The End of Men(86)

“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.

“Oh, Cat,” she says. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I reply, choking back sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” Phoebe says. “It’s all, it’s all just. God, it’s just been so shit. We’re all doing our best.”

This is a very Phoebe thing to say. To try to excise my guilt and remind me that we’re all doing our best is so wonderfully her.

“Tell me about everything,” Phoebe says and I tell her as much as I can. I can’t go into the painful details about the awful days of Anthony’s and Theodore’s deaths. Talking about it still feels like being flayed, and Phoebe loved them too. I can’t bear to see her sadness about them on top of my own. But I tell her about the fertility clinic and the project I’m working on, recording the stories of the Plague. I tell her about the routines of my new life.

I ask the question in return and, as her face flushes with something like embarrassment, I realize for the first time how difficult this is going to be. Phoebe’s perfume still provides primal comfort and I know every freckle and plane of her face. I know every boy who broke her heart before Rory and how she feels about mothering and friendship and life. But she has a family and I don’t.

“Rory and the girls are doing well,” she says quickly. “Rory’s job thankfully has continued without too much disruption. Even after a pandemic, London still needs accountants. I miss my dad a lot even though he died before all of this started. It’s been, yep.” She pauses and my cheeks burn. I’m not the only person who’s experienced loss.

“Evie and Ida miss you, so much,” she says.

I miss them too, although I haven’t allowed myself to think about them properly for a long time. Phoebe’s gorgeous little girls. I was the first person outside of their immediate family to see both girls, in the hospital when Phoebe was still gray with blood loss but dazed with joy. Evie’s my goddaughter. Until all of this, I was a devoted godmother, taking her out to the park or down to the river on her own so we could spend time together and give Phoebe a break. I religiously provided birthday and Christmas presents. I think she probably just hopes they miss me, but it feels nice to be missed. To be wanted.