She tried to explain this to an officious-looking midwife at three o’clock in the morning.
‘Well,’ came the stern reply, ‘you’re not due for any more pain relief. If you have an intervention like a caesarean, it will hurt more. Natural births are much easier on the body. Pain is very subjective, dear.’ The midwife bustled away.
Ginie was too exhausted to object. Defeated, she lay back on her pillow. Rose was in the nursery; the midwives would bring her in when she woke. Ginie desperately wanted to hold her again, to bury her nose in her folds of soft flesh, but she couldn’t even climb out of bed. The noise from the nursery was audible across the corridor. Every time the door opened, the sound of babies crying was like cats mewling in an alley.
Six hours later, Ginie’s limbs trembled beneath the blanket, defying all control. Her wound was throbbing, weeping through the cotton pad stuck across her pelvis with surgical tape. Beneath her hospital gown, her nipples were chafed from repeated unsuccessful attempts to clamp Rose to her breast. So much for natural, she’d thought, as a midwife palpated her nipples like a farmhand milking a cow. Nothing much had happened, despite these exertions. A thin watery substance had oozed from her right nipple, which the midwife attempted to capture with a syringe.
‘Hello there,’ chirped a friendly voice. ‘How are you this morning?’
She’d never seen this nurse before, a young woman with red hair. She strode over to the window and threw back the curtains. The sunlight was painful.
The nurse turned to her. ‘You’re shaking. Are you alright?’
Without warning, Ginie’s eyes filled with tears.
‘How’s your pain?’ asked the nurse.
Ginie’s voice cracked. ‘I’ve been telling your imbecile colleagues all night. But they’re too interested in making sure my milk comes in, never mind my fucking pain.’
The nurse looked taken aback.
Instantly ashamed of her outburst, Ginie began to cry. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘We’ll fix that straight away,’ said the nurse. She patted Ginie’s hand. ‘You shouldn’t be in that sort of pain, you poor thing. I’ll call the anaesthetist and get something stronger written up for you.’
The nurse’s kindness caused Ginie to cry harder. She wept into her hands with long, shaking sobs.
‘You’ll be alright,’ said the nurse, passing her a tissue. ‘Once you’re pain-free, you’ll feel so much better about everything.’
Ginie doubted it.
‘Hello, everyone. My name’s Suzie.’
Ginie started at the sound. The voluptuous blonde pushed a mass of ringlets behind her ears. Her pale blue eyes darted nervously around the room. She couldn’t be much older than twenty-five, Ginie guessed.
Suzie glanced into the pram parked next to her. The baby was making loud suckling sounds. ‘I think Freya needs a feed,’ she said, apologetic. She fumbled with the top buttons of her camel-coloured cardigan, then lifted her baby to her chest.
Ginie looked away, a little embarrassed. Briefly she wondered if her chest might have looked like that had she persisted with breastfeeding. But she hadn’t. After five futile days of hot packs and breast pumps in the hospital, she’d gone home with a tin of formula and a plastic bottle. ‘You’ve got the lowest milk supply I’ve seen in years,’ one of the nurses had said.
Ginie had been gutted. The benefits of breastfeeding were spruiked from every corner—her obstetrician, her mother, even Daniel was an advocate—and Ginie had just assumed it would all happen effortlessly. No one had considered that she might not be able to breastfeed, let alone prepared her for the crushing guilt when she couldn’t. Now, watching Suzie feed her baby so naturally, Ginie felt responsible for depriving Rose of the best start in life.
It was hard to tell if the baby was a girl or a boy: it was pudgy and pink, with a white-blonde tuft of hair poking up from its crown.
Suzie cleared her throat. ‘My daughter’s name is Freya,’ she began. ‘After the Scandinavian goddess of love.’
Oh God, thought Ginie. Bring on the flower power.
‘My partner has Swedish heritage,’ she continued. ‘My ex-partner, I should say. We separated when I was seven months pregnant. So my birthing experience . . .’ Her blue eyes filled with sudden tears. ‘I mean, I had the loveliest midwife at the hospital, but . . .’ She brought a hand to her mouth and shook her head, unable to continue.
No one moved. Ginie looked at Pat, willing her to intervene. But Pat sat motionless, her head tilted to one side, a contemplative look on her face.
Eventually, someone spoke. ‘That must’ve been hard.’
Ginie turned towards the voice. It was Cara, the woman who’d helped her at the door.
‘Do you mind if I go ahead?’ she asked.
Suzie nodded, clearly relieved.
‘I’m Cara,’ she continued. ‘And this is Astrid.’ She bent over her pram, flipping her thick ponytail over her shoulder. She was attractive in an understated way, with a classic hourglass figure and lively brown eyes. When she smiled, it was hard not to follow suit.
Cara beamed as she held up a chubby, strawberry-blonde baby. Daddy must be a redhead, Ginie mused.
‘Astrid was overdue by ten days. So when she finally came along, she was in a bit of hurry.’ She shifted Astrid into the crook of her arm and stroked her hair. ‘I had my first contraction at six o’clock and she arrived two hours later. It wasn’t too painful either, which was a bonus. I guess I was expecting the worst.’
Pat clapped her hands together. ‘Wonderful. Was anyone else pleasantly surprised by the birthing experience?’
‘Me.’ It was the woman Ginie had sat next to earlier. She’d been pushing her pram around the room nonstop.
‘I’m Miranda.’ She pointed to a muslin cloth covering the pram. ‘This is Rory. I don’t think I can stop walking him just yet.’ She peeped under the edge of the cloth, and Ginie caught a glimpse of dark hair. ‘Well, at least he’s closed his eyes.’ She lifted a bottle of water to her lips and swallowed several mouthfuls.
Ginie admired her profile; she was tall and slender, with no trace of baby weight. Her green eyes stood out against translucent skin, peppered with attractive freckles. Her hair fell in black waves over slightly pointed ears, giving her a pixie-like look. Ginie guessed she was in her early thirties. The substantial diamond on her ring finger glinted as she screwed the lid back on to her water bottle.
‘And what about your birthing experience, Miranda?’ asked Pat.
‘Well, I thought it would be horrible.’ She shrugged. ‘But I quite enjoyed it.’
Ginie wondered how anyone could associate the word enjoy with giving birth.
‘But, then, I’d done a lot of prenatal yoga and breathing exercises beforehand,’ Miranda added, ‘which probably helped me move through the contractions.’
Well isn’t your life perfect? thought Ginie.
Pat lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘And I suppose they’ve helped with your recovery?’
Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t have much time to do yoga anymore. I’ve got a three-year-old at home too. My husband’s son from his first marriage.’
Ginie raised an eyebrow. Perhaps not so perfect after all.
‘But do you get a bit of a break when the toddler visits his mum?’ Pat asked hopefully.
‘No,’ said Miranda. ‘Digby’s mother died when he was six months old.’
God almighty, thought Ginie, rather guiltily.
‘Oh.’ Pat looked deflated. Then she rallied. ‘Well, one of our topics in the coming weeks is “Making Time for You”. When there’s a demanding older sibling around, it’s doubly important to schedule in me-time.’
Miranda didn’t look terribly convinced.
Pat glanced around the group. ‘So . . . who haven’t we done yet?’
A pale, unsmiling woman raised her hand. ‘I’m Pippa.’
Her mousy brown hair, pulled back in a tight bun, was oily at the crown. She was diminutive in
stature and her high-pitched voice wavered like a child’s, but the fine lines around her eyes suggested a woman in her thirties. Her clothes were drab; a shapeless grey skivvy teamed with an ankle-length black skirt.
‘That’s Heidi asleep in there.’ Pippa nodded at an oversized stroller shrouded in black windproof meshing, through which it was impossible to see the baby. ‘My birth experience wasn’t pleasant.’
Ginie leaned forward, straining to hear.
‘Would you like to share some of it with us?’ Pat asked.
‘Not really.’
Pat faltered; she clearly wasn’t used to such directness.
‘Right,’ she gushed. ‘That’s absolutely your prerogative.’
Pippa’s hazel eyes were expressionless as she shifted in her seat, smoothing her skirt over her knees.
‘Now, lucky last . . .’ Pat scanned her clipboard. ‘Made . . . and baby Wayne?’
An Asian woman raised her hand. She was petite, almost doll-like, with a heart-shaped face and warm brown eyes. Her shiny black hair was cut into a chin-length bob, which she pushed behind her ears with long, smooth fingers. She smiled shyly at the group, white teeth flashing against caramel skin. She looked barely old enough to have a baby.
‘I am Made.’ Pat had pronounced ‘Made’ as if it rhymed with ‘paid’, but Made herself pronounced her name as ‘Ma-day’. ‘And this is baby Wayan.’
‘That’s an unusual name,’ said Pat.
‘We from Bali.’
The baby gurgled from beneath a colourful sarong that covered the pram. Made reached in to lift out a toffee-skinned infant with a shock of black hair. She held the baby up to the group.
‘My firstborn boy,’ she said proudly.
Ginie stifled a gasp. The baby’s mouth was open, disfigured by some kind of bulbous growth adhering to his lip and spreading up towards his nose.
Ginie glanced around the room. Everyone else was poker-faced. Made was nuzzling her son’s ear, oblivious.
Pat was the first to speak. ‘Is . . . Is there anything about your birthing experience that you would like to tell us, Made?’
Made paused, thinking for a moment. ‘It was very paining,’ she said. ‘But he is . . . healthy boy. This is appreciating.’
Ginie smiled. Made’s grasp of English was rudimentary, but her meaning was clear.
‘Good, good,’ said Pat. She shuffled her notes. ‘Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, let’s have a chat about how this group works. My role is to support you on the marvellous journey of motherhood, because being a mum is the most important job in the world.’
Ginie glanced at her watch.
‘Today we’ll talk about sleeping, which is something every new mum is interested in.’ Pat chuckled. ‘Sleep is extremely important for growth and development.’ Her voice had assumed a rehearsed, singsong quality. Ginie wondered how many times Pat had subjected a group of new mothers to this exact spiel.
The session dragged on for another thirty minutes. Ginie spent much of this time checking work emails on her iPhone, concealed beneath the nappy bag balanced on her lap. Officially, she’d taken three months’ maternity leave. But as the firm’s only venture capital specialist, she couldn’t trust Trevor, a private equity colleague, to manage her files properly. She checked her emails regularly, often sending two-line commands to Trevor which usually went unanswered. Her colleagues seemed reluctant to ‘bother her’, as they termed it, so soon after the birth. Ginie had never felt so disconnected from her working life.
‘Oh, ladies, one more thing,’ said Pat, turning to the whiteboard. ‘We’ll meet once a week until the end of July, then once a month to November. You’ll be experts by then.’ She wrote out the dates in a neat line on the board. Even her handwriting was irritating, Ginie thought, all curly and feminine. Instead of dots above the i’s and j’s, she drew tiny heart shapes.
‘Around the four-month mark, we’ll have a special “Fathers and Partners” session.’ Pat circled the date for emphasis. ‘It’s important to get the dads involved.’
The bell on the back of the door jangled and Pat whirled around, a curt expression on her face.
‘It’s not eleven o’clock yet.’ She scowled at a thin, white-haired man who stood in the doorway. ‘There’s a mothers’ group in session here. Didn’t you see the sign?’
The man looked contrite. ‘I’ll wait outside.’
Made stood up. ‘I go,’ she said. ‘My husband. Thank you, Pat.’
She wheeled Wayan in his pram towards the exit. Cara, who was closest, rose to her feet and held open the door for her.
Husband? Ginie stared at the man beyond the door. He must be in his fifties, she thought. Is Made a mail order bride?
‘Made, you might need some help with breastfeeding, considering Wayan’s condition,’ Pat called after her. ‘I’ll contact you next week to organise a meeting with one of our lactation consultants.’
Ginie repressed a snort. There could only be one thing worse than a midwife, as far as she was concerned: a specialist midwife.
Made nodded politely as she stepped onto the street. Ginie craned her neck to peer beyond the door. She caught a glimpse of the white-haired man stooping to kiss Wayan in his pram, before placing a protective hand on Made’s hip.
The rest of the group began to assemble their things.
‘Well, thank you, ladies,’ said Pat. ‘I’ll see you next week. Everyone’s contact details are here.’ She waved a bundle of photocopies at them. ‘I suggest you meet up informally before we reconvene. Being a new mum can be daunting, so it’s good to support each other.’
Cara stood up and looked around the room. ‘Well . . . would anyone like to meet up for coffee this Friday morning?’ She seemed a little self-conscious.
No one said anything. Suzie and Pippa were fussing over their babies, while Miranda drained the last of her water. Ginie stared at her iPhone, pretending to read a message.
‘We could go to the café across the road?’ Cara ventured.
Ginie glanced around the group. She didn’t have time for old friends, let alone new ones. All the same, she reasoned, her problems with breastfeeding had taught her that babies weren’t always predictable. There was hardly anyone in her social network she could turn to for advice—most of her friends were childless professionals. And damned if she was going to ask her own mother.
‘Okay,’ said Ginie. ‘I can make it unless something comes up at work.’ It was a convenient excuse, should she need an exit strategy.
Some of the others nodded too.
‘Great,’ said Cara. ‘Ten o’clock across the road, then?’
‘Um . . . what about the beachfront park, instead?’ Pippa’s voice was hesitant. ‘There’s a little kiosk there, Beachcombers. It might be nicer for the babies, being outdoors.’
Do babies even care at this age? Ginie wondered.
‘Yes, there’s that little playground nearby,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ll have Digby with me and he needs somewhere to run around.’
‘Okay,’ said Cara. ‘Let’s say ten o’clock this Friday at Beachcombers. I’ll let Made know.’
Ginie plugged the date into her iPhone. The rest of the group began to disperse. Unlike the other babies, Rose was still asleep in her pram. She looked like a cherub, floating in layers of pink and white. A tiny pulse flickered at her temple. She was so fragile, so dependent upon Ginie for everything. And I’d do almost anything for her, Ginie said to herself. Even attend a mothers’ group.
She gathered up her things and began to push the pram towards the door. Pat held it open for her.
‘My husband bought the deluxe model, I’m afraid,’ Ginie said ruefully, nodding at the pram. ‘I can’t even fit it in the boot of my car.’ Her BMW coupé had been perfect pre-baby.
‘I’m glad you decided to join the group, Ginie,’ said Pat.
‘Well, I’m going back to work next week,’ Ginie told her. ‘But I’ll come along to as many sessions as I can.’
‘Goodness, that’s a rapid return to the workforce.’
Ginie forced a smile. ‘Well, someone has to pay the mortgage, I’m afraid.’
She lowered the pram onto the street and started towards the car park.
Why did everyone have an opinion on her returning to work? She’d had a similar reaction from her mother, and Daniel hadn’t been all that enthusiastic, either. If she’d been a man, no one would have questioned it. People expected fathers to go back to work as quickly as possible after their children were born. But mothers, she was learning, were judged differently. An alternative set of principles applied, even if the mother was the breadwinner of the family.
Ginie lifted her face to the warm winter sunshine, such a welcome relief from the dull hours she’d spent inside the house lately. The truth was, as much as she adored Rose, she’d been thinking about returning to work since her release from hospital. In the days after the birth, she’d been half expecting to have the sort of personal epiphany she’d heard about in other women: a loss of desire to work, and a sudden passion for the grander, higher calling of motherhood. But Ginie had worked too hard, become too specialised, to let go of it all lightly. One type of love, the maternal kind, had not usurped the other. Her love for the law remained.
She’d waited until Rose was one month old before raising the issue with Daniel.
‘We need a nanny,’ she told him, returning to the dinner table for the third time in thirty minutes. The quiet Friday night meal she’d planned had been hijacked by an unusually fractious Rose. Daniel looked up from his plate, a chunk of lamb speared on his fork.
‘What?’ she asked, defensive.
‘I’m listening,’ he replied.
‘Okay.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should go back to work sooner rather than later. I mean, I’m enjoying Rose and everything, but it’s been a month now and the bills keep coming in.’ Ginie’s salary was quadruple that of Daniel’s earnings. It had always been that way, from the moment they’d met on Curl Curl beach, just over a year ago. And now, with the global financial crisis worsening and Daniel’s communications work dwindling, hers was the only income on which they could rely. Daniel kept insisting that the novel he’d started not long after their wedding would be finished within the next few months, but as far as Ginie was concerned, that was about as likely as winning the lottery.
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