by Donna Mazza
I have brought Emmy and Jake here many times, waiting on the park bench in the shade while they complete a circuit. Sometimes we have taken a picnic lunch and sat together on the crunching grass or amid the she-oak needles, munching on sandwiches made more flavourful in the open air. Speckled with midges. They have tested out their balance on scooters and bikes on these pathways. Lost balls in the long reeds and struggled to get kites airborne. Sometimes with friends. I wonder if those normal days are over.
I feel as if I am grieving for the life I once had even though it seems to still be intact. For who I was and what our family used to be. On the periphery, a gathering force rises each day. Assembling above our knees, our waists, blocking our view and rising upward to tower overhead. We are built on falsehood. One wrong move and it will crumble to the ground. An unstoppable force. It will surely crush us all and turn our world into aftermath. These are the secrets I walk around the lake. My fears; my guilt. The invisible passages I trace into the future.
On a hot day while the children are at school, Dimitra comes for a three-month check-up. She rings the doorbell promptly at nine while I am locked in baby-mouth, sipping the last well of cold tea from breakfast. Asta knows my finger will try to prise her from my nipple so she has learned to clamp tight and not allow me to break the suction. I stand with her attached and open the front door, dragging a sour-scented bunny-rug. Left breast bare. The air is searing outside but Dimitra smiles like a goddess beside the dead plants and skewed paving bricks on our porch. High heels and manicured nails, she carries a professional bag. Black. There is a stray clove of garlic on the tiles near the front door, a piece of Lego, coagulated dust and hair. I have never set foot in the world she must inhabit and it is anomalous to have her step across my threshold. Shame burns my cheeks a little. I smell of sour milk, have become slack with the record keeping on BubBot.
She greets me with a smile and seems to not notice the dust or the breast but welcomes herself, tells me it’s nice and cool in my house and reaches for the baby. Asta frowns at being forced to let go and continues to suck at the air in the doctor’s arms.
‘Would you like a tea or coffee?’ I cover my chest and lead her into the living room.
‘Maybe later, Stacey.’ Her English a little stiff. ‘You are welcome to go and have a shower if you would like to. I will sit with Asta for a while. I have tests and things to do but they can wait until you are more comfortable.’ Like an unfamiliar aunt, she makes herself at home. ‘I’ve been looking forward to spending some time with her.’ I am tired and the shower sounds like a relief. I rush it and dress, my breath a little shallow with anxiety. Not sure what she will think or say or do while she is with my baby. In my house.
When I emerge, she has cleared the coffee table, covered it with a white cloth and set up her computer, some equipment that looks like it’s for pathology tests, an empty package, a change mat and a breast pump, a tape measure and scales. Asta is wrapped neatly and stares up at her.
‘Stacey, I’d like to first interview you about how you are going and I’d like to record our interview with the webcam in my computer. Is that okay with you?’ She turns the screen to face me and begins.
‘Firstly, how are you feeling?’ Rich lipstick smile.
‘Okay. I mean, I’m tired but I’ve recovered from the birth.’
‘Tired because of the feeding? We recommended a nutritional plan, it’s on our website. And the company has offered to supply meals to your family but you have cancelled all the support you had.’
‘Yes, I’m tired because of the feeding.’
‘We need to run some blood tests on you, Stacey. Check you out. Please make an effort to eat well. We can help again. Just tell me what you need.’ I am told off and I know I have neglected myself. Isak cooking and buying takeaway. ‘How about sleep?’
‘Asta is sleeping well. Six hours at night, feeding at about ten and then somewhere around four-thirty in the morning. Then we go for a walk.’
‘Can you nap in the daytime?’
‘Sometimes I drift off.’ Often Asta detaches, spread wide on my lap, and sleeps. Saturated with my milk. I don’t tell her that sometimes I stare at the television, blank and burning with exhaustion. Lose consciousness and return to her, mouth wide and seeking me out. Then the alarm sounds on my phone and we bundle ourselves into human shapes and collect the kids from school.
‘How are you feeling about the baby?’ She reads from her screen. Questions prepared beforehand.
I look at the bundle in her arms, now sleeping. Smile. ‘I adore her.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’ She is beautiful, fascinating. I can’t believe that she’s real. I’m terrified of her, what she might be doing to us. To me. I think she has power we can’t imagine or understand. She is magnetic to me, absorbs me.
‘Are you concerned about anything?’
‘Yes. Other people mostly and not being able to keep her hidden enough. That people will notice she is who she is, and not one of us.’
‘Which people?’ Lips purse up a little.
‘At school. The kids’ teachers, other parents, people at the shops. Anyone who visits.’
‘You’ve had people visit?’
‘No. That’s the point. How can we have anyone visit? Can’t you at least let us get to know other people with children like Asta?’ ‘We can’t do that, sorry. There are none nearby. I won’t lie to you, Stacey, there are other children but they are all in quarantined locations, like you. We have scattered them around the country. We modelled it on a witness protection program that was very successful. LifeBLOOD® have decided to keep a media embargo on the birth of Asta. It’s all about minimising the risk of harm and exposure. We want the best outcome for her and publicising her birth is not in her interests right now.’ She seems proud of this but I would like to know how it is for someone else. She rocks Asta, whose cheeks suck. Always ready for more. ‘Our scientific papers will come out eventually but you will all be de-identified. I thought you would be happy with that. What else concerns you?’
‘She is so hungry. I wonder if she might need more than I can give her. I have thought about giving her solid food, even though you said to wean her at seven months.’
‘I will do some tests on her but the more she feeds the more your body will respond and make more milk. This is the way breastfeeding works and your milk will change to meet her needs and her demand. You just need to let her lead the way. But we will test your milk too and see what she is getting. No solids, Stacey. You must check with me first.’ She produces a hand-held breast pump and passes it to me. ‘One hundred millilitres when you are ready. The theory is that the Neanderthal babies transitioned from breastfeeding at seven months and were completely weaned at fourteen. We have this information from dental samples of Paleolithic infants.’ She sighs. ‘It’s very reliable.’
She turns the webcam to face the change mat and puts Asta down, carefully unwrapping her from the light rug. I can see she has grown, broadened around the shoulders and chest. She is changing shape, becoming stronger. Dimitra tears open the cloth nappy and hands it to me. Pulls the singlet over Asta’s head and films her naked.
‘Could you please get me some clean clothes for her? We are going to remote monitor so I’m giving her an injection.’ She begins measuring the length and circumference of each limb in several places and I dash to the small bedroom, not wanting to miss what she might do to my baby. When I return she is taking her blood. There is a large syringe on the table. Asta cries low and soft, her deep blood siphoning slowly into the small tube. Then another. And another.
‘Isn’t that enough?’ I step towards her.
‘Not yet,’ clips Dimitra. ‘Just sit.’ She completes the third test tube and pulls out the needle.
Asta looks at me, pupils wide and dark. My nipples prickle and leak.
Dimitra marks up the tubes and places a latex glove on her hand, feels around in Asta’s mouth. ‘I can feel the little bud
s of her teeth. She will get her premolars first, you know that?’
Asta tries to grab at her fingers.
‘No. Really?’ Just want to pick her up.
‘It’s on our website, Stacey. Please try to read it and keep yourself informed. It’s there to help you. She will cut her molars before her incisors. Your other children will have cut lower incisors first and we expect Asta’s will be earlier all around. Any signs of teething yet?’
I can’t remember all the things she tells me. She holds the baby flat with her latex glove.
I sit forward, tension rising in me. ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
‘Well she’s going to start growing them quickly in the next three months but please keep a record and check her mouth. I will leave you some sterile gloves. What about her hearing and sight?’ She lights up the inside of Asta’s ear with a tiny device, an image appears on her screen of her inner ear.
‘Um, I think she hears fine. She responds to things.’ Asta shrinks away and Dimitra removes the light. ‘The children’s voices. Birds and things. Her eyesight is very good for a little baby. I notice she watches things at the park a lot, focuses on things for a long time.’
‘She should have more acute distance vision so we are keen to track that. We are not sure on hearing but it is likely she will hear a wider range of sounds. You must watch her for otitis media. Any pulling of the ear or hot ears and fevers, contact us immediately.’ I assume she means ear infection. Dimitra turns the screen and types in some notes. Asta bats her hands together. ‘Can I get that milk sample please, Stacey?’
I raise my top and fit the plastic funnel onto my breast, nipple poking into the end, then squeeze the handles together. Milk sprays out immediately, hitting the hollow bottle with a fine spray. It runs between pumps and fills the small bottle rapidly. I hand it over.
‘You’ve got a good supply there.’ She shakes it, a creamy haze coats the sides.
‘It just never seems to be enough for her. She’s on all the time.’
Dimitra nods. ‘I’ll see if there is anything we can help with. Please try to be more diligent when you record the times and duration of your feeds. It will help my research for future children.’ She seals and labels the milk bottle. Packs up the table and, finally, dresses Asta in a fresh nappy and singlet, wrapping her and handing her to me. ‘I’ll get some clothes sent to you based on these measurements too. And I’ve prescribed you a multivitamin, which will be delivered. How about a cleaning service again?’
‘I said no before.’ She looks around, disdain finally showing. ‘But I don’t think I can do it.’ She nods, taps into her phone.
‘I do think seeing your counsellor again might be a good idea Stacey. You have a lot to adjust to here. It will help to have someone to talk to, who knows the situation.’ She stands with her black bag and I nod because she is probably right.
When she is gone, her perfume lingers in the air. Asta and I settle into position. She groans and reaches for my chest. Latches on, brow furrowed and eyes focused on mine. I can see the ridges above her eyes now, her face changing as she grows. I run my finger back and forth across the hard bump. Each eyebrow protrudes slightly. When her teeth grow, it will be apparent that her face does not resemble the other faces around us. Fragments of Dimitra’s conversation come back to me and I wonder about the red lump on her arm, which I hadn’t noticed to ask her about, and especially about the other babies in quarantined locations. I enter the time and feed into the BubBot and ‘are we in quarantine?’.
Half an hour later my phone pings ‘not officially’.
His hair like yellow leaves sticks to the enamel of the bath. He is wrapped in a towel, blurred by bathroom mist. Shaving his face in a clear patch of mirror, which he has wiped with his hand.
‘I wish you could take the day off.’ I am on the closed lid of the toilet wrapped in my dressing-gown, cheesy with breastmilk.
‘Have a shower, Stace. I’ll make the kids’ lunches and do breakfast.’ I obey, peel off my pyjamas, turning so he can’t see my ravaged body. He looks over at me, eyebrows arched.
‘Sorry but I’m a wreck and I don’t want you to see me this way.’ I hold my hand over my loose belly.
He kisses my shoulder. ‘We’re both a bit wrecked, don’t worry about it. We’re in this together.’ He laughs, drops his towel and pushes out his gut. ‘Not exactly eye candy here either.’ He leaves to get dressed.
‘I’ll take the kids to school if you’re feeding them,’ I call through to the bedroom.
Asta sits in her bouncer in the kitchen, watching Isak at the bench. Her legs kick when Emmy speaks to her and she grins widely. Emmy sits on the floor beside her and eats toast. He has made me tea and toast with honey. Lunches are done.
‘Have you been walking them into class?’
‘No,’ Jake answers for him. ‘Dad’s been doing kiss and drive. Every day.’
‘Yeah, every day,’ says Emmy. ‘And when you pick us up you say hurry up the baby is asleep in the car, or you come and get us early before the bell even goes.’
Isak makes eye contact with me and I nod gently.
I swallow down the anxiety. ‘Emmy if you and Jake help and get ready nice and quick, I will walk you in.’ Try to smile.
‘With the baby?’ She puts her face next to Asta, whose hand tangles a fist of Emmy’s hair.
Fear rises up in me. ‘Just go and get dressed,’ I snap. And they scatter, the tone of coming fury something they are too familiar with. I have not revealed all this to Isak, this turmoil that comes on each day as I get in the car to pick them up, how I navigate around people. Coffee and toast in hand, he sits knowingly beside me.
‘You just have to face them, Stacey. We can’t live in a bubble and it’s not fair on the kids if we try to.’ I know this. ‘At some point you—we—have to be confident to go out into the world with her and face the questions. They told us how to handle it.’
‘I find it easier with you there.’
‘I want you to do it. Soccer and netball start after Easter and they’ll have training and games. You don’t want to miss out on that.’
‘Of course not.’
He’s so involved in soccer, reliving his own heroic tackles.
‘Just face them at school.’ He drains the last of his coffee. ‘They’re just a few suburban parents and a couple of teachers. They might not take any notice of her at all. Most people are only really interested in their own children anyway.’
‘Everyone wants to hold other people’s babies, Isak.’
He pats my knee, so confident.
‘Not if they think she is special needs. You watch. Mention that she has a rare genetic problem and they’ll be less keen. Guaranteed.’
But he won’t be there.
I wear my lucky mammoth hair locket and carry Asta on my hip, her tinted glasses on and a crocheted beanie rising in a point to camouflage her head. I pull it low to hide the rising ridges of her brows. As she grows, her facial features are becoming more distinct, especially her jawline with her wide mouth and receding chin. Her nose is wide and flat, not so unusual in a small baby but as she grows I imagine it will be more apparent. We walk the familiar path lined with grevilleas, darting with tiny birds after the spray of reticulation. The heat has eased a little, days shorter, and the gardens rebound slowly as autumn starts to drizzle.
Jake holds my free hand, backpack on. Drags me around to his class first. Emmy won’t leave my side. I avoid eye contact with a couple of parents, helping kids organise their bags, and walk with Jake to his desk. Children’s artworks are pegged to lines across the ceiling and Jake shows me the ones he’s created. His teacher, a redhead in her twenties, is listening to children read. A queue of them at her desk. She doesn’t even look up. Jake joins the other boys constructing something with blocks on the floor.
Emmy’s new teacher this year is much older and clearly grooming the kids for high school in two years, setting homework and paring back the games and artwork
in the room. There are few parents and the kids are learning to be independent, organising their own day. Emmy does not need me there but pulls me by the hand. As the only other adult in the classroom, Mrs Hughes comes to greet me. We have never met, though I have written several notes about early departures and being unable to fundraise or volunteer. Isak attended the parent information session. She is warm, extends her hand.
‘Nice to meet you …’ her pause asks for my first name so I tell her. ‘So this is the famous Asta.’ She smiles and extends a finger, which Asta seizes with her wide hand.
‘Does Emmy talk about her a lot?’ Nervous question.
‘Endlessly. We’ve been doing a poetry module this term and studying odes so there are some wonderful odes to Asta in Emilia’s writing book. “Ode to Asta’s Rusty Hair” is quite memorable.’
‘I’d like to read them sometime. Maybe you can bring them home?’
Emmy smiles, pleased at the long-awaited union of sister and teacher. ‘See, Mrs Hughes, she does always wear baby sunglasses. She has very sensitive eyes.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Mrs Hughes looks at me, as if seeking information. I ignore her and look back to Emmy, who watches expectantly. Uncomfortable silence.
‘Well, have a great day,’ I turn to leave.
‘Um, Stacey …’
‘Yes.’ My face heats and I know I am blushing, anxious.