Before we left, Art made one last trip to the men’s room while I stayed with Nut, mouthing her name through the layers of glass. She either heard me moving or caught sight of my hand on the window and came plodding over, lifting her frame onto her hind legs and pressing her paws against the glass. She knew me, and while she’d seemed happy enough in her tank before, she now pawed at the glass restlessly, agitated that she couldn’t break through the barrier.
Of course, this was the other side of the coin. Not giving Nut her name would perhaps have protected her from us, too. I watched her blood ooze through a loop of plastic and pressed my fingers to my wrist. Was I feeling what she felt, on the inside? Was her heart thumping, just like mine was?
I owed it to Nut to visit her every evening after work. Art came with me the first couple of days, standing silently by my side, not sure what to say. But once he was assured that Nut was comfortable and there being no change in her status he chose not to come again.
At first, the receptionist had looked at me kindly and patted my hand when I checked in. She even made sure I knew how to get home when I left in the late hours. But as the days went on she spoke to me less, and then began to greet me tentatively, as if I really shouldn’t be there but she didn’t quite know how to tell me to stop. I’d brought Art’s fleece from the loft, and now it lay scrunched up and unused at one end of the incubator, Nut having kicked it to the side. She’d look out for me visiting, and when she saw me open the door to quarantine she’d roll over and spread a wide paw on the glass, showing me her life line, heart line, head line. I’d lift my hand to meet hers, and repeat her name to comfort us both. Nut was always silent, but I knew she was glad I was there.
Each time I visited, Grove staff would repeatedly follow me into Nut’s room to tell me that it was fine to go home, they’d update me if there was any change. One night, near the end of visiting hours, a pale faced consultant came in and tried to schedule me in for a genetic counselling session. I wasn’t scheduled to have another one for months so I told her I was fine, I’d wait. By the way she watched my face I could tell she thought I was avoiding her, but the truth was I just hadn’t the time, and if Nut was going to need extra attention when she came home I’d have even less of it to waste talking. She didn’t insist.
Someone at the Grove must’ve been in touch with Stokers, because they were far better about my being distracted than I’d expected. I even made a few stupid mistakes when punching in numbers. Markus – my manager – pulled me into his office to let me know that if I needed time off for extra appointments I could take the time off in lieu, an out of the ordinary generous offer from him. As I left, he called out my name, and I looked over my shoulder to see him attempt an awkward wink. “Great things happening for you soon, kid.” It was disturbing.
It took thirteen days for the clinic to say they’d run all the diagnostics they could and couldn’t find anything wrong with Nut. She appeared to be the picture of health, still viable, and the consultant made sure to tell us that while she’d been in the clinic’s care she’d gained “a meaty two and a half kilograms”.
Before we could bring her home, we were to come into the clinic together that weekend for a scheduled recap session on her care and be given instructions for how to monitor her in the weeks ahead. Art and I sat in the consultation room, hands clasped. Even though I found the idea of a “care recap” session incredibly patronising, I was so eager to get her home that I had forgotten to wear my usual Easton Grove armour. In fact, I was happy to accept every critical blow sent my way if it meant I could take Nut with us when we left.
To my surprise the consultant that joined us was the same Zoe we’d met on the night Nut was admitted, though this time she was almost unrecognisable. She was wearing a cast of make-up and a sunshine yellow tea-dress under her tweed blazer. I wondered if the colour was somehow supposed to help put me at ease. She pulled out some sheets of paper from the printer and scanned them slowly.
“It looks like a few temporary changes are in order but nothing too severe. I’m contracted to ask, though, if you’ve reconsidered the ovum organi in-patient option? I can see you turned it down during your early phases, citing…” Zoe looked at us under lowered brows, “financial reasons. So it’s not part of your current fee, but just in case circumstances had changed I thought I’d mention
