CHAPTER 7
The memory of the recent storm had been erased by seventy-two hours of incessant January sun which had pummelled any moisture back out of the earth, leaving it flaky and dry again. From the doorway of her rented house, Poppy could feel the heat reflecting off the Betadine pavers. In the crook of her elbow, she held a capsule with a sticky label on the top with big black letters spelling MAEVE .
‘Darling!’ exclaimed her mother, rushing from the kitchen. ‘My darlings!’ she corrected herself, joyfully extending the ‘s’. ‘I love you both so much, to the squiddly-umpy-dumps and back!’ She shoved a cup in the dishwasher and spun to her daughter, embracing her like a rose-scented cyclone. Through the thick of her mother’s hair, Poppy could see her kitchen bench had been scrubbed sparkling clean. A bunch of fresh hydrangeas sat next to the sink.
Her dad appeared from the hallway, his arms spread wide. ‘My precious Poppy! A mum! Can you believe it?’ He looped his arms around his daughter and wife, bringing them into a group hug.
‘We’ll put little Maeve over here,’ said Chrissie, breaking away and confidently taking the capsule from Poppy. She placed it in a corner of the open-plan kitchen-living area.
Maeve kept her eyes tightly shut, her tiny hands balled in fists on her chest. The stripes on her onesie rose up and down as she breathed.
‘She’s so beautiful, Poppy,’ said her dad. ‘You should be so proud of yourself.’
Poppy knew she wasn’t expected to respond but nodded anyway.
Her mum grabbed the kettle, filled it up and pulled a box of teabags from a Harris Farm bag on the bench. It was the expensive brand of tea that her mother would never normally buy for herself.
‘We’ve got treats in there too,’ said her dad, nodding towards the fridge. ‘Not every day our girl comes home from the hospital with our granddaughter. We need to celebrate.’
From a brown paper bag, three shiny neenish tarts were produced. Poppy closed her eyes and smiled. They had been her favourite growing up.
Her mum laid out three plates and teaspoons on the kitchen bench, and Poppy sat down with a sigh, picked up her spoon and broke the glossy surface of the tart, watching the cream and jam ooze out.
‘I’ve stocked Maeve’s room with nappies and left a bag of hand-me-downs in your bedroom,’ her mother announced.
‘For Maeve?’
‘No, for you, darling. I had lots of trendy tops that are a bit raggy now but would be great for nursing around the house. And some old leggings too—nice and elasticated.’
‘Oh, er, thanks, Mum,’ Poppy said. ‘Great idea.’ She would wear each item once, she decided, take tactical selfies as evidence, then orchestrate a small, accidental fire to get rid of them—possibly via hair straightener.
‘What time did Maeve last feed?’ asked her mother. ‘Should we wake her now?’
Poppy blinked. ‘I thought you shouldn’t wake a sleeping baby?’
‘No, no. Babies need to feed constantly in these early days. I’ll wake her now, shall I?’
‘Oh, um …’ Maeve had only been asleep for an hour. That didn’t seem excessive.
‘Best wake her now,’ her mum said, beelining for the capsule.
‘Ah …’ Poppy didn’t know what to say. She’d only been a mum for seventy-two hours; it wasn’t like she was an expert. ‘Okay.’
Her daughter’s cry was a wavering bleat. As her mother brought her over, Poppy unclipped her maternity bra with clumsy fingers.
‘She’s latching wrong,’ Chrissie observed, hovering over them. ‘Don’t do it like that or her nose will be covered and she’ll suffocate.’
‘The midwives didn’t mention that.’
‘Oh, they’re too distracted. Understaffed. Move your arm like this …’ She pulled Poppy’s elbow to an awkward angle. ‘There, that’s better.’
It wasn’t better. It felt completely unnatural. Her upper arm immediately began to ache.
‘So,’ said her mother briskly, ‘what do you want to do after the feed? I’ve already changed her bed linen in the nursery. I thought cotton would be better on her skin. Do you want a sleep, or do you want to watch that Diane Keaton movie I was telling you about? Or I could whip something up for dinner? You’ll be needing some iron. How about some chops?’
Poppy’s forehead creased wearily. Could someone else decide?
Her dad patted her arm kindly. ‘You need to take advantage of this, Poppy. Soon her grandparent hormones will fade and she’ll be back at golf.’
‘Paul! I’ve already told Poppy I’ll always be available to help with the baby … just not between nine and one on Mondays and Wednesdays.’
Poppy and her dad glanced at each other and smiled.
‘What?’ demanded Chrissie. ‘A woman needs a hobby. Don’t pretend you want me home twenty-four seven, Paul!’
‘Of course not!’ said her dad quickly, winking at Poppy. ‘Golf all you want, darling.’
‘Well, Mum, if you’re wanting to do something …’ Poppy paused, chewing her lip. ‘Do you think you could help me, um …?’
Her mother looked confused.
‘I know it’s stupid, and if you don’t want to go out in this heat I completely understand, it’s just … I don’t really know how I’d take Maeve outside and, well, I’ve only breathed hospital air for the last few days. So … will you help me … go for a walk?’
Chrissie laughed, clapping her hands. ‘Of course, darling! Gosh, I thought you might need help going to the toilet, or need me to check your bits or something. A walk I can certainly do. Although,’ her mother’s smile abruptly faded, ‘don’t go poking around your bits without me. We don’t want a hand-held mirror getting stuck up there.’
On his stool at the kitchen bench, her dad covered his ears.
The neenish tarts disappeared even faster than anticipated, and fifty minutes later—after a breastfeed, a nappy change and some tense moments connecting the bassinet to the pram frame—they were ready to go. Poppy’s dad settled himself onto her second-hand couch and flicked on the cricket while her mum opened the door and Poppy eased the pram outside, a muslin cloth protecting Maeve from the sun. Her mum followed them, carrying the fully stocked nappy bag ‘just in case’.
‘I think she needs a singlet,’ Chrissie said for the fortieth time.
‘It’s over thirty degrees, Mum.’
‘Yes, but newborns get so cold. I’ll wait here while you go change her. Make sure you get a hat for yourself too.’
It was stiflingly hot but Poppy’s sluggish brain was not prepared for resistance. She lifted Maeve from the pram and walked back inside like a robot.
As they re-emerged through the front door, her mum smiled, vindicated. ‘Much better.’
The air was warm and heavy with the scent of mown grass as they rolled onto the footpath. The stark afternoon sunlight sharpened every vignette. Maeve’s eyes drifted closed and Poppy yielded to the therapy of the motion. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. There was so much to think about but she was doing her best to avoid thinking at all. Some people strived for mindfulness; Poppy strived for mindlessness. If she reduced everything to its smallest component parts—ignoring the terrifying synergy of it all—she felt less overwhelmed. It was all her brain could cope with right now: left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
‘Have you spoken to—’
‘Dani, yes,’ interrupted Poppy, knowing that was definitely not where her mother was heading with that question. ‘I’ve spoken to her a few times.’
They continued on in silence. She’d tried to call Patrick on her first night in hospital but he hadn’t answered. She’d stared at the phone for a full fifteen minutes afterwards waiting for it to ring. She’d seen Patrick walk out of funerals to take a business call, but after fifteen agonising minutes she realised with a white-hot pain that he wasn’t calling back. At a loss for what to do, she’d texted him a photo of Maeve wrapped in a pink blanket in her perspex bassinet. A message came back almost instantly: She’s beautiful Pops! Just like her mother .
That was it. No promise to call back, no questions about how she was feeling, no questions about the weight or height or labour. He didn’t even ask her name, for god’s sake. It was a message you’d send to anyone who’d had a baby. Poppy had buried her head into her pillow and cried herself to sleep.
Now, as she traipsed gingerly around the parched suburb with her mum beside her, Poppy tried to settle her thoughts. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. She needed a goal.
Obviously she had to get a job. She didn’t have to worry about money yet—her maternity leave payments would run out eventually but her savings would see her through for another twelve months, and she could always move back in with her parents if she got really stuck—but finding a job would help ward off any anxiety about impending doom (aka moving back in with her parents).
She also needed to meet people. She could not survive in this town with only her mum and dad for company. All the conversations about Rockmans would test her mental fortitude more than a surprise pregnancy.
So, okay, she needed a job and friends. Jesus, they were not small things. Maybe she needed a different goal, something with more straightforward, actionable steps. French lessons, maybe? A coding course, perhaps?
The pram bumped over a tree root and Poppy flinched. Maeve was unperturbed, which was strange because the pram had really jolted. Poppy peered at the wheels. Maybe the suspension on the pram was faulty. She made a mental note to double-check the promo video on YouTube and compare it with how her pram was functioning. If she had been ripped off, she should probably write a letter to the CEO. With whole days stretching out before her with nothing to do, she’d have to keep herself busy somehow.
The pram rolled along in front of her and the realisation hit her like a semitrailer. That should be her goal: being a good mother . How embarrassing she hadn’t thought of that before. Thank god no-one could read her thoughts. What kind of mother forgot to prioritise mothering?! She’d assumed it would be automatic (i.e. birth baby undergo maternal transformation), but her brain was still in young-and-dumb mode—though she was way more dumb than young.
Poppy cleared her throat. ‘Mum, will I ever feel confident about this?’
Her mother smiled cheerfully. ‘Never, darling. This is a life sentence.’