Olivia looks at me, eyes wide. Surely it is not so surprising that I can be kind sometimes.
‘That would be incredible, thank you,’ she replies. ‘Please put her in something cute – Mum fusses about her outfits and I don’t have the energy to deal right now.’
‘Anything would be cute on her,’ I reply, picking Maeve up off the floor and putting her on my hip.
Maeve lays her head on my shoulder, and I feel my nervous system relax. It is a calmness that arrives so quickly it feels pharmaceutical. She might be the only good thing that exists. And here she is in my arms.
‘You know what I mean. Something that matches.’
I nod, taking Maeve to Olivia’s room and sitting us both on the bed. She flops back and when I copy her and do the same, she erupts in squeals of laughter. Of course I do it five more times. Her giggles flood my veins; I am hooked. When this display of physical comedy seems to have run its course, I look in the cupboard for something appropriate to dress her in. Her tiny clothes are folded in two piles on the lowest shelf. The gingham overalls and white top with the Peter Pan collar call to me, and I ask Maeve what she thinks, holding the tiny pieces up against my chest.
‘How about this one? Is it comfortable?’
She shakes her head. I suggest a few more, until the sage terry towelling jumpsuit elicits the most positive response.
‘Dat one,’ she replies.
‘Okayyyy . . . It does look cosy,’ I reply, running my hand across the fabric.
Zipping her out of her sleep suit and finding a clean nappy, I think about how Olivia does this multiple times a day, every day. She has more than doubled her load, without any additional help, because Maeve’s father prefers to spend weekends at the pub, which is where they met and where they broke up, and she just has to absorb it, as if it is fine. That is her experience. And she is not even that much older than me. Unfathomable. She was running around England doing book signings and festivals and events, in luscious clothes with always perfect hair and makeup, while adjusting to motherhood and parenting a new baby. How? I can barely change my own clothes every day. My moving home signifies my need to be cared for as much as Maeve. Olivia has performed a miracle, daily, for almost two years, and deserves recognition for the magic in front of me.
‘You look beautiful,’ I say, standing Maeve back up on the bed.
She looks down at her outfit and pats it flat, aware of herself. I panic about body image and what I am prioritising and whether caring too much about clothes will damage her in some way.
‘You are also so kind and clever and funny,’ I quickly add.
‘No-No, big hug.’
She holds her arms out to me and I lift her into mine. I hope she has not internalised the message that this is something she owes me. I do not know how to voice that in a way she will understand, so I try to let the thought exist without voicing it. Her warm body presses against mine and I try to communicate everything through this exchange.
‘Should we go and see Grandma?’
‘Pa,’ she says.
Dad, who speaks about ten words a day to the rest of us, collectively, has somehow managed to become Maeve’s favourite person in less than twenty-four hours. She is obsessed with him. And I get it – he has never once raised his voice or gotten upset or even really exhibited any emotional state other than ‘fine’. That was comforting to me as a child, too. We head into the garden to see if he is still sorting out the foliage situation. There is a clanking coming from the tool shed, so that is where we go.
‘Dad?’ I call, not keen to venture into the spider and snake grotto of my childhood nightmares.
‘Yeah, honey, I’m in here.’
We peek through the doorway and spy Dad hammering a piece of metal with a bend in it.
‘Oh, hey bunny,’ he says, eyes on Maeve.
‘She wanted to see you.’
Maeve wiggles in my arms and leans forward with a lurch, as though she knows Dad will catch her and she no longer has any need for my grip. He puts down his hammer and takes her with a swoosh.
‘What are you doing in here?’ I ask, as Dad gives Maeve a tour of his tools.
‘The latch for the back gate wasn’t holding, I was getting it back in shape,’ he says.
‘Done with the agapanthus, then?’
I watch as Dad’s eyebrows crease and then uncrease.
‘Yes, they’re all done,’ he says.
