Page 108 of Special Delivery
Henry jerked his head up. ‘What?’
Willa waved airily. ‘Tech issues, a passive-aggressive checkout chick … don’t worry, we sorted it.’
Henry’s laugh was stilted. ‘Do I want to know more?’
‘Nope,’ said Willa. ‘We’re going to get along great, so you can stop directing your nervous energy into your knife skills. You look like Uma Thurman fromKill Billand your ears are so red they’re about to combust.’ She tugged on his earlobe playfully as she walked past to open the fridge. ‘Wine, Poppy?’
Poppy smiled. ‘Love one.’ If these first minutes were anything to go by, the giant elephant thundering in her chest could take a nap. No stampeding anxiousness required here.
In the living room, Poppy greeted Henry’s parents and her own. Both mothers stood up immediately to fawn over Maeve and the fathers raised their beer bottles in a silent welcome. It was jarring to see Henry’s parents looking so much older than she remembered, but that was life, she guessed. They were probably thinking the same about her.
Poppy, Henry and Willa sat down to dinner at the kids’ end (as they all automatically called it) with Maeve in a highchair. As they passed the salads across the table, Poppy learned that Willa was a natural conversationalist. She was captivating, self-deprecating, she asked about motherhood and Taylor Swift’s back catalogue, she had opinions on RAM drivers and regional healthcare, and segued seamlessly from Kanye West to European politics with an easy charm. Poppy was enthralled.
Henry was too. Poppy could tell by the way he caught Willa’s eye to emphasise a point and knocked his head gentlyagainst hers when she teased him. He kept one arm slung over the back of her chair the whole night, and Poppy had the impression of witnessing something intensely intimate as they recounted the story of his proposal, and she noticed his fingers slide reflexively across her shoulder and settle there casually, like they’d apparently done countless times before.
The night after the races was an aeon ago. Who had they even been pretending to be that night? This table in front of them—with roast potatoes, tossed salads, homemade mint jelly and lamb from the butcher down the road—this was real life. Eating a meal with old friends and new ones, her parents and daughter, this was a tableau she wanted to recreate again and again.
Her mind drifted to James, how easily he’d fit in here with his knee against hers, laughing at their jokes, telling his own, picking up the rattle Maeve insisted on throwing to the floor, catching her eye and winking when no-one else was looking. The tiny keyhole inside her was still empty. It wasn’t depression or sadness; it was just a hollow. But there was nothing more she could do. He’d made his decision, she’d made hers and they didn’t align. Maybe one day their two paths would converge, but—and this was the thing she had to remind herself every day when she woke up and longed for his body next to hers—that was un-bloody-likely. He was a wonderful guy moving to a city of five million people, half of them female. People didn’t find the love of their life in dusty hospital car parks. They found them in cool speakeasy bars with dim lighting and sexy playlists. They found them in lecture halls and libraries and after-work-drinks haunts, where common interests drew themtogether like magnets. Big cities were where big love stories were made. James would meet a model in a dive bar or a megababe in surgical scrubs. The odds were unspeakably strong.
Dinner passed quickly, and before she knew it Poppy was waking Maeve from the portacot in the spare room and carrying her daughter, heavy with sleep, to the car. Henry walked her out while inside the others put the wineglasses in the dishwasher and cling-wrapped the leftovers.
‘Thanks for coming, Pops. I appreciate you being so—’
‘Least I could do,’ interrupted Poppy, knowing exactly what Henry wanted to say. ‘Willa is awesome,’ she added. ‘I’m so happy for you, Hen.’
‘Thanks, Pops. That means a lot.’
They looked at each other and smiled. There was so much in their smiles—joy, pain, sadness, understanding. Poppy knew it, and she knew Henry knew it. They were growing up. They weren’t teenagers anymore and they were doing their best to grab adulthood with both hands. It would never be simple but they were both getting better at it. It helped that they had each other’s back.
Poppy pulled her key out of her pocket and clicked the button to unlock the car. Henry pulled the back door open and Poppy slid her daughter into her car seat. Maeve grunted contentedly, her eyelids weighed down with sleep.
‘You okay getting her home by yourself?’ asked Henry.
Poppy smiled. ‘I’m used to it.’
She climbed into the car, put the key in the ignition and waved goodbye. It wasn’t the last time she’d do this by herself and she was learning to be okay with that.
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 asdifficult 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 shewantedto 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.
