Page 66 of Kiwi Gold
“Feeding’s the only thing that works,” the mum said. Her shirt was milk-stained, her face was pale, and her hair didn’t look entirely combed. “He won’t take the dummy. He just spits it out and cries. And everybody keeps telling me that this is the magic time, and isn’t it lovely bonding with my baby, and I … sometimes he’s so dear, but other times, I don’t evenlikehim. He’s less than a week old! How can I not like my own baby? But I’m so … sotired.I thought you could take photos of him, and I could remind myself that I do love him, but he just … he just …” She was crying for real now.“Cries.”
I’d long since sat down on the couch beside her, and now, I took her hand. If new babies were fragile and tender, new mums were that way, too. Maybe there was a bigger change to make in your life, but I didn’t know what it would be. Joining the Army? That might do it, except that they let Army recruits sleep, didn’t they? I asked, “How does your partner feel about it?” Cautiously, because you never knew.
“He’s … working. And when he comes home, he’s tired, of course. Especially when Andy cries so much at night.” The mum, whose name was Paloma, dabbed at her nose and eyes with a tissue. “He says that his mum says it’s not nearly as hard as it’s made out to be, and that I just need to manage my time better and get Andy on a schedule. I tried, though. He won’tdoa schedule. And he won’t sleep at night, either. The only way is if I lie down with him on my tummy, and I’m so afraid that I’ll roll over and squash him, and …”
“Do you have anybody else at home to help you?” The baby’s screams had stopped, which meant he was asleep. I should be taking advantage of that to get the shots, but it was going to have to wait.
Paloma shook her head, still with the tissue at her nose. “My mum’s in the UK. My mum-in-law comes sometimes, but she …”
“But she holds the baby instead of hoovering the lounge,” I said, “and makes unhelpful comments on your piles of washing.”
Paloma laughed, and also cried some more. “How do you know?”
“I have twins. And if you can afford these photos, you can afford help.”
“My mother-in-law will say—”
“Yeh.” I cut her off. “I’m sure she will. That doesn’t mean she’s right. Ask your midwife to call round, and ask your husband to be there when she comes. Tell her you’re worried about postpartum depression. Tell him, too. Tell him he needs to be there.”
“Do you think that’s what’s … wrong?” she asked. “That it’s not just that I’m … a bad mum?” Some more weeping on that last bit.
“No,” I said. “I think you’ve got a needy baby and are recovering from childbirth, and you’re exhausted. But I also think you could end up with postpartum depression if you don’t look after yourself. I’ll tell you what. I’ll take these photos, and while I do it, you can ring an agency and get that help you need sorted.”
Paloma’s hands lay limp at her sides now, as if she didn’t have the energy to lift them. “I know I sound just … so awfullywet.Not the person I used to be. I feel like I’ve had an … a lobotomy. I can’t even think how to talk to my husband about this, or how to ring up. How to find somebody. I can’t think how to explain it. I can’t—”
I went over to the desk in the corner of the room and found a stack of business cards. “Here,” I said, handing one over. “Home care and housekeeping agency.” When she hesitated, I added, “Most new parents need help from somebody. Ask them for two or three shifts this week, and see if that doesn’t start to change things. They can get heaps done in ten hours, because theydon’t have a new baby. That’s a schedule that works.”
She hesitated, still, and said, “I should talk it over with my husband.”
You know those moments when your mouth opens and says something you absolutely didn’t intend it to? This was one, because I asked, “How much did you have budgeted for this? The photos?”
“We agreed on twelve hundred,” she said.
“Then plan to spend seven hundred,” I said. “And put the other five hundred toward the help you need. That’ll get you more than sorted for the next week or two, anyway, and let you rest and recover a bit.” I nodded at the card, and thought about those new school uniforms and shoes for the girls. “You can always buy more poses later,” I threw in, showing that I wasn’tthataltruistic.
We got the shots at last, and Paloma looked slightly more hopeful by the time she left, more than four hours from when she’d arrived. The baby was asleep in his carrier. He’d stayed helpfully asleep for all five poses I’d done, and he’d stay asleep now, I was willing to bet, exactly as long as it took his mum to drive home. Then she’d put him in his cot, moving so carefully, so quietly … and the second she did, he’d wake up and start screaming again.
How did I know? You’re thinking, “Because of Amira,” and you’d be exactly wrong. Amira had been a take-charge baby with some very firm ideas. I hadn’t put her on a schedule. She’d putmeon one. No, it was because of Yasmin. So sensitive to noise, to moods, that when I cried, on those nights when Kegan was in Patagonia—when I was alone and missing my mother and feeling, yes, like a failure whose washing was piled high, whose hair was still in a plait, whose poor abused nipples were sore and cracked, and who wasn’t just wearing a dressing gown at five P.M., she was wearing astaineddressing gown—on those nights, Yasmin would start crying, too. And then she’d wake up Amira, who wouldalsocry. Loudly. Yasmin had cried more. Amira had cried loudest.
Yes, it had definitely been me with the milk-stained jumpers and the flaking, reddened skin around my nose and the uncombed hair and the general sense of dragging exhaustion.
I might be drooping a bit even now, possibly because it was Thursday, and this morning’s babies had been twins, even smaller and more fragile than singletons, and I’d practically held my breath every time I’d posed them. Also, I hadn’t had the most restful week, what with our home renovations and all. Well, actually, also with some disturbingly erotic dreams that had me waking up aching and embarrassed, but that was another matter. Especially because of what was on my schedule tonight, which was Date Number Two.
Four things happened at once at that point. I opened the door between the studio and the flat, and the girls and Long John came tumbling inside with Priya behind them, as if they’d all been pressed up against that door and waiting for me to open it, like we were in a cartoon. Oriana said, “May I ask you a question? It may be a bit … personal.” My phone rang. And Date Number Two knocked at the front door.
* * *
Lachlan
I had to knock three times. After the second time, I checked my watch with a frown. Five-thirty on Thursday. That was what we’d agreed on. I texted Laila,Ready?And then knocked once more for good measure.
Some skittering feet that I recognized, and the door was opened to me by Amira and Long John. Long John wagged his entire back end furiously and generally got so excited once I started fondling his ears that I expected him to topple over on his tripod legs. As for Amira, she said, “Hello. Why are you going to the beach with Mummy and we don’t get to go?” and stared at me hard through her black spectacles. I could think of a few mining companies that might like to hire her as a foreman, because that was a bloody penetrating stare.
I said, “Who was that girl I took for ice blocks on Sunday? Wait, where was that?”
She giggled momentarily, but recovered herself enough to say, “That was onetimeat the beach, though, because you were helping with the project, and we had to wait to do the rout part.”
“The grout part,” I said. “Yeh. That was fun, eh.” It had been. The beach, for one. Laila hadn’t actually stripped down to her togs, but she’d worn a little white ribbed T-shirt with three buttons at the front and a knee-length navy-and-white striped skirt, the flippy kind a man liked. With, presumably, the togs underneath, because there’d been something black under that shirt, and it had had little straps.
