‘How about we start with some small level of input into the projects the Greenstone name is expected to sell,’ she countered hotly, knowing her words were unprofessional but powerless to stop them tumbling out. ‘An assurance that my experience might, at some stage, be valued when it comes to modifying a project plan, and not swept aside because I’m young and female and couldn’t possibly know better than you.’
‘Sometimes you don’t,’ said the Mead curtly.
‘And sometimes I do,’ she said. ‘You want to know what I want? Fine. I’ll have a proposal on your desk tomorrow morning, outlining my thoughts on project funding and administration in detail. I suggest you look it over rather closely, see if you can bring yourself to accommodate at least some of my suggestions, because if not I’ll be moving on and taking my family name and my cashed-up connections with me.’
Two lectures, a salad sandwich, and a hasty drive through the city centre later, Charlotte arrived at the Circular Quay surgery near her apartment. Twenty minutes after she took a seat in the waiting room, the doctor called her in.
The affable doctor Christina Christensen sat her down, looked her over and asked her what was wrong. ‘Lethargy, loss of appetite, and a tendency to get a wee bit emotional over the strangest things,’ she said.
‘What kind of things?’ the doctor asked as she reached for the blood pressure bandage.
‘Well … this morning I was howling along to a piece of music,’ said Charlotte.
‘It happens,’ said the doctor. ‘You should see me at the opera.’
‘It wasn’t that kind of music.’
‘What kind was it?’ asked the doctor.
‘Beethoven’s Ninth. Seriously, I’m getting more and more irrational of late. Short-tempered. Opinionated.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Cross,’ said Charlotte.
‘You already said that.’
‘It probably bears repeating.’
‘Tell me about your appetite,’ said the doctor as she pumped up the pressure wrap around Charlotte’s upper arm to the point of pain and then abruptly released the pressure.
‘What’s to tell? It’s gone.’
‘Any uncommonly stressful events surrounding you lately?’
‘That would be a yes,’ muttered Charlotte. ‘But I’m either getting on top of them or coming to terms with them.’
‘Lucky you,’ said the doctor. ‘Your blood pressure’s fine. How much weight have you lost?’
‘A couple of kilos in the past couple of weeks.’
‘Scales are over there,’ said the doctor.
And when Charlotte stepped on them and the readout settled, ‘You’re a little lean, but nothing to worry about. Periods regular?’
‘I’m on the pill,’ muttered Charlotte. ‘I went on them because of irregular periods.’
‘Any chance you could be pregnant?’ asked the doctor, gesturing for Charlotte to return to the patient’s chair.
Charlotte didn’t answer her straight away. She was too busy counting back time and fighting terror.
The doctor opened a desk drawer and pulled out a box full of little white individually wrapped plastic sticks. She set one on the desk in front of Charlotte. ‘Ever used one of these?’
‘No.’ Hell, no.
‘Bathroom’s two doors down. Pee on the window end, shake off the excess moisture, and bring it back here.’
‘I really don’t thin—’
‘Go,’ said the doctor gently. ‘If it comes up negative, I’ll order you some blood tests to see if there’s another reason for the changes you’re describing, but first things first.’
Right. First things first. Nothing to panic about.
Charlotte held to the ‘first things first’ motto all through the long walk to the bathroom and through the business with the pregnancy-kit stick. A blue line already ran across the window of the stick—that was good, right? It was the crosses you had to worry about.
‘Just pop it on the paper towel there,’ said the good doctor when Charlotte returned. ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’
Longest two minutes of Charlotte’s life.
The doctor chatted. Inputted data into Charlotte’s patient file. Asked her if she was currently in a steady relationship and whether she’d been considering motherhood, of late.
‘No,’ said Charlotte, and, ‘No.’ While another little line grew slowly stronger and transacted the first.
Eventually the doctor looked down and then back up at Charlotte, her gaze sympathetic. ‘We can do it again,’ she said. ‘We can take a blood test to confirm, but I think you’d best brace yourself for unexpected news.’ The doctor’s smile turned wry. ‘Congratulations, Ms Greenstone. You’re pregnant.’
Charlotte sat unmoving, her gaze not leaving that terrible little stick.
‘I want to see you again in a few days’ time,’ continued the doctor. ‘We’ll talk more then. About options. What happens next. Until then, take it easy, don’t skip meals, and be kind to yourself.’ The doctor studied her intently. ‘Do you have anyone you can talk to about this? Family? Friends? The father?’
Charlotte didn’t answer straight away. Mainly because her gut response had been no. There was no one to talk to or turn to. No one at all.
‘Charlotte, do I need to refer you to a counsellor?’ Dr Christina Christensen’s eyes were kind and knowing. She’d probably seen this response before. ‘I can pull some strings and get you in to see one this afternoon, if need be.’
What was the doctor saying now? Something about a counsellor? Charlotte stared at her uncomprehendingly. She had no words. There were no words for this.
‘Charlotte.’ The doctor’s voice was infinitely gentle. ‘I’m going to make an appointment for you to talk to a family counsellor this afternoon.’
‘No!’ Another emotional outburst in a morning filled with them. ‘No,’ she repeated more calmly. ‘I’m fine.’ Not shattered, or terrified beyond belief. ‘Pregnant, right? But otherwise fine.’
The doctor sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers, her gaze not leaving Charlotte’s face.
‘I have people I can talk to,’ said Charlotte next. ‘I do.’ Imaginary Aurora. Back from the dead, fictional ex-fiancé Gil.
‘Your call on the counsellor,’ said the doctor. ‘But I still want to see you in three days’ time. Make the appointment on your way out.’
Charlotte made the appointment and made it to her car. She didn’t make it home to her apartment. Instead she drove to Aurora’s and went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, black because there was no milk in the house because she’d cleaned out and turned off the fridge, and sugared, because there was sugar in the cupboard and sugar was good for shock. She sat in Aurora’s conservatory-style kitchen and stared out over the gardens to the harbour beyond and tentatively tried picking her way through her chaotic emotions.
A baby. Dear God, a baby to love and to care for. Loneliness in exchange for motherhood. A child to teach. A child who would learn what she had learned, what everyone