CHAPTER 23
‘So in summary, you’re not fucked.’ Dani’s voice rang out in Poppy’s AirPods as the paddocks whizzed past outside. ‘You had a fun weekend, did your ten thousand steps, ate some good food, there was a tiny moment of … let’s call it intrigue , in which you did nothing—and I repeat nothing —embarrassing other than a teensy-weensy tongue perve, and then everything after that was fine. So, I repeat: not fucked.’
Poppy groaned into her speedometer. ‘Um, first, can you never say tongue perve again as though that’s an actual thing? And second, it was not a tongue perve. I just happened to glance in his lower face region. And third, all of this is easy for you to say from your sunshine-y harbourside city, but you have no idea what my weekend was like. Everything at that bloody dam was so full of subtext.’
‘You’re making it sound very dramatic.’
‘It was!’
‘Hon, have you considered that maybe you’re reading into things too much?’
Dani did have a point. It was a point that Poppy had rolled around in her head constantly since she’d left the campfire. She’d been thinking about it when Kate and James cheerfully popped in the next morning, when James offered to check the radiator before she drove home, when he said, ‘See ya later,’ when he could have said, ‘Bye.’ Had she forgotten what friendliness was? Or was this something more?
‘You’ve got a four-month-old, Pops. You have enough excitement in your life already; you don’t need to add another layer of complication.’
‘I know. In between the poo explosions and leaky boobs, it’s one big excitement-fest with me.’
Dani laughed. ‘I’m serious, dude. You’ve got enough on your plate. If this bloke wants to be friendly, let him. If he doesn’t want to be friendly, let him do that too. You don’t need him, so it’s no skin off your back whatever he does.’
‘I hate you being so bloody wise.’
‘I know, my dear, but I hate you for moving away from me, so we’re square. Seriously, though, I have to tell you something important.’
‘Is Nella finally accepting porridge?’
‘Ha, no—’ There was a muffled scratchy sound.
‘What was that, Dan? The reception here is so crap.’
‘It’s Sam’s’— rrrr-rar-rar-rrrr —‘Can you hear me? It’s Sam’s …’ Rrrrr-rar .
‘His rum?’
Rar-rrrr .
‘Oh no, I’ve lost you again, Dan.’
Rar-rrrr-rar-rar-rrrr .
‘Sorry, Dan, I think the reception’s dropped out, so I’ll go now, but if you can hear me, I love you. Bye!’
Poppy ended the call and glanced in the rear-vision mirror at her sleeping daughter. Maeve had passed her first teenage babysitting experience with flying colours. (Well, perhaps it was Harper who had passed the test, but there was no harm in taking credit for her daughter’s good behaviour.) Maeve had accepted the bottle, there had been no nappy leakage and she’d obligingly drifted off to sleep with barely a whimper.
When Kate had heard this, she declared it was proof that Poppy deserved the night out. ‘A sign from the universe,’ had been her exact words. Poppy wasn’t keen to burst Kate’s bubble, but she suspected it was more a case of dumb luck. She’d lost confidence in the power of the universe.
It hadn’t always been this way. Once upon a time, when her greatest concern was her daily commute, a deep, unacknowledged part of Poppy had believed in the intrinsic power of balance. Without ever having verbalised it, at a cellular level she believed things would work out. Sometimes, for example, you missed the bus or had to spend the whole journey standing up with an armpit in your face. Other times, you could score a whole seat to yourself and watch a soothing episode of open-heart surgery on Grey’s Anatomy . If you expected life to be pretty good, but also a tiny bit shit (for the sake of equilibrium, and yin and yang, and possibly feng shui), you could lead a fairly comfortable existence.
But then she’d discovered she was pregnant.
In the first few hours after those two lines appeared, everything had absorbed a new level of significance. Cellophane-wrapped flowers for sale at the train station: a sign of new life. Random kids making eye contact on the escalators: attuned to her inherent motherliness. Pigeons stealing hot chips for their babies: the circle of life. Every moment and person around her suddenly felt meaningful . Until Patrick came home.
She’d waited up for him, nervously placing and re-placing the pregnancy test at different angles on the dining table that sat near the entry of their one-bedroom rental. She hadn’t texted to see where he was because she didn’t want him to think she was in a ‘naggy mood’. She wanted him to arrive home fresh and unencumbered and full of love for her and their future(!).
As it happened, he arrived home in a sulk because someone had parked in his favourite car space. He was wearing his gym gear, but she could tell he must have had a few schooners afterwards as his arrival was tinged with a faint whiff of Coopers. It was just past 9 pm.
‘Good day?’ she’d asked, looping her arms around his waist in an effort to distract him from his mood.
‘Fine,’ he’d replied, disentangling himself. ‘Need to shower.’ He’d completely missed the pregnancy test lying on the table next to where he’d chucked his keys.
As the noise from the hot-water system filled the apartment, Poppy had the unsettling feeling that, already, this wasn’t going to plan. She’d imagined him arriving home with a big smile, a kiss for her, maybe a sneaky bum grab and a heartfelt inquiry about her day. She’d imagined she’d be coy, but he’d see through her beaming happiness and notice the test with its two pink lines. He’d sweep her into his arms and spin her around like a princess—the kind of move he pulled when he had an audience.
‘What?’ he asked, noticing her pacing when he emerged from the shower.
Poppy’s eyes were wide and she couldn’t speak for nerves. She jerked her head towards the dining table, the pregnancy test perched atop it like a ticking timebomb.
Patrick swivelled his head from Poppy to the table and back. ‘What’s this? Is this a joke?’
Poppy shook her head.
‘What the hell? Really?’ Patrick snatched up the test and peered at the plastic window with the two pink lines staring back at him.
‘I did a test at work this afternoon. I wanted to tell you in person.’
Patrick suddenly dropped the test. ‘Yuck, I forgot you peed on this—gross,’ he said, wiping his hands on the back of his pyjama pants.
Poppy giggled nervously. ‘I didn’t pee on the whole thing, only the bit that’s covered by the plastic cap, which … oh it doesn’t matter …’ He’d already stopped listening to her babble.
‘How?’ asked Patrick, glaring at her. ‘You’re careful, right?’
Poppy scoffed. Their pull-out method of contraception was definitely not careful, and definitely not her sole responsibility. The very name of it indicated the onus was on the guy: he literally had to pull out .
‘What do we do?’ asked Patrick.
‘I think it’s obvious, isn’t it? We’re having a baby.’
‘What?’ A muscle tensed in Patrick’s neck.
With a sickening thud in her stomach, Poppy realised that this scenario was rapidly veering off course.
‘Babe, we’re not ready for this.’
‘We’ve been together for nine years, Patrick. I’m thirty. We are textbook ready. I mean, yes, it would be nice to have planned it better, but we would have reached this point at some stage.’
‘Whoa, babe! These are some huge assumptions you’re making.’
‘You’re telling me you don’t want this?’ spluttered Poppy.
‘No! But yes. I dunno. Jesus, Poppy! You drop this shit on me out of the blue and expect me to go along with your crazy plans!’
‘Patrick, I didn’t get pregnant by myself! I wasn’t turkey-basting myself with your stolen jizz, for Christ’s sake. You know what sex does. You’re a grown man. You knew the risk.’
‘And that’s what it was! A risk, Poppy!’ He sighed. ‘Fuck me, do you really think we’re ready for this?’
A switch flicked in Poppy’s brain and it dawned on her that this was it. This was how they’d reached the end. With a pregnancy. It could have been the happiest day of her life. In a fog of confusion and swelling anxiety, she realised it was about to turn into the worst.
‘I mean, seriously, babe, we’re too young for this stuff.’ Patrick was assuming her silence indicated agreement. ‘We’ve got too much living to do, too much fun to have.’ He moved towards her, his arms open. ‘You can’t seriously have thought—’
‘Don’t touch me,’ Poppy snapped. She rarely spoke like that to Patrick—she couldn’t bear the conflict—but this had triggered something visceral. She stepped around him and stalked to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Poppy never asked for anything from Patrick. She never expected anything from him. Most of the time, she was happy to go along with his plans, laugh at his recycled jokes and play the role of the awestruck girlfriend, but this felt different. This was a moment they could seize, this was a moment they could recount at sweet sixteens and weddings: the moment they discovered they were pregnant. Of all his stories, this could be the craziest. But not even that was enough.
Poppy stood at the foot of their bed and flopped face first onto the mattress. She wanted to scream into the pillow. Less than ten seconds later, she heard the television flick on. Patrick didn’t speak to her for the rest of the night.
Now, as the paddocks whipped by in a haze of greenish brown, Poppy realised it didn’t matter if she had 5G service or not. Patrick was never going to call.