“Yes, that’s right.” Oh God, this is when they’re going to tell me I’m excluded because of my stupid broken ovaries and stupid broken womb that won’t just grab on to a fucking fetus when it’s offered one.
“Your husband made an IVF consultation appointment for you in October 2025 but, oh yes. That appointment was canceled. Can you tell me why?”
I didn’t know Anthony had made an appointment. He never told me, oh God, he must have canceled it after I told him I wanted to try naturally for a little while longer. Dr. Carlton is looking at me expectantly. I remember what Anthony told me about IVF policies. As soon as you fall pregnant naturally, they define you as being fertile even if you have a miscarriage, and you go back to the beginning of the list. He has given me a gift. My lovely Anthony has somehow given me this gift from the past, an opportunity to rewrite my history of infertility.
“I fell pregnant,” I say quietly, before clearing my throat. I feel as if I’m committing a crime.
“You miscarried?” Dr. Carlton says in a medical “Oh, I am sorry” tone. I nod, not trusting my voice not to give me away.
“It’s quite common,” he goes on. “I had a number of patients who miscarried as the Plague caused, well . . . Grief can be very tough on physical health.” He smiles at me in what I’m sure he hopes is a reassuring way but I’m fixated on trying to see any suspicion in his expression. Don’t see through me. Believe me. “Well, your test results are all good, from what I can see. We’ll confirm that there are no issues with your blood tests in the next few days but you’ve always had normal hormone levels so I’d be surprised if there are any problems. Pending confirmation of the blood tests, you should be accepted.”
I burst into tears, which is clearly such a common occurrence that Dr. Carlton doesn’t bat an eyelid. He simply passes me a box of tissues, murmurs something incomprehensible and finishes writing up my notes.
“We’ll be in touch in the next few days and, if everything is confirmed, you’ll be eligible for three rounds of IUI. It’s a wait of several months, I’m afraid, but we’re working our way down the list.”
I thank him and try to pull myself together. I remember how much I loathed seeing crying women leaving the consulting rooms when I was in waiting rooms, during those awful months trying to conceive. It felt as though the sadness and bad fortune was contagious. Get away from me, I would think uncharitably. Don’t infect me with the curse of infertility.
I don’t know if I’m going to have another baby but for the first time in so long, I am making steps toward a new life. A different life, and yet in some ways the same as the life I lost. It feels fitting that in this mix of uncertainty, hope, nostalgia and fear, I’ll be meeting Phoebe for the first time in years. When I think back to the last time I saw her in person—just a few days after Halloween, around the time the Plague started—it feels so distant, I was almost a different person. I was a mother, a wife, a busy academic. Now I’m a widow, a childless mother and desperately trying to chronicle how the world has changed.
I walk through Brockwell Park, heading toward the bench we’ve agreed on as our meeting place, not far from the café, and overlooking a welcome expanse of green. Phoebe is already there. My first thought is that she looks older. Of course she looks older; it’s been over four years since I last saw her. We are older. Her hair is the same though. Light brown lightened by the same highlights she’s had since university. She’s wearing a dark green dress, her favorite color. I realize with a jolt that she’s wearing more makeup than I usually see her in and that it’ll be because she’s nervous. Gone are the days of cackling into wineglasses as one of our husbands asks us, smilingly, to keep it down, and discarding bras as soon as we get to the other’s house and talking so much at a restaurant that we blow the candle out by accident.
“Hello,” she says, nervous and standing up.
“Hi,” I reply, taking the lead and drawing her into a hug. I’m so starved of touch that it feels almost godly to hug someone now. She holds me tightly. She still smells of the same scent she’s always worn: Cinema, by YSL. Its familiarity brings me to tears.