied with the lie he told: that his father had kicked him out because he wanted to transfer out of medicine. He supposed there’d be a confession to his mate in the pub at some stage. If he could ever afford to drink again. Stomach gurgling, he watched the house from behind a neighbour’s hedge. It was the ugliest on the street: single storey, brown-brick, three-bedroom, one-and-a-
5 half-bathroom. Non-descript architecture from the 1950s, when it was more expensive to build than buy the land. Millington Street had seen countless games of cricket, he’d learnt to ride here, raced his brother up and down the road—the winner as often as loser. The bitumen had taken its share of his skin. He knew pretty much everyone in the street, especially those who had welcomed the mother-less twins with a treat or paid them to do odd-jobs. Where was his father? At 7:33 the front door opened. Ronald Adams marched out wearing his blue suit (the other one was grey), clutching his faux snakeskin briefcase. The patriarch was broader in the shoulder than his sons, though they had a few inches on him now. His father’s expression was grim as he yanked up the garage door and yelled for Andrew to hurry up, or else he could walk. Dan’s brother came tearing down the stairs and waited by the garage door. The dark blue Falcon backed out and stopped. Andrew shut the garage door and hopped into the passenger seat. They’d always taken turns to sit in the front. It was an unspoken rule. But now it was Andrew’s alone. Were they talking about him in the car or was he already a taboo topic? He waited a few more minutes, anticipating the door opening again. The household ran like clockwork—to Ronald Adams’ timetable. And there she was, in her pink tracksuit, floppy hat and dark glasses, Mitzi tucked under her arm as she descended the stairs. Unless people knew about Amporn they might have mistaken her for his adopted sister. She kissed the Pomeranian between its pointy ears and placed it on the ground. The dog turned towards him, snout lifted, and began yapping. Mitzi often barked at nothing but he suspected she had picked up his scent. Well, he’d take a shower at the Uni gym before class. Did he imagine that Amporn walked with a limp as she headed towards the river? Were the sunglasses hiding bruises, fading to a yellowy green? When he couldn’t find the spare key in the slit in the outside wall around the side of the house, he got a shock. Had his father decreed a new hiding place? Was this a sign that his banishment was permanent? If this really was no longer home—where would he go? Simon’s parents didn’t need to adopt an adult son and Fiona lived at St Ursula’s Women’s College, where male guests were not encouraged, at any hour.
6 It was Andrew who had talked of leaving home first, going to Sydney Uni to study a double major in commerce and law, but his brother was better at keeping his head down, avoiding prodding the bear. And things had changed since Amporn. She had softened their father. There’d even been laughter at the dinner table. He tried the back door. Locked. He tried the windows. Locked. He checked the time again. His step-mother never walked Mitzi very far, otherwise she had to carry the little rat when it refused to go any further. Dan rolled up the garage door and retrieved his father’s largest screwdriver. He inserted it at the bottom of his bedroom window as per TV detective drama protocol and forced it upwards. The lock gave way with a crack. He climbed inside. Everything was as he’d left it, like a military dorm. While Ronald Adams had given up morning inspections of his sons’ bedrooms, he still commented on their orderliness. Dan patted along the top shelf of his cupboard and pulled the shoebox down. He took off the lid and stared inside, unwilling to believe his eyes. Empty. His brother was the only one who knew about his savings. Andrew and he were competitive, and he didn’t always trust him, but they were brothers. More likely Amporn had come across it. Perhaps she’d taken the money to buy a one-way ticket back to Thailand, as she told him she would one day. Or had his father taken it to turn the screw, so that he would have to come crawling back and spend the rest of his life apologising? He shoved the shoebox back into the cupboard and stuffed things into his cricket bag—cricket whites, textbooks, socks, jocks and t-shirts. He stood before a photograph on his desk, his mother holding them in the hospital, and stashed it in the bag. He didn’t know which baby he was. His stomach reminded him to raid the pantry. He took a few apples, a handful of Iced Vovo’s and a Tupperware container of spicy chicken wings from the fridge. He gulped orange juice from the carton, a capital offence, and returned to his bedroom. He threw his bag out the window before launching himself after it. And then he heard a familiar yapping. Standing still, back against the wall, his heart thumped. He’d forgotten his toothbrush. He contemplated going back to speak to her, to ask what had happened after he left. Another glance at his watch told him he’d be late for Anatomy 203. A practical assessment. Dissecting a corpse with cancer. He could always ring her while his father was still at work.
7 He fetched his own bike from the garage and wheeled it outside. He flicked the stand down and lowered the garage door. While his back was turned he heard the familiar thrum of his father’s V8. He turned and froze, prey in the hunter’s headlights. As the Falcon drove slowly towards him he instinctively backed away. The fender knocked down his bike and he heard a crunching sound. Father and son stared at each other through the windscreen. Amporn appeared at the front door as Ronald hauled himself out of his seat. He yelled at his wife to get back inside and she scurried off without a word, Mitzi yapping frantically. ‘Didn’t think you’d be showing your face around here any time soon.’ ‘Came to get my stuff.’ His father approached. This is it. He’s going to hit me. But Dan’s arms were unable to raise themselves in defence. Pushing past him, his father leaned down and yanked up the roller door, returning with his golf bag and dumping it in the boot without another word. Dan tried to catch Andrew’s eye as the car reversed down the driveway but couldn’t see him behind the tinted glass. The Ford accelerated away. After inspecting his mangled bike, he retrieved the Malvern Star from behind the hedge. Riding into the easterly, the tears dried as fast as they welled. Did he miss Millington Street already?—its predictable solidness, the sanctuary of his bedroom, the spicy Thai dishes that Amporn served to satisfy her step-sons’ appetites, honed by growth spurts and sport—rugby, cricket, water polo, rowing. He was glad to leave his father behind, but he and Andrew had never spent more than a week apart. He would have made it to Anatomy had a tyre not burst in front of the Old Swan Brewery, pierced by shards from broken beer bottles. It hadn’t produced beer for years, not since developers and Aboriginal groups argued with the State government over the use of the land, but the empties still found their way back. He walked the rest of the way. He headed towards the refectory, where his friends were no doubt having coffee. If he didn’t get a caffeine hit soon, he’d be finding the nearest tree to sleep under like the homeless tramp he’d become. The noticeboard outside the Guild
8 snagged his attention. The Fine Arts School was seeking models for nude life drawing. He felt more like a giant stick insect than Da Vinci’s David. Was he that desperate that he’d pose naked for art students? He was. He tore off a slip of paper with the phone number. Lower down in less ostentatious font: Three nursing students seeking Male roommate. Cheap rent and meals in exchange for odd jobs—lawn mowing, gardening, fixing things, etc. He ripped off the whole notice, just in case anyone else might be interested. And then something else caught his eye: Seeking male medical students for fertility research. Expenses generously reimbursed. The West Perth Fertility Clinic. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ Simon asked, startling Dan. ‘Getting paid to jerk off! That’s got to be the world’s easiest way to make money. And surely more fun than donating blood.’ ‘Are you kidding?’ Fiona said. ‘Do you realise what it’s for?’ ‘To make tiny humans?’ Simon said. Fiona gave him the death stare. ‘Do you really want a whole lot of kids with your genetic material running around Perth? Kids that one day will be adults.’ ‘But it’s anonymous, right?’ Simon said. ‘And Dan’s going to be jerking off anyway. At least until he can convince a girl to sleep with him.’ Simon threw an arm around Dan’s shoulders. ‘You don’t have to go through this alone, mate. I’ll come and hold your dick.’ He sniggered. ‘I mean your hand.’ Dan shrugged off his friend’s arm. ‘What do you reckon they pay?’ Fiona shook her head. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Simon inked the contact number onto his hand. ‘If it’s once a week for a month,’ Simon said, ‘at, say, twenty dollars a pop, that’s eighty bucks. Over a year, that comes to… ’ He turned to Dan. ‘It’s not going to make you rich but—’ ‘Jerkoffs!’ Fiona walked into the refectory. ‘Exactly!’ Simon said, following her.
9 2014
I was dependent on none and related to none. The path of my departure was free, and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them. -- Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
10 JACQUIE
After ten years of living the expatriate life, Jacquie Hopper was returning home. She’d gone overseas looking for something indefinable, but she knew it had included adventure, romance, travel and self-knowledge. She thought she’d found it, only to realise that if she had, she’d somehow lost it again. England had only begun to feel like home because of Joshua. Without him, she realised, she hadn’t managed to carve out a meaningful life for herself. She stumbled down the aisle of the Boeing 747, manoeuvring herself into a row of empty seats to let the steward pass. ‘Are you alright, love?’ he asked in the familiar accent of home, a light hand on her arm. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, though felt far from it. ‘Just going to freshen up before we land.’ In England she hadn’t been conscious of her accent, but whenever she bumped into a fellow Aussie she heard herself speaking like a native Londoner. An actress or an imposter pretending to be other than who she was. It was peculiar how some expats acquired an accent while others, who had lived much longer in the UK than her, twanged away as though they’d never left Australia. Was it a question of identity and assimilation? Did her acquired accent mean she had less of a sense of self to integrate? ‘I’ll bring you some water,’ the steward said. Jacquie flashed a smile. Downing miniature bottles of red wine hadn’t helped settle her stomach. She’d hoped alcohol might improve her condition by tempting unconsciousness. Wrong. She felt shittier and hadn’t slept a wink. She gagged at the odour inside the toilet cubicle, brewed over several hours in flight from Dubai. How did so many people—men, she corrected herself—manage to miss? Were they aiming for the floor? The turbulence hit as she was washing her hands. Her stomach lurched and her body swayed with the motion. At least she hadn’t gotten another bout of the runs. A nightmare scenario for a long-haul flight. Suspecting she had been harbouring
11 some low-level virus for weeks, she promised herself a full check-up once she was settled in. Jacquie never expected to be coming home like this. It felt like defeat. She’d have to camp with her parents until she could afford a thirty-year mortgage she could call her own, which wouldn’t be soon from all accounts. The mining boom might have been over but the housing bubble had not yet burst. And the exchange rate was crap. Not that she’d earned a lot of sterling working as a town planner in Hackney. She brushed her teeth and tamed her frizzy mess of hair into a bun. While coating her lips in a layer of pawpaw, she studied her face, paler than usual, the whites of her eyes red. They didn’t look so ‘amazing’ now. Her eyes were what Joshua had liked best about her. Gold bordered by a black line. As if her Creator had outlined the irises, intending to make them dark, and then changed His mind and chosen a yellow crayon to colour them in. If only Joshua had liked the other parts of her as much, he might have proposed after seven years. He suggested they could move in together, one day. But why spoil something that was so perfect? he asked. Because that’s what people did, she had replied. Couples moved to the next level of intimacy, shared the same bed every night, toothbrushes in the same holder, dirty clothes in the same linen basket. Talked about creating a family. She was willing to spoil ‘something so perfect’ because she wanted children. Why was it so hard to admit this to people; and not just lovers? Several of her colleagues had been reluctant to admit that they wanted to have children and to take time out from climbing the corporate ladder to nurture them properly. Jacquie’s childhood had been happy, safe and protected, marred perhaps only by the fact that she was an only child. She would have liked to have had a brother or sister and the easy companionship she supposed they brought. She wanted to recreate that environment with someone she loved, and who loved her. Was that so bad? She suspected Joshua was averse to procreating ‘toe-rags’ and ‘ankle biters’, as he had referred to the children of a couple who were no longer close friends. But it was a conversation that needed to be had. She was nearly thirty-two. The age her eggs apparently became less penetrable to sperm. And if there was absolutely no
12 chance of children with Joshua, then she could either make peace with the idea, or move on, and give herself time to find someone who did want their ankles bitten. Jacquie returned to her seat. She had almost cried in gratitude when the trickle of passengers coming down the aisle had dried up and she realised that no one was booked into the seat next to her. With the luxury of a little extra room to spread out it was as good as being in business class. After the steward returned with the water she clipped up her seat belt, pulled the middle armrest up, and placed the thin Qantas pillow between her head and the shuttered window. The tears she thought had all dried up dribbled out of her screwed-shut eyes. For all Joshua’s faults, lack of frankness wasn’t one of them. No kids. No chance, he’d said. And if she tricked him by getting pregnant he wanted nothing more to do with her. Or any progeny. They had argued about commitment and children, and she’d called it off. So, that was it. She’d resigned from her job, given her flatmates one months’ notice and booked a one-way ticket back to Perth. And then it occurred to her why she was feeling so shitty; the nausea, the tiredness, the tears and weight loss. She’d stopped taking the pill after they’d broken up. In packing, she had cleaned out her shelf in the bathroom cabinet, thrown the half-completed blister pack of pills in the bin, thinking: why bother? She hadn’t factored in the two heated goodbye fucks. She smiled and played out a little fantasy: The baby would inherit Joshua’s eyes and one day, while nostalgically skimming her Facebook posts, he’d see what he had missed out on, never realising it was his child.
13 HENRY
Henry installed Tinder on his iPhone. He’d never had a problem picking up, but a dating app made sense if you were time poor. It wasn’t an efficient use of time to hang out in bars all night, wondering whether the hot-looking chick was single (which was unlikely), or if he’d still get lucky even if she wasn’t. He wasn’t looking for love. Just hook ups, which was what the app was designed for, James said. ‘If you want a relationship—and love—you don’t install Tinder.’ Henry prided himself on his honesty—he was upfront about what he wanted—his motto was ‘here for a good time not a long time.’ And yet there were still women out there who promoted themselves as wanting something casual but hinted that they in fact wanted something more or even tried to extract a promise to see them again. Misleading advertising is what that was. Tinder wasn’t the only app, James had assured him. There were new ones coming online all the time. Henry googled some: Grindr, Blendr, Pure, BeNaughty, Tingle, SinglesAroundMe, Bang With Friends, F-Buddy. Apparently, they had evolved out of the gay community and had made surprisingly fast inroads into the hetero world of dating. Smart phones and GPS were revolutionising dating, matching like with like, or rather, supply and demand. This was the time to be single and horny and not worry about paying for the consequences. Not like the 80’s and 90’s when it was all about AIDS, personified by the government’s education campaigns as The Grim Reaper, or a hundred years earlier when there was mind-eating syphilis. They’d even found a preventative vaccine for most genital warts. So it was only really herpes to worry about, and that only required a bit of a visual inspection. And of course, there were always condoms, which he wore 9 times out of 10, or thereabouts, if the girl looked a little rough around the edges. ‘I can’t believe that chicks have taken to these apps as eagerly as men,’ Henry shouted over the thumping music. ‘I reckon they’re wired differently to us. Choosier, expect romance, emotions. They dream of finding The One, marriage in a carriage and babies. But I’m happy to be proven wrong.’ James clapped his friend on the back. ‘Not the girls that use Tinder.’
14 The app had located several other Tinder users in the crowded St Georges Terrace bar. Henry swiped left through the images of girls until he came to a real stunner—a definite Swipe Right! He placed his fingers on the screen and spread them to enlarge her features. Blonde hair, long straight neat nose, carved nostrils, wide mouth and fascinating eyes. Eyes that in fact reminded him a little of his own, which were once referred to by a casual fling as wolf’s eyes. He had howled after that, nipped at her flesh and taken her again, doggy-style. Henry scanned the room until he spotted her in a group of girls. Caroline. He liked that, no silly alias. He thought of the Neil Diamond song—his Dad had loved that old dude—and wondered whether crooning his opening line would be too corny. Probably something men had done for her a hundred times before. ‘So much easier, isn’t it?’ James said, and gestured to the barman for another two Atomic Pale Ales – beers brewed for fussy bastards, the label alleged. ‘In ye olden days you’d have to mosey-on over there, buy them drinks, do the whole sheep dog thing and separate out the one you wanted from the pack. And there’d still be a chance you’d get stuck with the ugly friend. Less time talking, more time for action.’ The girl with the golden eyes was smiling at her phone and pointing at her mobile for her friends. James swigged his beer. ‘Do you know, there’s another app where you can save even more time by choosing from the following three options: Option 1 is let’s chat, Option two, let’s go, or option three, no thanks.’ Caroline’s gaze raked the room until it rested on Henry. He met her forthright scrutiny. He knew he was a good-looking guy. He’d been told so by women. By men too. And she knew she was a beautiful woman. ‘Target locked in,’ James said. After he finished his Atomic, Henry approached the DJ and palmed him $50 with his request. Gone was the techno beat and a guy singing about popping tags in a thrift shop and suddenly that annoyingly unforgettable horn introduction started. Henry took the microphone (switched off) and mimed the lyrics:
Where it began, I can't begin to knowing But then I know it’s growing strong Was in the spring Then spring became the summer Who’d have believed you’d come along
15 Hands, touching hands Reaching out, touching me, touching you
Henry’s gesture hadn’t just broken the ice—it had melted the whole fucking iceberg. Everyone in the bar (over the age of 30, at least), stopped talking and sang along. He made his way over to her at the end of the song to the accompaniment of clapping, feeling like he was in the scene from Top Gun, when Tom Cruise was still cool and not a Scientology freak. Before they had finished the bottle of Moet, Caroline had agreed with his suggestion that he book a room. Another app on his IPhone found a last-minute deal at the Rydges Hotel which included a bottle of sparkling wine. James winked as they left and mimed ‘call me’ with his thumb and pinky. Before he left a girl naked and almost purring under the hotel bed covers (or her own bed covers, he preferred not to shit in his own nest), Henry’s usual line was: ‘It’s been fun, but now I have to go because I’ve got more important things to do than you.’ He found this was generally enough to discourage any woman from being interested in seeing him again. But after his marathon sex romp, Henry just couldn’t bring himself to deliver his killer line to Caroline. When he looked at her, he felt as though he was seeing a better version of himself, only female. This girl was the most amazing fuck he’d ever had and she had the face and body of a Victoria’s Secret model. He even suspected she had more than two grey cells to rub together in the brain department. ‘So what do you do?’ he asked. ‘Mining engineer,’ she replied, reaching for her glass of bubbles by the bed. She slipped a finger in and then sipped. ‘Just testing it’s gone flat and warm.’ ‘Huh?’ Henry asked, and then understood what she was implying: That this hadn’t been a two-minute performance. He picked up his glass and drained what was left, definitely room-temperature. And no bubbles. He was tempted to ask what company she worked for. You never knew when you were going to pick up a “titbit” of info that might help with a trade—he knew most of the big players in town—but decided not to show too much interest in her life. Play em mean and keep em keen. ‘You’ve got my number—’ he began.
16 ‘It’s been fun,’ she interrupted, ‘but I’ve got more important things—’ He was stunned but recovered enough to lean over and kiss her before she could finish his line. ‘You’ve got nothing more important than me to do.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe not tonight,’ she said, and pulled him towards her, while he crooned in an off-tune baritone:
Sweet Caroline Good times never seemed so good …
17 JACQUIE
Sun sliced through the window of Dr McKenna’s consulting room overlooking Waratah Avenue. So different, Jacquie thought, to the dark and gloomy view from the window of her London GP. After all these years Dr McKenna was still working at the Dalkeith Medical Centre and had not lost her gentle and optimistic solicitude. She had been Jacquie’s doctor since her days at university. Now in her late fifties her hair was completely grey, but otherwise a decade on she seemed unchanged. Returning to Perth was definitely the right thing to do, if for no other reason than the sun. She hadn’t realised how much she missed its brightness and heat, and how her mood could be so affected by the weather. It was an actual syndrome she heard spoken about in Europe: SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder. Depressed for want of sun. Her parents had been excited when she rang to say she was coming back. When they had announced a few years earlier that they had down-sized from their four-bedroom Tudor-style home in Dalkeith to a two-bedroom apartment in Claremont she had been irrationally upset. The family home contained the memories of her childhood. But her father insisted they weren’t getting any younger and it was silly, just the two of them, rattling around in such a big old house that was falling apart around their ears. She had been disappointed, watching the line appear on the pregnancy test stick, convinced she had been pregnant. She was only late. After sleeping away the first few days in her parents’ home, which she put down to jetlag. She described the fatigue to the doctor, which was more than just her body clock adjusting to being on the other side of the world, the odd bout of diarrhoea and constipation, which she put down to English pub food, and the abdominal cramps. When she stepped on the scales she was surprised to see she had lost another two kilos. Dr McKenna ordered a battery of blood tests, ‘just in case’. ‘Stress of the breakup?’ Jacquie suggested. ‘Or perhaps I’m depressed. Or gluten intolerant?’ She sniffed and wiped a tear with the back of her hand. ‘You leave the diagnosis to me,’ Dr McKenna said, and pumped up the blood pressure sleeve.
18 The receptionist rang a week later to tell Jacquie that her test results were back and the doctor wanted to see her again. When Jacquie asked if there was anything wrong, the receptionist replied: ‘All I can tell you is that Dr McKenna wants to see you at your earliest convenience.’ Jacquie returned for her follow-up appointment. Dr McKenna scrolled through the long list of results on her computer screen, perched her glasses on her head, and regarded Jacquie with compassionate blue eyes. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid this is rather bad news,’ she paused to let the words sink in. ‘Your faecal occult blood test was abnormal, so I’d like to refer you to a specialist for a colonoscopy and a CAT scan. Some of your other tests are of concern as well. Your iron is very, very low, you have a high white blood cell count and your liver function test is… concerning. Combined with the symptoms of your stomach aches, cramps and irregular bowel movements…’ ‘Which all means…?’ ‘The specialist can provide a more accurate diagnosis but it’s pointing towards a cancer in your gastrointestinal tract. I’m so sorry Jacquie, I really don’t have much more to offer you at this stage but I want you to make another appointment with me after you’ve met with the specialist. You’ll have more questions by then. I know it’s been a rough time for you, the break up with your boyfriend, leaving your job, coming back to Australia.’ She glanced at her notes on the screen. ‘You’re living with your parents. I’m glad you’re not alone.’ Jacquie watched the desktop printer spit out the referral. ‘Do you have private insurance?’ ‘I let it lapse just before I left England. I planned to join my parents’ fund when I returned.’ Dr McKenna bit down on her bottom lip. ‘Don’t worry. Medicare should cover everything. Most things. It’s just you won’t get to choose your doctors.’ ‘I thought old people got bowel cancer. It’s one of those lifestyle diseases, isn’t it? Crappy diet, overweight, drinking and smoking. They don’t even recommended screening until after, what is it? Sixty?’
19 ‘Fifty. It's not usual for GI cancers to present in a thirty-year-old. And I’m not saying for certain that’s what you have. Do you have any relatives with bowel cancer? Or disorders—Coeliacs? Crohn’s disease? Polyps?’ Jacquie frowned. ‘Both my parents are healthy and all my aunts and uncles are alive and well. Granny is still going strong. The other’s a bit dotty. My grandfather on Dad’s side died of a stroke a couple of years ago.’ Dr McKenna handed her the referral. ‘I can write you a script for something to help you sleep. You don’t need to take it. Just keep it handy in case things get tough.’ The printer delivered prescriptions for Temazepan and Serapax. ‘If it’s serious,’—her expression of professional worry refined itself into clinical optimism—‘well, let’s hope we’ve caught things early. Bowel cancer is one of the slower moving diseases and with surgery and chemotherapy, treatments are extending life expectancy. New therapies are coming on the market all the time.’ Dr McKenna stood, prompting Jacquie to do the same. ‘Take care of yourself, and I’ll call you when the reports come back from the specialist.’ A light touch on Jacquie’s elbow. ‘We might be seeing each other regularly. I want you to know that I’m here for you.’ In a daze, Jacquie walked stiff-legged to reception. ‘Standard consult,’ Jacquie heard Dr McKenna say to the receptionist before she disappeared back into her consulting room. Nothing standard about that, Jacquie thought, fumbling with her Medicare card in her purse. After paying the gap, she descended the stairs. She couldn’t bring herself to enter the small supermarket on the ground level for the few items her mother had asked her to pick up. If she spoke to anyone she was afraid she would blurt out something stupid, confess to a stranger—‘I have cancer.’ In the carpark she put the keys in the ignition of her mother’s Mercedes and sat back in the yielding leather. She flipped the sun visor and stared at herself in the mirror. Skin paler than during any London winter, with a yellow tinge. Her eyes were dry; shock had blocked the tears. In front of her customers sat in the faux French café, talking, smiling, drinking coffee, eating pastries and she thought, they are not thinking about death, they are talking about their mortgages, school holiday plans, jobs, friends and lovers. If she did have cancer, she imagined that from now on the disease
20 would become the topic of her every conversation, become part of who she was. Until she was nothing. There wasn’t enough air in the car. She pressed the button to lower the window. Her mother was at home waiting for her return, so they could lunch together in Claremont. Jacquie scripted the dramatic disclosure in her head, pictured her mother’s expression, the fight in her face not to break down, to be strong for her only child. And then she thought of Joshua. London was eight hours behind Perth. He’d still be asleep. Alone in his bed? Or had she been replaced? Should she tell him? She started the engine. No. What was the point?
21 HENRY
The interior of Balthazar was dimly lit, intimate. The cuisine was French and pricey. The middle-aged couple at the table next to Henry and Caroline appeared bored in each other’s company, falling silent after they had discussed the menu. Henry ordered two kir royales for aperitifs. An old man appeared at their table, selling over- priced roses. Henry bought one. They talked, or mainly Henry did, until the waiter arrived. Henry tried to impress with a French accent as he ordered his oysters, verjuice ice, wild pepper for entrée and fillet mignon, pommes de terre, champignons avec tarragon for plat principal. Caroline ordered in fluent French, and then chatted with the waiter, laughing, not once glancing in Henry’s direction. ‘What was that about?’ Henry asked after the waiter departed. ‘I asked him where he was from. Marseilles, he said, and so I told him I spent a year in Aix En Provence before starting Uni.’ ‘Perth Uni?’ Henry asked. Surely he would have spotted her on campus. ‘Sydney. They were handing out scholarships promoting women in engineering.’ When he asked why she came back to Perth, she waved dismissively. ‘This town was where the work was, and of course, my parents live here. There’s only me.’ Henry chatted about his years in London, working in the City. Shared houses with university friends. Cricket. Pubs. Drinking trips to the continent. They drank a bottle of Veuve Cliquot with dinner and a second over coffee. After splitting the bill at Caroline’s insistence, she ordered a taxi. ‘Don’t like the surcharge Uber whacks on for Saturday nights,’ she said. Her apartment was impersonal, like a showroom, and smelled of a pleasant artificial room deodoriser. Modern white leather couches, tasteful abstract art picked more for colour than content. No photos of family or friends, no adornments, none of the detestable dust collectors that populated Henry’s childhood home, exhibiting wealth but not necessarily taste. Caroline’s style was his style: minimal, refined luxury. Like an expensive hotel room. They could both afford life’s finer things. He
22 was an institutional broker with a never-ending lucky streak and she was well-paid to fly-in fly-out—three weeks on Barrow Island on 14-hour shifts, then two weeks off. She connected her phone to German speakers and played classic rock music from the 90s. Guns N Roses. Henry’s favourite band back then. He chose the wine from the cupboard she called her cellar, a South Australian red, and emptied two- thirds of the bottle into two bucket-sized Reidels. They sat on the balcony overlooking Claisebrook Cove sipping the heavy, plummy Shiraz. ‘The view reminds me of a little French port I visited a couple of years ago.’ Henry wanted to ask who she had gone travelling with but didn’t in case he came across as jealous. Perhaps they could travel Europe together. One day. He poured them another glass to finish the bottle. She had an excellent drinking constitution, unlike many women who after a few glasses were anyone’s and then they passed out—or was it that they passed out and then were anyone’s? A sleek launch slowed as it entered The Cove and then puttered towards the boardwalk before disgorging a group of women in cocktail dresses and men in tuxedos into one of the restaurants below. Caroline stood and held out her hand. He allowed himself to be led by his tie back inside, to her bedroom. An oil painting of yachts on a turgid Swan River hung above her bed. No clothes or wet towels lying on the floor, he observed approvingly. The bed was neatly made, satin cushions on a white doona. He bet the thread count of her Egyptian linen was the highest possible. ‘I’ve been thinking about doing something,’ Caroline said, a catch in her throat. He added imagination to her list of qualities. He felt the blood throb in his groin as she maneuvered him into her large walk-in wardrobe. She removed his jacket, undid his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. He attempted to touch her a few times, her hair, her breasts, her face, but she whispered, ‘Not yet!’ and ‘Wait!’ He stood naked, not at all embarrassed by his full erection. She pulled a dress off a hanger, a simple red one with a tag attached, which she ripped off. He reeled back when she tried to slip it over his head. He pushed it away, felt his desire ebb. ‘What are you doing?’ She stepped forward, kissed him on the mouth. ‘Don’t be such a spoil-sport. Please, just let me do this.’
23 ‘I’m not some tranny. I’m not into kinky sex.’ Well, not the sort where his masculinity was endangered, and certainly nothing involving him being touched by other men. Now, two women was an entirely different prospect. She bent down and picked up the dress, held it to her chest with crossed arms, her gorgeous mouth all droopy in disappointment. ‘Okay!’ He submitted, avoiding his image in the full-length mirror. He protested again when she produced lipstick but gave in. When she pulled the wig out of a bag, he stepped backwards. ‘What is that?’ It was a cheap nylon affair, a few shades lighter than her hair and shorter. He shook his head. ‘You only have to wear it for a minute. I promise. I just want to show you something.’ ‘Don’t tell me. You’re planning my buck’s night?’ He didn’t like the way she scoffed at his suggestion. ‘Fancy dress party?’ ‘Folie a deux.’ He allowed her to place it on his head but was too humiliated to respond to her command to look in the mirror. She pinched his chin between her fingers and turned it to view their reflections, side by side. He stared mutely. She was delighted with herself, with him. He saw his expression change in the mirror, from sulkiness to astonishment. He had noticed their physical similarities before but now he might have passed as her sister. The butch one, of course. ‘Why’d you do this?’ ‘You’ll think it’s stupid if I tell you.’ He yanked at the dress. ‘Can I take this shit off now?’ ‘Sure.’ He ripped off the wig, and after undoing the buttons, lifted the dress over his head. She took his hand and steered him into her ensuite. She squirted cream on a tissue and wiped at his lips. ‘I hardly ever dream,’ she said, ‘or not that I remember. Especially not about people I’ve just met. Maybe it’s because of the medication.’
24 He didn’t ask what pills stopped dreams. Sleeping tablets? Anti-depressants? He made a note to check her bathroom cabinet. ‘But I’ve been having the most vivid dreams about you. Though it wasn’t exactly you. We were on a swing in a playground. And when my parents called me, we both jumped off and ran towards them.’ She wandered back into her bedroom, lay down, and propped her head upon the triangle made by her bent arm. Henry flopped down beside her. ‘I’ve dreamt about you too.’ He nuzzled at her neck. Despite the dick-shriveling experience of being dressed up as a woman, desire pulsed through him again. He dragged his fingers down her long smooth thigh. She removed her clothes with his eager assistance. She dominated him as they made love, ordering him to turn over, or move his legs this way, or that, to touch her, eat her, enter her. She knew exactly how far to push him before pulling him back from the brink of orgasm to prolong her own pleasure. Pulling away from him, slick with sweat, she soon fell asleep, leaving Henry awake, alone and empty. He wanted to hear her voice reveal the facts that made up her life. He closed his eyes and eventually drifted into a shallow slumber. Just before dawn Henry opened his eyes again, disoriented, thinking it was Monday and he was going to be late for work. He was programmed to rise early for his job, required at his desk before the ASX opened on Eastern Australian time. Caroline stirred and moaned in her sleep. Then he remembered it was Sunday. Relieved and excited that the whole day was before him. And he wanted to spend it with Sweet Caroline. He created a mental agenda: breakfast at one of the restaurants below her apartment, return to bed to make love again, and then perhaps a movie and another bottle of that delightful red. Caroline faced away from him, her silvery blonde hair fanned across the pillow. He reached out and twirled a few silky strands. She shifted at his touch. He found his trousers, retrieved his iPhone from a pocket. Back in bed he stretched his arm and took a photo to personalise her details in his Contacts list. He wanted to see that perfect face flash up when she rang or sent him a text. What song would he associate her number with? Something less obvious than Neil Diamond.
25 Taylor Swift’s duet with Ed Sheeran was perfect. Not just because of the lyrics— “Everything Has Changed”—Caroline also looked like the singer, only more mature. He’d get better pics later. Would she be up for sexting when she went back to Barrow Island? Would she want photos of him naked? It wasn’t tit for tat nowadays but tit for dick. You just had to be a bit careful. A few mates had been involved in revenge porn, uploading shots of their ex, naked, after being dumped or having the dirty done on them. And once that shit was out there in the digital ether, it never got reeled back in. He checked the news, the weather and then his messages. There was a text from James wanting to catch up and an email from his mother checking up on him under the pretence of enquiring about the cat. He was ‘minding’ his childhood home on the river, while she was overseas on her S.K.I. holiday—as he called it—Spending Kid’s Inheritance. He padded across the thick pile into the ensuite, found a towel to wrap around his waist and headed to the kitchen. The forecast was for another stinker, in the high thirties, but for now the marble tiles were cool on his feet. There was nothing in the fridge but a jar of olives and a few bottles of white wine – in the freezer, a bottle of Vodka. The modern woman. Had he been in his Claremont apartment, which he had sub-let to a fellow trader, his fridge would have been similar; only beer instead of wine. As he made tea—black, as there was no milk—he thought about asking Caroline if she wanted to go to the beach, where he could admire her in a bikini, or inviting her to the Mosman Park mansion—where she could admire his future. She was awake when he carried in her tea, which she gestured with a flick of her wrist to place on her bedside table. She mumbled a barely civil ‘thanks’. Was she always this grumpy in the morning? He prattled on about his plans for their day, and then for some stupid reason began talking about his mother, who he insisted would approve of her (unlike some of the other girls he’d dragged home). ‘Dad died a few years ago and I’m an only child. I was so perfect, Mum decided to stop at me!’ He wilted under her sceptical expression. ‘Maybe not. But it’s funny how people assume you are spoiled. But Mum is a little intense with me, when she happens to be in town.’
26 ‘I never asked for brothers and sisters. I think there must have been some kind of vibe there was only ever going to be me. I had my cat Scribbles and learnt how to entertain myself.’ ‘Can I watch next time?’ Another withering look. ‘I don’t mind being alone. I can happily live without human contact for days.’ Every sliver of information about her felt precious. While she was in a sharing mood, he wanted more. ‘So, what about your parentals?’ ‘Dad’s an accountant. Partner in KPMG. My mother was a lawyer for the State Solicitor’s Office but just does a bit of consulting work for AHPRA now. That’s the body that strikes off medical practitioners caught doing dodgy things. She shops and lunches in between. Quite the champagne socialist socialite.’ ‘I’d like to meet them.’ Caroline held up a hand to silence him, slipped out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom. Definitely a morning grump. He found the sound of her peeing endearing. He considered joining her in the shower but it was over so quickly that by the time he had hauled himself off her bed she was in her walk-in-wardrobe, shrugging off a thick white house-coat, her hair in a towel-turban. She must have been aware of him watching her as she slipped on her panties because she moved out of his field of vision to finish dressing. The vibe was strong that she wanted him gone but he was like a puppy who had found a new home and didn’t want to leave. He buried his head into the pillow, which still bore smudges of makeup, and smelt her musky vanilla scent. He lifted the doona, took a deep breath and inhaled the lingering odours of their love-making. Caroline wore a fitted black skirt and silky shirt, still unbuttoned, underneath which he caught glimpses of a lacy camisole. ‘Henry, this is going a bit fast for me. I was still married 18 months ago.’ His lips parted in surprise. ‘Wow! Married.’ He had assumed she was like him, commitment-shy. He waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. ‘So, things didn’t work out, huh?’ ‘You could say that. My husband was riding to work when he got knocked off his bicycle by some wanker in a souped-up ute, doped up to the eyeballs on meth. He
27 drove off and left Jeremy on the road to die.’ She fastened the buttons on her shirt. ‘The driver got three years. That’s all. Two with good behaviour. So, I’m really not up for anything serious.’ Henry suspected it was going to be hard to compete with a dead husband. Had she played dress-ups with him too? ‘I have to go out now. She dragged a brush through her hair. ‘I’m having brunch with Jeremy’s family.’ ‘And you’ll uninstall Tinder?’ God, how had he got this pathetic so quickly? ‘Henry, I’m late. Do you mind?’ He stood up, his day’s plans melting away. He’d ring James instead. Arrange to meet him at North Cott. And after that, lunch at The Blue Duck, followed by beers at the OBH. Caroline dipped her hand into an expensive leather handbag and fished out a glasses case. Propped on the bridge of her nose, they intensified her beauty, in a brainy way. Henry was reminded of his own Calvin Klein specs, discarded since the corrective lens surgery. ‘You can get laser surgery,’ he blurted. ‘Don’t like me the way I am?’ Even displeasure amplified her attractiveness. ‘I didn’t mean that.’ This is what happened when you started thinking with your heart and not your dick. He gave himself some advice: Don’t blow it by becoming uncool, dude. No more talk of the three Fs—family, friends and future.
28 JACQUIE
This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening to her. Jacquie squeezed her mother’s hand while Dr Lee explained the results of the endoscopy. ‘Tumour… stomach… mucous cells… lining….’ Only random words were penetrating her mind. ‘CT Scan. MRI. Surgery. Advanced.’ The doctor answered the questions they could not ask. ‘It depends on the type and stage,’ Dr Lee said. ‘The treatment is most effective if found in the early stages. But we can still try.’ Back home, the kettle boiling beside them, mother and daughter hugged each other. Donna’s back was broad and soft and her scent brought back memories of being comforted after the inevitable scrapes and bumps of childhood, but now it was Jacquie who was dry-eyed, taking the role of consoler. ‘Why me, why now?’ Jacquie asked. ‘I know, baby,’ Donna said, composing herself. ‘I mean, I don’t know.’ Jacquie wiped a tear from her mother’s cheek with the ball of her thumb. ‘I’m too young for this. I never smoked. I eat healthy, and exercise. Even in London when it was all about pub grub and pints and people scoffed if you went to the gym after work. Why did I get the random mutation?’ Donna tensed, pulled away, and busied herself with the ritual of tea. ‘If it was in the family history, I could have been tested earlier.’ Staring out the kitchen window, Donna wrung the tea-bags, dripping excess liquid on her blouse. ‘It might have been picked up sooner and I’d have half a chance. I’ve been googling everything about GI cancer. If it’s discovered early, with treatment, there’s a good chance of a cure. They can’t do much for me now…’ Donna kept her focus on the tea, stirring, stirring. ‘I’m sorry, I’m being pathetic, wishing someone else in the family had it just so I could have been warned. It’s just so unfair.’ Whenever Jacquie had laid this complaint before her, Donna had always answered: life’s not fair. But not this time.
29 Donna carried the cups to the kitchen bench, placing them unsteadily on the white granite. ‘I have to tell you something.’ Donna blew her beaky nose. ‘Mum?’ Jacquie prompted. ‘There’s no family history. On your father’s side.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Biologically, your father isn’t your father.’ Jacquie blinked, her mind whirring with possibilities. ‘Biologically?’ ‘Oh God!’ Donna grabbed at another tissue. ‘I’ve almost made myself forget this.’ ‘You had an affair?’ ‘Of course not!’ ‘Then I’m adopted?’ ‘No. I’m your mother. Your father couldn’t have children. A motorbike accident in his 20’s. Damaged his... No viable sperm. We went to a fertility clinic. We both wanted you so very much and after a few unsuccessful cycles we got lucky.’ Something clenched in Jacquie’s stomach. Lightning wasn’t meant to strike you twice. ‘Then who is my biological father?’ ‘He is, I mean, he was a university student.’ ‘Someone you knew? I know?’ Donna shook her head. ‘That’s all the clinic told us. A medical student, they said. Cream of the crop. Smart donors equal smart babies.’ Jacquie paced the room, halting at the window to stare at the street below, pedestrians scurrying like ants about their daily business. ‘I can’t believe you lied. All these years.’ ‘Not lied. Just didn’t tell.’ Jacquie’s eyes flashed at her mother’s semantics. ‘You’re part of me. You grew inside me. I gave birth to you. And you are as much his daughter as mine.’ ‘But not biologically.’ Jacquie sat down on the couch which looked like a million others from IKEA. She missed their old brown Chesterfield with the little rip she had made in the leather from jumping on it with her rollerblades. She hadn’t even been told off for it. Thinking
30 of the Chesterfield led to thoughts of Lager, the family dog, a fat old Labrador-cross who had died a few years after Jacquie moved to London. She hadn’t cried for him then, but now the tears came, in heaving sobs from her diaphragm. ‘Well, we need to find him.’ ‘You can’t. It was all anonymous.’ The tea was cold by the time Jacquie took her first sip. ‘I always suspected you and Dad hugged me a little longer and a little harder than the other parents. I thought that was just because I was an only child.’ ‘You were our miracle. Our gift from God.’ And now God was reclaiming his precious gift.
* * *
Jacquie continued the interrogation of her parents at the dinner table. The meal was for ritual comfort only. No one was hungry. Donna remembered seeing a file at the clinic with a Polaroid. She had liked his photograph. Geeky handsome. She attempted to recall other details but it was Nigel who supplied them: height 6’2”, weight 83kg, eyes light hazel, medical student. Her father even dredged up the name of the doctor who had performed the procedure to impregnate his wife: Dr Love. Nigel had insisted on being present during the insemination procedure. ‘I always wanted to be able to put my hand on my heart and say to any child: your mother and I were both there when you were conceived. And we made you with Love in the room.’ Jacquie laughed, in spite of feeling as brittle as an osteoporotic bone. Another bump and she would snap in half. Nigel put down his knife and fork and regarded his daughter with faded-blue eyes, shining with emotion. ‘Are you really going to look for him?’ ‘It’s not him. You’re my father. But don’t you see, the cancer must have come from him? There’s nothing on mum’s side.’ ‘Mr Boeing,’ Donna said, apropos of nothing. ‘Huh?’ ‘We used to call him that. I can’t remember why.’
31 ‘It was his code, Honey,’ Nigel said. ‘I saw it on the specimen jar. Remember? And then we had this running joke about him being the pilot, every time we caught a plane.’ Donna pushed aside her plate, food barely touched. The recommended dietary advice from Dr Google for gastro-intestinal cancers was to cut out red meat and alcohol, consume more fruit and vegetables. Even her father had foregone his usual beer with dinner. She hadn’t asked her parents to make changes to their lives, she didn’t want them to, but it was touching to see them trying anyway. Jacquie speared a piece of broccoli, waved it on her fork. ‘This isn’t about me either. What if I have siblings? I need to warn them. The specialist said that my type of cancer can have a familial link and the earlier it’s detected, the better the prognosis.’ ‘You’ve got enough to deal with, Jacks,’ Donna rested her hand on her daughter’s, ‘without putting yourself through what could be a disappointing and exhausting exercise.’ ‘Just focus on yourself, love, keeping yourself well,’ Nigel said, his hand hovering, as though searching for his stubbie. But Jacquie knew that if her world shrank to just herself and the malignant cells running rampant through her body then there was nothing left but despair.
32 HENRY
Caroline had not replied to Henry’s text messages. He’d sent her six in one day which he supposed was entering stalker territory. But eventually his persistence was rewarded.
Kings Park, 10pm. At lookout pt on Forrest Road. C x
Henry brooded on the single “x”. That was how you ended a text to a girlfriend, not a lover. But he wasn’t going to pass up the invitation. Caroline’s dark blue BMW pulled in beside his black one—he’d been there half an hour early, listening to the radio, pondering how the lyrics spoke just to him. He got out, opened her front passenger door and slid into the yielding leather seat. Her speakers blared Rhianna and Eminem in duet: Just gonna stand there and watch me burn But that's alright because I like the way it hurts Just gonna stand there and hear me cry But that’s alright because I love the way you lie I love the way you lie.
He pulled the door shut and was enveloped in her expensive, subtle perfume mixing with the smell of freshly polished leather. The central locking clicked. Caroline leant over, proffering her lips to be kissed. Her warm breath tasted of wine and something spicy she had eaten. Henry could hardly suppress the groan in his throat as she guided his hand up her skirt. She wasn’t wearing underwear. His desire intensified as her hand found his crotch. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. She didn’t reply, deftly undoing his fly. A dark Commodore pulled up beside them and the headlights switched off. Henry turned his head and cracked open an eye. The Commodore’s windows were too dark to see inside. Undercover cops? Despite not being one of those exhibitionist types, he couldn’t have cared less if it was his grandmother, he didn’t want this to stop. He threw back his head and stroked her hair. He opened his eyes and saw her staring up at him. Moments later she was sitting astride him. He tried to suppress the roar building inside him. She made no effort to stem the flow of guttural moans from deep in her own throat.
33 Rhianna sang about finding love in a hopeless place. Caroline’s vocals intensified, and she bit him hard on the shoulder, as though belatedly attempting to silence herself. He fought the instinctive urge to shove her away and accepted the pain, increasing his pleasure. Rhianna was shining bright like a diamond when Henry orgasmed in a shudder. He felt her contract around him, once, twice, three times. She breathed heavily in his ear. Chest against chest, he felt her heart beating in rhythm with his own. She slithered off and landed back in the driver’s seat. The Commodore’s engine started and it drove off. Show over! ‘Wow!’ Henry said and immediately regretted not uttering something witty, sophisticated, nonchalant. ‘Did you …? … Was it good?’ Post-coital, he usually felt on top of the world but tonight he was too stressed from giving a fuck about how he’d fucked. Which was fucked! ‘I needed that,’ Caroline said, and yawned. ‘Tough day?’ She gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Where’ve you been? You didn’t reply to my texts. I’ve been wanting to see you since you got back.’ ‘Catching up with my parents, friends, Jeremy’s family. A few work meetings about a new project.’ ‘Am I going to meet them soon? Your family.’ ‘A big step.’ How had he cast himself in the role of Peppy Le Pew, with Caroline as The Cat. He the skunk relentlessly chasing the aristocratic and aloof feline. ‘Do you do this often?’ he asked. ‘In public places, I mean? Have you been here before?’ Did he sound jealous? Needy? ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’ He did. And he didn’t. This girl had turned not just the tables on him but the whole fucking casino. Was it a strategy? Was she playing hard to get until assured of his feelings, and then she’d metamorphose into the traditional needy female? He studied her perfect profile. Her eyelids closed, her features relaxed, a smile like the cat had got all the
34 cream tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her perfume again suffused the air, warmed with their exertions. She opened her window and the cool breeze ruffled her long silky hair. He was desperate to know more about her. Online investigations hadn’t proved fruitful. Her settings on Facebook must have been on private. She didn’t even have a photo for her profile pic on LinkedIn. The Internet itself revealed nothing about her except her name in a news story about her husband being killed on the road and the ensuing court case. Where did she grow up? Where had she been? And why didn’t she seem interested in looking for love again? But the most puerile question of all slipped out. ‘So, what school did you go to?’ She looked at him askance. ‘What?’ ‘It’s funny how in Perth you can mention a school and from there you connect dots. You know, six degrees of separation and all that. Except in Perth, it’s more like two.’ ‘People used to ask that in first year Uni, to make conversation when they couldn’t think of anything else to say.’ ‘Are you saying I’m immature?’ ‘Your emotional maturity doesn’t interest me in the slightest.’ She yawned again. ‘I get the hint,’ he said, trying to mask his resentment. He leant forward to kiss her, but she was reaching into the back seat. She grabbed at her handbag, brought it onto her lap and rummaged through it for a tissue. She wiped between her legs, balled the tissue up and jammed it into a compartment in the door. She smoothed her dress, checked her hair in the rear-view mirror and turned on the ignition. He had hoped for an invitation back to her apartment, imagined sleeping beside her, spooning her back, his nose buried in her fragrant hair. He reluctantly got out of her car but waited, hand on the open door, in case there was anything more on offer. ‘So, now you’re done with me, I suppose you want me to go.’ ‘I’ve got a lot on tomorrow.’ He leaned back inside. ‘Night, Sweet Caroline.’
35 ‘Night,’ she said. ‘Oh, and it was St Mary’s Anglican School for Girls. After I got expelled from PLC.’ He shut the door as she started reversing, the next question unasked. Her BMW drove off in a pop of gravel. Henry tucked his shirt back into his pants and gave a pathetic little wave that thankfully she wouldn’t have seen. She must have been in a different year to him, maybe even above him, because he knew the names of most of the girls who went to St Mary’s in his year and the year below, at least all the hot ones. And surely she’d been hot back then. Unless she was one of those little changelings with specs, skinny legs, braces and lanky hair that transformed in the holidays after graduation into the beautiful creatures of university; set free from the restrictions of their single sex schools, dental retainers, protective parents and schedules packed with extra-curricular activities. But if she’d been expelled then she hadn’t been a nerd, but a bit of a wild child, just like him. He too had been picked up in the internal draft from Hale School to Christ Church after he’d been caught dropping sodium stolen from the science lab into the fish pond. What a spectacular show he’d put on for the boarders. He had been compelled to make a bold statement after a week’s suspension for breaking the nose of a kid who’d called him a pillow biter in a rugby scrum.
36 JACQUIE
The air-conditioning dropped the temperature by 20 degrees from the broiling heat outside. Jacquie read the mission statement on the wall behind the XYgotica.com reception: ‘Our business is helping you achieve your dream.’ An expensive floral arrangement was too perfect to be real; she fingered a leaf to confirm it was plastic. The receptionist asked Jacquie and Donna to take a seat. A few chairs away, a man and a woman in their late thirties whispered, their conversation strained and intense. Donna smoothed invisible strands of hair behind her ear. Her hair was grey and wiry, pulled into a tight bun in the morning and only let loose on the pillow at night. Jacquie’s had the same texture, but it wouldn’t have the chance to go grey. Donna transferred her attention to her gnawed fingernails. ‘There wasn’t even a reception when we came here. Just a bell to ring.’ She winced at the rip in her cuticle. ‘The donors used the back door so we didn’t meet them. Once I waited around the back, hoping to catch a glimpse of him—the student in the Polaroid.’ Jacquie shut her eyes and placed a light hand on her stomach, the metastasising clock within never far from her consciousness, nor the piercing alarm of pain. ‘The doctor told us that no-one else needed to know,’ Donna whispered. ‘Afterwards, he said go home and make love and forget all about this. You never know, there’s always a chance.’ ‘I get it Mum, things were different then.’ ‘We never saw a counsellor. They were for people with problems. The only problem we had was that we couldn’t have children. We didn’t know other people in the same boat, or I suppose if we did, they weren’t saying either.’ ‘Does Grandma know?’ A nod. ‘Don’t be angry. I just wanted what I had, growing up.’ ‘Did you ever consider adopting? Providing a home for a child that needed one?’ Her mother acknowledged the barb with a deep sigh. ‘Your father and I discussed it. He wanted to but gave in to me.’ Donna waved her hand around. ‘I wanted to try this first. Despite knowing very little about what it involved.’
37 A woman in her mid-forties wearing a tailored navy-blue jacket and matching pants marched towards them, arm held stiffly out. Her hair was scraped off her face in a tight knot and she wore stylish rimless glasses. ‘Jacquie and Donna Hopper?’ she asked. ‘I’m Dr Farrell. Please, step into my office.’ They followed Dr Farrell down a hallway covered in baby photographs—many of them stylised with props designed for maximum cuteness—to an office adorned with framed medical degrees. Dr Farrell gestured at seats and, after taking her own, looked at them across the barricade of her glass and chrome desk. ‘So you want to access some records? Is that correct?’ ‘Just mine. And those of anyone related to me,’ Jacquie said. Dr Farrell’s features creased with concern as Jacquie explained her diagnosis. ‘I’ve only recently learned how I was conceived. I need to know if I have any siblings, and if I do, I’d like to contact them, warn them actually. I have an aggressive form of cancer and my doctors suggested there is likely to be a genetic link. There are no cancers like mine on my mother’s side, so it must have come from my donor.’ ‘Was your donor screened for genetic disorders?’ ‘I thought you’d know that,’ Donna interrupted. ‘I certainly wasn’t screened for anything except the possibility of a bouncing cheque.’ Jacquie put her cool, bony hand over her mother’s clammy one. ‘Remember, it wasn’t XYgotica.com then.’ Dr Farrell’s mobile pinged. She glanced at it but left it untouched. ‘Jacquie, I understand why you want this information but you were conceived under a programme run by The West Perth Fertility Clinic, which no longer exists. And, as I understand it, there was an anonymity clause signed by both donor and recipients.’ ‘Yes, we’re aware of that,’ Donna said. ‘It’s what we wanted at the time. But we never foresaw this happening.’ ‘Of course not,’ Dr Farrell said. ‘And believe me, I think it’s a very noble impulse, but what you’re asking for is simply not possible. Even if we had the records, by law we couldn’t provide them to you because of the clause protecting—’ ‘What do you mean?’ Jacquie interrupted. ‘Even if you had them? Where are my records?’
38 ‘As I’ve explained, this isn’t the same organisation you were involved in. XYgotica.com is an American-headquartered company licenced to operate in Australia. We bought out the previous business after it went into receivership. We took over the premises and the continuing clients but that’s it. Otherwise we started from scratch.’ Jacquie shivered beneath the air-conditioning vent blasting icy air. ‘But surely you haven’t destroyed the records?’ ‘To be honest, I have no idea what’s happened to those records. I’m assuming the WPFC dealt with them as they saw fit before the receivers assumed control. It operated under a very different legal framework and governance structure.’ ‘You mean none,’ Jacquie said. ‘We can’t be held responsible for the operations of the WPFC.’ Jacquie glanced at her mother, whose face was flushing red. ‘How many records are we talking about?’ Donna asked. Dr Farrell shrugged. ‘It may be cold comfort but this could never happen today. We’re governed by very clear legislation and stringent regulations and our own policies and procedures ensure we retain everything known about the donor and any live births. We are part of State and Federal registers and we maintain strict limits on the number of donations. Our donors—’ ‘But this doesn’t help me,’ Jacquie interrupted as Dr Farrell continued with her programmed speech. ‘… are made fully aware that any child conceived may find out their donor’s identity, if they so wish, at the age of sixteen. Your donor might never have wanted that to happen. They may never have donated without assured anonymity …’ ‘And I wouldn’t be here. So I should be grateful?’ Jacquie felt a twinge in her stomach, it was becoming a familiar warning. ‘Well, I won’t be here for much longer and I just wanted to give any siblings a better chance than me at beating this disease.’ ‘I am sympathetic,’ Dr Farrell said. ‘Really I am. As for your file, we undertook a thorough search for all archived records. It was all paper-based in the 70’s and 80’s. We found references to some boxes at a storage warehouse in Osborne Park but when we sent someone out there to investigate, they found nothing of any use. Water damage, you see. Fire sprinklers set off in the ‘90s apparently. An over
39 enthusiastic amateur welder working on his car in the unit next door. Anyway,’ Dr Farrell stood, their signal to leave. She saw them to reception, where two women sat holding hands. Jacquie and her mother walked out into an open oven. Blinking to adjust to the brightness, Jacquie quickly defrosted. ‘Don’t give up yet, Jacks,’ Donna said. ‘I haven’t. Feel like going for a drive?’ ‘Wherever you want.’ ‘I want to go to Perth University. It’s a long shot but maybe they kept records. It must have been their students they were studding out.’ Jacquie’s features suddenly twisted into a grimace as pain rippled through her abdomen. ‘Actually, can we go home please, Mum? I’m getting another…’ Donna supported her daughter to the car. A shimmer of heat rose off the bonnet of the black Mercedes. Jacquie pictured it as a hearse. When they reached the mirage, the door handle was almost too hot to touch. Donna guided Jacquie into the passenger seat, the leather searing Jacquie’s skin, and buckled up her seatbelt. Was it worth it, Mum? she felt like asking, but she knew what her mother’s response would be, so she swallowed the question with another little white tablet.
* * *
Jacquie’s world shrank to cups of tea, hospital visits, dizzy spells, pins and needles in her feet and hands, and blotchy skin. After her first course of chemotherapy, the nausea subsided as the toxins left her body and she found the strength to renew the search for siblings. She rang the Perth University and asked the switchboard operator to put her through to the Records Department. A young man was unable to help with her request to access fertility programme records from the early eighties and transferred her to his supervisor, which was, apparently, a recorded message. She left her name and details and rang again. This time she asked to speak to ‘someone’ in the School of Medicine. She was ping-ponged to a woman who had no idea who might be able to help her then transferred to the Dean’s secretary who transferred her to a senior administrative officer who introduced herself as ‘Karen speaking.’
40 Jacquie was almost too weary to go through her story again. Who she was, what she wanted and why. ‘I’ll have to check to see if this research data has been digitised. Otherwise, it’s in storage, off site. Or gone. I’ll call you back.’ Jacquie didn’t think she’d ever hear back from Karen again and had almost given up the idea of tracking down any siblings. What were the chances anyway? Her parents were right, she had enough to worry about. But Karen did call her back, a week later, apologising for taking so long because she had to seek advice about what she could disclose. ‘Do you have a donor code?’ Jacquie imagined she heard the teasing jangle of the machine at the lotto kiosk; she’d won something, but suspected it was of the lowest division. Mr Boeing came to her mind: ‘747?’ The tapping of a keyboard. A tutting noise. Silence, then: ‘I can confirm 747 was part of the fertility research programme.’ The remaining hairs on her arms bristled, and her scalp seemed to shrink. ‘Can you tell me his name?’ ‘I’m sorry, I’m unable to provide any further information.’ Not as sorry as Jacquie was. She gave her dry, cracked lips a quick lick to ensure the words formed. ‘But you know? You have records for him? And me?’ ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any personal identifying information.’ ‘It’s not really him I’m interested in.’ He could keep his secret. ‘It’s very important that I find out whether there were any other children.’ Karen hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you that.’ As another door slammed in her face, Jacquie’s hope transformed into rage; she was being treated like a second-class citizen, having to plead for information that was freely available to Karen. Her genetic history was in a computer in front of this bitch who was telling her that she had no right to it. Jacquie attempted to keep her tone light: ‘If there are others, they need to know about this genetic time-bomb ticking inside them.’ Silence. Was that a dismissive little sniff?
41 Why had she rung Karen? She should have just turned up. If she was in front of her, she could plead with more than her voice—her whole sick body could have been put to the task. ‘Listen, Jacquie,’ Karen paused, ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this. But you weren’t the only one.’ The iceberg had shifted. Her existence had been defined, at least in part, by being an only child. Was she, in what was likely to be the final year of it, about to learn that she had a brother or a sister? ‘Are any siblings covered by this anonymity clause too?’ ‘There’s a copy on the file of the Fertility Clinic contract that was signed by all parties. The terms include anonymity for both donor and participating couple.’ Jacquie considered the “participating couples.” Of course, no single women need apply in those less liberal days. Nor gay couples, no doubt. She swallowed her indignation and asked: ‘But surely siblings knowing about each other doesn’t matter, does it?’ But she knew that it did. Any sibling, or more correctly half-sibling, had probably not been told about their conception either. Had no one thought beyond their birth? Had no one considered the rights of the children? ‘Listen, Karen, this isn’t about me. My cancer, if it had been caught in the early stages, might have been curable. But it isn’t now. I just want to give any sibling a fighting chance.’ Silence. ‘Karen?’ ‘I could get in trouble for giving out research data. You really should be going through FOI.’ Jacquie didn’t need to ask what that was. She’d worked in a bureaucracy. The problem was she didn’t have time to go through any Freedom of Information Process, which in any event would result in her being told the information she wanted was protected by confidentiality. Which she already knew. More tapping of the keyboard. ‘747 produced …’ Tap! Tap! Tap! ‘Forty-two children. That’s including you.’
42 Jacquie’s features rearranged themselves around this astonishing revelation. Her dry mouth opened and slowly closed again. She took her mobile from her ear and stared at it. She had spent years wishing for a brother or sister and now she was being told she had forty-one of them. The task before her took on Sisyphean proportions. Even if she was provided with the names and birth dates for every one of them, how was she to find them all before the cancer beat her? ‘Karen, it’s really important I get their names … they need to know—’ ‘I’m afraid that’s just not possible.’ ‘But the law now allows the children to find out who their donor is … ’ ‘Ah!’ Karen wasn’t going to be tricked that easily. ‘But it’s not retrospective, is it?’ ‘A technicality. It’s unfair …’ Her mother’s mantra echoed in her head: life’s unfair. ‘I could be terminated just for looking at these records. We’re only meant to view confidential information on a needs-know basis. Now it’s been digitised and in our document management system, there’s an audit trail. It’s not like I’m rummaging around in a filing cabinet in a storeroom, looking through papers. I’m accountable.’ So, was Karen saying that if she could get away with it, she would? Was that what she meant? Jacquie hoisted the white flag. For now. Her brain had turned to cotton wool and she wanted to share this startling news with her parents before rethinking her strategy. Her council job in the UK had taught her that while phone calls were better than emails for getting things done, or getting people to do things for you, nothing was as effective as communicating in person. Everyone had a weakness, a soft spot, or something they wanted. It was just a matter of being patient and finding out what that was. ‘Well, thanks anyway,’ Jacquie said. ‘I wish I could help, dear. But the terms and conditions of the programme were very clear. And so is University policy.’
43 * * *
The Gremlin—the mass of defective cells growing inside her—forced Jacquie to pull off Stirling Highway. She took a few deep breaths in a side street and popped the plastic casings off a couple of slow-release painkillers. She had spent half the night on the toilet. If it wasn’t constipation from the Tramadol or Oxycodone, it was diarrhoea from the laxatives which she ate by the handful, which in turn required Gastrostop. The cycle was vicious. She had to stalk someone returning to their car to get a parking bay. In her last year at Perth Uni she had sometimes borrowed her mother’s car instead of cycling and had never had a problem finding a bay. Now the car parks were full of new model cars with P plates. She entered campus and walked towards the Faculty of Medicine, Dentistry and Health Sciences. During her studies, she had never had cause to visit this set of buildings tucked away at the South end, though as it turned out, not far beyond the tavern which she had regularly patronised. A girl in her twenties with spiky purple hair, black lipstick and various piercings sat behind the Medical School’s Student Services’ Counter, twiddling her nose-ring and vacantly staring at a computer screen. Beside her, a grey-haired woman, wearing a wool skirt and high-buttoned blouse in spite of the season, was explaining how to reverse a subject selection. The Goth-girl glanced at her: ‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ her voice incongruously sweet despite the fuck-off black costume of defiance. Jacquie took a seat and pondered the effort it took to achieve the Goth look. She was alternating between two pairs of jeans and had given up any sort of adornments; makeup had been forsaken for a regular slathering of paw-paw ointment on constantly chapped lips. Goth-girl turned to her colleague. ‘Thanks Karen, you’re a God-send.’ Karen smiled and disappeared down the corridor. That was the woman she had spoken to on the phone. The person who had access to what Jacquie wanted. Needed. ‘I can help you now.’ Suddenly realising this was the wrong approach, Jacquie stood up. ‘No, it’s alright.’ If she met with Karen on her own territory, she suspected she would only get
44 more of the same treatment she had received on the phone. ‘I’ll come back later.’ She fled the building. The heat outside hit her like a slap. Her blood had still not acclimatised to the ferocity of the Perth sun, even in autumn. She wiped the sheen of sweat off her brow. She found a drinking fountain, sucked down water, but it tasted metallic and not at all refreshing. The student refectory, where she bought a latte, hadn’t changed much in ten years, except for a greater ethnic diversity in both the food and the customers, and a multiple-choice coffee menu. The students looked more focused than she remembered from her day, when they had spent much of the day lolling on the grass, chatting about the social milieu or earnestly debating the political issues du jour. And the other difference was, of course, the phones; faces everywhere were pre- occupied, locked in their silent screen world. A depressing thought assailed her: all these beautiful, intelligent, healthy young people had their whole lives ahead of them as the scaffolding for her execution was being erected, cell by mutating cell. She tried to push aside morbid thoughts but there was no way to hold back the tide. If she could find just one of her siblings she would feel better. She could share the burden of her mission, and maybe even pass on the baton. Jacquie checked her phone for the time. Eleven o’clock. Karen’s lunch break would be somewhere between 12 and 2 she supposed. She returned to the vicinity of the School of Medicine and leant against a tree with a plaque indicating it was a Weeping Peppermint. She crushed a leaf, pressed it to her nose and discovered the reason for its common name. She lay down in its shade on the soft grass and shut her eyes. Dipping just beneath the surface of consciousness, Jacquie re-emerged without feeling rested or restored. To fill in the time, she Googled on her iPhone, searching for sperm donors and anonymous sperm donation. She clicked on a link to a Twitter site she had discovered a few weeks earlier dedicated to Australian donor- conceived people, or “DC people” as they apparently preferred to call themselves. She subscribed to the regular tweets—mainly links to news articles about the inadequacies of legislation in the fertility industry in the face of individual experiences. She had also joined a Facebook page. It was a community of sorts but
45 not the same as face-to-face contact; that might have to come later. If she had the time. She was not yet ready to post an all-out clarion call on social media to find her siblings, but it was still an option if she was unsuccessful in convincing Karen to part with her digital treasure. She began reading a post by a man in his early 30s who was attempting to have his non-biological father’s name removed from his birth certificate and replaced with ‘anonymous’ to ‘reflect his true situation.’ Engrossed in his argument she almost missed Karen scurrying past in her orthotic open shoes and a wide-brimmed sun hat. Karen headed towards the Swan River carrying a small cane basket. Jacquie followed her to The Pelican Bay Café. While Karen placed an order at the counter for a box of chips, Jacquie contemplated the choices of ice-creams in the freezer. She had always been a healthy eater but she no longer had any appetite and was certainly not concerned about calories, GI-factor, fat content, preservatives, additives, nutritional value or any other dietetic measurement. Most food filled her mouth with a chemical taste anyway, and consequently she had regressed to the sweet treats of childhood and comfort food. Karen carried her chips to a table outside. Jacquie grabbed a Magnum Classic and sat nearby. Karen removed a thermos and two pieces of white bread wrapped in Gladwrap from her basket. Jacquie bit into the frozen dark chocolate coating the hard vanilla ice-cream as Karen placed her chips in neat little rows on the bread. She ate her chip butty slowly and methodically, occasionally shooing away a seagull come to try its luck. When she finished eating, she removed her sandals and waded into the river up to her swollen ankles. In defiance of the do not feed the birds sign, Karen threw the remaining chips to the gulls who squabbled and screeched over them, plucking them from the air before they reached the water. Jacquie kicked off her sandals and joined Karen in the water. ‘Beautiful day!’ The flash of a fin broke the surface between the boats haphazardly moored in the bay. Karen smiled and pointed. ‘Makes the day special when you see a dolphin.’ ‘Every day is special to me.’ ‘Ah, that’s the way to live, love.’ Karen glanced at her. ‘Wish I’d known that at your age.’ ‘I spoke to you on the phone yesterday. I’m Jacquie.’
46 A sideways glance at her. ‘I can’t help you, dear.’ ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ ‘I don’t drink coffee.’ ‘Ice-cream?’ Karen checked her watch. ‘What’s five minutes late when I’ve already been given my marching orders. I’m only sixty. I told them, except for a few aches in the joints, I’ve got at least five more good years left in me. Down-sizing they call it.’ Jacquie bought Karen a choc-mint drumstick and they sat on a wooden bench, side by side, staring at the water, shimmering with the reflecting sun. ‘Every day this … sickness claims a little more of me but the one thing that keeps me going is that I might prevent this happening to someone else. But to do that, I have to know who they are. I was able to get out of bed today because I had a purpose. You gave that to me yesterday.’ Karen nibbled at the bottom of her drumstick where the little nubbin of chocolate was. Each of her knuckles were ravaged with arthritis. Jacquie felt The Gremlin shift deep in her bowels, the malignant baby’s fluttering. She needed to get to the Ladies but she didn’t want to give Karen the opportunity to escape. ‘I hope if one of my siblings was walking in my shoes, they’d be here speaking to you.’ Karen placed her hand with its crepe skin on top of Jacquie’s. ‘When I was transferring the old paper files into the new records system, I considered shredding the ones from the fertility research programme. Not on anyone’s authority, you understand. I was the person who filed them back in the late ‘70s and ‘80s. There had been discussions above me about destroying them even then but no decision was taken. If I’d been asked for my opinion, I’d have said that those students who donated were just boys. They didn’t understand what they were doing, and deserved the anonymity they were promised.’ Jacquie bit down on her tongue to prevent herself blurting out, What did the children deserve? Was no one interested in our rights? ‘Do you have children?’ she asked instead.
47 Karen shook her head. ‘In my day, you needed a man for that.’ Karen flexed her swollen hand. ‘But you’ve made me glad I didn’t shred those records. God works in mysterious ways.’ A pelican glided in for a landing on the water a few metres away. ‘I never realised,’ Jacquie said, ‘what magnificent creatures they are.’ ‘Promise me you’ll never tell anyone where they came from. If I get you copies of the birth certificate. For the others.’ ‘I promise, Karen. It’ll come to the grave with me.’ As soon as Karen left Jacquie raced to the public toilet to sit and wait for the Gremlin to finish trashing her insides.
48 JACQUIE
The Blue Duck Café, overlooking North Cottesloe beach, had always been Jacquie’s favourite place for breakfast or to meet a friend for coffee. As a child her parents had often taken her there after a swim at the beach. It was also Nigel’s choice for Father’s Day, as long as they got there before the hordes. She’d once asked him why there wasn’t a kid’s day. Every day is kid’s day, he’d replied. The waitress led Jacquie and her mother to a table on the balcony perfectly positioned for people-watching, though Jacquie found herself less interested in observing the lives of random strangers as her world narrowed towards extinction. While they waited for their caffè lattes, she squinted at two figures body-surfing into shore. Only when she put on her prescription sunglasses did the men come into focus. In their late twenties, good-looking, tanned, healthy male specimens. They laughed and joked, friends from way back. ‘Can I see them?’ Donna asked, drawing Jacquie back to the present. Jacquie reached inside her handbag and produced a bundle of photocopies. Forty-two birth certificates, including her own. All the children of Donor 747 had been born in 1982 and 1983 in Perth, most of them at King Edward Memorial Hospital, with four delivered at St John of God in Subiaco and one at the now closed Kaleeya Women’s Hospital in Bicton. Donna flicked through the photocopies, pausing at one. ‘We were probably on the same ward as this one. Look! Henry Noble was born a day after you at St John’s.’ The body surfers were vigorously rubbing themselves dry. Jacquie suddenly barked out a laugh, turning heads and alarming her mother, who touched her arm. ‘Do you know what my first thought was, when I got them?’ ‘If you knew any of them?’ ‘Had I dated any of them?’ ‘And?’ ‘I didn’t recognise a single name. But I couldn’t help thinking what might have happened had I not moved to London? There’d have been a pretty good chance of bumping into one of these boys.’ Jacquie flicked through the papers. ‘Henry, Marcus, Gerard, Patrick, Damien, or Paul. Patrick and Damien are twins.’
49 ‘It’s a wonder there aren’t more. Isn’t the statistic that slightly more boys are born than girls?’ ‘Maybe XX sperm lasts longer in specimen jars than XY sperm. More resilient. Remember this wasn’t Mother Nature controlling the process. And of course, it’s the male who determines the sex. Maybe my donor is genetically more likely to sire girls than boys.’ ‘Your father felt so bad about it, inadequate, that he even suggested I find a man. You know, in a bar or somewhere.’ Jacquie stared at her mother. ‘He said that?’ ‘I couldn’t do it to him. I said I’d prefer we remained childless.’ It was still so difficult for her mother to talk about it. She referred to their infertility, rather than her husband’s. Perhaps because it was Donna who had undergone most of the procedures: the invasive tests, the uncomfortable scans with a full bladder, the nasty side effects of Clomid to hyper-stimulate her ovaries, the rooms full of people, men mainly, staring at her with her legs in stirrups. A bored-looking waitress with a Winnie The Pooh tattoo on her inner arm delivered their coffees and asked if they wanted food. Pooh Bear had his head stuck in a honey jar. Jacquie had never had any desire to get inked but had been involved in many pub-inspired conversations with English friends about what to get if forced to have one. The vision of her back tattooed with the names of all her siblings’ and their birthdates under a Boeing 747 incited another mirthless laugh, which she stifled when her mother asked her what was funny. Despite feeling hungry earlier, or at least acknowledging a hollowness that needed filling, Jacquie’s appetite had vanished. She had been suppressing it her whole life for the sake of her figure, and now that it had deserted her she felt as though she had lost a difficult but nonetheless close friend. She ordered another coffee instead. ‘You can share some of mine,’ Donna said and asked the waitress for an extra plate. ‘Dad’s trying hard to be strong for you.’ ‘He doesn’t need to be anything except Dad for me. Is he still upset you told me?’ ‘Not anymore. It might even be a bit of a weight off him.’
50 ‘No more lying.’ ‘I thought we agreed not to use that word.’ ‘No more secrets then. But you know if you’d told me earlier it wouldn’t have changed how I felt about him one little bit. He’s my Dad. Nothing can change that.’ ‘He thinks what you’re doing is very brave.’ They both stared at the pile of birth certificates. ‘This is a pile of lies,’ Jacquie said, stabbing a finger at the top one. ‘For children like us there should be two birth certificates, the biologically correct one and then a nicer, more colourful, commemorative one with the name of the man who’s going to take on the role of the father.’ ‘Legally, there’s nothing wrong with them.’ ‘Then the law is an ass.’ The waitress appeared with Donna’s smoked salmon and eggs swimming in hollandaise sauce. Donna scraped half onto the spare plate but Jacquie didn’t think she could face it. The smell was making her queasy. The Gremlin needed no sustenance but her own flesh. The body surfers entered the cafe, hidden behind sunglasses and baseballs caps. The blonde one reminded her a little of Josh—and then she fell over the abyss, knowing she would never kiss a man again. Who’d want to kiss a walking corpse? ‘Do you have a plan?’ Donna asked, splitting open her poached egg. Jacquie sipped her coffee. ‘Maybe I should just ring Channel Nine—60 Minutes might be interested in doing a story “dying woman’s search for her 41 donor siblings to warn of genetic link to deadly disease.” Great reality TV. They could do a follow up, “the offspring of Donor 747”, tracking them down with their staff of researchers and film them as they get their test results—’ Donna’s expression killed off the rest of Jacquie’s sentence. ‘Have you been taking too many of those pills?’ ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. It was a thought that should have remained just that. It’s just so daunting. I’m running out of time and there’s so many of them. And what do I say to them? Hi, I’m your half-sister and I’ll be dead soon, but don’t worry, there’s another 40 of us…somewhere…but make sure you get your bowels checked.’
51 Donna, eyes red with unshed tears, squeezed Jacquie’s hand. Jacquie berated herself for upsetting her mother. Focusing on the ocean, she sent her mind down treacherous memory lane. The water, whipped by the arrival of the Fremantle Doctor, was brown and angry. She recalled building a sand castle with her father when she was about four, screaming in frustration as the waves reclaimed their masterpiece before they had completed it.
* * *
Jacquie collapsed onto the single bed in her parents’ guest room and slept until late afternoon. She woke with a sense of loss. Sleeping was wasting precious time when there was so much to do. She started up her laptop, googled White Pages and entered the name: ‘Gary Robertson.’ There were several G. Robertson’s in Western Australia, five in the metro area and two living in rural WA. There was no ‘& Mrs D. Robertson.’ She’d start with the one closest to her and work her way out. An answering machine informed her that Gary and Leanne were not at home at the moment, but if she left a message they would get back to her as soon as possible. Jacquie resisted the urge to hang up, and instead asked Mr Robertson to call her. She didn’t say why she was ringing in case this wasn’t Cassandra’s father; after all, his partner wasn’t Cassandra’s mother’s. Of course, death or divorce easily explained that. Jacquie googled “Cassandra Robertson” and “Facebook.” She clicked on several links before coming across the profile page of a Perth woman, about her age, with frizzy reddish hair, holding a poodle-cross. Jacquie enlarged the profile pic of “Cassie.” The first thing she noticed was the eyes. My sister. She had to be. To use her father’s endearing phrase, they were the same shade of undercooked toffee as Jacquie’s. Jacquie clicked-through Cassie’s public photo gallery. Were these pictures only interesting to her because she thought Cassie might be her sister? There were dozens of a scruffy black dog. Further back in the timeline, Cassie appeared with a man old enough to be her father, though their intimate poses and body language suggested otherwise. But whatever their relationship, his absence from recent photos spelt out break-up.
52 The temptation to contact Cassie was almost irresistible. But that wasn’t the correct order, as she had discussed and agreed with her parents. First she had to speak to the parents, and urge them to ensure their child was screened for GI cancer. Only if her sibling had been told about their conception would Jacquie leave contact details. She made several more calls. One man hung up on her, no doubt believing he was being pranked. Two more assured her they were never part of any research or fertility programme. After downing more pills to appease The Gremlin’s growing habit she lay back on her bed and stared at the ceiling until the room began to swim in a pain-free ocean. A family tree started branching out before her with a man’s face appearing as though carved into the trunk. Donor 747. She urged him to speak. To tell her things about herself. Jacquie’s mobile rang, calling Alice back from her rabbit hole. She answered, connecting the caller to a cerebrum that felt more sea sponge than brain. ‘Hello? This is Gary Robertson. I got a message to call you.’ ‘Who?’ She sat up, forcing herself to concentrate. ‘You rang me.’ ‘Oh! Mr Robertson. Thanks so much for calling back.’ She stammered, the words caught in her mouth. Where to start? ‘My name is Jacquie Hopper. Are you the Gary Robertson on Cassandra Robertson’s birth certificate?’ ‘Oh my God! Is Cassie okay?’ ‘Okay? I don’t know.’ Jacquie had no idea if Cassandra Robertson was okay but suddenly realised how her answer might be interpreted. ‘What’s this about?’ ‘I’ve recently learned that I was donor-conceived. That’s why I’m contacting you. I think Cassie might be … related to me... my sister.’ ‘Jesus!’ ‘I’ve been diagnosed with stomach cancer and I think it’s important that Cassie gets screened for it. There may be an underlying genetic predisposition.’ ‘Right, I see…I’m sorry to hear that, Jacquie.’ ‘I was hoping you could tell Cassie.’ ‘Of course, though I really don’t see much of her anymore.’
53 ‘Does she know? I mean about having a donor?’ ‘Her mother told her after we separated. That was a long time ago.’ ‘Did you know the identity of our donor?’ ‘The Clinic was big on the privacy thing. All they told us was that he was a medical student at Perth University.’ The thudding of her heart began to slow. ‘Perhaps … is it better I speak to Cassie’s mother? It’s only, you were easier to find. God, I don’t know where to start with this.’ ‘She passed away, just after Cassie finished high school.’ Jacquie was stumped for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m not sure if I’m going about this the right way. The main thing is, I want Cassie to get tested but perhaps if she’s interested in meeting me, you could pass on my number?’ ‘You know, I think she’d like that. She’s been a little … fragile … in the past, but this might help her.’ ‘Thanks so much Mr Robertson. I really appreciate it.’ ‘And best of luck, Jacquie. I hope things work out for you.’ Bingo! As she hung up a smile spread across Jacquie’s face. Alice had given way to The Cheshire Cat. Cassie had been told, which made things so much simpler. With a surge of energy, she hauled herself to her desk and transferred her hallucinatory tree to an Excel spreadsheet, entering Cassie’s name and making notes about the conversation with Gary Robertson. She colour-coded “Cassandra Robertson” green in two columns. This meant “sibling #1” had been located and was aware of her conception. Forty to go.
54 JACQUIE
Jacquie didn’t talk to Cassie for long on the phone. Overwhelmed by the barrage of questions—How did you find me? Are there others? Do you know who our father is?— she proposed they meet in Claremont. Arriving a few minutes late because her specialist had been running behind, Jacquie bent down to pat the black dog from Facebook tied to a streetlamp, lying forlornly with its muzzle between its front legs. She stood up too quickly and felt faint. Lifting her sunglasses onto her head, she stepped inside, cool and dark. The thumping drumbeat resonated through her delicate stomach. A lone woman sat at a high table by the window. It wasn’t quite like staring into a mirror, more like seeing a reflected image in a murky pond—Jacquie paler and thinner; Cassie, fuller, brighter. Neither wore makeup and both had scraped their hair into low pony-tails. An empty wine glass in front of her, Cassie thumbed her phone as Jacquie approached. Then she looked up, put a hand over her mouth, and lunged. It was natural they should hug, but there was a gracelessness about it. Jacquie touched her own cheek, felt the wetness. She cried a lot these days but this was different. ‘I always wanted a sister,’ Jacquie said. ‘I had a dog and a dad on my wish list. Not in that order.’ A waitress appeared, ironed-flat white bob and a mouthful of perfect white teeth. Cassie ordered two glasses of sparkling wine ‘to celebrate.’ ‘And some water, please,’ Jacquie added, unsure her stomach was up for the burn of alcohol. A parade of high-end four-wheel drives and European cars drove slowly past the windows as Jacquie explained her quest, beginning with her diagnosis and her mother’s confession through to the discovery of the existence of forty-two birth certificates attached to the file of the fecund Donor 747. ‘Forty-two,’ Cassie said, and clasped a hand across her mouth. ‘I know, it’s insane, isn’t it? Hard to believe it was allowed to happen.’ ‘I had my name on a DNA register with the Health Department,’ Cassie said. ‘Never heard a thing. The fertility clinic closed down years ago. Mum said it was impossible to find out about my father—’
55 ‘I refer to him as my donor. I have a father.’ ‘Well, I don’t. Not really. Gary and I don’t talk.’ The waitress set down their drinks. ‘Food?’ Cassie took a menu. ‘So, you got our names but not his?’ ‘Believe me, that took some wrangling. It wasn’t exactly legal. I pulled at some poor woman’s heartstrings, told her I was dying and that she’d be responsible for the deaths of my siblings if I couldn’t warn them about the genetic link to the cancer.’ ‘Did you try?’ Cassie’s question sounded like an accusation. ‘I mean to find out his name? Can you contact this woman again?’ Jacquie held up a hand. She wasn’t prepared for this. ‘I promised this woman I’d never tell anyone how I got copies of our birth certificates. And anyway, I think she’s retired.’ ‘But the clinic closed down. Where did she work? Don’t tell me the Health Department, everyone I’ve spoken to there has no idea about the existence of any records. My only option was to go on a DNA register. And wait.’ Jacquie remained silent, unwilling to incriminate her source any further. ‘I wonder what he’s like.’ Cassie finished her drink while gazing at the street with an unfocussed stare from the same peculiar golden irises as Jacquie’s. Joshua had loved Jacquie’s eyes because they were unique. Yet here she was, examining an exact copy. Would he have been attracted to Cassie too? ‘Subtract what’s different from us,’ Cassie said, ‘make it masculine and older by a couple of decades, then we have the answer.’ ‘To?’ ‘To what he looks like.’ ‘As you said, he’s not put himself on the DNA register. I doubt he wants us to know who he is.’ ‘Well, I didn’t get a say in the matter.’ A man in his late forties with a woman who may have been his daughter, or a much younger wife, walked by, carrying several shopping bags with expensive brand names. The waitress returned and asked if they were ready to order. Jacquie smiled apologetically, ‘too busy talking.’
56 Cassie held up her glass to indicate she wanted to continue celebrating. ‘I used to play this game when I was younger. The game was called: Is that my father? I’d be on a bus, or a train, anywhere really, and I’d look for the ugliest, grossest person and I’d tell myself, That’s him! That’s your Dad. Of course, I knew from my mother that he’d been a medical student, so that was just silly. I remember embarrassing my mother by asking any male doctor I ever saw if they were my father.’ A different waitress appeared. Jacquie picked up the menu, held it at arm’s length, squinting. She’d forgotten her glasses. The words blurred before her eyes: pork belly, sticky spicy chicken something, scallops and chorizo, stuffed something, pan fried something with watermelon. Cassie turned to the waitress. ‘Look, we’re talking. Do you think we can have a moment without someone interrupting us?’ The waitress’s eyes widened, her lips parted, and her hips did a 180-degree turn. ‘I suppose customers are more likely to get upset when they’re ignored than over-serviced.’ ‘Harassed, you mean.’ Cassie ran a finger down the menu. ‘I’ve worked in restaurants. You have to be able to read what people want, when they want it. What are you having?’ ‘I’m not very hungry. Maybe the dish with watermelon.’ ‘Good choice. And let’s get the chicken wings, and pork belly.’ Jacquie felt something rise into her throat. She pushed her champagne flute aside. The Gremlin only wanted her to drink water. ‘So, is it true?’ Cassie gulped her wine. ‘What you told that woman?’ ‘What true?’ ‘That you’re... dying.’ Jacquie nodded. ‘Not many people can bring themselves to use that word. They say something like … your sickness, your battle … I’m pretty sure he’s passed this onto me. So I’m worried he’s passed it onto others too.’ ‘He might be dead now.’ Cassie’s mouth turned down. ‘But I don’t think he is. I’d sense it somehow. I never gave up hope of finding him. I won’t, not until I’m dead.’ She looked in the direction of the waitress wiping down a table and gestured at her, before turning back to Jacquie. ‘I want to help you. To find the others.’
57 A heaviness that had been weighing on Jacquie started to lift. She hadn’t intended to ask for help; not yet. But she saw the wisdom in it. She was not going to achieve her mission on her own. Cassie glared at the waitress. ‘I’m starving and I think that bitch is ignoring us now.’
58 CASSIE
After Jacquie left the bar, Cassie ordered another glass of wine. The world had changed, shifted on its axis. In this new world she had a father. Jacquie had told her that she couldn’t find out who their donor was because of some bullshit confidentiality clause. But Cassie didn’t need to access records to work out who her father was. All she had to do was locate graduation photographs for medical students from Perth University. Look for a man, Caucasian, above average height, possibly light brown eyes and fair-haired. Surely she’d recognise him—see something of herself in him. She caught a bus along Stirling Highway. In a seat towards the back she lay her head against the glass into which some vandal had scratched an anatomically incorrect penis. She’d graffitied in her teens. “Cassie was here” mainly. An attempt to dispel the anxiety that perhaps she wasn’t. The trouble with tagging your name was that eventually you got caught. Over the years counsellors and psychologists had attempted to analyse her childhood, probing her for some repressed traumatic event that might explain her “addictive tendencies”, her “self-sabotaging”, and “self-destructive behaviour.” Sometimes she couldn’t stop eating, or drinking, slept with inappropriate men— older, unattainable, either married or emotionally unable to commit to anything more than “something on the side.” She could still remember a time when she believed that Gary was her father and called him Dad, if only vaguely. But she clearly remembered the day she had blurted out the secret she had promised her mother never to tell anyone. It was lunchtime. Her classmates had been playing four-square, while she sat alone on a wooden bench, colouring in, concentrating on staying within the lines. She was hopeless at ball games, usually got out before making it past dunce. She had tried joining other groups at recess—the horsey group, even the book bores—but they had not been welcoming. Most days she played knucklebones near the climbing equipment with Megan, but her only friend was away with chicken pox. She hoped to catch it next and then she too could stay home and watch TV all day.
59 Jodie had been “king” for some time when Mike got her out with a sneaky flick of the ball into a corner. His betrayal made her sulky, so she quit playing and marched over to the bench. Jodie was pretty, smart and popular. Cassie was not someone she would normally ever choose to sit next to. Her presence made Cassie more conscious of her solid frame and wild, orange hair. These things separated her from Jodie’s world. That and the fact that she now knew her Dad wasn’t really her Dad. Three weeks earlier, while Cassie and her mother had been eating fish and chips in front of her mother’s favourite show, Neighbours, her father’s absence was explained. ‘He’s had enough of us and needs time out to sort out how he feels.’ After they left Ramsey Street for real life, Delphine Robertson threw all Gary Robertson’s clothes onto the front lawn. Despite Delphine’s reluctance to discuss him, Cassie had mentioned her father at every opportunity since, experiencing satisfaction when her mother reacted, whether it was with anger or tears. Cassie preferred her mother criticising her Dad to pretending he no longer existed. ‘He’s not coming back. Ever. Get it? Not even if he begs me with his last breath. He’s seeing another woman.’ Since her teacher, Mrs Lyons, had given the how-babies-are-made lessons, Cassie suspected more was involved than her father just looking at this other woman. The girls had giggled and the boys had made silly jokes as Mrs Lyons described the great sperm race to reach the egg. Whoever won got the prize to become the baby, which grew for nine months until it popped out from between the mother’s legs. ‘Or got cut out by the doctor like you did,’ Delphine had told her, adding to Cassie’s understanding of both reproduction and her own origins. ‘You were a lazy little thing, wanting to stay inside, making me fat and uncomfortable.’ Within a few days of moving out, Gary Robertson rang to give Cassie his new phone number, assuring her she could ring him whenever she wanted, day or night. And when the dust had settled, she could come and stay on the weekend. Her Dad said Cassie would like his really nice lady friend, Abigail. She had a girl Cassie’s age called Kiara and a black dog called Shadow because he followed them everywhere. ‘But dogs make your nose itch, and your eyes go red.’
60 Her Dad’s allergies had been the reason there had never been a puppy, despite Cassie begging her parents every birthday and Christmas since she could remember. ‘Shadow’s a cavoodle. That’s a cross between a Poodle and a King Charles Cavalier. Which means that it’s got hair, not fur. And Abigail and Kiara are very attached to him. I just sneeze a bit more often.’ Cassie frowned, thinking about Kiara. This girl who lived with her mother, Cassie’s father and a dog. She decided she didn’t like Kiara. When Cassie rang to invite her father to the school assembly because she was getting an honour certificate, no one answered. ‘He’s probably too busy with his new girlfriend,’ Delphine said, after three glasses of mean-juice. Delphine always opened a bottle of wine after finishing her shift at the nursing home and the cork never needed to go back in. She got meaner with every sip. Cassie’s chin trembled. ‘Don’t cry, Honey. He’s not your real father anyway. Something wrong down there.’ Her mother pointed to her lap, spilling wine over herself. ‘Another man had to supply the goods.’ Delphine stared out the kitchen window and mumbled to herself. ‘I wonder if he’s told the new model about the defect.’ Her father was not really her father? Cassie studied her mother through slitted eyes. The harsh kitchen light revealed the lines around Delphine’s eyes, which scrunched up when she blew out cigarette smoke. It wasn’t the first time Delphine had said hurtful things but she’d changed since Dad had moved out, the edges of her had hardened. She’d stopped making an effort with dinners, or tidying the house. Her hair was greasy and she wore the same tracksuit pants and baggy top every night after changing out of her uniform, if she changed out of it at all. Cassie stared at the telephone. When Delphine finally spoke again, it was in a monotone. ‘I … I don’t know why I said that.’ Her Mum was beside her, crushing her in a hug, the smell of cigarettes staining the air around them. Sometimes that was all Cassie wanted from Delphine—to be touched by her—but tonight she wriggled free.
61 Cassie fetched her colouring in book. It didn’t matter what colour she used, a princess’s face could have red spots, a rose was black. What mattered was staying inside the lines. After Delphine dragged herself to bed Cassie rang her father again, but not to talk about honour certificates. ‘Are you really my real Dad?’ There was a long silence before he replied. ‘I wish she hadn’t told you. I asked her not to.’ Cassie twirled the phone cord around her hand. ‘So, you’re still my Dad. Like if I was adopted.’ ‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Ask your Mum for your birth certificate. You’ll see that my name is on it, next to father. I was there when you were born. I changed your nappies and gave you your bottle on nights when your mother... well, never mind about that. Your first word was Dadda. I taught you to ride a bike—’ ‘Megan’s Dad taught me that.’ ‘I’ll always be your Dad. It doesn’t make any difference, or change anything.’ ‘But I came half from mummy and half from another man … That’s what she said. I came from another man’s...’ She couldn't say the word Mrs Lyons had used. Her mother had always referred to it as ‘Daddy’s donkey.’ Boys’ smaller hairless ones were willies. And now she knew her tutti was really a vagina. ‘That’s true but I’m still your Dad.’ ‘Does this other man know about me?’ ‘He doesn’t. And we’re not allowed to know him.’ ‘Why?’ ‘We used to call him Jumbo Jet because of his code.’ ‘Code?’ ‘Never mind.’ ‘Well, how did they get Jumbo Jet’s sperm to race to Mummy’s eggs?’ ‘He gave it to a doctor and the doctor put it inside Mummy.’ ‘How?’ ‘With a tube.’
62 That was as much information as Cassie could absorb. In the background, a dog barked, a girl laughed, music played. Cassie hung the phone back in its cradle and thought about being inside a tube, picturing a long green garden hose going into her mother’s tutti—she corrected herself—vagina. Cassie hadn’t even planned on telling Megan, but as Jodie stood up to walk away the secret inside bubbled to the surface. Cassie experienced the urge to impress her and she knew how to do it. ‘Wanna know a secret?’ Cassie asked. ‘Sure.’ Jodie stood, one hand on her hip, not interested at all. ‘My Dad is not my real Dad.’ ‘So what.’ ‘His sperm didn’t work so Mum had to get some from another man to make me.’ Jodie’s large blue eyes widened. After a moment studying Cassie, they narrowed. ‘You’re a big fat liar, Cassie Robertson.’ ‘Am not.’ ‘For real? Your Mum did sex with another man to make you?’ ‘Nah!’ Cassie screwed up her face at the idea. ‘A doctor put the sperm inside her tutti with a hose.’ ‘Tutti?’ ‘I mean vagina.’ ‘Wow!’ Jodie reached out and touched Cassie’s pale, freckled arm as though she was made of some other, unearthly material. Cassie’s mouth went dry. She’d made a big mistake. ‘Jodie, please don’t tell anyone.’ ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,’ Jodie said, performing the actions as she spoke. In class that afternoon Cassie sensed the furtive glances. Jodie whispered in Mike Fraser’s ear, who then whispered to David Lawson. Cassie became a creature who had just stepped out of a flying saucer. Did Jodie hope to die? Cassie certainly wished she could stick a needle in her lying eye.
63 The next day the teasing began. The whole class knew that Cassie’s mother had ‘another man’s sperm shoved up her fanny.’ Jodie’s best friend asked Cassie why she wasn’t long and skinny if she came from a test-tube. David Lawson called her Science Freak and Mike Fraser asked her if she was like Frankenstein, made by a mad scientist. When Cassie refused to go to school the following day Delphine dragged her into the car by her pony tail. Her face was red from tears and hiccupping when her mother pulled up at the school carpark. She finally confessed the reason she could not face school anymore. ‘Everyone knows how I was made.’ Delphine lifted the sunglasses off her head to glare. ‘You stupid little cow,’ she said, quietly. ‘I told you not to tell anyone. This is our business.’ She pulled her keys out of the ignition. ‘Now I have to speak to the headmaster.’ Cassie protested all the way to the office. She was unable to meet Mr Mack’s eyes. Her shame deepened when he joined their class later that morning. ‘Cassandra Robertson,’ Mr Mack said, ‘is part of the cutting edge of science, of history. It may be that one day you’ll need science to create your own family.’ He glared at the usual troublemakers, who stared into their laps. ‘If I hear of any of you teasing this young lady,’ he pointed at her, ‘you will have me to deal with.’ The teasing didn’t stop, and Cassie remained an alien.
64 DAN
Dan looked out his study window and saw a dark blue Commodore deliver his wife in front of the neighbour’s house. It was the type of car that might suddenly flash a blue light and sound a siren after you had committed some minor traffic misdemeanour. Sarah was dressed to the nines. He assumed the occasion was a long and boozy lunch with one of the coven. He returned his attention to his laptop. It had been an unproductive afternoon, trying to analyse data to show that the Internet was altering how the mind processed information. “Turn the science into art, into an easy-to-read-narrative,” his agent had said. If he couldn’t do that his new book would never get beyond the academic circuit. He glanced at his mobile and saw a missed call from Gail. He called her back. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked. ‘Slowly. I’ve got a title: The Internet Is Restructuring Our Brains. Like it?’ ‘I’ll run it by marketing. But why I’m ringing is, to know if you’re still on track to get me a completed draft by December?’ ‘You’ll have it as soon as I’m back from Jarrahdale. After my digital detox. I can’t take time off until I’ve finished with my teaching commitments.’ ‘Are you using your Twitter account? Monitoring your Author Profile page?’ ‘You know I’m not good at that stuff—I’m an academic, not a B-Grade entertainer.’ ‘Dan, there’s practically no budget for marketing this one. It’s a DIY campaign or it’ll be a flop.’ ‘All you need to do is convince a few universities to put it on their first-year reading list … that’s what we did for the others.’ ‘It’s a different world now. As you know, the university libraries licence an electronic copy and the students read it online. There’s more out there and less of the pie to share.’ Dan hung up and returned to staring at his screen until he was interrupted by Sarah, who had changed into her designer label tracksuit, asking him to clean the
65 barbeque so she could cook the chops for dinner. There was just the two of them, the kids were both out. Dan switched to Facebook while Gail’s instructions were still fresh in his own rewired brain. He had initially created an account to monitor what his children were up to, but he was soon convinced they had locked him out of the stuff he ought to know about. Just because his research involved technology, didn’t mean he knew the ins and outs of using it himself. He had post-graduate minions for that. It had been weeks since he’d bothered logging in. His settings ensured he did not receive annoying notifications on his iPhone when a Friend posted. He went through periods of using social media but mostly he couldn’t face it—photos of plates of food and recycled posts, holiday pics. Mostly the banal moments of other peoples’ lives. Or worse, the over-sharers. He was sure this new digital village was alienating its virtual inhabitants rather than connecting them. He didn’t need to design extensive psychology studies to tell him that social media was making society anti- social. He opened his Facebook Author profile page, expecting more dross, if anything at all. Instead, a new post set his heart thumping against his rib cage. Are you Donor 747? The name of the poster was unfamiliar. But that number wasn’t. A hazy fragment of memory clawed itself to the surface: a young, dark-haired nurse labelling his file at his first appointment. The same number written on collection jars. ‘Need your ears cleaned?’ Sarah asked. He slammed his laptop shut and sat paralysed. He followed her to the kitchen as she droned on about the filthiness of the barbeque, covered in cockroach shit. She slammed shut a draw. ‘Wine?’ she asked. He nodded. She closed a cupboard door with a bang. ‘For me, Dan. Can you pour me a glass? And can you check the dishwasher. It’s playing up. All it seems to be doing is baking food on the dishes, not washing them.’ He operated on autopilot as his trembling hands poured them both a Sav Blanc. He took several large swallows before cleaning out the dishwasher filters. ‘Is it clean?’ she asked, tossing the salad.
66 ‘You just saw me do it.’ ‘The barbeque. You’re not cooking the lamb on cockroach shit.’ The task was a welcome excuse to postpone confessing about the Facebook post. Because, of course, he would have to come clean to her. Admit his secret, itself grown dirty over the decades. ‘And set the table.’ He should delete it. The question was there for the world to see; or at least those interested in going to his Facebook Author Page—which, he admitted, would not be many people on a Saturday night. He and Simon had discussed this very scenario of a ‘knock on the door,’ which had now become this equivalent, a post on Facebook. In their youth, they had joked about the possibility of Dan fathering a football team, and Simon being responsible for at least a rowing eight. Once they had stopped ‘making deposits at the wank bank’—as Simon had coined it—they never mentioned it, like some drunken one- night stand, boasted about in a former life but now a story that no longer fitted the larger narrative of their lives, their reputations as successful professional men. Dan set out the knives and forks and saw the words etched into the white tablecloth: Are you Donor 747? How was he to tell Sarah about it? He’d do it tomorrow. Sunday. He’d suggest they go for a walk along the Nedlands foreshore with the dog and then have brunch at Steve’s Hotel. This was one of the many strategies they employed in their marriage. If there was a potential for fighting words it was best done in public, where they would be limited in their choice of vocabulary and volume had to be kept down to protect innocent bystanders. From bitter experience Dan had learned that things said in private could be too raw, hurtful, and difficult to ever take back. Or else, he could just delete the post. Ignore it. He hurried back to his laptop. It took forever to start up. He logged back into his Facebook account and then clicked to his Author Page. Are you donor 747? The question was an accusation.
67 He stared at the screen, his fingers itching to deactivate his account and obliterate his online existence. But erasure was no longer possible. If “Cassie” had found him on Facebook then she probably knew where he lived, or could find out easily enough. How had she got his name? What had happened to anonymous, forever, full stop? If he had properly analysed what he was doing back then, he was sure he would have kept his DNA to himself. Chloe and Jack had taught him what being a father meant—the joy as well as the obligations, the constant worry for their safety and wellbeing. Why had he not thought beyond his ‘reimbursement for expenses’? At least his research partly exonerated his youthful folly. He now understood that he was still a kid in the early 80s. At 19, 20, his neural pathways hadn’t matured. He felt a surge of resentment towards Perth University for allowing a private clinic to access him like he was a box of spare parts. Sarah stood at the door again. ‘Maybe I’ll just do cheese on toast for you. I’m really not hungry. Big lunch with the girls.’ “The Girls” were three other middle-aged women who drank too much on the flimsiest of excuses and pretty much lived at each other’s houses during the day, when they weren’t ‘doing lunch’ together or on the phone to one another. And between book club, shopping, Pilates and coffee dates in Claremont or Cottesloe, they spent a fair number of evenings in each other’s company as well. And now there was text messaging and Facebook to fill any void. Dan didn’t shut down the browser, waiting for Sarah look over his shoulder. He was a criminal who wanted to get caught, and then experience the relief of confession. A long red fingernail pointed at the screen. ‘What’s that mean?’ ‘My past come back to haunt me.’ He smelt the acidic taint of wine on her breath while she read over his shoulder: ‘Are you Donor 747?’ She straightened up. ‘It means someone thinks I’m their biological father.’ ‘You have to hand it to those Nigerians, they’re getting very creative.’ ‘That was my donor code. When I was a student.’
68 ‘You’re joking, right?’ ‘Wish I was.’ While Dan ate toast alone in the kitchen Sarah steadily worked her way through the Sauvignon Blanc in their bedroom. He tidied up, hand-washing his wine glass and followed her to bed. She was in bed, still in her tracksuit, typing a text. Was she already telling her friends? And when had she started wearing so many clothes to bed? Her armour against him. She smiled at a message just received and he sensed he might not be in the dog-house for the rest of his life. Until she glanced up at him and slammed it on the bed side table. ‘I can’t believe you never told me.’ ‘It was meant to be anonymous.’ ‘Don’t you remember what the marriage counsellor said about how dangerous secrets and lies are to relationships?’ ‘I didn’t see the point telling you if I was never going to know myself. And it was such a long time ago, I’d almost forgotten about it.’ Sarah’s mobile buzzed and she reached out to grab it, but changed her mind. She wriggled under the doona, a disembodied head on the pillow. ‘Why on earth did you do it?’ The tic in Dan’s lips activated. He considered telling her he had wanted to help infertile couples. Or was willing to be a research rodent to further the frontiers of fertility science. But that hadn’t really been the case. He couldn’t bring himself to say, ‘they paid well’. ‘Did you get money for it?’ ‘We got expenses.’ ‘Expenses? For some rubber on your sneakers and five minutes of your time?’ ‘I was having a hard time making ends meet after I left home. The life modelling didn’t pay well. You wanted to go out to nice places to eat …’ Her head emerged and stared at the ceiling. ‘You did this while we were going out? No wonder you couldn’t... ‘ ‘Couldn’t what?’ ‘Didn't you think to try waiting on tables? Stacking supermarket shelves?’
69 It wasn’t the only secret he hadn’t confessed. He had never told Sarah why Ron Adams had exiled his son. Why he and his father did not speak. ‘What should I do?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I could ignore it.’ ‘Oh, that will make it all go away.’ ‘So, you think I should reply?’ Sarah shrugged, turned off her bedside light, and turned away from him.
* * *
The next day Dan googled the Department of Health website but could find nothing relating to IVF, so he rang the general helpline, which wasn’t helpful. When he explained that he didn’t want to go onto the voluntary DNA register, the switchboard operator had no idea who to put him through to. He hung up and dashed off to give a lecture to first year psychology students. As usual the lecture theatre was half-empty. Several years ago he had them sitting in the aisles, his units were so oversubscribed. He was the author of that famous book Shallow Thinkers: How Technology Moulds The Brain, which was on the best-seller list for months, in every airport around the country and even some overseas. He was still living off the royalties, though they were drying up. His new book was a sequel of sorts, focused on social media, online Gaming and Google and how it was ruining the brain’s ability to concentrate, to focus deeply on reading, and thinking. He didn’t take the empty seats personally—students mostly watched his lectures as podcasts now, or at least he supposed they did. Next year there’d be no face-to-face lectures for this unit at all. It was all being delivered online. Behind him the image of a monkey, its skull sawn open and wired up to electrodes, flashed up on the screen. ‘Merzenich,’ he began, and the ambient chatter faded, ‘removed a piece of a monkey’s skull and exposed a small portion of its brain to thread a microelectrode into the area of the cortex that registered sensations from one of the animal’s hands. He tapped that hand in different places until the neuron beside the tip of the electrode fired. After methodically inserting and reinserting the electrode thousands of times over the course of a few days, he ended up with a map,
70 showing, in minute detail, individual nerve cells. The second stage of his experiment involved using a scalpel to make incisions in the hands of the monkey to sever the sensory nerve.’ There was an audible intake of breath. ‘He wanted to find out how the brain reacted when a peripheral nerve system was damaged and then allowed to heal. The nerves in the monkey’s hands grew back in a haphazard fashion, as expected, and their brains, also as expected, became confused. When Merzenich touched the lower joint of a finger on the monkey’s hand, its brain told the animal that the sensation was coming from the tip of the finger. The signals had been crossed, the brain map scrambled. But when he conducted the same sensory tests a few months later, he discovered something astonishing: the mental confusion had been cleared up. What the monkeys’ brains told them was happening to their hands now matched what was really happening.’ With a picture of a monkey holding a banana behind him, he continued. ‘The brain, Merzenich realized, had reorganized itself. The animals’ neural pathways had woven themselves into a new map that corresponded to the new arrangement of nerves in their hands. At first, he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. Like every other neuroscientist, he’d been taught that the structure of the adult brain is fixed. He began to realise he had seen evidence of neuroplasticity …’ After the lecture he tried the Department of Health again and this time was transferred to someone ‘who might be able to help’ but couldn’t because ‘they were in a meeting.’ He was then hand-balled to someone in the media section who at least asked a few intelligible questions. When he explained he had participated in a fertility programme during his second and third year at University in the early 80’s, the media officer recommended he contact the fertility clinic as they probably held their own records. ‘It certainly wasn’t a programme paid for by the public purse,’ she added. He googled The West Perth Fertility Clinic, returning nothing but advertisements for other clinics, including one for a company called XYgotica.com. The address seemed familiar. He tried to recall the building. In addition to regular visits to the mobile campus clinic, he had also donated at the main clinic in West Perth on demand. Apparently couples had specifically requested him, a DNA-tap to be turned on. At the time the thought had never occurred to him that repeat requests
71 might indicate a successful birth, with parents wanting a biologically-related sibling. Not many thoughts had. The WPFC doubled his expenses, paid for a taxi, and instructed him to use the back entrance. He surmised now this was to avoid meeting the ovulating woman his sperm would soon be inseminating. He called XYgotica.com. After being transferred from reception to someone in the accounts department who couldn’t help, except to confirm they did indeed occupy the premises of the old WPFC, Dan asked to be transferred to the manager. As he waited on hold, he began, finally, to feel as though he was getting somewhere. A woman introduced herself as Dr Farrell, the CEO, and asked how she could help. ‘Were you The West Perth Fertility Clinic?’ Dan asked. ‘Technically, no. The WPFC and XYygotica.com have always been completely separate entities. We just took over the premises and staff, and a few remaining clients. We have our own databases, operating procedures, record keeping practices.’ ‘So, my records will be, I presume, in archive?’ ‘There was no legal requirement for the records to be kept. You understand.’ ‘No. I don’t understand. Our identities were meant to be protected, but surely that doesn’t translate into no records being kept? What if…’ Dan hesitated— imagining scenarios, more compelling ones than his own. ‘What if a genetic history was required for medical treatment?’ ‘The law, as you are probably aware, Professor Adams, has undergone significant changes over the last few decades. This situation you find yourself in is rather unique. May I suggest you put yourself on The Department of Health’s voluntary DNA register?’ Dan had no intention of doing that. He only needed his donor number confirmed, and preferably enough information to trace the leak from which his long- forgotten past had sprung. ‘Results from the register will of course take some time,’ Dr Farrell continued, ‘and are based on the premise that any offspring have also submitted DNA.’ ‘Are you sure there’s no warehouse with old files?’
72 ‘We’ve already been on a bit of a treasure hunt.’ Dr Farrell paused. ‘Look, it’s a bit of a long-shot, but you might speak to Perth University. It was a joint programme so they may have kept their own records relating to the research side of things.’ Dan hung up. He wasn’t hopeful. While he knew from experience that University policy makers were sticklers for record keeping, it was quite another thing to find them after decades of restructuring and rationalisation. He stared at his bookshelf debating whether to head down to the University Medical School, or let his fingers do the walking. He flicked his mouse to wake up his computer screen, deciding to look for himself in PURMS: the Perth University Record Management System. As a staff member he was technically only allowed to access information on a need-to- know basis but the university wasn’t some intelligence security agency that encrypted its records and audited look-up trails … or was it? He eventually found a reference to a ‘Sperm Motility Research Programme – Joint Project with WPFC’ but the file was marked ‘Classified’ and when he clicked on it a message popped up stating he had no access rights. An honours student knocked on his door. By the time he finished discussing her research proposal, which in its current form would never have been passed by the Animal Ethics Board, he didn’t feel up to the Kafka-esque experience of explaining his situation for the fourth time that day to another chain of bureaucratic command. And anyway, the administrative staff who might have be able to help him would be stuck in traffic on their way home now. He thought of “Cassie”. Waiting for his response. The next morning he left a message with the secretary of the Dean of Medicine and Pharmacology. He knew the American Professor through various interdepartmental meetings as well as functions at the University Club. The Dean returned his call towards the end of the day and listened while Dan explained his participation in the fertility research programme and the information he needed, if it existed. ‘I had no idea you had these programmes here too,’ the Dean said. ‘They still recruit from Universities back home. I even considered donating myself at one time because they offered course credit. My parents talked me out of it.’ ‘Course credits?’
73 He shrugged. ‘It was another time. I’ll look into it and get back to you, Dan.’ When Dan logged into his Facebook account that night there was a new post. I’d appreciate an answer. And he’d give her one. As soon as he had one himself. Two days later, as he was driving home, his mobile rang. A woman’s voice resonated through his speakers, cutting off Nick Cave in the middle of Push the Sky Away. ‘Hello, Professor Adams? My name is Karen. I’m with the School of Medicine and Pharmacology. The Dean’s asked me to give you a call. How can I help?’ ‘Thanks Karen. Did the Dean explain what I wanted?’ ‘You’re after some records from The Sperm Motility Programme?’ ‘That’s right. I was a participant.’ ‘What is it you want to know, Professor Adams?’ ‘Can you confirm my donor code, please?’ ‘This information is protected by privacy laws. A confidentiality clause was signed by all participants.’ ‘Does it help if I give you the number. 747?’ ‘I can’t just give you information if I don’t know who you are.’ ‘I’m a member of staff for Chrissakes!’ ‘Date of birth will do it.’ Dan reeled it off and waited. ‘Correct,’ Karen said. ‘Thanks. Now, could you tell me if a person called Cassie, no, I suppose it would be Cassandra, was conceived?’ ‘No.’ ‘No, there wasn’t a child called Cassandra, or No, you can’t tell me.’ ‘I can’t tell you.’ Dan took a deep breath. ‘Can I ask if there were any…?’ What did he call them: babies…births…progeny…offspring? He settled on children. ‘If there were any children associated with my records.’ Silence.
74 ‘Hello? Are you there, Karen? I’d like to know if I had any children.’ ‘Yes … I’m still here.’ ‘Hello? What was that?’ ‘Forty-two.’ ‘Forty-two?’ ‘You have 42 birth certificates attached to your file.’ Dan’s attention was drawn abruptly back to the road in front of him by a series of horns admonishing him as he ran a red light in front of the disapproving private school pick-up traffic. ‘And you can’t tell me their names?’ he asked. ‘Privacy laws prohibit me from—’ ‘Well, despite your privacy laws, someone called Cassie has connected my donor number to me. Can you explain that?’ ‘Professor Adams, I’m not obliged to assist aggressive callers.’ ‘You called me. And I’m a senior member of staff at Perth University.’ ‘All the more reason to treat me with respect.’ ‘Look. Karen. I’m sorry. It’s just, as you can no doubt imagine, this has been quite a shock.’ ‘Professor Adams, I have already told you more than I’m authorised to.’ ‘And I appreciate your assistance…’ ‘Maybe Cassie worked it out. I mean, how many students studied medicine at Perth University in the early 80’s? Who maybe look a little like her?’ She hesitated. ‘She might have found you through a graduation photo.’ He felt his throat tightening, a choking sensation. And then he realised that Karen had, in her round-about way, answered his question already.
* * *
Dan unscrewed the cap on a Pinot vino and poured generous-sized glasses for him and Sarah; they were both going to need it for the announcement he was about to make. Dutch courage. He wondered where the saying came from and resisted the urge to Google it before he forgot. Something to do with alcohol from the
75 Netherlands making soldiers braver in war? Instead he sat down at the dinner table to face his Waterloo. ‘How was your day, Jack?’ Dan asked, eschewing the usual conversational openers: Your day just starting, is it? My son, the vampire bat. How are the vitamin D levels? ‘Fine.’ Jack flicked his fringe from his eyes, but it flopped straight back. Jack referred to dinner conversation as Interrogation 101: What did you do today? What time did you get up? What are you doing with your life? Over the years he had developed an effective technique to ward off parental intrusion. He mentally checked out, but not 100%. Sleep mode rather than shut down, offering up enough bytes of information to almost pass for dialogue. Sufficient to avoid accusations of being rude or secretive. Answer the question, but only the question, never explain or elaborate. The perfect witness for the defence and the typical just-post-adolescent son. ‘How was yours?’ Dan asked his daughter. ‘I went shopping for shoes,’ Chloe said. Dan ground pepper onto his steak. ‘You’ve already got more pairs than Imelda Marcos. ‘Who’s she?’ ‘You’re too young to know,’ he said, already regretting steering the conversation away from where it needed to head. ‘So, why mention her?’ ‘To amuse myself.’ The muscle in the side of his mouth jumped. ‘Imelda Marcos was the wife of a corrupt Filipino president in the 80’s and she owned thousands of pairs of shoes.’ ‘I was buying old peoples’ shoes. You know, the ones that say it’s like walking on a cloud so your bunions don’t hurt. I’ll be spending 10 hours a day on my feet on prac at the clinic. Unlike Jack here,’ Chloe said, narrowing her eyes at her brother, ‘who doesn’t need shoes at all as he spends 10 hours a day on his arse and the rest on his back.’ ‘That’s not true,’ Jack said, flipping his hair again. ‘I sleep on my stomach mostly.’
76 Chloe snorted her disgust. Tori, the pink and grey galah raised in an era before personalised ring tones, performed his trilling telephone imitation. The galah, named after the Japanese word for ‘bird,’ was irritating but not as bad as some of Chloe’s other animal rescues. There had been a joey, brought home after a car had run over its mother and had delivered it to the University Vet School. It had needed round-the-clock feeding and deposited little pebbles of poo all over the house. And a toothless cat that hissed at Dan every time he went near it. The joys of having a daughter who loved all creatures great and small. ‘That bloody bird,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s only till I find him a new home,’ Chloe said. ‘The woman from two doors down came over today and asked if I could turn down the phone. I had a very amusing conversation trying to explain it was a bird. Actually, she didn’t find it amusing at all. She hoped it wasn’t going to be a house guest for much longer, as it’s waking their baby in the mornings. She threatened to send the child over for us to deal with.’ They lapsed back into silence, Sarah glancing at him with an expectant expression. Toby, beneath the table, barked, impatient for one of the human pack to offload some food. When that didn’t work, he placed his head on Chloe’s lap and gave her his best begging expression. Dan needed an ice-breaker before the Titanic sunk the conversation. ‘Kids, I’ve got something to tell you.’ The gaze of two pairs of golden eyes locked on him. He swallowed a mouthful of wine too quickly and coughed. ‘We, your mother and I…’ Why did he start like that? This was his problem. Habit after all these years. ‘You’re not getting divorced!’ Chloe said. Jack, mouth to his Coke can, spluttered. ‘We’re not getting a divorce,’ Dan said. ‘It’s that I …’ ‘Oh my God!’ Chloe said. ‘Not cancer.’ ‘The truth is … you have a sister.’ ‘You mean you cheated on Mum?’ Chloe asked. ‘Cheated? No, no. I was part of a research programme, well, fertility. When I was at Uni.’
77 ‘Oh my God! You were a sperm donor?’ Jack guffawed. ‘And you tell me to be careful. Wear a condom and don't go spreading my genetic material about. Unbelievable!’ Chloe shot Jack a shut up look before turning back to Dan. ‘Why are you telling us this now? It’s a bit late for us to be … well, sisters. Unless her embryo’s been in deep freeze and she’s … a baby?’ ‘They weren’t doing that then. I haven’t met her. This woman only just contacted me, a week ago. I haven’t replied yet. I wanted to tell you first. So we can decide as a family what to do.’ ‘What to do? Well, of course you have to reply. It’s mean to leave her hanging. How would you feel?’ ‘How old is she?’ Jack asked. ‘I’m guessing, about 30. Ish.’ Only Jack continued eating, a smile playing about his lips as he chewed, methodically, slowly. Chloe poured wine into her empty water glass. ‘What’s her name?’ ‘Cassie. At least that’s what she calls herself on Facebook.’ ‘You met her on Facebook?’ Jack asked. His cutlery clattered onto the plate. ‘It’s probably a scam, from Russia.’ ‘Well, I can’t be sure of anything until we take a test. If that’s what she wants.’ His children were both glancing furtively at Sarah, attempting to read her expression. Although she had maintained a conspicuous silence, she didn’t mask her irritation. ‘What about you, Jack?’ Dan asked. ‘What do you think I should do?’ Jack shrugged, returning to his natural state of appearing supremely bored by the concerns of his parents. ‘What if I don’t want you to meet her?’ Chloe said, pushing her tomato around absently. Dan didn’t like raw tomatoes either but they still found their way onto their plates. Sarah punishing him again, or just supremely indifferent to his needs. ‘Then I won’t.’ ‘She’s probably wondered most of her life who her father was,’ Chloe said. ‘She shouldn’t have ever known about me. It was meant to be anonymous.’ ‘So, how did she find out?’ Jack asked.
78 Dan shrugged. ‘The clinic’s records are long gone. But the University kept their research records.’ ‘Babyleaks,’ Jack said, and grinned, ‘the greatest data leak the University has ever seen.’ ‘She’ll have a father,’ Dan said, ignoring his son’s attempt at humour, ‘a family. I was just a—’ ‘A stud?’ Jack asked. ‘You think this is funny, Jack?’ Sarah asked. ‘Funny? I think I've wet the chair!’ Dan directed his question at Chloe. ‘So you don’t mind? She might not even want to meet me. She’s just asked me to confirm if I was her donor.’ Jack yawned. ‘May I be excused?’ Dan suppressed the urge to remind him that as the first to leave the table he was to collect the plates. His patriarchal authority, at least with Jack, had somehow been irretrievably compromised by his admission. ‘Plates, Jack,’ Sarah said. ‘But don’t bother filling the dishwasher, it’s broken. They’ll need to be done by hand.’ Toby scooted out from under the table and followed Jack to the sink, his tail wagging so hard it was in danger of falling off. ‘I’ll do it,’ Dan said. Volunteering to wash up was not going to write him back in Sarah’s good-books but it was at least a reprieve from her disapproving silence. ‘And I’ll see if I can fix the dishwasher again.’ ‘Built-in obsolescence,’ Jack said, feeding the dog the leftovers. Chloe yelled at him. ‘Cooked chicken bones can kill dogs. Moron!’ ‘I wonder…’ Jack said, continuing to scrape the plate. He looked up, directly at Dan. ‘How many others are out there?’ The question Dan was dreading. ‘Forty-one,’ he mumbled. ‘Fuck me!’ Jack said. ‘You’re shitting me!’ Chloe said, simultaneously. Toby made a choking noise. Chloe rushed to the dog but by the time she got there it was re-eating what it had vomited. A chair scraped loudly against the floor.
79 Sarah threw down her serviette and marched off to their bedroom. The Tori phone trilled again.
* * *
After logging into Facebook Dan clicked the Invite button next to Cassie’s name. While he waited, he scanned his Contacts list. Simon posted even less than he did but Fiona was a more regular user, going through bursts of activity particularly when she travelled, uploading photographs and commentary on her life. She’d been offline for a while after breaking up with her long-term partner, who had decided after eleven years of living together that she might not be gay after all and needed to find out by dating men for a while. It had sent Fiona into an emotional decline until she admitted herself into in a private clinic in Sydney, unwilling to be treated in Perth with a high chance of being seen by current or former patients, or colleagues. Had either of them seen Cassie’s post? Surely not. Otherwise they’d have rung him to find out what was going on. Perhaps his public Author Page and personal Profile Page weren’t connected at all. He’d ask Jack about that. While Dan was proud of his mastery of social media relative to many people in his age bracket, Facebook settings were still a mystery, and anyway they were always changing, new features added, old ones removed. He scanned the MSN sports headlines before returning to see that Cassie had accepted his Friend Request. Now safely in a private conversation, he typed: ‘Yes, that was my donor number.’ Then he elaborated, with a litany of excuses, he was young, had not understood fully what he was getting involved in, never knew until now if he had created any children, let alone considered that one day they might want to meet him. And then he deleted his waffle. He wrote an apology for his tardy reply and deleted that too. He reverted to the original sentence, pressed enter and stared at the screen.
Cassie: I was beginning to think you weren’t going to respond Professor Adams. Dan: Please call me Dan. I needed to confirm that was my code. How long have you known about me? Cassie: A few weeks. Or do u mean about being DC?
80 Dan: DC? Cassie: Donor conceived :) I found out when I was a kid but my mother told me that I cld never find out who u were. U were protected by an anonymity clause that was signed by all participants (except me of course!!!). Still, I did try. Dan: How did you find me? Cassie: Another DC sibling contacted me and I followed up a few leads.
There were two of them who knew! Dan’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He could only hunt out and peck the letters. He began a reply, deleted it, started again, and was beaten by another response from Cassie.
Cassie: U have nothing to fear. I don’t want anything from you. I mean $ etc. I’d just like 2 meet u. Satisfy my curiosity, c what u really look like. Dan: Okay. Cassie: I don’t need to meet your family, your kids etc. What about South Beach café? I walk my dog down there most days. You can bring yours too if you like.
How did she know he had children and a dog?
Dan: Weekends are best.
But he wasn’t keen on cancelling golf.
Cassie: You teach at Perth Uni, right? Dan: Right. Cassie: This is surreal. Dan: Yes.
Nightmare more like it.
Cassie: I like your profile pic. Where was it taken? Dan: Family camping holiday a few years back. Cassie: I've never been camping.
Was she trying to make him feel guilty?
Dan: Did your parents prefer stars in their accommodation review rather than sleeping under them? Cassie: Mum hated the idea of bush toilets, flies, mosquitoes etc. C u soon. Message me with time on weekend.
Dan wrote “OK” again but saw that Cassie was now offline. Presumably nothing further was expected of him, at least for now.
81 To snap him out of his trance he opened a Word doc, intending to work on his book. But he couldn’t quieten the noise in his skull. He really didn’t need this in his life right now. He shut his laptop and went in search of a drink.
82 DAN
Dan parked his Lexus next to a clapped-out campervan, its windows covered over with brown paper. The South Beach carpark was a favourite for foreign travellers. It was years since he’d been here. Cottesloe was his nearest beach and as a regular he was always bumping into someone he knew. Perth was really just a series of overlapping villages. Toby whined to be released. He’d brought the silly mutt so at least they could talk dogs if they had nothing else to say. It was Dan’s job to do Toby’s ‘toilet-run’ each evening (which meant fewer dog turds in the gardener’s mower) and so man and dog had developed a bond of sorts, though the dopey thing mainly followed Sarah and Chloe around like an assiduous, though ineffectual, body guard. Dan hadn’t grown up with dogs—Amporn had acquired Mitzi the Pomeranian just before he left home— and he found man’s best friend too needy. It irritated him that he was forever pulling dog hair out of his clothes, removing it from his dinner plate, and most annoyingly, his bed. As he opened the car door, Toby leaped across him, one paw landing heavily on Dan’s crotch. He clamped his eyes shut and groaned. The dog ran to the nearest pine tree, sniffed it and cocked his leg against the trunk. Breathing through the pain Dan hauled himself out of the car. A helicopter buzzed above the sand dunes, patrolling for hapless tourists with no idea about rips, or perhaps it was still shark season. He clipped Toby onto his lead and limped towards the beachside café, passing another rust-bucket people-mover, all its doors open, revealing an interior packed with the essentials for living. A young man with dreadlocks cooked sausages on a portable gas stove while arguing—or perhaps only passionately conversing, in Spanish—with a woman wearing tattered denim shorts and a bikini top. Adventurous young souls in search of the great Antipodean adventure. He didn’t envy them. The footpath was populated with council signs threatening fines for litterers and dog owners who didn’t pick up after their dogs, keep them off the grass, and on their leads. Other signs warned of wheel clamping for campers who dared to park overnight. At the café Toby lapped up water from an ice-cream container under a tap, adding to the slobber, dirt and hair. Dan tied him to a table and commanded he stay
83 while he went to the counter. He ordered a flat white from a man with large dark brown eyes and olive skin who spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. On the way back to the table he picked up the well-thumbed newspaper and scanned through it. Dan had cancelled his newspaper subscription a few years ago, relying instead on the ABC and MSN websites—more pictures than words—for his daily dose of gloom, doom and sport. The newsprint was still full of speculation about the fate of Malaysian Airline Flight 370 that had disappeared over the Gulf of Thailand en route to Beijing from Kuala Lumpur with 239 people on board. The aircraft was presumed to have crashed into the Indian Ocean and both the media reporting and the online chatter was full of conspiracy theories. He supposed it was only a matter of time before the aeroplane was found. Airliners didn’t just disappear without a trace in 2014. For a moment, he imagined the terror of being on-board, the descent into the ocean, strapped into his seat as water rushed in and he sank to the ocean floor. He glanced up to see a woman wearing a floppy straw hat striding towards him, her eyes hidden behind large dark sunglasses. He guessed this was Cassie by the resemblance to his daughter. A black dog of indeterminate breed waddled by her side. The differences became more apparent as she approached. This woman was several years older than Chloe, and heavier-set. He lifted his hand to get her attention and she returned the gesture. On the drive to the beach Dan had rehearsed responses to questions she might ask. He also had his own questions for her, though he couldn’t imagine asking them. What did she really want from him? A father figure? Emotional support? Another family? Everyone needed something to get them out of bed each day. Though he couldn’t believe he had much to offer, not now, not to a thirty-year-old woman. The job with his own children was beginning to feel nearly done. Soon it would be just Sarah and him, and the dog, and maybe the bird, until grandkids came along. Though he was in no hurry for them. Cassie smiled without showing her teeth and held out a pale, freckle-dusted hand. He clutched it rather than shook it. A handshake didn’t seem appropriate for someone he was related to. Probably related to, he corrected himself. Her hand was
84 bony and cool – his, warm and clammy. Her face was familiar, and yet unfamiliar. Uncanny was the word. She propped her sunnies onto the brim of her hat, revealing his yellowy-brown eyes. The peculiar colour had come from his mother. He knew from photographs she’d had one yellow-brown eye, the other had been blue. After some research years ago, he had concluded his mother had been a chimera—her non-identical twin had died in utero and she’d absorbed its DNA. He sensed Cassie was studying his features too, before scooping up her fat old dog. ‘This is Jet. He came from Shenton Park Shelter. Rescued by the RSPCA from one of those awful puppy farms. The rangers discovered him and thirty others in an underground bunker in Wanneroo. He’s completely inbred and neurotic but he’s made it to 14. That’s ancient in dog years.’ Just like my Chloe, rescuing furry things. Dan reached out to pat Jet but the dog bared its teeth and growled. He returned his hand to the safety of his pocket. ‘He doesn’t like humans very much. Trust issues. Missed those important first few months of socialisation when his tiny brain was wiring itself.’ ‘Brain wiring,’ Dan repeated. ‘That’s my area of research.’ Cassie nodded, and put Jet down. He sniffed at Toby who lay on his back and spread his legs, embarrassingly submissive. Cassie sat down, slipped her bag off her shoulder. ‘I think he might be getting doggie dementia, if that’s possible. He’s grumpier than usual and has bitten me a few times when I tried to help him up after his back legs gave way. Before that, he only ever wanted to bite men in work boots.’ ‘Toby’s a spoodle,’ Dan said. ‘Very affectionate but not very smart.’ ‘Jet’s a cavoodle. So that’s kind of the same.’ Cassie took off her sunhat and shook out her long blonde hair. ‘Driven by their instincts, dogs. Imprinted in their DNA.’ Dan registered the unsubtle themes. Genetics and nurturing. The basis of everything. ‘Do you live near here?’ Dan asked. It wasn’t one of his rehearsed questions, but seemed uncontroversial.
85 Cassie waved her hand in the direction of South Terrace. ‘I moved here years ago before the mung beans and old Italians started being replaced by wealthy wannabe hippies. And you live, Mosman Park, isn’t it?’ How did she know that? Some author article about him on the Internet? Facebook? Stalkbook, more like it. ‘Coffee?’ Dan asked. ‘Chai latte with soy. Please.’ ‘Something to eat?’ She clapped her hands together in child-like pleasure and smiled. ‘I’ll have one of those gluten free macadamia and white chocolate cookies. Thank you.’ ‘Coeliacs?’ he asked. ‘Not formally diagnosed. Is it in the family?’ ‘My father wouldn’t admit to it if he was. And my mother passed away. I’ve never heard she had it … seems a modern phenomenon.’ ‘Was she young?’ ‘We were five when it happened.’ ‘We?’ ‘My brother and I, we’re twins.’ ‘How…?’ He didn’t like talking about it but it was difficult to deflect such direct questioning. ‘Freak accident in a carpark. She stuck her head out the window to put the parking ticket in the machine and accidently stepped on the accelerator. The car took off and her head hit the side of the boom gate.’ ‘How awful!’ ‘We were in the back seat, apparently. I don’t remember any of it. But my brother claims to.’ ‘So, you didn’t really know her then.’ Cassie turned away, but Dan thought he saw her mouth: ‘Grandma.’ He couldn’t easily recall his mother, the person of flesh. He had to invoke the one photograph he had of her, which he had grabbed on an impulse when he ran away all those years ago.
86 He placed Cassie’s order and returned with the over-priced GF-cookie. He mumbled an inane comment about the early sea breeze. Cassie stroked Jet, her gaze fixed on the dog. ‘I was really nervous about today,’ she said, barely audible. Dread was closer to the truth for Dan. ‘Incredibly nervous.’ She glanced up at him, shyly, before gazing into the distance, towards the sand dunes. ‘I’ve lived for years with this tightness in my head, from all the unanswered questions. I’ve had nothing to fill in the gaps about what I imagined you’d be like. But as soon as I saw you, I knew it would be alright.’ ‘So,’ Dan asked, searching for one of his rehearsed questions. ‘What do you most want to know about me?’ ‘What you most want to know about me,’ Cassie retorted. That threw him. ‘Okay.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Are you … happy?’ ‘Happy people don’t think about whether they’re happy.’ When he thought she wasn’t going to elaborate, she added, ‘I haven’t been in the past, but I can honestly say that right now, I am. And you?’ ‘It’s not something I do a check on much either, but I suppose I am. I have a great career, family...’ Should he have said that? ‘That’s great!’ A breathless little laugh. ‘It’s so good to know there are happy genes somewhere in me.’ ‘Do you think happiness is in the genes?’ A little half-shrug. ‘I believe unhappiness is. My mother had Borderline Personality Disorder. Undiagnosed for a long time.’ ‘That must have been tough on you and your father…’ Was that the wrong thing to say? Her father. He meant her proper father. Not what he was, the person who had provided nothing more than the missing ingredient. ‘Do they know we’re meeting?’ ‘Mum’s dead. Dad left us when I was seven. Found a younger, cheerier upgrade. Actually, I think he might have upgraded again since. We don’t speak.’ Every conversational step was a landmine. Dan heard the barista shout his name and he fetched their drinks, grateful for the brief respite. As he set them on the table, Jet began growling at a man with a
87 beard like Ned Kelly, wearing blue stubbies and work boots. Cassie lifted the dog onto her lap and whispered soothing words in his floppy black ear. ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘I’m on afternoon shift.’ Had she done that deliberately, chosen a time when they could only talk for a limited period? Prepared a getaway plan. He had come with one too; the errand to buy a new dishwasher. ‘What do you do on afternoon shift?’ Dan asked, adding quickly, ‘if you don’t mind me asking.’ Cassie tilted her head and flashed a wide smile; which had it been under his paternal responsibility might have cost thousands in orthodontics. ‘Of course not, I want you to be curious. I’m a counsellor at Serenity Lodge, in Rockingham. It’s a drug and alcohol rehab facility.’ He noticed as she was speaking that her hairline was a different colour, a bright orange. She was not a natural blonde. She could thank his father, Ron Adams for that; he was the proverbial carrot top, whereas Dan and Andrew had inherited their mother’s dark blonde. At least that was the colour once when it had been plentiful. His head was more scalp than hair now. ‘I imagine it’s pretty taxing, emotionally I mean, working with addicts.’ ‘It’s exhausting some days. I’m not sure I do much to help anyone there. Though sometimes they like me so much, they get themselves booked in for repeat visits.’ He smiled, acknowledging her joke. He waved a fly off her cookie. ‘How did you find me?’ It sounded like an accusation. ‘I mean, we signed agreements. Anonymity clauses.’ He had put his trust in a piece of paper—a signed consent form. Or had he even cared? ‘Jacquie found me first. If it wasn’t for her, I’d never have found you.’ Bravo Jacquie! ‘She knows who we all are and she’s looking for us. To warn us.’ ‘Warn you?’ ‘She wants us to get screened for GI cancers. That’s what she’s got. Stomach cancer. She doesn’t have long.’
88 Dan sipped at his coffee. ‘My brother’s been diagnosed with early bowel cancer. After surgery, and treatment … the prognosis is good. I need to get screened myself.’ ‘I had a colonoscopy and endoscopy last week. So far, nothing sinister.’ ‘So how did Jacquie find me?’ ‘She didn’t. I did. She told me a few things her parents knew about you, and then it was simply a matter of weeding out the candidates from the university records. Graduation photos.’ Cassie wiped invisible biscuit crumbs from the side of her mouth, fixing her full attention on him. ‘I can’t tell you how significant this is for me, for how long I wondered what you were like.’ ‘I had no idea,’ Dan said. ‘You never went on any registers to find out, did you? Because my DNA is on both the State and Federal one. I didn’t think you were even going to reply to my post.’ ‘I wanted to make sure first, and speak to my family, check if they were comfortable with … this.’ ‘And are they?’ ‘Getting there.’ He wasn’t going to tell her that Chloe was the only one who was curious. Jack didn’t give a shit and Sarah was permanently annoyed with him, though he suspected it was largely for other failings. Including failing to make her happy. ‘Two kids, right?’ Cassie asked. ‘I mean, with your wife.’ ‘Chloe’s in her final terms of veterinary studies.’ Cassie held her plate under the table for Jet to lick the crumbs. ‘And Jack?’ How did she know his son’s name? Could so much be found by Googling? How much of himself existed up in the digital cloud? ‘He at Uni?’ ‘Studying computer games design. At least I think he is. He doesn’t leave his bedroom very often. And I’m not sure he’ll be employable at the end of a degree which seems to consist of story-boarding medieval characters and aliens doing
89 unspeakably violent things to each other. I mean, not to each other– they’re in separate games, I suppose.’ A plague of seagulls landed near them and Toby strained at his lead to give chase. ‘He’s going to apply for post-graduate Law but it seems unlikely with his grades. He really only wants to jack himself to The Matrix. The talk of Law was just to placate us. Well, his mother really. I worry he spends too much time in virtual reality.’ Cassie’s intense stare was unnerving him but then she glanced at her mobile, checking the time. ‘All those hours in front of a computer... in fact, my research—’ ‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ she interrupted him. ‘It’s been really um...’ her voice trailed off. Strange? He didn’t know what to say. How to end this meeting? Did she want to meet him again? Or was this it? Her curiosity satisfied, did they now both go their separate ways? ‘When can we meet again?’ Cassie blurted out. He hesitated. ‘When do you want to?’ What else could he say? ‘I know this is weird. I’m thirty-two old years when I rock up on your doorstep, of course you're gonna be, you know, a bit freaked out and maybe think I want money but you must know, money is not at all involved.’ She gestured towards a large pine tree. ‘Not knowing where you come from is like being a tree without roots. Any strong wind and—’ She mimed a tree falling with her forearm. Cassie stood and Dan did the same, holding out his hand, but she leant in to kiss him on the cheek, then stepped forwards and clasped him to her. Jet chose this moment to charge at the tattooed tradie, nearly pulling their table over and smashing their cups. The dog latched onto the man’s ankle. Toby added to the confusion by barking incessantly. Cassie lurched after Jet, tugged on his lead. ‘No Jet!’ she commanded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the victim.
90 ‘No worries, love.’ He tapped his boots. ‘Got me Blue Steels on. Nothing gets through them.’ Cassie pulled down her sunglasses, pulled on her hat. She waved goodbye to Dan and dragged Jet behind her for a few metres before picking him up. Dan watched her departure, her gait so similar to Chloe's, the same subtle sway of the hips.
* * *
After leaving South Beach, Dan drove to a discount white goods store in a land-locked industrial suburb on the wrong side of Fremantle. He found the most expensive German brand dishwasher on offer, paid extra for delivery, installation, and to have the old one removed. Returning to his car, he noticed a sign across the road for The Oriental Massage House. A board out the front advertised a Saturday special—$50 for a one-hour full body massage. He had a couple of hours before he was due to meet Simon at Karrinyup Country Club for their weekly round of golf and his neck was giving him grief. His next physio appointment wasn’t for another week and a pair of hands on the problem zone were often more effective than over-the-counter analgesics. His ability to flog that little white ball improved in direct relationship to how relaxed he was. He crossed the road. A bible and religious artefacts store and an empty showroom flanked the massage house, a more low-key affair than the one in Claremont where he occasionally went for a quick neck and shoulder rub, which he suspected was run by Chinese triads. The masseuses there spoke almost no English and were probably under-paid, untrained and without visas to work but that was the Tax Office’s and Department of Immigration’s problem, not his. A bell jangled overhead announcing his entrance. Next to a Chinese happy plant on the counter a hand-written sign instructed him to ring another bell if reception was unattended. An Asian woman, wearing something akin to a hospital orderly’s uniform, only tighter fitting, materialised. ‘I’d like the Saturday special, please. If you can fit me in now.’ ‘Sixty dollar.’ ‘It says fifty on your sign.’ ‘Ten dollars extra for oil, special Chinese herbs.’
91 It was cheap even with the oil surcharge. She led him down a corridor, past closed doors, and into a darkened room with no windows. Tinny speakers piped out synthesised rainforest mediation music. The air was laden with a vaguely familiar essential oil, though he couldn’t name it; except that it wasn’t lavender, the scent of the bathroom deodoriser Sarah bought. In stilted English, the woman asked him to remove his clothes and lay on the table, ‘tummy down’ and she would ‘come back after.’ He stripped to his jocks and rested his face in the hole in the head piece, warning himself not to fall asleep and dribble onto the floor. From another room, he heard the murmuring of voices. The door hinge creaked and he submerged into a stupor, resurfacing as he felt the oil pouring onto his back. She began with long strokes on his upper body, concentrating on releasing his tight back muscles. Thumbs gouged under his shoulder blades seeking to release whatever his body was holding onto. Mercifully, the hands moved elsewhere and he could breathe again. ‘Doesn’t the music drive you nuts? Listening to that all day?’ She didn’t answer. His jocks were tugged below his buttocks and work began on his glutes. He tensed. This region had never been touched at the Claremont massage parlour. But he soon relaxed and drifted into an alternative time zone; the one in which the clock speeds up because he was enjoying himself, not wishing for the experience to come to its inevitable end. He recognised this situation was a little peculiar—paying a stranger to touch him. Money made it acceptable for a woman he had never met to rub his body in a way a lover might. He couldn’t remember the last time Sarah had given him a massage. Or he to her, in fairness. Those days were long behind them. On the edge of sleep a memory of Amporn came unbidden. It had been she who had suggested the massage after he had recounted a particularly brutal game of rugby. His father was at work. He was rarely home before 6pm. Andrew was at a lecture. Amporn had set up her massage table in the lounge room and told Dan to take off his t-shirt and lie down. ‘Turn over,’ the masseuse said. Dan’s face reddened when he realised his arousal would be visible. ‘It’s okay, just my back is fine,’ he said, his voice croaky.
92 ‘Better you turn over,’ the masseuse insisted, ‘I do other side.’ It was probably an occupational hazard she was used to. He rolled over and kept his eyes shut, willing himself to deflate. The towel was rearranged over his groin. She massaged his arms, worked at his hands, interlacing her fingers with his. Next she ministered to the major muscle groups in his left leg, then his right, moved to the end of the table, prodded the soles of his feet, pulled at each toe. Each place she touched reminded Dan that he was flesh, with unfulfilled needs and longings. Mostly he ignored his body, only acknowledging it when it caused him pain or inconvenienced him with hunger, fatigue, or very rarely nowadays, the itch of desire. She finished by rubbing his head, making the few remaining strands of his hair oily, which was a little irritating because now he’d have to shower before going to golf. ‘You want wank wank?’ she asked. Or he thought she asked. ‘Pardon?’ Dan replied. ‘Fifty dollars, extra.’ ‘Ah, no… no thank you,’ he stammered. ‘Just the massage is fine. It was very nice, thank you.’ Good Lord! Had he stumbled into a brothel? ‘You want Chinese tea?’ ‘No thanks.’ Dan dressed quickly, slipped his hand in his pocket, extracted his wallet and pulled out another ten dollars. ‘A tip,’ he said, handing it her. ‘Just a tip.’ She tucked it into her trousers and left the room. Once safely inside the Lexus he lifted the back of his hand under his nose to draw in the scent still clinging to his skin. Ylang-ylang. That was the name of the oil. Amporn had used it on him too.
93 * * *
to:
Hi Jacquie
Met our donor this morning. He’s not what I imagined but I think I had unrealistic expectations. I wanted to ask him a million questions but pretty much forgot them all with the nerves.
Was googling “sperm donation” and found this Wikipedia entry. Have you seen it? It’s the first recorded entry of anonymous donor insemination. Insane but not so diff to our situation.
The first recorded use of ‘donated’ semen was in 1884 when William Pancoast in Philadelphia chose ‘the best looking’ student in his anatomy class to provide sperm for a couple who had consulted him about the wife’s failure to conceive. Without her knowledge, the woman was inseminated under anaesthetic. She was never informed, although her husband was (Hard 1909). This first ‘donor’ insemination has subsequently been called rape (Corea 1985). Emphasis on the appearance of the ‘donor’ whose intellectual qualifications were demonstrated, as so often since, by his status as a medical student, are reminiscent of the cohistory of donor insemination and eugenics (Greer 1984, Pfeffer 1993). It is notable that, although Hard himself saw eugenic advantages in ‘artificial impregnation by carefully selected seed’ he also claimed that ‘the mother is the complete builder of the child’.
Isn’t that last bit total crap – about the mother? Shall I come around tomorrow to help with the search?
Cassie xx
94 DAN
Sarah texted while Dan drove. He didn’t bother trying to make conversation until she had finished. She laughed out loud and he asked if it was anything worth sharing. She waved her hand dismissively, so he turned up Nick Cave.
Driving my car, flame trees on fire Sitting and singin' the Higgs Boson blues
He didn’t really understand the lyrics but that didn’t mean they weren’t profound. ‘God, he’s so depressing.’ Sarah sighed dramatically. ‘Can’t you put something else on?’ ‘Find something you like then.’ She didn’t take up the offer, returning instead to her phone. They arrived at Simon’s Crawley penthouse, nestled at the edge of Kings Park overlooking the Swan River. Evette, Simon’s latest conquest, greeted them as did the comforting smell of roast chicken. She wore a yellow shift dress with a high hemline and low neckline. Evette was one in a long line of attractive fit young women since Simon’s divorce a decade earlier. Dan was occasionally envious of his mate’s seemingly carefree bachelor life, but he was generally content with the life Sarah and he had built, renovated, demolished and rebuilt. Their relationship wasn’t perfect but the foundation was strong. Nothing an expensive cruise through Europe, just the two of them, couldn’t fix. He’d book a holiday for next year. After his book was written, and published, and the marketing campaign finished. Dan tried to recall what Evette did. Something to do with nutrition, or personal training, or yoga. Sarah had nicknamed her ‘Tigger’ after their first meeting because she was so bouncy. Sarah handed the bunch of gerberas to Tigger, who bounced through several cupboards searching for a vase while Simon decanted the bottle of Elderton Command Shiraz Dan had thrust at him. The hosts ushered the guests into the living area with its sweeping view across Pelican Bay. Gin and tonics were distributed. Dan hoped Sarah wouldn’t down too many. G&T’s either made her cry or yell. Or both.
95 The intercom buzzed and Fiona announced herself on the security screen. Once inside, Fiona introduced Sam, who wore faded blue jeans, a white shirt and flat heeled boots. Her hair was short, dark and flattened down, no hint of makeup around her small, sparkling, grey eyes. Fiona’s new partner reminded Dan of the country and western singer who sang of constant craving in the early ’90s, but whose name he couldn’t recall. He wondered if this inability to recall names was an early sign of dementia or just fallout of the information age? As Dan shook Sam’s hand he noted the tattoo on her inner wrist but was unable to decipher it. Turning to shake hands with Sarah, revealed another tattoo behind her left ear. Fiona still wore her hair long, natural, though now it was streaked grey. Over the years she had gradually exchanged the long flowing skirts from Uni days with comfortable baggy pants. Evette whisked away the box of petit fours presented to her by Fiona. They drank another round of gin and tonics while Simon ‘checked on the chook,’ looking across at Perth University. Sam pointed out Eliza, the waterborne statue of a female diver currently dressed rather incongruously as a Gallipoli veteran. It had become a university tradition for students to swim out and decorate her in a weekly theme. Wearing an apron printed with “Requires Constant Supervision”, Simon waved a pair of tongs and commanded they take their seats, ‘Boy, girl, I mean, not sitting next to partners.’ Sarah whispered in Dan’s ear, ‘KD Lang.’ Sam complimented Evette on the bruschetta, invoking a long monologue on the benefits of tomato. ‘They contain awesome amounts of lycopene, thought to have the highest antioxidant activity of all the carotenoids. Good for preventing skin cancer. . .’ Another polite but disinterested inquiry saw Evette relate the history of Pilates and its miraculous benefits. Dan had tried it a few times with a physiotherapist to ease his neck pain but he preferred a walk on the golf course to a device Evette had called the reformer bed but which he had dubbed the Spanish Inquisition rack. ‘What do you do, Sam?’ Evette asked. ‘Something medical too?’ ‘I work at a reproductive health clinic.’ Dan coughed to dislodge a piece of crusty bread from his throat. He gulped water to wash it down.
96 ‘Sam and I met at an ethics conference in the States,’ Fiona added. They exchanged the intimate glance of satisfied lovers. Dan wondered how long it took Fiona and Sam to realise the other was gay? He had been told by Chloe that his gaydar—which she explained was the sixth-sense which indicated you were in the presence of a gay person—was totally defective. No doubt with age he was losing the ability to read the cultural signals around him. Cultural-aging. He liked the term and wondered if any academic had already used it. If ever there was a perfect segue into his news, Fiona and Sam’s first encounter was it. ‘Speaking of ethics.’ Dan hesitated. ‘Or maybe reproductive science—’ As he spoke, Fiona’s expression morphed into one of surprise but it was Simon who spoke. ‘Chloe’s not pregnant? Or has Jack got some girl—?’ Simon asked, looking from Dan to Sarah. ‘No, nothing like that,’ Dan said, searching for the words to begin. ‘Not you?’ Simon asked. ‘Good God!’ Sarah scoffed. ‘Dan’s got enough children to last him several lifetimes.’ Dan broke the awkward silence before either of anyone could ask for clarification. ‘I was contacted by a young woman who, as it turns out, is my biological daughter.’ More silence. He cleared his throat. ‘A DNA test confirmed it.’ A gesture of supplication to Fiona. ‘I know you warned us at Uni. So it shouldn’t be such a great surprise the seed has sprouted horns.’ ‘That fertility research programme?’ Fiona asked. Dan nodded. ‘I suspect it was less a research programme than a supply and demand arrangement. Or perhaps the research part was economic rather than medical.’ ‘How many?’ Fiona asked. ‘Forty-two, apparently.’ Fiona spluttered wine. ‘Oops!’ she said, dabbing at the Provence tablecloth. ‘That was just so unexpected.’ ‘Holy fuck!’ Simon added, in case someone had perhaps missed the scale of this revelation.
97 ‘Not quite immaculate conception,’ Dan said, touching his tic, which twitched under his fingertip. ‘Did you really say forty-two?’ Simon asked. ‘I wonder if I’ve got any.’ It was his turn under the spotlight of attention. ‘You did it too?’ Evette asked. Simon wiped his mouth on a serviette. ‘We were poor Uni students.’ ‘You were never poor,’ Fiona said. ‘You very sweetly made sure we never went without food, or beer for that matter.’ ‘We were furthering the frontiers of fertility science, helping childless couples,’ Simon said to Evette. Sarah grunted, helped herself to more wine. Fiona slapped Simon on the shoulder. ‘Bullshit! Dan might have needed the money, but I think you just like wanking. Or was it the idea of creating a legion of mini-me’s?’ Simon arranged his features into a theatrical expression of hurt. ‘When exactly was this?’ Sam asked Dan. ‘Early ’80s,’ Dan replied. His appetite was gone and the aroma of chicken was making him nauseous. Sam nodded to herself. ‘So, how did she find you?’ ‘She was contacted by another one of my… um… offspring, who has stomach cancer, and is trying to track down her siblings to warn them about a genetic link. Anyway, this girl, Jacquie, the sick one, managed to get hold of old research records. They included the birth certificates attached to the donors. Jacquie told one of her siblings what she knew about me from her parents and after that apparently it wasn’t difficult to work out who I was from graduation photos.’ ‘You’re lucky,’ Sam said, ‘or unlucky, depending on how you feel about it. Most records were destroyed by clinics and hospitals. The norm back then. Some clinics even used to mix several men’s sperm together to ensure obscure paternity, or even mix it with the social father’s defective sperm, and then tell the couple to go and have sex on the night of the insemination— because,’ she made air quotes, ‘you never know.’ ‘Of course,’ Fiona said, ‘DNA testing can unravel all that.’
98 Dan read Sarah’s expression. They had discussed him confessing to his friends tonight but he knew she really wanted to be elsewhere. Anywhere. ‘What’s she like?’ Simon asked. ‘Cassie? A pleasant enough young woman. She’s a counsellor in a rehab centre. I knew she was… mine… from me.’ Dan gestured towards his eyes. ‘Same colour.’ ‘Dominant brown,’ Fiona said. ‘They’re not brown,’ Evette said, studying Dan. ‘More yellowy-ish. A bit wolf- like.’ ‘And she’s got red hair.’ ‘A recessive gene,’ Sam said. ‘It will eventually die out.’ ‘Imagine the child support,’ Evette said. Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘Honey, these are adults, these...’ He turned to Dan. ‘These, what do you call them Dan, offspring?’ ‘Or just people,’ Sam interjected, ‘donor-conceived people.’ ‘They must be in their early thirties,’ Simon said, topping up glasses. ‘I vaguely recall the nurse saying they preferred not to freeze. It was the old turkey-baster technology.’ Dan wondered why Simon was being so flippant. He looked rather pleased at the prospect that he too may have offspring. But then Simon had never had his own children and maybe now, in middle-age, he was regretting that decision. If it had been a decision. Dan realised they had never discussed it. ‘Even if they were minors, Evette,’ Dan said, staring at the pile of tomato he had scraped off the toast, ‘by law, donor-conceived offspring have no claim. Donors aren’t the legal parents. We can’t be held liable for child support, nor can the children claim inheritance.’ Simon suddenly remembered the chicken and rushed to rescue it, Evette in his wake. They returned carrying trays with two singed birds surrounded by shrivelled potatoes. ‘Free range and hormone free,’ Evette assured everyone. Simon carved and served, asking each guest for their preferences; thigh, breast or parson’s flap.
99 ‘Speaking of breasts,’ he said, ‘I’m so busy at the moment, I’m going to have to get another doctor in.’ ‘I thought with the mining downturn,’ Sarah said, ‘there’d be less work for plastic surgeons. Less wives and girlfriends spending their partner’s living away from home allowance.’ ‘Not to mention daughters,’ Fiona added. ‘I’m inundated with fixing up bad jobs done overseas, and there’s still a steady stream of women wanting the PIP implants replaced. You know, the French ones that contained the cheap industrial-grade silicone, that had a habit of leaking into the blood stream. And the first timers are getting younger and younger. It used to mainly be women after they’d stopped having children, now I’m getting girls 17, 18, 19, wanting to have breasts like Kim Kardashian.’ ‘I hope you’re discouraging them,’ Sam said. ‘I do, I try, but if I can’t change their mind, they’ll just go elsewhere, so they might as well have it done properly.’ ‘How many of your children know about you?’ Fiona asked, diverting the conversation back to Dan. ‘Or that you even exist for that matter?’ He did his imitation Gallic shrug, wishing Simon’s conversational deviation had put an end to the topic of Dan Adams—sperm donor. ‘If the girl with cancer is trying to dig them up,’ Sarah said, ‘we’ll be meeting them all soon enough.’ Dan drowned his chicken in gravy before speaking. ‘Cassie told me Jacquie’s only speaking to the parents. She only left her contact details with Cassie’s father because he confirmed Cassie had been told about her conception. Cassie knew about a donor, just not who I was. Jacquie was apparently only told by her parents because of the cancer. It’s just a guess, but the rest of them have probably never been told.’ ‘Aren’t you curious about them?’ Evette asked. ‘It’s not that I feel the need to get to know them. But I can’t help feeling in some way responsible for them.’ Or if he was honest, guilty. Dan assigned that emotion to a primitive male part of his brain, which insisted he had abandoned each one of them, like leaving behind a baby in the park, expecting someone to find it and take care of it.
100 ‘Will you see this … what did you say her name was again?’ Simon asked. ‘Cassie.’ Dan swallowed a mouthful of dry chicken. ‘She wants to.’ He took a swig of wine to wash it down his throat. Evette began collecting the plates, bearing little piles of charcoal. ‘So, if this Cassie has no financial hold over you, what do you think she wants?’ she asked, reaching for Dan’s plate. ‘She just wanted to meet me. She was curious about what I was like.’ ‘As you would be,’ Fiona added. ‘There’s all sort of reasons,’ Sam said, ‘why she might want to meet the man who helped create her.’ ‘That’s right,’ Dan interrupted, ‘medical history is important. By the way, Andrew’s responding to treatment.’ ‘You been tested yet?’ Fiona asked. Dan shook his head. ‘Doctors,’ Fiona said, ‘Look after humanity but forget themselves.’ ‘I’m more of a neuroscientist.’ Sam twirled her wine glass in her hand as she spoke. ‘Donor-conceived people have also talked about a sense of identity. They feel somehow incomplete, like there’s a piece of a puzzle missing.’ ‘Like adopted kids,’ Fiona suggested. ‘Yes, but different,’ Sam said. ‘Adopted kids have more of a story to draw on, assuming they were told they were adopted—mother too young or incapable of bringing up a child, or parents dead. There’s no story with the donor parent. It’s less than a one-night stand. There’s no coming together of mother and father. No emotional bond, or fleeting attraction at least. The parents usually haven’t even met each other.’ Dan fixated on the tattoo on Sam’s wrist. Sarah sometimes wrote on her hand, things to remember to get from the shops. What would you need to have tattooed on your skin as a daily reminder? One of his students had the word “breathe” tattooed on her arm. Could you forget to do that? ‘Let me get this straight,’ Evette said, ‘So now, if you donate sperm—’ ‘Or eggs, or embryo,’ Sam interjected.
101 ‘What happens? Can they find out who the donor is?’ ‘In WA,’ Sam said, ‘when they’re 16.’ ‘But only if their parents have told them,’ Dan said. ‘There’s nothing on their birth certificate to say that the mother or father are not the biological parents. And there’s no legal requirement to tell them.’ ‘Correct,’ Sam said. ‘But at our clinic, we encourage parents to be open to the idea of revealing the child’s conception to them. It’s much harder if they find out later in life.’ Evette set the table for dessert. Sarah reached for her handbag by her legs. ‘Kids?’ Dan asked her after she excused herself. Sarah might have been going to the bathroom but Dan guessed she’d be checking her phone too. Her mobile had beeped a few times before she had finally switched it to silent. She was getting more addicted to technology than their children. For a moment Sarah’s face was blank. ‘Just a few messages from The Girls.’ ‘Anyone for sticky wine?’ Simon asked. ‘We got this great one last weekend in Margaret River.’ Simon poured drinks for those with raised hands. Dan placed a flat palm over his glass. He had designated himself key-man, still doing penance, at least in Sarah’s eyes. And he knew she would need alcohol to deal with tonight. ‘Tell them that story about the donor over east,’ Fiona urged Sam. Sam ran a hand threw her fringe, guiding it away from her eyes. ‘Several years ago, a sperm donor in New South Wales admitted to donating over four hundred times at several different clinics, including nearly three hundred times at one particularly prestigious one. It’s not known how many children he’s created or whether any of them know they are donor-conceived. And there’s a man in the UK who may have been responsible for up to 600 children.’ Evette gasped. ‘He was the doctor in a fertility clinic run by his wife, Mrs Barton. Nothing like having your donor on tap. The children conceived are collectively known as The Barton Brood.’ ‘Sounds like you’re an underachiever, mate,’ Simon said to Dan. ‘Why would anyone do that?’ Evette asked, serving the petite fours. ‘World domination?’ Fiona suggested, glancing at Simon.
102 ‘That’s so wrong,’ Evette said. ‘How many times did you two donate?’ Simon and Dan looked at each other. ‘A half dozen times,’ Simon said. ‘I can’t honestly remember.’ ‘It was over a couple of years,’ Dan admitted, neglecting to add, at least weekly. He felt his cheeks redden. Was everyone in the room imagining him hunched over a specimen jar? Dan the wanker, and he even has the paperwork to prove it. ‘How do you feel about it all, Sarah?’ Fiona asked when she returned. ‘Personally,’ Sarah said, holding up her hands, ‘I don’t want to be involved. Chloe and Jack are old enough to make up their own minds.’ ‘What’s written on your wrist?’ Dan finally asked Sam, out of a combination of curiosity and a strong desire to deflect the conversation. Sam held out her arm and Dan recognised the joining hexagons which represented the chemical compound for oxytocin. ‘The cuddle chemical,’ Fiona said, taking Sam’s arm and stroking her wrist. In response to Evette’s blank expression, Fiona added. ‘Oxytocin is the chemical that plays a role in social bonding, and sexual reproduction. We’re starting to prescribe it for mood disorders and to reduce stress.’ ‘It’s the closest chemical compound to love that we know of,’ Sam said. Dan touched his ear, addressing Sam again: ‘And the other one?’ ‘It’s a barcode,’ Sam replied. ‘It’s so I never forget that my clients are people, not numbers.’
103 JACQUIE
‘It’s open,’ a voice responded to Jacquie’s knock. He glanced up from his computer screen. ‘I don’t mind if it’s a signature you need but these aren’t my consulting hours. If it’s anything more, can you come back tomorrow?’ This is him, Jacquie thought. Spectacles, thinning hair, a forgettable face. He was a stranger and yet she carried half his genetic material. Including the part responsible for the disease rampaging through her cells. There was no pull of genetic kinship. No primal recognition of their connection. Had she expected one? He beckoned to her, removed his glasses and laid them on the desk. The irises were a familiar gold. Was that why he was staring at her so intensely? Was it because he had recognised her, or himself in her? ‘How can I help?’ Beyond bringing me into existence? ‘So, you’re Donor 747.’ His mouth opened, closed. ‘Jacquie?’ She waited for an invitation to sit down. He scurried past her to shut the door. His office walls were lined with shelves of books and journals, interspersed with various framed degrees and prints of scientists. The largest, just above where her donor sat, was a portrait of Charles Darwin. She only knew that because his name was printed below the serious, mutton-chopped face. Through a window was a landscaped garden in which a male peacock strutted. It squawked to impress a peahen and fanned its glorious tail. Jacquie pointed to the portrait. ‘What do you think he would have made of my situation? Do I sit outside evolution? Or is that not possible?’ ‘Well, I suppose it’s obvious to point out that you would not be here had your parents not used technology to overcome their infertility. Your father’s genes were destined to meet the end of the line, but my DNA meant that your mother’s DNA could continue.’ ‘Only to die out before her.’
104 ‘Your existence is still part of the evolution paradigm because humans, such a cunning and innovative species, have invented tools to solve our problems. This is why we are the most prevalent alpha predator on the planet. Science is part of culture, entwined with evolution.’ ‘But how does evolution keep up with science?’ ‘That’s the billion-dollar question. Our brains, designed in the stone age, have to deal with situations unimaginable in the Pleistocene area.’ The safe small-talk of big ideas deserted her. Her face flushed hot with anger at the sight of this man who had created her and then abandoned her. At least Victor Frankenstein hung around long enough for the birth of his monster. She wanted to ask Professor Adams what had motivated him. Had it been an act of charity? To help a childless couple? Or did he believe his genes were so bloody amazing they should be spread about? Or was it just the cash? Just as suddenly the anger drained. Where had it come from? She had been blessed with supportive and loving parents. She could not have chosen better for herself. And yet here she was, compelled to speak to him, despite Cassie telling her how cold and unfriendly he’d been. Perhaps he was just shy, or understandably nervous, meeting his adult daughters for the first time. He touched his mouth. It appeared to be some sort of obsessive movement with him. She searched her own behaviour for similar aberrant actions. Did she tug at her eyelashes too often? Twirl her hair relentlessly? ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t give a crap about how Charles Darwin might have classified me. I’m only here for my medical history.’ ‘Shall I start with me?’ Jacquie nodded. ‘I’ve suffered from stomach aches for as long as I can remember and been variously diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome, food allergies, lazy bowel, and … once had a depressive episode.’ ‘But you still donated?’ ‘Had I known I might pass on a faulty gene, of course I’d never have donated— but back then I was invincible, at least in the physical sense.’ ‘What about your parents. Any history of GI cancer?’
105 ‘My brother, twin. He’s had a bit of a scare with bowel cancer.’ ‘It’s in the family.’ ‘I’m sorry, Jacquie. Cassie told me about your diagnosis and,’ he paused, ‘prognosis.’ ‘I wasn’t going to contact you. For many reasons. It’s my siblings I’m concerned about.’ ‘Can I help in any way?’ ‘I’m not making as much progress as I hoped to. I’m starting with the parents, to find out whether their children know. But I’m having trouble finding them. They might have moved interstate, overseas, some have died and no doubt some have lied to me when I asked if they have a donor-conceived child. It appears that your existence is a family secret that’s going to a lot of graves.’ ‘Have you considered a private investigator?’ Jacquie rubbed at the purplish crescents under her eyes. ‘They’re very expensive.’ Not that she had to plan for retirement. Just a funeral. Medicare was covering most of her medical costs and her parents had set her up with a bank account with several thousand dollars. An early inheritance, she thought grimly, only they would be in her will rather than the other way around. ‘I’d rather handle it myself for now. I want to keep myself occupied. But it’s an option. And Cassie’s said she’ll help.’ ‘What else would you like to know?’ he asked. Why was she here? She’d told Cassie that she wasn’t interested in meeting her donor. She had a father. She wanted only to save her siblings from her fate. ‘I want to know everything. I want to know what parts of me have come from you, what’s come from my mother, and what’s rubbed off from the man I call my father. I am the great social experiment: nature versus nurture. How much time do you have?’
106 DAN
Dan didn’t hear the car that must have dropped Sarah off, but the bird registered her approach with its annoying ring tone. He watched her walk from the street, wearing a new dress and high heels that were a danger to her ankles. He had tried calling earlier in the evening. Not for any reason, really, except to ask whether she knew if Jack was eating at home. She’d left clear instructions on how long to microwave the lasagne. He and Chloe had eaten together, and during dinner discussed her postgraduate enrolment at The Royal School of Veterinary Studies in Edinburgh. Sarah didn’t bother seeking him out. There was a time when they did that. Proper hellos and goodbyes. When he heard the shower running in their ensuite he remembered she had asked him to hang out the clothes in the washing machine and bring in the ones on the line. He had time to do that before she found him out. A car turned into the driveway and Dan peered out the window. It was Jack. His son didn’t leave the house very often and when he did, Dan had no idea where he went. Tori rang again, the sound amplified by the stillness of the night. He was tempted to set the galah free but he couldn’t have faced Chloe’s wrath if she found out. On the day she had saved it from euthanasia, she had explained that it was featherless from some disease. Tori had bonded with her as his new “mate” and the ringing was his anxious call for her. She was using a behaviour modification technique to discourage the noise but it didn’t appear to be working. Dr Doolittle was also knitting the scabby creature a winter outfit. Something like a sock, but open at both ends. Where had she come from, this child obsessed with the animal kingdom? Dan experienced a sense of ease when all the family members were safely back in the cave at night. His children were adults yet the urge to protect them from the world remained. Chloe more so, probably because she was female, beautiful, and trusting. The teenage years had been the most difficult, anxiously waiting for them to return from parties, drinking endless cups of black coffee, anticipating the phone call to collect them from somewhere. He had preferred being woken up in the middle of the night rather than them risking taxis or friends who were drunk behind a steering wheel. It was comforting that they were never far from their phones, these external organs for living, though they often forgot to charge them. When Chloe was in high
107 school he had, with Jack’s help, installed a GPS tracker on her iPhone. She was outraged when she discovered what they’d done but Dan remained unapologetic when it came to her safety. It was later he found out they’d done the same to him, and Sarah; tracking their parent’s movements. Jack was ratting through the fridge when Dan walked through the kitchen on the way to bed. His son’s night was just starting. He’d soon be firing up the computer, putting on his headphones with the mic and talking loudly and laughing like a maniac all through the night. This coincidence of time zones was an opportunity to have another little chat about his computer use. Before Jack had left school, Dan had been able to control it using a combination of parental control settings and physically switching off the modem at 11pm. When he had tried the same tactic six months ago Jack had stomped into Dan’s bedroom, fists clenched by his side, eyes scrunched up with anger. He’d been in the middle of a game, he’d shouted, and if his father did that again, he’d leave home. ‘My house, my rules,’ Dan had replied, stunned by the outburst from his usually inanimate son. ‘Fuck!’ Jack had yelled. ‘You have no idea,’ he had added, before slamming the bedroom door behind him. All Dan could do now was attempt to guide and educate. The problem was that Jack found the virtual world so much more interesting than the real one. In his research Dan came across teenagers who spent ten hours a day or more online, and the game playing was manifesting in a neural effect similar to those seen in the brains of alcoholics and cocaine addicts. The internet addicts’ brain scans revealed less density in areas related to self-awareness, error detection and self-control. But he’d been through all this with Jack before, to be met with the blank wall of his face. Dan suspected he had failed his son. He hadn’t tried hard enough to distract him with other activities. But Jack had shown no interest in golf, fishing, rugby or tennis. Chloe had horse-riding and her studies to moderate her online existence, and anyway, the female brain was less susceptible to addictions, at least those involving gaming or porn. ‘Hey, Jack!’ Dan said, ignoring the misdemeanour of drinking directly from a carton of milk.
108 ‘Hey, Dad!’ Jack mimicked, replacing the milk carton and wiping the milk moustache from his three-day growth onto the back of his hand. A stale miasma hung about his body and clothes. Was his son too old to have the hygiene conversation again? ‘We need to talk about screen time, again. You know how I feel about it. It’s my job, researching what it’s doing to your brain.’ Jack held up a hand. ‘Dad, please. I’m old enough to make these decisions for myself. And I can’t talk right now, there’s a LOL championship starting.’ ‘No, Jack. You can talk right now. You’re still living under my roof, albeit as a boarder rather than someone who contributes in any way.’ Jack sighed. ‘Not this again.’ ‘Yes, this again.’ ‘I’ll move out.’ ‘On what? You don’t even have a job?’ ‘Dad, you still don’t get it, do you? I’m way richer than you.’ ‘That’s very poetic. But how are you going to pay rent, food, not to mention internet and phone bills.’ ‘Let me show you something.’ Jack strode towards his bedroom. Dan hesitated at the invitation, but followed. Jack flicked his mouse and the computer blinked to life. He opened Internet Explorer, a PayPal site and a Westpac banking site, and typed in his credentials. ‘Look!’ Dan stared at the figure Jack was pointing to. Over one hundred thousand dollars! The PayPal account held several thousand. ‘Oh my God! How did you get this?’ ‘I worked for it.’ ‘Doing?’ ‘Advertisers pay me.’ ‘Pay you for what? To play games?’ ‘Commentaries on games. It’s totally legit.’ ‘Promise me it’s not drug dealing on the Dark Web.’ ‘Dad!’ ‘Why would anyone pay you?’
109 ‘I’m somewhat of a celebrity in what you derisively call The Matrix.’ Jack played one of his more popular YouTube videos. At first bewildered by the puerility of it, Dan relaxed and laughed at a few of his son’s ridiculous comments on the death of a digital avatar. A new chapter in Dan’s book began to take form. ‘Does your mother know about this?’ ‘I didn’t even realise myself how quickly I’d accumulated it. It’s not something I check that often.’ Dan stared at his son. Did he believe him? Or was his son being duped by some international criminal syndicate? ‘Dad, the LOL championship’s starting.’ Jack adjusted his head set and the mic in front of his mouth. ‘Let’s talk more about this tomorrow. You can explain how it works to your mother and I.’ Jack held up a hand, a wave goodnight or a dismissal, and entered his other world. Sarah’s presence in their bedroom was signalled by a small blue light flashing in the darkness. Unanswered messages. He thought about waking her to ask if she knew about Jack’s double-life but decided against it. He remembered the washing, still wet in the machine. He’d get to it before Sarah. Tomorrow.
110 CASSIE
Toby barked a friendly hello and sniffed Cassie, tail wagging with delight at the new human. He stood on his hind legs to better welcome her. Cassie thrust at Dan a bunch of old-ladyish hydrangeas and rushed towards the bird who was squawking in some foreign Asian language. ‘I wouldn’t do that!’ Dan warned. Too late. The bird lunged at her. Cassie yanked back her finger from inside the cage, swearing. ‘Not a very nice welcome,’ she said, investigating the injury. A flap of skin hung loose but there was little blood. ‘Apparently, Chloe is the only one who can touch it.’ Dan handed her his hanky, which she wound around her finger before thrusting her hand into her jacket. ‘I’ll find a Band-Aid.’ ‘I think I’m almost as nervous about meeting the rest of the family as I was about meeting you,’ Cassie said, her words drowned by Tori’s telephone. ‘They’re looking forward to it,’ Dan said. In fact it was only Chloe who had showed any enthusiasm about meeting Cassie. In primary school she had pleaded with her parents to provide her with a little sister; a companion and an ally against Jack. His daughter hadn’t seen the point of another brother as Jack had only been an irritant in her life. The sibling rivalry had been so intense Sarah had wanted to drag them off for counselling. A long conversation with Fiona changed her mind. It’s natural, Fiona had told Sarah. You want them to fight while they’re still in the litter. It’s Mother Nature’s antidote to incest. Would you really feel comfortable with them sitting on the couch as teenagers stroking each other while they watched TV? Nature designed them to hiss and spit at each other. Dan hoped that Chloe and Jack would grow closer as they got older and he and Sarah faded out of the picture in their dotage. He pictured his children sharing Christmas and their own children’s birthdays. He tried to insert Cassie into the scenes but it didn’t seem quite right.
111 She waited while he found a Band-Aid, unwrapped it and wound it around her finger. ‘There’s no rule book for how to do this.’ ‘Yes there is. I Googled it.’ ‘Really? What did it say?’ Her grin confirmed she was teasing him. Dan led Cassie through to the family room, Toby trailing, still sniffing at her legs. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ ‘I’d love a glass of social lubricant. White, if you have it.’ ‘Chardonnay, Riesling, Chenin Blanc or Semillon Sav Blanc?’ ‘House white’s fine.’ ‘Excellent choice, madam!’ He was trying too hard, he knew it. Unsure of her preference, he had put all varieties in the fridge that morning. The reds lined up on the bench, from a delicate Pinot to a heavy, peppery Barossa Valley Shiraz. Sarah was waiting in the kitchen for her summons, thumbing her iPhone. He poured the wine and she followed him, an unconvincing smile pasted on her face. When he entered the lounge room again, he was surprised to see Chloe and Cassie already deep in conversation. Both women looked up and smiled. The same eyes and similar golden blonde hair, though Cassie’s colour he knew came from a bottle. Chloe wore hers in a shorter, styled cut. Dan never quite recovered from the line on the credit card statement which showed what he paid Maurice Meade for a wash, cut and blow dry. He doubted Cassie had that sort of money to spend. Sarah held out her hand as Dan introduced them. Cassie rose and shook it. Dan passed Cassie her wine. ‘Anything for you, Chloe?’ ‘Wouldn’t mind but I’m driving up to The Shack to visit Chester after lunch. He’s not long for this world, poor darling. I’ve just been telling Cassie about him. He can barely stand with the arthritis.’ There had been several intense family discussions about euthanizing Chester before Chloe left for the UK. Dan had bought the ex-race horse that had never managed to place after Chloe begged him for years. Just before she began her final year in primary school he had rashly promised that if she achieved all As on her end- of-year report card, he’d buy her a horse. She was more right-brained than him and
112 struggled with maths if it wasn’t rote-learned formulas, but she had worked her backside off and managed the perfect scorecard. He had also bought the Jarrahdale property for Chester to live on. A savvy investment, or so he thought at the time. He had paid for the horse’s and the house’s upkeep ever since. Chloe had never repeated her stellar academic performance; perhaps because she spent so much time horse-riding and rescuing animals. She had slipped into Vet studies via the back door—‘the only thing she ever wanted to do in her whole life’—after he had helped her write a long letter addressed to the Dean of Veterinary Science, a man Dan knew well through shared research studies and conferences. ‘Cassie says she always wanted a horse too,’ Chloe said, ‘but her parents couldn’t afford one.’ ‘I’d have made do with a dog or a cat, or a guinea pig,’ Cassie hesitated, ‘but Gary was allergic to fur and Mum didn’t want the expense after he left us. One day I snuck home with a white rat I’d bought from the pet store, thinking that I could keep it hidden in my room. When Mum found out, she took it outside and drowned it in a bucket.’ Chloe covered her mouth. ‘That’s awful!’ ‘I’ve got my dog now but I’m afraid I’m too old for a horse. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’ ‘You’re not too old at all. And I bet I can teach you to ride before I go to Edinburgh if you like. We can’t ride Chester, though. He needs to gallop off to the big paddock in the sky but I keep putting it off. Our neighbour, who looks after him, lets me ride his horses in return for some free unqualified veterinary services. What about you come with me to Jarrahdale next weekend?’ The words hung between them. The implications of Chloe’s offer sinking in. This was not a one-off curiosity show. The future was being discussed and plans made. ‘Why don’t we move outside?’ Sarah suggested. ‘Dan, can you light the barbie?’ Dan addressed Chloe: ‘Can you go wake up Sleeping Handsome, please?’
113 Since Jack’s revelation about his YouTube career, Dan had become slightly less concerned with his nocturnal existence, reframing his thinking— his son worked night-shift. Jack was going to make an appearance in his new book, in a chapter on how the internet might impact on sleep patterns. He’d send a research minion around to interview Jack and find some more nocturnal Net-preneurs like him. Sarah had been shocked at the amount of money Jack had accumulated but like Dan, happy to be convinced it wasn’t ill-gained, was proud of his ability to take advantage of the new digital economy. As they made their way to the back deck Cassie’s gaze roamed, taking in the domestic details of the Adams’ lives. She lingered before the family portraits and school photos, artwork, bookshelves. Dan imagined it through her eyes, the luxurious leather couches and the ridiculously expensive Bose sound system built into the ceiling. Outside, the immaculate garden he paid someone to tend. Another man was paid to mow the lawn and another to keep his pool clean. There was even a man who was rung to come and clean and detail the cars. The relentless accumulation of things which he’d only been able to afford because of a one-off publishing success. He needed another stellar performer if he was going to be able to keep up the maintenance. While the steaks and veggie patties cooked, Cassie entertained them with stories from her work at Serenity Lodge, making them laugh at the antics of the residents before firing off questions like a journalist interviewing for a piece in the weekend magazine. The conversation was not at all stilted and awkward as Dan had feared it might be. She was fitting right in, not as a daughter or sister, but more like a long-lost cousin coming for a visit. Jack joined them as Dan transferred sizzling meat to the plates, careful not to let it contaminate the vegetarian food, at least not while Chloe was watching. While they ate it was Jack’s turn to feel the high beam of Cassie’s attention. Dan was amazed by what Cassie extracted from his taciturn son about his music tastes, his plans for the future, his friends and his online activities. ‘YouTube,’ Jack explained, ‘might have started off with parents with camcorders recording their kids doing cute things like biting a little brother’s finger, but it’s a whole different ball game now. These days it’s pro. Thousands of channels
114 devoted to personalities and products. The most popular videos are filmed by teenagers using Red Epic cameras and three-point lighting to film themselves. Do you know that this year DreamWorks bought AwesomenessTV, a company that manages YouTube stars, for 33 million dollars?’ ‘YouTube stars?’ Cassie repeated. ‘Apparently Jack is one,’ Chloe said. ‘I’m small-time compared to PewDiePie. He’s this awesome Swedish guy who has thirty-two million subscribers and earns four million dollars a year.’ ‘For playing computer games?’ Sarah asked. ‘Yes, but it’s his live-snarks that separate him from the crowd.’ ‘English translation?’ Sarah asked. ‘You know, voiceover commentary of the battle action.’ ‘Like Richie Benaud?’ Dan asked. Only Sarah rolled her eyes, at least acknowledging the attempt at humour with his reference to the recently retired octogenarian cricket commentator. ‘Brain research is showing,’ Dan continued, ‘that the millennial generation hasn’t the patience to watch even a half-hour show. The Internet is re-wiring brains, affecting thought processes. We’re getting scatterbrained, just pecking at bits of information here and there.’ ‘Then your research is crap,’ Chloe said. ‘I’ve stayed up all night and watched a whole season of Game of Thrones non-stop. How’s that for concentration?’ Only Cassie showed any interest in Dan’s research. After coffee was served, Cassie asked if she could take a few pics. She posed with each one of them in turn, though Sarah made some excuse, escaping from the photoshoot to the kitchen. Chloe announced she had to leave and asked Cassie to send her a Facebook friend request. Jack went back to his bedroom. Dan waited for Cassie to announce her departure too, but it was late afternoon when she finally said she had to get to work. He accompanied her to the front door. ‘It’s been really bizarre.’ ‘I know what you mean.’
115 Cassie bent down and scratched Toby. ‘On one level it was easy, being surrounded by strangers, but ones who look kind of like me. I’m related to Chloe and Jack and heard so many echoes of myself in them but I don’t know them. At least not yet.’ He’d been doing the same mental exercise, comparing Cassie to Chloe, Jack, and himself. ‘And now my sister is heading overseas.’ Sister? Yes, technically, Dan thought. ‘I’m not ready for her to go. I’ll miss her and all her animal rescue stories.’ There was an unsettling intensity to Cassie’s expression. ‘You did wonders with Jack. He said more than three words at the dinner table, which is a miracle.’ ‘Can I see your feet?’ Cassie asked, at the same time thrusting out her sandaled foot, each toe painted with a dark purple polish, which at first glance looked like bruises. ‘See how my little toe sits over the next one? I used to wonder if that came from you.’ Dan slipped off his deck shoes, wriggled his toes. ‘Nope. Didn’t get those mutant toes from me!’ Cassie giggled like a school girl. Then she sighed. ‘I’m stuffed. My face hurts from smiling. I’ll have an early night tonight.’ ‘I thought you said you were on evening shift?’ ‘I’m thinking of calling in sick.’
116 * * *
to: [email protected] from: [email protected] date: Mon, May 5, 2014 at 3:15 PM subject: Hello!
Dear Professor Adams,
My name is Dr Charlotte Heath. Jacquie Hopper has recently contacted me to warn me about a potential genetic link for GI cancer.
Where do I start! Jacquie told me I am your biological daughter. One of 42. Now that took a while to process!
I never believed I would be writing to you though I have imagined contacting you at various times in my life. I was told when I was five about how I’d been conceived. About my dad not being able to have children of his own (because he very likely had the genes for Huntington’s Disease he didn’t want to pass on to a child) and a very nice man called a “donor” helping out. I suggested to my parents they should get this donor a present because he had made me, which made them so happy.
It didn’t sink in that you were a real person until I was about 11.
I have never had the concept of you as my father. You were always my absent donor and I wanted to meet you for a drink on my 18th but that passed, my 21st, but that passed … I wanted to meet you when I graduated Medicine, got married and had kids … but that too passed.
Now you have become a real person I’d like to know you beyond the vague description that my parents gave me from a Polaroid and their recall of your vital stats.
Coincidently, I have been reading your text books over the last few years about how technology is affecting our lives. They’ve been helpful in my line of work as a GP. I’m too often referring children, mainly boys, to psychologists for gaming addiction. But there’s also girls and their toxic relationship to Instagram. Would love to talk more about it with you.
I won’t rabbit on about myself but if you’re interested in meeting, then please tell me when you are free. I work three days a week at a surgery in Applecross but have Fridays off – a work-life balance thing.
Best wishes,
117 Dr Charlotte Heath. p.s. I also made contact with Cassie Robertson. She told me you were a little freaked out by finding out about us and was unsure about meeting us all but I just want you to know that I really don’t need anything from you. I have the most amazing father. He knows I’m contacting you and is very supportive.
to: [email protected] from: [email protected] date: Tues, May 6, 2014 at 6:08pm subject: fw Hello!
Dear Charlotte
Thank you for your email. Jacquie told me I could expect to hear from you. Of course I’d like to meet you. My schedule’s a little hectic at the moment but I’m generally free on Friday afternoons.
Best wishes, Dan
118 DAN
As Dan drove along Canning Highway he replayed in his mind his meeting with Charlotte at the Raffles Hotel. He had arrived before her and waited in the upstairs lounge, far from the madding Friday afternoon crowd, so they could talk in private and admire the view of the Swan River as it flowed under Canning Bridge. Her entrance at the top of the stairs drew attention from the male patrons, perhaps female ones as well. How had he produced such a stunning woman? Charlotte was intelligent, confident and witty, and she left him feeling less guilt about abandoning his genes to the wilderness. On the other hand, he had experienced a sense of forfeiture for not having had her in his life, her willowy grace and beauty. She hadn’t dwelt on the negative aspects to her conception that seemed to plague Cassie; the loss of relatives and the lack of understanding about who she was because she did not know, in the genetic sense, where she had come from. Well- adjusted and well-balanced, Charlotte was the poster girl for donor conception. He had asked her if she felt in some way different or marked. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Some people are created in a petri dish when a couple pay a scientist; some people are born because a man and a woman get drunk. There are different ways of being conceived. Mine was just one of them.’ ‘Dad got a vasectomy after his brother was diagnosed with Huntington’s disease.’ While her father had never developed the degenerative disorder, if Frank Heath had harboured the mutant gene he had a 50% chance of passing it onto a child and he had not been willing to take that risk. ‘Before 1993 there wasn’t an available test to discover if someone carried the Huntington’s gene and even after one became available Dad decided against being tested for it.’ Charlotte twirled the stem of her wine glass between elegant fingers, her nails unpainted but shaped. ‘Fortunately, he appears to be in the clear.’ Charlotte expressed her great respect and admiration for her father’s decision to use donor sperm, giving up the chance of having his own genetically-related child to avoid passing on the inheritable disease. The irony had not been lost on her when Jacquie made contact to warn her about the possible inheritance of a gene for GI
119 cancer from their donor. Initial tests showed she was clear but she had booked herself in for a colonoscopy. Dan admitted he was yet to do that. She had encouraged Dan to discuss his research and at the end of an hour Dan realised he had monopolised the conversation explaining the ideas in his current book. It had been a very enjoyable encounter that Dan was eager to repeat over a quality bottle of red and on neutral territory, away from Sarah’s judgment. In Charlotte’s case at least, he could tick the box for this child having grown up in a loving environment and feel good about the part he had played to bring her into existence. If only he could know others had experienced similar lives, he could throw off the disquiet that he was responsible for setting off a chain reaction that was inevitably leading to some dark Oedipal tragedy. He switched off autopilot as he pulled into the carpark of The Oriental Massage House, unable to remember how he got there. The sign out the front this time advertised a discount for morning massages. He’d have to pay full price. The bell announced his arrival and a petite Asian woman appeared. Something about her features suggested she was Thai, rather than Chinese, though he was no judge of the ethnic diversity of Asia. Amporn had been from Thailand. ‘Full body massage?’ she asked. Had she emphasised “full”? ‘Yes please.’ ‘You bin here afore?’ ‘Once.’ ‘Oil or dry? Oil extra.’ ‘Oil, please.’ ‘You follow me.’ ‘Where are you from?’ Dan asked, addressing her back. ‘Near Crown Casino,’ she eventually replied, as they entered the darkened room. He didn’t bother clarifying his question, not really caring about her country of origin. It was just polite conversation. Before leaving the room she asked him to take off his clothes and lie down. It was the same looping synthesised rainforest mediation music from his last visit and if he didn’t tune it out, his massage would induce stress, not reduce it.
120 Oil dripped onto his back. It smelt different from the last time, redolent of Vicks Vapour Rub, or Tiger Balm. ‘What’s in the oil?’ he mumbled. ‘Chinese herbs.’ She worked at his neck, stretching out the tight tendons, and then moved to his shoulder blades, digging deep under them. The friction of skin and the oil, seeping into his back muscles, induced a pleasant chemical heat. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘Rudee.’ ‘Ruby?’ ‘No. Rudee. It mean pleasure, in Thai.’ ‘This certainly feels very nice, thank you.’ She tugged his jocks down and massaged his lower back and buttocks with her forearm. ‘This not proper Thai massage,’ she said. ‘No?’ Dan grunted, as she moved to his outer thighs, concentrating on his iliotibial band until he thought he might faint from the pain. ‘We no use oil for massage in Thailand. People leave clothes on. No rubbing like this. Just pulling and moving to get rid of, how do you say, bad energy.’ ‘Why d’you do it like this then?’ ‘This is what customer want. This is what my boss say to do.’ Working on his feet, she pressed each bone in his foot, then pulled at each toe. ‘Turn over please.’ She held out the towel. Dan kept his eyes shut, conscious his body was betraying him again. She moved to the other end of the table and he felt light pressure at the top of his head where her stomach touched him as she leaned over him to rub his chest, stretching so far her breasts brushed against his face. Dan tried to keep his mind from straying into the past. Live in the moment, he commanded himself. But images of Amporn still materialised. And then the face changed, metamorphosed into Charlotte, hovering around him in a bikini, whispering in his ear something about taking her to the beach to build sand castles. He wiped that vision, only for Amporn to return. Dan sensed the massage was coming to an end when Rudee began noisily cupping his skin, then her fist gently banged his arms and legs. When no part of his
121 body was being touched he remained still, reluctant to open his eyes, not yet ready to return to the world. Her warm breath slid into his ear. ‘You want wank wank?’ He croaked his reply. ‘Yes.’ That was exactly what he wanted. The towel was whipped away and oil trickled onto his groin. Rudee turned and faced the wall as her warm hand grasped him, almost behind her back. He shut his eyes again, pretending this wasn’t happening. Perhaps she was doing the same. He should tell her to stop, this was a mistake, but the words caught in his throat. And he didn’t want her to stop. He was once again in the lounge room of 11 Millington Street, Amporn massaging his thighs, going higher and higher. After his step-mother had stroked him two or three times, Dan had disgraced himself. Before the spasms had finished he was dashing to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and swayed under the hot needling water. Coated in sweet almond oil mixed with ylang-ylang his skin was waterproof. He turned on the cold tap and shocked his lungs into taking a deep breath but swallowed water instead, and for a moment felt as though he was drowning. Dan gasped and opened his eyes to see Rudee dumping a towel on top of him. She wiped him down, like he was a naughty child leaving behind particularly dirty bathwater. She balled up the towel and threw it into an overflowing linen basket. ‘Fifty dollar extra.’ Dan sat up, swivelled his legs around, and reached for his trousers. He retrieved his wallet, handed her the crisp yellow note, and began to dress.
122 DAN
Dan never intended on driving to Serenity Lodge to surprise Cassie for her birthday. He didn’t even know it was her birthday until a chance encounter with Chloe at the breakfast table. She had just finished her coffee before heading off to assist in an emergency operation on a daschund who had eaten its owner’s stockings, obstructing its bowels. ‘Hey Dad, did you get the Facebook notification? For Cassie’s birthday?’ ‘Is it?’ ‘You totally need to get the phone app.’ ‘I totally don’t.’ ‘So, are you going to see her, or just do the obligation post on her timeline?’ ‘I’m not sure you spoke English then.’ ‘Why don’t you take her out to lunch? Wait, I know. Surprise her. Take flowers to her work. And can you say hi from me? She’s going to come back to Jarrahdale with me after I pick up Chester’s ashes. We’re going to have a little ceremony and bury them at The Shack. She was so sweet, she helped me administer the green dream and looked after me when I was a mess for hours after. We drank a bottle of Vodka and she just let me babble on and on about him and everything that’s ever made me sad. I bet she’s an awesome counsellor—really good at just listening. Then she cooked me dinner and tucked me into bed with one of Chester’s old blankets on top of me.’ ‘You know I would have come too, if you’d asked. I’ll come to Chester’s ceremony, if you like.’ ‘Cassie told me she wanted to be a vet too you know, but she didn’t finish year 12 because her mother killed herself just before she had to do her finals. Did she tell you that? Found her drowned in a bath after she’d taken all these prescription pills she’d saved up.’ In the past few weeks Cassie had sent him several texts and emails proposing dates and times to meet but he always seemed to have something on. Including this evening, his regular date night with Sarah. A restaurant meal was standard for a date night but the idea was that husband and wife also attempted to surprise each other
123 with another activity—movie, theatre, concert tickets or occasionally something more imaginative. Date night was the only night of the week there was any chance they'd make love. The possibility increased if Dan agreed to go skipper and Sarah got drunk at dinner. Back home she was more open to a cuddle, their marital code for sex. Their marriage counsellor had suggested it as ‘a strategy to maintain your connection’ and so far date night had been the repair kit for their relationship while friends and acquaintances separated left, right and centre. Being together in different surrounds, trying new activities, and niggling resentments disappeared with a few drinks and a shared laugh. Tonight was Dan’s turn to decide where and what they’d do but he had not yet come up with a plan. He wanted to suggest they go away somewhere, once Chloe had flown out, reconnect their increasingly separate lives. The incident at the Oriental Massage House was a serious lapse in judgement but Sarah had been so distant from him recently, barely acknowledging him, tuning out when he spoke to her. And there was certainly no loving in the bedroom, not since Cassie’s Facebook post. He didn’t need to admit to his indiscretion. If he did, she’d hold it against him for the rest of their lives. After a morning lecture to a sparse second year audience he was relatively free for the day—the inbox full of essays to be marked could wait. He met a colleague for lunch at the University Club who was depressed about the prospect of his contract not being renewed. There was little Dan could say or do to help. The University was a business and businesses all over Perth were tightening their belts. Even those with tenure weren’t safe, though Dan wasn’t worried; his publishing record contributed to the University’s international ranking and his research was partially funded by industry. Sleepy after the fish special—pan-seared barramundi on a bed of wilted greens—and half a bottle of Swan Valley Chenin, he drove south at a leisurely pace. He turned up Nick Cave singing his physics song as he entered the Kwinana Freeway and crossed the Narrows Bridge, slipping into highway hypnosis. After forty minutes he took the Rockingham exit and coasted past the sprawling suburbs, which never failed to shock him because none of it existed in his memory. Four-by-two box houses
124 had flourished like fungi and at the heart of the growing organism was a super mall, providing the vital life support. He had Googled Serenity Lodge before leaving his office and according to its website it was a 43-bed residential treatment centre for people with addictions providing counselling, group therapy and recreational activities. The GPS guided him into the visitor’s car park. Dan walked into the administration entrance, clutching flowers. He asked a middle-aged woman with stringy hair and a thin face if he could speak to Cassie Robertson. The woman furrowed her eyebrows. ‘Is she the new recreations officer?’ ‘A counsellor.’ ‘Are you sure you have the right centre?’ ‘Quite sure.’ But he wasn’t any longer. He pin-pointed the moments in his memory where Cassie had mentioned her job. ‘I’ve only been here for three months but I’ve never heard of her. Let me check.’ The woman dialled a number, spoke, glanced up at Dan and then back to her computer screen before hanging up. Dan’s phone vibrated and then beeped in his pocket but he ignored it. This had been a dumb idea, turning up at Cassie’s work with flowers. One bouquet of Tiger Lilies with smiley balloon was not going to make up for missing 30-something birthdays. Though if he set this sort of precedent for his donor offspring, he might as well employ a florist. ‘The duty manager, Richard, is on his way,’ the receptionist said. ‘If you’ll take a seat, he won’t be long.’ Dan sat on a cream-coloured vinyl couch, studded with cigarette holes and smudged black. He checked his phone while he waited, reflecting on the technology dependence which compelled so many people to fiddle in every spare moment. It was a habit perhaps not as cancerous as nicotine, but it might prove one day to be every bit as dangerous to the physiology of the brain. He repeated the sentence to himself, for a debut in his latest book. Sarah had sent a text cancelling date night. One of her girlfriends was having a few drinks for her daughter’s baby-shower and she’d forgotten all about it. He began a reply reciting the counsellor’s imperative that the night was important, inviolable, not to be cancelled or rescheduled, when a man in his early thirties appeared, with
125 shoulder-length hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. He wore faded jeans and a t-shirt printed with the words: FREE HUGS. Dan shoved his phone in his pocket. ‘Hi, I’m Richard.’ ‘Not ready to hug yet,’ Dan said, shaking his hand. A flash of a smile. ‘You wanted to speak to Cassie Robertson? May I ask what’s your relationship to her?’ Dan hesitated. What was it? Did Cassie want people to know he was her biological father? He cleared his throat. ‘I’m her… a friend of hers.’ ‘Not a close one, I gather. Despite the flowers.’ Why did he say that? And then he saw how it must look. ‘Oh! Not that sort of friend.’ Cassie was young enough to be his daughter. She was his daughter. ‘She’s never worked here.’ Dan’s eyebrows shot upwards. Was dementia setting in? ‘Ah! … My mistake, no doubt,’ Dan mumbled. ‘Thanks for your time, Richard.’ He was making his escape when Richard called out. ‘Dan! Have you got a moment? We can talk in my office.’ Confused, Dan followed Richard to a windowless room with a glass screen facing the corridor. He gestured for Dan to sit. ‘Cassie Robertson has never worked here.’ ‘Yes, you said. I must have misunderstood her.’ ‘But she’s been here.’ Richard put his thumb under his chin and caressed the hair on his upper lip with a forefinger. ‘I really shouldn’t be telling you, especially as I’m not sure what you want from her. I don’t remember you ever visited her here, did you?’ ‘Ah! She was a resident.’ So, Cassie was unemployed, and an ex addict of some sort, trying to make a good first impression. This second impression wasn’t so good. He wondered what her demon was? Meth, heroin, or just plain ol’ booze? There’d be no point asking Richard about it. That information would most certainly be confidential. ‘Thank you. I appreciate you telling me.’ ‘If you see her, tell her hi from Richard. That is, if you tell her you came here. I guess it means she’ll know, you know, she lied.’
126 On the drive back Dan listened to an old Bad Seeds song, soothed by Nick Cave’s low slick voice with its indescribably malevolent quality.
Come sail your ships around me And burn your bridges down You are a little mystery to me Every time you come around…
He tried Cassie’s mobile and her voicemail message played through his car speakers. He wished her a happy birthday, hoped she was enjoying it and asked her to call him. The next call was to The Oriental Massage House. The cords in his neck were contracting and if he didn’t do something about the throbbing, it would become a migraine. Those soothing anonymous hands had woken some sleeping part of him that age, and yes, Sarah, had killed off. His libido had been in hibernation for years but since Rudee had reawakened it he was relieving himself in the shower in the morning and then again at night before bed. And if there was no one else home, he’d lie on the bed with movies playing in his head, the same ones from university days that helped him donate weekly for almost two years. And as always, Amporn was his porn queen.
127 DAN
The bird announced the visitor before the doorbell did, let alone the lazy dog. ‘Professor Adams?’ the woman asked, her eyes wide, full mouth slightly slack. Though he had never met her before, Dan recognised her as one of his, in a generic way. ‘My name is Leonie Burns. I’m so… so sorry for just barging around here, but I just couldn’t wait. I know I… I should have rung first but I wanted to… to see you so… so badly.’ She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘Is this a bad time?’ Leonie was shorter than his other daughters but otherwise a variation on a theme, his theme. There was nothing subtle about the redness of her hair—she was a carrot top and had the matching complexion—pale, almost translucent skin and a light dusting of ginger freckles across the bridge of her nose. Magnified behind her glasses were his unmistakable yellow eyes. But if Dr Charlotte Heath was a butterfly, then Leonie was a Bogong moth. He rebuked himself mildly for his unkind thoughts. Dan indicated she should come inside. He hoped that wherever Sarah was, she’d stay there for a while longer. ‘I’ve just got home from work. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, coffee, water, which I can turn into wine?’ ‘I don’t normally drink, but I could really do with something right now. Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m really here. That I’m really meeting you.’ She perched herself on a kitchen stool. ‘This is such a shock. I mean in an awesome way.’ Dan poured two glasses. ‘It’s been quite a shock for me too.’ He became conscious of his tic activating, usually located near his mouth, but sometimes it migrated to the outer corner of one of his eyes. That had got him in trouble in the past, winking at people. Leonie’s hand shook as she lifted the wine to her lips. She looked nearer to forty than thirty. What had life thrown at her to have produced such an air of fatigue? As though she had read his mind she began her story. ‘I teach at Kwinana Primary School. Grade threes. Some of them can’t even write their own names yet. It’s a battle most days …’ She looked around, unable to hide her awe of his surrounds. ‘I won’t stay long. I don’t want to interrupt disturb you.’
128 He was ready with the quick social lie. ‘You’re not. But my wife will be home soon and—’ ‘Of course, of course,’ Leonie said and gulped her wine, spilling a little down her chin. Dan imagined Sarah walking into the kitchen, carrying her environmentally- friendly bags with the evening’s plastic-wrapped provisions, and her barely civil response to an introduction to Leonie Burns. She absently referred to his offspring as his D&Cs but he’d given up correcting her. He had reiterated to Sarah they were DC. Donor-conceived. Not D&C. Their families had wanted them. Get the difference? he had asked his wife. ‘Cassie tells me you’re a neuroscientist? I’m not even sure what one of those does, except it’s something to do with looking at brains.’ ‘I’m currently researching the effects of information technology on the brain, at the physical and behavioural level.’ He stopped talking, unwilling to launch into the standard recitation and keep her in his kitchen any longer than necessary. ‘Can’t say I inherited those smart … What do you call them? Chromosomes? DNA—I don’t know which is which.’ ‘Genes. DNA is in genes, genes are on chromosomes.’ ‘I’m a bit dyslexic too.’ Leonie laughed behind her hand. ‘I tell the kids I make mistakes on purpose when I have to use the interactive whiteboard, to make sure they’re paying attention.’ As she chirped on about her classroom as well as her recent engagement, Dan shifted restlessly on the stool, working at a tight cord in his neck. Leonie looked longingly at her empty glass but Dan did not offer to fill it, collecting it instead and rinsing it with his. ‘Maybe we can make a time soon, for a longer chat?’ ‘I’d like that,’ Leonie said. She stood, clutching at the kitchen benchtop as though on board a listing ship. Once steadied, she began checking her diary on her phone. Dan dried the glasses and returned them to the cupboard. Evidence removed. ‘Oh! And Cassie told me about Jacquie. I really want to meet her before, you know …’
129 At the mention of Jacquie, Dan felt his throat constrict. He’d talked with her for two hours at their first meeting in his office, and nearly as long at a subsequent one. She had wrung out of him so many details about his life, memories, likes and dislikes, always probing for the common factor. He’d even talked about Andrew and his father, though not Amporn. Embarrassingly, he had cried for the first time in as long as he could remember. And she had comforted him! When he’d dried his eyes and apologised, she took several photographs of them. Not for Facebook, she had assured him. ‘Just for me.’ When he had finally walked her back to her car she looked exhausted, perhaps even in pain. ‘Cassie tells me she’s pretty sick and spends her days in bed with her laptop, trying to find us. Don’t you think she has the most amazing courage, to think about us when she’s…you know…?’ Leonie paused, her eyes glistening. Dan nodded. ‘I have so many questions, but I suppose I can ask them another time.’ Dan nodded more emphatically. Next time. Later. He started walking towards the front door, hoping she’d follow. ‘I always felt it was horribly unfair,’ she said, trailing him. ‘that I could never find out about you. I thought what right do other people have to tell me that I can’t know this about myself? A couple of years ago a counsellor put me in touch with another donor-conceived person. It was a real turning point, to meet someone that had a similar history. She became my best friend, but then she married a soldier and had to move to Canberra. I can’t wait to call her and tell her about you. It will give her hope that she’ll find her father one day too.’ Her donor, he wanted to correct her, but didn’t. ‘Well, best be on my way. My boyfriend, I mean fiancé’—another giggle behind her hand—‘will be wondering where I am, or where his dinner is more like it.’ The colour rose in her cheeks and chin. ‘I’d love you to meet Brett. We’re getting married in a few months.’ Dan suspected he had just been added to the guest list. God! She might even ask him to give her away. He was being drawn into another life. The thought exhausted him.
130 ‘I’ll give you my mobile number. I’m home alone most evenings—Brett’s a fly- in-fly-out worker. Lucky to still have his job. But he’s got skills, you know, those big drilling machines?’ She stared at him, fixated. ‘I’d better be off,’ she said, making no attempt to leave. ‘Goodbye, Professor Adams.’ Not even his students called him that. ‘Please, call me Dan.’ ‘Dad?’ Her face went red to her hairline. ‘Oh sorry. Dan. I thought you said…never mind.’ She fumbled for her mobile in her handbag. ‘If you give me your number, I’ll send you mine. And…do you mind if I friend you on Facebook?’ ‘I’m rarely on it, mainly just for work really.’ He watched her get into her battered old Corolla, but instead of driving off, she sat in her car, staring at his house. She took a picture on her phone before finally starting the engine. He was tempted to go straight to bed and sleep; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that, voluntarily opted out of consciousness. Leonie drove off seconds before Sarah pulled into the drive, talking on her Bluetooth, laughing in a way she never laughed with him anymore.
131 DAN
A nurse behind the reception counter, occupied with paperwork, pointed to a room down the hallway from which a pallid middle-aged couple emerged. Dan assumed they were Jacquie’s parents. He busied himself with his phone to avoid having to introduce himself. Jacquie had a room to herself, which—given she was in a public hospital— meant that things really weren’t good. Medical equipment surrounded her. Plastic tubes, bags and blinking pieces of machinery protruded from her like she was a cyborg. She glanced at Dan and fiddled to remove the oxygen mask until he helped lift it over her head. He was shocked at how quickly she had deteriorated. She flashed a tight smile. ‘Hiya Dan.’ The flesh had fallen off her face, making her all sharp angles. Veins beat at her temples. At the foot of her bed an uneaten meal lay discarded on a mobile table. ‘Hi, Jacquie,’ Dan said, swallowing the question: ‘How are you?’ It was too trite, utterly useless. But nonetheless, his presence seemed appreciated. ‘How did the procedure this morning go?’ ‘They put a stent in my kidney. It’s a stop-gap measure. The surgeon removed the obstruction and took another chunk of my liver.’ The corners of her mouth tilted upwards. She licked her cracked lips and spoke haltingly. ‘I can’t do it anymore, look for the others. I’m so tired all the time, and I fall asleep in the middle of conversations. It’s the medication.’ He pulled a chair towards her bed and sat down, resting his warm hand on top of hers, cold and skeletal. Her bedside table was a jumble of possessions: mobile phone, hairbrush, a Vogue magazine, a bag of fun-sized KitKats, and his best seller. ‘I’m determined to get through it,’ she said indicating his book. It contained no wisdom to help with pain and dying, he thought, but said, ‘No wonder you can’t stay awake.’ ‘Pretty heavy going, I admit. It’s easier to read the fashion mags. I make even Vogue models look overweight now.’ She reached for the KitKats, fumbling with a wrapper until Dan intervened. She gestured for him to break it. A stick each. After eating hers, she continued: ‘But that’s your point isn’t it? Our brains can’t
132 concentrate on books anymore. We can only skim the surface when we read. Take in information in small fun-sized bytes. Pun intended.’ Dan smiled. ‘I used to find it easy to immerse myself in a novel or a long research paper. My mind got caught up in the twists of the story or the turns of the argument and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. Now my concentration drifts after a page or two. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I Google, check my email, check my phone, go on the news or sport or even just the weather. When I read a text book now, or a long research study, I’m always having drag my mind back to the words. Reading that used to come naturally has become a trial.’ ‘Is it important that we read deeply? Humankind has survived without it for most of its time on this earth.’ She had a point. He’d have to think about that. Maybe this new mode of reading was to be a better democratisation; an equalising of the classes. Fidgeting to get comfortable, she asked, ‘Is there a cure?’ At first, he thought she was referring to her cancer and was stumped for an answer, before realising she was talking about his research. ‘I’m hoping to retrain my brain by doing a digital detox, once the academic year ends.’ As soon as he spoke, he wished he hadn’t. Jacquie wasn’t going to make it to then. He swiftly changed tack. ‘I don’t want to tire you out.’ ‘Why not? While we are talking, I forget about myself, and where I am. And I find your work interesting. I never used my sociology degree after Uni. Just kind of fell into town planning to make a living. You’re working out how we adapt to our environment and culture.’ Jacquie struggled to sit up, wincing. After a moment, she shut her eyes. Had she fallen asleep? Perhaps he should slip out, let her rest. She opened her eyelids again, her golden orbs dulled by pethidine and morphine. ‘When I recover… some… I have two options to get out of here. I can either go home and have home-care, or it’s palliative care. I never even properly knew what “palliative” meant until it was used in a sentence with my name.’ ‘What do you want to do?’
133 ‘Not to burden Mum and Dad—and at least, in hospital, I’ve an excellent supply of heavy duty narcotics. No one cares I’m going to become a junkie.’ She offered Dan another KitKat. ‘My parents just left. Shame you missed them. I wanted you to meet them but I insisted they go out for a nice dinner and drink a bottle of wine and talk about how naughty I was as a child and not come back until the morning. They’ve been here all day, while I was in theatre, so they’d be the first faces I’d see when I woke up. We’ve mainly been talking about Cassie’s progress with finding the others. I don’t talk so much about you, not as much as I want to. I don’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings. Make him think he’s been usurped in any way.’ Her long speech had drained her further. She shifted her weight and clutched at her gown. A beeping noise emanated from a device by her pillow. Dan tracked the line to a hanging bag of blood-stained fluid. Jacquie pressed a button with her thumb and breathed deeply, her thin rib cage rising and falling. ‘Can I get you anything?’ Dan asked. ‘Water?’ He poured some into a cup and she sipped through a straw. She lay back against her pillow, staring vacantly beyond him. Her small voice came from far away. ‘Cassie will find them, won’t she?’ ‘From what I’ve seen, she is a most resourceful and determined young woman.’ ‘But so many weren’t told. Like in my family. It was a conspiracy between the doctors, the clinic, the parents, even the government—and you, Dan. You were a collaborator too.’ She shut her eyes. A serene smile spread across her lips, the opioids doing their work. This wasn’t the time to protest his innocence. It was his turn to listen. And stop talking about himself. ‘Was it harder for Cassie because she knew the truth but didn’t know who you were? Or for me? Never told about my conception but always knowing, growing up, that something wasn’t quite right. That a secret was being kept. It wasn’t what was said, but what wasn’t said. No discussion about how my dreadful singing had come from Dad, or my maths for that matter.’ Was an answer expected? If it was, he didn’t have one.
134 ‘If you don’t know where you come from, you can’t know who you are? Dad is still my Dad but you are...’ Jacquie yawned. ‘You are… my eyes, I can hardly keep...’ A nurse marched into the room and brusquely busied herself around the bed. ‘She’s had surgery this morning and visitors all day. I think it’s time Jacquie got some rest. The poor girl’s exhausted.’ Jacquie’s eyes grew wide. She grabbed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. ‘We’ve got a brother. Cassie found Marcus. He wants you to adopt him.’ ‘This isn’t really an adoption situation, though, I wouldn’t have thought.’ ‘Not for me. But he lost his parents.’ ‘Even so.’ ‘Charlotte and Leonie have done their screening and everything looks fine. I’m hoping’—Jacquie’s upper lip curled in pain, and she finished her sentence slowly— ‘Hopefully I’m the only one with The Gremlin.’ Her eyelids fluttered, then shut, this time with a sense of permanence. A tiny snore emanated from her throat. After several minutes he stood to leave, but her hand shot out towards him, perhaps woken by an instinctive fear of being alone. ‘Will you come back? Tomorrow, Da—?’
135 CASSIE
Cassie Googled “Brian and Sally Noble.” Her search returned a link which led to an archived newspaper story about a Brian Noble who had died five years earlier in a light plane crash in Africa along with the rest of his exploration company Board and left behind wife, Sally and son, Henry. A White Pages search for “Mrs S Noble” returned an expensive river-side address and a landline. Cassie rang and left a brief message for the widow to call her. She poured herself another glass of Riesling from the 4-litre cask that had been on special at Liquorland, Chateau de Cardboard. She Googled “Henry Noble.” The most likely candidate for her half-sibling was a stockbroker at Hartley’s and his digital footprint was all over the Internet. She knew the moment she saw his Facebook photos that they were related. The eyes gave it away. It was Henry who returned the call she had made to his mother a few days later. ‘Hello! Mrs Noble is overseas at the moment. I can pass on a message. If it’s important.’ ‘May I have your mother’s mobile number or email, please?’ ‘I’m not giving you those details so you can sell her things she doesn’t want. She got the roof insulation and solar panels already.’ ‘I’m not trying to sell her anything. Perhaps you can tell me when she’s due back?’ ‘In two months.’ Could she afford to wait? Could he afford to wait? Probably. Or she could bullshit and tell Henry he needed to get screened for GI cancer. Just as she was about to speak, he hung up. Irritated, she rang back. ‘Mr Noble. Your mother’s email would be very helpful. It’s a medical issue, which is why I can’t provide you with details. Are you acquainted with the Privacy Act?’ ‘She’s alright, isn’t she?’ Cassie sensed the panic in his voice, and then his tone became suspicious. ‘Hey, what organisation are you calling from?’ ‘Women’s Health. We’re a … breast screening clinic.’
136 ‘Can’t be that urgent. She’s been away four months already. What’s your number? I’ll call you back.’ This time it was Cassie who hung up.
* * *
It was around noon when Cassie spied Henry leaving the Hartley’s building on Mount’s Bay Road. She followed him to the Print Hall Bar & Restaurant, and tailed him up the stairs to the first floor. After a waiter lead him to a booth, she asked to be seated nearby. She glanced over the balcony at the restaurant on the ground floor, where a chef shucked oysters. Returning her attention to Henry, she watched him studying the menu. He was tall, slim, broad-shouldered. Would she have been attracted to him had she not known he was her brother? Probably not, he looked too up-himself. Her type was older, wiser—though unfortunately usually married or loaded with emotional baggage and kids, or both. She ordered champagne to celebrate her success. He glanced at her before focusing on his mobile, typing a text with a smirk on his lips. Another expensive suit, about the same age but darker, shorter, and rounder, joined him. Henry glanced at Cassie again. The men chatted, then ordered. When the other suit stared at her, she picked up her phone and pretended to read something. A waiter took her order of silken tofu and shitake mushrooms on a bed of Chinese vegetables and a glass of ‘the house red, whatever, don’t care’ to wash down the champagne. The next time Henry’s cool gaze alighted on her, she met his eyes. He said something to his companion, and headed towards her. ‘Have we met before? You look kinda familiar.’ ‘Is that your best line?’ He sneered. She grinned, and dropped her bomb. ‘I look familiar because we are family.’ ‘What? It’s not me you resemble, but my girlfriend.’ ‘We share 50% of our genes.’ ‘Now you’re starting to freak me out.’ ‘Henry Noble, born 13 April, 1982?’ ‘And who the fuck are you?’
137 ‘My name is Cassie Robertson-Adams.’ She liked the sound of it. Double-barrelled. Gave the impression of aristocratic origins. Though down the track she might drop the Robertson. ‘Is someone setting me up?’ He scanned the restaurant for enemies, or cameras. ‘May I join you?’ Cassie indicated his booth. ‘I’m having lunch with …’—he paused, holding up a finger—‘Wait a minute!’ He spoke to his friend, who gave a half-shrug, skolled the rest of his beer, and departed. Henry eased himself into the booth, sitting opposite her. He spoke in a low, urgent tone: ‘Are you accusing my father of having an affair?’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘How old are you?’ ‘Same age as you. 31.’ ‘What are you? Some modern-day sphinx posing riddles? How the hell can you be my sister? Let me guess. We’re twins, but you got stolen at the hospital?’ ‘No, Henry. We’re half-siblings. Or diblings.’ ‘What?’ ‘Same donor.’ ‘Okay. I’ve had enough of this shit.’ He stood up. ‘It’s not even April Fool’s day.’ Cassie knew she had gone about this the wrong way. But there was something she just didn’t like about this guy. He reminded her of all the arrogant pricks who had not given her the time of day, at least not when she was overweight with frizzy red hair, in need of braces and someone to tell her to put her shoulders back and lift her chins. She was no longer that person. Years of dieting and counselling had destroyed that pathetic creature. ‘Ask your mother,’ Cassie said, rising to leave. ‘And then send me a friend request on Facebook. I have some important information for you, which might just save your life.’
138 HENRY
While his mother was overseas Henry had a riverside mansion to himself and all he had to do for it was feed the cat and check it wasn’t leaving dead animals as gifts for the humans under pillows and cushions. He also had access to the wine cellar which was, after all, an early inheritance. His father, who’d been more a collector than a connoisseur, had been gone for over five years but the cellar was still stocked with excellent vintages. His mother didn’t drink much and only dipped into the supply when she threw one of her rare but lavish dinner parties. In the cupboard in a spare room Henry had discovered the hoard of keepsakes from his childhood. His mother had been a magpie for all that shit – there were boxes of little coloured ribbons for running races from primary school, his first feeding spoon, booties, blankets, a full set of baby teeth, millions of photos all organised with dates and descriptions, and endless video footage. But nothing to indicate his father wasn’t his father. And to think, there was a time when he had wished exactly that. Growing up he’d also wished for a brother to kick a footy with, but there’d been advantages to being the sun around which his parents—correction, his mother—orbited. His father had sometimes referred to him as The Little Prince, but not in a nice way. He had sensed a rivalry there, for his mother’s affections. When he opened his mouth she had collected every word, as though he was jabbering jewels. After his father died his mother had become, if it were possible, even more devoted. Was her Little Prince more self-centred than other people for it? Perhaps—but he wasn’t going to waste any more time on self-analysis. With a heavy tread he entered the room still referred to as Dad’s Study and opened the filing cabinet where the hard-copy documentation of the Noble family’s existence was arranged in ordered folders – everything from gas bills to tax returns to passports and licences. He picked up an expired passport and studied his father’s photograph. He had never before interrogated those craggy features. He had just assumed he had inherited his looks from his mother, though not his pale skin. He next examined his birth certificate. The lying bitch! Henry thought. It was just as he remembered; his father’s name –George Noble—was there, in black and
139 white. Surely if he’d been conceived by a stranger, there’d be… What? … Another man’s name? Or a blank space? He mentally did a time zone calculation before pulling his phone out of his pocket. ‘Hi Mum…’ ‘Henry? Or should I say—,’ she added with a French accent, ‘Enri.’ He couldn’t yet form the question he needed to ask. ‘How’s France?’ ‘Divine, cheri. I’m staying in the most perfect chateau in the Luberon. I’ve been hiking and the food markets are to die for. Not that I need to cook, we are completely spoilt for choice. I went to the most scrumptious Michelin restaurant, deux etoiles, last night,’ she paused. ‘Everything alright?’ She wasn’t used to The Prince ringing her. She was the initiator of phone calls. ‘Sure, but I met this girl…’ Her tone was wary. ‘Yes.’ Was she thinking he was about to announce an unwanted pregnancy? He almost wished he was. ‘It’s just… I need to ask you something.’ ‘Darling? What is it?’ Scratching his balls, as he did in moments of great stress, he asked: ‘Was Dad my real father?’ A long silence. Did he have his answer? ‘Of course. Why are you asking this? Has someone said something to you?’ ‘This girl tried to tell me she’s my sister, half-sister, in fact. And the weird thing is, she has the same coloured eyes as me. Different hair, different build, but you know, there’s something about her.' She sighed. ‘I don’t know about that.’ ‘Mum?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I want the truth. And if you don’t give it to me now, I won’t ever talk to you again.’ Love is a wonderful thing, Mum, but it leaves you wide open for emotional blackmail. ‘Okay, Henry. The truth is, we needed… assistance.’ ‘You used a fucking sperm donor?’
140 ‘I was desperate. Your father couldn’t…’ Her sentence trailed away. His finger itched to disconnect the line. No more information was going to penetrate. ‘I’ll come back. Henry, I can book a flight today. I’m putting on too much weight, anyway.’ She gave a falsetto laugh, the one she did when she was nervous or anxious. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘Your father didn’t want to.’ She made gulping noises. ‘Henry, he was your father—’ ‘But he wasn’t. Not in the … true sense, was he?’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me after he died? Was a promise to a dead man more important than me?’ Something in his soul shrivelled at the sound of his mother crying, especially when he was the cause. ‘Mum, please don’t. It’s just a bolt from the blue, you know. I’m not angry.’ But he was. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’ But it did. This knowledge rewrote the story of his life. He had been the cuckoo in the nest. ‘You know he loved you. That’s why he worked so hard. For both of us.’ ‘Listen, don’t rush back. Please. I’m fine with it, honestly.’ Henry bit down hard on his bottom lip, fighting the urge to throw his mobile against the wall. He spied the cat, within kicking distance. His father’s study still smelt of him; dusty and leathery. Henry swept the framed photograph of George Noble standing in the middle of a sandy barren place from the desk. His rock collection on the bookshelf followed. He was filled with a fury that didn’t cool even after he finished trashing the room, and lay supine on the floor amidst the carnage. He snatched the keys to the vintage silver Porsche from his father’s desk drawer. He drove it every now and then to make sure the engine still turned over.
141 Henry had insisted that particular relic was kept despite his mother having suggested they sell it. The immaculately preserved car never failed to evoke memories of the man he had called Dad; of the few times they had connected and communicated. Whenever his father had uttered, ‘Let’s go for a drive, Henry,’ he knew he was either in trouble or an important announcement was about to be made. Or sometimes both. With both sets of eyes facing ahead, the words they found so hard to say to each other flowed more easily: ‘…lack of respect…’ ‘…wrong type of friends…’ ‘Your mother’s concerned about your grades…’ ‘Your mother suspects you had a girl in your bedroom last night…’ ‘…cannabis under your bed…’ ‘…drink driving…’ As he thrashed the Porsche around quiet leafy streets, more questions for his mother swirled through his head. But what he really wanted to do was to dig up his father’s corpse and ask him: Why didn’t you tell me? Because that would have explained why George Noble had rarely bothered to turn up to his rugby games, why he had sometimes looked at Henry like he was an intruder in his own home, why Henry could never remember his father laying a hand on him, either in anger or love. And why his father had made him feel like a rival for his mother’s affections. But his corpse was rotting in an African jungle so he would have to find someone else to take it out on.
142 DAN
Chloe applied her lipstick using the visor mirror while Dan drove. ‘What if someone asks how I knew her?’ She glanced at him. ‘What should I say? I was her sister?’ ‘Whatever seems right to you, Honey. She didn’t want my existence to remain a secret.’ It was Chloe who had suggested she accompany Dan to Jacquie’s funeral, though they had never met. It was out of curiosity he supposed, as Chloe had never been to a funeral before—at least, not a human one—there’d been plenty of backyard ceremonies for the animals. But he appreciated the offer, hoping it would ease the sense he was an intruder on another family’s grief. ‘Are you going to introduce yourself as her donor, or her father?’ ‘Her father was Nigel Hopper. Not me.’ Dan parked the Lexus on the railway side of the road and under heavy grey skies they crossed into Karrakatta Cemetery. The noticeboard near the flower shop displayed the details of Jacquie Hopper’s service. Her parents stood under a massive Cypress that might have been growing since before the last century. They were surrounded by a knot of people, grim-faced, solicitous. Cheeks were kissed, hands were shaken, platitudes mouthed. When had mourners stopped wearing black? Dan wondered. It wasn’t a large crowd, mostly people of his vintage. He supposed many of Jacquie’s close friends were half a world away. A hearse appeared and everyone fell into a scraggly line to trundle behind it. Light rain drizzled and a few umbrellas sprouted. Inside the small, modern, chapel the air was warm and stuffy. The glass-domed roof streamed in heaven’s light. Dan and Chloe took seats in the back row. As the priest introduced the Hoppers, Cassie appeared, dripping wet. She sat next to Chloe and flashed Dan a quick, sad smile, then hiccupped, loudly. Jacquie’s mother stared down at a piece of paper in her hands, trembling. Choking on her grief, she stumbled through her speech while a series of images played in a loop on a screen behind her: a young, beaming Donna in hospital, holding her new bundle; Jacquie taking her first steps; a year older dressed in a tutu performing for her parents in the lounge room; around four years old, asleep in a
143 basket with a puppy; playing the piano; in her first school uniform; in front of a cake with candles in the shape of a “16”; graduation from high school, then university; in front of various European landmarks. In every close-up the uncanny yellow of her eyes gave her away as Dan’s progeny. Everything else was evidence she was a stranger to him. ‘She was always thinking of others,’ Donna said, her voice quavering. ‘At 14 she volunteered to go to Princess Margaret Hospital on the weekends to help entertain the kids. It broke her father’s heart when she was bitten by the travel bug after she graduated from university and moved to England. We were so excited to have her return recently.’ She paused, seemingly unable to continue, until her husband joined her. She took a deep breath, gathering her resolve. ‘To have her come home, only to have her so abruptly taken from us, has been very difficult. But being her mother has brought me the most wonderful joy. Even as she battled the cancer she could only think about helping others in her quest to find her half-siblings—her diblings as she called them—to warn them of the terrible disease that took her from us.’ Nigel Hopper continued on the theme of Jacquie as a miracle for a couple who were told they could never have children. He had taught her to swim, to ride her bike and to drive, and she had taught him so much more. How to truly love another human being and how to laugh. From the corner of his eye, Dan saw Chloe wiping away tears. Cassie was dry-eyed but had a tissue scrunched up in her hand, pressed to her mouth. Dan tested his own emotions. Of course he was sad. On deeper self-probing, he discovered it was a sorrow that could be evoked at any funeral—at the thought of death, mortality, the shortness of time on earth, regrets—the things left undone and unsaid. He held Jacquie’s death against the hypothetical death of Chloe (or Jack), and a sharpness pierced his chest. The priest prattled on about peace being found in death, but Dan always dismissed such talk as an admission of the horror and turmoil of life. Death was a nothing, an absence, a nullity, which meant there could be no peace, or anything else. And in the midst of these melancholic thoughts he saw himself lying on a massage table, dozens of hands all over him, mouths on him too, kissing his skin, licking it,
144 caressing him. He felt a throb in his groin. So wrong. But so life-affirming. Making love, sex, fucking; the only antidote he could think of to keep away, if not Death, then at least the thought of it. Dan tuned back in when the priest stood aside and The Weeping Song began playing in the background. He had told Jacquie he was a big fan—his taste in music had been one of the many questions posed by her. Had she too been a fan or was this song a message to him? She had also asked him his favourite time of the year (spring when the wind died down); his favourite city (Miami, or LA – he couldn’t decide); even his favourite colour (didn’t have one); movie (Chinatown); book (he’d have to get back to her on that one—but never did); left or right handed (left) and shoe size (10, sometimes 11). Talking so much about himself had made him squirm but Jacquie was not to be deflected. Early on in her grilling she had told him that she didn’t want to waste time talking about herself, although she did speak briefly about a man she had once believed she would spend the rest of her life with. As the music faded the priest announced that a celebration of Jacquie’s life was being held at the Hoppers’ apartment in Claremont and all were welcome to attend. Cassie insisted on a lift to the wake despite Dan’s excuse that he had to drop Chloe home first. He parked in Bay View Terrace and sat motionless, his hands clasping the steering wheel. ‘I feel like I’ve made this huge mistake and now I have to fix things. But I’ve no idea how.’ ‘Are you calling us mistakes, Dad?’ Cassie asked, as she applied lipstick using the mirror on the sun visor. ‘Because that’s not how Jacquie’s parents saw her.’ She glared at him, waiting for an answer. ‘Of course not. That came out badly.’ Why had she called him Dad? She had one of those. Even if she didn’t talk to him that didn’t mean Dan should fill the position. The horse had bolted. The race run years ago. Of course if she asked for help he’d do what he could, within reason, but he was going to have to make it clear that he was not her father. But this wasn’t the time to have that conversation. Cassie rolled her lips together, smearing the lipstick evenly across them, and lightly touched the sides of her mouth. ‘It’s different when I look in the mirror now. I
145 know where the other half of me comes from. My face is no longer a puzzle I have to solve, which bits came from Mum, which bits from you.’ As far as Dan was concerned most people under the age of thirty spent far too much time looking in mirrors or worse still at selfies. They followed the flow of people through to the Hoppers’ living room, which merged into a modern, all-white, open plan kitchen. French doors led to a balcony overlooking a communal landscaped garden in the English cottage-style. Mourners mingled, drink in one hand, a plate of food balanced in the other. A sombre piece by Mozart played, emphasising the silence rather than providing relief from it. Cassie grabbed a glass of wine from a tray floating by. Dan chose a beer and took a long pull, savouring the cold, harsh, bitterness. Donna wound her way towards them. Cassie hugged her and Donna thanked her for coming and for being such a wonderful support for Jacquie, who had found great comfort in her visits. Cassie stood back and introduced Dan. ‘Our donor.’ ‘Thank you for coming, Professor Adams,’ Donna said, holding out her hand. ‘Please, call me Dan. I’m so sorry for your loss.’ ‘Yours was greater. We at least had thirty-one years.’ Dan didn’t know how to respond. Was this anger? An attempt to lighten things? Or something else entirely? ‘I’m so sorry,’ Donna said. ‘I don’t know why I said that. Of course, Nigel and I are very grateful for what you did all those years ago. If you hadn’t… we wouldn’t have had’—she looked around for escape—‘our daughter.’ Nigel appeared and introductions were made again. Dan shook his hand. ‘It was very important to Jacquie to have spent that time with you. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.’ What bastard wouldn’t spend a few hours with a dying woman he had created, who wanted to know everything about him? Nigel shook Dan’s hand again, ending the conversation, and Donna asked that he stay in touch. Dan was sure that was not what she wanted. They hadn’t wanted Dan in their life before and they certainly didn’t want him in it now Jacquie was gone. Reprising the role of invisible donor suited everyone.
146 Dan followed Cassie to a table where a waiter served drinks. Another wine for Cassie, another beer for Dan. When other mourners realised Dan was ‘Jacquie’s donor,’ the conversation became more animated. He had to escape before he became the freak attraction, centre stage in the human circus.
* * *
Dan’s relief at escaping was tempered by Cassie’s insistence she needed to update Dan on her progress with tracing her diblings, her legacy to Jacquie. He suggested coffee at The Blue Duck but Cassie needed a ‘proper’ drink so he chose The Ocean Beach Hotel, which at least was on his way home. He didn’t have much time. He had to be home for a family dinner. Driving, Dan recalled that the pub had been in the news recently. A man had been pushed through a plate glass window and fell to his death. The perpetrator had been jealous of the attention the victim had been paying his girlfriend. Jealousy. That old green monster. The barman poured a glass of house white and said he’d bring Dan’s coffee over. From their table with a view of North Cottesloe beach, soaking up the slow dreary rain, there was little to see in the falling darkness—a lighthouse blinking on Rottnest Island and the lights of a container ship waiting for clearance to enter Fremantle Harbour. ‘How’s work?’ Dan asked, as he placed Cassie’s wine on the table. She had ripped a coaster into tiny pieces and was attempting to put it back together. ‘Serenity Lodge, in Rockingham, right?’ he prompted. ‘Oh,’ Cassie said. ‘Work? It’s fine. Really busy. Not a spare bed.’ He could see the cogs of her mind turning. ‘But I’m more focused on doing this thing for Jacquie at the moment.’ She took a piece of paper out of her handbag and Dan glimpsed the packet of cigarettes. An old habit resumed or had he just not registered the stale nicotine smell on her yet? She smoothed out the crumpled paper—a list of names with scribbled notes beside them—and clicked the end of a multi-coloured biro. ‘So,’ she said, stabbing the list. ‘There’s quite a few we haven’t managed to contact, some have left WA, one’s moved to Canada. It’s not easy to find them, especially the women if they are using their married names. You won’t be hearing
147 from Madeleine Schwarz, Paul Eagleton, or Rachel Johnston. And probably not Henry Noble, either.’ Cassie sipped her wine. ‘Let’s start with The Schwarz family. They spent most of Madeleine’s early years in Swanbourne.’ Dan touched the tic animating his mouth. So close! He lived in Mosman Park, the Hoppers in Dalkeith and then Claremont, the Schwarzs in Swanbourne. Suburbs within touching distance of each other. His offspring all the same age. Had the women been in the same mothers groups? Children enrolled in the same schools? The hotel door opened and an icy draft accosted them. ‘I introduced myself, explained about Jacquie and the cancer. Mr Schwarz admitted Maddy had never been told and he didn’t want her to know either. He said he’d really appreciate it if I didn't contact her. She’s living in Tasmania, working as an environmental scientist. They only had the one child from the programme. They hadn’t been blessed with any more, he said.’ She took another swallow of wine. ‘He said he’d ring and tell her he’d had a scare, got some polyps removed from his bowel and the specialist recommended his daughter do a FOBT, possibly a colonoscopy.’ ‘Did you see a photo of her?’ Dan asked. ‘There were photos all over the place.’ Cassie fiddled with her phone and showed him a screenshot of a high school graduation photo. Maddy was olive- skinned, brunette, heavy, well-shaped eyebrows, but there was something about her smile which he recognised from Chloe. His mobile beeped. Sarah asking where he was. It was her parents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary. Not quite Four Weddings and a Funeral yet, but since Leonie had asked him to give her away, his life was heading in that direction. ‘Cassie, I really can’t stay long.’ She dragged her finger to the next line on her list. ‘I also met the family of Paul Eagleton. They live in Subiaco. Paul lives at home with his parents. He can’t live independently. Cerebral palsy from birth. His mother said her greatest worry in the world is if something happened to her and her husband, and Paul had to go into full- time care.’
148 ‘Cerebral palsy,’ Dan repeated, taking a moment to absorb this information. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but there was a touch of the eugenicist about him, the cold Darwinian scientist. But as he absorbed this information, he remembered that Paul would have been conceived by artificial insemination, not IVF. The fastest, fittest sperm had won its race. Unlike today’s IVF babies that could be conceived in a petri dish: spermatozoa handpicked by a scientist and forcibly injected into an egg, grown into an embryo, frozen, then defrosted, and then transplanted into a uterus primed by a cocktail of hormones. The technology allowed scientists to play God. But sometimes his handiwork wasn’t perfect. Dan had once told Chloe when she was bawling about coming last in a running race in primary school that it wasn’t important, because she had won the most important race she would ever enter. ‘The great race of the sperm to the egg.’ No two-headed sperm swimming backwards was ever going to win that contest. She could relax after this accomplishment, lay back and enjoy the victory for the rest of her life. ‘Paul wasn't told. His mother doesn’t want him to know.’ Despite the coolness of the evening, beads of sweat had broken out on her top lip. Her glass was empty and she suggested another round. Dan agreed to one more. Leaning against the bar, he thought about Paul Eagleton. Did his parents ever regret their decision to participate in the fertility programme? Was it his sperm that had carried the gene for Paul's disability? Or perhaps it was an infection in utero and nothing to do with genetics. He placed Cassie’s wine on a new coaster. Dan suspected she had been in rehab for alcohol. If so she appeared to have fallen off the wagon. But what if it was harder drugs? He reflected on how much simpler growing up had been when the odd joint had circulated at a party but mainly it was just beers, and pretty ornery ones too, no fancy craft beers. It was different now. If the kids made one mistake, took something from a bad batch of drugs cooked up from draino, rat poison and acetone in some factory in China, or the blacked out kitchen of a house in the outer suburbs, the consequences could be fatal. He'd made many dumb choices as a wet-feathered creature who’d been pushed out of his nest before he was ready to fly, but there’d been more margin for error in the 80’s when it came to choosing how to get wasted.
149 ‘His mother said that regular visits to doctors were a big part of Paul’s life. She would make sure he had a GI cancer screening at his next visit. She looked haggard, the poor woman. I suppose she was probably oldish when she conceived Paul. I didn’t meet the father. I hope he’s the helpful, hands-on type.’ ‘It must be very difficult for them,’ Dan said, hoping Cassie was nearly done. ‘I met Paul. While I was talking to his mother, he drove his wheelchair into the room, pushing the controls himself like this,’ she said, demonstrating the movement with a hooked hand. ‘He was dribbling from the side of his mouth and said something I couldn’t understand. His mother translated. She said he asked who the pretty girl was with the nice eyes. Special like his.’ Neither spoke for a while. The music had been turned up and Cassie had to raise her voice. ‘I had to tell Paul I was a Jehovah’s Witness! Ha!’ Dan’s phone rang. Sarah. He silenced it. ‘You know, I had this awful thought while watching her wipe his chin— that her son having something terminal like Jacquie might be a blessing, but it was as though she read my mind. She said, I love my son. I don’t have any regrets.’ ‘I’m sorry, I really have to leave now, Cassie. In-law’s thing.’ He grabbed his keys off the table. ‘I can’t give you a lift but do you need some taxi money?’ Cassie waved away his offer. ‘I’ll just sit on my tot for a little longer, finish my drink. I have to make myself scarce for a few hours. My flatmate’s seducing someone she’s been in lust with for the last six months.’ Dan waved his phone. ‘Can I take a photo of your list?’ Cassie quickly returning it to her handbag. ‘If things aren’t done in the right order, the right people spoken to, it could get very messy, people will get hurt. Jacquie entrusted me. And anyway, you wouldn’t be able to read my handwriting. At some stage I’ll type it up, with all my notes. I didn’t get to tell you about Rachel. So sad. Or Henry.’
150 CASSIE
Facebook Messenger post 13 June 2014:
Henry: Hi Cassie. Mum admitted it but she’s furious about the records being released. She said if Dad was still alive, there’d be litigation. I have some more questions. Can we meet up? Cassie: Sure. What’s your address?
When Cassie arrived Henry was still in his suit, minus jacket and tie, though he looked like he’d forgotten to shave. He craddled a large snifter of Cognac in his hand. Cold Chisel played loudly—the song in which Jimmy sings about the girl who had nothing he wanted or needed. He gestured for her to follow him inside. The Nobles’ lounge room was like a private art gallery: oil paintings of European landscapes next to Aboriginal dot paintings; artefacts and sculptures from Africa and Asia combined with an odd mix of Victoriana: little porcelain statues of girls in old-fashioned garb holding parasols and figures of angels. Henry opened the glass doors leading to a balcony with a multimillion dollar panorama of the Swan River. She followed him outside, the cold wind stabbing into her, but Henry appeared oblivious to both the temperature and view. She looked up. The moon was a thin yellow rind. Dull stars tried to hide behind wispy clouds. Henry gazed on the water below, inky and agitated. He turned to face her, sipped his Cognac. ‘So how did you find out?’ Cassie explained how she had been contacted by Jacquie who was now dead, who was trying to track her siblings from birth certificates to warn them about her hereditary cancer. ‘At first Jacquie wasn’t interested in meeting our donor, at least not until she got really sick. It was me who found him: her Mr Boeing, my Jumbo Jet.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘His donor code was 747.’ ‘Oh! I get it.’ He turned his attention back to the water. ‘How many birth certificates are we talking about?’ ‘Forty-two.’ He choked on his Cognac. ‘Actually, there’s also two children from his marriage.’ ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ He stared at her for confirmation.
151 He might be oblivious to the icy wind, but she wasn’t. She wanted to go back inside and have a glass of brandy too, to unfreeze the blood in her veins. ‘Do you want to meet your diblings?’ she asked, exaggerating the chattering of her teeth. ‘My what?’ Then he understood. ‘That’s a fucking stupid word.’ His turned back, to contemplate the water below. ‘Well, I don’t think so. More elegant than saying: half-sibling conceived by donor sperm.’ She rubbed her arms and when he still didn’t get the hint, asked, ‘Do you think we can go inside? I didn’t bring my ski-suit.’ She didn’t wait for his reply and retreated inside. Eventually Henry followed and slumped back in a leather Chesterfield. A Burmese cat jumped up next to him, scratched at the leather. He pushed it off the couch with the back of his hand. She waited for him to offer her a Cognac. Didn’t they teach those rich kids manners at their private schools? He finally reached for the bottle to refill his glass and gestured with it to a sideboard laden with crystal. Cassie eagerly accepted the invitation before sinking into a soft four-seater couch, and wrapping herself in a cashmere throw rug. She sniffed her before sipping. It was so alcoholic it seemed to be evaporating up her nose. The central heating began to thaw her, sensation returning to her fingers. ‘747. Does that mean there were hundreds of these guys handing out their sperm?’ ‘Handing?’ ‘Tell me about him.’ Cassie shrugged. ‘He’s a professor at Perth University. A neuroscientist. Google him. He’s written a book about how technology is screwing with our minds. His latest one is making out the internet to be the dark side of The Force. He’s got an author profile page on Facebook. You can even get his Tweets about our plasticine brains being shaped. Or was it plastic brains?’ ‘I don’t want his bloody Tweets.’ ‘He’s totally standoffish – not interested in meeting us. Too busy trying to make himself famous, and with the precious progeny from his marriage—a pony
152 princess and a computer nerd. I practically had to beg him for a meeting and then he droned on endlessly about his work. Sooo boring.’ ‘Well, I don’t want to meet him.’ Henry poured another drink. ‘My father provided well for me’—he swept an arm around the room, spilling Cognac from his glass. ‘My mother got sperm from one man to create me and money from another to pay for me.’ The cat curled its tail around Henry’s leg like a hook. ‘Better feed the little beast.’ He bent to pick it up, draped it over his arm as though it was boneless, and disappeared. While he was out of the room Cassie studied Henry’s family photographs. There were plenty of Henry and his mother, of Mr and Mrs Noble; and a few of the three of them. But none of just Henry and his father. In the wedding photos Mr Noble looked about the same age Henry was now. It was obvious to Cassie there was no biological relationship, no resemblance between father and son. Had the rest of the world noticed the discrepancy? Or had they been as blind as Henry? ‘Are we all around the same age?’ Henry asked, reappearing without the cat. ‘Give or take a year or so. It was basically harvesting sperm and letting nature do the rest. Not high tech.’ Henry grimaced, and flopped back into a chair. The cat slinked across the room, stopping to rub itself against a coffee table leg before jumping back onto his lap. Its throat vibrated with pleasure as Henry stroked it. ‘I suppose I’d better get one of those tests. I think Mum had one last year—you’re meant to when you hit middle age, right?’ ‘Colonoscopy.’ Cassie licked the Cognac off her lips. ‘You can’t eat for a few days and have to drink the most disgusting amount of this vile tasting fluid but at least you’re in the twilight zone when the doctor sticks a camera up your backside.’ ‘You’ve sold me.’ Henry wrinkled his nose. ‘What about the others?’ Cassie told him of her promise to Jacquie that she would only divulge the names of people whose parents had told them, and who wanted contact but that this approach wasn’t proving very practical. ‘I might have gone to school with some of them,’ Henry said, scratching the cat between its ears. ‘Played rugby against them …’ Cassie swirled and sniffed her Cognac. ‘You might have dated some of them.’
153 Henry stood up suddenly, tossing the cat from his lap so quickly it didn’t have time to land on its feet. ‘Can I see those names?’ ‘Only the ones whose parents have told them. It’s not fair otherwise.’ ‘Fair? To who? And I wasn’t told by my parents. You told me.’ Heat radiated from Cassie’s cheeks. ‘It wasn’t how Jacquie wanted it done, but you were making it hard for me to contact your mother.’ Henry bunched his fists by his sides. ‘I want to see the names.’ Cassie held out her empty glass. ‘If you promise me you won’t try to contact anyone unless they have two greens? That’s the colour-coding I used on the list for—’ ‘Yes, yes, whatever,’ Henry interrupted, emptying the Cognac bottle into her glass. She rummaged in her handbag, found the list, and held it up. Henry snatched it and scanned the names, his head moving from side to side. He tossed the list back to her. ‘Recognise any?’ ‘Nah. But what are the chances, eh?’ He sighed, flopped back into his chair, and hauled his legs onto the footrest. The cat jumped onto the armrest, then perched behind his head. Henry’s eyes glazed and then shut. Cassie yawned, her eyelids fluttered and then stayed closed. He woke her some time later touching her arm. ‘Crash here tonight. Plenty of spare bedrooms.’ She certainly didn’t need another drink driving conviction. She stumbled after him down a long hall to a bedroom with all white furniture and too many mirrors. The chandelier’s crystals threw pearls of multi-coloured light around the room and she stood swaying, mesmerised, before flopping face-down onto the four-poster bed, scattering satin cushions. Without bothering to remove her clothes, she scrabbled under the frilly doona, reflecting on the collective noun Henry had invented for them: The Boeing Bastards. ‘We weren’t born out of wedlock,’ she had corrected him. ‘Technically, we’re still bastards. Donor 747 wasn’t married to our mothers.’
154 The light was extinguished. The door closed. The Cognac pleasantly burning in her empty stomach, Cassie descended into a shallow sleep, hovering above the surface of anything restorative.
155 HENRY
Midday greeted him with a throbbing head, dry mouth, gritty eyes and a vaguely erotic but disturbing dream. He had been swimming naked in the ocean with Caroline but they couldn’t get out of the water because their clothes had been stolen and the beach was suddenly packed with people. He checked the guest room. Fortunately Cassie was gone, leaving behind only a whiff of vomit in the ensuite. He took the Porsche to Caroline’s apartment. She was still in her bathrobe when he arrived, on the couch bingeing on a whole season of Breaking Bad. Was it a measure of the security of their relationship that she hadn’t bothered getting dressed? ‘I had the weirdest conversation last night,’ he began. Caroline turned down the volume. He was unsure how to proceed. Her eyes unnerved him. She prompted him, as she glanced back at the screen. ‘Yeah?’ ‘I’ve recently learned the most extraordinary thing. My father is not my real father.’ ‘What? Your mum told you this?’ ‘A girl who is, apparently, my sister, half-sister to be exact. She’s a real weirdo so I didn’t want to say anything until I spoke to Mum.’ She raised her eyebrows, focused now on him. ‘I rang my mother and she admitted it.’ ‘So, your mother… and another man?’ ‘No, no. I was conceived by IVF. No, not that, I don’t think that’s the right term. Another man, a donor, supplied the goods.’ Caroline’s eyes widened. A barely supressed smile. ‘No way!’ Henry cradled his head in the basket of his hands. ‘It’s so fucked up.’ She pointed the remote at the TV screen and it went black. ‘And this girl and I aren’t the only ones. There’s forty-two of us.’ ‘Forty-two?’
156 ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it? I can’t get my mind around it. It doesn’t make any sense and yet, it a bizarre way, it explains a lot of things. About Dad. About Mum. About Me.’ After a long silence, Caroline asked if he wanted tea. Without any response, she tried again: ‘Vodka?’ Henry touched his temple. ‘I drank too much last night.’ ‘Hair of the dog?’ ‘Yeah, okay. With cranberry if you have it.’ Her robe had fallen open slightly and the curve of her breast momentarily distracted him. She fetched his drink. After a few sips he felt steadier. ‘You know, I had the freakiest idea when Cassie was talking. She looks a little like you except you’re stunning and she’s not. You can tell she dyes her hair to hide the fact she’s a ranga.’ ‘What’s so freaky?’ ‘She’s got eyes like ours.’ ‘Hazel? That’s not so uncommon.’ ‘But they’re not hazel, are they? Too yellow for that.’ ‘So, what are you saying?’ ‘At first she wouldn’t give me the names of the others, said that most of our diblings, as she calls them, had probably never been told by their parents. I demanded to see the list. She said only the ones that were colour-coded green or some shit like that could be contacted. But I fed her enough Cognac to tranquilize an elephant and she eventually handed it over. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to see those names. To know you weren’t on the list.’ ‘You looked for my name?’ ‘The closest was a “Carol”.’ ‘Carol? What was the surname? For Carol?’ ‘I took a screenshot of it after she passed out.’ He reached for his iPhone from the coffee table, and thumbed the screen. ‘Dicks, it was. Yes, Carol Dicks.’ Caroline blanched and lurched for the Vodka bottle. ‘Can I see that list?’ Henry handed her his mobile. She picked her glasses off the table, squinted at the screen, scrolled down the list, once, twice. Enlarged it with her fingers. Her head
157 moved from side to side. She looked at him, looked through him. ‘Dicks was my father’s name.’ ‘I don’t understand.’ She repeated herself, ‘Dicks was my father’s surname. My mother made me use her name. Wilson. She kept it after she married Dadda because she refused to take his surname—undignified, she said it was. Dadda never quite forgave her. He said the only other woman to do that was Queen Elizabeth, who remained a Windsor. My mother said she’d have happily taken the surname Mountbatten. There was no principle involved, she just didn’t want to have a surname which was slang for genitalia.’ The Vodka was threatening to erupt out of Henry’s throat so he forced more down. ‘And I always hated the name Carol. That was the mum from the Brady Bunch. So in high school I changed it to Caroline, like the princess of Monaco.’ ‘Still … it could be a coincidence.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘That’s my birthday. 5 December 1982.’ ‘Can you call your parents?’ ‘I thought you were coming here to propose and I was trying to think of ways to put you off, you know, nicely. In fact, I was going to tell you that this wasn’t really working out for me. I don’t need to do that now, do I?’ She was more beautiful than ever. The perfect woman. She was only his half- sister. He thought of famous siblings who had ruled empires and dynasties. Egypt came to mind. He would Google the Greeks and Romans but assumed they liked to keep the royal bloodline and wealth in the family too. A self-examination revealed no sense of repulsion. This inconvenient piece of information could be put aside. Why should anyone else have to know? Cassie was unlikely to make the leap from “Carol Dicks,” birth certificate, to “Miss Carol Wilson,” child and adult, to “Mrs Caroline Muir,” widow. Did he even get that right? It was confusing. He leant forward, staring at her. ‘Our eyes, Caroline. They’re telling the truth. Our whole lives have been lies, but this is the truth.’ She flinched when he touched her hair. ‘I love you.’ ‘Please leave!’ She pushed his hand away. ‘I need to call my parents.’
158 DAN
Dan usually had Sunday mornings to himself to drink coffee and leisurely read the news on his tablet. Chloe had an early shift at the vet clinic and Jack didn’t surface until noon. Sarah was sleeping in. So when Cassie sent a text suggesting she come over with croissants, he replied they should meet at the beach instead. It was time to have that talk. To tell her that Sarah was uncomfortable enough with the whole situation and that it was best if they just kept it to emails for now. He rattled Toby’s lead and they left for South Beach. Toby ran to the water, dipped his paws in and ran back to Dan. A mother in yoga pants pushed a pram designed for four-wheel driving across the sand with determination. Cassie swept her arms before her. ‘This beach is my favourite place in the world. We moved around a lot, after Gary left but I made a promise to myself that I’d end up here. Mum was always chasing something, a new job, a new man, a new home to rent. A change in environment seemed to make her happy, for a while but I prefer things to remain the same.’ ‘Did you see much of your Dad,’ he corrected himself, ‘Gary. After he left?’ ‘Weekends, for the first few months. He said I was still Daddy’s Girl, we just didn’t live together. I never believed him. And then he got caught up with his new family, and I just stopped going.’ She pulled a square of paper from her jeans pocket and unfolded it. More hieroglyphics had been added to the list. ‘Okay, so we can cross off Rachel Johnston. There’s no need to warn her. She died when she was four. Killed by a prawn.’ ‘You’re kidding,’ Dan said. Her expression revealed she wasn’t. ‘Oh! An allergy.’ ‘C’mon, let’s walk,’ Cassie said, standing up. ‘Must have been in her mother’s genes.’ Dan stood. ‘I don’t eat seafood because I don’t like it but it’s never caused any physical reaction.’ ‘I hate fish,’ Cassie said, ‘I get a funny tingling feeling in my throat if I have even a mouthful.’
159 The cold sand crunched beneath Dan’s feet, a pleasant sensation, like a massage. ‘When I met the mother she told me they were on holiday in Mandurah when it happened. Prawning in the estuary. After catching a bucket-load they cooked them on the beach. Rachel had a reaction and was dead in minutes. They never had another kid.’ After reaching the rocks at the groyne they turned around and marched back. The icy wind whipped Cassie’s hair about her face. Sand bit into Dan’s calves. Toby gambolled beside them but Jet lagged. Cassie looked behind her and stopped. He followed her gaze. The dog had collapsed. She ran back over to it, Dan following. She picked him up, tried to right the dog on legs that seemed incapable of supporting him. ‘He’s been doing this more and more,’ Cassie said, ‘falls over and can’t get up. I give him Tramadol when he seems to be in pain but sometimes he just lays down and breathes heavily. He still has good days.’ They didn’t speak again until they returned to Cassie’s basket, Jet whimpering in her arms, Cassie puffing from the burden. ‘I got an invite to Leonie’s wedding,’ she said, putting Jet down on a towel. ‘Me too. I’ve been asked to give her away. And there’s some sort of pre- wedding party coming up. Sarah won’t come.’ ‘You don’t want to go either?’ Dan checked himself before articulating his ambivalence. It wasn’t just that he was busy, it was the idea that even if only half his donor children had been told by their parents, and then half of that number again wanted to involve him in their lives, it would still be a full-time job keeping up with them all. All the birthdays, weddings, parties… hopefully no more funerals. Sitting on the sand they watched a young woman in a tailored jacket and skirt with two skulls tattooed on the back of her shapely calves throw a stick for a Doberman into the roiling ocean. Despite the waves dumping close to shore, the dog dutifully waded in to fetch it. ‘After Mum died,’ Cassie said, pouring sand onto her feet. ‘I needed answers about where I had come from. I’d wake up in the morning and look in the mirror and
160 literally not recognise my own face. A few years ago I thought my life was on track again, I had a long-term boyfriend, well for me it was long-term. He was much older, stuck in his crusty bachelor ways, but I loved him. He’d never married or had kids and didn’t want to. After he left me I went into a pretty bad place again, back to staring in mirrors, wondering who I was.’ Father fixation, Dan guessed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologising for. Cassie shrugged. ‘I know, logically, it’s not your fault. That we should be grateful for what you did. But it was a curse, Mum telling me about you but being unable to find out who you were. It would have destroyed me if you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.’ She finished burying her feet with sand and stared ahead at the ocean. Toby, sitting on his haunches a metre away, pooed. Cassie handed him a doggie bag and he collected the steaming pile. 'I’m going in,’ Cassie said, standing up. ‘Coming?’ She stripped off her shirt, unrolled her tight-fitting jeans with their designer holes and faded patches—the worn look manufactured before they’d left the factory floor. ‘Didn’t bring my bathers.’ Even had he, there was no way Dan was diving into the freezing ocean with those waves. He’d once almost drowned in a rip in his late teens, saved by a lifesaver on Port Beach, and though he was a competent swimmer in a lap pool, the ocean had revealed its cruel strength and he’d never forgotten it. Cassie stood in her underwear, shivering. ‘Me neither.’ She strode towards the water, Jet following, dragging his stiff back legs. She stopped to chat with the woman with sugar skull tattoos on her calves and patted the Doberman. Dan reached over for Cassie’s jeans and searched for the list in the pockets. Perhaps she had sensed what he was doing as she turned around and waved. He froze, waved back, and she returned to her conversation. She laughed at something the woman said, sprinted into the waves until she was thigh-high, then dived under. Dan pulled out his mobile phone and quickly snapped a photo of the list before stuffing it back into her jeans. They were his offspring and he was not going to wait for Cassie to decide when he could have their names.
161 Cassie swam out, too far out, and Dan felt compelled to follow her progress. She turned and waved again before disappearing between walls of water. Was it “waving” or “drowning”? he asked himself, thinking of the stevie smith poem. He hoisted himself up after losing sight of her for several seconds and jogged to the water’s edge, Toby barking beside him. Should he try to swim out? He unbuttoned his shirt but stopped when he saw her head pop up between a set of waves. She had only been waving after all. He watched her until she body-surfed into shore. Giggling, she ran past him, dripping wet, a dark triangle of pubic hair visible through her transparent underwear. Dan ambled back. He turned away while she dressed but sensed her struggling to thread her way back into the tight jeans. ‘Now, where were we up to?’ she asked, through blueish lips, her jacket zipped right up under her neck. She plucked her list out of her pocket with shrivelled fingertips. ‘Ah, the Hussey sisters. They look like twins but in fact their parents were so happy with Lucy, the oldest one, they requested your DNA for Narelle. They’re 20 months apart. Both girls moved to Sydney after graduating from nursing. They were told how they were conceived after Lucy worked out her blood type was wrong.’ ‘Wrong?’ ‘Her mother was A, father AB; so how, Lucy asked her parents, did she end up with O? She could only possibly be A or B or AB. Faced with this biological impossibility, their parents were forced to admit that they had been conceived using donor sperm but they hadn’t wanted to tell them because they didn’t see the point if they could never find out who you were.’ Cassie put her socks on. ‘The Husseys gave their blessing to make contact. I spoke to both of them. Narelle is married with a young son and said for his sake she wanted to know more about you, but didn’t necessarily want to meet you. Lucy is pregnant with her first child. Next time she flies over to Perth, she said she’d like to meet me. Not sure about you.’ ‘Lucy and Narelle,’ Dan repeated. ‘Are we doing the right thing?’ ‘Of course.’
162 Fat drops of rain fell like bird shit on Dan’s face. Cassie suggested they go to the café, undercover, and she could tell him about the rest of them, especially Henry. ‘He’s a tool if you want my opinion.’ ‘I’m sorry Cassie,’ Dan said. ‘This week’s hopeless. I’ve got a paper due and I’m travelling to Melbourne for a conference next week.’ He made a vague promise to call when he had some free time. Back in the car, Dan cranked up the heating, filling the interior with the smell of wet, stinking dog. He checked the photo he’d taken of Cassie’s list. Even had it been in focus, her hand-writing would have been impossible to decipher. ‘Epic fail,’ he said aloud, retrieving one of Jack’s favourite sayings.
163 DAN
Dan wheeled Chloe’s luggage to the Qantas check-in counter. His mobile beeped in his pocket, but he ignored it. They halted at the entrance for immigration clearance. Sarah was garrulous, her tone one of forced brightness. But Dan could not mask his sadness, nor hide his lack of enthusiasm for the next phase of his daughter’s life overseas. ‘It’s not forever, Daddy,’ Chloe assured him. He encircled his daughter in his arms, took in her familiar scent. She patted him on the back and he pulled away. When had she stopped hugging him, become uncomfortable with intimacy? ‘Call me if you need anything.’ ‘And you call me if you need to,’ she promptly replied. It was a strange thing for her to say— as though he was the one about to begin a journey. Sarah clasped her, whispered something in her ear. Chloe glanced back at Dan, unable to hide the emotion he couldn’t read. ‘This isn’t a funeral!’ he quipped, and stretched his lips into an approximation of a smile to show her everything was going to be alright. The smile Chloe returned suggested she wasn’t so sure. Something was going on, some mother-daughter conspiracy he’d be told about when someone thought he should know. After Chloe vanished through the Immigration Departure doors he turned to Sarah, expecting to see a shine in her eyes; his own were welling. But her features were inscrutable as a raven’s. He supposed she might appreciate a hug. This was another milestone in their daughter’s life, in their lives. He put an arm around her and flashed a tight smile. ‘She’ll be fine. She’s a sensible girl.’ Sarah nodded, broke free of him and headed off. He let her walk a few metres ahead before checking his phone. A message from Cassie, asking him to call her ASAP. She was becoming as persistent as a toothache. He assumed she’d dug up another one of his offspring and wanted to share their life history; his family tree was becoming more confusing than a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. She had wanted to come to the airport to say goodbye to Chloe, unlike Chloe’s brother who had some virtual meeting he apparently couldn’t miss, but Dan had anticipated Sarah’s
164 disapproval and dissuaded her, saying it was just going to be a low-key send off. Not even Jack was coming, he’d told her. Sarah was silent, her head down as they headed towards the carpark. ‘I can’t believe our little girl is gone,’ Dan said, feeding his credit card into the ticket machine. ‘I remember her being born as clearly as if it was yesterday.’ It wasn’t something Sarah claimed to remember very clearly, too much nitrous oxide and then pethidine. He recalled being in the delivery room, three in the morning, his firstborn in his arms. He loved her already, deeply and fiercely. When his still unnamed daughter screwed up her face against the hospital’s fluorescent lights, he instinctively shielded her eyes and, holding her close, promised to take care of her, forever. Once behind the wheel Dan suggested they go out for dinner, just the two of them. ‘It’s not every day one of the chicks leaves the nest. Though I reckon we’ll have Jack home with us for the next decade. It’s too much like a hotel for him … L’Hotel De Jacques.’ ‘Now that Chloe’s gone,’—Sarah avoiding looking at him—‘I need to talk to you about something.’ ‘That sounds ominous.’ His smile stiffened as he registered Sarah’s frown. He slotted the parking ticket into the machine and the boom gate rose. He could never go past boom gates without thinking of his mother. He eased down on the accelerator. ‘I don’t know how else to say this but,’ she hesitated, ‘it’s over, Dan.’ ‘What’s over?’ ‘Us. Our marriage.’ His lungs emptied. He gasped for air. ‘Just like that?’ ‘It’s been a long time coming, surely this isn’t a surprise.’ The tic animated one side of his face. ‘I know things are tough at the moment but—’ ‘It’s more than that.’ ‘Let’s go back to counselling and then after I’ve got my book to the publishers, we’ll take a long holiday. Anywhere you like. A cruise on the Danube …’ ‘That’s just sticking a Band-Aid on a tumour.’
165 ‘Our marriage is a tumour?’ ‘I’m seeing someone, Dan. Telling you this is the only way you’ll believe it’s finished. No more just getting through another year, see how we go.’ ‘Seeing someone? Who? Do I know him?’ ‘Not really.’ ‘Not really?’ ‘I reconnected with someone after a reunion, of sorts. From a long time ago.’ ‘How do you reconnect with someone from a long time ago?’ As soon as he posed this question, the answer arrived. Facebook. Fucking Fuckbook. It made sense, the preoccupation with her mobile, the laughter, the secret dreamy smiles. The new lingerie and long showers after long lunches. ‘How long have you been reconnecting with your new-old-friend?’ ‘You know who he is. You just want me to say his name. We had unfinished…’ ‘Business?’ He banged his hand on the steering wheel. ‘Was that what you were about to say? Are you kidding me? We’ve been married for thirty years. We have two children.’ ‘Slow down, Dan!’ Dan eased his heavy foot, dropping back to the speed limit. ‘I might have two, but you have 44.’ ‘Is that what this is about? You can’t blame me for that. I know it’s taken over my life and I’m sorry that lately I’ve not given you and the kids the attention you deserve but it’s not something I have any control over.’ Sorry. He’d been wearing that word out lately. ‘Dan, it’s got nothing to do with your D&Cs.’ He clenched the steering wheel. ‘Don’t call them that.’ They were silent. She stared out the passenger window but turned to speak to him. ‘I want us to have a conscious uncoupling.’ He kept his eyes directed on the road ahead. ‘What the hell is that? Something you read about in a magazine at the hairdressers?’ The shock was waning, transitioning to something granite. ‘Don’t be like that. Don’t make things nasty. It will only upset the kids and make everything more difficult than it needs to be.’
166 ‘Unconscious coupling, conscious uncoupling.’ He tasted the bitter words in his mouth. ‘My psychotherapist says that it’s a proven process for lovingly completing a relationship that will leave us feeling whole, healed and at peace. I’d like us to be civilized about it. For us and for the kids.’ ‘I’m not feeling very peaceful, or civilized, at the moment.’ ‘You must have seen this coming. We never make love... I know you prefer your own—’ How could she know about that? That for him real flesh did not live up to what happened in his head. ‘You’re the one that’s never interested. Unless you’re pissed and then you act like you’re doing me a favour.’ ‘You’re a wanker, Dan.’ ‘And now I’ve got the paperwork to prove it.’ Words, spoken and unspoken, hung heavily between them. They were breaching their own treaty by arguing dangerously in private. From the corner of his eye he saw her wiping tears. ‘So what happens next? Do you consciously contact a lawyer? Am I meant to consciously leave my own home?’ She didn’t respond. They withdrew into themselves. He drove past the Elizabeth Quay construction site, the portal back to the Western Suburbs. Dan regretted the loss of the huge expanse of grass and cursed every time he had to face the traffic chaos. Perfectly decent foreshore destroyed by politicians building a monument to their own immortality. Maybe it was him, he just lacked vision. Or perhaps if the Premier discovered forty-two extra children he wouldn’t have felt compelled to build such a colossal legacy for posterity. The lines of another poem studied in high school came to him.
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains.
Sarah sighed, audibly. ‘It’s been building up in my brain and I can’t stand it anymore. I feel like an imposter in my own home. We’re both going to grieve but I
167 want you to see our separation as an opportunity. To turn the pain into a catalyst for something different, something better than what we currently have.’ Her words had the ring of rehearsal. A Facebook post by an over-sharer? Or perhaps her therapist had helped her write this surreal script for separation. ‘You aren’t in love with me, Dan. I’m not sure you ever were.’ He wanted to contradict her. This was the time to do it. But in a rare moment of fidelity to the truth he couldn’t. So he mounted no defence or denial. ‘You told Chloe, didn’t you?’ Sarah hesitated. ‘I didn’t want to tell her over the phone, or via email.’ ‘Before you told me?’
168 DAN
He watched Sarah pack two large suitcases. His mobile beeped. Cassie had sent two more text messages urging him to contact her. He turned his phone off. ‘You stay in the house for now,’ Sarah said, struggling to do up the zip. ‘I’ve got somewhere to go.’ ‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you.’ He couldn’t suppress the sarcasm. ‘Did you friend him or did he friend you first?’ ‘Does that matter?’ ‘It matters.’ ‘He sent me a friend request.’ ‘And then what?’ ‘And then we met for coffee.’ ‘And then?’ ‘Another coffee.’ ‘And then?’ She yanked a suitcase off the bed. ‘A few walks...’ ‘Coffee, then walking along the beach, then sleeping together? Or did I miss a step? Romantic dinners before you started sleeping together?’ Despite the suitcases’ high-tech four-wheel design, Sarah struggled to propel them both along the carpet. Dan made an offer to help but she waved him aside. She dumped them at the front door and brushed past him, heading for Jack’s bedroom. After five minutes she reappeared, tears streaming down her face. She transferred the suitcases one at a time to her car, while Dan hovered, uselessly. She cast a final glance at Jack’s door. ‘Goodbye, Dan.’ He watched her car leave and stood at the door staring at the street, unable to move. Eventually Tori rang and Dan slammed the front door shut. In his study, he turned on his computer, then turned it off straight away. He paced the house. With the favourite members of the pack missing, Toby stuck to his ankles, whining. Neither of them knew what to do with themselves.
169 He knocked on Jack’s door and entered without an invitation. Unplugged for once from The Matrix, Jack lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Dan sat on the edge of the faded Star Wars doona cover. Dan’s family had halved in an afternoon, at least the human part, and father and son didn’t have the words to deal with it. ‘She’s going to take me out for lunch in a few days,’ Jack said, ‘and explain it all.’ ‘Then you can explain it to me,’ Dan said. ‘I’m tired,’ Jack said. The idea of sleep was comforting to Dan too—crawling under a doona and shutting out the world. Only the scent of Sarah would be too overpowering in the marital bed, a reminder of her desertion. Jack’s eyes shut, dismissing him. Dan gently closing the door behind him. He went into Chloe’s room, tidy of her usual clutter. He lay down on her bedspread, hands under his head. After several minutes of staring at the ceiling, his mind curiously blank, he felt the urge to speak to Simon. He needed, if not advice, then someone to talk to over a bottle of wine or two. He rang and left a message on his voicemail. Then he tried Fiona. And left a message. His phone beeped. A text from Cassie inviting him out for dinner. He didn’t feel up to more biographies of his donor offspring. He was beginning to feel like an actor on a daytime soap opera, reading off a badly written script.
170 DAN
Toby roused Dan from his sleep by licking his fingers, dangling over the side of the bed. He pushed the dog away and reached out towards Sarah. His hand registered the empty space. He tortured himself for a few minutes with the thought of her lying in bed next to another man. Over the past month he had raked over the cold coals of his marriage and concluded that he had failed Sarah in so many ways. He had given up. Stopped finding her sexy, telling her he loved her, making an effort to find out what she was thinking, listening to her. Dan had been her flatmate in a shared house he’d seen advertised on a noticeboard at Uni. He was the definition of the sneaky male. All those letters he had written her when she had been engaged to this man, who’d now come to reclaim her 30 years after she broke off the engagement for him. The late British evolutionary biologist John Maynard Smith had come up with the “Sneaky Fuckers” strategy, which explained how the beta males got the girl. While the alpha male was fighting the war (in this case, being a cop), the beta male is sneaking sex with their woman. Dan had wooed Sarah, writing her ridiculously long missives in which he quoted—or more correctly ripped off and plagiarised—poets who said much more eloquently than him how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. He had worn her down with promises of eternal devotion only to deliver, in the end, a lukewarm and transient passion. And now what had they become? It went back to being flatmates in a shared house—only with a dishwasher instead of dirty dishes piling up in the sink—and without the fun. Was it just basic human nature asserting itself? For them both? Society had held in check their innate impulse to cheat. Promoted through customs and taboos, the myth that mate pairs bonded for life. He and Sarah had reproduced, the novelty had long worn off, and underneath it all they didn’t even have enough for a friendship. What they had were the kids and the memories. And now the kids were going. He dragged himself to the kitchen, made an instant coffee, black because there was no milk. He drank it scalding hot and bitter, burning his tongue. He sat on a
171 stool and looked about distractedly. In the garden Toby was doing his business, having given up on Dan taking him for a toilet-walk. He had once treasured his time alone, to write, to read, to reflect, or even play a round of golf, but now that was all he had, it didn’t seem so precious. Cassie’s impromptu arrival didn’t improve his mood nor satisfy his need for company. ‘Still in your dressing gown at 11am?’ She held up a shopping bag. ‘How very Hugh Heffner.’ ‘Only I don’t see any bunnies in lingerie.’ ‘I didn’t want you to be alone. Today of all days.’ She moved past him with her supplies, the black dog behind her. ‘I’ve brought brunch—bacon and eggs, orange juice and champagne.’ Toby wagged his tail. Jet growled at him. ‘What’s special about today?’ Dan asked. She contemplated him, head cocked to one side. He touched his unshaven face, became conscious of his hair, long overdue for a cut. ‘Ground control to Major Tom? Hello?’ Yes, that was exactly what it felt like. And then he remembered. Father’s Day. This was the first one he’d ever had without being greeted by at least one of his children, usually Chloe, with a cup of tea in bed. And Sarah. Perhaps his son had something planned for him, later, when he woke up. Doubtful, without Sarah and Chloe around to orchestrate it. ‘I know we’re not meant to be celebrating it, especially now we’ve got Donor’s Day.’ Dan winced. Donor’s Day, Leonie had informed him, was being held two weeks after Father’s Day so as not to upset any social fathers. Dan had only agreed to the ludicrous idea because he thought that if he saw his donor children all together, he might not have to face so many one-on-one encounters. ‘And I thought we could catch a movie and dinner tonight,’ Cassie said, cracking a couple of eggs into the frypan. She assumed he had no other plans. She was right.
172 DAN
Leonie had painted a banner with ‘Donor’s Day’ and blown up balloons to decorate the house. Cassie had compiled a playlist of ‘old stuff’ from Dan’s era—Neil Diamond, The Doors, and The Rolling Stones. The muscles in Dan’s face began twitching before the first guest had arrived. He might have forgotten names but school ma’am Leonie had made name badges for everyone. His badge–Donor 747—was left discretely on a side board. Cassie and Leonie competed at playing hostess, answering the door and ushering their donor siblings into Dan’s home. He kissed Charlotte hello. She apologised for being unable to catch up with him sooner. She was soon followed by Dr Katrina Hewitt, another GP, or Specialist in General Practice as she had introduced herself. There was an awkward moment of going to shake hands, then air-kissing cheeks at the same time. Katrina had come over for the week from Melbourne to visit her family in Perth, which now, he supposed, included him. Yet another ‘daughter’ arrived. Tina. She had sent him an email which he’d replied to but he couldn’t remember what she’d told him except that it wasn’t a happy story. The scientist within did a quick mental calculation: between 10 and 15% of the total population were here. All daughters. In terms of a study population, gold for a genetic researcher. He recalculated his figures when the Hussey sisters arrived in a taxi a few minutes later. With his second champagne and orange in hand, Dan fired up the barbeque, thinking of cockroach shit, and then of his wife. He cooked the prawns, bacon and eggs while his offspring milled around him, talking to each other, glancing at him every so often. When Dan tried to serve Leonie she made a fuss about the bacon he had just deposited on her plate. She threw the disposable plate into the bin and returned with a new one. ‘I’ll just have a brioche in case it’s touched the prawns. I’m highly allergic.’ ‘Like Rachel,’ Cassie reminded Dan, accepting a few rashers of bacon and an egg. ‘Our sister who died at the beach.’ At Cassie’s prompting, they sat down to eat. Dan studied the women’s faces, these female scions of his line, uncannily similar, gradations or distortions of each
173 other like fun-house mirror images. The conversation turned to how each of them had learned about their conception. When it was Katrina’s turn, she poked out her tongue, curled it, and instructed everyone to do the same. Dan wiped his mouth on a serviette and complied. Katrina retracted hers. ‘That’s how I discovered my father wasn’t my father. Uncovered the great secret in my high school biology class. We were learning about dominant genes. I asked my teacher what happens if neither of your parents can do it and she said, well then, they aren’t your parents. Of course, I made Mum and Dad try – and neither were curlers! I confronted them and faced with this evidence, they ‘fessed up. Ironically, it’s actually an urban myth. It isn’t really proof or disproof of genetic relationships but none of us realised that at the time. Dominant and recessive eye colour is another one people get wrong. Dimples too.’ Katrina described her unsuccessful efforts to discover Dan’s identity, until the call from Cassie to her parents. She had met with several politicians to speak about the injustice of it all. Some of them tried to be helpful around election time but most weren’t interested. After she had explained the inadequacies of the current legal framework and why it was unacceptable that she couldn’t find her donor, one old codger had said to her, I don’t know what you’re worrying about. You look normal to me. ‘What about you, Leonie?’ Charlotte asked. ‘How did you find out?’ ‘My parents divorced when I was three. So I had very little contact with the man I thought was my father. But he came to my 18th and got pretty drunk. He told my best friend, who he was sleazing onto, you know, I’m not her real father. She told me what he said. I told Mum. Mum yelled at Dad and he took off. I never saw him again. I think he moved over east.’ There was a murmur of outrage from the sisters as Leonie’s voice became husky. ‘I wanted to find out who my donor was but Mum said not to waste my time. She’d been told by a doctor at the clinic that the records would be destroyed after any conception.’ No one spoke, while Leonie wiped her tears with a napkin. She rearranged her features, and laughed, in a forced way. ‘But now, I’ve found you all. I’m so happy.’
174 Tina described how she had come to learn about her conception. Cassie contacting her hadn’t been a complete shock. She’d found out the truth years earlier. Her mother had mentioned a family secret several times over the years which would be revealed to her in a letter after her death. Tina and her mother had not had a good relationship and she was terrified her mother would take her secret to the grave. ‘I sent her a card for her 50th birthday with a note asking her to reveal the “secret” while she was still alive, promising, in return, to never bother her again. She wrote back, telling me that the man I thought was my father had been infertile due to childhood diabetes. He had died from complications from the condition when I was three years old. I had been conceived using donor sperm.’ ‘And you’d never suspected anything before?’ asked Narelle. ‘All through my childhood,’ Tina continued, ‘there’d been hints that something was being hidden from me, but I never expected anything like this. I’d have been less shocked if she had said I was adopted. Or that my father hadn’t really died. I had to re-read the letter over and over before it sank in. On the surface, I still appeared to be the same person. Yet, after reading those words, absolutely everything about me had changed.’ ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ someone interjected. ‘I’d always sensed that my mother resented me, and this felt like a vital clue to the mystery. My past made more sense. Because of the way I was conceived, I would always be worthless and a constant reminder that the fairy tale hadn’t worked out: a happy couple who fall in love, marry and have children together.’ Dan took a long swallow of his champagne, too quickly. The bubbles detonated in his nose. This was turning into one big counselling session. And the cause for all the sorrow was sitting right here in the room. If the conversation continued on this path, it might end up with a lynching. Tina picked up a serviette and wiped invisible crumbs off her mouth. ‘While the whole situation left me feeling completely dejected, at the same time it was a rebirth. After a while I began searching for my father, hoping this would show me who I really was. But I had no luck. Cassie’s email came at a time when I had given up.’
175 In the lengthening silence, Dan raised his glass. ‘To girls who grew into intelligent and beautiful women, all thanks to…your mothers!’ Except Tina. Her mother sounded like a bitch. And Cassie’s mother would not have won any mothering awards either. He was definitely drinking too much. At least it made him seem more jovial and charming and gave him an excuse for confusing who was who. ‘Where are the boys?’ Charlotte asked, scanning the table. ‘We have brothers, don’t we?’ All faces turned to Cassie, the gardener of the ever-growing family tree. ‘Dan created twice as many female children,’ Cassie said, allowing Dan to slosh more in her glass. ‘A toast to our donor,’—Tina raised her glass—‘predisposed to making the superior sex.’ They all toasted to that. Dan attempted to pour champagne into empty glasses but was politely rebuffed. ‘C’mon,’ Cassie encouraged. ‘It’s cocktail hour somewhere.’ But he and Cassie were the only two drinking like Aussie tourists wearing all- you-can-drink wristbands at a cheap Bali resort. ‘I’ve spoken to Henry, Paul, Marcus and Gerard,’ Cassie continued, ‘but I doubt we’ll be seeing them at any family gatherings.’ Cassie marked Dan’s male offspring on her fingers. ‘I invited Henry but didn’t hear back. Marcus said he had a surf competition in Bali but I suspect he wouldn’t have come anyway. He’s pissed that Dan won’t officially adopt him. I spoke to Gerard on the phone, briefly. He knows the truth, his parents told him after high school. But he’s not interested in meeting Dan either, or any of us for that matter...He was grateful to get the warning about the cancer and said he’d visit his GP but he was quite happy with the parents he had. He said Professor Adams had donated on the basis of anonymity and not having anything to do with any potential offspring and for his part, he found it preferable to keep it that way.’ Still holding the floor, Cassie described Paul’s circumstances; his cerebral palsy and his parents’ wishes to keep his conception secret. All eyes reverted to Dan, he felt them gauging his reaction. Was he expected to explain himself? To justify creating and then abandoning them.
176 ‘Coffee anyone?’ he asked, rising from the table, using two hands to push himself up. ‘And there’s another bottle of bubbles in the fridge.’ He found the plunger that had been consigned to the back of a cupboard after Sarah had bought the fancy new coffee machine; a burnished steel Italian commercial appliance that cost a packet. It had disappeared one day. He had no idea how to use it anyway. Sarah had done the free Barista course that had come with the hefty price tag. She must have collected it, amongst other things, while he’d been at work. He imagined her new-old-friend had helped her as it was too heavy for anyone to lift on their own. Toby snuffled at his feet, begging for scraps. Sarah had obviously preferred her coffee to her canine. He fed the dog a few prawn tails. The doorbell rang. ‘I’ll get it!’ Cassie said, rising from the table, gesturing for Leonie to sit. ‘Looks like someone changed their mind.’ ‘Might be one of the boys?’ Tina said. Dan was pouring milk into a jug when the man sauntered into the kitchen, grim-faced, making no attempt at the fake social lip-stretch. He was not unlike Jack, but taller, with chiselled features, and a darker complexion. His yellow eyes, deep set, fixed on Dan and his face contorted with an expression Dan read as distaste, as though he had sniffed something unpleasant in the air. ‘Dan, this is Henry Noble,’ Cassie said. ‘I told you about him—’ Henry ignored Dan’s hand, hanging awkwardly in the air. ‘Caroline can’t make it,’ Henry interrupted, addressing Dan and ignoring Cassie. ‘Actually, that’s a polite lie. She said: I don’t want to meet the cunt.’ The profanity was so unexpected, Dan questioned whether he had actually heard it. ‘On the other hand, I was curious.’ Neil Diamond patched over the silence.
Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies And ev’ryone goes, ‘cause everyone knows Brother Love’s show
‘Who’s Caroline?’ Cassie asked.
177 ‘Look,’—Dan swallowed—‘I understand why you might be upset about the whole situation, but it’s good of you to join us—’ ‘I don’t think you do. Understand,’ Henry said. ‘Can I get you a drink, Henry?’ Dan asked. He heard the slur in his pronunciation and attempted to speak more clearly, and slowly. ‘Tea, coffee. Champagne and orange? Come and meet the others? You are the thorn amongst the roses today.’ Dan was babbling, he knew it but he couldn’t stop. His mouth was dry, he wanted another drink to get through this. ‘What I was most curious about,’ Henry stepped towards Dan, unable to step back with the benchtop behind him, ‘was the sound your nose cartilage made as it broke.’ Henry’s threat didn’t register until after his fist had shot out and smashed into Dan’s face. As Dan’s hands flew to his nose, Henry followed with a knee to his groin. The air vacated Dan’s lungs, pain travelled upwards to his stomach, and his body purged prawns, bacon, eggs, brioche and sparkling wine, at velocity. From some deep recess within, Dan heard Toby barking, a woman screaming and someone yelling, ‘Leave him alone! Go!’ As he regained consciousness he registered the acrid smell of vomit and experienced a vision floating above him—a ring of female heads, all slightly out of focus and dissonantly similar. A holy circle of concerned daughters. Something cool and wet was applied to his face. His cheek was wiped. ‘Your nasal septum’s a bit crooked,’ Chloe said. No. It wasn’t Chloe. She was in Scotland. Something licked his ear. ‘Ew, don’t let the dog eat it! Gross!’ ‘I can’t believe he did that!’ ‘He was scary.’ ‘That’s assault. We should ring the police.’ ‘It’s not your fault,’ a voice cooed in his ear. ‘You didn’t know about us. We didn’t know about you.’ ‘What’s his problem?’ another of his daughters asked. ‘If he didn’t like what Dan did, which is kinda stupid because he wouldn’t be here, he didn’t have to come today.’
178 Who was invoking their existential debt? Pain gave him insight. Nothing was owed to Dan. He deserved their anger, not their gratitude. Several soft warm arms enfolded him, helping him sit up. Supporting his weight, they half-carried him to the couch. Katrina, no, it was the other doctor, beautiful Charlotte, tilted his head back and inspected his nose, while Katrina demanded more ice. ‘To keep the swelling down.’ ‘So that’s our brother?’ one of them asked, and then in one violent movement his nose was reset. He yelped as the cartilage clicked back into place. Charlotte studied her handiwork before speaking. ‘Book an appointment with your own GP to make sure it’s set properly.’ ‘It wasn’t completely straight before,’ Dan said, sounding as though he was speaking with a severe head cold. Shoving a ball of gauze up each of his nostrils, Charlotte added, ‘Take a Nurofen and try not to blow it.’ ‘I don’t think it’s too damaged,’ Katrina said, inspecting her sister’s work. Leonie pressed ice, wrapped in a tea towel, to his face. ‘He wasn’t even interested in meeting us.’ Katrina shut the lid of the first aid box. ‘I take it he’s only recently discovered the truth? The older you are, I think, the bigger the psychological shock.’ Brunch ended soon after Dan’s knock out in round one. Dr Katrina asked if she could return the following day and spend some time with him before she caught her plane back to Adelaide. She had lots of questions she wanted to ask. Dan considered typing something up, a press release of sorts, so he wouldn’t have to keep doing the same interview. Favourite colour, favourite season, shoe size, peccadillos, fetishes, bad habits, etc. Cassie remained behind after the others left. Dan wanted her to leave too, though he knew it was churlish, resenting her for staying behind to tidy up. Swigging champagne from a bottle in one hand she picked up glasses and disposable plates with the other, singing along to Jim Morrison’s Riders on The Storm. Dan huddled on the couch under a blanket and watched football. He checked his messages: a text from Leonie thanking him for the day and seeing if he needed
179 anything; another from Tina expressing similar sentiments. Both threatening to pay him a visit, if he was up to it, in the next few days. He wasn’t. He just wanted to be left alone. He heard the sound of Chloe’s car, which Jack had taken possession. Dan had warned his son about Donor’s Day and Jack, as expected, had made himself scarce.
180 DAN
Toby sat and watched Dan pour a glass of Shiraz. ‘You want your dinner?’ Toby’s tail wagged. Then he thought of Jack. He probably wanted his dinner too. He knocked on Jack’s door and heard a few mumbled syllables before opening the door. It was reassuring to see his son jacked back into The Matrix, laughing. As Dan rubbed his unshaven chin. Their lives had become something like a scene out of Two and A Half Men—a couple of bachelors living together, ordering takeaway, sharing man-time together in front of the TV. ‘Shall we go out for dinner?’ Dan asked. Jack lifted his padded earpiece, and looked at him with expectant impatience. ‘Or Chinese takeaway? Fish and chips?’ ‘I’m not hungry.’ ‘Want to watch some TV?’ Dan asked, picturing again the sit-com with the chauvinist male, his brother and nephew, all bonding over a sports programme. ‘Like what?’ Jack never watched TV. He watched TV shows but they were all on his computer, in his room, alone. ‘What about that show with the dragons and zombies and a dwarf? You’re always telling me I should watch it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard academics at the Uni Club discussing it over lunch.’ ‘I’m up to date with Game of Thrones. What about the rugby?’ Dan fell asleep at half time and woke for the last five minutes. On the final whistle, Jack announced he’d been offered a job by Riot Games. ‘What are Riot Games?’ Dan blinked himself awake. ‘You know, the company that does League of Legends?’ He didn’t. ‘Should I be buying shares for my superannuation?’ ‘They’re in LA. It’s the place to be for gaming.’ Dan sat up. ‘LA? USA?’ ‘One day I’ll do my own thing, you know, some sort of start-up.’ ‘But California? You’re only 20. You don’t even know how to boil an egg.’
181 ‘Who needs to know that? I’ll be living in a serviced motel and in LA you can order-in anything.’ And then there was one, Dan thought, stumbling his way to bed, the dog dutifully following him.
182 CASSIE
‘Jet? Jet?’ Cassie called, lugging her shopping down the hall. Until a month ago, every time she arrived home he had greeted her carrying one of his toys as a welcome gift, as though he’d been waiting at the front door the whole time she’d been out. Now, crippled with arthritis, he couldn’t even get himself onto her bed where he slept. She dumped her shopping bags on the kitchen table and headed to her bedroom to find him curled up on the floor. He spent most days there, restlessly dozing. She scratched his head and he made a half-hearted attempt to move so she could scratch his belly. ‘Poor baby, life’s not fun anymore, is it?’ Cassie returned to the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine. The house was quiet since her last flatmate had moved out so she put some music on for company and rolled herself a joint. Flatmates started off bearable, some even seemed to promise everlasting friendship, but the inevitable irritations of sharing a habitat eventually surfaced: they played their music too loud, were too messy, too talkative, too moody, had too many friends over, took food from your side of the fridge, or had unhygienic habits, such as leaving their toe clippings in the bathroom sink. Living on her own was preferable but she had burnt through the last of her mother’s legacy, both the inheritance and the life insurance, which fortunately, after some legal wrangling, had paid out for suicide. She flicked through her mail. Two letters from Centrelink, both threatening to cut off her unemployment benefits if she didn’t provide proof she was ‘looking for paid work.’ She had long ago accepted that she would never be a vet, and that the next best career path was some sort of counsellor or psychotherapist. It was just a matter of getting her act together and enrolling in a course. From her experience as a participant in circles of fellow fuck-ups describing their addictions and ‘owning their issues,’ being a counsellor was not a difficult a job. You listened as people talked about their lousy marriage, or how much they despised their job; nodded as they told you how much their parents hated them; contradicted them when they said their life was a failure and wasn’t worth living, they’d never be happy, no one understood them, or knew who they truly were. And having overcome her own twin demons—
183 alcohol and bulimia—she would have more credibility than most mental health professionals. All she needed was a little more support than what the world was currently offering, which was a pathetic $538 a fortnight, plus rent assistance. Didn’t she deserve an investment in her future? She didn’t expect as much as had been bestowed upon Chloe Adams, but she did the calculations anyway. She Googled school fees for Methodist Ladies College, multiplied one year’s fee by five and stared at the on-screen calculator. Far out! Add to that, the Uni fees for Chloe’s veterinary studies and now post-graduate studies in the UK. She was as much Daniel Adams’ daughter as that sanctimonious little Patron Saint of Kicked Puppies. Cassie poured herself another wine and began preparing the prawns; beheading, pulling off legs and tail, peeling the shell, and removing the black nerve line from the spine. After mincing the meat with a knife she pan-fried it and divided the mixture. The smell of food brought Jet hobbling into the kitchen. It was to be his last supper. She crushed enough tablets to euthanize a baby hippo, added them to the prawns and watched him eat. Despite his illness and pain, he needed little encouragement; prawns were his favourite. He’d also have eaten the tablets crushed in Brie, but she needed prawns anyway. Cassie had stolen the tablets from the room in The Shack which Chloe had converted into a makeshift surgery where she treated native wildlife and friends’ pets gratis. It had been a simple matter of breaking into the locked cabinet and taking the Pentobarbitone while Chloe was crying under a stinky old horse blanket. She had decided against giving Jet an intravenous injection—Chloe had called it the green dream. After watching Chloe euthanize Chester she realised it was more complicated than she had imagined. You don’t want to miss a vein, Chloe had explained, otherwise it was a much slower and more painful process as the Pentobarbitone irritated the local site. She carried Jet to her bed and laid beside him, her hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat and listening to his breathing become laboured. This was something to witness; life leaving a body. It would take longer than an intravenous administration but Jet didn’t appear to be suffering. Chloe had explained how it worked: the drug
184 entered the blood stream and suppressed the function of the heart and brain, causing a loss of consciousness and pain sensation, the heart then stopped beating. Death arrived painlessly, while the animal slept deeply, and peacefully. It sounded like a pleasant way to go, to fall asleep. Her mother had attempted something similar but according to the Coroner’s report she had drowned in the bath instead after swallowing a cocktail of prescription drugs and half a bottle of Vodka. On good days Cassie convinced herself it was accidental. Jet’s eyes remained open but became glassy, dull, dead. She lay her head against his chest to confirm his heart had stopped beating. The muscle in her throat contracted with tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and at first they leaked out, then she gave herself over to grief and they flowed and flowed.
185 CASSIE
The gate hung off its hinge and the path leading to the porch was missing bricks. Weeds sprouted in the spaces. Somewhere inside the old cottage with the rusty tin roof a dog barked frantically at Cassie’s approach. Leonie opened the door, wearing a big stupid grin. Behind her a Rhodesian Ridgeback cross-bred growled. ‘It’s all right, Dilly!’ Leonie grabbed the dog’s collar. ‘Sit!’ The dog ignored her command and sniffed around Cassie’s legs, taking in Jet’s scent. He was still on Cassie’s bed. She’d bury him in the yard tomorrow. Cassie accepted Leonie’s hug, her body stiff and unyielding, and followed inside a house that reminded her of the shitty rentals she had grown up in after Gary had defected: cheap, shabby, cold in winter and baking in summer. The lounge room connected to a small old-fashioned kitchen, with ghastly green cupboard doors. The TV blared music videos. On the coffee table lay a jumble of magazines: celebrity and fashion for her; cars and women in bikinis for him. Cassie placed the quiche and a cheap bottle of bubbles on the chipped Formica bench top. Leonie brought out a bag containing sugared almonds, tulle and a spool of white satin ribbon. Marriage was a distant mirage for Cassie. She had never got as far as a proposal with any of the men in her life. They had mostly been either married or divorced and, once bitten, forever shy at the sight of a gold ring. She didn’t understand all the fuss anyway, especially with the whole marriage equality argument. The gays were welcome to the out-dated institution that was designed to protect property, not consummate love. Perhaps they could make a better go at it than the hetero world had. ‘It’s a bit of a trek here I know but I’m so glad you could make it to help me with the bon-bons. I was tempted to get my school kids to do them, a bit of child labour never went astray, but I’m afraid they’d eat most of them.’ ‘What’s family for?’ Leonie beamed. ‘Dan’s agreed to give me away.’ Leonie was going to pay for trying to make Dan a big part of her small life. ‘It’s a shame Brett’s not here to meet you,’ Leonie said. ‘He’s still up North for another few days.’ Leonie squeezed Cassie’s arm. ‘My fiancé is not a big talker and
186 he’s so over me going on about all my diblings. And the wedding. He’s sick to death of that too.’ He wasn’t the only one. Cassie had turned off the notifications from Leonie’s Facebook account. She constantly posted excruciating details of the plans for her boring wedding along with pictures of her bogan boyfriend. As well as re-posting stupid sayings—wisdom for living—which were meant to be profound. This week alone, Leonie had sent her: Don’t be that woman that needs a man…be a woman a man needs. And – life is never easy for those who dream. As well as, Live is a story, make yours a best seller. Leonie poured the wine and then showed Cassie around her grim little abode like it was a Mosman Park mansion. ‘Here’s the spare bedroom, which might be the nursery one day.’ Out the back, Leonie apologised for the state of the garden. The wind had torn tired leaves and twigs from the trees, scattering them amongst the dog turds and ankle high grass. Laundry flapped in the sou-westerly. It had been blowing a gale for days. Cassie never felt calm when it was windy. Her mind became ruffled, agitated. ‘I asked Brett to mow before he left but he didn’t get around to it. Prefers the noise of a jet ski to a lawnmower.’ And she wanted to marry the jerk? Brett the fly-in-fly-out worker. Cassie pictured him in a high-vis vest with the important job of holding a stop sign for dump trucks. While Leonie ‘threw together a salad,’ Cassie sat at the kitchen bench cutting squares of tulle. Leonie joined her, dividing the cut-up tulle into two piles and babbling on and on about The Big Day while they both added six almonds per square, before tying them off with a length of satin. When the bon-bons were finished, Leonie laid the table for their lunch. ‘Vegetarian, right?’ Leonie asked, reading the label on the box Cassie had brought. Cassie nodded. ‘Got it from the local shop. They bake them onsite.’ ‘Yum!’ Leonie handed Cassie a plate with a large slice of quiche. ‘I still can’t quite believe it. Finding out I have brothers and sisters, after all these years! And so many. We’ll never be alone again!’
187 The fat dumb cow needed to be reminded. ‘You know you can’t meet most of them.’ Rachel and Jacquie were dead, Gerard the computer nerd, who Cassie suspected was on the Asperger’s spectrum, wanted nothing to do with them. They would probably never hear from Henry again. And most of the rest had never been told or couldn’t be traced. ‘Dan’s so nice, isn’t he? Quiet, gentle and so smart. I still can’t believe my father is a university professor and famous author.’ Leonie giggled. ‘I must have inherited my mother’s genes. She’s very sweet, Mum, but no Einstein and a bit unlucky in love. I want her to meet Dan too. You never know … they might hit it off. Imagine that! Dan and Mum together!’ For the first time in many years, Cassie thought of Kiara. The girl who had taken her place in Gary Robertson’s life. Kiara and her mother had stolen what had been hers and her mother’s. She had named one of her Barbie dolls ‘Kiara’ before spending hours elaborately torturing it. Cassie picked at the salad while Leonie droned on about the wedding. The speech she’d make about finding her father. Cassie washed down a mouthful of carrot with a long swallow of wine and then told herself to ease up on the plonk. The last thing she needed was to be picked up by the cops on the way home. ‘I’ve asked Dan around here next weekend to meet Mum and Brett. I want them all to get to know each other better.’ Leonie finally took a bite of her quiche, speaking before she had swallowed the mouthful. ‘If we have a boy, he’s definitely going to be a Daniel.’ Her brow furrowed after the next mouthful. ‘You did say this was vegetarian?’ She chewed, slowly, meditatively. Cassie nodded—‘roasted vegies’—and shovelled a forkful into her own mouth. Leonie’s cheeks flushed red. ‘It’s just… I thought I tasted a bit of meat, chicken or something?’ She wiped sweat on her upper lip with a serviette. ‘Eleven secret herbs and spices.’ ‘Oh God!’ Leonie grabbed at her neck. ‘I’m really not feeling too good. Tingly in my throat.’ Cassie poured her a glass of water. ‘You look hot. Drink this.’ Leonie made a choking noise. ‘Pen. Epi—’
188 ‘What was that?’ A sound gurgled in Leonie’s throat. Cassie dashed to the front door where she’d seen Leonie’s handbag. There was a crashing sound behind her as Leonie fell to the floor. The dog whined and followed his mistress as she dragged herself across the floor towards the kitchen. In a couple of strides, Cassie was by her side with the handbag. She rummaged through it, then tipped it upside down, anxiety beginning to bubble. Where was it? Leonie had said she always carried it with her. Leonie’s face was a strangulated red, fighting for air, wheezing sounds. Did she say kitchen? ‘In the kitchen?’ Cassie asked. ‘Is that what you said?’ Cassie stumbled into the kitchen and opened cupboards and drawers. She took a step back and spotted the first aid kit on top of the fridge. She yanked it down, opened it and found the Epi-pen. Leonie was beyond injecting herself so Cassie would have to do it. What part of the body was it meant to go in? Into a vein? In her arm like a vaccination? Or in her butt cheek like she’d once seen on a TV medical show, because according to TV protocol, she recalled, if it went into the muscle it entered the blood stream faster. Cassie raised her arm and stabbed Leonie in the thigh with the Epi-pen, penetrating through denim and into fat and, eventually, muscle. While Leonie writhed on the floor, the dog circled them, sat on its haunches, whined, and repeated the routine—circling, sitting, whining. Cassie returned to the kitchen bench, picked up the plate with the remainder of the quiche, and called the dog. ‘Here boy! Here Dilly!’ Dilly approached warily, ears flat against his head. He snarled, barked at Cassie, and backed away. Cassie dumped the plate on the floor. The dog approached and sniffed at it. ‘Eat it, you dumb dog!’ The dog ignored the quiche and returned to his mistress. She flushed the quiche down the toilet. As she washed the plates, cutlery, and wine glasses she rehearsed the phone call, going over in her mind what she’d say. After wiping over the kitchen bench, she dialled 000, used a suitably hysterical tone to deliver her lines, and hung up.
189 She moved Leonie so she wouldn’t choke on her vomit. The sound of an ambulance’s siren grew louder until it seemed as though it was coming from inside the house. The siren stopped. Coloured lights flashed outside. The dog barked and growled at the door. Cassie rearranged her features, opened the door before the ambos knocked. Dilly lunged at them, barking and bearing his teeth. One of the officers asked her to shut the dog in another room before they came in. After a few questions, they carted Leonie away. She put Dilly outside, made sure he had fresh water and food for a few days. On the way home she rang Dan to tell him what had happened, careful not to paint herself too much the heroine. It was better to let other people come to that conclusion.
190 DAN
Dan regained consciousness, surrounded by several other patients in varying states of grogginess. All of them had just had their innermost regions explored, though fortunately none of them had any memory of the experience under the twilight sedation. A nurse asked him to change back into his clothes when he was ready and then move to the waiting area. She’d soon be ringing his support person. He wasn’t allowed to get a taxi; he had to be chaperoned home. Dan removed the hospital gown he had worn for the procedure, that gaped at the back allowing for easy access to his backside, and pulled on his jeans, shirt and jacket. Simon arrived while he dozed in a reclining chair, drinking tea and eating cheese and crackers. He had never imagined he’d be relying on Simon as his ‘contact person’. But who else was there to ask? He might have rung Fiona but she was in Melbourne. ‘Really appreciate it, buddy. Didn’t know who else to ask.’ ‘No worries. Any time.’ ‘Hopefully only once every five years.’ ‘Haven’t had one myself. I did do the screening test you get from the pharmacy that you send off in the post though.’ As he signed the paperwork, he enquired of the nurse: ‘Doctor didn’t see anything of concern?’ She repeated well-worn lines. His results went to his GP who’d call when they arrived to discuss them with him. For the first time since meeting Jacquie he worried he too harboured some sickness in his bowels. And while he had never questioned Jacquie’s motivation in tracking down her donor siblings to warn them about the potential for GI cancer, for some reason, even with Andrew’s diagnosis, he’d never seriously considered himself to be the source of the danger, let alone at risk of the cancer himself. Dan sank into the soft leather of Simon’s Mercedes. He’d not seen his friend for several weeks, pulling out of their regular Saturday golf since Sarah had left him. Simon was unusually quiet on the drive home. ‘How’s Evette? Still got you doing Pilates every day?’
191 ‘We split. She decided she did want children after all and I don’t. Not now. Wouldn’t it be ridiculous at our age?’ ‘Can you imagine?’ Dan asked. ‘Up in the middle of the night for crying and feeding, all those hours pushing swings in parks, building sandcastles, playing board games, parent-teacher interviews. I’ll be there for the grandkids, but that’s because I can hand them back.’ ‘Got me thinking though,’ Simon said. ‘Did I have children from the program? Otherwise, I’m the end of the line, in evolutionary terms.’ ‘Do you really want to know?’ Dan touched his crooked nose. ‘You’ve seen how well it’s turning out for me.’ ‘Still, I had to find out. I rang the University. Got the same stonewall you did until I spoke to the Dean of Medicine. He said he’d look into it, but when he got back to me, he told me all the records had been deleted. Well, not deleted exactly, because apparently it’s impossible to delete a record in their document management system, you can only kind of hide them. What was the word he used?’ ‘Redacted?’ ‘That’s it. When you put a solid black rectangle over the words. And you can’t undo it when it’s been done. All the information; names, dates of birth, are blacked out.’ ‘There are other ways to find out,’ Dan said. ‘Go on the Health Department’s DNA register. If you’ve got children, and they’ve been told, and they want to find you. It doesn’t matter about records anymore. DNA is the only foolproof detective.’ ‘But as you said, it’s only if the children have been told, and want contact.’ Dan nodded to himself. He still hadn’t joined the register despite Jacquie asking him to before she died. Simon pulled into Dan’s driveway. ‘Mate, am I meant to keep baby-sitting you? Or is it just don’t drink and operate heavy machinery for a few more hours?’ Dan didn’t needed supervision, just company. There’d never be a substitute for these old friendships of youth. ‘How about I order a curry? We can wash it down with Belgian beer from a monastery. At least that’s what the label says.’
192 A few beers later, Simon returned to the topic of his own fertility. ‘I thought about all the women I’ve been with, including being married for five years. Just assumed they’d taken care of the contraceptive side of things. I considered getting tested to find out if I’m firing blanks but then I thought, what’s the point? I don’t want to become a father now. I’d probably break a hip trying to kick the footy. Children were just one of those things I didn’t get around to doing.’
193 DAN
Dan sent emails to Chloe and Jack to let them know he was starting his Digital Detox. Of course he’d answer the phone if they were still comfortable with such old- fashioned technology, but otherwise it was radio silence. He’d also sent a text to Sarah, telling her he was leaving for The Shack. She had replied: Good Luck with your book. Enjoy the peace and quiet. Anyone who did send him an email would receive the auto-response:
I’m not so much out of the office as out of the digital loop at the moment. I’m undergoing digital detox from November 20 to December 20. Please help me to overcome my online addiction by calling my mobile if you wish to talk.
At Dan’s command Toby jumped into the back seat of the Lexus. He finished packing the car with the essential supplies for the next month: two crates of red wine, enough to last him until he’d earned a visit to the Millbrook winery; his laptop; a plastic washing basket of kitchen supplies; a small bag of clothing and a printer for his final draft. He always liked to print off a hard copy of the final version, hold it in his hands, feel the weight of it, the hours of his life it represented, read it through one last time before sending Gail a Word file attached to an email. Toby relocated to the passenger seat as they reversed out of the driveway, and sat tall and alert for the adventure. Dan hadn’t even left his own postcode when he pulled over and cursed. He’d forgotten about the damn bird. He hadn’t organised anyone to feed it. He drove back and stuck the cage in the boot. ‘Do not ring!’ he warned the bird, ‘or I’ll leave you on the side of the road.’ An hour later they arrived in Jarrahdale, nestled in the Darling Scarp, surrounded by national park. Here the locals were proud of both the history of logging and the more recent efforts to preserve the majesty of the Jarrah forest. When he pulled up outside The Shack and opened his car door, Toby leaped across him and raced off in search of interesting smells. Dan retrieved Tori from the boot and conveyed him to the front verandah. ‘There we go, buddy! Change of scenery. Lots of feathered friends for you to talk to.’
194 Agitated, the bird scuttled back and forth along his perch and started calling loudly despite Dan’s threat to wring its neck. At least it couldn’t annoy any neighbours here. ‘Here, Tori, no one can hear you scream!’ The Shack had never become the holiday home that Dan had intended when he purchased it, Sarah preferring somewhere more exotic for her family holidays — ski trips to Europe or New Zealand, South East Asian resorts, road trips across America— rather than spending a few weeks in a ramshackle fibro and tin cottage located on five acres of bushland. When he had bought the run-down property for a song a decade earlier for Chloe’s horse, he had anticipated its growth potential as an investment. The land was relatively close to the city but because it was surrounded by bush that could never be developed it was never going to become part of the urban sprawl. Instead it became a money pit. Bush fires were an annual threat and the stables had to be rebuilt after one had destroyed them. Fortunately, the locals had rescued Chester. For many years an elderly hippy couple, both on pensions, had lived in The Shack and paid next to nothing in rent in return for looking after Chester. Dan had sometimes envied his tenants’ simple life. The woman did handicrafts and the old bloke pottered about in the shed with rusty bits of machinery and grew herbs, which Dan suspected were not always of the legal variety. He had raised the prospect of selling Jarrahdale a few times over the years and while Sarah was in favour, Chloe always had the final word. This, Chloe had informed him, was where she would eventually set up her veterinary practice, specialising in caring for injured wildlife. But first there was money to be made in artificial insemination for thoroughbreds in the international polo industry. Dan’s gaze rested on the large Jarrah tree out the front under which, Chloe had told him, the old gelding’s ashes were buried. It still had the truck tyre swing hanging off its lowest branches that the ex-tenants had hooked up for visits from their grandchildren. Once inside the house Dan disabled data roaming on his phone. No more emails. No more internet. He was entering his pre-digital cave, returning to AL– Analogue Life. He would answer incoming calls but like a drug addict in rehab he
195 wouldn’t allow himself to make any, at least not for the first week. The world was being shut off to focus on a healing, of sorts, of his neural networks. Immediately his mind began its tricks, asking, Shouldn’t he monitor the weather for bush fires? It could be dangerous not to know what’s going on. He might have listened to the ABC but he didn’t even own a radio anymore. He survived the first day easily enough, starting the blog which he would upload at the end of the month, chronicling his digital detoxification. What he wrote might once have passed as a diary entry, only minus all the self-indulgent reflection. He wrote it in the persona of a net junkie going cold turkey to the digital world. In the normal course of writing, he’d have surfed the internet several times to check a fact or look for someone else’s phrase to more eloquently encapsulate what he wanted to say, checked his emails, perused a news site and just Googled stuff, getting himself trapped by clickbait. He then turned to his manuscript and decided to start the next chapter by hand, aspiring for a different style from something dashed off on a keyboard. Research using CT scans had showed different parts of the brain fired during hand- writing. This meant the output was going to be different. Unsurprisingly, the conclusion was that the old-fashioned way produced less disciplined but more creative writing. His efforts deserved a drink.
* * *
A pattern to his days and nights emerged. A peace, of sorts, descended now he was no longer receiving news from his own tangled DNA web, let alone the world wide one, which had recently had felt the need to separately label “good news” as some bizarre novelty item. With a cold beer for company, Dan worked at the wooden kitchen table late into the night in a silence that was impossible to achieve in the city. It was a race to drink it before it went warm. The sounds of the rattling fan did nothing to dispel the heat. He slept until at least 10am, waking to the carolling of birds in sheets damp with sweat, his bladder full, and a fug in his head that didn’t begin to clear until after a cold shower and the second cup of strong instant coffee.
196 After dousing himself in fly repellent, he set out for a long stroll through the bush with Toby, returning with his t-shirt sticking to his back, baseball cap damp. The incipient heat combined with the fatigue in his legs enabled him to remain sitting at his desk until his stomach grumbled for food around two-ish. Then he’d make himself brunch; bacon, scrambled eggs and baked beans on toast, which he’d eat while itching to check the news on his phone. A few more hours working and he’d reach a point in the late afternoon when he couldn’t keep his eyes open and his mind went startlingly blank. That’s when he took a nap, though not before he allowed his imagination to return him to the massage table. The hands were generally anonymous but increasingly he thought about Amporn, forever young in his fantasies. After resetting his brain with sleep, he took another cold shower and tapped away on his laptop into the evening with only a short break for a simple meal of cheese on toast. He wielded some control over his afternoon fantasies but not his nightmares. One night he dreamt he was on the Rottnest Ferry with Sarah, Chloe and Jack. The engines cut halfway to the island. The cry of ‘Man Over-board!’ rang out and the passengers all ran to the deck in a scene his unconscious stole from Titanic. Leaning over the rails Dan searched the turgid water until he spotted a woman, bobbing in the swell, arm waving. And then another, and another. All calling out, ‘Dad! Dad!’ He fought through the crowded deck, frantically searching for a lifebuoy. He found one and desperately tried to yank it off the rails, but it was stuck. He scanned the water again and this time, amongst the blondes and redheads, he saw Chloe. His panic increased and with it the strength to tear the lifebuoy from the rails. He called her name, seeking her out amongst the bobbing heads. He threw to her but Chloe was swamped as all his daughters piled on top of her, grabbing at the lifebuoy. Then Cassie was standing in front of him, zombie-like, ghostly pale with her long, wet hair, clinging like seaweed, barely covering her naked body. The dream ended as she was joined by others, pallid and dripping, yellow eyes vacant of life, silently accusing him of saving his favourite and leaving them to drown.
197 * * *
There had never been a time when he’d been so free of responsibilities and obligations—certainly not since Chloe and Jack’s birth. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Just Dan and his two dependents, a brainless dog and a featherless bird? He refused to admit to loneliness; that would mean acknowledging the company he kept was no good. He concluded that his brain was not craving human company, but rather the disruptive technologies of email and internet, rebelling against the long hours of thinking and writing. His solitude did not last. On the seventh day, a white new model Ford appeared in the red-pebbled driveway. He had given up on the afternoon nap, unable to fall asleep in the heat, and a mind cluttered with pointless thoughts about what Sarah was doing. The dark tint of the car windows obscured the occupants. Dan stood up from the kitchen table and walked out to the verandah, thinking it might be Sarah, though it wasn’t her car. A back door of the Ford opened and Cassie stepped out holding a shivering, starved-looking mongrel—part-terrier, part-something else. Dingo perhaps. She waved. Dan swore as the driver emerged and removed two large suitcases from the boot before driving off, leaving her momentarily obscured in a red cloud of dust. ‘Meet Jet!’ Cassie announced, by way of greeting. ‘That’s not Jet,’ Dan said, censoring the words that first came to mind. What the hell are you do here? ‘New Jet,’ she said, beaming. ‘The other Jet had to have the green dream.’ She left the bags and approached him, holding her cheek out to be kissed. She turned the dog’s face towards Dan. ‘It was a difficult decision but it had to be done. You have to put your own needs aside. I gave myself some time to mourn and made room in my heart and home to save another dog.’ Her eyes became glassy. ‘Poor baby was found in a crate in the backyard of a vacant house. People can be so cruel; don’t you think? Abandoning a dog like that?’ She kissed new Jet between its ears and put her down. Dan gave a non-committal shrug. Cassie had a way of phrasing things that had nothing to do with him as though he was somehow to blame. She followed his gaze to the suitcases. ‘It’s just for a few days. I needed a tree change. And my lease was up.’
198 Dan had been restless all day, unable to concentrate after a late night in front of his laptop and too much booze. He’d been on a roll, writing about the internet as the ultimate meeting place for people to gather to chat, gossip, debate, brag, and flirt both on social media and all sorts of other antisocial networks. And then Facebook had made him think of Sarah meeting up with her old flame, which made him wish an inferno on them, and another bottle of Shiraz on himself. ‘I messaged you on Facebook.’ Cassie hooked her handbag on the back of a kitchen chair. ‘I was worried about you when you didn’t reply. That’s the other reason I decided to come. Now that Sarah’s run off, there’s no-one to take care of you.’ ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’ ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Cassie said, surveying the collection of empty beer bottles competing for space with unwashed dishes. He carried her suitcases into what had once been the kids’ bedroom, before Chloe had converted it into her makeshift animal surgery, filled with veterinary supplies and instruments, including an examination table in the middle of the room. Charts on the walls displayed canine dental decay and the life cycle of parasitic intestinal worms. A layer of dust covered every surface and the corpses of flies littered the window sill. ‘You can push the examination table aside. I’ll go get one of the single beds from the shed.’ He could not keep the sarcasm from his tone. ‘If you’d rung first, I could have got the maid to air your room and press fresh linen.’ He meant it as a mild rebuke. ‘Or at least killed the redbacks and brown snakes.’ He called Toby. ‘I was just about to take the dog out for a walk.’ He had planned no such thing but needed to get away from Cassie before he said something he’d regret. ‘I’ll organise the bed when I get back.’ A few days! He dredged his memory for the saying about guests and dead fish—after three days, they both start smelling. ‘Take Jet with you. She’d love a walk too.’ Toby had never caught any wildlife on their bush rambles. It was enough excitement for him to follow a scent and the sight of fauna just made him bark hysterically. New Jet on the other hand, returned with a blood-matted muzzle after
199 ripping the heads off two bobtails. Slow moving, with fat stumpy tails that resembled their heads, their only defence was to flick out a blue-tongue at any attacker. He knew from Chloe’s animal trivia that they were monogamous and lived to a ripe old age of up to 70. He felt terrible both for the two dead lizards, and the two grieving mates left behind.
* * *
It became apparent that a few days did not mean a few days, or even a week. Through some unspoken understanding, Cassie took control of domestic duties— buying and preparing food and washing clothes by hand in the laundry sink because there was no washing machine. Dan had better things to do than go to a supermarket or laundromat and he didn’t want to waste energy on mundane decisions such as what he was going to eat or wear each day. He recalled reading that Mark Zuckerberg wore only one type of t-shirt and jeans for this very reason—to reduce the number of unimportant decisions he had to make so he could focus on the important ones. After running out of cash, he gave Cassie the PIN for his debit card. She laid the receipts out on the bench but Dan had no interest in checking them. He didn’t care about the bottle of Vodka or the packet of roll-your-own tobacco. She never bothered him while he was writing and seemed to know exactly when he needed a cup of tea or a beer, or a quick chat about nothing. She didn’t need much herself. A few vollies, as she called her Vodka and diet coke mixes, her rollies which she smoked outside, and her earphones. He suspected she also dropped into the Jarrahdale pub when she took the car to the shops. In the evening, she sat at the table with him, with her adult colouring in books. Therapeutic, she said they were. Dan had suggested she make use of the eclectic selection of novels accumulated over the years in the make-shift bookcase of bricks between planks of wood. ‘I never read novels. I don’t like the extra voices in my head.’ ‘Voices?’ Dan asked, his interest becoming professional. ‘I don’t mean like I’m schizo. I’m just full enough with my own thoughts. I can’t deal with other peoples’.’
200 The first time Cassie asked him to push her on the old truck tyre swing while he was taking a break with a beer on the verandah, he laughed off the suggestion. But she was as persistent as any toddler and he finally succumbed. After he stopped feeling self-conscious, he found the action relaxing. Sometimes they trekked together through the bush, New Jet on a short leash. Once they went further afield to Kitty Gorge’s trail along the Serpentine River, along the narrow path edged by spiky grass and dull green ferns in exhausted soil, past granite outcrops and small waterfalls. The longer they hiked in silence, the more Dan shed of himself, sloughed off the dead skin. Until Cassie suddenly grabbed his hand. Why the hell did she do that? He wasn’t much of a hand-holder at the best of times, yet another item on Sarah’s list of his inadequacies. To counter the awkwardness, he began to describe one of the experiments he did with his educational psychology students. ‘One group walks through a park,’ he said, gently extricating his hand from hers, shooing an imaginary fly, ‘the other walks on city streets. Afterwards they both take a cognitive test. The park group always does significantly better. It even works just by looking at pictures of nature or even imagining nature scenes.’ With his freed hand, he gestured at the bush surrounding them. ‘The students who looked at nature scenes were able to control their attention spans for longer, while those who looked at city scenes showed no improvement in their attentiveness. I then make the case for designing classrooms incorporating nature, or taking students outside to learn.’ ‘Don’t you like holding my hand?’ Cassie asked.
* * *
That evening Cassie roasted a leg of lamb, which she confessed, after he’d eaten, had been marinated not just in rosemary, but also marijuana. Initially, he was too stoned to get upset. They sat on the couch, the old analogue TV screen blank in front of them, sharing a packet of mint chocolate biscuits and drinking red wine. Deep concentration was required to make his lips wrap around the shape of his words. Cassie announced she was hot and then taking a pair of kitchen scissors cut the legs off the jeans she was wearing, gigging as she did it. Still too hot, she cut the arms of her t-shirt, leaving only a singlet that gaped at the armpits.
201 She put down the scissors. ‘I could live here forever.’ Her eyes were shiny, her mouth smiley. ‘It’s so peaceful.’ ‘It’s not the real world, Cassie.’ ‘Why not?’ Dan stretched out his arms, remembering why he had never much taken to cannabis. It made him sleepy, especially in combination with alcohol. Sweat trickled like malevolent centipedes down his back. The old-fashioned pedestal fan churned loudly, turning left, right, left, right. He shut his eyes and felt her hands on his shoulders, fingers kneading the knotted tissue, ligaments, muscle. ‘Did I tell you I was a masseuse for a while? At a yoga centre in Freo.’ Her words were minced by the blades of the fan, making her voice sound robotic. ‘But my hands got so sore I had to quit. Doesn’t pay very well either, unless you get those really gross older guys who want more …’ He tensed at her words, but his mind couldn’t hold onto that thought. ‘When we go back to Perth, can I come live with you?’ ‘Ummm,’ he said, feeling the gravitational tug back to earth. He heard himself say an emphatic “no.” ‘I feel like life is passing me by.’ ‘Better that than running you over.’ He smiled at his quip but Cassie didn’t see the humour. ‘I want to go back to study. There are all these ways a mature-age student can get in. It wasn’t easy in my last year of high school. I didn’t sit my finals.’ ‘Chloe told me about your mother.’ ‘She did it on my birthday.’ Dan supposed that made it worse. Selfishness on top of selfishness. Or maybe someone that desperately unhappy was too far gone to foresee anyone else’s pain. ‘I’m probably going to have to sell the house. To pay Sarah out.’ ‘I don’t care where we live.’ Her tongue flashed black from wine sediment, reminding him of the dead bobtails. ‘And I can take care of Toby and Tori when you go away—’ ‘I was thinking of an apartment, somewhere near the Uni. Just on my own. The animals can go back to Sarah.’
202 The massage stopped. Cassie reached for her wine glass, tossed back the remains, and strode off. The slam of the bathroom door confirmed what she thought of his response. He heard the sound of the old-fashioned tub being filled, no doubt emptying most of what was left in the rainwater tank. He thought about dragging himself to bed, but shut his eyes and nodded off on the couch instead. He woke to Cassie calling him, and complied like a parent rising to comfort a distressed child in the night. Tucked up in bed, Cassie gestured for him to sit on the mattress. ‘Read me a story.’ ‘What? I thought you didn’t like the voices?’ ‘Please.’ Dan laughed, sounding to himself like a crazy man. Cassie handed him a battered copy of The Lord of the Rings. ‘I can’t sleep, it’s too hot.’ He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, legs splayed in front of him. He opened the book. The first page was inscribed with Jack’s name. ‘This will put us both to sleep.’ The films might have been non-stop sword-fighting, but he remembered reading pages and pages of mind numbing description of desolate landscapes and gargantuan ruins to Jack before his son eventually had the vocabulary to read it to himself. Cassie curled up on her side, studying him with glassy eyes that hardly blinked. New Jet was busy at the end of the bed licking herself. Toby entered, looking for the rest of the pack, and slumped at Dan’s feet. Jet growled territorially. The floor was hard under his un-padded backside. A mosquito whined somewhere in the room. This was ridiculous, a grown man reading a childhood fantasy to a grown woman, but eventually he lost himself in Middle Earth.
* * *
While Dan stared blankly at the blank screen, Cassie coloured in and waited for the potatoes to boil. ‘It’s very popular at the moment, colouring. More relaxing than meditation, which I don’t find relaxing at all, just boring. The only decisions you need to make are the colours you want, and the only goal is to stay within the lines. Wanna try?’
203 When was the last time he had coloured in? Was it Mrs Broadhurst’s grade three class? The year the school had, at his father’s request, separated the brothers for the first time, placing them into different classes. Dan didn’t know why his father had asked for that, taken away the comfort of his twin. Dan picked up a blue pencil and coloured in some roses in an English cottage garden scene. He glanced at Cassie, her tongue probing the corner of her mouth with concentration, her hair a greasy curtain in front of her face. ‘Why didn’t you do what Marcus wanted?’ she said, fixing him with a stare. He put down his pencil. He reached for the pencil sharpener. He found the sharpening more relaxing than the colouring. ‘It’s ridiculous. He’s obsessed with a piece of paper. It’s not as if he even wants to meet me.’ ‘I couldn’t care less about all that legal shit,’ Cassie said. ‘All I want is to be able to call you Dad.’ Dan stared at the pile of shavings accumulating. ‘Please, Cassie. We’ve been through this. I’m not your Dad. I was your donor.’ ‘But now? You’re more than that.’ Cassie threw down her pencil, picked up her vollie and headed to the verandah. Tori shrilled like a telephone. ‘Dad’ didn’t sit right with him. He would sacrifice his life for Chloe and Jack, without a moment’s hesitation. But time had built those bonds, not DNA. He smelt the cigarette. If she had been his daughter, he’d have told her to butt out. Dirty filthy habit. The sun had set leaving a burnt orange smear across the sky but it was still light, and would be for hours. Without a breeze, the air was as still as a dead man’s breath. He glanced outside and saw her sitting in the tyre swing, scuffing her feet in the red dirt, crying. He wasn’t a completely heartless bastard. He went out to her and gently shoved her back, building up to harder and harder pushes. The branch groaned. He stepped back, pushed her higher. The rhythmic creaking of the rope soothed them both. And then without warning, the rope snapped, propelling Cassie into the air. She landed heavily on the dirt. Fortunately the tyre had not been at the swing’s zenith. Dan helped her up from the ground, scratched and bleeding slightly from grazed knees and legs. She leant on him as she hobbled back inside.
204 Dan washed her wounds, applied antiseptic and dressed them in medical tape he found in Chloe’s converted surgery. After another vollie, Cassie announced she was up to making dinner. She mashed the potatoes while Dan worked, struggling to concentrate. He deleted a paragraph, making a sound between a groan and a sigh. The finish line was in sight but his brain was misbehaving more than usual, wandering all over the place. It was rebelling against the sustained concentration he was demanding of it, conditioned to flit from hyperlink to hyperlink, image to image. He was losing focus. Perhaps Cassie was to blame. Staring at the hypnotic blue logo that screamed ‘Internet’, he fantasised about checking the sports results, the news, switching to Facebook to view Chloe’s posts of student life in Scotland, trying to figure out how Jack was going in LA. Jack’s posts were usually less about his daily activities and more about the weird and wonderful world of YouTube that he found so entrancing. And he wanted to see whether Sarah had changed her Facebook status. How did it work when people split up? All that data in a cloud somewhere as a permanent reminder of the past. Did the new life just overlay the old pictorial sediment? A kind of stratifying of experiences in discrete archaeological ages that could be excavated in the future. Or did people just go back and delete the ruins out of their life? And what of Jacquie and her account? What happened when people died? Could a family member post a final RIP? Could friends still make posts, say for birthdays and anniversaries? Or did the executor ask Facebook for it to be removed? What happened to the accounts which were never deactivated? Did they just hang out there in limbo? Occasionally receiving posts like flowers left at a grave? The urge to go online was the worst it had been since he arrived. As though there was some DNA telepathy at work, his phone sounded Chloe’s custom ringtone. She had called to tell him she was having a great time, learning lots, making new friends and missing him, before revealing the real reason for her call. She needed help with a statistics assignment. She was cross when he told her she couldn’t email the question to him; she’d have to tell him her problem over the phone and he’d help her solve it that way. But they muddled their way through until she finally understood what needed to be done.
205 ‘When you’ve finished your book,’ Chloe said, ‘you and Mum should come over and stay for a while. It’s bloody cold and windy but the pubs are amazing.’ Dan pictured Sarah and her new-old flame wandering hand-in-hand around Edinburgh Castle taking selfies to upload to Facebook, laughing and looking at each other with smug we’ve-just-had-great-sex grins, while he trudged behind them. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ Dan said, ambling towards the verandah, away from Cassie. Despite her pretence of disinterest, he knew she was listening to every word. ‘She wouldn’t dare bring him, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Dan was silent. Chloe filled the vacuum with a funny story about observing the collection of sperm from a stallion using a tease mare and a phantom - then stopped suddenly, no doubt remembering her father’s role as stallion and its current repercussions. She switched the topic to her new friends and plans to go to France in the break - then interrupted herself again, to speak to someone in the room, before rushing out the words that she had to go. ‘Love you. Talk soon.’ ‘Love you too. Bye, Sweetheart.’ Cassie joined him on the verandah. She sat on the steps, pulled out her pouch of tobacco, rolled a cigarette. She thumbed the screen of her mobile as she smoked. ‘If you stay a smoker, you’ll never stay in a nice hotel again.’ It was a joke but one that had sub-text. Cassie trapped the smoke in her lungs until her face turned a strangled red. ‘Bit late for parental advice, I know.’ She exhaled. ‘Never too late.’ Dan’s thoughts turned to Sarah. He’d call her tomorrow. See where the land lay. Did she want him back or would she be asking him to move out this time? Now Chloe had broken his hermetic existence his mind wandered to the wider world: what the hell was happening in it? Had that missing Malaysian aeroplane been found? And what about the other one, shot out of the sky by the Russian-backed separatists in the Ukraine? There was some sort of hard wiring at work that
206 programmed us to want to know what was going on in the village. And in the era of instant communications the village was now the whole world. If he did go online, he could work the sinful lapse into his book, describe how the urge to connect had been so powerful that he had succumbed, just the once, like the reformed smoker who thinks they can have just the one cigarette without sliding back into old habits. He watched Cassie roll again. Dan went back inside to his laptop, created the hotspot on his mobile, and re- connected. A smile played on his lips in anticipation. He could describe his weakness as being “akin to the experience of the secret binge eater accessing their stash of prohibited food.” He navigated first to Chloe’s recent posts. She looked happy. Dozens of party pics, hundreds of selfies, and lots and lots of horse anatomy. Jack had mainly posted links to videos with cryptic comments Dan didn’t understand, though no doubt his peers found them hilarious. Sarah had suspended her account, perhaps embracing her own social media detox. Lastly, he checked the news and sports websites. Both were saturated with the untimely death of Philip Hughes, felled by a bouncer on the eve of his Test recall, setting off a tsunami of spontaneous tributes around the globe as the cricket world mourned. ‘What the hell are you doing, Dad?’ Dan slammed his laptop shut like a schoolboy caught with a porn magazine. ‘I’m lapsing. No big deal. Just have to climb back on that wagon. Did you just call me Dad again?’ Cassie snatched his phone off the table. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ ‘I’ll keep this. Then you won’t be tempted to cheat.’ ‘But people need to call me. I have to help Chloe with an assignment. My agent. Sarah.’ ‘I’ll give it back to you if it rings.’ ‘C’mon, Cassie.’ Dan held out his hand. ‘Give it here.’ She shook her head, lips clamped together like a wilful toddler. ‘It’s not like I’m the recovering alcoholic.’ He paused, told himself to stop now, shut up, then ignored his own good advice. ‘You know, I went down to Rockingham.
207 To Serenity Lodge. On your birthday. I wanted to surprise you with a present, but I got the surprise.’ Cassie slipped his phone into her back pocket and poured herself another vollie. Dan glanced at his car keys on the kitchen bench but she beat him to them as well. ‘So, I understand about addictions all the better. That’s why I’m going to keep your phone until you’ve finished the book. All you have to do is write. I’ll take care of everything else. Including the dedication: To my daughter, Cassie. I couldn’t have done this without your love and support.’ He noticed one leg of her jeans had been cut shorter than the other. Her mascara had run down from under her eyes and she was wearing her hair in pigtails. Cassie was a train coming off the track. ‘You’re nearly there. You’ll thank me for it.’ ‘I need to ring Sarah. She’s moved back home.’ ‘Your wife’s a bitch. I’d have changed the locks after what she’s done. You’re better off without her, in my opinion.’ ‘Well, I don’t need your opinion, not on that.’ She drank in ugly gulps. ‘You don’t need her, Dad. I can look after you.’ ‘Go to your room, Cassie.’ He wasn’t going to pursue this. She was drunk. Irrational. Tomorrow, when she was sober, he’d take back his phone and car keys and ask her to leave. And if she didn’t, he’d cut his stay short. He could finish his detox at home. He’d proved he possessed the will power. And the last half hour had given him plenty more to write about. He returned to his screen and the chapter on social media dependence in teens. “The tyranny of the like button.” He liked that line. One more hour and then he’d reward himself with sleep.
208 DAN
Dan dreamt he was holding hands with a little girl of six or seven as they threaded their way through a crowded shopping centre. She wasn’t any one of his children, rather, an amalgam of several of them; with long pony legs, red hair, freckles and pale skin. Then somehow the child’s hand slipped from his and she wandered off, without him being aware of it. When he realised she was gone he began searching for her, frantically, in the surging mass of bodies, but the strangers continued to come between him and the girl. She was lost. And it was his fault. And then the dream morphed into another one. He was surrounded by darkness, confused, his heart thumping. He was lying on Chloe’s examination table, his hands bound together in front of him, his legs hanging over the edge. They too were immobilised. Fighting against his bondage he yelled out and then heard Toby whimpering, scratching at a door. ‘Hey, Dad!’ Cassie was a disembodied voice. ‘You awake yet?’ ‘What the hell’s going on? Why am I tied up?’ She appeared in the dim light, wearing pigtails and dressed like a little girl, in some sort of fairy outfit, with a tutu. She held aloft an oversized needle, which she jabbed viciously into his arm. ‘It’s to relax you while I do something that should have been done a long time ago. That vasectomy you always wanted.’ ‘Okay, Cassie. The joke’s gone far enough. Let me go! We’re not playing this game anymore.’ She moved down towards his legs, stood between them. ‘You’ve been so careless, Daddy.’ Something glinted between her hands. His eyeballs tracked her as she cut away at his jeans with a big pair of scissors. Snip! Snip! Snip! He tried to move but not a single muscle obeyed. When she began to cut at his jocks, he tried to scream but the sounds were trapped in his throat. Tears clouded his vision. Wire. Held taut between her hands. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again a light shone directly at him, blinding him like a mole coming out of hibernation. He tried to move again and this time his head obeyed. Cassie appeared in his line of vision, cradling something in her hands.
209 ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said, holding up a glass jar. Inside it was something fleshy, wrinkled, dark hairs sprouting monstrously from grey convoluted skin. Toby saved him from the horror of his own subconscious by licking the fingers dangling over the side of the bed. Dan thrust his hand into his jocks, cupping one, then two testicles, cool to the touch. But still there! Most improbably after that nightmare, he was semi-erect. He sat up, pushed down his boxers and completed a visual inspection, not yet believing his hands. The last fragments of the nightmare, of Cassie standing triumphantly before him, holding a jar of his testicles, dissolved. He recalled he had been arguing with her before they went to bed. She had gone to her bedroom, but instead of going to sleep, had raided Chloe’s cabinet for any medication she could find. She began swallowing tablets, goodness knows what, heart wormers, flea treatment and anti-inflammatories for arthritis as far as they both knew. He’d forced her to throw them up, angry with her for doing this to herself, to him. What had he said? Something about her being no substitute for his real children. Shit! He’d really said that? He and his dickhead red wine persona. Telling her she needed to get readmitted to Serenity Lodge while he swilled more red wine himself. He stumbled out of bed and lurched towards the door on unsteady legs. Toby jumped around him, tail wagging, barking furiously. Dizziness forced him to stop and rest at the door. His head pounded with a fearsome hangover. Today he’d tell Cassie it was time for her to leave. Nicely this time. Another scrap of memory returned: Telling Cassie that Leonie had rung him, accusing Cassie of trying to kill her with a prawn. Dan hadn’t believed Leonie’s paranoid fantasy at the time, having already believed Cassie’s story about the quiche being contaminated at the store, but now, having witnessed her jealousy of Chloe, her regression into childhood, he didn’t doubt she was capable of harming others to get what she wanted. He made himself a cup of tea and downed a few Panadol. The house was quiet. He presumed Cassie was taking New Jet out for a wild life hunt, or else restocking on tobacco and Vodka. Too quiet. No bird ringing at the sound of the household awakening. With feet that felt anchored to the floor he stumbled to the verandah. The cage was open. Empty. Had Cassie done that? Maybe he’d forgotten to
210 shut it. He looked around for the bird. Then he noticed the car was missing. He went back inside, Toby shadowing him. Her clothes, suitcases, gone. He looked around for his wallet, knowing it too would be gone. He mentally gave Cassie an on-the-spot professional diagnosis and then switched on his laptop to consult the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders for confirmation. He read the definition for Borderline Personality Disorder: a pattern of instability in interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity. Tick. He checked the criteria which related to her behaviour as he had observed it. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. Tick. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation. Tick. And impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating). Tick. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights). Dan read that Borderline Personality Disorder was about five times more common among first-degree biological relatives of those with the disorder than in the general population and concluded that Cassie’s defective genes had undoubtedly been inherited from the maternal line. With Cassie appropriately labelled, he calmed down, and felt back in control of the situation.
211 2015
“I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel...” ― Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein
212 HENRY
His father was driving him to school, which was on his way to work, reciting boring facts about geology. Henry realised his father was made of rock, some kind of limestone. ‘Never were a a chip off the old block,’ he said, and laughing. Henry studied his own hands and legs. His skin was that of a lizard’s. He awoke, heart hammering in his ribcage. He reached for his phone, hoping to see a text from Caroline. Nothing new. He reread her last message.
Transferring to Qld. Pls leave me alone. just want to forget and move on.
After that, she had blocked him—from texts, email, Skype, What’s App, her Instagram account and unfriending him on Facebook. He’d ghosted other girls in a similar manner but no girl had ever done that to him. He would never delete it. Nor any of her other ones. Standing in front of his mother’s ensuite mirror, her makeup laid out in front of him, Henry recalled the steps Caroline had taken when she had applied her makeup. He was getting better at it—moisturizer, foundation, contouring powder, rouge, eyeshadow, eye-liner, brow-shaper liner, mascara and finally lipstick. With the blonde wig he was finished. In the mirror, he watched a tear roll down his cheek, and then tidied up the black tributary it left behind with a tissue. Caroline loved him, he was sure of that, despite her standoffishness, her cool exterior, her determination to push him away. The problem was that her will was stronger than his. At first it had been enough to stand before his reflection and talk to her, but then he had needed to venture further, to inhabit her body. Sweet Caroline drove his father’s Porsche to Kings Park, then past her East Perth apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of his Gemini before she moved interstate. Sometimes he drove past Donor 747’s house, itching to knock on his door and hit him again, or worse. The donor was responsible for creating two beings who perfectly suited each other, as companions and lovers. But he was also to blame for tearing them apart. And when Henry thought about his conception—a pathetic young jerk bent over, cock in hand, trying to catch
213 his spurting semen in a jar, and his mother lying on her back, the contents squirting into her—he almost choked in disgust. His mother was coming back in a few days. He’d left a copy of his results on the kitchen table for her to find. But no other note. She’d work it out.
214 DAN
Gail had arranged for his book launch to be held at The University Club. The heads of The Schools of Medicine, Psychology, and Sociology were there as well as the usual rent-a-crowd. The Dean of Medicine made a very enthusiastic and flattering speech, without any hint of professional jealousy, about the social, pedagogical and research implications of Professor Daniel Adam’s seminal text The Internet Is Restructuring Our Brains. Then it was Dan’s turn to talk. He thanked and acknowledged all the people he was supposed to before expressing his deep concern for the next crop of humans: more connected than ever to each other and the world, but at the same time more insecure about their place in it. ‘And of course,’ he ended, ‘there’s an acronym to make it all OK: FOMO: fear of missing out.’ Charlotte caught his attention and smiled encouragingly. The audience clapped, he signed copies of his book and chatted with the champagne and canape freeloaders. ‘I’m not sure whether I agree with you completely, though,’ Charlotte said. ‘That we shouldn’t waste our time mourning the death of the book. That the pen was overrated all along. I loved War and Peace. Took me four months to get through it but it was worth every minute.’ ‘It’s too long and not very interesting.’ She frowned, but remained beautiful. ‘You don’t think it has any importance?’ ‘Sure, in some vague way, for the English Departments in the old-school Universities like this one.’ ‘What I don’t get, Dan, is that your research—about how the Internet has changed us, how we prefer YouTube videos and words on a screen with pictures to the deep reading of novels and poetry—is, if I may state the obvious … a book.’ ‘I’m not saying the book is dead,’ Dan replied, ‘though I feel like this author certainly is.’ He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He really wasn’t sleeping well, unable to access that deep paradise of oblivion no matter how much wine he drank before seeking entry into it.
215 After the room had emptied, he packed up the unsold books and headed home. The Bluetooth connected and he listened to Sarah’s message with the date and time for their mediation session. ‘If we can resolve everything there’s no need for us to go to court, a win-win situation for everyone, except the lawyers.’ There was also one from Chloe to tell him about her own research project and asking him about his flight details, because she was planning on going away for a few days around that time with some of her friends and didn’t want to miss him. Nothing from Jack, but then he didn’t use the phone to communicate; that was for Luddites. And lastly, a message from a Detective Steele, wanting to arrange a time to take a statement from him. Before Jarrahdale he would not have believed Cassie was capable of feeding Leonie a prawn-laced quiche, but his subconscious had now convinced him. He pulled into his driveway, noting the vintage Porsche parked in the street outside the front of his home. He had seen it a few times in the past week. A light turned on inside the car, illuminating a woman checking her makeup in the rear-view mirror. As he entered his silent home, he thought of the missing bird. He still hadn’t told Chloe about Tori’s escape, saving that discussion for face-to-face mode, when he visited her in Scotland. Toby padded down the hallway to greet him, nails clicking on the wooden floorboard, a pair of Dan’s underpants in his mouth, the gusset chewed out. ‘Bad dog!’ He removed his soggy underpants and gave the dog mixed messages by patting him on the head. He wondered if Toby was to be part of the divorce settlement. Sarah had asked for the family home and he was inclined to give it to her and drive away with a couple of suitcases, a boot full of red wine from the cellar, and half his superannuation. He grabbed a Guinness to keep him company and clipped Toby onto his lead. As they walked he heard the Porsche start up behind him. The headlights illuminated the road ahead. He twisted his neck too quickly, feeling a twinge of discomfort. The car hadn’t moved yet. He continued walking. The car followed him, slowly, deliberately. Should he turn into a driveway? He could knock on a door, or just stand next to one until it passed by. He vaguely knew the people at the end of the street, but it
216 was nearly 10pm. Not wanting to feed his nebulous anxiety by acknowledging it with action, he ignored the impulse to seek refuge and quickened his pace. He reached in his pocket for his mobile but realised he’d left it on the bench. He never had recovered his old phone from Cassie, though his car and keys at least had been left back in Mosman Park. She’d drained nearly $5,000 from his bank account before he’d made the call to the bank. It was theft but he wouldn’t be making a police report or an insurance claim. She was in enough trouble. He hoped it was the small price he had to pay to keep her out of his life. The Porsche’s engine thrummed behind him. Dan decided to confront the woman. Put an end to this stupid game of cat-and-mouse. One hand shielding his eyes, he strode into the headlights. The car stopped but the engine gunned, synchronised with Dan’s heart hammering at the base of his throat. He knocked on the passenger window. No response. He yanked the door open. The woman with makeup was gone and in her place a man. He turned towards Dan, whose gonads recognised him before his brain registered who it was. ‘Henry?’ ‘Dan! Can we talk?’ Dan’s hand reflexively flew to his nose. ‘I’m sorry about last time. I lost my head.’ Dan hesitated. He was a sucker for an apology. He’d asked so many times for forgiveness himself. Henry’s tone changed to something less conciliatory. ‘I think you owe me this much.’ Did he owe Henry? He didn’t think he did. Or not much at any rate. If his parents had used a fertility clinic and not explained how he’d been conceived. It wasn’t Dan’s fault. ‘It’s been a big day. Can we meet next week? Send me a calendar invite.’ ‘I’d rather we talked tonight. It’s important. Meaning of life stuff.’ Dan pointed at the dog, on his hind legs, sniffing the leather seat. ‘I have to take the dog back.’ He formulated a plan. Take Toby into the house and lock the door behind them.
217 Toby pulled suddenly at the lead and jumped into the car, but before Dan could retrieve him, Henry had grabbed Toby. Held tightly, Toby squirmed in Henry’s grip. ‘Get in and you can have your mutt back.’ Dan didn’t move. An alarm was going off in his head. ‘We’ll just go around the block. Driving relaxes me. It will make it easier to talk about my results.’ At least if Henry’s hands were on the steering wheel, Dan supposed he was safe from them. Lowering himself into the bucket seat, Dan breathed in the mustiness of the car’s interior as he sighed deeply. Henry plonked Toby into the back seat. By the time Dan had secured his seatbelt, the Porsche was already in third gear heading towards Stirling Highway, with Toby bounding around in the back like they were off on holidays. Dan knew he’d made a serious mistake. ‘Everyone was in on the lie,’ Henry said, staring straight ahead. ‘My father, my mother, the clinic, the government. Even my cousins knew how I was conceived. Mum told her sister and she of course couldn’t keep her mouth shut, except when it came to telling me. The brunt of some fucking 30-year joke – I’m Jim Carey in the Truman Show.’ Dan decided not to defend himself. To listen instead. Let the spinning top of anger wind itself down. They crossed the railway, heading towards Fremantle. The odometer hit 90 km per hour, inching upwards as they passed the long-abandoned rail-yards. On Henry’s side was the Indian Ocean, dark and desolate. ‘Finding out explains a lot, actually. I always thought Dad went away because of his love of fucking rocks but I realise now that wasn’t the reason. He just hated the sight of me.’ The Porsche sped along Port Beach Drive toward the container wharves. ‘Was it because every time he looked at me he was reminded he only shot blanks?’ ‘Have you talked with him?’ ‘I’d have to dig him up to do that!’ Henry laughed. ‘Where’re we going?’ Dan asked. ‘Just driving, Dan. Just driving.’
218 The determined set of Henry’s features again silenced Dan. Let him talk. ‘It was always Mum at the rugby games and swimming carnivals. Smothering me with love, over-compensating for the old man. Keeping the peace between us.’ ‘I imagine it’s difficult for some men to acknowledge their infertility,’ Dan said. The car slowed as it came to a red traffic light and then, mercifully, stopped. Henry swigged from a hip flask. ‘Always knew something was being kept from me. I just didn’t know what. It got so bad that I remember asking Mum once if I was adopted. I must have been about 9 or 10. She did this strained laugh and said she gave birth to me, of course I wasn’t adopted. She was telling half the truth. That should have squashed any further curiosity, but I kept looking at my father and trying to find something in common. Rocks have never done much for me. As opposed to a whisper of a penny dreadful company finding metal in them …’ ‘Lessons have been learnt, Henry. The law caught up with the scientists. Things like this can’t ever happen again.’ ‘You gave me life and then you took it away.’ ‘No one can do that.’ ‘The woman I love can’t stand the sight of me. You’d think I was Frankenstein, the way she looked at me.’ This wasn’t the time to correct Henry. Technically, it was Frankenstein’s monster he was referring to. Dan understood that discovering the truth about his origins later in life might give rise to some trust issues with his parents, but he didn’t see how it could affect Henry’s girlfriend so deeply. He felt he had to say something. ‘Give her time to get used to the idea.’ The traffic light turned green but Henry remained motionless, clutching at the steering wheel like he was squeezing the life out of it. Glancing behind, Dan was relieved to see no other cars. Toby barked, wanting to be let out. ‘It doesn’t matter to me, but it does to her. She’s one of your bastards too? Born Carol Dicks. Now goes by the name of Mrs Caroline Muir.’ For a moment Dan was stunned into silence, than asked. ‘Are you sure?’ Henry smiled at him, mirthlessly, pointing at his eyes. ‘I’m sure,’ he said, accelerating as the light turned red again.
219 Why hadn’t he taken his chance to jump out while they were stationary? ‘In love with my sister.’ He swapped the gear stick for his hip flask. ‘Such a fucking mess you’ve made. Why’d you do it, Dan?’ ‘Donate? Well, at the time, I … I didn’t think of it in terms of giving away … children, what might happen …’ ‘Wham! Bam! Thank you, Dan!’ Henry hollered, banging the steering wheel with his hand. Dan tried to quell the tic animating half his face with violent twitching. ‘I never expected any child would wonder about me because they were never meant to know. The nurses said I was doing a wonderful thing, helping couples achieve their dream.’ ‘And creating their children’s nightmares.’ ‘Not for everyone … Many of you are happy, had good childhoods, with loving parents. I know that to be true.’ Henry gunned the engine again as they crossed the old traffic bridge. ‘I wouldn’t do it again.’ ‘But Dan, then I wouldn’t have been born! And I wouldn’t have met the woman of my dreams.’ ‘I’d like to go home now.’ ‘We’re just having a nice father-son chat.’ Henry ignored the next red light completely. ‘My test results came back.’ ‘DNA?’ asked Dan, clasping the door handle with one hand and holding onto the dashboard with the other. He was getting out at the next stop. ‘Faecal Occult Blood Test. Colonoscopy. Endoscopy. In the glovebox.’ Dan retrieved the letter and scanned the contents. ‘Shit! I’m sorry.’ ‘The endoscopy picked up the stomach cancer. It’s in the early stages. I can thank Jacquie for that.’ ‘That would have made her happy—’ Henry barked a laugh. ‘It’s in the DNA, Dan. I get the joke now. D-N-A. D-A-N.’ ‘In the early stages. Good news. The survival rates are high.’ ‘I’m a dead man walking.’ A bitter laugh. ‘Though I prefer to drive.’ Dan saw the blue light strobing in the rear-view mirror before he heard the siren. He’d never been so relieved to see traffic cops. This time Dan was definitely
220 exiting the escape hatch. Henry cursed, slowed and indicated to pull over. The police pulled in behind, headlights shining into the interior of the Porsche. Henry’s illuminated face revealed the traces of makeup. They sat in silence, waiting, Dan suspecting any sudden move to leave the car would not be appreciated by the police. He’d call one over and calmly explain he and the dog were being held against their wishes. ‘Car’s not registered,’ Henry said, winding down his window. Dan watched an officer approaching them in the rear-vision mirror. ‘It was my father’s. The man who called himself my father.’ The Porsche roared back to life, throwing Dan back against the seat. ‘Catch me if you can!’ Henry shouted. He drove under the railway bridge, accelerating through the unmanned boom gates bearing a no entry sign. The car careened past huge cranes rising like mechanical dinosaurs. The siren wailed behind them. ‘Pull over, Henry!’ Dan shouted. ‘Too late for parental advice, Dad.’ Dan screwed his eyes shut, something he had always done on roller coasters. He opened them again to register the car was airborne. And then it crashed down hard, the seatbelt biting into his clavicle and snapping bone. Silence. The car tilts nose first. Then the sound of roaring water. Toby barking, frantic. A whirlpool at his feet, rising. He fumbles for his seatbelt but can’t undo it. His arm not responding to his brain’s instructions. Pain radiating from his shoulder, all through his left side. Water washing at the windscreen. He pulls at the door handle and pushes the door, screaming with agony, frustration. Too much pressure behind it. Water gushes around his waist. Toby jumps in the front, on his lap, whining, pawing at him. The seatbelt releases. He floats upwards with the rising tide. Save yourself before others, he remembers from medical school. His lips kiss the ceiling. His lungs trap one long last breath. The air is gone. Suspended in a cold black pummelling void. Thump! The descent is over. Resting on the bottom of the harbour in a water-filled coffin. He fights against the need to inhale again. A whisper in his ear. Amporn. Telling him something important. ‘You want…You want window?’ she asks.
221 Henry’s window. He remembers now, still open after the charade with the cops. Feeling his way in the cold blackness. Touches the lifeless thing to orient himself. His lungs scream for air. Toby in front of him, leading him out. Kicking himself free, thrusting himself upwards, a life-force, suspended in fluid, seeking its way in the darkness, towards the eternal prize of life. DNA. Only one winner gets the egg. DAN.
222 1981
In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty …” --Mary Shelley Wollstonecraft, Frankenstein
223 DAN
Simon was waiting on one of the chairs lining the hallway in the Anatomy Building. Two guys Dan recognised from third year glanced up and immediately returned their attention to what they were doing. One wore thick glasses and was reading the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the other had a face full of blackheads and erupted pimples and was filling in a form on a clipboard. ‘Surely we’re genetically superior to those two?’ Simon whispered, loud enough for his voice to carry. ‘At least I am. Six foot two—’ Dan didn’t know about genetically superior but Simon was certainly better looking than all of them. Not that he’d ever admit that to his mate. The only thing marring Simon’s looks, if you were being really picky, was his slightly crooked nose, the result of a rugby tackle in his last year at Scotch College. There had been talk by his father, a prominent Perth litigation lawyer, of suing the thug from Aquinas. Simon fingered the bump of bone when concentrating or anxious. He had mentioned rhinoplasty, but had since discovered his nose was a good conversation starter with girls. ‘You’re not,’ Dan interrupted. ‘Because I am, and you’re shorter than me.’ ‘If I stand up straight, I’m six two.’ Simon continued to mark off characteristics on his fingers. ‘Thick dark hair, no chance of balding—the old man’s still got a full head. Never get sunburned, straight white teeth, only one filling, no zits, blue eyes with 20/20 vision, university rowing, tennis and rugby, and hung like a rogue elephant—’ ‘Okay, I’ll marry you myself.’ Dan punched Simon on the arm and one of the nerds smirked. Simon was silent for more than three seconds; a sure sign he was anxious. ‘I should get top dollar for my taddies once the lucky couple read my stats.’ The guy with the coke-bottle glasses packed his text book into a backpack and scuttled off. Simon hooked a thumb at his receding figure. ‘Saw the competition.’ Dan proffered a packet of gum. ‘Chew this and shut up.’
224 Simon took a couple of pieces and popped them in his mouth. His legs bounced on the balls of his new leather deck shoes. Dan wore Dunlop Volleys, the ones he’d stuffed in the cricket bag before leaving home. They had no tread left. An attractive nurse in her mid-twenties opened the door of room G-35, brusquely handed the newcomers clipboards, beckoned the student with acne, and disappeared behind the door again. Dan filled in his form:
Name: Daniel Leon Adams Date of Birth: 13 April 1962 Weight: 83kg Height: 6’2” Eye colour: light brown yellowy-brown Hair colour: dark blonde light brown, (some ginger) Blood type (if known): O Tertiary Admission Entrance and year: 470, 1979 Course: Medicine Current sports: football, rowing, cricket Smoker? (if so, how many per day): No Do you currently have symptoms of a sexually transmitted disease?: No
There was a reassuring statement above the line where he was meant to sign:
Your anonymity is assured. The recipient has access to your donor number and all the above information except your name and date of birth. They have the option to view, but not retain, a photograph of you as a child and as an adult.
Simon signed his name with a flourish. ‘I’ll go first.’ He rubbed the bump on his nose. ‘I wonder how I … I mean, does the nurse help?’ Seconds later the door opened again and a jowly nurse, grey-hair pulled back severely off her face, asked in a gravelly voice. ‘Who’s next?’ Dan prodded Simon. ‘That would be you.’ Simon stood up and followed Nurse Ratchet, grimacing. Dan touched the tic animating his lip. What the hell was he doing here? He suddenly felt short of breath and his armpits went slimy. It wasn’t too late. He could simply walk away with his empty stomach and his list of text books he couldn’t afford to buy.
225 After a few minutes the guy with bad skin, now glowing red, reappeared, trying to hide the specimen jar. He scuttled along the corridor, head down, checking the numbers on each door before disappearing behind one. The nurse with the heart- shaped face was gesturing for Dan. Sister Rosalie, according to the badge perched on her ample chest. A low partition separated Sister Rosalie from Nurse Ratchet. Simon winked at Dan as he sat down. Sister Rosalie scanned his paperwork. ‘It’s your responsibility to let us know if you have a sexually transmitted disease. But we’ll check anyway.’ ‘You’ll let me know if you find anything … amiss?’ Dan asked, conscious of the croak in his voice. ‘If you have an STD you can only come back once you’ve been treated’—she paused—‘Do you have any reason to think you might have one? Symptoms of pain on urinating, odorous discharge, red lumps?’ Heat rose in his cheeks. ‘No, no, it’s all good … down there.’ He recalled the night he’d ended up on some girl’s couch, and then stolen a bicycle to get to the house he no longer called home. ‘Stand against the wall,’ Sister Rosalie instructed. The Polaroid flashed and emitted a blank white square. His mugshot slowly appeared while she penned his details onto the front of a file labelled ‘747’. ‘Like the aeroplane,’ he said, but Sister Rosalie appeared not to have heard. Nurse Ratchet explained to Simon. ‘Your sample will go directly to the clinic. It might not even be used by clients, sometimes it’s marked for research only. But keep in mind we may have to call you back. If you’re chosen.’ ‘Can’t you stick it in the freezer?’ Simon asked. ‘We prefer to keep the process as natural as possible.’ ‘What did she mean chosen?’ Dan asked Sister Rosalie. ‘I thought it was anonymous?’ ‘Our clients are permitted to view your bio data, including a photograph if they wish and generally they do choose to find out what you look like. Sometimes couples like to pick a donor who looks like Dad. It makes things less complicated.’ She reminded Dan that he was meant to bring in a photograph of himself as a child. ‘Don’t worry. Bring it in with you next time.’
226 ‘Next time?’ If there was a next time, there wasn’t going to be a baby photo. All his childhood memorabilia were still at Millington Street. ‘Oh! But we hope to see you again, Mr Adams,’ Sister Rosalie said, with a smile which seemed to say she would put her life on hold until he returned. ‘Especially if the clients like your bio-data.’ She lowered her voice, ‘not to make you feel too important, but it’s not easy finding suitable candidates willing to be so generous. Without you, there’d be no Programme and there’d be some very unhappy couples.’ ‘I can assure you, Mr Murray,’ Nurse Ratched said to Simon. ‘It’s one hundred per cent anonymous, forever.’ Simon saluted Dan before leaving. Sister Rosalie pushed a jar across the table towards Dan. ‘Room G-38 should be empty, but knock first. There’s some reading material in there.’ ‘Reading material?’ Dan asked. ‘Magazines.’ He gave himself a mental uppercut. ‘And I bring it back here and you … I mean I get …’ ‘You get $20 if that jar comes back with something in it, $10 if it’s empty, and we can try another day. We’re just reimbursing your expenses. We do collections twice per week on campus, but you can also go directly to the Clinic in West Perth.’ Dan sat in a chair covered in plastic, wondering how many donors thought of Sister Rosalie as they attempted to extract the vital fluid. He undid his zip and tugged down his jeans, feeling slightly ridiculous. He fought the urge to check he’d locked the door. He thought of Nurse Rosalie. And of Deborah Harry. And Sarah, one of his new housemates, and Princess Leia, and a neighbour from Millington Street– an older woman who washed her car on the front lawn in a tiny leopard skin bikini—and of course, his step-mother, Amporn, however much he tried not to.
227
“Father Hunger: Researching and Crafting The Donor”
231 Introduction
The idea for The Donor came from an anecdote: a middle-aged Perth doctor had just learned he had sired dozens of children as a result of donating sperm as a student. “Oh, and this doctor met one of the children,” my friend confided. “They got on well, but she then started getting really jealous when he chose to meet her siblings. Nineteen of them.”
I never got another detail but the seed was planted. The number of children astonished me, the fact that they had met their donor was interesting and the idea of the jealousy intrigued me. With a vague awareness of how regulated the fertility industry was, I was shocked that this could have happened.
I Googled “anonymous sperm donation” and found several media stories about Donor-Conceived (DC) people searching for their donors. I began swooping on shiny bytes of information like a magpie building a nest, trying to comprehend what it might be like for a middle-aged man to discover he had fathered so many children. I moved onto academic databases, searching for journal articles and studies about DC- people and their donors.
I also began to write down some of the questions I might explore in fiction. What could happen after ‘sealed’ medical records are accessed by a person searching for the identity of their donor? Can a secret as ‘big’ as a child being donor-conceived be kept without the child suspecting something is not quite right? How might a donor react when confronted with the existence of adult offspring? What might happen if a donor’s offspring met each other? How did it feel to find out the man who raised you was not your biological father? Did it make a difference when and how this discovery was made? How much does DNA shape personality? Did donors ever wonder about their offspring? And finally, what does it mean to be a father and how does the social construction of fatherhood intersect with the genetic component?
In this phase of asking questions, I, as both writer and researcher, was examining myself, the impulse to write this story, and my hidden and overt assumptions about the people involved: who the victims were and who the oppressors; why knowing the truth about one’s origins was important; the drive to create a family; and how good intentions can result in unintended consequences. The
232 number of questions at this early stage led me to believe that this was a worthy project, one which might produce not only the creative artefact, but rich enough material so that through the writing process other discoveries would be unearthed about my writing practice.
Finally, I reflected on other works of literature I had read that explored similar themes as well as seeking out literature that dealt with the unique issue of anonymous donor insemination (DI).
I also weighed up the ethics of my writing practice: had I thought about the people who might see themselves in my writing? Who might be hurt? Did I have obligations to those who were the subjects of my story? I found some of these questions uncomfortable at first. Apart from the initial anecdote, my source material was on the public record; these DC-people and donors had wanted to talk: to journalists, parliamentary inquiries and researchers. My unease might also have arisen because I had a personal engagement with the story. I am a daughter who grew up without a father, who idealised him in his absence and then faced disappointment and disillusionment when I came to know him as an adult. In the dark closet of my family also rattles the skeleton of incest. During my research I discovered the sociological concepts of “father hunger” (a child’s longing for an absent father), Genetic Sexual Attraction (GSA) (sexual attraction between siblings or parent and child who have been separated from birth or soon thereafter) and the Westermarck Effect (a mechanism promoting sexual aversion between people who grow up together), which helped to explain otherwise unfathomable events in my family’s history. I wrote at least partly to make sense of events that still haunt me.
It is a brave writer who can examine themselves directly, under the harsh glare of autoethnographic research, where the writer is themselves the subject. It is much safer to come to that self-examination from an oblique angle, through another’s story. American writer, bell hooks, however, chides the writer who speaks for others, revealing the ethical dimension of the relationship between writer and subject:
No need to hear your voice when I can talk about you better than you can speak about yourself. No need to hear your voice. Only tell me about your pain. I want to know your story. And then I will tell it
233 back to you in a new way. Tell it back to you in such a way that it has become mine, my own. (hooks 343) The idea of writers drawing on the lives of others, not just their own—and the debate surrounding ‘the ethics of appropriation’—has been alive and well in relation to nonfiction. In 2000, Donna Lee Brien wrote about the
current anxiety in Australia surrounding the notion of authenticity, and much heated debate regarding the ethics of appropriation–about stealing other’s names, personae and cultural or intellectual property, about copyright, and about the precise meaning of words and phrases. Some of this debate is well-reasoned and well-intentioned, some is mean- spirited and motivated only by political desire, but all these questions are difficult to resolve. But what about fiction? Enza Gandolfo, a creative writer and researcher, posits that the function of fiction is “to discover and explore human existence, to tell the stories of how people live, especially those people whose stories are largely silent or absent” and that “it forms part of a larger goal to create empathy and understanding through storytelling, to discover what only a novel can discover” (“It’s All Make Believe” 4). Gandolfo argues that
fiction writers have ethical responsibilities based on the premise that fiction (like all art) has the power to make a difference to people’s lives. Although that impact is difficult to measure, and varies of course from book to book and from reader to reader, we know that literature does have an impact on readers, because it has made an impact on us. (“It’s All Make Believe” 6) Anything can ignite the spark for a story for the curious writer—an image, gossip or a news story, an observation, sociological research, a memory or dream. Then begins the process of researching and crafting the creative text, all the while conscious of making discoveries about the writing practice. The aware and imaginative writer makes many decisions—choice implying an inherent ethical dimension—with the aim to balance the demands of the imagination against those of the inner critic and scholar. We interrogate our own values, beliefs and views as we build our fictional world.
In crafting The Donor I read a diverse variety of material: media articles, social science journals, and fictional texts. An Internet search for media articles provided
234 stimuli for character and plot but also helped me to outline the story. Studies in psychology and sociology journals reinforced or clarified facts reported in the media and provided a more in-depth and rigorous understanding of the challenges faced by DC-people and their donors. A review of how other novelists had created characters in search of fathers and crafted father-child reunions, helped me to position my novel in the field of “reunion narratives,” albeit one with a modern twist: a missing father because of unregulated practices of the fertility industry.
235 Chapter One: Literature Review and Research
As part of the process of building the fictional world, any writer must endeavour to develop a wide awareness of existing knowledge and debate relating to their area of focus. In my case this involved extensive reading of both non-fiction source material (in order to grasp basic scientific and social facts about my field) and relevant works of fiction (in order to build an understanding of the ways in which fiction has attempted to negotiate the ethical complexities of science in this field).
I begin with a review of novels which explore the creation of life using biotechnology, or the impact on a child whose father has been absent in their formative years, or both. I do not limit my search to contemporary novels in the realist style because there are so few. Instead, I examine novels dealing with the technology of ‘making babies’ from a time when the technology existed only in science fiction writers’ imaginations. Frankenstein and Brave New World are speculative fiction dystopian novels, painting a bleak picture of science and technology run amok in the reproductive process. I move on to contemporary novels in the realist mode (the style of my novel), but as there was a dearth of them dealing with donor-conceived children, I include novels exploring the emotions experienced by children with absent fathers. I then survey the media articles I read early in the creative writing process, which were important in shaping my narrative. The media accounts are from a relatively narrow time-frame (early 2000s to around 2015); mapping the period when this was not only a “hot” media topic but also when many DC-children were reaching adulthood and coming to learn about their origins. Finally, I detail social science studies dealing with DC-children and donors, to ensure that I have an historically accurate snapshot of my topic. Sociological and psychological research clarified concepts like father hunger, genetic sexual attraction, and genealogical bewilderment, which, once fictionalised, were core thematic elements.
Science fiction attempted to warn the world of the dangers associated with the unchecked progress of science and technology (or ‘playing God’) in relation to reproduction. Mary Shelley’s classic gothic horror novel Frankenstein (1818) lays the foundation for a critique of the relationship between humans and their own creations through biological science. Frankenstein criticises the scientific establishment not for
236 bringing ‘artificial life’ into existence, but for creating life and then abandoning it. Although Shelley wrote long before donor insemination was possible, the concept of creating a child and then severing it socially from its creator is directly relevant to discussions of reproductive ethics. Her tale admonishes a society in which “no provision is made for the child to assimilate into the community into which it is born” (Nocks 138). Only by seeking out ‘his maker’ can Frankenstein’s monster attempt to rectify his situation.
Over the years, Frankenstein’s monster has metamorphosed into an allegory for technology run amok (Nocks 137). “Frankenstein Syndrome” is defined as “an obsession with control over natural processes, and the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, divorced from a careful consideration of ethics, politics, and potential consequences” (Best and Kellner 162). Implicit in Frankenstein is the criticism of an irresponsible creator who would “abandon us to make our own sense of the tribulations of Earthbound life, and then punish us for our inadequacies” (Nocks 142). This issue of (self)-identity is “key to understanding the creature’s failure at socialization. With no idea where he came from, and with no role model who is like himself, he has no identity” (Nocks 143).
A lesser-known Mary Shelley novel, Mathilda (1819), deals with issues close to my own concerns of childhood, with a focus on the ‘absent father’ and the ‘abandoned daughter’, but also has parallels in modern fertility science. This later novel explores a daughter’s intense longing for her father, absent in her childhood. When father and daughter reunite after she has matured into a beautiful young woman, they experience an overwhelming physical attraction to each other. Only the father is prepared to name it love in the romantic sense and for that they both pay the price for transgressing social boundaries. As Mathilda depicts, there are strong cultural taboos which inhibit incestuous relationships, but in the case of anonymous DI these taboos cannot operate because the DC-people cannot know who their close relatives on their father’s side are.
Aldous Huxley’s classic Brave New World (1932) portrays a future in which technology has severed the biological act of producing children is from the role of parenting them. Brave New World warns against the danger of fracturing and
237 commercialising the parent-child relationship and, of the progress of fertility science without ethical considerations.
Contemporary fiction has explored the phenomena of absent father and abandoned daughter. Graeme Simsion’s international best seller The Rosie Project (2013), a romantic comedy, deals with both an abandoned daughter and genetics. The protagonist, Don Tillman, is a socially-challenged geneticist in search of a wife; his viewpoint is that of a person with Asperger’s trying to make sense of the world through an evolutionary biology perspective. Utilising a scientific approach to solve “the Wife Problem” (1), Tillman creates a questionnaire to screen potential candidates. He interviews Rosie, who doesn’t meet any of his requirements. But Rosie is not looking for love, she is searching for her father and enlists Tillman to help track him down. Rosie is an angry and rebellious daughter, driven by a deep need to find her biological father and Tillman uses DNA technology to try to locate him: “As a geneticist with access to DNA analysis, and the knowledge to interpret it, I was in a position to help Rosie find her biological father” (76).
In Jonathon Franzen’s Purity (2015), the eponymous protagonist (also known as Pip) searches for her father, whose identity has been kept a secret by her neurotic mother. Pip’s mother has gone beyond erasing the father’s existence—she has concocted a lie about an abusive partner to explain his absence and discourage Pip from searching for him. While “all Pip needed was his name and date of birth,” her mother guards this information “as if it were a vital organ that Pip was trying to rip out of her” (35). Pip believes that the truth about her paternity will solve the mystery of who she is, and to this extent her drive to know her father is a psychological need to complete her sense of self. But she also hopes that her father will help her with practical problems such as a big college debt and a dead-end job. Pip is angry, directionless, and already world-weary and cynical in her twenties. She is also on the lookout for romantic father figures to satisfy her deep longing for her father, which Franzen’s characters refer to as her “daddy issues” (231).
After I had completed The Donor, I discovered Kathryn Trueblood’s novella, The Sperm Donor’s Daughter (1998), which deals specifically with a donor-conceived daughter’s search for her father. This story is told from the point of view of both the disaffected daughter and the mother, who agonises over the impact of having
238 conceived her daughter by anonymous DI and, motivated by good intentions, keeps this secret from her daughter and tells her instead that her father is dead. The donor himself is largely absent, except for a conversation with his daughter when she confronts him at the end of the story. The mother attributes many of her daughter’s problems to the decision not to tell her daughter the truth. Jess, the titular daughter, likens her plight to that of Persephone: “Oh I was vicious, and full of longing too, sometimes a sorrowing Persephone returned to her mother from the underworld” (21). But Persephone was saved by her father, whereas Jess must save herself. Jess’ “viciousness” is a result of her anger, an emotion abandoned daughters commonly express. Twenty years old and pregnant, Jess learns the truth of her conception from her mother’s lesbian ex-lover: her father did not die in the Vietnam war before she was born; Jess is the product of anonymous DI by a medical student. This text, like the others discussed, provided an insight into the ways various fiction writers had handled the ethical complexities inherent in this particular application of science to human life. I did not treat these novels as offering ‘models’ but more as suggesting ‘possibilities’.
My research for The Donor started with Google. The news articles and TV reports that I found were headline-grabbing, generally short, and written to arouse the audience’s outrage on behalf of a cohort of DC-people finding out as adults that their ‘father’ was not their biological father. And—to add insult to injury—also learning they were not allowed to access the identity of the man who had provided half their DNA. While this was a fertile source of both background information and inspiration for a number of characters and plot devices, I also read widely in academic journals in the expectation that these more rigorous sources would create a deeper level of understanding about the issues facing DC-people and their donors, as well as validate some of the themes emerging in the media stories.
News organisations began reporting DC-peoples’ frustrating and frustrated searches for their donors in the early 2000s. Aspects of many of these stories found their way into my novel. Some even provided ‘ready-made’ characters. The most
239 shocking story was posted by The Daily Mail in 2012 under the title “The Man Who Fathered 1,000 Children: They’re Middle-class, Living in Britain—And Only A Few Have Any Idea About The Extraordinary Story Surrounding Their Birth.” The origin of this ‘Barton Brood’ dates back to the 1940s, when “it is estimated that that Dr Bertholt Wiesner fathered up to one thousand children at his wife’s fertility clinic— two-thirds of the total conceived at the clinic” (Rawstorne). In the final months of World War II, Dr Mary Barton wrote an article for the British Medical Journal describing how for the previous few years she had been pioneering the artificial insemination, using donor sperm, of women whose husbands were impotent or infertile. Her clinic was one of only a handful in Britain offering the then highly controversial treatment. (Rawstorne)
Sixty years after ‘The Barton Brood’ were created, Andrew Denton interviewed DC-people and a sperm donor on his TV show Enough Rope in 2003 and in 2004 The 7:30 Report aired an episode “IVF babies Want More Info.” The 7:30 Report detailed both the practice of anonymous DI in the late twentieth century and how students were targeted:
In the early years of the IVF program, it was heavily reliant on donor sperm, mainly from students. When IVF legislation was first framed, the emphasis was on protecting the anonymity of sperm donors. It’s now estimated that more than 10,000 Australian babies have been conceived in this way. Now having reached adulthood, many of them are calling for the right to know who their biological fathers are. (“IVF Babies Want More Info”) That story had a Victorian focus but a 2007 episode of another ABC television programme, Stateline, provided the Western Australian context:
Each year, in Western Australia more than 100 women are impregnated with donated sperm—the generosity of the donors matched by the gratitude of the women they help. At 16, children conceived with donor sperm are allowed by law to find out about their biological father, but those laws are relatively new, and for a generation of children being born out of generosity this has meant fruitless years of searching. (“The Long Search For Answers…”) The program called for a register to be created for DC-people born before 1998 who had no legal right to access details about their donor. A DC-woman, Leonie Harris explained how her cohort of babies created with anonymous donor sperm in the
240 1970s are unjustly treated by the legal system because the current regulations do not apply to them.
Barbara Burn reveals the emotional burden of keeping the secret of her daughter’s conception and the impact of eventually revealing the truth in an Australian Story episode in 2014.
I really did feel very guilty that I’d told her and sometimes even wished that I hadn’t, because it obviously bothered her so much and became almost an obsession or a focus of her life to discover her donor. (“Searching For C11–Part 1”) Her daughter, Lauren Burns, talks about the spectrum of feelings, “from shock to anger” on finding out about her conception as well as the potential for lifelong psychological distress (“Searching For C11–Part 1”).
In 2015 reporter Sarah Dingle, herself donor-conceived, wrote about the failings of the law with regard to children conceived by anonymous DI. She focuses on the previously unregulated nature of the industry and through interviews with DC- people explains that their anger is not necessarily at their parents who kept the secret from them for so long, but rather at the medical industry for pursuing profit and technological advancement in fertility science by exploiting the deep-seated need of couples to have children: “We are treated like unregulated products. Money, and careers, have been made out of our existence. Against that, our humanity doesn’t count” (Dingle, “How The Law Has Failed…”).
Dingle also describes how some of the clinics were either careless or calculating in ensuring that DC-children would be unable to access the identity of their donor. This article also mentioned “a code” being ascribed to donors:
Anonymous donation regimes have left their mark around the country. Donors are often anonymised by assigning them a code. But for some clinics, even that wasn't enough. Those codes, a fragile record of the truth, have been treated in a scandalous fashion. Like a number of my friends, my donor code has been destroyed. It was deliberately cut out of pages in a medical file during a systematic purge of donor codes at Sydney's public Royal North Shore Hospital. Without a code I can’t find my biological father, or half siblings, or even basic non-identifying family medical history. (Dingle, “How The Law Has Failed…”) Dingle is angry about her treatment by a ‘system’ that created and profited from children like her:
241 We had no say in the circumstances of our conception, but governments, doctors, nurses and businesses did. They decided, without us, that we were not allowed to know our family. But our biological families are ours by birthright. That should, and must, be respected in law. (Dingle, “How The Law Has Failed…”) The World Today posted an article in 2015 which reinforces the premise that “the vast majority of children conceived from donor egg and sperm do not know the truth and, whether or not they ever learn the truth, struggle with identity” (Lauder). This article also provided an example of a DC-person who learnt of their identity inadvertently:
One 23-year-old woman, who wishes to remain anonymous, said she discovered she was donor-conceived thanks in part to a hint in her high school biology class when she was learning about dominant genes and tongue curling. I remember asking my teacher what happens if your parents can’t do it and she said, “well, they’re not your parents.” (Lauder) As I moved to the next phase of my research, sociological and psychological studies and legislative reports filled in many of the gaps in my knowledge as well as introducing more complex concepts and historical context. I learned that the use of Assisted Reproductive Technology can be traced back to
1884 in Philadelphia, USA, with the first documented case of artificial insemination involving a woman who was anaesthetised and inseminated with the sperm of a medical student. The woman successfully gave birth to a son and was never informed about what had been done to her. Thus…she did not understand that her husband was not the biological father. (Lorbach 14) By today’s standards, this is a shocking contravention of the woman’s rights, and I planned to weave this into my novel, not just as interesting trivia, but to show the moral continuum upon which we have travelled to reach today’s regulated fertility industry.
Nearly a century later, commercially available anonymous DI gave heterosexual couples the chance to have children, and until the late 1980s they were strongly encouraged to hide the truth about the conception from everyone, and particularly the children. In keeping with this, the anonymity of donors and their right to privacy was regarded as paramount. Today, the landscape in Australia has
242 changed. The rights of the child to information about biological parentage are seen as overriding the privacy interests of parents (Bennett 7-8), although it is an ongoing concern that access to information is still “contingent on the child first knowing the details of their conception as no legislation requires a parent to inform their children of the method of their conception” (Riley 35).
In Western Australia, reproductive practices are regulated by the Human Reproductive Technology Act 1991. A compulsory register has been created to provide identifying information. People conceived after 2004 may now access identifying information about their donor when they turn 16 years of age. People conceived prior to 2004 may access non-identifying information that is held on the register.
In February 2011, the Senate’s Legal and Constitutional Affairs References Committee published a report making recommendations for legal reform: the committee considered that all DC-people “should have knowledge of their genetic parents and a right to their genetic history, regardless of the circumstances of their conception” (Senate, Legal and Constitutional Affairs References Committee, n 4 at [7.59]). In particular, the committee emphasised “the importance of DC-people having access to their genetic, medical and social history, to help in the development of their sense of self-identity and so that they can effectively manage their health” (Senate, Legal and Constitutional Affairs References Committee, n 4 at [7.59]).
With research showing that many parents do not tell their DC-child about the fact that they were conceived by DI, debates over openness in donor conception have become symbolic of the importance of genetics to identity (Bennett 8). Indeed, as Smart has argued, “the modern child’s ontological security is understood to rest on knowing the truth of their conception” (553). However, as Smart observes this focus on biological truth is a relatively recent phenomenon, as
until roughly the 1960s, in the case of adoption, and the 1980s, in the case of assisted reproduction, ontological security was seen as resting in an “untruth”. Thus, the child’s belief that his or her social parent(s) were also his/her biological parent(s) was seen as entirely appropriate. What has happened over the last half-century has been a struggle over the place of truth in family relationships. (553)
243 Smart explores how openness to revealing or exposing personal truths has developed only in the last fifty or so years in the UK and describes the general trend towards speaking the truth and finding authenticity through truth (551-552). Ironically, and perhaps inevitably, this survey suggests that “‘old’ secrets about illegitimacy, premarital conceptions and adoption have given way to ‘new’ dilemmas arising from assisted reproduction” (Smart 560). I understood before I began writing The Donor that biological kinship holds a fascination for people, and recognised the energy of storylines with lies and secrets creating a riddle of origins to solve. This riddle dates back at least as far as Oedipus.
Diverting slightly from the direct effects of anonymous DI, I also sought out material examining the psychological impact on children whose fathers have been absent from their childhoods—a situation which might arise for many reasons. I wanted to understand the likely consequences of an absent father during a child’s formative years, concentrating on daughters because I could weave something of my own experiences into the narrative. It was in a news article that I first came across the term ‘hunger’ in the context of DC-people seeking their biological relatives:
Adults who were conceived through donors have described their desire to find biological parents and half-siblings as not merely curiosity, but “a fundamental quest”, “a hunger” and “entirely visceral.” (Carroll) Initially, my writerly interest was snagged by the description of a “fundamental quest.” This was because I perceived the link to Joseph Campbell’s “hero’s journey” model in narratology—in particular, the “trial and quest” and “atonement with the father” component. The hero’s journey is a well-known model for structuring storytelling for film, based on Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), that I had become familiar with after attending screenwriting workshops. However, after reading sociological literature on the father-daughter relationship, the ‘hunger’ aspect became of greater interest.
Social science research uses the term “father hunger” specifically to describe a child’s longing for an absent father. In Father Hunger: Fathers, Daughters, and the Pursuit of Thinness, psychologist Margo Maine defines “father hunger” as
a deep, persistent desire for emotional connection with the father that is experienced by all children. …refers to the unfulfilled longing
244 for father… Like physical hunger, unsatisfied emotional hunger does not disappear; instead, it grows and grows… Adults who have not found a way to relate to their fathers or resolved their feelings of loss may continue to suffer this hunger indefinitely. They bring their longing to new relationships when they become spouses and parents. In this way, father hunger is passed down through generations. (21) If “father hunger” was such a powerful psychological need, I pondered how it might be harnessed as character motivation as a ‘want’, a narrative driver. From a lifetime of reading stories as well as my more recent foray into writing them, I have come to understand that compelling narratives have characters that must overcome obstacles to satisfy their wants. Fictional protagonists may not successfully achieve their ‘wants’, but a satisfying resolution to a narrative often involves at least their ‘needs’ being requited.
I wanted to explore whether a father who has been absent in his daughter’s childhood can rebuild his relationship with her later in life. Was it possible to make up for lost time? Social researcher Dr Linda Nielsen does not believe so.
Young adults who claim they want a closer relationship with their father nonetheless say they have spent too little time together since the divorce to feel comfortable talking to him now about personal things. Their relationships are usually awkward and superficial because they know so little about one another. (Braithwaite and Baxter qtd. in Nielsen 148) Likewise, other college students have said that even though their fathers now want to spend time with them, it is “just too late.” (Harvey and Fine qtd. in Nielsen 148) Many daughters feel too many years have passed and too much damage has been done to create a meaningful relationship at this point in their adult lives… which creates a “father hunger” that lasts long into her adult years. (Nielsen 148- 149) In addition to “father hunger”, my research identified four other problematic consequences of the practice of anonymous DI that have been the subject of academic study: the danger of “accidental incest”, the negative psychosocial impact of “late discovery” of the truth of one’s conception, “genealogical bewilderment” and the health risks of not knowing one’s genetic heritage.
In my research I did not come across any evidence that incest had occurred amongst DC-people, but the research also established that many DC-people have never been told the truth. Incest is a universally observed (if not always obeyed) sexual taboo, one that figures in works as diverse as the Book of Genesis, Norse
245 myths, Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro, Tolstoy's War and Peace, Japanese manga and the popular TV series Game of Thrones (based on George R. R. Martin’s fantasy book series A Song of Ice and Fire). But if one does not know one’s siblings or father, how can the taboos operate? Anonymous DI raises the prospect of half-siblings, or fathers and children, meeting and forming a sexual relationship. Rawstorne reports that most of the UK ‘Barton Brood’
have no idea of their parentage. Unless their mother or father ignored Mary Barton’s advice and told them, they are still, all these years later, completely in the dark about who they really are. On top of this is the very real risk of incest. “One of the things that is pretty well certain is that some half-sisters and half-brothers will have met and will have had sexual relations and will have produced children,” says the Brood’s Mr Stevens. “I think there is a strong possibility that it has already happened.” It may seem improbable that any of the 1,000 siblings brought up in a country the size of Britain could have unwittingly met up, let alone slept together. But Mr Stevens points out that, since their parents all came from the same social class and often had similar interests, they could well have encountered one another. “It is one final surprise that could yet well emerge from this,” he warns. (2012) The possibility of incest was also highlighted in the Australian media. DC-person Leonie Hewitt cites the example of a prolific donor who
was in the Army, and he moved around, and he donated in South Australia and New South Wales. That’s a terrible amount of half siblings to be related to. And none of us would want that for their children—the risk of forming a relationship with one of those siblings. (“The Long Search For Answers…”) While not incest in a legal sense, an SBS story in 2015 reported on a DC-person who learned that he had a relationship with a biological cousin:
Later, when James attended his biological grandmother’s birthday, he chatted to some of his cousins and made the connection that one of his ex-girlfriends—who was not at the party—was also related to them. On the way home he called her and broke the news, much to her horror. “She was mortified,” he laughs. (O’Regan) Narelle Grech, a DC-person, told a government committee investigating donor conception that she had many unknown siblings: “eight other people, probably
246 walking around Melbourne, who were half-brothers and sisters” and that “she was concerned about Genetic Sexual Attraction (GSA)—the risk of consanguinity” (Fyfe). Consanguinity is the relationship between two closely-related people and “it is a major reason why all Australian states now cap the number of families created from each donor: in Victoria it is ten families, including the donor’s own, and in NSW it is five” (Fyfe). Genetic Sexual Attraction is
sexual attraction between close relatives, such as siblings or half- siblings, a parent and offspring, or first and second cousins, who first meet as adults. The term was coined in the US in the late 1980s by Barbara Gonyo, the founder of Truth Seekers In Adoption, a Chicago-based support group for adoptees and their new-found relatives. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genetic_sexual_attraction) Another important sociological concept in this area is the Westermarck Effect. Anonymous DI undermine this evolutionary incest-avoidance mechanism, which
refers to the negative effect that early childhood social interaction and social proximity have on sexual interest in later life. The term was coined by Fox (1902) in honour of the Finnish sociologist Edward Westermarck (1891) who first proposed it. Shepher (1971) proposed that the effect be construed as a form of imprinting, or more specifically in this case, negative sexual imprinting. Shepher (1983) argued that there is sufficient evidence from genetic studies on inbreeding depression to warrant the conclusion that the reduced sexual interest of siblings raised in close proximity could be legitimately construed as an adaptive mechanism to prevent inbreeding. (Walter and Buyske 1) There are also strong cultural taboos which inhibit incestuous relationships, but in the case of anonymous DI these taboos cannot operate because the DC-people have not been told who their close relatives are and therefore who they can or cannot form a relationship with; hence the risk of “accidental incest”.
“Late discoverer” is a term initially used by social researchers in adoptive practices to refer to someone who “finds out about their adoptive status as an adult, well after the time now recommended by adoption and other professionals as appropriate to avoid psychosocial disturbance” (Riley 1). They may feel compelled to reassess their identity, to rewrite their personal narratives, and to attempt to identify their biological parents. The desire to know about one’s roots is part of the process of growing up. A “late discoverer” will have a different experience to a DC-person whose parents have always incorporated the donor in the family narrative of how they came
247 to be. The “late discoverer” has the daunting task to “negotiate the shock of having two families—the family they grew up with and another family of biological kin they know nothing about, who may or may not know about them” (Riley 134-135). In Australian Story, Lauren Burns and her mother describe their experience:
LAUREN BURNS: And she said, “Oh, you know, Dad’s not your biological father.” So it was a pretty awkward conversation. I think it was hard for her to find the words. BARBARA BURNS (LAUREN’S MOTHER): She asked a few questions but she didn’t really say very much. But I sort of did realise later it had really come out of left field and was a big shock to her. LAUREN BURNS: I’d just been through all my teenage years, which are a time of identity formation when you figure out who you are and your place in the world. (“Searching For C11–Part 1”) The research made clear that learning the truth about being donor-conceived is more difficult for adults (with their more formed sense of selves), and especially if the secret is exposed inadvertently by a third party, that is, is not a planned disclosure by one’s parents. On The 7:30 Report, Danielle Heath explains the impact of learning about her conception as an adult:
Something you’ve been so secure in your whole life, for that to be taken away from you makes you question everything. I thought, “I’ve got to find out who my father is.” (“IVF Babies Want More Info”) Sarah Dingle explains how she was affected by the news:
Three years ago, my life was going pretty well. After I found out I was donor-conceived, I went into a pretty bad place. I would wake up in the morning or I’d come home from work in the evening and I’d look at my face in the mirror and I literally did not recognise my own face. (“Searching For C11–Part 2”) Family resemblance is just one facet of a “normative, cultural ideology in which resemblance is seen as the outward, bodily expression of biological relationship” (Becker et al. 1301). Ironically, the existence and importance of these family resemblances “can only really be grasped in their absence” (Haslanger and Witt 45), as documented through “genealogical bewilderment” experiences, that “state in which a child either has no knowledge of its natural parents or only uncertain knowledge” (Durna et al. 1). The resulting condition “of confusion and uncertainty”, Durna et al. argue, “fundamentally undermines the child’s security and thus affects their health” (224). “Genealogical bewilderment” is evidenced by
248 “enduring feelings of disbelief, betrayal, confusion, anger, sorrow and loss” (Riley 5). Fain suggests that those of us who have “had the benefit of being raised by their biological parents do not appreciate the depth of this desire to connect with one’s biological parents” (88). Fain further explains that many offspring of anonymous donor insemination report “suffering not only because they do not know who their biological fathers are, but because they have been separated from them, as well as from their paternal grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins” and that they “may have difficulty figuring out their place in the world, because they do not know half their family” (91).
The idea of family resemblances and the sense of not quite fitting in with one’s family in terms of physical appearance or personality traits is bound up with the notion that one’s origin is key to understanding oneself, and one’s place in the world. Andrew Denton asks DC-person Geraldine Hewitt if she would like to meet the man who was her donor. Her response reinforces this idea, that to know who you are, you must know where you came from:
I think I’d like to meet him just to observe him as a fellow human being. I don’t need a dad. I’ve got one…just to complete the jigsaw puzzle that is my life. (“On Donor Conception”) This sentiment is also reflected by Deborah Gibson when she reveals the motivation for searching for her donor. “I just wanted to find out more about myself” (“IVF Babies Want More Info”). DC-person Christine Whipp is “a long way from acceptance”:
There is something deep and innate in the blood link you share with someone that is greater than any other link…Without that, donor- conceived children like me are left feeling dislocated—even when they are lucky enough to re-engage with their genetic roots. (Carroll) Joanna Rose knew enough about her donor to know that he was not Jewish:
I was tormented by not knowing part of my family’s medical history, or anything about my ethnicity. My father was Jewish and I was aware the donor was not, but I didn’t know anything else about him … It’s difficult to feel proud of who you are and where you’re from when you know nothing about the origins of half of your genes. (Carroll)
249 While overlooked by the medical practitioners at the forefront of fertility science, there are significant health risks associated with not knowing one’s genetic heritage which are obvious in hindsight. The story of Narelle Grech is one of many examples I found:
Narelle had been living in London for a couple of years and had decided to come home. Shortly after her arriving home, she became unwell. A couple of days later she had severe stomach pains and she was rushed to the hospital, where they discovered that she had bowel cancer. (“Searching For C11–Part 2”) Subsequent tests showed that Narelle’s cancer had already metastasised to her lungs and her liver and she was diagnosed with stage four bowel cancer:
NARELLE GRECH: My oncologist just said to me on Monday…that he’s kind of expecting me to live “a few years at best,” were his words. MICHELLE SQUILLACI, NARELLE GRECH’S OLDER SISTER: We immediately looked at our genetics in our own family and found that there was no link. There was nobody we knew in our immediate family that had this disposition. (“Searching For C11– Part 2”) For Narelle Grech, as I have already shown, there were fatal consequences from this lack of knowledge.
250 Chapter Two: An Ethics of Care
In writing a novel that is primarily an extended exploration of the ethics of fertility practices which did not fully consider their subjects, I would be hypocritical if I did not at some stage step back and examine the ethics of my own practices as a writer of fiction. Determined to avoid sensationalising my topic, and aware that good intentions were no guarantee of ethical outcomes, I contemplated what relationship I had to my characters, and my responsibility to them: Who might be affected by my writing? How did I come by my ideas? Could my character portrayals cause harm?
At one end of the spectrum are writers who believe their responsibilities are limited, if not non-existent, such as William Faulkner, who stated that
[t]he writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one... Everything goes by the board: hono[u]r, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies. (30) James Baldwin, drawing on Socrates’ speech, calls for harsh examination of the topic, including self-examination in his literary pursuit, even if there is a personal price:
But I still believe that the unexamined life is not worth living: and I know that self-delusion, in the service of no matter how small or lofty a cause, is a price no writer can afford. His subject is himself and the world and it requires every ounce of stamina he can summon to attempt to look on himself and the world as they are. (Baldwin 12) Tennessee Williams is more concerned with the aesthetics of his writing than any responsibility to his subjects or audience:
When I write I don’t aim to shock people, and I’m surprised when I do. But I don’t think that anything that occurs in life should be omitted from art, though the artist should present it in a fashion that is artistic and not ugly. I set out to tell the truth. And sometimes the truth is shocking. (153) These authors valued aesthetics over ethics but the landscape has shifted and contemporary authors such as Charlotte Wood, Helen Garner, and Kate Grenville, to name a few, have expressed a deep concern about the ethics of their writing practice. To examine my own ethical approach when creating fiction inspired by real-life events and people, I have drawn on the work of creative writing academics Judith Andre, Claudia Mills and Enza Gandolfo where they describe their own ethical
251 approaches to writing fiction and provide guidelines for writing fiction when the source material has been ‘appropriated’ from the real world.
Gandolfo believes that a discussion of ethics in relation to fiction has often been absent “because of entrenched views about the imagination and the need for the imagination to be free” and in the interests of allowing writers to be able to “work independently, uncensored and unencumbered” (“It’s All Makebelieve” 5). In response to this, she reminds us that “the imagination is never free”:
This is a fantasy that we cannot really believe. We might believe we are free to think and imagine anything we want, but our capacity and potential to imagine is influenced by our lives, our history, our culture, and our education. We are shaped by the way we have grown up and what we have experienced. When we tell stories, write poems, create images, we carry with us a particular way of seeing that is shaped by those experiences. (“It’s All Makebelieve” 5) In contrast to the sentiments of Faulkner, Baldwin and Williams, Gandolfo explores the responsibility of the writer to the real people whose lives they are re- presenting in their works, observing that there has been “only limited discussion among and by writers of fiction on the ethical questions and dilemmas arising in the process of writing fiction” (“It’s All Makebelieve” 5).
Drawing on the work of Jurecic, Gandolfo explains her motivation to write fiction:
While I write to find out what I am thinking, my motivation to shape the writing into a novel comes from my belief that by eliciting empathetic responses fiction has the potential to give the reader a greater understanding of other people and that this understanding might lead to positive actions, attitudinal and behavioural changes in the real world. (“Take A Walk…”) Gandolfo posits that a writer’s awareness and self-reflection requires “vigilance, which can be described as a watchfulness: vigilance is a state of being awake to both one’s conditioning and position” (“It’s All Makebelieve” 7). She asks us to see ourselves as “positioned” and to think more deeply about our intention as writers. This demands a “self-reflective and critical approach to writing” which she describes as
Vigilance. Watchfulness. Alertness. A state of being awake to both our conditioning and our position. Being aware all the time of who
252 we are, where we are standing, and the way that how we write or speak that may exclude others but not letting the problems associated with that stop us from speaking, writing and acting (“The Robust Imagination” 6). For Gandolfo the ethical responsibilities of the fiction writer are inextricably intertwined with the creative process:
Good art and good writing challenge our views of ourselves and other people; they present our world to us—past, present and future—so that we might see what we might otherwise not have seen. This work requires imagination, passion and independence, but it also must come with an understanding of the role that art and writing have in the world and their impact on people. The writer is a member of society and therefore has ethical and moral responsibilities. We need to take care in the construction of our own “make believe” worlds. (It’s All Makebelieve 8) In “Faking It: The Ethics Of Transforming Real Life Into Fiction”, Katrina Finlayson offers no simple solution to relieving the writer of their ethical considerations to their subject, certainly not “labelling a story as fiction” (1). Brien notes that, although it may never reach the same level of outcry as a false claim of truth in nonfiction, “fiction writers who base their work on actual events and/or people can, for example, be charged with exploiting or appropriating others’ stories in their work” (“Non-Fiction Writing Research” 40).
Andre hesitates to appropriate others’ stories for her own use because of her “sense that one’s story is private property” and is unwilling to take someone else’s story “without permission” (2). For her, whether the writer has used another person’s story “properly or improperly turns in part on how the writer came to know the story” (2). To take the story from some kind of public record—such as a newspaper— and fictionalize it, is much less problematic than if the writer came to know the story only because a friend confided in them or because they had the “privileged access of an intimate to their life” (2).
Mills poses a related question, “Can one own a story?” (202) and answers it with reference to its provenance. Mills clarifies that she is not suggesting that an author must obtain permission for all stories they use, but when they treat someone else’s story at length, and have gained access to that story only through intimacy, they should ask before they appropriate (203). However, Mills qualifies this statement by noting that a writer’s own story is often so intertwined with another’s
253 that they cannot tell the former without telling the latter: “no-one can write of their own life without writing, in detail and in depth, about the lives of those intimately connected with them” (203). Mills invokes “the Kantian imperative” but modifies it to “avoid using others merely as means to our ends, not to avoid using them altogether” (204).
Mills more specifically identifies two broad areas a writer might “cause harm” to those they use as models for fiction. Firstly, “by publicly damaging their reputation,” or secondly, “by privately causing them psychological pain” (199). She reassures that a writer’s use of someone else’s story as material is not necessarily “suspect” and “in need of moral justification. But that telling someone’s story can be a way of paying homage to that person, a uniquely moving tribute” (199). Mills therefore posits that “harm to reputation can occur only if the fictional portrait is a negative one and only if its model is publicly recognized as such” (Mills 197) and “[a] more prevalent kind of harm caused to the models for a fictional work is the psychological pain of seeing themselves pictured in an unflattering way” (Mills 199). “Few would be hurt by a loving, admiring depiction of themselves … harm is likely to arise only from untruthfully or unfairly negative portraits” (Mills 199).
Mills suggests that the writer’s intention as well as the type of story created are considerations in its moral evaluation. Is the writer’s aim to pillory, criticise, paint a negative portrayal, exploit for entertainment? Is the story “a trivial, amusing anecdote or the deep, dark harrowing story of one’s life? Is it told as part of a great and serious work of art … or as part of a glib, mocking satire?” (203).
The reason there is such scrutiny on the ethics of a writer’s practice lies in understanding the function of literature to examine the potential for change, for other ways of being, other ways of seeing. According to novelist, essayist, and historian Alberto Manguel, books have an ethical function in society:
They may not change our suffering, books may not protect us from evil, books may not tell us what is good or what is beautiful, and they will certainly not shield us from the common fate of the grave. But books grant us myriad possibilities: the possibility of change, the possibility of illumination. (231-232) One of the most confronting aspects of my research was the ‘screaming headline’ approach taken by mainstream media when reporting on donor conception.
254 It focused on the fears and anxieties of DC-people including the possibility of accidental incest or inheriting a deadly genetic disease, and the callousness of the industry that created them and then denied them access to their genetic heritage. An example of the tabloid approach is the Lauder article which simplistically states that “the vast majority of children conceived from donated sperm, eggs or embryos do not know it. Many of them are now adults and are searching for identity and fighting for their rights” (2015). The language is emotive and implies a large-scale conspiracy on the part of fertility practices and the government: “The extreme secrecy surrounding donations means the number of donor-conceived people in Australia can only be estimated (2015).” Lauder quotes a DC-person who compares their victimhood to that of the Stolen Generation:
Ms Favarato said a national apology was in order. “It’s like the Stolen Generation for the Aboriginal people—we need an apology," she said. “We were wronged and I know some people that have struggled with it much, much, much worse than I have … that have been through, you know, significant periods of depression and absolute heartache and relationship breakdowns.” (Lauder)
DC-people have been greatly impacted, but the media has been selective in presenting the issue, and used a tone of outrage, clearly siding with the children. The result is to deliver a restricted perspective on this complex situation. In the article “When Sperm-Donor Children Come Calling”, the attention-grabbing opening lingers on the salacious details of the donation:
It was not about the pornography, he often joked. The well- thumbed, lewd magazine left on the examination bed was not his thing… When he arrived to donate, a nurse showed him to a room down a long, white, eerie corridor. She was always the only person around. “You would put the jar in a postbox thing and go.” (Fyfe) Fyfe reduces the situation to a clash between the right of the donor to privacy and the rights of the people they helped create:
This is a story about family secrets and who gets to keep them. Many men never told their wives or children about their donations. Only one in three donor-conceived children is thought to have been told their father is not their biological father. Increasingly, donor- conceived children, now adults in their 30s, are finding out in heated and fraught ways: in family arguments, from snooping
255 through their parents’ computers, after messy divorces and in the wake of a father’s death. (Fyfe) Even Andrew Denton, known for his balanced and sensitive handling of his subjects, begins his interview titillating his audience with the incest angle:
ANDREW DENTON: It’s a distant but real possibility that you could have sexual relations—I sound like Bill Clinton—you could have sexual relations …with a half-brother. GERALDINE HEWITT: Oh, it’s frightening, and the thing is that a lot of times donors didn’t just donate to one clinic. There’s no national register established in Australia where clinics can ring up… and say, “Do you have, you know, John Smith donating at Royal North Shore?” …they could say yes… and then they wouldn’t use him. …there’s one donor, he donated over a period of nine years to six different Sydney clinics—he made 318 donations—and these clinics don’t have records for how many resulting births. (“On Donor Conception”) Jennifer Lahl, President and founder of the US-based Centre for Bioethics and Culture, wrote and directed Anonymous Father’s Day (2013), a documentary in which she interviewed several DC-offspring “about the pain and frustration they have experienced in not knowing their biological fathers or their paternal relatives” (Fain 89). Her motivation in creating the documentary was to creative a counter-narrative,
in part to balance the overwhelmingly positive, and sometimes even humorous, media accounts of sperm donation. From comedies about hapless sperm donors to heart-warming stories about infertile couple’ prayers being answered, the stories and struggles of the donor-conceived offspring are largely overshadowed, minimized, ridiculed, or untold. (Fain 89) The Donor does not lampoon any of my characters who have real life counterparts, nor did I write it for pure entertainment. I wrote to comprehend what it might be like for those caught up in this unique confluence of time and place, and I also wrote to explore my own experience of “father hunger”. I hope that any people who have been negatively affected by anonymous DI would perceive The Donor not as exploitation of their personal stories, nor as a negative reflection on them, but as a story which shines a harsh light on mistakes of the past in the hope that similar errors are not made in the future, in a world which is increasingly penetrated by science and technology, including in the areas of medicine and genetics.
The Donor does depict circumstances that have caused some people great psychological and physical distress and even cost them their life. On the other hand, it
256 is these “high stakes” that made me choose it as a subject worthy of exploring through writing a novel. Stories are more powerful if they examine the flashpoints in our lives. In the words of Alfred Hitchcock, “drama is life with the dull bits cut out” (Picture Parade). Stories which depict human existence at extremes or under pressure, or turning points in our lives (such as birth, death, courtships, and betrayals), where decisions must be made, are the ‘stuff of fiction.’ When I read Deborah Gibson’s description of meeting her donor as “the most overwhelming and emotional experience of my life,” the writer within me rejoiced (“IVF Babies Want More Info”).
257 Chapter Three: Crafting The Donor
The Donor is an extended assertion that human procreation is not merely a matter of individual choice, and can never merely be a private responsibility. Instead (like fiction writing) it has social, and sometimes political, significance, and cannot be compared to a purely physiological function such as digestion, circulation or respiration.
Innovation has been a major force in the economic success of western nations. But, technology spills over into our social and moral life. While we might view it as amoral, a means to an end, technological innovation unsettles old values and creates new views of the world. (Judd 36) The media and scientific studies have documented the harms of anonymous DI, but fictionalising its effects—creating characters and emotions to identify with— allows for the possibility of engaging a wider audience and creating a more effective warning about the implementation of technological solutions without due consideration of their impact. In The Donor, I do not question whether change and innovation is good or bad, or whether fertility treatment should be permitted. Technological development has given us power over nature and over people. The availability of reproductive technologies has had liberating effects, especially for women and same-sex couples. Instead, I focus on the social and moral issues that only seem to emerge after much of the damage has been done.
My novel examines what happens when ethical conversations lag behind scientific ones. Even now, fertility technologies are confronting us with fundamental questions: Why do we want children? What kind of parents do we want to be? What kind of relations do we want between men and women? Fiction is an ideal space to explore these questions and seek new perspectives.
A key foundation for The Donor was to write in cognisance that I am not donor-conceived and did not need to resort to fertility treatment to conceive my children. However, I grew up without my biological father, and this undoubtedly did shape aspects of who I am. My father was missing in my formative years (in childhood and adolescence), and when I did come to know him as an adult, remaining in sporadic contact with him until he passed away, there was a sense of disappointment
258 and disillusionment on both sides. I felt, therefore, that I had a strong personal connection with my material, while mindful that I was telling a story that had deep personal ramifications for others.
Without the experience of being donor-conceived, I wanted to imagine how this might affect an understanding of oneself and one’s place in the world. I understood before I began writing that biological kinship holds a fascination for people, and recognised the energy of storylines with lies and secrets to be exposed and a riddle “of existence” to solve.
Apart from the original anecdote, my source material for The Donor came from the public record. These DC-people and donors had wanted to talk—to journalists, parliamentary inquiries and researchers. The character of Jacquie, Narelle Grech’s fictional counterpart, is ‘borrowed’ most clearly from the public record. One paragraph in a transcript from a TV show inspired Jacquie’s first chapter, which shows her feeling unwell on a flight from London back home to Australia. Even now, as I write this, I am questioning whether I should change details, made Jacquie return from another country, change her gender. And yet, living and working in England is a rite of passage for so many Australians that I feel able to dismiss this impulse. I did the same trek myself in my early twenties.
As Narelle Grech’s story is on the public record, I have not accessed her story by virtue of being an intimate and exploiting any relationship for my fictional gains. But you might still ask: Would Narelle have wanted her story ‘retold’ by me? I surmise that she did want her story told. I draw this conclusion because she also gave interviews and spoke to politicians about her frustrations after learning she was donor-conceived but could not find out who her donor was, and her family and friends continued to speak publicly about her plight after her death. This lack of knowledge about who her donor was, may have cost Narelle her life, because if she had known of a genetic predisposition to bowel cancer she may have been screened earlier and had a better prognosis.
For Narelle, it became vital for her to learn of her paternal origins before she died:
259 It’s really important to me now that I can know who my paternal family is. I would like to meet them or know of them before I die. I want to be able to say that I truly know myself before I die. (Fyfe) This is the emotion I wanted to capture for Jacquie’s character—initially she is only looking for her donor siblings, but when she meets Dan she acknowledges a need to find out as much as she can about him.
Another consideration was to avoid causing “harm” (in Mills’ terminology), to any real-life counterparts. Narelle Grech had already died from bowel cancer so I certainly could not cause her psychological harm, but there is still her donor father and her family to consider. For example, harm might be caused to them by reawakening memories and distressing emotions, or appropriating their family’s story, which is deeply personal. I believe that Jacquie is one of my more carefully and lovingly crafted characters. I would hope that her social family and donor would read Jacquie as a likeable character who despite her physical and psychological pain thinks only of others in trying to find her “diblings” (donor siblings) to warn them about her disease.
Jacquie exhibits two of the potential harms of anonymous DI identified from my research. Firstly, she inherits a genetic disease from her unknown donor, and secondly, she is deeply upset that her parents, the two people who owe her the greatest burden of trust, have kept secret her biological origins, information that is fundamental to who she is. “Late discoverers”, the research suggested, can “lose their belief in their community and institutions who have helped keep the secret” (Riley 181). Jacquie laments that if there had been a family history of gastro-intestinal cancer (there had, she just was not aware of it), her prognosis might have been better. Lack of knowledge of her genetic origins ultimately costs her life:
“If it was in the family history, I could have been tested earlier.” Staring out the kitchen window, Donna wrung the tea-bags, dripping excess liquid on her blouse. “It might have been picked up sooner and I’d have half a chance. I’ve been googling everything about GI cancer. If it’s discovered early, with treatment, there’s a good chance of a cure. They can’t do much for me now.” (MS)
260 Being a “late discoverer” affects Jacquie’s relationship with her “social” father and her mother. Jacquie describes how in childhood she sensed something was different about her:
“I always suspected you and Dad hugged me a little longer and a little harder than the other parents. I thought that was just because I was an only child.’ ‘You were our miracle. Our gift from God.” And now God was reclaiming his precious gift. (MS) Jacquie’s narrative journey follows the arc of her real-life model. She dies in the first third of the novel and needs to be replaced with another character with a strong want, needs, and psychological wounds which she seeks to have healed. Cassie is this character and “father hunger” drives her narrative arc.
Cassie did not have a real-life counterpart. To craft her I drew on my personal experiences of growing up without a father and with a mother with mental health issues. For me, she also embodied the pain of various accounts of both DC-children and other abandoned literary daughters I had read about on their quest to find their father, such as Jess in The Sperm Donor’s Daughter, and Pip in Purity. Writing Cassie’s story took me into dark places. These dark places related to my earlier observation that writers examine what obsesses them, the etiology of their own wounds, and writing about these traumas from the safe distance of fictional characters fulfils an ethical responsibility to oneself and yet satisfies the impulse to write without causing further injury. To avoid her being read as a simply ‘bad’ character with mental health issues, I included a flashback to Cassie’s childhood and the circumstances under which she learns she is donor-conceived, as well as including a devotion to her rescue dogs.
One of the circumstances which ‘explain’ why Cassie is a disturbed woman is her “father hunger”: her social father leaves the family home for another woman (who has a daughter Cassie’s age), and at the same time Cassie’s mother reveals the truth about her conception in a moment of spite. Growing up, Cassie experiences the frustration of knowing her biological father is out there, somewhere, but forever lost to her. Cassie’s childhood longing for her biological father is described to Jacquie, her
261 donor-sibling, whom she meets her for the first time in a bar. Cassie reveals how as a child she searched for her father in the faces of strangers.
I used to play this game when I was younger. The game was called: Is that my father? I’d be on a bus, or a train, anywhere really, and I’d look for the ugliest, grossest person and I’d tell myself, That’s him! That’s your Dad. Of course, I knew from my mother that he’d been a medical student, so that was just silly. I remember embarrassing my mother by asking any male doctor I ever saw if they were my father. (MS) Both my research and my literature review showed me that meeting the absent father mostly results in the realisation that what has been lost can never be recovered. I wanted this disillusionment to be reflected in my novel, precluding any ‘happy ending’.
As well as “father hunger” Cassie also exhibits “genealogical bewilderment”. To explore the idea of “genealogical bewilderment,” I used the motif of mirrors in The Donor. I incorporated mirrors in The Donor to try and express the idea that DC-people have fractured identities.
My research revealed that DC-people often describe looking into a mirror and only seeing “half of what is looking back at them” (Fain 3) or not even recognise their own face at all. Lauren Burns became fixated on her features, a link to her unknown donor:
I’d look in the mirror and just have so many questions and so few answers. And it was almost like a splinter in my brain: it was just something that continuously bothered me, that I thought about. (“Searching For C11–Part 1”) Similarly, DC-person Joanna Rose describes how she sometimes stood in front of mirrors, wrapping her long hair across her face to fashion a beard and moustache to see whether she could see the face of her biological father in her own (Carroll). Cassie interrogates her features in mirrors, attempting to subtract the maternal features to uncover the absent father.
Cassie also provides an insight into an ethical issue in my crafting of The Donor. As already outlined, I was bothered by the sensationalism of much of the popular media reporting in this field, and was conscious that in creating what I regarded as a strong and vibrant plot, I might have been dealing in my own version of
262 sensationalism. In a previous draft, I had amplified Cassie’s “father hunger” to the point that she murders her dibling, Leonie, for no other reason than that she was jealous of Leonie for taking Dan’s attention. Elements of this subplot remain, but ‘toned down’ (there is no murder) and with a partial redemption for Cassie.
The character of Dan, my eponymous donor, is perhaps most likely to give rise to ethical concerns about his depiction. His story arc is that of a middle-aged academic forced to face the consequence of his actions thirty years after donating sperm as a student. Much of my source material focused on DC-people as victims of both the system and well-intentioned parents desperate to maintain the façade of a ‘normal’ family. There was much less material about how a donor’s actions (whether altruistic or mercenary) impacted on them later in life when they discovered that their DNA was responsible for offspring, or how contact with these strangers who shared half their DNA might affect them and their families. Dan does not seek out his biological children and when one of them finds him he is overwhelmed by the number he created and is anxious they might unsettle his comfortable existence.
It was at this point that I realised I wanted to write not just from the offspring’s point of view. It became important that the donor’s position be explored. The donors were often absent in the media discussion, and where they were mentioned were portrayed as heartless, uncaring men who sold their DNA without any regard for their paternal obligations. In middle-age, the donors seemed to either be unwilling to have their lives upset by interlopers, or were older and wiser and now regretting their youthful follies. In the case of real-life sperm donor Noel, his attitude changed over time and with his experience of fatherhood:
At the time of donating, Noel said he saw it as like blood donation but, after the birth of his own children and learning that he had donor offspring, he said that he thought, “I’ve given away [10] of my children, and I did it with the best of intentions, absolutely, but I’ve given away [10] of my children, and I have no idea what their fate has been.” (Kirkman et al 735) He uses the language of grief and regret to show a concern about their fate.
An alternative idea that the 20th century donor was also a victim of morally dubious practices by the fertility industry emerges from an article in The Age on “Father Figures”. Donor Ian Smith describes feeling exploited as a young male who
263 had the vital “ingredient” required to make babies (Dingle, “Father ‘Unknown…”). I wanted to write about how the donor-father might reflect in later life on his donations as a young man. How can a young man who has never had children peer into the future and appreciate the long-term consequences of donating their genes? If, of course, they peered at all.
Dan was not based on any specific donor from my research. He is a pastiche of research and imagination. I drew on all this material, including the inherent contradictions in it, to create Dan. I took some very basic elements from the original anecdote and grafted on some of the reactions of middle-aged donors who feared contact from their offspring.
Some donors feared being pursued by their donor offspring, concerned about harms to themselves or their families. They mentioned a ‘knock on the door’ by someone claiming family membership, thereby damaging the family’s understanding of itself and of the donor’s loyalty; ‘stalking’ of the donor’s children and extended family in person or through the internet; and demands or ‘emotional blackmail’ from a ‘needy’ or ‘unstable’ donor-conceived person. (Kirkman et al 735) In Dan’s interactions with his DC children, and particularly Cassie, I wanted to convey donor Ben Clark’s experience of meeting his donor offspring as
all strange … to be connected to someone who is a fully lived adult, only discover it out of nowhere…But it’s as though there’s a whole period in somebody’s life that you’ve been part of it in some way but completely absent from, right from the beginning. It’s really odd. (“Searching For C11–Part 2”) Ben Clark makes “a point of not staring” at his biological daughter but cannot help noticing “that she did have a very strong family resemblance” (“Searching For C11– Part 2”). Dan continually makes comparisons of the physical features of the children from his marriage (Jack and Chloe) to his DC-children. I gave Dan distinctive “golden- coloured” (MS) eyes. Brown (from which this colour is derived) is a dominant gene for eye colour. The majority of his offspring have inherited Dan’s eye colour.
Despite the biological connection, however, it is the absence of social bonding which is at the heart of Dan’s inability to love his DC-daughters as much as he loves Chloe, the daughter from his marriage:
264 Dan recalled being in the delivery room, three in the morning, his firstborn in his arms. He loved her already, deeply and fiercely. When his still unnamed daughter screwed up her face against the hospital’s fluorescent lights, he instinctively shielded her eyes and promised to take care of her, forever. (MS) This is one of the “tragic” aspects of The Donor—neither Cassie nor any of her “diblings” will have this moment with Dan that Chloe did. They can never retrieve the years of bonding that they missed. While Dan never sees himself as ‘father’ or ‘dad’ to any of his DC-offspring, he is forced to confront the fact that they may not feel that same way.
My fictional donor’s code is “747”. This is the only signifier the social parents of his offspring can know him by, and evokes an aeroplane model, with its connotation of technology and freedom. Cassie’s parents referred to him as “Jumbo Jet” (hence Cassie names all her dogs “Jet”) and Jacquie’s call him “Mr Boeing.” I intended for it to be a poignant attempt on the part of the social families to humanise the number that represents the man who had the vital ingredient to bring their child into existence.
In the early stages of writing, I was not concerned about portraying Dan in a negative or unflattering light, perhaps influenced by the media’s presentation of DC- people as victims and the donors as part of the greedy or heartless system. Initially, I envisaged Dan as Viktor Frankenstein, creating offspring but unwilling to ‘parent’ them.
What began to soften the harsher outlines of Dan’s creation was writing from his point of view. To do this I had to step into his comfortable Hush-Puppies and tweed coat, and follow him around. The more I worked on The Donor, the more I came to understand Dan and the predicament he found himself in; to understand him as, ultimately, another victim of the medical industry’s quest to solve problems with technology. But I felt, for narrative resolution, he still needed go through some kind of trial and punishment to gain insight into the magnitude of his youthful actions. He is stalked and robbed by Cassie, his family deserts him, and he is assaulted and nearly drowned by Henry. Dan can no longer remain ignorant, self-involved, self-serving. And as the “punishments” rack up, it increased my empathy for him (as I hoped it
265 would the reader’s) so that when we take one last glimpse of Dan in the epilogue, as the young unthinking medical student about to donate his sperm for a little extra cash, there is a greater understanding of how he came to be there and how a simple and seemingly altruistic act will be the source of such wide ranging repercussions.
Caroline and Henry are not based on real people, just a situation in which a subset of real people might find themselves. They embody the fears and anxieties of many donors and DC-people about the potential for “accidental incest”. I wanted to fictionalise incest as an unforeseen consequence of anonymous DI. In a situation where truth is stranger than fiction, I needed to ensure that when I wrote about diblings (donor siblings) meeting, it did not seem too contrived and that their meeting and attraction to each other was not only possible but plausible. Caroline and Henry “hook-up” (MS) on a dating app and are instantly attracted to each other by their similarities. I describe Henry’s attraction to Caroline in terms of his own features; his half-sister is the other-gendered mirror of himself. “Blonde hair, long straight neat nose, carved nostrils, wide mouth and fascinating eyes. Eyes that in fact reminded him a little of his own, which were once referred to by a casual fling as wolf’s eyes” (MS).
I was conscious of drawing on the Narcissus myth when describing the attraction between Henry and Caroline, physically attracted because of their similarities. In his research on Genetic Sexual Attraction, Robert Childs summarises the tragedy of Narcissus and Echo. Narcissus attempts to “console himself for the death of his beloved twin sister [Echo] his exact counterpart”, by sitting “gazing into the spring to recall her features” (243).
Sibling love is narcissistic, all absorbing, and if tragedy stalks one member of the pair, it affects the other as well. Narcissus and Echo resemble other brothers and sisters who are unable to live without one another. Sexualisation of the relationship merely bonds the siblings even closer, in a mirrored embrace of self-love. (Childs 243) Henry also embodies the concepts of “late discovery” and “genealogical bewilderment”. These concepts express themselves in his ambivalent and antagonistic relationship with his dead social father, George Noble. Once Henry learns the truth about his conception, he is forced to go back over the timeline of his life and rewrite the story of his childhood, a story which now explains his father’s coolness
266 towards him and their lack of common physical and personality traits. Henry looks for his own features in his social father’s, seeking proof of his origins:
He picked up an expired passport and studied his father’s photograph. He had never before interrogated those craggy features. He had just assumed he had inherited his looks from his mother, though not his pale skin. (MS) While George Noble was physically present in Henry’s childhood, he was emotionally absent, unable to accept that Henry was not his biological child. Research shows that it is not what social parents of DC-children and adoptive parents say to their children, but it is what they don’t say. A subject in a study tells:
My parents never said, “You look so much like your father” or “You have the same personality as your Grandma.” Subconsciously my brother picked up on this, and his doubts grew until they led to the most obvious conclusion—adoption. (Lorbach 187) And as Henry points out, being donor-conceived is not just a personal family matter, it has a public aspect, deepening the sense of betrayal:
“Everyone was in on the lie,” Henry said, staring straight ahead. “My father, my mother, the clinic, the government. Even my cousins knew how I was conceived. Mum told her sister and she of course couldn’t keep her mouth shut, except when it came to telling me. The brunt of some fucking 30-year joke—I’m Jim Carey in the Truman Show.” (MS)
267 Conclusion
Fiction can help the writer make sense of one’s own past. On a personal level, I came to understand that there is only a limited time to fulfil the role of father and what ‘has never been’ can never be recreated, it is just too late. Literary stories and memoirs of abandoned daughters also suggest this might be the case. Without childhood bonding to provide a firm foundation, the ground is too shaky to build upon.
While the creative artefact of this project, The Donor, is an extended exploration of the ethics of fertility practices, the exegesis has explored some of the ethical considerations in my writing practice, because this story was inspired by other peoples’ lives. My responsibility of working within an ethical framework was not abrogated because The Donor is a work of fiction. A change of names, a change of setting could not absolve my transgressions if there had been invasion of privacy, a breach of confidentiality, or a charge of cultural misappropriation or exploitation of another’s misery.
The writing of fiction would be impossible if writers could not draw on the world around them for inspiration—whether that be from dusty archives or family members or one’s own inner life—to model characters upon, for plots, and for themes. According to novelist Henry James, “The only reason for the existence of a novel is that it does attempt to represent life.” Writers need to keep an Ethics of Care in mind—interrogate their intention, be “vigilant”, but this I suggest, is balanced against the danger of a withering imagination if it is too fettered.
Medicine created ‘miracle babies’ while pretending that genetics didn’t matter. The Donor explores what it might mean for an adult to discover that the man they called ‘Dad’ is not their biological father and how this knowledge might affect their sense of identity, their family relations, and their ability to trust both other people and social institutions. It also examines the impact on the donor, who donated sperm in his youth with the assurance his donation would remain anonymous, confronted with that guarantee having been swept aside.
In writing The Donor I discovered that it is not necessarily the act of using donor sperm which causes the greatest harm, but whether the truth of the child’s
268 origins has been kept hidden and at what stage in life the DC-person learns the truth, and how they came to learn the truth. The narrow view of the sperm donor as a vehicle to enable infertile couples to have children has evolved to an understanding that donating sperm can have lifelong effects on both the progeny and the donor. The age-old nurture-versus-nature debate which has been redefined by the ever- expanding knowledge of how genes work, is now revealing to us what aspects of our selves are inherited, implying that it is no longer appropriate to keep secret genetic origins.
Society has moved towards a greater acceptance of alternate family structures—gay and lesbian couples having children, single women choosing to be inseminated with sperm donated by men with whom they do not have a relationship, as well as infertile couples using the ‘spare parts’—and as reproductive technology advances, more children will be conceived using technology that separates social from biological kinship. This impulse to control nature and solve our problems with science takes us into unknown places. We are currently at a new frontier of reproductive and gene modification technology which as a society we will need to grapple with as Chinese scientists announced in January 2018 that they can now clone primates (Kolata). Perhaps we will repeat the mistakes of the past, but the stories we tell can show us that the perils reside not in where science is taking us—for our human condition is to continue to search for ‘improvements’, for technological solutions—but in how we make the journey. Fiction can turn the facts into an emotional journey the reader can relate to.
269 Bibliography
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