Baby’s First Howl (The First Shift #1)

1. Maia

1

MAIA

A crying baby. Check.

Leaky, sore tits. Check.

A sleep-deprived mum. Check.

Huh, it seems like I am a pro at this mothering gig. I never dreamed that at the ripe age of twenty-four I’d be a widow and a single mother. Eight months ago, I lost the love of my life, and a few days after that, I found out we were expecting.

A whirlwind romance ending in the death of my fiancé and the birth of our gorgeous little girl. Fate was cruel to my soulmate.

“Shh,” I soothe as I change her nappy. She’s not a happy girl, but unfortunately, I can’t feed her and change her nappy at once, no matter how much I wish I could. “It’s okay, Phoebe. Just two more minutes, and you can have all the boob you want.”

I dispose of the dirty nappy before getting settled in the bed with my nursing pillow. I haven’t bothered wearing a shirt unless we leave the house, giving her free rein. She latches almost immediately, and the tears stop as hungry suckles take their place. I wipe away the lone tear dripping down her cheek, a soft smile filling her face as I take in her clenched fists. Poor baby.

It’s very hard to distinguish whether she looks like me or Ryan in her facial features, but she’s most definitely got my dark hair. It’s something I was amazed to see on the scan and allegedly is the cause of all my heartburn during pregnancy.

True or not, I should’ve just invested stock in Rennie with how often I was buying them.

Once Phoebe is done on the left boob, I move her onto the right. We’re officially at cluster-feed o’clock, and it’s draining. Her prime time for this is 3am, rather than during the day, but I’m hopeful it won’t last too long. If Ryan were here… well, I have no idea what he’d have done.

Hopefully, he’d have brought me snacks and something to drink. He’d be there to hold her so I can have a wee in peace, and he’d soothe her whilst I have a shower that lasts longer than three seconds.

But he’s not. Because he’s dead. Because someone decided that drinking and driving was smart. Because someone decided after hitting my fiancé, they’d then drive over the top of him multiple times to make sure that he couldn’t survive and identify them.

My fiancé is dead, leaving my daughter without her father, because they didn’t want to call a taxi.

I try to burp my tiny human, blinking away the tears of my grief, but nothing comes up. I move her back onto the left because off she goes again, rooting as if her little life depends on it.

It’s adorable, even if it drains me.

“ S o, how is she doing?” Dr Thomas asks as he reads through the information from the nurses at the hospital and from the community midwife that has come out and visited us at home over the last couple of days. I’m not worried. Phoebe has passed all her checks in the hospital, and we had an easy birth with no complications.

She has dipped a little from her birthweight, but that’s to be expected, and we’ve got no issues with her feeding ability.

I glance down at Phoebe and grin. She’s so beautiful, so healthy, so mine.

It’s crazy to think that not even a week ago, she was inside me, kicking around and taking up all of the available space, and now… she’s real .

“She’s doing great,” I say with a tired smile.

“And how are you doing?” he asks, spinning around on the chair and giving me his full attention. Dr Thomas is a new hire at my GP surgery, and he’s quite young—a few years older than me, maybe. He’s got dark hair, often displaying a sardonic grin, and his eyes are a mahogany colour that are wise above his years. I’m not sure what puts me on edge about him, but something does. “How are you coping on your own, Maia?”

“I’m doing okay. It’s hard, but we’re doing good, aren’t we, sweetheart?” I say, turning to baby talk at the end when my tiny girl looks up at me with her little grey eyes.

“Do you have any support around you? Anyone who can assist with the hardships of parenting?” He sounds a little condescending here, and I don’t like the implication that I’m not enough for my child.

I was alone my entire pregnancy, but I survived through it, knowing I’d have her at the end. A link between me and Ryan forever.

The insinuation that I’m not enough breaks me because I already question it myself every day.

“I appreciate the concern, Dr Thomas, but we’re okay. I know where to go if I need help.” Which is Google because I really don’t have any physical help at all.

My… Phoebe’s dad was an only child with no family around—by choice—and my parents died a week after my eighteenth birthday in, ironically, a car accident. Ryan and I only had each other, and now… I only have Phoebe.

Dr Thomas nods slowly, a distrusting look in his eyes as his lips tighten into an upside down smile. We move on to the healthcare portion of the exam, and he is meticulous as he checks over my daughter. His attitude might not be great, but he seems to be a very good doctor. He weighs her, and she’s the same as she was yesterday when the midwife checked her, a healthy six pounds and eight ounces, and is happy that she’s responding well to the tests.

Once he’s done dragging things out, I redress her and put her back into her car seat. She’s alert right now, and my boobs tingle, knowing that she’s going to be wanting a feed.

He sounds reluctant when he admits, “She’s perfect, Maia. You’re doing everything right.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“We’ll schedule another review at the four week mark,” he says, making a note on his computer so that the reception staff will book me in. “You’ll be discharged soon from the community midwife team, but your health visitor will then take over and do her usual checks.”

I’ve seen my community midwife twice since coming home from the hospital, and we’re going to see her again in a few days’ time.

She’s nice and sweet and has given me so many tips to survive the long nights alone.

I like her, and she doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable like he does.

“So why do I need to see you?” I ask with a frown. My tone is a little rude, but I don’t care. I’m five days postpartum and completely over the fact I’ve had to leave my nice, warm home to come here. Sure, it’s technically the start of spring, but since we’re only four days into March, the weather hasn’t gotten the memo that winter is over. “Is there something we should be worried about?”

“No, of course not. It’s normal procedure here for us to check in at the four week mark. We like to have a more hands on approach when it comes to our patients so that nothing slips through the cracks. It’s nothing to worry about—just a review for both mother and babe, and a chance for us to give additional support if needed,” he reassures me flippantly, and I nod slowly.

Phoebe starts to root around, her little hands clenched into fists, a tell-tale sign of her hunger, and I smile down at her.

“Go get her settled,” he murmurs, looking at us curiously. “And I’ll see you at the four week mark.”

I nod and lift her in the car seat, heading out of the room with an uneasy feeling stirring in my gut. He wasn’t super rude, but the feeling of not being good enough that he instilled in me was hard to deal with. I’ll see if I can see a different doctor next time I come in.

I pause at reception and ask if there’s somewhere I can feed her. I don’t care about feeding in public, but the waiting room is quite busy, and I don’t want my newborn around sick people longer than necessary.

After the appropriate cooing over Phoebe, I’m directed through to the baby room just off to the side. It’s really lovely, lot’s of animal decals on the wall, including a very big mother wolf with her cubs. It’s super sweet, but the best thing is that, in the corner, there’s a large, black arm-chair that seems perfect for breastfeeding in. There’s an armrest that can move from the left to the right side, which means when I switch her over, it’ll be easy. There’s also a matching ottoman that doubles as a footrest, despite the fact that the chair reclines, setting everything up perfectly.

I’ve never seen anything so comfortable looking, and I’m definitely going to look into ordering one for myself. Maybe if Phoebe had the four hands she should’ve, this chair wouldn’t be a necessary purchase, alas, it is.

“Come on then, sweet girl,” I murmur, undoing the straps of her car seat. I lift her out, taking a deep inhale of her scent as she does the cutest newborn scrunch, before cuddling her in close.

As I sink into the luscious fabric, I undo my bra and feed my boob through my top. Phoebe struggles to latch initially, despite the nipple being in her mouth, but she soothes herself as soon as the milk begins to flow.

I run my hand over her hair and close my eyes. There’s nothing better than this feeling.

Pregnancy was hard, doing it all alone, and the days were rough when I was both mourning and celebrating at the same time.

But everything is easier now.

Because it’s not just me anymore.

I place Phoebe down in her crib in our living room, and a screaming fit ensues the moment I do. She wants to feed some more, and she’s not shy in making her needs known.

Tears well up in my eyes as I go to take my food out of the oven in the kitchen. It’s hard not being able to be by her side every second, but I need to eat to keep up my supply, and in turn, nourish her. But how do you explain logic to a baby who can’t grasp it?

As I pull the chicken pie out of the oven, her cries stop, and she lets out a small whine. I turn everything off and place the dish on the table, wanting to give it a few minutes to cool down before I eat it. But as I head back through to the suspiciously silent room, goosebumps race all over my skin.

The pit of unease only rises as I look at the bassinet in the centre of the room, and the reason why she’s fallen silent is clear. Horror fills me, a silent scream leaving my throat, as the tears reappear in my eyes.

Instead of my gorgeous, little baby girl laying in her crib where I put her… there’s a baby wolf, who softly blinks at me with bright grey eyes before letting out a howl.