I continue down the corridor, finally taking a sharp right which opens up into a vast open space of whitewashed walls and pinewood, the two-storey glass windows bringing the outside in. Memories flood to my mind’s surface, causing my eyes to glisten. So many times I waited in the confines of this plush waiting area, a place equipped with flatscreen TVs and tan, leather-clad chairs, a mixture of emotions flitting through my mind as I waited for my name to be called: hope, fear, despair, belief – a never-ending cycle of torment.
I look out now towards the rear of the reception area and the clinic’s famous glass-panelled staircase, complete with a snaking chrome banister which connects the lower floor to the upper. A sign on the wall next to the staircase directs its fortunate patients to ‘antenatal care’, a haven infertile couples only dream of reaching. Magda once told me that the support group had unofficially named the staircase the ‘stairway to heaven’, which I remember thinking was pretty apt. I pull in a shaky breath, grateful that SureLife provided me with my little miracle, despite everything that has happened since. I take a quick glance around the waiting area, my heart breaking for the half-dozen couples scattered across the room, their expressions downcast and words hushed. To the left of me, a picture-perfect receptionist taps away at the keyboard of an Apple Mac desktop computer. I make my way over towards her but she doesn’t bother to look up at me until I am practically on top of her, seemingly miles away in whatever task she has been entrusted with.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ She looks up at me warily, her bright, white smile not reaching her eyes.
‘I called you earlier. About my son’s donor and the fact he’s stalking me.’ My words echo around the reception area, causing a flurry of panicked whispers to break out behind me.
She stares at me, wide-eyed, her perfect lips parted. ‘I’ve told you already. I can’t help you. You need to leave.’ She flicks her eyes over to the waiting area, her cheeks flushing pink.
‘Can’t you see this is an emergency?’ I raise my voice despite not meaning to, my attempt at being calm quickly faltering. ‘As the hospital who impregnated me with this lunatic’s semen, I think you have a duty of care!’
‘You really do need to leave, otherwise I’ll have to call the police.’ She reaches over to the phone, which is slightly out of her reach.
Seeing the entrance to the ‘embryology department’ up ahead, I turn away from her and make my way towards it, my feet soon breaking out into a fast walk as I hear her sharp scream, demanding I come back. I continue unnerved, experience telling me that this opening leads to a corridor which runs directly to the operating theatre, the place where I was told Doctor Hughes was when I phoned not thirty minutes ago. I begin to sprint as I hear the clattering of the receptionist’s heels behind me, the corridor dimly lit and stuffy. Above my head, a red light flashes above the theatre door, indicating that it’s in use. I don’t care… I cannot wait any longer. I need to speak to Doctor Hughes. If anybody knows who my son’s sperm donor is, this man does. I hear the receptionist’s plea for me to stop as my hand connects with the swinging door to the theatre, catching sight of my reflection in the glass, my hair wild and my eyes blazing.
‘Stop!’ I scream, my heart lurching upon seeing the semi-naked woman on the operating table in front of me, a masked surgeon ready to insert something inside of her. ‘Don’t do it! The donors here are crazy. Mine is trying to kill me!’
I rush towards the woman, her bare legs hoisted up in stirrups. The theatre is dark apart from the almost blinding light of the surgical lamp shining directly on her lower half. A cannula sticks out of her hand, the IV drip coiling around a metal pole and into a fluid bag which hangs above her head.
‘Where is Doctor Hughes?’ I fight against a woman in green scrubs and a surgical mask who is pushing me backwards while shouting a succession of words I don’t understand. She holds what appears to be a syringe in her hand and continually looks back over her shoulder into the darkness. I manage to escape her clutches, run towards a single door situated on the opposite side of the theatre, the large red sign on the front difficult to read in the dark. I push my way through it, become instantly blinded by light, the room almost bare, the hard surfaces and walls a bright white, the air thick with cleaning fluid. A doctor, this time in blue scrubs, peers down the lens of a heavy-duty microscope. He turns to face me, his mouth covered with a surgical mask, leaving only his eyes on show. Dark-brown eyes widen upon seeing me, surprise igniting to panic.
‘Doctor Hughes…’ I begin, instantly recognising him. ‘There’s been a problem with the donor.’ Just as I open my mouth to continue, sharp nails dig into my shoulders from behind, yanking me back out of the room, causing me to bang my head on the door frame. The next few seconds are a blur, a disfigurement of shouts and cries, of bright lights and tunnels of darkness, before finally my back connects with something hard.
Looking up, I realise I am on the floor, back in the corridor, staring up at the ceiling. My head hurts, my shoulders stinging with pain. It is then that I notice the receptionist from earlier on the floor to the side of me. She pulls herself up into a standing position, her pristine blonde hair now strewn across her face, her white blouse twisted to the side. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ Her voice shakes with anger.
‘Mrs Carter, isn’t it?’ The muffled question causes me to look up at the open theatre doors. Doctor Hughes yanks down his surgical mask, keeping one arm across the entrance to the theatre, obviously blocking me from entering again. ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell you’re playing at?’
I stand up, all the fight evaporating from my shoulders, leaving me weak and dizzy. ‘The donor,’ I gulp, tears breaking up my words. ‘He’s going to kill me and take Cory. Nobody believes me. I had to see you. To find out who he is.’
Doctor Hughes remains quiet, his eyes narrowed. I keep my eyes fixed upon him, silently pleading with him to take me seriously.
‘Should I call the police?’ The receptionist’s words break the spell.
Doctor Hughes raises his finger, silencing her. ‘These are serious allegations, Mrs Carter. Explain to me why you think this.’
‘Louisa!’ James’s voice bounces off the walls of the corridor just as I am about to reply to the doctor. I swivel round, see him running towards me, the door to the corridor swinging frantically back and forth behind him. My eyes widen when I realise who he is with… Magda!
‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ he garbles as he reaches me, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. ‘Mum called. She was really freaked out. Why are you here?’
‘How did you know I was here?’ My rebuff is quick, seemingly throwing him off-guard. ‘And why are you here?’ I look over at Magda, her face devoid of make-up, her hair lanky and wet.
‘Louisa… I…’ She trips over her words, her eyes flitting from me to James to Doctor Hughes.
‘When Mum called…’ James stops to rake his hand through his hair. ‘When Mum rang us, me and Dad got a taxi straight back home. She had just arrived with Cory and was sobbing. She said you’d mentioned going to find the sperm donor.’
‘But that doesn’t explain Magda.’ My brain battles to make sense of everything that is happening, my nerve cells misfiring and refusing to join up the dots which I know are there. I hear the rhythmic click of heels against the polished floor, realise that the receptionist is making her way back down the corridor, her footsteps quickening as she reaches the door. Is she going to ring the police?
‘When I told Dad about Cory’s donor he got really upset. Not about Cory but because I never told him,’ says James. ‘He started drinking and I joined him. He said he’d get a taxi home, leave the car and pick it up in the morning. I called Mags when I got home just to check you weren’t there and she offered to drive me here.’