The Family Way

by Tony Parsons

It was Megan that Jessica worried about.

  Like a little bird, Cat thought.

  Jessica cradled the baby in one arm, and with the other fed her with a small bottle containing a mere drizzle of milk. With her eyes closed, and her surprisingly large mouth wide open – Poppy’s mouth was the only big thing about her – Cat thought she looked like a newborn bird in the nest, waiting for its worm.

  ‘There’s nothing of her, is there?’ Cat said. ‘She’s hardly here at all.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Poppy,’ Jessica said. ‘She’s a tough little bugger.’

  ‘Shouldn’t Megan be breast-feeding her? Isn’t that better for them?’

  ‘Poppy’s too small to breast-feed. She can’t do that sucking thing. Can you, darling?’

  The baby had fallen asleep, her mouth still attached to the teat of the bottle, her miniature tummy already full. Jessica gently pulled the bottle, and it came away from the baby’s fleshy mouth with a quiet plop.

  Cat stroked the soft down on Poppy’s face, as if afraid to wake her, or perhaps break her. And again she felt it – a sense of complete wonder at this everyday miracle.

  ‘How’s Megan doing?’ Jessica said.

  Cat shook her head. ‘She looks like she’s been through the mill. I thought that a Caesarean was meant to be the easy option – too posh to push, and all of that. They really sliced her open, didn’t they?’

  ‘A Caesarean is major abdominal surgery,’ Jessica said, repeating one of Mr Stewart’s favourite lines.

  ‘It was a lot more like a scene from Alien than I had been expecting.’

  The two sisters watched the sleeping baby in silence. Then Jessica quietly said, ‘I thought I would feel terrible when I held her. I thought I would come undone. Because Megan had a baby, and I didn’t. But look at her – how could you feel anything bad when you hold her in your arms? How could this baby make you feel anything negative? And she’s not an idea of a baby any more, is she? There’s nothing, you know, theoretical about her. She’s undeniably Poppy. She’s not some abstract notion. She’s Poppy Jewell and she’s here to stay. Here, take her for a while.’

  Cat awkwardly took the baby.

  She wasn’t as comfortable holding her niece as Jessica. Not because she was afraid of dropping Poppy on her head – although that was a part of it – but because, unlike Jessica, the feelings the baby stirred threatened to overwhelm her. Who would have believed that was possible? That Jessica would take the birth in her stride, and Cat would be the one who felt the world change?

  When Cat held the baby she felt a physical yearning more powerful than any craving she had ever known. It was stronger than any desire she had ever felt for any lover, or job, or possession.

  She held a baby so small that it was hardly there at all, and she wanted one of her own. It was mad – what would she do with it? Where would she stick it? Where would it sleep?

  But she couldn’t help herself. It felt like she had wasted so many years on things that didn’t matter. The pursuit of pleasure and money, the endless, ridiculous yearnings for a better car and a bigger flat, all that time devoted to her latest wants and needs.

  I am thirty-six years old, she thought, with her niece in her arms, feeling like she weighed not four pounds, but nothing. I am nearer to forty than thirty, and I am not going to die without one day holding a baby of my own.

  All she needed now was – what was it again?

  Oh, yes. A man.

  Outside the Intensive Care Unit, Olivia Jewell stood in the twilight of the corridor, watching them through the glass. Her two oldest daughters, passing her youngest daughter’s baby – Olivia’s first grandchild – between them as if they might break her.

  The baby was wrapped up like an Eskimo. But as far as Olivia could tell, it was an ugly little bastard. In her experience, all babies were repulsive. But the squashed little puss on this one could curdle milk.

  It was different when they were bigger. She had no doubt that she had produced the three most beautiful little girls of all time. But even then they were still a 24-hour job. That was the trouble with children – you couldn’t just dress them up and look at them. They kept wanting things from you.

  But, oh, she thought of how her daughters looked just before she left – the long-limbed eleven-year-old, the impossibly cute seven-year-old, the pot-bellied three-year-old – and something inside Olivia, something she had long believed dead, began to ache. Then somebody spoke and it was gone.

  ‘Can I help you, dear?’ said the nurse on the desk. ‘Just looking,’ said Olivia Jewell.

  ‘He’s got a baby girl,’ Paulo said to the barmaid, at that point in the evening where a man starts freely addressing barmaids. ‘Poppy. She’s called Poppy. She’s a little cracker.’

  Kirk grinned with pride, reaching for his glass. But it was already empty.

  ‘She is, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘She’s a little cracker!’

  ‘Congratulations,’ smiled the barmaid. Tall, blonde, early thirties. She wiped a wet cloth across the bar. ‘Wait until she starts screaming at three in the morning. And again at four. And again at five. See if she’s a little cracker then.’

  They watched her walk away.

  ‘You wouldn’t think she had children,’ Kirk said.

  ‘You can’t always tell if they’ve got children,’ Paulo said. ‘That’s what I noticed.’

  ‘I want her to have a good life. I want her to be the healthy, outdoor type. Not like most of these kids today. Fat. Drugs. I want her to learn to dive! Do you know what we’re going to do when she’s old enough? We’re going to swim with dolphins. She’ll love that. Poppy will love that.’

  ‘Here’s to you, mate. The three of you.’

  ‘The three of us,’ Kirk said, contemplating his empty glass. ‘Yes. I’m a father. I can’t believe it. What do I know about being a dad?’

  ‘You’ll pick it up. How’s Megan? How’s the mum?’

  ‘She’s great. She’s good. She’s – well – quiet. Not saying very much.’

  ‘Adjusting. Adjusting to the idea of being a mother.’

  Kirk paused, and Paulo was aware that – beyond the euphoria, beyond the beer – this man considered him a stranger. But tonight he had nobody else to talk to.

  ‘She’s been through a lot. The pre-eclampsia. All those tests. Not knowing when the baby was going to come. The Caesarean. Jesus – they opened her up like a can of corned beef. Although he’s supposed to be very good. Mr Stewart. Leaves a good scar, they say. You hardly know it’s there, apparently. And now Poppy is in that incubator. Megan – I don’t know. She looks like she’s been knocked sideways. Knocked flat and can’t get up. Between you and me, I sort of thought she might be a bit happier than this.’

  ‘Still adjusting,’ Paulo said. He could not comprehend that a woman could give birth and then not be the happiest woman alive. He waved to the barmaid. ‘Can we get a couple of beers over here, please?’

  ‘But what did I expect?’ Kirk said. ‘We’re not like you and your wife. We’re not close. Megan hardly knows me.’

  The barmaid placed the beers in front of them. ‘Wait until the baby gets colic,’ she said.

  ‘Give it time. Megan’s young. The youngest sister.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s young. But she’s not so young. I mean, our grandparents and our parents wouldn’t have thought that twenty-eight was too young to have a baby, would they? They would have thought that was leaving it a bit late.’

  Paulo thought about it. ‘I guess my mum and dad were middle-aged when they were twenty-eight.’

  ‘It’s funny. These days people don’t really have children in – what do you call it? – their child-bearing years.’

  ‘True enough. Look at Kylie Minogue. Your countrywoman.’

  ‘God bless her, mate.’

  ‘Widely considered to be one of the most desirable women on the planet. But Kylie is – what? Middle thirties?’

  ‘If she’s a day.’

  ‘Kylie loo
ks fantastic. I’ll grant you that. I bow to no man in my – you know. Anyway. A woman in the prime of her life. No one’s disputing it. But you have to wonder about her eggs.’

  ‘Kylie Minogue’s eggs?’

  Paulo nodded. ‘Kylie Minogue’s eggs are no spring chickens. In egg terms, they are well into middle age. Do you know what happens to a woman’s eggs after the age of thirty-five? It’s not good news. That’s what all the bum wiggling is about. Kylie doesn’t want a number one record. She wants a baby. But she can’t find the right man.’

  ‘That’s the big dilemma for these modern girls, isn’t it?’ Kirk said, reaching for his beer. ‘They spend their child-bearing years with guys they don’t like very much.’

  The barmaid collected their glasses, wiped a desultory cloth in front of them.

  ‘Wait until she starts teething,’ she said.

  After they had taken the baby away, they gave Megan a photograph. The picture was slotted into a white card with the words, My name is—and I weigh—, printed on it. Someone had written Poppy in the space for a name, but the weight was left blank. Nothing to boast about there, thought Megan.

  In the photograph Poppy looked ancient – a wrinkled little old man wrapped up in winter clothes. And Megan thought, you poor little thing. Who are you?

  There was a light rap on the door and her mother’s heavily made-up face appeared.

  ‘Anybody home?’ said Olivia.

  ‘Did you see the baby?’

  ‘I looked in. Briefly. She’s absolutely gorgeous.’ She touched her daughter’s arm, carefully avoiding the IV drip that was pumping her full of morphine. ‘And how are you, Megan?’

  ‘My scar itches.’

  Olivia stared at Megan’s midriff. ‘I do hope it’s well below your bikini line.’

  ‘I think it will be a while before I wear a bikini, Mother. Shuffling to the toilet feels like the long march.’

  ‘What’s the matter, darling? Feeling a bit down? Touch of the baby blues?’

  Megan shook her head. That was the problem. She didn’t really know what the matter was, although she knew it was something to do with failing. She wasn’t used to failure.

  ‘I always imagined I would have a natural birth. A Caesarean – it’s so hard. They take away your baby. They pump you full of drugs. They cut you open. And it hurts like fucking hell.’

  ‘Don’t get too sentimental about the other kind of birth. I had all three of you out of the standard route. There’s nothing particularly magical about having stitches in your puss.’

  ‘Do you really have to say “puss”?’

  ‘Oh, all right then – fanny. Are you breast-feeding?’

  ‘She’s too small. And I’m not really producing enough milk.’ Megan indicated a machine by the side of the bed, fitted with what looked like some kind of vacuum cleaner nozzle. ‘I express milk.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Express milk.’

  ‘What – you mean, pump it out of your tits and then they give it to her in a bottle?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Isn’t science wonderful? I breast-fed Cat and the little cow almost chewed off my nipples. I swear all our problems start from the time she mistook my nipple for a Farley’s Rusk.’

  Megan laughed. Only her mother’s brand of humour could make her smile in this place.

  ‘It’s not the pain I mind. Or the scar. Or even that they took Poppy away and put her in an incubator. It’s that everybody expects me to suddenly be a different person. And I can’t feel it.’

  ‘I know what you mean, dear. We’re meant to turn into a breast-feeding, nappy-changing earth mother as soon as we drop our first brat. No offence to little Poppet, darling.’

  ‘Poppy.’

  ‘Poppy. Of course. Men are allowed to turn their paternal feelings on and off at will. But it’s meant to come naturally to us. They expect you to become as selfless as Mother Teresa just because you got knocked up the duff.’ Olivia leant close to her daughter, lowering her voice, as if they were sharing some blasphemy. ‘Let me tell you, there’s nothing remotely natural about giving your life up for another human being. But cheer up – the first eighteen years are the worst.’

  ‘But that’s you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘And I don’t want to see my child as some kind of inconvenience, or chore, or bore. I want to love her the way she deserves to be loved. But – I have a baby, and yet I don’t feel like a mother.’

  ‘Then you’re like me,’ said Olivia, with a note of triumph. ‘And there’s nothing you can do about it.’

  Suddenly Olivia’s entire body seemed to squirm with pain.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Megan said.

  Olivia rubbed her arm. ‘Nothing, dear. I’ve been getting these flashes up and down my left arm. It’s just old age. Well, middle age.’

  ‘You should get a doctor to look at that.’

  There was another knock on the door and Megan choked up when her father’s familiar smiling face came into the room, partially obscured by flowers and a large, heart-shaped box of chocolates.

  ‘My baby,’ Jack said, hugging his daughter, and she moaned with pain. ‘My God! Sorry!’

  ‘It’s just my stitches, Dad. They’re still a bit raw.’

  Jack gave his ex-wife a smile that showed no hint of animosity, or history. Actors, thought Megan.

  ‘Olivia, isn’t this a wonderful day?’

  ‘Hello, Jack. Can you believe it? We’re grandparents. Doesn’t that make you feel like going out and slashing your wrists?’

  ‘No, it makes me feel bloody marvellous, actually.’ He turned to Megan. ‘And we saw her – Poppy. She’s so beautiful! A bit small, of course, but she’ll catch up.’

  Megan hid in her father’s arms, pressing her face against his chest. This was what she needed. Somebody to tell her that it would be all right in the end. Suddenly she realised that her father was not alone. He was accompanied by a tall, smiling redhead around her own age. Megan peeked out at the woman, not understanding, half expecting her to say she was going to take Megan’s blood pressure and give her some painkillers.

  ‘I’m Hannah,’ said the redhead. ‘Congratulations, Megan. She’s a little princess. Don’t worry – I was born two months early, and I’m just under six feet.’

  Megan stared at this Hannah with gratitude. It was the best news she had heard all day.

  Olivia was contemplating the tall redhead.

  ‘Hannah did hair on the movie,’ Jack said.

  ‘That’s how you met?’ Olivia said. ‘You were touching up Jack’s thinning rug? How romantic.’

  ‘Mother,’ Megan said.

  ‘You look so good together,’ Olivia said. ‘Even though you’re young enough to be his – what’s the word I’m looking for?’

  ‘And you’re old enough to keep a civil tongue in your surgically enhanced head,’ Jack said.

  ‘Stop it!’ said Megan. ‘My stomach’s just been cut open, I’m up to my eyes with drugs, I only just stopped pissing through a tube – and all you can think about is this tired old shit that’s been dragging on for years. Leave it alone, can’t you? For one day at least.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse my daughter,’ Olivia said to Hannah, as she got up to go. ‘She’s not herself today. She’s just had a baby.’

  Eventually they all went home, even Jessica and Cat, and there was only Megan, wide awake in her room, and Poppy, somewhere in the building high above her, sleeping in her incubator in the Intensive Care Unit, guarded by a stuffed monkey twice her size.

  The ICU never closed. The nurses on the night shift were happy for Megan to shuffle up there, rolling her IV drip by her side, and to sit watching her baby sleep. In many ways, the ICU at night was a far more relaxed place than during the day, when it was full of consultants and doctors and friends and family. Megan certainly preferred it at night, because she didn’t have to wear her brave and cheerful mask.

  ‘Do you want to do her
three o’clock feed?’ a Chinese nurse asked Megan.

  Megan shook her head, pulling her dressing gown tighter. ‘You do it, you’re better than me.’

  The nurse contemplated Megan with her cat eyes. ‘It’s good for you to do it. Both of you.’

  So Megan let the nurse fish Poppy from her plastic box, but then she cradled the baby in her arms and eased the bottle’s teat between her lips. There seemed to be a pitiful amount of milk in the bottle. Her milk supply seemed to be running dry.

  Megan, who had always been so capable, who had sailed through everything life had confronted her with – her parents’ divorce, medical school, all those exams beyond counting – felt the tears spring to her eyes and thought to herself, can’t I do anything right?

  She held the baby, gently tilting the bottle, until Poppy moaned with exhaustion and her head lolled away, her woolly cap falling over her face.

  ‘That’s enough for now,’ said the nurse.

  Megan pulled the bottle away. And then it happened.

  Poppy smiled.

  The corners of her wide, little mouth turned up, and for a few shocking moments she bared her newly minted gums. A smile! A smile from her daughter!

  ‘Did you see that?’ Megan asked.

  ‘See what?’ said the nurse.

  ‘She smiled at me!’

  The nurse frowned. ‘Probably just the wind.’

  The wind, thought Megan. A combination of gas and milk trapped in that stomach the size of a thimble. Or a physical coincidence – a grimace of discomfort or exhaustion that merely resembled a smile. No, Megan couldn’t believe any of that.

  She would call it a smile.

  Seventeen

  Rory saw Cat enter the karate dojo as quietly as she could and the thing he noticed immediately was that she had tried to make herself look more beautiful.

  High heels, lipstick, a special dress. This wasn’t the Cat he knew. This was someone who thought she had to make an extra effort tonight.

  He was surprised to see her, in here of all places. He realised he was not particularly happy that she thought she could suddenly turn up at his place of work unannounced. But these efforts to make herself look more beautiful pulled at his heart, and filled him with an enormous tenderness.