Page 12 of Special Delivery
‘You okay?’ asked James, examining her with those dark eyes.
He moved to the side of the bed next to the crib. The baby was sleeping deeply, oblivious to everything around her. James smiled. Without the haze of contractions, Poppy could see the fatigue in his face.
‘Yes, I’m good … good,’ she repeated, nodding her head. Was she good? She couldn’t tell. She felt okay at this precise moment, with a sleeping baby and the relief of no pain and an expert at her side in case things went wrong, but would she be okay if any one of those variables changed?
It didn’t help that an inconvenient undercurrent of guilt was swelling, starting to course through her veins like a virus. She should tell Patrick about this. It was a pretty big deal, if not the biggest deal he’d ever encounter. He would know the news was imminent. He might be selfish, but he wasn’t an idiot.
She’d been planning this conversation for seven months. How she’d coolly inform him that he had a child, and that no, even if he did want to get back together, she wasn’t so sure. He deserved to sweat a little. She fully expected him to argue back. As a benevolent compromise, she’d decided she would allow joint holidays and visits every weekend. They could build up from there.
The problem was, in among all this scheming for imaginary confrontations, Poppy had a growing fear that it might amount to zilch. Despite all her expectations that he’d try and win herback, Patrick had hardly contacted her since the breakup. There had been one cursory text to point out her due date clashed with the Sydney Test and that had been it. It was both embarrassing and unsettling. Had they grown apart or had she never really known him? At uni, she knew he’d been the party guy. By the time they’d met, he was the career guy who worked hard and partied harder. Travelling, he was the guy who’d befriend the locals and next minute you were sitting in some old nonna’s house eating fresh pappardelle and doing shots of homemade grappa. But was that Patrick or a high-energy facade?
James coughed and Poppy realised she must have been staring. He checked his watch. ‘I’m going home now.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Poppy, remembering they weren’t actually friends. Why would he stick around and keep her company? That whole truce during labour had been a purely functional midwife–patient relationship thing.
‘Right then, bye.’ He raised his hand in an awkward wave. ‘Becky will be here if you need anything.’
As he closed the door, Poppy lay down on the bed and rolled onto her stomach. The weight of her exhaustion washed over her, pushing her deeper into the foam mattress. Never again would she take sleeping on her stomach for granted. Her eyelids fluttered and closed as though weighted down by every muscle she’d used in the last twenty-four hours. She took a deep breath and a sigh seeped from her lips. For a moment, everything was still. There was no energy left in her body. A leaden, dreamless sleep was beckoning.
On the trolley table, something buzzed. Poppy cracked an eyelid. If it was her mother, she would kill her. She grabbedher phone and saw a photo of a grinning brunette with the bone structure of a Filipina princess.
‘PARPEEEEE! My beautiful, beautiful girl,’ Dani cried, half-sobbing, her serious mode fully activated. ‘I just got your text. Tell me everything!’
Poppy smiled. She may suffer from acute verbal diarrhoea more than was healthy, but with Dani as her audience, she was a master storyteller. Everyday chores could become comical inside jokes and disasters became hilarious sitcoms to be pored over in side-splitting detail—and the last six hours had the makings of anSNLChristmas special.
‘Dani, old girl,’ she began auspiciously, ‘you are going to wet your frickin pants.’
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 spellingMAEVE.
‘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 loopedhis 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.
