Sometimes I spend a lot more time than I should on Pinterest. It’s usually when I’m putting off things like paying bills or making mundane appointments or cooking dinner. Sometimes I use it to imagine how things could be. Like your first birthday party. I chose a cake for you. It’s a Peter Rabbit one – pastels, styled on a table with fairy lights – and I’d spell your name out with gold foil balloons across the wall. I’d also have fresh flowers and handwritten place cards. And I’d order one of those fancy art easels, and in gorgeous typography I’d have your name on it. Oh, and let’s not forget, I’m a sucker for bunting (fabric, not the plastic kind).
My password is your name in lowercase. (I changed it an hour ago, right after I finished brushing my teeth because that’s what I was doing when we decided on it!)
Anyway, enough about Pinterest and first birthdays. I’m sure you’d be just as happy with a ten-dollar ice-cream cake and a packet of streamers and whistles, and those cheap cone hats from the supermarket – the ones with the elastic that always slips out of the staples.
I have a present for you. It’s a picture book. The Little Engine That Could has always been my favourite. I recorded myself reading it for you. My voice is a little shaky and you can hear Piper barking in the background, and Nanny Evelyn opening the front door when she popped in to visit, but I hope you don’t mind.
By now you might be walking, or close to. Sometimes when I look at baby photos of Daddy and me, I go cross-eyed until the images go blurry, trying to imagine what beautiful shape your face might have.
I love you. I hope you never forget that. I hope you have a very happy first birthday, whether it’s with a Peter Rabbit cake or a ten-dollar ice-cream cake from the supermarket.
Love,
Mummy
P.S. Do you like the outfit I bought you? I chose it because not only did I think you’d look cute in it but the colour reminds me of Daddy’s eyes. I wonder if yours will be the same.
‘I cannot for the life of me find the fig paste anywhere,’ says Mum, poking around the fridge. It’s one of those refrigerators where you can tap on the glass and see what’s inside so you don’t have to open the door. According to the manufacturer, this handy feature keeps food fresher for longer. But Mum has been searching for the fig paste long enough to almost guarantee the early demise of her groceries. She finally registers me and Nick, and blows the stray hairs away from her face with a single breath.
‘What are you looking for?’ asks Dad, piping in.
‘The fig paste,’ we all say in unison – me, Nick and Mum.
‘Oh. Finished it yesterday.’ Dad almost looks proud of himself, and I marvel at how after spending more than three decades of his life alongside my mother, he’s practically oblivious to the level of despair this will cause her. My mother, like my sister, is a perfectionist, though my mum has nothing on Caitlin. And even though it might not seem like it at first, the fig paste’s absence from this evening’s platter will be forgotten by the time she’s ready to serve it.
‘You didn’t,’ she says incredulously. ‘It was gourmet from Leo’s! I needed it for…’ She lifts her hands in despair. ‘Never mind. Let’s forget the antipasto altogether.’
Dad flings me and Nick a sheepish look. Ever since he retired from his thirty-plus-year career as a commercial airline pilot, he’s been driving Mum loopy. Incidentally, as Dad spends more time at home, Mum has started to spend more time outside the home. Every month she seems to tack on yet another activity to her rotating roster: mosaic classes, reformer Pilates, tai chi, macramé. ‘It preserves my mental wellbeing and my relationship with your father,’ she recently told me as she lifted an empty carton of milk from the fridge. ‘I love your father but I like my space and my coffee white,’ she added, her face turning a little sour.
Nick and I have been married for seven years, and ever since then, our Sunday nights have been reserved for dinner at Mum and Dad’s. The only exception is when Nick is on call at the hospital, though I’m still required to attend, mostly on Mum’s insistence. I’m the one with normal work hours – a regular job in a regular aged-care home, which I’ve been working at forever. My brother Ryan moved to Canada five years ago after meeting his wife, Susannah, on the first flight he took from Melbourne to Vancouver, so that rules out their attendance, and Caitlin and her family occasionally miss Sunday night dinners due to various excuses pertaining to their kids’ health and sleeping habits.
‘I need help in the kitchen,’ feigns Mum, knowing full well I am never any help in anyone’s kitchen, much less hers.
‘We brought wine,’ I say cheerfully, holding up the bottle. I uncork it and take some glasses down from the cupboard. ‘It’s a Derwent Estate Calcaire Pinot Noir.’
‘I don’t care what it is. Pour,’ commands Mum, her eyes trained on Dad.
‘I’ve got to finish clearing those gutters,’ he says, making his way outside. ‘C’mon, Nick.’ Nick, ever the obedient son-in-law, follows Dad outside.
Shortly afterwards, the doorbell rings, signalling Caitlin’s arrival with Mark and the kids.
‘I’ll go,’ I say, setting my wine glass down.
‘Anyone home?!’ yells Caitlin.
‘I’m coming!’ I call, speeding up.
Ella peers through the window, her nose pressed against the frosted glass panel. She’s dressed as a ladybird, in a red-and-black leotard with a matching tutu. I unlock the front door and step aside as Caitlin, carrying two-year-old Ethan on one hip, comes inside. She nods at me with his dummy in her mouth, a nappy bag slung over one shoulder and a plastic container in one hand, which no doubt contains dessert. I extend two arms out to peel Ethan from her. ‘Hey, Ethan, Aunty Paige has missed you!’ I nuzzle my face against the soft skin of his neck, inhaling the fragrance of vanilla soap and laundry detergent.
Ella squeezes through the door and grips my leg. ‘Aunty Paige! I haven’t seen you in years!’
‘I know!’ I crouch down to her level. She is all freckles and wide eyes. ‘It’s been so long I don’t think I can remember your name.’
She bursts into a fit of giggles and whispers into my ear, ‘Ella. But you can call me Ellabella.’
I wink at her. ‘Okay,’ I whisper, feeling my heart expand.
We trail into the kitchen and Mum squeezes Ella, delivering a loud kiss on her cheek before prying Ethan from my arms, but not before I blow a raspberry on his neck and wait for the delightful laughter to ensue.
‘Hey, Mum,’ says Caitlin, pecking her cheek. Mum tries to slap her hand away when she goes to pinch a freshly baked cookie from the tray, but Caitlin is too quick.
‘Are these white choc and macadamia?’ she asks, snapping it in half and handing a piece to Ethan.
‘Yes. And we’re about to have dinner soon,’ says Mum, sliding the tray away from the bench.
I snatch a cookie for Ella, handing it to her as I hold a finger to my mouth. ‘Do ladybirds know how to keep secrets?’ She cups her mouth with her hand, stifling a laugh as she accepts it.
I scoop some of Mum’s home-made olive tapenade onto a cracker. ‘Unusual for you to be this late,’ I say to Caitlin.
‘Mark got caught up talking to some people at the country house. We need to finish the renovation by the end of next summer. I’ve had to cancel the interior designer and now I’m on another waiting list. So… well, it needs to be ready, and that’s that.’ She rubs her temples. Four months ago, she and Mark bought a fixer-upper – a moderate-sized weatherboard on acreage in Castlemaine, under two hours away from Melbourne. They plan on transforming it into a B & B as well as a home to retreat to over the kids’ school holidays. The renovation process is turning out to be an arduous one riddled with ongoing dramas that Mark, who works in the corporate office of a bank, deals with only on weekends when time actually permits, which of course isn’t as often as Caitlin would like. Foundation issues, leaking pipes and council hurdles. They haven’t even begun physical work on it yet. And judging by Caitlin’s wrinkled forehead, it’s taking its toll. Not that she isn’t trying to hide it. Caitlin normally has the poise and grace of Kate Middleton, but not when it comes to discussions about the country house.
‘What a nightmare.’
‘No, not a nightmare. All part of the renovation process,’ she says, trying a bit too hard to appear all Zen-like in her response. She prises my wine glass from me and drains the contents. ‘Nothing we can’t handle. Any more wine?’ She holds up the bottle to check it.
Mum gives me a questioning look.
I shrug.
‘Ooh, what’s in here?’ asks Mum, lifting the lid of the cake container to inspect the double-layered heart-shaped pastry slathered in piped white chocolate drops and a perfectly arranged mismatch of pink macaroons, fresh roses, strawberries, raspberries and sprinkles. ‘Oh, it’s divine.’ She puts Ethan down and carefully lifts the Instagrammable dessert out of the carrier. ‘Don’t tell me you made this.’ It is no secret that Caitlin has inherited all of Mum’s baking and organisational genes – genes that have completely skipped me.
‘Cream tarts, Mum. Everyone’s making them now. I’ll give you the recipe.’
How Caitlin manages to find the time and patience to present a dessert like that at a regular Sunday night dinner at Mum and Dad’s is beyond me. I imagine her days are filled with the constant pinging of notifications alerting her to all the various commitments in her life: meal planning, doctor’s appointments, Pilates sessions, PFA meetings, ballet and swimming lessons, coffee and play dates. She’s the kind of mum who turns up at a school fete fundraiser with two cakes if she’s been asked to bring one – usually decorated with perfectly piped buttercream or edible flowers – while the other mums scramble to present their Donna Hay packet brownies. Me, I’d be the kind of mum who would stop by the supermarket with an empty Tupperware container after an attempt at making a simple vanilla sponge failed.
Once Mum finishes cooing at the cream tart, I have my quick turn, which is interrupted by Mark’s grand entrance. He releases the numerous things he’s carrying onto the floor: a pink backpack, another nappy bag, a ball, a hula hoop and a small ride-on tractor.
‘Hi, ladies,’ he says. He kisses Mum on the cheek before turning to me.
‘Hey, Mark.’ I point to the back door. ‘Dad’s got the beer outside.’
He nods gratefully, excuses himself and makes his way outside, completely ignoring Caitlin.
‘Everything okay with you two?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Caitlin snaps.
‘Where’s Granddad?’ asks Ella.
‘He’s outside with Uncle Nick. Let’s go say hello,’ I say, leaving Mum and Caitlin to chat. If there is any tension between Caitlin and Mark, it’s unlikely Caitlin would discuss it with me anyway. She usually keeps those kinds of things to herself.
‘Uncle Nick!’ says Ella when she spots him.
Nick grins. ‘Uh, you don’t look like Ella. You look like a pixie to me.’
‘No, I’m Ella dressed up.’ She bends over in a fit of laughter.
‘Uh, no, I’m pretty sure Ella doesn’t wear green shoes with bells.’ He makes a face.
She takes her felt hat off, revealing her unruly blonde curls. She really is a miniature version of Caitlin.
‘It’s me!’
‘Oh my God, it really is you!’
Ella grins a toothy smile. ‘Told you!’
Meanwhile, Dad’s dragging a ladder out from the shed. He calls out to Ella.
‘Granddad!’ Ella skirts around in his direction and jumps up to give him a high five.
Dad reaches into his pocket and produces his wallet, fishing out two twenty-dollar notes. ‘One for you and one for your brother,’ he says, winking. Ella thanks him, and in unison the two of them point fingers at each other and declare in a sing-song voice, ‘Make sure you spend it wisely!’ By now Ella is used to Dad’s usual routine of providing cash on greeting. She skips to the deck, diligently hands the notes to Mark for safekeeping and makes her way to the trampoline.
Dad joins me on the veranda and greets Ethan by giving him a kiss on the head. ‘Hey, little fella,’ he says, ruffling his hair. ‘About time you and Nick made yourselves one of these little guys.’
‘Daaaad.’
‘Just stirring, love. We all know you’ll make a great mum someday.’
I kiss Ethan on the cheek and nestle my face against his. ‘I know,’ I murmur, my lips against his delicate skin. ‘One day.’
It’s no surprise that at each family gathering, someone is ready to ask questions about the state of my uterus. Mum often jokes, saying things like, ‘You’re over thirty years old, Paige. Your uterus is getting as impatient as I am. I know it wants to make me a grandmother.’ Once when I questioned why she never asks the same of my older brother Ryan, she replied, deadpan, ‘Ryan doesn’t have a uterus,’ and that was that.
Mum pokes her head out onto the veranda. ‘Nick, darling, would you mind picking some basil for me? It’s in one of the pots in the corner.’
‘Sure thing,’ replies Nick.
Dad’s now standing on a ladder, clearing the gutters. No matter how hard Mum tries to keep him from overdoing it since his recent hip operation, he always manages to find one odd job or another to keep him occupied outside.
‘Oh, and do me a favour and ask David to get down and have a shower.’
I follow Mum back into the kitchen, where she opens the oven to check on the roast, a flurry of steam escaping as she does so, fogging up her glasses. ‘Honestly, he’s like a fourth child,’ she mutters. ‘Never listens to me or his doctor for that matter. Maybe Nick could have a word with him.’
‘Or you could leave him to his own devices, Mum. Besides, Nick is a kids’ doctor.’
‘Speaking of kids.’ She pauses, maintaining eye contact with me.
I roll my eyes.
‘Any changes? I haven’t asked in a few months.’
‘You asked me two days ago,’ I say, correcting her.
‘No, I didn’t. I just asked whether you thought you and Nick would be in a position to join us on a cruise next Christmas,’ she says as the sliding door screeches open.
Nick re-enters the kitchen with a handful of basil. ‘He needs a few more minutes,’ he says, referring to Dad.
‘I really wish you’d drop it,’ I say as I slosh a rather large amount of wine into my glass. I tilt my head back, taking a long sip.
‘I suppose there’s no change then,’ retorts Mum under her breath as she takes the basil from Nick, winking at him as she does this.
I exchange a glance with Nick, who reaches for an empty glass and starts pouring wine into it.
The usual, I mouth.
‘Mrs Hutton?’ he says, extending a hand with a full glass of wine.
Mum accepts the glass from him and he pours another for himself. ‘Cheers,’ he says, raising his glass. ‘To future Hutton–Bellbrae babies.’
This is so out of character for Nick that Mum almost chokes on her wine, spluttering discreetly into her hand, while I simply smile into my glass and pretend not to giggle. Nice, I mouth as soon as she turns her back to finish setting the table.
Nick winks at me and I feel a surge of love move through me.
‘And hopefully they come sooner rather than later,’ she says, waving a hand in the air. ‘Don’t think I don’t notice all those cute little gestures between the two of you,’ she says with her back still turned to us.
Nick snakes his arm around me and squeezes. ‘One day,’ he whispers, only there is something different in his voice. Something that makes it sound like he knows something I don’t.
A pang of mixed emotion whirls through me. One day how far away? One day soon? Nick squeezes me harder as if he understands my thoughts. Yes, I’ve been waiting a while. Being a paediatric surgeon is more than a job to Nick – it’s a vocation. And to get there, study and work have had to come before family. But the honest truth is that I hope that one day comes sooner rather than later.
‘I’ve been thinking about what your mum said,’ I say to Paige one day, which is exactly three days after Evelyn’s Sunday roast. We’re in the light-filled kitchen of our Bayside Melbourne home, an area we settled on because we love the beach. My commute to work takes an hour in peak traffic even though we live less than twenty kilometres from the children’s hospital. Then again, I rarely travel to and from work during peak traffic anyway.
‘Yeah, which part exactly?’ Paige asks, snapping the snow peas in half. She adds a handful of grated carrot to the salad and moves on to chopping the cucumber.
I slide the tray of salmon into the oven and check on the potatoes. ‘Well, we’ve been married a long time now.’ I suppress a smile. Paige has no idea what’s coming, and I can’t wait to see her reaction when I tell her. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that she wants more than what I’m going to surprise her with tonight.
‘I know. Seven years. We’re on the road to becoming old together. I don’t even complain about the fact you leave your T-shirts and socks inside out when you put them in the washing basket. I’ve reached a place of acceptance when it comes to your faults.’
I chuckle and open the fridge. ‘Why is this in here?’ I ask, pulling out a box of cereal.
‘Huh?’ she says, glancing over her shoulder.
I lift up the cold box of Weet-Bix.
‘Oh, I must have had a moment.’
This doesn’t surprise me at all. Paige has been having these kinds of ‘moments’ since the day I met her, and it’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with her.
‘I love your faults, Paige Hutton. You are the quirkiest woman I know.’ I dig my hand into the box and shove a dry Weet-Bix in my mouth, and she reacts exactly as expected, with a giggle and a small shake of her head.
‘You’re worse than a child, you know that?’ She eyes the floor. ‘And you’re making crumbs.’
I slip away into the laundry room and return with the stick vacuum, gliding it over the floor and down the gap between the fridge and the cupboard. Paige loves it when I vacuum without her having to ask me to.
‘Who eats Weet-Bix like that anyway?’ she asks.
‘Your faulty husband,’ I joke, washing the last of my Weet-Bix down with a glass of water.
She smiles into the salad bowl.
‘So, don’t you want to know what I was thinking about?’
‘Let me guess. Mum needs her windows washed and you know someone who can do it,’ she says, resting her hand on her hip. ‘At a good price,’ she adds, waggling a finger at me.
Paige and I have an ongoing joke that if we are ever in need of any kind of service, advice or assistance, I can find a contact able to help. I keep telling her that one of the most interesting parts of my job as a paediatric surgeon is getting to understand the dynamic of a family better. I think I can do a better job if I feel like I know my patients and their parents. Paige, however, is convinced it’s so I can come home and declare things like: ‘I met a guy who travels to seventeen countries a year and is a fountain pen doctor who fixes nibs for a living. He has a four-year-old son who he hardly ever sees.’
‘No, actually,’ I say.
‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense here,’ she says as she drizzles balsamic vinegar over the salad.
I raise a finger in the air. ‘Can you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
‘That,’ I say, tilting my head.
She tilts her head in response, and it’s nothing short of adorable. ‘Nick, I can’t hear anything.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Okay, what has gotten into you tonight?’ she says, shaking her head.
‘Well, I was thinking that this house is pretty quiet with the two of us, would you agree?’
‘Nick…’
I can tell she’s holding her breath in anticipation of what I’m about to tell her.
‘And I’d really like to share my love of Weet-Bix with a little person. Who knows if genetics will come into play as far as preferences for dry or wet ones go.’
Paige doesn’t move. ‘Hold on a second. What did you say?’
I move closer and envelop her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. ‘I can feel that you know – going all thoughtful on me.’
‘Um, I don’t know what to say.’ She flips around to face me. ‘Are you sure? I mean, is this really something you want – as in now?’
She surveys me, trying to work out whether I’m actually serious. I am, and I couldn’t be more ready for it. We couldn’t be more ready for it. Paige has been more than patient with me about this next step in our life. When we met at Windsor Lakes, the aged-care home she works at, after my grandmother moved in there ten years ago, I was studying. It’s been a long road of hard work and study, and having a baby is something we decided to wait for until I was more established in my career. We are now finally ready.
‘You don’t need to say anything. But there is something we could do.’ I lean forward, pulling her body close to mine, and run my hand behind her neck and kiss her.
‘Paige, would you do me the honour of becoming the most perfect, loving, heart-stoppingly beautiful mother of my children?’
I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. ‘Nick, would you do me the honour of becoming the faulty, ever so smart and often hilarious father of mine?’
I smile against her lips. ‘Baby – it’s a deal.’
I take a pregnancy test while Nick is in the shower. I’m bloated and my boobs are sore and my period is three days late, which is no real surprise since it’s never usually on time, but I’ve convinced myself that this month’s test will be no different to all the others – it will be nothing but another disappointment. Over the past seven months I’ve done everything right – all the prenatal check-ups and vitamins, diet and exercise – but despite all this there’s no denying that nothing has been happening. Nick’s tried reassuring me that we have nothing to be concerned about, and we should wait at least another five months before we entertain the idea of going to see a fertility specialist. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m quietly clinging to the misguided assumption that every other woman in the world is blessed with a functioning body and mine isn’t. It isn’t healthy, but I’m tired of having my hopes crushed. So, this morning, I decide I will have no more of it. I leave the test on the bathroom sink while I go and hang out a load of washing.
‘Hey,’ says Nick, joining me outside, his hair still wet from the shower. He picks a towel from the basket and hoists it over the line as if he’s playing with a basketball.
‘Hey,’ I reply, handing him two pegs.
He helps me hang the rest of the washing and steps back as if he’s assessing what a great job we’ve done, not dissimilar to how a painter might admire a work of art. ‘We’re going to need a bigger line,’ he surmises.
‘Uh, what?’
‘Do you have any idea how much washing we’re going to need to do for an infant?’
I take the empty laundry basket and start to make my way inside. ‘Yes, I do. But that’s the least of my problems right now. I know you said there’s no cause for alarm yet, but I really think we need to start seeing someone now.’
Nick tilts his head. ‘Aww, you look so sad.’
‘Don’t,’ I say, trying to be serious despite Nick’s endearing expression. ‘I took another test, which is pointless since my period’s going to arrive any minute now. Look at me,’ I say, pointing to the red spot on my chin. ‘It’s like my period is teasing me. The minute I decide to take a test, it shows up. Cruel, right?’
‘You mean this test?’ says Nick, pulling the plastic stick from the pocket of his jeans. He pats it against his palm, an expressionless look on his face.
‘What? Yes?’
He shrugs. ‘Is it meant to have one or two lines to make you smile?’
‘No way,’ I whisper. ‘Show me.’
Nick turns the stick around so I can see. Two pink lines.
‘Oh my God! We’re having a baby?!’ I throw myself into Nick’s arms. He hugs me back, nestling his face against my shoulder.
‘Can’t wait to become three,’ he murmurs into my ear.
I laugh and frame his still-wet face with my hands. ‘Well, he or she is the size of a poppy seed. Did you know that, Dr Bellbrae?’
He shakes his head, still smiling at me. ‘Well, yeah. It’s made of two layers: the epiblast and hypoblast.’
‘I love our poppy-seed-sized epiblast and hypoblast already. Oh my God, Nick. We’re having a baby. I wonder if he or she will like yellow jelly beans like me. Do genetics play a role in taste preferences?’ Nick and I have had a thing for jelly beans since our first date, when he surprised me with a jar after I’d joked that gold stickers for his patients were boring.
Nick chuckles and taps his front tooth with his finger. ‘No jelly beans. Bad for teeth.’
‘Oh. Yeah. Course.’ I grin at him and start counting on. . .
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