Page 14 of Special Delivery
‘Have you spoken to—’
‘Dani, yes,’ interrupted Poppy, knowing that was definitely not where her mother was heading with that question. ‘I’ve spoken to her a few times.’
They continued on in silence. She’d tried to call Patrick on her first night in hospital but he hadn’t answered. She’d stared at the phone for a full fifteen minutes afterwards waiting for it to ring. She’d seen Patrick walk out of funerals to take a business call, but after fifteen agonising minutes she realised with a white-hot pain that he wasn’t calling back. At a loss for what to do, she’d texted him a photo of Maeve wrapped in a pink blanket in her perspex bassinet. A message came back almost instantly:She’s beautiful Pops! Just like her mother.
That was it. No promise to call back, no questions about how she was feeling, no questions about the weight or height or labour. He didn’t even ask her name, for god’s sake. It was a message you’d send to anyone who’d had a baby. Poppy had buried her head into her pillow and cried herself to sleep.
Now, as she traipsed gingerly around the parched suburb with her mum beside her, Poppy tried to settle her thoughts.Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. She needed a goal.
Obviously she had to get a job. She didn’t have to worry about money yet—her maternity leave payments would run out eventually but her savings would see her through for another twelve months, and she could always move back in with her parents if she got really stuck—but finding a job would help ward off any anxiety about impending doom (aka moving back in with her parents).
She also needed to meet people. She could not survive in this town with only her mum and dad for company. All the conversations about Rockmans would test her mental fortitude more than a surprise pregnancy.
So, okay, she needed a job and friends. Jesus, they were not small things. Maybe she needed a different goal, something with more straightforward, actionable steps. French lessons, maybe? A coding course, perhaps?
The pram bumped over a tree root and Poppy flinched. Maeve was unperturbed, which was strange because the pram had really jolted. Poppy peered at the wheels. Maybe the suspension on the pram was faulty. She made a mental note to double-check the promo video on YouTube and compare it with how her pram was functioning. If she had been ripped off, she should probably write a letter to the CEO. With whole days stretching out before her with nothing to do, she’d have to keep herself busy somehow.
The pram rolled along in front of her and the realisation hit her like a semitrailer. That should be her goal:being a good mother. How embarrassing she hadn’t thought of thatbefore. Thank god no-one could read her thoughts. What kind of mother forgot to prioritise mothering?! She’d assumed it would be automatic (i.e. birth baby > undergo maternal transformation), but her brain was still in young-and-dumb mode—though she was way more dumb than young.
Poppy cleared her throat. ‘Mum, will I ever feel confident about this?’
Her mother smiled cheerfully. ‘Never, darling. This is a life sentence.’
CHAPTER 8
Maeve was dressed in a floral onesie that covered her feet and hands. Yes, she was tiny and divine and smelled like heaven in human form, but good god, this child washers. After twenty-four hours at home, twenty of which she’d spent alone (apart from Maeve), the reality of her circumstances were beginning to sink in. Unlike her two nights in hospital, where she’d slept under the leaden weight of exhaustion, last night she’d barely rested at all, springing up at Maeve’s every sound, nervously checking the swaddling wasn’t tangled and waiting for her eyes to adjust in the darkness so she could watch for the minuscule rise and fall of Maeve’s chest. It wasn’t just tiredness. She felt like she’d ridden three roller-coasters back to back and was still waiting for her insides to settle.
Poppy considered the installation of half-drunk tea mugs littering her hard surfaces; an affecting portrait of modern motherhood. The bassinet was parked in a shaded cornerof the kitchen with Maeve happily sleeping inside, but even this was cause for anxiety: she was supposed to sleep while the baby slept! But it was only 10 am. Her circadian rhythm hadn’t adjusted yet. When would that happen? Day five?
A knock rattled the door and Poppy jumped. Any unanticipated sound—no matter the volume—now prompted a visceral reaction. She glanced anxiously at Maeve but her daughter didn’t stir.
‘Coming!’ she whispered, checking her maternity bra was clipped up as she hurried to the door. The unpacking of the dishwasher would have to wait. Again.
A pair of broad shoulders was visible through the opaque glass.Oh crap. She’d expected Wenda would do her home visits, not James.
Annoyed, she opened the door.
‘What?’ asked James, and Poppy realised her nose was crinkled as she looked him up and down. He was carrying a backpack and wearing jeans and a white polo; an outfit that was uncannily reminiscent of a standard-issue Ken doll.
‘I was expecting Wenda.’
James gave an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘I already had a personal engagement in this street so I figured I should swing by. May I?’ He gestured inside.
Poppy turned and led him to the kitchen. ‘Would you, er, like a cup of tea?’ she asked, vaguely wondering if she should have baked something. Also—what kind of ‘personal engagement’ could he have had in this cul-de-sac? Did he moonlight as a fax machine salesman?
‘No,’ James said curtly. ‘This isn’t a social call; I’m working.’
Poppy glowered. Did he not understand common courtesy? She wished shehadbaked something, so she could have sneezed on it.
James glanced around the kitchen, seemed dissatisfied, then walked to the living area, talking over his shoulder. ‘I need to ask you a few questions, check your stomach, then I’ll weigh Maeve. Understand?’
Poppy nodded, feeling her mouth curl in disgust. He didn’t need to speak to her like she was thick. It was unfortunate that the kitchen looked like a bombsite and she’d gone batshit crazy during labour, but they were hardly reasons to doubt her mental capacity. There had been extenuating circumstances.
James pulled a clipboard from his backpack and sat on the sofa. ‘How was last night?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ replied Poppy irritably. She sat at the opposite end of the couch.
‘I’ll need more information than that.’
