CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 

“My ovaries are going crazy,” my Aunt Ava announces as she cradles baby Arabella in her arms. 

“My nipples tingle every time I hear a baby crying,” my other aunt, Laura, agrees.

“I love them at this stage,” Kennedy sighs.  “They don’t talk back or scream for no reason.  They don’t throw themselves on the floor in the supermarket, screaming bloody murder and making you feel like the worst mother on the planet.”

“Thank god I’m past that stage.” Sienna nods sagely.  “But then you get to the teenage years and you’re worried they’ll get in a car with someone who’s drunk, or they’ll take drugs, or they’ll come home and announce someone got them pregnant.  It’s never-ending stress.”

“But the best kind,” Ava says.  “It’s the most stressful but amazing job in the world.”

“Absolutely,” Mum agrees.  “And you’ve got it all to look forward to,” she says to me.

“I’m not looking forward to the supermarket tantrums,” I reply, wrinkling my nose.  Truth be told, looking at my angelic daughter, I don’t think she’ll be anything less than the perfect child.

Ha!  Wishful thinking, I know.

“Well if she gets to be too much of a handful, you know you’ve got many willing babysitters,” Laura says.

My eyes move around the small lounge room in my cottage.  Laura’s right. Between my sister Brooklyn, and my cousins Haidee, Lila, Ivie, and Ella, I could even make up a roster in a few months’ time.  Molly, Daisy, and Raine are still a little young, but they’ll be at babysitting age before Arabella is ready for school.  Having a huge family like I do is never a bad thing.  Well, except when you have a new baby and everyone demands a hold.  Everyone rocked up about an hour ago and I haven’t held Arabella since they cleared the cottage threshold.  The guys all went outside to start cooking on the barbeque, and the girls stayed inside with me and promptly began a game of pass the baby.  Aunt Sienna even changed her nappy ten minutes ago, and I’m sure if any of them could, they would feed her for me as well!

“Food’s almost done,” my Uncle Jeremy announces as he leans down and kisses Ava on the forehead.  “You getting clucky, honey?  We’re not too old yet.  We could go again.”  He waggles his eyebrows and we all groan.

“No, thank you.  The twins are fifteen, no way are we having any more babies.”

Just then, my cousin Oscar’s one-year-old daughter Mya toddles into the room, buck naked, and Ava scoops her up.

“My grandbaby is baby enough for me,” she says before blowing raspberries on the little girl’s stomach, eliciting the most delightful giggles from her.

“Excuse me, missy,” Mya’s Mum Rosie says, following her into the room.  “You can’t run around flashing your butt to everyone.”

We all burst out laughing as Mya squirms free from Ava and darts away from her mother.

“She hates wearing nappies,” Rosie grumbles with a grin as she chases after her daughter.  My eyes follow Rosie as she walks away and my heart smiles at how happy she is.  She endured a hellish few years at the hands of her ex-boyfriend and it took a lot for her to trust my cousin, Oscar.  But he was determined, and honestly, I don’t think she had a hope in hell against the Henley charm.

 

 

“You need another drink, baby?” Hamish asks softly, tangling his fingers in my hair and leaning down to kiss behind my ear.

“I’m good,” I reply just as soft.

He runs his finger down my cheek before walking toward the big esky filled with bottles of beer and wine for the adults and soft drinks, water, and juice for the kids.  When my family comes to visit, they come prepared.  I’m surprised they waited until the day after I came home from hospital to stop by.  I ended up spending just over forty-eight hours in hospital before I was discharged yesterday.

“You’re having a party and didn’t invite me?” I hear yelled from the back door of the cottage.

Recognising the voice, I gingerly turn in my seat and see Aubree, hands on hips, scowling my direction.

“Sorry,” I wince.  “It wasn’t my idea.  Blame Uncle Jer,” I offer, willing to offload the blame to anyone.

“That’d be right, blame me.  I bring steak and cook it, I bring drinks that are cold, and I still get blamed,” he mutters.  I turn and give him a sassy grin and notice he’s grinning as well, despite his grumbling.

Aubree makes her way over to us and sits down beside me in one of the white plastic chairs that have been here forever.  I’m surprised they’re not brittle enough to snap under the weight of a twig.

“I missed you,” I say, leaning over to give her a one-armed hug.  Since Aubree was turned away from the hospital when it was on lockdown, and she had to work the next day until after visiting hours, I haven’t had a chance to see her.  Which means she hasn’t seen Arabella, besides in the copious amounts of picture texts I have been sending her.

“I’ve missed you, too.  Now, where’s this baby girl?  I need to hug her.  I’m pretty sure I’ve seen pictures of every single milestone thus far—including the way her cute little face scrunches up when she’s going to dirty her nappy,” Aubree says, shooting me a filthy look and causing everyone to break out laughing.

“It was cute!”

“It was,” she agrees instantly.  “But, when I said I wanted to see every moment, I didn’t mean every moment.”

“Perhaps you should be a little more thorough in your requests in the future,” I sass.

“Duly noted,” she replies, her lips twitching along with my own.  “Right, hand me the baby.”  She looks around to see whose arms Arabella is cradled in.

“She’s sleeping,” I say, but then the little monitor I have clipped to my shirt lights up and Arabella starts to fuss.

“Oh! She’s got spidey-senses already.  She knows her favourite aunty Aubs is here.”  Aubree jumps up and jogs down the path and in the back door. 

Seconds later, I hear her voice come through the monitor.  She’s talking in a high-pitched tone that has us all giggling.

“Hey, baby girl. Hello, gorgeous.  I’m your aunty Aubree, but you can call me Aubs.  Aren’t you a pretty little darling.  And tiny, too.  Oh you’re so beautiful, look at all this hair.  Wow, have you done a dirty nappy?  Oh, goodness, you smell.  Bad.  What the heck is your mother feeding you?  Aunty Aubs isn’t good at yucky smells.  I don’t have a strong stomach.”

I walk inside, still laughing, and find Aubree holding Arabella slightly away from her, her face tinged green.

“You don’t look so good.  Everything okay?”  I ask innocently.

“What have you been feeding her?  She smells like my father when he comes back from a guys’ trip where they consume nothing but seafood, garlic, and booze.”

A burst of laughter bubbles from my lips startling Arabella.  “Hand her over.  Unless you want to change her?”

“Uh, no thanks.  I need to escape this room or I’m going to hurl.”

“I don’t need vomit on my new carpet.”  I wrinkle my nose.  “Go outside and I’ll meet you there.  Maybe then I’ll let you hold her.”

When Aubree leaves I lean down and kiss Arabella’s cheek while I’m placing her on the change table.  It’s the same one my mum had for me and my brother and sister, only she had it freshly painted and the padded insert recovered in a beautiful fabric with baby jungle animals on it.

“Hey, baby girl.  You don’t smell so bad.  Aunty Aubs is just a big sooky.”  Arabella just grunts and then farts. I’m going to assume that response means she agrees with me.

 

 

Day four of being a new mum and I’m about ready to curl into a ball, cry my eyes out, and then sleep for days.  Hamish left to go into town with a shopping list as long as my arm.  I need nipple shields and some of those cooling breast pads, among other things.

My nipples feel like a wild dog has been using them as a chew toy.  I guess there is an adjustment period, seeing as my breasts have never been full of milk before, and I’ve never breastfeed a child.  Subsequently, Arabella has never breastfed before either, so we’re both as inexperienced as each other.  Hamish raced into Pine Creek yesterday and the lady at the chemist gave him some Lanoline ointment.  Apparently, it should help, but I’m yet to see the results.  To be fair, I’ve only been using it for the last ten hours, so I should be a little more lenient. 

Not to be outdone, my stomach looks like a huge bowl of not-yet-set jelly.  It’s deflated a whole lot, but the loose skin is depressing.  And all that lotion I spent months rubbing into my stomach to avoid stretchmarks?  Complete waste of time and money!  I counted six fresh angry red marks when I showered last night.

Speaking of angry, the stitches in my vagina are pissing me off.  They’re obviously healing, because I’m so damn itchy down there, but I refuse to scratch because a) I’m bleeding and gross, and b) I don’t want to accidentally rip a stitch out and then either live with a deformed vagina or go back to the hospital and have them restitch me.  No, thank you!  I resorted to sitting on an ice pack to relieve the itchiness, but it’s barely working.

And then there’s Dek, who’s dead. I can’t help but wonder if he would still be alive if he hadn’t come to the hospital to visit Arabella.  The rational part of my brain realises that he’d probably be dead no matter what.  Obviously, the people who had it out for him were following him.  They saw an opportunity and took it.  I haven’t let thoughts of him plague me too much because I know it’s in my family’s best interest to forget Dek, just like he advised me to do right before he died.  I don’t want anyone I love to end up dead.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t regularly checked the local news websites for information on the murder.  Not surprisingly, they haven’t said a whole lot.  I guess the MC has a lot of people in their pockets and they’re keeping their cards close to their chest.  Aubree couldn’t even find any information from Tokka when she grilled him.

The good news is Arabella is a great baby.  She only cries when she’s hungry (every four hours on the dot), needs a nappy change (again, every four hours), or has wind (hardly ever).

“It’s the three-day blues, darling.  Completely normal and it happens to all mums,” my mother reassures me as I sit on the edge of my bed.  She hands me a tissue with one hand and continues twirling my hair around her finger with her other hand.  It’s a soothing gesture she’s done ever since I was a little girl.

I blow my nose and dab away the wetness from my cheeks.  I can’t stop crying.  I feel like the worst mum ever.  Last night I was relaxing in the bath and my milk came in.  I started leaking all into the warm water, so then I started bawling.  I felt embarrassed because Hamish was in the bathroom with me washing my back.  Completely ridiculous, I know.  The man saw me give birth, so what’s a little breast milk?  But I can’t help the irrational feelings coursing through my body.

“It’s been four days, Mum.  Why do they call it the three-day blues if it’s been four days?” I sob.

“Well…” Mum pauses.  “I don’t know.  Maybe that’s just a slang term?  It’ll pass, honey.  Why don’t you have a lie down. Sleep a little.  I’ll take miss Arabella for a walk and when you wake up, maybe you’ll feel better?” she suggests hopefully.  “I’ll keep an eye out for Hamish and let him know you’re taking a nap.”

I shrug and then slip under the covers.  Mum closes the blinds, encasing the room in darkness, then she and Arabella leave the room, closing the door softly behind them.  When they’re gone, I cry myself to sleep.

 

I wake up two hours later feeling like a new woman.  The sun is down in the sky and I know within the next hour or so, we’ll have a beautiful sunset.  I make my way to the bathroom and glance at my reflection as I pass by the mirror in the hallway.  I look like shit.  Red, puffy eyes.  Blotchy, tearstained cheeks.  Swollen lips.  Ratty hair.

But at least I feel good, right?

Hamish is in the kitchen cooking something that smells amazing.  He’s singing a Kenny Chesney song to Arabella, who’s sleeping in her bassinet by the bench, and I smile as I walk toward them.  Mum must have already gone home.

He’s wearing worn jeans with a faded blue/grey tee shirt.  The tattoo on his arm flexes and moves as if it’s alive as he stirs whatever he’s cooking.  His voice is a low rasp and surprisingly in tune as he sings about having beers in Mexico.

He turns and jerks, slightly startled to see me standing there ogling him.

“Hey, baby.  How’re you feeling?” he asks as he rounds the bassinet and holds his arms out to me.

I go willingly, my head colliding with his chest.  I inhale his scent and tip my chin up.  He takes my offered lips in a sweet, soft kiss, before I answer.  “I’m feeling a hundred percent better.  Did Mum go home?

He nods.  “About an hour ago.  Me and Bella-Boo have unpacked the groceries, hung out a load of washing, and almost finished cooking dinner.”

“Bella-Boo?” I ask, smiling lazily.  I love that he’s given our daughter a nickname already.

“Well, it’s actually Bella-Bootiful,” he says, speaking in a freaking adorable baby talk that has me giggling.  “But Bella-Boo for short.”

“You’re very adorable, Mister Tyler.” I run my finger down the side of his cheek.  The short stubble there tickles my finger.

“Speaking of my last name… you never did give me an answer.”  He waggles his eyebrows.  I know exactly what he is talking about.

“I didn’t?” I play coy.

“Nope.”  He reaches into his pocket and then slips the ring onto my finger.  “So what do you say?  Marry me?” His words are soft.  Hypnotic. 

“If I say yes, will you sing at the wedding?”

“Is your answer dependent on my response?”

“Possibly.”

“Then what if I say yes and magically come down with strep throat the day before the wedding?” he counters.

“We could always postpone until your vocal chords are healed,” I say sweetly.

“You drive a hard bargain, baby.”  He pulls me against him and I feel every single hard inch of him.  “How long did the doctor say we’ve got to wait?” he growls in my ear.

“Five more weeks,” I breathe.  “And two days.”

He growls again.

“But if it’s any consolation, my answer is yes.  Regardless if you sing or not.”

“That just makes me want to fuck you more, if that’s even possible.”

“You’re impossible to please, Mister Tyler.”

“The doctor didn’t say I had to refrain from spanking you,” he warns, an erotically dangerous glint in his eye.

“Promises, promises,” I sass.  “Now, feed me. I’m hungry.”  I swat his arse as he moves around the counter to serve our food.