CHAPTER 45
A television droned in the background with tiny men in cricket whites dotting the screen. It was thirty-two degrees and Maeve had taken her first steps, stumbling the forty or so centimetres from the floral sofa to the arms of Poppy, sitting cross-legged on the carpet of her parents’ living room.
As Paul whooped, Chrissie had cried, ‘You go, girl!’ while Poppy dissolved into giggles and kissed her daughter’s head where a blonde crown of curls was starting to form. Her daughter would be one— one! —in less than a week. She couldn’t believe it. After the slog of those early days, when every hour had almost killed her, it now felt like it had been the most fulfilling year of her life. Sure, there had been some horrible lows—the sight of Mary’s empty house still brought tears to her eyes every day—but the highs of the last twelve months had been sky-scraping. It was like motherhood had a way of magnifying and amplifying everything. Tasks she would have done a thousand times pre-kids—brunch, shopping, exercising—were now the highlights of her days, things to be pored over in minute detail with Dani and her mum, dissected and unpacked so every last mote of enjoyment could be fully squeezed out. Even the crap things could become beautiful moments. It only took a giggle from Maeve to turn a nappy change into the most wondrous bonding experience. It was as if Maeve made everything phosphorescent.
Poppy twisted her daughter around to sit on her lap and picked up a slice of leftover Christmas cake from the plate on the coffee table. December 25 had come and gone in a flurry of ham and turkey and cranberry sauce, rounded out with her dad snoring on the couch after too many eggnogs. (He didn’t actually drink eggnog, but for some reason on Christmas Day he’d always declare he’d had too many.) It had just been the four of them, not a giant family-filled event like she knew James would be having at Burrendong, but it was the first Christmas the three generations of McKellars had spent together. They would make new family traditions with Maeve and—who knew?—maybe one day there would be another man joining her Dad for eggnog. Who knew how her family would grow in the future? Whatever happened, she was grateful for now.
In less than twenty-four hours, it would be a new year. April had invited her to come over and watch the fireworks on television, but in the end they’d both agreed they couldn’t be bothered staying up until midnight. Everyone knew New Year’s Eve was overrated unless you had someone to kiss, and this year she was glad of the excuse for an early night. She would get into her pyjamas and drift off to sleep and wake up with a clear head and a day full of potential.
Maeve was only having one nap a day now, so their schedule had changed again. Poppy hadn’t walked the golf course loop in a while, but that was okay—she was trying to create new habits to distract from the pain of not being able to rely on a kind word and a cup of tea from Mary. Instead, Poppy had filled their mornings with music lessons, kinder gym and coffees with the other mothers’ group girls. A new wholefoods cafe had opened with outdoor tables and giant shade cloths, so they’d been spending many mornings there to savour the vitamin D. With Maeve crawling, visits to The Bustle had become too difficult (the art and expensive homewares seemed to magnetically attract sticky-fingered babies). It meant she didn’t see Henry as much anymore, but that was okay too. She’d had brunch with him and Willa and April last Sunday, which had been surprisingly lovely. The ratio of four adults to two babies was a particular game-changer. Privately, April had asked Poppy if they could all hang out more often. When Poppy had needed to go to the bathroom, Willa had settled Maeve on her knee and played a game of peekaboo, this arrangement being infinitely preferable to balancing a wriggly baby on your lap while trying to pee. Henry had looked more like himself than Poppy had seen him in months. Willa was so calm and gentle but so bitingly witty, Poppy was in awe of her. They were planning to go to a yoga class together the following week.
The shadow of James was constant. Every time she passed the oak tree, she automatically checked to see if he was there. She wanted to know how he was doing but they’d agreed there would be no contact. She wondered if he was finding it as difficult as she was. She wasn’t miserable—there was so much to be thankful for—but there was room in her heart for him. He just wasn’t here.
Most days she was tempted to text him, but so far she’d stayed strong. She knew distance and time would heal her, so she needed to keep up her end of the bargain. Once they emerged from the weird void between Christmas and New Year, there would be lots to distract her.
The golf club mafia had found Maeve a spot in a lovely day care centre run by the daughter of a second cousin of a friend—or something like that. It wasn’t the newest or shiniest facility, but when Poppy and Maeve visited, the staff had been warm and engaged, and that was what Poppy needed: people to love her daughter while she was at work, loving her from a distance. She was already terrified at how the first drop-off would go but she figured she’d survive. (You couldn’t literally die from mum guilt, could you?) It would be gut-wrenching, but she needed to get a job to support her family, and she wanted to work, so this was another hurdle to add to the list—and after a year of hurdling like an Olympian, she knew she’d make it.
Maeve would start at day care in three weeks’ time. Poppy had ordered personalised labels for Maeve’s teeny clothes and had been carefully ironing them on, neatly parallel to the seam. It felt simultaneously both completely over-the-top and yet somehow completely appropriate. How else did you commemorate the start of day care if not with the religious labelling of soon-to-be lost or trashed clothing?
‘Any plans for tomorrow?’ asked Poppy’s dad.
‘None,’ replied Poppy. ‘Though you’re going to pop over, aren’t you, Mum? And I’m going to try to build Maeve a sandpit, so I’ll have to go to Bunnings, and then depending on how I go with the sandpit, April and her son might come around for a play.’
She’d been targeted on Instagram endlessly by a new flat-pack sandpit company, and it had got her thinking it would probably be good for Maeve to have a few more outdoor activities. It would be great for entertaining, too, which was one of her New Year’s resolutions: to make the most of her new friends by inviting them over. She didn’t fancy spending five hundred dollars on the Instagram version of a sandpit, but she reckoned with a few timber sleepers from Bunnings, a tarp and some bags of sand, she could rig up a passable version.
‘Maeve will enjoy that,’ said her mum. ‘I remember you loved the sandpit—mainly to eat the sand. You never got sick so I let you get on with it. Kids know what’s good for them.’
As if in agreement, Maeve plucked a leaf from the vase of flowers on the coffee table, inspected it thoughtfully then shoved it into her mouth.
‘See?’ said Chrissie. ‘She eats her greens like a good girl.’
Poppy smiled and tugged the leaf from her daughter’s lips. ‘It’ll be my first DIY project of the year.’
‘Setting the tone for another year of self-sufficiency,’ said her dad.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Poppy, an image of James in a tool belt flashing through her mind. She was waiting for time to fade her memories of him but it was as though her brain had carefully bottled and preserved every detail of him; his eyes, his smile, his warmth, how his hands felt on her skin. The distance and the silence were conspiring to make her miss him even more, but she knew this would pass. She just had to wait it out, focus on what was in front of her, keep making plans, keep ploughing ahead, and slowly, inexorably, James would fade to a hazy broad-shouldered silhouette on a horizon she’d long since left behind.
Poppy passed a slice of apple to Maeve, who was now licking the leg of the coffee table.
‘Do you want me to give you a hand?’ asked her dad.
‘Nah,’ replied Poppy. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard, according to the videos.’
‘Are you sure?’ pressed her mother. ‘If you break your arm carrying the timber around you won’t be able to start the new job, and that would be such a shame when I’ve just downloaded that app for Maeve’s day care on my phone. I’m already getting notifications.’
Poppy caught her dad’s eye. ‘Mum, I’ll be fine.’
‘Oh, I know, darling, but you young girls race around like busyness is a competitive sport, so just be careful. I’ve always said channelling the tortoise, not the hare, is the surest path to victory.’
Poppy smiled. ‘And what’s victory?’
Poppy’s parents glanced at each other and Poppy had the sense this was a conversation they’d had many times before. ‘Peace,’ her dad said simply.
‘That’s all we want, isn’t it?’ added her mum.
Peace . Her parents were right. That was all she wanted. She wasn’t a complicated girl. She just needed reassurance, love and a pat on the back occasionally. It was simple really. Her love language was cups of tea and punny jokes. She might never find someone to share those knowing looks with, but that was fine. There were other ways she could fill her cup. Family time was one of them.
She turned back to her parents and smiled. ‘How did you two get so wise?’
Her mum opened her mouth but her dad cut in before she could speak. ‘Maeve and I have been watching a lot of Judge Judy ,’ he said.