Fauna

by Donna Mazza

  A woman in uniform with outrageous lipstick brings in a tray and sets it up. ‘Would you like a hot drink? Tea?’

  I nod, and open the lid on hot porridge. Banana bread with fresh berries. I am suddenly hungry. This is not like hospital food so I make the most of the special treatment.

  Afterwards, in between the rattle and chatter of the hallway are submarine moments. I wait, breathless. Trying to see through walls. To check that she is real.

  When I wake, she is there. Sleeping like a stone, incongruous in the plastic crib. Red digits track her heart and breath. A white cap on her head. Tucked in. I wonder how many people in this clinic know what she really is. If the nurses are blind witnesses, stepping outside into the world with no knowledge of the wonders they have been privy to. I lay on my side, she lays on her side. Knees curled up. My eyes are fastened to her. As if it is the only way to know her. The prickle of lactation radiates around my nipples. She stirs, opens her wide eyes. Hungry for each other’s flesh, milk flows.

  I call for the nurse. She opens the crib like Tupperware and disconnects Asta from the digits, which hold still at that point. My breath is short and I take my baby to me. Need her. Tearing at the hospital gown. The nurse opens the back of it, bearing both breasts, swelling by the moment. Veins visible. My milk has never come in so fast with my other kids. Asta’s wide mouth fastens immediately, her suction definite and satisfying. Relieving the pressure on my left. I sigh deeply, entirely drawn into the act, into being the feast.

  Eventually, she leans back and we gaze into each other. As the light enters her eyes it seems to fill the facets within, illuminating her irises with sharp blues and reflections. Many moods of sky, centuries deep. Sinking into her I feel her soul and know her. A person unlike anyone else. Though we are all unique, she is more spectacularly unique than any living thing. A film of thin milk rises from her lips and I wipe it away with the corner of the rug. She is worth every moment of the torture of birth. Every tear and stitch. I will heal and she will always have been born. She will always be a wonder.

  I hold her up to release any held wind, rub her back. Turn her to the right and she latches on with a ferocious suck. I am drawn in once again, mesmerised in the movement of her cheeks. That shape of her jaw. She has adapted me to her. I see the shift in me. But it is not a shift into a primal state, it is an elevation.

  How strange I am to myself. Once I would have draped and covered myself, controlled the baby’s mouth, but here she controls me, my desire for privacy overridden by her will. She slows now, drifts into satisfied sleep. I sit there with her for a long time. Holding her close.

  A nurse comes to check on us, places her in the plastic crib and reconnects the monitor to her finger. Takes my blood pressure and inquires about my wellbeing. I can hear Emmy in the hallway. My heart leaps.

  ‘Mumma! I made you a card and Dad has brought you some chocolates.’

  ‘It was meant to be a surprise.’ He is still weary, but has been home and changed. Emmy is by the crib, transfixed by the sleeping baby.

  ‘Oh, Mumma. She’s so beautiful.’ She is hushed. ‘I don’t have red hair like her though. It’s so pretty.’ Jake climbs up on the bed, curls onto my lap.

  ‘No, she’s very unique.’ Isak smiles at me. Hands me some chocolates and a little package, which I open. ‘For the baby. Father’s job to give her her first toy.’ He has found a little stuffed mammoth. I laugh.

  ‘Oh, you must have hunted the whole city for this.’

  ‘Surprisingly, no. She was in the toy shop in Morley. Couldn’t believe my luck.’

  Jake looks up at me. ‘Dad should’ve gotten you one, Mum. You love mammoths.’

  ‘I do. But Asta will love her mammoth too.’

  ‘Can we open the plastic lid and put it in with her?’

  I nod and Isak opens it. A sucking noise. She stirs but does not wake and they place it under the blanket, facing her.

  ‘I miss you, Mumma.’ Jake tucks close into me and I flinch at the pressure on my swollen breast. Asta stirs a little.

  ‘Careful, sweetheart. I’m a bit sore.’

  He sighs. ‘When will you come home? Dad tried to make nachos and they were all dry and hard.’

  Isak feigns disapproval. ‘Oh, come on, mate, you’ve had some good pizzas too. And plenty of international cuisines— Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese.’

  ‘I see a theme.’ I wag my finger at him. ‘Plenty of leafy greens when I get home. I have saved up all my best salad recipes. No more Paleo diet.’

  ‘Damn—I liked that Paleo diet.’ Isak smiles, enjoying the normal conversation. The security of it amid all the strangeness of the past couple of weeks is a relief.

  Asta slept through their visit. Masking her beautiful eyes under those massive eyelids. To the kids, at least, she is normal enough to not warrant a remark. With her eyes closed, anyway. The ordinariness of their lives suspends them in a net, a reality so solid they do not realise that their feet have never touched the ground. It is secure enough for now. How long it will hold, I am not sure. How she will alter their lives is something we can’t know.

  The light through the window is fading to evening now. The clanking of dinner trays and the smell of food. I eat a little, the post-birth numbness wearing off. More frozen pads. A hot water bottle for the cramps. She wakes and the nurse comes, I am guessing the monitors are connected to their desks or something.

  ‘Time for a bath for this little one,’ she says. ‘Doctors say you are to bath her and one of the doctors is on her way to see you so I’ll get it set up and when she gets here you can start.’

  I’m barely fit to walk to the bathroom so I’m glad to hear there will be someone to help with the bathing. I can’t trust myself just yet, both of us too fragile. Too precious. She is awake and silent, watchful. Looks around, staring at the light on the ceiling. Firelight and sunshine would have been all the light her people knew. A dark-haired woman peers around the door. Smiles as if she knows me.

  ‘Can I come in?’ She steps inside before I respond. ‘I’m Dimitra. We’ve met before but I’m going to be working closely with you now that the baby is born. Asta, is it?’

  I nod. Dimitra is pretty, in a remote way. Long silky hair, dark and heavy. Light eyes, intense but detached.

  ‘Now, let’s get her bathed before the water goes cold.’ She opens the crib, picks up my baby without asking. ‘Are you okay to get out of bed? Or do I need to call a nurse?’

  I rally, not willing to let her take Asta to bathe without me. Pull myself up, still wearing the gaping hospital gown. The swelling makes it awkward to walk but I find my dressing-gown and follow her to the bath. She places Asta on a change mat and waits for me to catch up.

  ‘We thought it would be good to have someone with you when you bathe her for the first time. Just to discuss some of your reactions to her.’

  I don’t know what to say. ‘So, am I under study too?’

  ‘No, but we want to make sure that you are comfortable looking after her. Just to explain, I am a paediatrician and I have specialised in evolution so I’ve studied Paleolithic infants and children. My role is to observe Asta and also to support your family by caring for her health and development.’ I finally reach the change table and Dimitra takes her hands from the baby.

  ‘How do you get to study Paleolithic infants?’ I begin to unwrap the rug from around Asta, who lays still, looking up at me.

  ‘Archaeological samples. It is amazing what we can find out just from those and the situations where they are found. We know more than you can imagine about growth, diet and childhood. From things such as fossilised dental plaque and the microbiome, ancient bacteria.’ She’s obviously passionate about her subject and good at it too.

  Asta’s tiny hands are more stout than long. I remember Emmy and Jake had long fingers as newborn babies, like miniature versions of adult hands, which fattened up into baby hands in the first weeks. I examine Asta’s hands, hold them between my own fingers.

&n
bsp; ‘She’s very little.’

  ‘Well we didn’t know what constituted full-term but her size is consistent with what we know of their newborns. Signs are that she will grow fast. Has she started feeding?’

  I continue to unwrap her tiny form, light down covers her back.

  ‘We think that will go. Some human babies have body hair when they’re born.’

  I flinch. ‘She is as human as I am.’

  ‘Yes, she is a different type of human. We just aren’t used to it yet, Stacey. You are right to correct me.’ Her eyes lower but she smiles.

  ‘You think it’s funny?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve got a lot invested in her too and I’m pleased that you defend her.’ She pauses, stares at Asta. ‘It’s just amazing that there are two breeds of human again. It’s going to take the world a while to come to grips with it. There are theories that we should breed some of their genes back into ourselves for the strength of our species.’ She picks Asta up and lowers her into the bath, eyes roaming over her wide body. ‘Would you like to wash her?’

  I immerse my hands beside Dimitra’s, the sleeves of my dressing-gown dropping into the bath. Asta watches our faces and I wipe her tiny body with what seems an enormous flannel. Dimitra steps back a little and watches us.

  ‘What do you notice, Stacey, that makes her different from your other children?’

  ‘Besides the eyes, obviously.’

  She nods. ‘Well, she will have some traits from you and Isak.’

  I wipe the flannel across her chest. ‘She is broad. Her shoulders and chest. So she seems stronger.’ Such tiny feet. ‘Her legs are denser, less frail-looking than my other kids’ legs.’

  ‘She’ll be a strong girl. You’ll be feeding her often, I think. I’d like you to start recording it for me. How often and how long she feeds. I’ve got an app for you to put on your phone to record your daily obs.’

  ‘The water’s a bit cold, let’s get her out.’

  She laughs. ‘No, let’s not yet.’

  The water is making my skin bump.

  ‘She’s cold adapted. I want to observe her response to cold and heat. That’s part of my research.’

  Already cruel.

  It’s noticeably cold but Asta does not react to it. No goose bumps. She continues to look at us with the same steady gaze. Dimitra dips a finger in the water and finally brings a towel.

  ‘We can do more of this later.’ She wraps and holds Asta, takes her to the change table. ‘Would you like to dress her?’

  I am faint with tiredness but I push myself, don’t want to give her up.

  The tiny disposable nappy seems oddly shaped on her but it’s not quite clear why. I stick it together but while it fits around the waist it seems to be tight around her legs. ‘We might need another size.’

  Dimitra looks at the awkward-fitting nappy. ‘I’ll see what we can do. Leave it for now.’

  I top it with a singlet and wrap her in a flannel rug with little ducks. Tired now. Dimitra takes her to the crib and I fall deeply into the bed, lights are dimmed. I lie watching her sleep, tracing the line of her profile into my memory.

  The link to the LifeBLOOD® BubBot is on the website. I hit ‘install’. It needs access to all my information, as usual, and I accept the terms and conditions without reading them.

  We have not taken any photos of Asta. It seems strange but I have not even thought of it. I know there was a camera in the birth room but I have not seen the pictures or the video that was taken. I add a temporary photo of a pelican on the lake near our house.

  The app has a list of reports to create for each week with blanks for diet, behaviour, growth, milestones, questions, photos and video.

  All information shared in this app is only available to authorised parties and affiliates of LifeBLOOD®.

  I tap ‘Create Report Week 1’ and boxes appear for each. In Photos & Video I click on the icon to capture photo. Asta is out of the plastic crib, sleeping peacefully in the open cot beside my bed. As I near, her cheeks move as though to suck.

  I save the draft of the report and pick her up to feed her.

  The doctors are keen to get us out of the clinic. I’m assuming it’s for privacy and the need to keep her birth discreet. I have the same nurses every day and Asta and I have not left the room since she was born. Dimitra is pleased with her feeding and her weight gain, even though she is small. We have appointments and the BubBot. Fee checks in and hands me some brochures on post-natal depression. We speak at length about how to respond to questions about Asta’s ‘condition’. I am blurry and don’t write it down. Some final examinations. There is little to pack for Asta except the mammoth and some custom-made re-usable cloth nappies in a variety of colours with little animal pictures. A few things for me and the sagging maternity dress, freshly laundered, to wear home.

  Dimitra visits to discharge us and provide a lengthy set of instructions. Keep visitors minimal, avoid people showing signs of sickness, no flower pollen in the house, try to keep her away from public places for a while until she is bigger. Take her for a walk every day. She needs to go outside for her immune system to develop. Feed on demand and report anything, anything at all. Under no circumstances put her or her real identity at risk. There is a media embargo and no publicity coming from LifeBLOOD® until we are advised otherwise. Dimitra’s remote persona shows signs of cracking. Small beads of perspiration on her upper lip. Her mash-up accent noticeable. She is frightened. I am not. I look at Asta and everything about her seems right and normal. Our unity is a shield against the eye of the world.

  In Isak’s arms, she looks particularly tiny and he holds her high against his chest. Her newborn face changes every day and today her skin is becoming fairer, almost translucent with a bluish tinge like the fairest of them all. A nurse escorts us from the clinic to our car, newly cleaned and equipped with a robust baby seat facing backwards. Heavy-grade sun filters are fitted to the windows around the seat. LifeBLOOD® had given us a credit card and instructions to buy all new baby equipment so one night Isak came to visit after dinner with an online catalogue and we picked out a new pram, bassinet, cot, change table, baby bag, an ergonomic baby carrier and a lot of linen and bibs. With our other kids I had a second-hand cot and re-used what I could. I would have given anything for a new pram. I battled to fold and unfold it in searing-hot car parks; immovable sand and food particles were lodged in the stitches of the seat and it was awkward to fit into our small car. It’s still in the shed.

  So we got what we could get from them. Within a couple of days it was all delivered to our house and Isak had assembled the flatpacks. Never had we spent so much money at once. Each new piece of furniture in our house has been purchased after a tax return or paid off during the interest-free periods, each instalment impacting our ability to buy clothes and pay for swimming lessons. If only I had been able to do this for the other kids. I wonder how they will perceive all this new stuff, when their own lives have been lived on such a sparse budget. At least, perhaps, they will benefit from some of the financial liberation we will have.

  In the car it seems miraculous to be free and Isak doesn’t hesitate. Drives with purpose from the clinic out onto the highway. Sighs and smiles at me. Checks the rear-view mirror and adjusts it for a view of Asta, even though she is facing the other way.

  ‘Fuck, I’m glad to be rid of that place, Stace. The cafe is like the Cantina Creepy. Poor bastards.’ He searches in the console for his sunglasses, which I find in the glove box and clean for him on the edge of my dress.

  ‘Did you see any babies? I never saw any babies or pregnant mothers except me.’ I hand him the glasses.

  ‘No. Couple of teenagers though, obviously having some limb regeneration or transplants or something. Too sad for our kids to witness that.’

  ‘We’re so lucky.’ We gaze at the long line of traffic onto the freeway, appreciating our escape from suffering. ‘The car’s nice and clean.’

  ‘Yes, they had it
detailed for us. Imagine that job, huh?’ He laughs. We both know the layers of food and filth that were caught in the back seat. ‘So, they’ve made good on their promise and we have a new LandCruiser on order.’

  ‘You chose it already?’ I know this is something he’s dreamed about.

  ‘Yeah. I got a green one for you and got the camper pack so we can take the kids out in the bush.’ He is boring with the detail. Excited. ‘Plus an annex for shade.’

  ‘Well, you picked it so you can clean it,’ I joke but there’s a little bit of truth in that.

  He laughs and jokes about ‘getting all the best jobs’.

  ‘At least the old one’s clean now—we can keep it.’ The slow crawl of traffic past the river gives pause to our day. Spring is so volatile. The storm of last week is long past and the heat is already making drivers impatient. Seagulls drift on the slow bounce of the tide and the city seems to crack open as its moisture evaporates. West-facing windows of posh houses, so desperate for river frontage that they border the freeway, are shuttered and blinded. Soon summer will bleach everything. He deserves the car, I know. I have navigated us to this place and he has been my passenger.

  ‘Come on, people,’ he speaks to the traffic. ‘Is she okay back there?’

  I unclip my seatbelt and kneel on the seat, my hand by her head. ‘Still asleep but a bit sweaty.’ I crank up the air-conditioner.

  ‘She doesn’t look that different from the other kids. I reckon we can take her in to school to pick them up. They’d love it.’

  ‘I was going to wait in the car with her.’ They want us to be discreet. ‘Or go through the kiss-and-drive.’

  He turns onto the exit, still crammed with close traffic, and soon we are in the slow crawl of the school car park. The siren calls three o’clock and a wave of frantic mothers mount the kerbs in their SUVs, haphazard and angular wherever there is space. Crushing native grasses planted each winter holidays. Someone reverses out of a space ahead and Isak darts into it, a little crookedly. I can feel the victory boosting his mood and he almost skips to the back door and unclips Asta.