S T Vasectomy Clinic - 16

St John Hughes

He had become so used to the perennial pregnant pause in their relationship. It had started off that way, in the early years of their marriage, as a pause, after a few decades it had surely evolved into a stop. There was something oddly comforting about not succeeding in their quest to procreate, for once not succeeding. St John had been successful all his life, academically, personally, professionally, financially, there had to be some failure somewhere. Failure could be like a cushion, something to lean on, to hang upon, something on which to rest all his doubts and keep them equilibrium. There would be no need for any other failures. 

Now things had changed, his only failure, the failure to reproduce was being challenged, all because of forces beyond his control, the force of Mrs Cece Hughes. Suddenly he felt that he must seek out some other failure elsewhere.

It was true he had willingly gone to the fertility clinic in Ukraine and donated a sperm sample however he hadn’t joined the dots and seen the full picture. The production of healthy sperm had made him feel virile and manly, he would have been perfectly happy to just leave his sperm there inside a freezer, labelled with his name and for nothing else to ever happen to it. It was his DNA preserved for eternity and there had been a small audience to witness it, a fertility doctor, a few nurses, perhaps some admin staff. They were all aware of his sample and also the live results viewed from the microscope, the first flicks of a human life. 

All that followed had occurred in accordance with his signature upon the dotted line, a document of approval and yet he had felt entirely detached from it. There was something too about Ukraine which seemed like another planet. Yes they had travelled there for the procedure, it was a real place with weather and infrastructure and people but everything had taken place within a bubble. They had seen nothing of the country except for the airport, a strange chintzy hotel and then the clinic, its staff and of course Yulia.

Cece’s jaw clicked loudly as she ground down nuts with her molars. It’s like having dinner with a squirrel, thought St John and he necked some red wine and he banged the teaspoon from the mint sauce bowl unnecessarily hard against the edge of his plate. 

‘The future is vegan anyway, St John,’ she shrugged, ‘keep up or you’ll get left behind. Isn’t that what you always say?’

It was true he did say that constantly but it was in relation to his profession, in other capacities he was rather traditional and old fashioned. There was a silence for a few seconds until he responded slowly. ‘I can’t think that this is an atmosphere for a baby to grow up in.’

‘Well you could try and act more normal, we could both be more like a couple when she gets here. It will take practice, hard work even but I think it’s worth a try.’

‘Worth a try Cece, is that what you thought when you kicked me out of my own bedroom? You stopped trying to be a couple some time ago.’

‘I didn’t stop trying, I just shifted my focus, that's all. I’ve given the best years of my life to you but now there’s a precious new life coming and we need to give her everything we can.’

St John looked quizzically at his wife. ‘Have you been in touch with the baby clinic? I’m just wondering how you suddenly know it’s a girl.’

She looked uncomfortable, and smiled a fake smile. ‘I just know.’ Her tense features softened a little and she said quickly, ‘I feel so close to her already St John.’

He peered at his wife, sighed and folded his arms. She seemed so sure of everything, so convinced. It was in sharp contrast to his own comprehension of the situation. Everytime he attempted to visualise the future, the imminent arrival of this child, his mind shook like a tin of coins, drowning out all hope of clarity and reason. It was all he could do to cast the subject aside and replace it with obsessional thoughts about Nina.

Those thoughts were more like dreams, and now as he sat at the table with his wife of three decades, surrounded by tired furniture and ornaments, seeped in dull domestication, he felt suddenly so out of shape. Indeed he felt quite ill, thinking about how his imaginary future, the one he obsessionally escaped into was so contrasting with the reality he found himself sitting in. It was inevitable that those two worlds rubbing together would curdle his sense of self and make him sick in the head. Feeling stifled now, he quickly transferred this sickness to Cece.

‘I just hope,’ he said before finishing the last drop of wine. ‘I just hope that the baby shaped hole you’ve been carving out inside your brain for the last god knows how long, is the correctly shaped template for the real thing that’s all. Otherwise things are going to hurt, not in the sense of pushing the thing out of your own body because,’ he held out his hand and waved it up and down as he scanned her body. ‘ I know you’re incapable of that.’ 

As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed upon hers, he observed the cracking of her resolve, the welling of tears in her eyes, he savoured the changing position of the muscles on her face, on her scalp. It was like watching her cave in, collapsing under the weight of his carefully chosen words. He coughed and said finally, ‘But it’s going to be very difficult for you.’

She sat very still, staring out of the window and nodding her head very slowly with her lips forced tightly shut because she knew that any response would be accompanied by ugly crying and therefore she would be seen as feeble. St John knew just how to get to her and when he was feeling threatened by something beyond his control he didn’t hold back, he went straight for the jugular. It was almost as if he couldn’t help himself, his words were like missiles and if she didn’t fall immediately he would only fetch heavier and heavier ammunition. The mention of her womb was like a cannonball, he fired it and observed the emotional collapse as if it were a sport.

Quietly she placed her fork down onto the plate and pushed it away, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin and cleared her throat. In an attempt to stabilise the quiver in her voice she spoke in hard, deep tones. ‘I’ll be upstairs if you need me, St John.’

‘Okay,’ he said with an equally atypical voice, sort of high pitched as if to convey with maximum effect a hard, couldn’t care less attitude.