The Good Sister(45)

‘No.’

I feel it in my stomach first, a slight tension, like a gentle punch or squeeze.

‘A number of reasons have led me to this conclusion,’ Wally continues, leaning further back in his seat and winging his elbows behind his head. ‘For one thing, mental illness. Studies have shown there is a strong genetic link, and anxiety is likely handed down through generations. I would feel awful for inflicting that on a helpless kid.’ He frowns off into the distance. ‘Population growth is another of my concerns. People don’t understand how bad an issue overpopulation is. Fishless oceans are predicted by 2048! Our planet just does not have the capacity to provide food, water and adequate shelter for the population numbers we are expecting in the future.’

He shakes his head sadly. ‘Finally, the world is not always a kind place, especially if you don’t fit the stereotypical mould of what it is to be normal. As you know, it’s hard to be a person on the fringes of society. It’s hard for me, even as an arguable success. Imagine how hard it would be for a child, particularly a child who doesn’t go on to enjoy a level of success in his or her given field. I’ve already gone through the hardship of being an outlier. I’m not sure I could do it again as a parent.’

As usual, I am impressed by Wally’s response. It is a good argument, well made. So often in life, people speak in riddles, weighing in on both sides of an argument with pros and cons rather than picking a side. Wally doesn’t do this. It’s one of the reasons I like him so much.

So, that’s it, I think. We agree. A baby is a bad idea.

‘Any other questions?’ he asks cheerfully.

‘That’s it, I think.’

‘Well, I’m just finishing up my work,’ he says. ‘Do you want to sit and read for a bit?’

‘I’m afraid I have some household administration to attend to.’

I think I say it too loudly and brightly, because Wally gives me a puzzled expression. He keeps watching me all the way to my door. I know, because I watch him back. I’m very pleased with myself because I manage to make it all the way into my flat before the tears start to fall.





The next day, I trudge to the bus stop. Rose was supposed to drive me to the family-planning clinic, but she’d texted a few minutes prior to say she has been held up and could I make my own way there? I don’t mind getting the bus, though I would have appreciated a little warning. Looking up the schedule, walking to the bus stop – these are all things I like to plan for in my schedule and Rose knows this. It makes me feel an illogical irritation with her. Illogical, because Rose had no need to be taking me to the clinic in the first place. Still, the illogical irritation is there. But illogical irritation is something one is allowed to have with one’s sister. I have read enough books about sisters to know that is true.

On the bus, perhaps as a subconscious act of rebellion, I sit in the seat reserved for people with mobility issues and pregnant women. It will be the one time, I figure, that I’ll qualify for this seat. It is peak hour and raining, so it’s not long before the seats fill up around me. After a few stops, another pregnant woman gets on, this one at least seven or eight months along. I find myself staring at the woman’s round belly.

‘Excuse me,’ the woman says, holding her belly. ‘Do you mind?’

I look at her. ‘Do I mind what?’

She gestures to her belly. ‘Um . . . it’s just . . . could I . . .?’

‘She wants to sit down,’ a man calls from a few rows back.

I turn to look at the man, who I notice is making no move to leave his own seat.

‘Get up, for Christ’s sake,’ he barks. ‘That seat is for pregnant ladies!’

‘I’m pregnant too,’ I say when I turn back to the girl, but so quietly I can barely hear myself.

‘Get up!’ someone else calls. ‘What is the matter with you?’

The driver pulls over and turns around to see what the commotion is all about. ‘This woman won’t get up for the pregnant lady,’ the man from the back of the bus says.

The driver looks at me, then at the visibly pregnant woman. ‘Those seats are reserved for pregnant or disabled passengers, love,’ he says gently.

‘I’m pregnant too,’ I say louder, standing. My voice sounds funny, as if something has caught in my throat. To my horror, I realise I am crying. I lower my chin and press the button for the next stop.

I alight from the bus, even though we are several stops before my destination, and walk the rest of the way to the clinic in the rain.


I am soaking wet when I arrive at the clinic. The clinic is behind an innocuous shopfront alongside an optometrist and a barber. I’ve walked fourteen blocks, during which time the rain has not relented for a single second. Still, despite the unexpected bus trip and the walk, I still arrive five minutes early for the appointment.

Rose does not. When I fail to see her standing out the front, I feel a distinct note of disappointment. Subconsciously, I’d already handed over the responsibility of announcing my arrival at the desk and filling out any forms to Rose. Instead, I let myself inside, into a small waiting room.

‘May I help you?’ the receptionist says to me. She’s a grandmotherly sort, probably in her mid-sixties, with greying brown hair and lime-green eyeglasses on a chain. I ignore her and take a seat. The woman’s eyes follow me, but she leaves me be, her eyes returning to her computer after a second or two.