I’m halfway down the hallway when I tell her, ‘I shouldn’t be longer than a few hours. I’ll aim to be back by early afternoon.’
I don’t know why I even bothered. She doesn’t answer me at all. Instead, she continues dropping pills into the box.
Ping, ping, ping.
Thirteen
Paige
The early days are hard.
I forgot to cancel a major delivery from the baby shop. The bakery called on the day of my baby shower asking why nobody had been in to pick up the cake. An early baby present arrived in the mail from Ryan and Susannah in Canada. I’ve gone up one shoe size and two bra sizes. The skin on my lower belly is scored with purple lines where it’s stretched to accommodate a baby.
I’ve taken leave from my job at Windsor Lakes. Brian, my boss, is for the most part very understanding. He and his partner Chase lost a baby via a surrogate about eight months ago. While it was an early miscarriage, it was still devastating for them. It had taken them years to find an altruistic surrogate.
‘Wait, you resigned from work?’ asks Hope when I fill her in on the details. We’re sitting at the dining table, puzzle pieces sprawled out around us, Ollie sleeping in the pram beside us. It looms there with its four wheels and pale blue muslin blanket draped over it, like another cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. Ollie is two months old and I’ve gone from doting, step-in aunt to someone who is trying to pretend he doesn’t exist, another thing to feel guilty about. If Hope has noticed, which she most certainly has, she doesn’t make a big deal about it, and that’s something I’m thankful for. She hands me a mug of tea.
‘Thanks, but I need to check how much I’ve had to drink today.’
‘Don’t worry, I already did. You’re within your limits, and I recorded it in your notebook.’
‘Of course you did. I didn’t resign. I just don’t know if I want to go back.’
‘What about Elsie and Frank? It might do you good to get out and be with people, even if you just go for a visit.’
I do miss them, but there is a problem. A big one. Getting out and being with people means having to talk to people. And there’s nothing worse than talking to people about anything except the actual thing everyone is too scared to talk about. Going back to Windsor Lakes, even for a visit, feels too hard.
‘I just need some time to—’ I motion to the puzzle ‘—finish this.’ Somehow, the puzzle I’d initially resisted starting has become part of my routine. I wake up, say goodbye to Nick, bypass the shower and head straight for the dining table. Nick and I have resorted to eating meals on the bar stools at the kitchen counter. Every morning, I sit in my pyjamas, trying to force pieces that don’t belong together until I finally find the ones that do. In the past week, I’ve declined a lunch invitation with Kate and Lori from work and ignored the phone unless it’s Nick, Mum, Caitlin, Hope or Ryan calling. And sometimes I find myself making excuses not to answer their calls too. The truth is, when I’m working on the puzzle, it’s like I’m somehow closer to Max. It’s the two of us and my thoughts in a corner of the world I can inhabit without thinking about the fact he’s gone.
I’ve dreamed up Max’s entire life while fitting together the forty pieces that have begun to shape the left-hand corner of the butterfly garden. Once the January mornings became warmer, I’d nurse him on the wicker chair on the back deck before taking him for a walk in the pram I never got around to ordering. We’d go to the park two blocks away, the one with the massive willow tree and flying fox. When Nick would leave for work, I’d hoist him onto one hip, and we’d wave goodbye, counting the hours together until he got home. We’d bake failed cakes that collapsed onto themselves, dip buttered soldiers into runny eggs, paint huge sheets of paper with our hands and eat ice cream for fun. At night I’d lie down in bed with him – me on one side, Nick on the other. We’d marvel at the way his hand fit perfectly into ours – soft, spongy fingers lengthening and growing into strong hands that belonged to a pre-schooler, then a teenager, a young man we could be proud of. A happy, respectable, capable, funny, loving, wonderful person we were proud to call our son, and lucky enough to love, protect and care for.
‘This all fucking sucks,’ declares Hope, jolting me from my thoughts.
‘You’re not meant to finish it in a day,’ I say. We’ve been working on the puzzle for an hour and have managed to fit no more than six pieces together.
‘No, I mean you losing the baby… Max.’
Until this moment, nobody aside from Nick has referred to Max by his name.
I run my finger over the edges of the puzzle piece, turning it around, thinking about what I want to say. ‘He was so beautiful. He looked like Nick. Same eyes.’ I smile to myself, remembering his tiny features. ‘He had the most gorgeous little chin. And the midwives, they told me they were the cutest toes they’d ever seen. They were so tiny and perfect. They took photos and I can’t stop looking at them whenever Nick’s not home.’
Hope reaches out and holds my hand in hers, keeping her eyes trained on mine as I speak.
‘Does he look at them?’
‘I don’t think he wants to.’
She nods thoughtfully. ‘Tell me more about him – about Max.’
I welcome Hope’s invitation to talk about him. Dad finds it too hard, Mum seems to be more comfortable making sure we’re fed and taking care of ourselves, and Caitlin skirts around the fact we’ve lost a baby. She’s more preoccupied with making sure I’m keeping in good spirits, all things considered. She’s already brought me three care packs I haven’t managed to bring myself to open yet, plus a stack of novels I know she’s thoroughly vetted for happy endings. Aside from Bette, who’s had to navigate life after the loss of a child herself, and now Hope, nobody seems to feel comfortable talking about Max with me.
‘They cut a tiny handful of hair from his head. It was light brown. Not much of it, but enough. The midwives took his tiny prints on a piece of cardboard.’
‘Will you show them to me? When you’re ready?’
I nod, pleased she’s asked. ‘I still feel like I’m a mum. Max’s mum. Even though he’s not here – with us – right now.’
‘God, Paige, I’m so sorry,’ says Hope, shaking her head.
I chew the inside of my lip and ask the question I’ve been asking myself for three weeks. ‘How can I feel like a mother if I don’t have a baby?’
‘It’s a boy!’
‘Sure is, kiddo,’ says Nick, watching Ella tear away the last shreds of hot-pink wrapping paper from the box.
She races over to me and hugs me. ‘Thank you, Aunty Paige.’
I ruffle her hair, sending bits of sparkling glitter into the air. ‘Is that the doll you were wishing for?’
‘Aha,’ she says, all eyes and gappy smile. She lost her front tooth last week and another the week prior to that. She takes me and Nick by the hand and leads us inside. ‘Mum and I made fairy bread. Look!’ She points to a platter of sandwiches covered in rainbow sprinkles.