I frown at the screen and type a quick response.
All fine. Just indulge me?
Mia’s hungry cries are coming more frequently now, her little face screwing up in exasperation. I stare at the phone, willing my friend to reply quickly, walking small circles as I jig Mia on my shoulder. Finally a new message arrives with a ping.
Café won’t microwave in case baby gets scalded and you sue. Ask for a jug of hot water to stand the bottle in til warm x
Another message, seconds later.
What’s going on? X
I type one-handed, shushing the baby.
Thanks. Asking for a friend
I put the phone down on the table and it pings again almost immediately, then again. I ignore it, pulling the curved bottle of formula milk from the side pocket of the rucksack and giving it a shake.
Five minutes later I’m sitting back down at the table with the bottle in a jug of steaming water, the barista following me with a cup of tea. I keep jigging Mia gently up and down to keep her cries from reaching an ear-splitting level. I grab a muslin cloth from the rucksack and shake the bottle of formula again, squirting a few drops onto my wrist to test the temperature – warm but not too warm. The relief is immediate when Mia latches on to the bottle. I can hear Tara’s voice in my head:keep the bottle tipped up so there is no air in the teat, just milk.I’ve fed my godsons from time to time, but it’s different when the mother isn’t in the next room, when there’s no one to hand the baby back to.
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 Icando 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’ssome other reasonwhy I can’t conceive. Some strange logic that I’d never be a good enough mother. But Icando 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.
