CHAPTER 4
Poppy’s mother had been talking nonstop for six minutes. Poppy had answered the phone and said an (unheard) hello as her mother launched into a monologue on topics that ranged from her neighbours, the finalists on The Voice , the price of blueberries at the moment (‘outrageous!’—in a good way) and the recent New Year’s Day escapades of a prime-time breakfast show host (‘outrageous!’—in a bad way).
Chrissie McKellar was one of those country mums who considered a chunky pair of red-framed spectacles the height of sophistication. That her glasses matched her favourite golf skirt was a mind-boggling bonus, worthy of mentioning at least thrice-yearly.
Today she was calling to discuss the weather—specifically, the storms that were predicted to hit later that afternoon, bringing sixty-kilometre winds and forty mils of rain. The whole town was buzzing with anticipation and Poppy had found herself swept up in it too. She even had a thought to nip to Bunnings to buy flowers to plant in the soon-to-be rain-soaked soil. Such wholesomeness had never occurred to her in Sydney.
‘And I told Martha,’ her mother continued, ‘that she better put the new Volvo in the garage overnight because we all know Peter should have had that tree cut down ages ago but of course he didn’t, so now the poor Volvo is a sitting duck waiting to be crushed by that stupid old tree.’
She paused momentarily (so, so momentarily) before drawing breath. ‘And then I told her that she could cut down the tree herself with one of those lady-sized chainsaws that they sell in the gift shops these days. They have pink and floral-patterned ones and they’re quite lovely actually; I was thinking of buying one for myself. Or, she could just use that young fellow Cheryl told us about—the one who was playing football in Sydney but who’s now doing landscape gardening in town. I’ve been told he’s very attractive-looking and he often takes his shirt off while he’s working. Not that I’m interested in that, of course. I’ve just heard he’s very effective at his job.’
At that moment, a large crack of thunder sounded in the distance.
‘Good golly!’ her mother yelped. ‘Did you hear that? It must be close now. Oh, I hope Martha has moved that car into the garage—it’ll be such a waste of money if it gets a branch skewered through the roof. Well, darling, I’d better go and get the washing off the line—I can’t have my undies blowing into the neighbours’ gardens. They would die with fright. Or they may use them as tents for the grandchildren. Either way, I would die of embarrassment. Oh, what’s that Paul? The sports channel has cut out? No, that’s a shame.’
Her mother’s voice switched to a loud whisper. ‘What am I supposed to do to amuse your father now? This bloody storm!’ Converting back to full volume, she continued, ‘Darling, I must go. I’m sorry I’ve no time to chat, but it’s been lovely to hear from you. You make sure to let me know how your appointment goes, too—and don’t forget to go buy those newborn singlets. The Bonds sale ends today!’
The phone went silent and Poppy stared at it. Nine minutes. Nine full minutes and her mother hadn’t realised that Poppy had said not one single word. It had to be a record. Honestly, her mother should be put in a museum and studied.
Poppy looked at her watch. Her appointment with Wenda wasn’t for another forty minutes but looking out the window she could see dark purple clouds steamrolling towards town. She didn’t fancy taking the car out in the peak of the storm, so she grabbed her keys and headed for the door.
The first raindrops had started to fall in giant, solid plops by the time she arrived at the hospital. Congratulating herself on her choice of clothing (a button-up denim pinafore, no chance of going see-through), she pulled her handbag over her arm and jumped out of the car. The fat raindrops were inescapable. They splashed into her hairline and slipped down her dress and into the curve of her Birkenstocks. The petrichor smell of wet earth filled her nostrils and the moisture tickled her tongue. After weeks of suffocating heat, it was glorious.
Poppy cupped her hands under her belly in a makeshift brace and jog-shuffled to the undercover hospital portico, careful not to slip. Her chest thumped with pain. If she’d known she’d be attempting to run for the first time in months, she would have worn a sports bra.
The light inside the hospital was synthetic and bright compared to the darkening sky outside. Poppy ran her hands through her wet hair. Around her, men and women in different-coloured scrubs power walked past, holding clipboards and takeaway coffees. The cafe cart had a queue twenty people deep.
Poppy walked to the elevator and punched the up button. As the door pinged open, she felt a twinge in her lower back and grimaced. That would teach her not to jog in the rain while thirty-nine weeks pregnant.
Wenda met her in the reception area with a smile. ‘Poppy, pet! How are you? We’re getting to the pointy end now.’
Poppy smiled back. ‘Good, Wenda. Same as before. Big, heavy, not as sweaty as usual, though. This is from the rain.’ She pointed to her sodden dress.
Wenda chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t judge you either way, pet.’
They walked down to Wenda’s office, chatting amiably. Wenda was worried about her cats getting stuck outside in the storm. Her husband was driving home from Mudgee but she was less worried about him.
In the office, Poppy hoisted herself up onto the raised bed and began unbuttoning her pinafore, ready for Wenda to put the heart rate monitor on her stomach. Her back twinged again and she winced. How embarrassing she couldn’t even manage a light jog anymore without her body failing.
Wenda hummed to herself as she unlooped the cords of the heart rate monitor and strapped it around Poppy’s belly.
‘Do you feel that?’ she asked, gesturing to Poppy’s stomach, which had become hard and tense.
‘Feel what?’ asked Poppy, confused.
‘The contraction.’
‘The what ?!’ Poppy’s head swivelled from her stomach to Wenda and back again. ‘I’m having a contraction?!’
‘It’s either a Braxton Hicks or you’re on your way, pet,’ said Wenda gently. ‘You’re thirty-nine weeks and four days—I think this could be it.’
Poppy’s mind whirled. She wasn’t due for another three days. Shit! She hadn’t bought a breast pump yet. Or a cabbage! There was still so much to do. This baby could not come now. She wasn’t ready!
Wenda checked the monitor. ‘Have you been having pains in the lower back area, anything like that?’
Poppy groaned. She was a dense, fucking idiot.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I didn’t put two and two together.’ She groaned again. This was a disaster.
‘Now, pet, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re in the best place possible to be having contractions. Normally I’d send you home to wait until they were coming more frequently, but I think it’s best to keep you out of that weather.’ She nodded to the window. ‘Why don’t we organise a bed so you can settle in and relax before the big dance?’
Poppy nodded mutely.
‘Alright then, let’s get you organised.’
Like a zombie, Poppy followed Wenda through the ward. A blur of people in white coats and scrubs rushed past her, monitors beeped, lights flashed. Poppy had never been good with surprises but she’d had a few big ones recently. Surely she should be handling this better?
The labour room was wide and windowless, with a starchy white bed in its centre. A CTG machine and an IV drip stood ready in the corner and a shelving unit was stacked with towels and boxes of plastic gloves and surgical masks. Wenda began reorganising the shelves with the ease of a practised expert.
‘Uh, Wenda?’ A young brunette whom Poppy recognised as the ward receptionist popped her head through the door. ‘We have a call for you.’
‘Sorry, pet, I’m busy at the moment.’
‘It’s your husband,’ the receptionist said apologetically.
Wenda narrowed her eyes and turned to Poppy. ‘Make yourself comfortable, pet. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
Poppy sat on the bed. The sheets were a blinding white, tucked under the mattress with pinpoint precision. She flicked open her phone and stared at it. There were people she could call, people she probably should call, but this moment felt private. She turned the screen facedown and looked around at the grey walls. So this is it , she thought bleakly. The big dance .
Above the door, the cheap plastic clock ticked loudly. Poppy wondered how long she’d be here. Would anyone notice she was missing? Certainly no-one would know if she didn’t make it home tonight. She was a wolf pack of one. The realisation sunk her deeper into the starchy mattress. She suddenly craved a double espresso and a shot of whisky. She wished she’d never met Patrick and his stupid sperm-filled penis.
Wenda burst back through the door, looking livid. ‘That silly man has flooded the engine and now I have to go and get him! I told him he should have left earlier—or later—and did he listen?’ She groaned, exasperated. ‘I’m so sorry, pet, but I have to go.’
‘Wh-what?’ stammered Poppy.
‘My husband! Stuck in the storm. Tried to drive through a flooded causeway and now the engine’s cut out. He’s stuck out there, forty k from Bathurst, and roadside assistance can’t get there for four hours because they’re dealing with real problems, not idiot men who’ve decided to take stupid risks. He could have got himself killed!’ She spun around the room, dragging the CTG machine to the power point and piling towels on the end of the bed. ‘One of my colleagues will take over. They’re all lovely, I promise, and they will take good care of you, Poppy. This stuff actually happens all the time.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘You can never tell when a life disaster and a labouring mother will appear at the same time. I wish I could stay here, pet, but I promise you’re in safe hands.’ She wrapped Poppy in a quick hug and then she was gone.
The door swung shut behind her, muffling the beeps and chatter from outside, cocooning Poppy in silence. What now? The windowless room felt smaller than it had moments before. The white bed was a lonely island on the linoleum and Poppy was stranded. Patrick had walked out without a second glance too. There was a discomfiting pattern emerging here.
‘Incoming,’ called a man in scrubs, pushing the door open with his butt as he reversed into the room. He was wheeling a trolley laden with medical paraphernalia. As he straightened up, back still towards her, Poppy got an eyeful of his thick, dark blond hair.
‘You?’ she cried, pointing at him with an accusing finger. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I work here,’ said the Ken doll, gesturing to his scrubs. ‘I’m here to take over from Wenda. I’m the midwife.’
‘The what?’ cried Poppy. ‘But you’re a man ! A fully grown man!’ She waved her hands at his torso. ‘You cannot be my midwife.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I am your midwife. My name is James.’
‘No, no, no.’ Poppy shook her head. ‘That’s not possible. You go away and I’ll have the baby when Wenda gets back.’
‘You’ll hold it in?’ he asked, his eyes showing the faintest glimmer of amusement.
Poppy seethed. How dare he almost-laugh at her? ‘I have been practising my Kegels religiously, so you bet I’ll hold it in.’ She glared at him. ‘You can go now.’
‘I can’t actually.’ James started moving around the room, pulling things off his trolley and plugging monitors into power points. ‘I need to put that on.’ He pointed at the CTG machine that he’d moved up next to her bed. ‘It’ll be difficult if you’re not cooperating.’
Poppy glanced down at her dress. He clearly needed to get under there to put the monitor on. Fuuuuuck! This day!
‘You could change first,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘Where’s your hospital bag?’
‘My what?’ Poppy asked. She had the distinct impression this guy thought she was thick.
‘Your hospital bag. You know, with pyjamas, toothbrush, clothes for the baby.’
A sweet arrow of relief shot through Poppy. Mercifully, thankfully, gloriously , she’d packed her hospital bag last week and it had been sitting in the boot of the LandCruiser ever since.
‘It’s in my car. I’ll go get it!’
‘I’m not sure about that, ma’am. The weather is pretty crazy out there. I’ll organise someone to get it for you.’
Poppy bristled. ‘First’—she jabbed a finger at his face—‘do not call me ma’am. I am not a hundred years old. My name is Poppy. And second, I will do what I want.’
Poppy heaved herself off the bed and marched out of the room.
By the time she reached the main entrance of the hospital, she was sincerely regretting her stubbornness. It was bucketing down. The trees in the distance swayed like drunken clubbers, their leaves being dashed to the ground. Tentatively, she stepped out under the portico and felt the rush of cold air fall damp on her skin. Another twinge of pain spasmed up her back. Of course he would trap her into doing this with his evil reverse psychology. What an absolute dick! Flexing her toes in her Birkenstocks for better grip, Poppy braced for the inevitable.
The rain was hammering down and she could hardly jog for the tension in her lower back. By the time she reached the LandCruiser, she was soaked to the bone. Her hair was plastered to her neck and her skin was covered in goosebumps. She quickly opened the boot, grabbed her bag and turned to head back, when one of her shoes came loose and ricocheted under the car. Poppy’s head roared. DAMN IT! As torrents of rain attacked her, she crouched next to the wheel and tried in vain to reach her shoe.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!’ roared a voice behind her. ‘Quick! Take this!’ It was evil-Ken-doll-James, shoving an umbrella into her hand. He flattened himself onto the tarmac and slid under the chassis to retrieve her shoe. ‘Now, move!’ he commanded, standing up. ‘Let’s go!’
He was still fuming as they re-entered the hospital. ‘What were you thinking?! You could have slipped and hurt yourself. Not to mention the baby!’
‘I was being careful,’ Poppy snapped angrily.
‘Is that how your shoe ended up under the car?’ He was as wet as her. His scrubs were clinging to his shoulders and thighs, and his hair was slick with moisture.
‘That was an accident.’
‘Yeah, well, you’re lucky,’ he grumbled, looking away.
‘I’m hardly lucky!’ Poppy retorted. ‘Look at me—I’m drenched! Actually, don’t look at me; I look like shit. So do you,’ she added spitefully, clocking his wet shirt stuck flat against his stomach.
Ignoring her, James began striding to the ward. ‘Hurry up,’ he ordered.
Scowling, Poppy reluctantly obeyed.
Back in her hospital room, Poppy prised a pair of dry tracksuit pants and a clean t-shirt out of her bag. The contractions were still manageable, so James had left her with blunt instructions to keep walking around to ‘hurry things up’.
She was going to do the exact opposite, because: screw him. She was going to buy chocolate and a trashy magazine and lie on this starchy bed and pretend she was somewhere far away where she didn’t need a brain or a body or a yellow card that said ‘not present’ where it should define a life partner.
She picked up her phone and swiped the cool glass. There were so many people to call but her brain couldn’t compute what she’d say. Hey there, sitting here ready to pop a baby out my vag! Just about to cross that threshold into single motherhood, don’t mind me!
She stood up and began the walk to the hospital cafe. She’d known logically that this day would come, but she hadn’t really known. In her bones, she still didn’t feel ready to be a mother. On an intellectual level, she knew exactly what she had to do: feed the baby, clean the baby, give it shelter and love. But how did you actually do all that?
She’d watched Dani pick it up, slowly learning to recognise what Nella needed. At first it had been a giant convoluted puzzle. They’d cried with laughter together at how stupid they felt, trying to calm the crying baby with their singing and dancing. They laughed and laughed because otherwise Dani would cry.
‘Contractions, love?’ asked an elderly volunteer behind the cafe counter. She had blue eyebrows pencilled on her forehead and Poppy wondered if it was a fashion statement or an eyesight failure. She looked like a very kind circus clown.
‘Yep.’ Poppy grimaced, picking up a magazine with Princess Kate and Meghan on the cover.
‘Would you like a curry pie on the house? The curry might speed things up for you?’
‘Thank you, that’s very generous, but I’ll stick to sugar.’ She dropped the magazine and three chocolate bars on the counter.
The woman took Poppy’s money with a smile. ‘This is a very exciting time for you and your husband, so make sure you enjoy every moment.’
‘Oh … er, yes, thanks,’ Poppy faltered. She tucked the magazine under her armpit and tried to smile but her face felt frozen. It wasn’t the first time it had happened—not even close—but the blow it caused in her chest never dulled. She wasn’t normal anymore. She was a statistic now, a minority, a cautionary tale to be traded over cocktails and coffee—and she still couldn’t work out how it had happened. Patrick was the kind of guy who, on a good day, could have thrown himself into parenthood. She could imagine his reaction to the birth if they’d still been together. He would have posted a family shot on Instagram within the hour. Welcome to the world little one! he’d write. Mum was incredible! Dad was a blubbering mess!
But with the benefit of seven months of cold, hard hindsight, Poppy knew now that Patrick was deeply unoriginal. He did what other people thought was funny and interesting, and then he did it ten per cent more so he seemed funnier and more interesting than everyone else. If people were posting on Instagram, Patrick would too—but with more exclamation marks.
The pains were definitely coming harder and faster now. Poppy paused and leaned against a wall, gritting her teeth as she breathed through the latest back spasm. Around her, people scurried past on their own missions, oblivious to the labouring woman in their midst. These are the easy ones , Poppy reminded herself miserably. It was going to get a lot worse before it got better.
When she reached her room, she found James there. His hair was still shining wet but he’d found a new pair of scrubs. Shame. The sight of his wet uniform could have really lifted her spirits.
‘They’re getting worse,’ Poppy announced, pointing to her belly.
James continued pressing buttons on the CTG machine. ‘That happens.’
This man was horrible. Empathy level: zero. Annoyance factor: through the roof.
‘I need to put the monitor on now,’ he said, unlooping a canvas belt attached to the CTG machine. ‘This will go around your stomach so we can track your contractions.’ He pointed to the bed. ‘Lie down and lift up your top.’
‘Gosh, what a bedside manner,’ Poppy muttered, heaving herself up. Uninvited, an image popped into her mind: James curved above her in bed, his shoulders bare and his dark eyes glittering. Argh! These were not helpful visuals at all.
Poppy lifted her t-shirt and James leaned over to fasten the CTG belt around her. Poppy shifted her body towards him and tried to breathe normally. He smelled of soap and fresh cotton and the slightest trace of aftershave. Unbidden, the vision of shirtless James reappeared in her mind and she scrunched her eyes closed in disgust. God, she hadn’t been near a guy for so long; she was pathetic.
‘Done,’ he announced, straightening up and returning to the monitor.
‘Great,’ she grunted, tilting her head so he wouldn’t notice the heat creeping up her neck. This was routine work for him and she was having erotic daydreams like a sex-starved hermit.
‘Have you thought about drugs?’ asked James.
‘Recreationally?’
‘Pain relief,’ he clarified dryly.
Poppy rolled her eyes. It was a joke . ‘I am open to anything so long as no-one’s forcing me into it.’ Another contraction gripped her torso like a vice. She flinched as it rippled up her spine like broken glass. As the pain receded, she gasped, ‘And I am open to starting now.’
James studied her. His eyelashes were abnormally thick. ‘This is the start of a long journey. We shouldn’t go too hard too early on the pain relief.’
Poppy scowled. There was no ‘we’ about it. She was doing this by herself. ‘Whatever,’ she mumbled.
‘Normally I’d do an internal examination to check how far you’re dilated.’ He glanced at her pelvis. ‘But in this case, I think I’ll call for backup.’
Poppy unclenched the thighs she didn’t know she’d tensed. Thank the lord for backup. That would have been way too much. Way, way too much.