Page 35 of Special Delivery
‘Ooh’. The group winced in sympathy.
‘Sell it on Marketplace?’ suggested one mum.
‘Sellhim,’ suggested another.
The table laughed and at that moment, Maeve let out the scream that Poppy felt. She had to find a way to be more chill about husband jokes but she hadn’t worked out how. She shook her keys in front of her daughter, trying to shake off her suffocating awkwardness. Could they tell she was a single mum? For some reason, she felt she should keep that detail quiet.
As the conversation continued, Poppy cycled through a combination of breastfeeding, knee-jiggling, back-patting and key-shaking. Nothing worked. Maeve continued to oscillate between disgruntled whingeing and outright shrieking. Shoppers and coffee-drinkers jerked their eyes towards her, probably thinking,Shut that kid up.
I’m trying, Poppy wanted to cry.
Maeve was normally a straightforward baby but nothing was making sense today. People often said marketing was an imprecise science but Poppy knew that world like a chemist knows a periodic table. She could drill down into those market segments and find the missing links, the answers to the CEO’s questions, the untapped opportunities. There was no problem that didn’t have a definitive solution.
As Maeve continued to wail inconsolably on her lap, Poppy made ineffectual shushing noises. She couldn’t hear herselfthink, let alone follow a conversation. Her eyes lost focus, the colourful art on the walls merging into a hazy kaleidoscope. If she blinked for too long, she might fall asleep. She suddenly wished that for a moment—just one moment—someone else could hold Maeve; that someone would see her confusion and fatigue and know how to help. That was all she wanted. Just a moment to herself. She didn’t even need to go to the toilet. She just wanted to stand up and stretch her legs, arch her back and flex her fingers without the weight of another human barnacled to her body.
Poppy stared at her now-cold coffee. The women sitting around her wouldn’t think to offer. They had their own babies to hold. With husbands and partners at home, a cafe jaunt with bub was probably a treat: more one-on-one time! The guilt lanced Poppy’s heart like a poison dart. She loved the one-on-one time. Really, she did. But god, she was tired. She was so, so tired.
The pressure of the last few weeks had been building. Every day she’d been doing it by herself—feeding Maeve, swaddling and re-swaddling, changing nappies, making sure they both got fresh air, searching for jobs, making dinners, vacuuming, hanging out the washing, sweeping the verandah—and this was what no-one seemed to fully grasp: she was doing itby herself. Her mum and Dani and Mary would say things like,You’re doing so well,Maeve is so lucky,You should be so proud, but what she needed was someone whoreallygot it, who really understood the mind-warping hamster wheel, who could feel in their bones how terrifying and exhausting it was, and shewanted them to say,What you are doing is so hard and you deserve a fucking medal.
That’s why, when the fellow mums collectively decided to dismantle the pram blockade and head home, Poppy felt the hormones threatening to engulf her yet again. She was going home—alone, like always—to clean her house for a FaceTime date with a man who still didn’t know he shared a nose with his daughter.
When April gave her a firm hug goodbye and quietly whispered, ‘You’ve got this,’ it took all Poppy’s remaining courage to lie and blame unseasonal hay fever for her watery eyes. She thought her laughter had masked her helplessness, but of course they could spot it: she stuck out like a sore thumb. She wasn’t like these mums at all.
CHAPTER 16
Poppy turned a slow three hundred and sixty degrees and exhaled. Who knew you could clean an entire three-bedroom house while wearing a three-month-old? She could be hired as a back-up dancer and tour the world; she had the core strength of a stripper!
The floors were mopped and vacuumed, the toothpaste spit had been scrubbed off the bathroom mirror and she’d degreased the shit out of the stovetop. It was a scene fromThe Stepford Wives, minus the dystopian robots. She wasn’t sure whether the clean grout would be visible to the naked FaceTime eye, but hopefully the cumulative shininess would create an aura of domestic bliss. At the very least, the cleaning had been a distraction from her anxiety.
By the time Poppy settled onto the couch in a shirt she’d spontaneously ironed, Maeve—who sat on her lap—had even deigned to stop crying. She tapped her phone and the FaceTime dial tone jingled through the living room before a giant smile filled the screen.
‘Hey, Mum.’ At least, she assumed it was her mum. She couldn’t tell under the blowfly sunnies and face-scaldingly-pink visor.
‘Darling, how are you? Have you washed your hair? You look lovely.’
‘Yep.’ Poppy swelled with pride. ‘And Maeve is wearing the new outfit you bought her.’
‘Oh, good girl. It’s pure wool so make sure it doesn’t go into the hot wash pile.’ (Poppy made a mental note to commence the adult practice of separating her laundry. Maybe after she finished the ironing. Ha!) ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘No reason,’ lied Poppy. ‘Just wanted to show you Maeve in her outfit.’
‘Oh, thank you, darling. I’m just about to tee off for Twilights but should I pop over afterwards?’
‘No thanks, Mum.’ (Who knew how long they’d be on the phone to Patrick? There was a lot to catch up on.) ‘Good luck with the bunkers. I’ll chat to you later.’
Her mum rang off, and Poppy re-hoisted Maeve on her lap and relaxed her jaw into a breezy smile. She’d left nothing to chance. This was it.
The FaceTime dial tone filled the room again, and Poppy and Maeve stared at their faces on the screen, Poppy noting with satisfaction that her experimental contouring had dulled the black circles under her eyes. She couldn’t wait for Maeve’s eyes to blink in surprise when Patrick’s face popped up. Finally, her daughter was going to have a father—on screen, if nothing else. This was a momentous day.
Regardless of how the conversation went, Poppy had resolved to be positive. Today wasn’t the day to confrontPatrick about his hurtful behaviour. She’d ease into that conversation after a few more FaceTime chats. Confrontation had never been her strong point and she didn’t want to lash out during Maeve’s first meeting with her dad. Kids ended up in therapy for much less.
The dial tone rang out.
Poppy checked her watch. She had purposefully waited until 4.30 pm to call. Patrick ritually moved to the pub by 4.30 pm on Fridays. She decided to try again. Maybe he was still in the elevator.
It rang out again.
Frowning, Poppy opened up her text thread. His message had definitely saidK—she hadn’t imagined that. And surely that was short for ‘OK’? Poppy checked her watch again. She’d try in ten minutes. Maybe he had a new boss and had been held up in a meeting.
