CHAPTER 40
Poppy shone her phone torch into her mouth and inspected the damage. Her left tonsil was the colour of red cordial. Of course she would get sick. Thirty-one-year-olds could not drink like twenty-two-year-olds without getting sick. It was a law of physics.
Turned out conversation starter cards were for suckers. If you really wanted to get to know someone—or a whole restaurant—all you needed to do was sing a few bars of ‘Crazy in Love’ and pass the mic around. With April and Kate by her side, she’d rolled through passionate renditions of Aretha Franklin, Macy Gray and Gwen Stefani before realising their superpowers (which were heavily reliant on their second and third bottles of champagne) could be harnessed perfectly for Carly Rae Jepsen and Miley Cyrus. The whole-restaurant singalong to ‘Party in the U.S.A.’ had been a life highlight, the kind Poppy would probably still remember in her nineties.
Too bad she’d be dead long before then. There was no way she could survive this hangover. She chucked her phone onto her bed and kicked off her shoes. Maybe a warm shower would cleanse her liver? At the very least, the steam might soothe her throat. She stepped into her ensuite, undressed and turned on the shower. She was about to step under when her ears pricked. Was that Maeve?
Poppy wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out of the bathroom. Maeve had only gone down ten minutes ago; she wasn’t due to wake for at least another half an hour. Her temples pounded extra forcefully as she craned her ears. Bugger. Maeve was definitely crying. Poppy tiptoed down the hall, hoping Maeve might go back to sleep, but by the time she reached her room her daughter was screaming at full lung capacity.
Poppy eased the door open and saw her daughter lying next to a puddle of vomit. Oh god. She lifted Maeve from the cot and grabbed some wipes to scrub her face, which made Maeve cry harder. Her eyes were matted with a web of crusted mucus and two streams of green snot were running from her nostrils. Fuuuuck! This didn’t look good.
Shifting her daughter to her hip—no easy feat while wearing a towel—she went to find her phone and began to type. Google, ever so helpfully, offered a range of options:
Is my baby teething?
Is my baby constipated?
Is my baby getting enough milk?
Is my baby sick or teething?
Is my baby lactose intolerant?
Is my baby cross-eyed?
Is my baby too skinny?
Is my baby dehydrated?
Jesus Christ, she’d googled at least half of them. She rephrased: Can a baby have conjunctivitis and gastro at the same time, and is that bad?
The overwhelming response from Google was yes. Fuck. Again.
Maeve’s cry had settled to a snivel but she still looked miserable. Her eyes were bloodshot and gooey and the snot was now smeared across her cheeks. Poppy put her hand to her daughter’s forehead. It definitely felt warmer than usual.
Poppy’s left tonsil throbbed and she let out a whimper. Of course this would happen.
She took her daughter to the lounge room and lay her under her mobile. As soon as Poppy put her down, Maeve began to wail. Poppy picked her up and patted her back to calm her and then lay her down on the play mat again, more gently this time. Maeve immediately started to cry. Sighing, Poppy scooped her up and then called her mother.
‘She doesn’t want to lie down,’ she told her mother.
‘Of course not, darling,’ Chrissie replied. ‘She’s congested, so lying down will only make her more uncomfortable. She needs to be kept upright.’
Poppy wanted to wail. She’d heard tales at mothers’ group of babies who got sick and had to be held constantly, with the parents taking it in turns. But there isn’t another parent! Poppy fumed. At some point I will need to shower! And pee!
‘Which doctor will you go to?’ asked her mother.
Poppy grabbed a tissue to wipe Maeve’s nose. She was embarrassed to admit she didn’t have a regular GP yet. The hospital health clinic had sorted all her pre- and post-pregnancy needs and she hadn’t needed medical help since. As her mum nattered on about how her bunion issues had been promptly fixed by her lovely young doctor (who was twenty years older than Poppy), her mind drifted to James. His knowledge of medicine, of Orange, his matter-of-factness, his innate decency; his recommendation would be rock-solid. Less bunion-reliant than her mother’s, at least.
In one of those startling moments of maternal intuition, her mum asked, ‘Why don’t you call your midwife?’
Poppy’s stomach lurched.
‘You know,’ her mum added, ‘the old one with the ponytail.’
Wenda!
‘Good idea, Mum,’ said Poppy, glad her mother couldn’t see the redness that had been creeping up her neck. ‘I’ll ring her now.’
She ended the call with her mother and looked up Wenda’s number. She could feel a big wet patch forming on her shoulder. Poppy felt a mild sense of satisfaction that the snot was basting her bare skin rather than clothing. The last thing she needed was more laundry.
Her call was answered on the first ring.
‘Hello, Orange Antenatal Unit,’ said a deep voice.
Poppy froze. She had not anticipated this.
‘Hello?’ said the voice.
‘James, hi,’ said Poppy weakly. She’d walked right into this like a blind fool.
She needed to say something. But what? The silence on the other end of the line was unbearable.
‘I’m sorry to bother you; I was trying to get hold of Wenda. I was about to get in the shower and then I heard Maeve crying so I went and got her and then I called my mum and she suggested I call my midwife, so I thought of Wenda—not you, definitely not you. Not that I wouldn’t trust your advice, it’s just that Wenda popped into my head first—just like that!—and here we are. So … is Wenda there?’
Smooth, McKellar. Real smooth .
‘I just—’
‘Is Maeve okay?’ interrupted James impatiently.
‘Oh, ah, yes,’ said Poppy, flustered. ‘But no. She vomited. And she’s got conjunctivitis. And I don’t know if the two are related or if she’s got a gastro bug and a conjunctivitis bug. I get that neither is life-threatening but I thought Wenda would be able to recommend a doctor, so could I talk to her? Her snot is going all over me. Maeve’s snot obviously, not Wenda’s.’
‘Wenda is on long service leave.’
‘Oh … right.’ Shit! Wenda had told Poppy all about her plans to walk the Cinque Terre with her younger sister. And now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure she and James had talked about it too.
‘Whoops. Mum brain. That’s embarrassing. I just—’
‘You can bring her in here.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You can bring her into the hospital to see the community health doctor. I can book you in.’
‘Oh, that’s nice of you, but honestly—’
‘Just doing my job,’ said James curtly. She could hear him tapping on a keyboard.
‘Okay,’ said Poppy meekly. She wondered whether she should try to explain that she really hadn’t engineered the call to talk to him. It was purely accidental and Maeve was actually sick—a complete coincidence. Hilarious, really.
‘There’s been a cancellation. If you’re free, you can come in now,’ said James.
‘Now?’ replied Poppy. Her mind was whirling like a tornado.
‘Now,’ repeated James, as if she were thick.
‘But I haven’t got any clothes on,’ she blurted. Argh! Why?! ‘What I mean is, I’m not ready. I do have clothes on, I promise. Well, I mean, I don’t have clothes on’— stop! —‘but I have a towel on. No clothes under the towel, obviously, ha, because that would be weird. I was going to shower—did I say that?—but then I couldn’t because Maeve was crying and now I haven’t been able to put her down since. So, yes, I am still wearing the towel.’
Silence.
‘So what I really mean to say is, thank you. For your help. I will get dressed and come straight in. Right now. Thank you. And good day.’
Poppy ended the call. Ugh! Could she be a bigger loser?! She sighed and carried her daughter into her bedroom, where she lay her on the carpet (Maeve immediately began to wail) and quickly changed into her cleanest jeans and jumper. Her brain might still not be fully functional post-birth, but she was going to remember to wear clothes to this appointment, thank you very much.
As she started the car, Poppy spoke to the phone resting in the console. ‘Siri, call Dar Nee.’
When life served her disasters in the form of accidental nude phone calls to infuriatingly handsome midwives, there was no other voice she’d rather hear.
‘Hello?’ Dani answered cautiously.
Poppy felt a bittersweet surge in her heart: the joy of hearing her best friend’s voice; the self-inflicted pain of knowing it had been so long. ‘Dan, I’m so glad you picked up,’ Poppy said in a rush. ‘I’m so sorry for everything. I’m sorry for being such a selfish brat, I’m sorry for not realising, I’m sorry for leaving it so long before I called, and most of all I’m so unbelievably sorry that I became someone who you thought wouldn’t listen. You’ve been my lifeline this year, Dan, and since I met you really, and I honestly feel so, so stupid for taking that for granted. And now I’m prattling on like a tool and I haven’t even asked about Sam’s mum. How is she? I really hope she’s okay. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, especially not with me, but I really want to know.’
Poppy slowed for the traffic lights, her mouth suddenly dry with fear. She really hoped Dani had understood that drivel.
‘Sam’s mum isn’t great,’ said Dani eventually. ‘They’re hopeful the radiation will work this time and she won’t have to do chemo again, but she’s scared and so is Sam. It’s shit.’
‘Oh, Dan,’ said Poppy quietly. ‘I’m so sorry. For all of you. That must be really hard.’
Outside, the streets blurred past. Poppy wished, not for the first time, that she could teleport to Sydney. ‘If you need any help—someone to babysit Nella while you and Sam go to appointments, or someone to make dinners or clean the toilets or do the laundry—I can jump in the car and be there in four hours. You know I’d drop everything to help, right?’
Dani sighed. ‘Of course, Pops. I know that.’
Poppy could feel herself choking up as she flicked on her indicator. ‘I’d do anything for you and Sam and Nella, Dan. Like, I dunno, maybe I could do the laundry?’
‘Yeah, you mentioned that.’
Poppy felt the tears erode her last vestiges of self-control and she sob-laughed. ‘Dan, I’ve missed you so much.’
‘Same, Pops. Life has been way too boring without you. Yesterday my Uber driver had a photo of Em Rata on his dash and tried to convince me they were cousins and oh my god, I almost peed myself it was so funny, but it also made me sad because I couldn’t tell you.’
‘What the hell?’ cried Poppy. ‘Of course you could have told me, you ninny; it breaks my heart that you thought you couldn’t. But also, was this guy some kind of Polish–Israeli Adonis? Because if not, how on earth could he be related to Em Rata?’
‘I know, right! As if a pasty old bald guy with a flavour saver could be related to Em Rata! That would contravene every theory of evolution.’
‘Totally! And incidentally, I’ve never understood the appeal of flavour savers unless you’re a Shannon Noll impersonator, and I’m not even sure that’s a legitimate job.’
‘Hundred per cent!’ Dani laughed. ‘Are you driving somewhere?’
‘Yeah. Maeve’s got an appointment at the community health centre.’
‘Is she okay?’
Poppy felt the panicky word vomit in her throat—Maeve’s first sickness! She only had one bottle of baby Panadol in the house! There were so many things that could go wrong!—but she swallowed it down. This was nothing compared to what Sam and his mum were going through. ‘She’ll be fine,’ Poppy said, keeping her voice steady. ‘A few viral things, I think, but nothing to worry about hopefully.’
Dani was quiet, possibly considering whether to ask for more information. In the end she said, ‘Okay, my dear, call me when you’re done. I’m glad the band is back together.’
Poppy stifled another happy sob. ‘Me too, Dan. I love you.’
‘Love you too, Pops.’
Dani hung up and Poppy slowed as she drove through a school zone littered with clumps of teenagers in maroon uniforms. She was so lucky to have found Dani. A friend whose voice could calm you even when they were shrieking about baby goats on TikTok was a gift. And a friend who could lift you even when they were completely silent on the other end of the phone line was even rarer. Poppy had a best friend who could do both and she was never going to forget how lucky she was again.
Arriving at the community health clinic with four minutes to spare, Poppy parked the pram in the waiting room and held Maeve in her arms while her daughter snorted streams of elastic snot. Eventually Maeve’s name was called by a grey-haired man with a receding hairline who introduced himself as Dr Gutherson.
The appointment was a wholly unsatisfying experience. Dr Gutherson told her genially not to worry about the gastro—‘There’ll be much more to come!’—and prescribed only a warm face washer for the conjunctivitis. As Maeve sat on her left knee grabbing at the stethoscope while Dr Gutherson leaned over to check her heartbeat, Poppy glanced up at the ceiling. On the other side of that gyprock barrier was the second floor of the hospital, and on the second floor of the hospital was the maternity ward. In that maternity ward were midwives: chatting, laughing, delivering babies. And one of those midwives would be going about his business fully aware that Poppy and Maeve were here. He could take the stairs, a right and a left, and come face to face with Poppy.
When the appointment ended, Poppy thanked Dr Gutherson and tried to slide Maeve into the pram. Her daughter glared at her accusingly and began to wail. Poppy tried singing quietly to shush her but Maeve continued thrashing her head against the pram liner.
‘You’ll find she’ll be more clingy than usual,’ said Dr Gutherson, handing Poppy a brochure appropriately titled Gastro Passes .
Poppy sighed and unbuckled her daughter. As she trudged to the car park through an icy wind, pushing the pram with one hand and carrying Maeve in the other arm, she asked herself again: How do people have more than one child?
At the LandCruiser, she flipped the pram brakes on and used her spare hand to prise her keys from her pocket. Her fingers found her phone instead. She fumbled and her phone dropped to the bitumen with a glassy clang. Poppy winced. She’d half-expected James to appear while she was at the community health centre, but that was stupid. He wasn’t going to, and nor should he. He was on shift. He wasn’t even really a friend at this point. Gingerly, she plucked her phone off the tarmac. Thankfully the screen was intact. It had landed right on the PARENTS WITH PRAMS ONLY sign.
I want to see him , she thought. It had been a vague, opaque feeling when she’d arrived, but now it was crystal clear. She missed him. She buckled Maeve into her car seat and walked around to the driver’s side, poking the thought like a bruise: I want to see him . She was used to floating through life, saying, ‘Yes, please,’ and, ‘No, thank you,’ like a good girl, accepting whatever came next, and now it was possible she was going to float on the breeze away from James. She’d have to run into him around town for another few months, which would be horribly painful and sad, and then he’d move to Melbourne, which would be even more painful and sad.
Before she knew it, she’d arrived at the Woolworths car park. The wind was still howling outside and the clouds were darkening. She parked next to a HiLux that could have been James’s, if not for the BO1TOY numberplate. A thunderclap cracked above her. The universe was tormenting her with terrible omens and terrible spelling.
Poppy strapped Maeve into the carrier on her chest and walked into the supermarket. It smelled like roast chicken and Maeve kicked her legs enthusiastically. I want to see him . She couldn’t unthink it now, but was it merely lust? Was she just a sex-starved single mum? Was this a completely rational response to having slept with a guy whose arms were the perfect balance of muscle and flesh?
A tall man with dark blond hair walked out of the milk aisle and Poppy’s heart skipped a beat before she realised he was her father’s age. She exhaled slowly, and Maeve squawked and pointed down aisle four. Poppy turned, thinking for a moment Maeve may have spotted him down there. She shook her head in exasperation with herself. Of course it was another false alarm.
The shopping list app on her phone had neat ticks in all but one of the boxes. Poppy steeled herself and turned into the aisle with the pasta sauce. She knew logically that he wouldn’t be there either but that didn’t stop her heart beating like a jackhammer. She selected a jar of passata and placed it in the trolley. A thought nagged her. Did she like James? Like, like James? She pulled a second jar from the shelf. The linoleum where the sauce had exploded all those months ago had been scrubbed clean without so much as a pinkish stain left behind.
She steered the trolley to the checkout. She couldn’t possibly like James. She was a smart girl and liking James would not be the smart choice. Notwithstanding his uncanny knack for unleashing her most embarrassing confrontational tendencies, he was moving eight hundred kilometres away. Liking James would be super dumb.
The cashier with an eighties fringe asked if she had her own bags. Poppy handed over the tangled ball of reusable sacks and began placing groceries on the conveyor belt. There were two separate things happening here: first, she was a hormonal (i.e. horny) mess, and second, James—despite his capacity to push all her buttons (including the horny ones)—was a first-class person. They were two completely unrelated facts: he was great at sex, and she liked hanging out with him. It would be ridiculous to confuse those two facts with having feelings for him. She was much smarter than that.
The passata jars clinked on the conveyor belt. There was something she was missing, the fuzzy outline of a thought she couldn’t grasp. The cashier scanned her passata and suddenly she remembered. Kate had mentioned that James had been accepted into CSU Orange. Had he decided to stay here? Was that why he’d come to her place after the races? To tell her?
‘Cash or card?’ inquired Eighties Fringe.
Poppy pulled out her phone to tap the EFTPOS machine. If James was staying in Orange, what would that mean? Would they hang out? Would they booty call? Would they date ? Her imagination scarpered ahead: visions of him on her couch, grinning as he pulled her to his lap and kissed her neck; the teasing bump of his hip against her waist; the touch of his lips against her bare shoulder; their pinky fingers linked on the couch; his ankle draped over hers in bed. A smile spread over her face and something warm and golden pulsed through her arteries. Her life was full of jobs and lists and duties and pressures, of bills and groceries and nappies and milk, of dreams and fears and laughter and tears, her brain was overwhelmed, her body was hardly hers—but there was a tiny keyhole within her that was empty. Maybe that’s where James could fit.
At the checkout, the EFTPOS machine beeped. ‘I think your phone is broken,’ announced the cashier, pointing at Poppy’s phone, where a giant black stripe now covered half the screen. ‘Do you have your wallet?’
Poppy patted where her jean pockets were hiding under the hip strap of the BabyBjorn. Of course she wasn’t carrying her wallet. She hadn’t seen it in weeks. ‘Can I leave an IOU?’ she asked.
Eighties Fringe frowned. ‘What do you think this is? The eighties?’
Poppy was too stressed to appreciate the tragicomic irony. She looked helplessly at the reusable bags already filled with sixty-seven dollars’ worth of crap that was completely essential to surviving the next twenty-four hours. She did a frantic mental inventory of her pantry contents. She could eat Weet-Bix for dinner and forgo laundry until tomorrow, the no-toilet-paper situation would be an issue, but she could—
‘I can help,’ said a quiet voice. A willowy brunette brushed past her and pointed her credit card at the EFTPOS machine. ‘There,’ she said, her voice like a wind chime as the machine beeped authoritatively. ‘Done.’ She smiled at Poppy, her tiny diamond nose ring glinting under the strip lighting. Her skin was so youthful and bright it almost glowed.
Poppy looked around frantically. ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ she spluttered. A queue was forming behind them. ‘Can you do a refund?’ She patted her back pockets uselessly. ‘That’s so generous,’ she said to the girl, ‘but I can’t accept.’
‘Ahem,’ grumbled Eighties Fringe.
The girl shrugged. ‘It’s done. And if you make her refund it, it’ll be awkward for all of us, and it’s a small town, so we’ll never forget.’
‘I, er …’ stammered Poppy. Was that a threat?
‘I’m kidding!’ the girl said, smiling. ‘I have nieces. Things get busy, phones get broken and sometimes the smugly child-free need to step up and help out. This is my time to pay it forward. Honestly, don’t give it a second thought.’
Poppy felt the prickle of tears at her eyelids. ‘Thank you,’ she said, wishing she wasn’t wearing Maeve so she could hug this nose-ringed angel. ‘Truly. This means more than you can imagine.’