“No it wouldn’t,” said Tom. “Okay, so let’s say that it takes you sixty seconds to count to sixty. Or, wait. Okay, maybe you could count, like, to ninety in sixty seconds. So, ummm, where’s the calculator? Mum? Do you know where the calculator is? Mum, are you listening?”

“Are you children always this tiring?” Alice had asked. Sometimes it felt like they sucked every thought out of her brain.

“Pretty much,” said Tom.

Elisabeth’s Homework for Jeremy While the butchers were in groups brainstorming ideas on butcher paper (ha ha), I sat and thought about the transfer of the last embryo two weeks ago.

It had been frozen for a year.

A tiny, ice-encrusted potential person.

When we first started IVF, I would stand at the freezer door and take a sparkly fragment of ice on the tip of my finger and think about my frozen potential children. All those possible people. We had seven frozen at one time. Such a treasure trove of possibility. This one could be a swimmer. This one could be musical. This one could be tall. This one could be short. This one could be sweet and shy. This one could be funny. This one could be like Ben. This one could be like me.

Ben and I talked about it all the time. We sent them telepathic messages of support. “Hang in there,” we said. “Hope you’re not too chilly.”

But as the years went by, we stopped talking like that. We became detached from the process. It was just science. It was just unpleasant medical procedures. We weren’t even amazed by the science anymore. Yeah, yeah, they make babies in test tubes. Incredible. But it just doesn’t work out for us.

This last time, we’d run late, and we got a ticket for doing an illegal right-hand turn. It was my idea to do the illegal turn to get there faster, and Ben was so cranky with himself for listening to me, because as a result we were even later. “How could you not see that sign?” the policeman had said, and Ben’s mouth twisted with everything he probably wanted to say. “It was her!” The policeman took an incredible amount of time writing out the ticket, as if he knew we were running late and this was part of our punishment.

“Let’s just go home,” I’d said to Ben. “It’s not going to work anyway. This is a sign. Let’s not waste our money on the parking.”

I wanted him to say something positive and comforting, but he was in a bad mood by now. He said, “That’s a great attitude. Really great.” He’s not normally sarcastic.

Anyway, I know now that he didn’t think it was going to work either. A week later he was eating Alice’s banana muffins and getting all excited about adoption, before we even knew if this one had worked or not.

The embryologist was a young girl who didn’t look all that much older than Madison. She tripped on something when we were walking into the treatment room, which I didn’t think was a very good sign. Oops. There goes your embryo!

When I was in the chair, with my legs elegantly spread, waiting for the gigantic needle, she muttered something and none of us heard her.

“There’s your embryo,” she said again, embarrassed. Maybe it was her first time. We looked, and there, projected on the lit-up screen, was our potential baby.

It looked just like its non-brothers and non-sisters. A froth of bubbles. A magnified drop of water.

I didn’t bother to marvel. I didn’t bother to say anything like, “Oh, isn’t it amazing.” I didn’t bother to keep the memory in my head, in case I one day had to describe it to my child. “I saw you when you were just a pretty little blastocyst, sweetie.”

I didn’t know the doctor who was doing the transfer. My lovely doctor is away in Paris at the moment because her daughter is getting married to a French lawyer. This doctor was a man, with a long somber face, and he reminded me of our tax accountant. An especially ominous sign. (We never get refunds.) My doctor normally chats away about whatever comes into her head, but this man didn’t say anything until it was done. Then he showed us the embryo on the ultrasound.

“Good. It’s in the right spot,” he said blandly, as if my uterus was a piece of industrial equipment.

It looked like the others did on the ultrasound. A tremulously blinking star.

I knew it wouldn’t blink for long.

I looked away from the ultrasound screen to Ben, and he was studying his hands.

Bad signs all around.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

After the butchers had finished their brainstorming I went up onstage and told them that my assistant Layla would be taking the remainder of the day, as if that was always the plan.

The butchers clapped her amiably when she stood up, a confused look on her face.

I walked out. I just couldn’t get that blinking star out of my damned head.

Alice was walking toward the library at the school (her body seemed to know that it was through that double red door at the corner of the schoolyard) when Dominick appeared. He looked ruffled, his face creased with worry.

“Alice,” he said. “I saw you through my office window. I’ve been trying to phone you.”

“Sorry,” said Alice. “I keep forgetting to charge my phone. Memory!” He didn’t smile. “I called Nick, too,” he said. “He’s on his way.”

“You called Nick? Why?” Was he going to fight him for her hand? Challenge him to a duel? (Except Nick didn’t want her hand anymore. So, you know, maybe not much of a fight. Sure, mate, have her.)

“We’ve got a problem,” said Dominick. “A serious problem with Madison.”

Elisabeth’s Homework for Jeremy After I left the seminar I got a phone call from Ben. His voice sounded like sandpaper.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.

I hung up.

I didn’t like his tone.

Chapter 28

“Is she all right?” Terror flooded Alice’s bloodstream, making her legs wobble so badly she had to hold on to Dominick’s arm to steady herself.

“Oh, yes, sorry.” Dominick smiled distractedly and patted Alice on the arm. “Physically, she’s fine. It’s just that we’ve had another incident, and I don’t think we can ignore this one.”

“Another incident?”

“Another bullying incident.”

“Someone is bullying Madison?” She would throttle the kid. She would demand to see the parents. She was light-headed with rage. Someone had hurt the Sultana and she was going to have the brat for breakfast.