CHAPTER 8
Maeve was dressed in a floral onesie that covered her feet and hands. Yes, she was tiny and divine and smelled like heaven in human form, but good god, this child was hers . After twenty-four hours at home, twenty of which she’d spent alone (apart from Maeve), the reality of her circumstances were beginning to sink in. Unlike her two nights in hospital, where she’d slept under the leaden weight of exhaustion, last night she’d barely rested at all, springing up at Maeve’s every sound, nervously checking the swaddling wasn’t tangled and waiting for her eyes to adjust in the darkness so she could watch for the minuscule rise and fall of Maeve’s chest. It wasn’t just tiredness. She felt like she’d ridden three roller-coasters back to back and was still waiting for her insides to settle.
Poppy considered the installation of half-drunk tea mugs littering her hard surfaces; an affecting portrait of modern motherhood. The bassinet was parked in a shaded corner of the kitchen with Maeve happily sleeping inside, but even this was cause for anxiety: she was supposed to sleep while the baby slept! But it was only 10 am. Her circadian rhythm hadn’t adjusted yet. When would that happen? Day five?
A knock rattled the door and Poppy jumped. Any unanticipated sound—no matter the volume—now prompted a visceral reaction. She glanced anxiously at Maeve but her daughter didn’t stir.
‘Coming!’ she whispered, checking her maternity bra was clipped up as she hurried to the door. The unpacking of the dishwasher would have to wait. Again.
A pair of broad shoulders was visible through the opaque glass. Oh crap . She’d expected Wenda would do her home visits, not James.
Annoyed, she opened the door.
‘What?’ asked James, and Poppy realised her nose was crinkled as she looked him up and down. He was carrying a backpack and wearing jeans and a white polo; an outfit that was uncannily reminiscent of a standard-issue Ken doll.
‘I was expecting Wenda.’
James gave an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘I already had a personal engagement in this street so I figured I should swing by. May I?’ He gestured inside.
Poppy turned and led him to the kitchen. ‘Would you, er, like a cup of tea?’ she asked, vaguely wondering if she should have baked something. Also—what kind of ‘personal engagement’ could he have had in this cul-de-sac? Did he moonlight as a fax machine salesman?
‘No,’ James said curtly. ‘This isn’t a social call; I’m working.’
Poppy glowered. Did he not understand common courtesy? She wished she had baked something, so she could have sneezed on it.
James glanced around the kitchen, seemed dissatisfied, then walked to the living area, talking over his shoulder. ‘I need to ask you a few questions, check your stomach, then I’ll weigh Maeve. Understand?’
Poppy nodded, feeling her mouth curl in disgust. He didn’t need to speak to her like she was thick. It was unfortunate that the kitchen looked like a bombsite and she’d gone batshit crazy during labour, but they were hardly reasons to doubt her mental capacity. There had been extenuating circumstances.
James pulled a clipboard from his backpack and sat on the sofa. ‘How was last night?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ replied Poppy irritably. She sat at the opposite end of the couch.
‘I’ll need more information than that.’
‘She woke quite a few times and I hardly slept at all, but I don’t think anything went wrong wrong. Like, she fed okay and she seemed to fall asleep pretty well after I breastfed.’
‘Good,’ said James and made a note.
Poppy nodded, relieved her breasts had (literally) risen to the occasion. The thought of discussing her nipples with James was supremely discomforting.
‘And you’re getting wet nappies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any poos?’
‘Yes, two.’ (Should she clarify they were Maeve’s?!)
‘Next question,’ continued James, making a show of reading from the clipboard. ‘Have you considered what you’ll be using as contraception going forward?’
Poppy’s breathing stopped halfway between an inhale and exhale and came out as a hacking cough. The What-to-Expect articles had not mentioned this. She felt her neck redden and prayed the blush wouldn’t reach her face. How on earth should she answer that? She’d been on the pill on and off during her years with Patrick, but she’d hated how it affected her mood and her skin. (God, that made her sound so vain.) Before she fell pregnant, they’d been using the pull-out method, but she was definitely not mentioning that. ‘I haven’t really thought about it …’ She trailed off, looking at the floor. ‘But it’s not a huge priority for me as I’m kind of, um, closed for business.’
James cleared his throat. ‘It’s important to remember that breastfeeding is not the foolproof contraceptive method some people would have you believe. Contraception may be the last thing on your mind after having a baby, but the reality is that you could become fertile again much earlier than you expect, so you need to be prepared.’
James began to run through the various options for contraception—the pill (hard to remember to take it when you’re distracted by a baby), condoms (may be uncomfortable because of lower oestrogen levels), IUDs, the morning-after pill, and everything else—in excruciating detail.
‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘That’s all you need to know about that. Okay, last question: are you experiencing any anxiety?’
Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘No.’
‘I need a serious answer.’
‘That was serious.’
‘You’re telling me you’re completely fine?’
Ugh, he was a dick. Of course she wasn’t fine.
‘I’ll ask you again: are you okay?’
Avoiding his eyes, Poppy picked a loose thread from her t-shirt. It was a big question. The obvious answer was yes. Yes. Or was it no? Poppy couldn’t remember what new mothers were supposed to say. A level of uncertainty was surely normal, but you were supposed to say something along the lines of ‘tired but happy’, right? And your eyes were supposed to say it with you. They should have bags and lines around them but be filled with an incandescent maternal sparkle. But in the same way Poppy’s skin hadn’t acquired that indefinable glow, she suspected her eyes were lagging too.
‘I’m … tired?’
‘Just tired?’ asked James, his eyes probing.
‘Fatigued.’
‘I know what tired means, Poppy. I was asking whether you feel tired above all else. Or are you feeling anything else?’
What could she say? That she was tired, yes, but more than that she was scared. She was unsure. She was alone. Every time Maeve squeaked at night it was her ears that heard it, her eyelids that sprung open. She couldn’t poke someone across the mattress. She couldn’t have a day off; she couldn’t have a minute off. She couldn’t rely on herself to remember to buy cereal but she had to rely on herself to feed and clothe and raise this child. And yes, she had her parents in town, and yes, she had some great friends on speed dial, but was she really going to call them at 2 am? And 3 am? And 4 am? Every night?
‘I’m a bit … numb,’ she confessed quietly. It wasn’t the whole truth but it wasn’t a lie. She was running on tea and adrenaline, surviving by not overthinking, or hardly thinking at all. Feed, sleep, walk, repeat. Left foot, right foot.
‘That’s not unusual,’ said James. ‘It’s a big change, after all.’
That was the problem, though. It was a big change but it wasn’t the only one. It was like she was working her way through the encyclopaedia of life-changing moments. Fall pregnant: tick. Break up with partner of nine years: tick. Leave job: tick. Move towns: tick. Have baby: tick. Poppy’s world had turned on its axis so many times in the past twelve months she was practically spinning into another dimension.
‘If you want to lie down on the couch, I’ll check your uterus now.’
‘Do we have to?’ Having the nurses check her stomach in hospital had been fine, but having an annoyingly attractive man feel up her misshapen belly after an in-depth conversation about contraception was a completely different proposition.
‘Yes, we have to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because this is a routine check-up and checking your stomach is part of the routine.’
Poppy glared at him. He glared back. If this were a staring contest, then Poppy sure as hell was going to beat this douchebag. She didn’t care if she was so tired her eyes felt like sandpaper and … ah, damn it. She’d blinked.
She lay down on the couch. ‘Why are you a midwife anyway?’ she grumbled. ‘Unconventional career choice for a man.’
James raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll ignore the inherent sexism in that statement.’
‘Whatever,’ Poppy said. ‘I did a whole semester of gender studies and am fully aware of how that sounded. I meant statistically speaking , midwifery is an unconventional career choice for a male. I was merely inquiring about your job, the same way you’d ask the person sitting next to you on the bus.’
‘I don’t do small talk, especially on public transport.’
‘I can’t imagine why not,’ snapped Poppy. ‘You’re a gifted conversationalist.’
‘Fine,’ said James. ‘I became a midwife to pick up chicks. That, and I have a messiah complex and felt summoned to bring new life into the world.’
‘If you’re not willing to engage in a civil conversation then I won’t waste my breath on you.’
‘Finally we agree on something.’
He pointed to her stomach and Poppy grudgingly lifted her top, making sure her milk-stained maternity bra remained securely out of view.
James kneeled next to the couch and that cotton and aftershave scent washed over her. She briefly thought of closing her eyes to avoid the awkwardness but just as quickly decided that might imply some kind of erotic pleasure on her part. Instead she stared resolutely at the ceiling, willing herself not to blink. His broad palms gently wrapped around her torso.
‘Your hands are cold,’ she muttered.
James ignored her and moved his fingers carefully along her abdomen, testing pressure points with a subtle massaging motion. Her stomach muscles tightened under his fingertips.
‘Done,’ he said, standing up. ‘Everything feels fine.’
‘Good,’ said Poppy, quickly pulling her top down and hastening to her feet—anything to correct the power imbalance.
‘It’s time to wake up Maeve now,’ said James, walking over to the bassinet where she slept. ‘Will you wake her, or shall I?’
‘I will.’ Poppy strode over and placed her hand self-consciously on the wooden frame. She hoped this body language displayed the correct amount of instinctual maternal devotion. Too much and he’d know she was a fraud; too little and he’d call family services.
She knew Dani had struggled to bond with Nella at first, mystified by her crying and smallness, but Sam’s love for Nella had been instant. Poppy couldn’t deny that her daughter’s skinny alien arms and legs freaked her out, but in her bones she could already feel a fervent connection to Maeve, even though they’d only known each other for four days. They were a duo; each other’s only other. She wasn’t sure if it was love yet, but there was an indivisible bond.
Poppy slid one hand under Maeve’s back and another under her velvety head. Her daughter scowled at being moved and began to cry in her tiny rattling voice. ‘Come on, Maeve,’ Poppy cooed as James moved a collection of mugs to the sink so he could set up the portable scales on the kitchen bench. ‘This is something we’ve gotta do.’
She undid the buttons on Maeve’s onesie as James averted his eyes. She was going as fast as she could but this process was unbearable with an uncooperative baby. Had her fingers always been this fat and useless? She immediately resolved to throw out every onesie unless it had zippers. James seemed to be fixated on her fruit bowl—probably judging its barrenness. With a final exhausting effort, she pulled the last tiny button out of its tiny hole and laid her daughter gently on the scales.
‘Three point five,’ James said, scribbling on his clipboard. ‘That’s more than her birth weight.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘No,’ said James. ‘It’s unusual … it’s good.’
Poppy felt a heady rush of pleasure, as though she had received a glowing compliment. It was such a small thing in a week full of big things and, inexplicably, she felt tears forming in the corner of her eyes. She lifted her daughter to her chest and kissed her soft head. A lump in her throat had emerged from nowhere. These hormones were having a great time running the show.
James seemed to notice the change in energy and looked away, frowning at her messy sink as he gathered up his things. He was probably one of those guys who couldn’t cope with untidiness—or female emotion. Poppy glanced at him, his nervous discomfort a welcome distraction from her own.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Poppy, pointing to his face. She felt compelled to provoke him, she couldn’t help it.
‘Nothing,’ replied James.
‘You’re frowning.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said, his expression dissolving into blankness.
Poppy studied his face for a flicker of emotion. Nada. This was the guy who’d held her hand when she’d pushed a human out of her vagina and he couldn’t even break a smile in her company and offer a pat on the back.
‘Do you even remember the birth?’ she asked. ‘Or do all the labouring mothers blend into one? Like a giant conveyor belt of screaming women?’
James looked at her, confused. ‘Of course I remember.’
‘Then why can’t you be nice?’
James zipped up his backpack and started towards the door. ‘I’m not here to be nice,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’m here to do my job.’