Mia begins sucking the milk down in greedy gulps, her whole body relaxing and calming in an ecstasy of feeding, piercing blue eyes focusing on my face as if I’m the only person in the whole world.
While Mia drinks, I glance at the other mid-afternoon coffee-drinkers in the café. There are only a handful of customers. A fortyish guy on crutches, his left leg in plaster up to the knee. A woman in bright yellow Lycra at the counter, studying the cakes and pastries behind the glass. A couple of site workers having a breather over a cup of tea in the corner. A guy in his sixties surrounded by newspapers, pen poised over a crossword.
Calm. Safe. No police, no hooligans, no weirdos from the train. My left arm aches from holding Mia, but it’s a good ache.
My phone rings, vibrating against the table, the ringtone loud in the quiet café. Tara’s face shows on the screen, but with the baby in the crook of my elbow and my right hand holding the bottle, I can’t pick it up. I let it ring until the tune abruptly cuts off.
I smile down at Mia as she sucks busily on the bottle of formula milk, already half finished. I know I need to wind her, to get some burps up, but am I supposed to do that now or when the bottle’s finished? I’m not sure. I pull gently on the bottle and it slides out of Mia’s hungry mouth, leaving her lips still puckered in a surprised ‘o’ shape. The blonde woman at the table next to me is leaning over, handing me something.
‘Here you go,’ she says, holding out a square of soft white muslin cloth. ‘You dropped this.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, shaking it and draping it back over my shoulder, ready for any milk that comes back up.
‘Just have a little breather,’ I say gently to Mia, putting the bottle on the table. ‘Then you can have more.’
But Mia has other ideas, a frown of disappointment clouding her face, eyes flicking left and right, searching for the bottle that was there moments before. Little high-pitched squeaks of desperation burst from her, each a little louder than the last.
‘OK,’ I say with a smile. ‘Maybe you don’t want a breather.’
I lift the bottle and Mia latches on again immediately. I’ve imagined doing this so many times with my own baby. Just this. Nothing complicated or greedy about it. Just this simplest thing, this bond between mother and child, building and strengthening and already so powerful I think my heart might crack at the thought of letting Mia go.
And I can do it. These last few years of disappointment, lying awake at night I’ve half-convinced myself that I don’t deserve it, that I’m somehow lacking, that there’s some other reason why I can’t conceive. Some strange logic that I’d never be a good enough mother. But I can do this for Mia, I can feed a baby, sustain her, look after her. I straighten the square of muslin cloth on my shoulder and raise her so she’s upright, little chin against my shoulder, rubbing her back in a circular motion. For a moment nothing happens, and I wonder if I’m doing it wrong. Then Mia lets out a single explosive burp, then another, so strident in the quiet café that I’m amazed such a loud noise can come from such a small body.
The woman with a toddler at the next table gives me a grin.
‘Best sound in the world,’ she says.
‘She’s a hungry girl,’ I say, lowering her back into my arm. Mia’s eyes are blinking slowly closed, her belly full, sinking into sleep with her mouth still open in a perfect tiny circle. Her head is warm to the touch, her downy cheeks soft and plump like little peaches.
Children don’t make memories, I’ve read, until they’re two or three years old. So Mia will never know me, never remember this in the future. My face will be lost, washed away in time like sand in a rising tide, and she’ll never know about this strange day, this beautiful hour we spent together. The thought settles with the weight of sadness in my stomach. I take my phone from the table, unlock it – a missed call from Tara – and snap a picture of Mia. Her beautiful, peaceful face filling the screen. A soft, sleepy, contented baby, warm in my arms. This whole day has taken on an unreal, dreamlike quality, like something I’ve seen in a film or heard about a long time ago.
Two-thirds of the formula milk is gone. Is that enough? I’m not sure. Mia seems content, so I settle her back. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to reheat milk for a second go-around. Throw it out, sterilise the bottle, make up new formula with boiled water. I’ve seen Tara do it a hundred times.
Every mother is a first-timer once. Every mother goes through this, has to figure things out one at a time. I just had a later start, that was all, but I’m a fast learner and—
I catch myself, stop myself. My smile fading.
Mia is not mine.
Stop stalling.
I know what I have to do.
Life is not fair, life is never fair. But self-pity is the purest poison if you let it take hold.
I lay Mia flat on the soft bench seat, perching next to her on the edge in case she suddenly rolls onto her side, and take out the baby sling. I turn it this way and that, trying to figure out the complicated set of buckles and fasteners, to work out whether you put the baby in it before or after you place the straps over your shoulders. After, probably, because it would be easier to lower—
‘Do you want a hand with that?’
The woman at the table next to me points at the Baby Bjorn.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Still trying to get used to it.’
‘I used to wear it with my jacket over the top.’
‘Oh, right.’ I shrug my jacket off and slip the straps over my shoulders, tightening and adjusting until it seems about right. ‘Could you lift her up?’
‘Sure,’ the woman says, gently lifting Mia under her arms and lowering her into the sling. ‘There you go.’
The woman adjusts the carrier so that Mia is propped up snugly, and I slip my jacket on again over the straps. It’s a lot easier than holding the baby in my arms – and means I have both hands free.
‘Oh my gosh she’s so like you, isn’t she?’ The woman smiles admiringly. ‘Just a lovely little mini-me.’
‘Yes. I suppose she is.’
I realise that I’ve not touched my own drink. I take a sip, the tea already tepid, and put the cup back on the table. I wasn’t thirsty anyway. I stand up, Mia warm and sleepy against my chest, sling the rucksack over my shoulder alongside my handbag. The baby snuffles, her mouth opening in a tiny yawn, but her eyes don’t open.
My heart clenches with what I have to do next.
Outside, I go to the kerb and scan the street for another black cab. St George Street is a fairly busy road; there’ll be one along in a minute. I look down at Mia’s sleeping face, her chubby cheeks and perfect pink eyelids, a tiny bubble of milk on her lips. My phone pings again in my handbag. I dig it out and see the unread messages from Tara.
You back from the clinic already? X
You OK? School run now but will call when I’m back xx
I try to think of a reply that doesn’t sound too crazy, thumbs poised over the screen, and begin typing just as a car door opens wide at the kerb, the door swinging inches from my legs. I look up, a hand instinctively covering Mia’s back, as a large man in a black bomber jacket jumps out of the driver’s seat. With a jolt of shock, I realise I’ve seen his face before.