Stone Cold Kiwi (New Zealand Ever After Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  I wondered, suddenly, how much of Max’s—call it the diminishment of his ardor—had been about seeing me give birth. He hadn’t exactly been down there to get a better view of the magic moment either time. He’d held my hand and looked at my face, but had even his brief, horrified glimpses of whatever had come out of me along with our children destroyed my appeal for him, been one of those things you couldn’t get past?

  As for Matiu? I didn’t know what he thought, but when he’d been eating that breakfast with me —and I’d been nursing Isobel—he hadn’t seemed fussed by medical memories. I suspected that a doctor either got over his squeamishness pretty smartly, or if he couldn’t, went into something less grisly than emergency medicine. Radiology, possibly. A doctor like that wouldn’t be at the sharp end.

  I’d ask him, maybe, next time I saw him. Why not? What did I have to lose? It was a freeing thought. Maybe, if you stopped being so afraid that your life was falling apart—because it had already happened—you ended up with the courage to look at the hard things and see them for what they were.

  “Oh,” Hamish said as Max started all over again on the endlessly slow smoothie-making. “Why do you keep it in the freezer, if it’s not to eat?”

  Max wasn’t putting ice cream into the smoothie. Well, Violet’s personal-presentation standards were probably high. They could work on their perfect abs together and drink acai puree and ground flaxseed, with chia seeds for extra textural loathsomeness, never letting each other catch a glimpse of any toenail-clipping or nose-blowing, keeping their fragile magic alive. I thought about the full sensory experience that was a newborn nappy explosion and got a little more of that satisfaction, until I wondered whether Max would clean Isobel well enough in his haste to get out of there. I should offer some instruction, maybe.

  Probably best to wait until after the smoothie.

  I said, “You keep the whenua in the freezer to keep it from spoiling, because you want to take it out later, when the mummy’s feeling strong enough to go up and down hills, and bury it under a tree in a special place. A place the wind touches. It’s like the circle of life in The Lion King, remember? You’re giving the part of you that fed your baby back to Papatuanuku, the Earth Mother, so it can end up nourishing the plants and the insects and the worms, and they can be food for other creatures, all the way around and around the circle until someday, some tiny piece of what you made, the part of you that fed your baby, will be feeding some other mummy, helping her make a whenua for her own baby, and the whole thing can start over.”

  Max was looking a bit green again. Too bad. The kids were eating their cereal and looking interested, so I said, “We buried both of your whenuas as well. Out near Lover’s Leap, where the wild winds blow from the sea, because the wind and the water are part of the circle, too. That’s where we’ll go to bury Isobel’s.”

  “Except the part that Daddy almost drank,” Hamish said, and giggled. He hadn’t been doing much of that during the past three weeks, which made this a good sign.

  I laughed, too, and said, “Daddy was surprised, wasn’t he? Very surprised.”

  Max turned the blender on and kept it on longer than strictly necessary. I said, when he finally stopped, “I’m going to go have a shower and maybe even take a nap before the baby wakes up.” After that, I gave each of the kids a kiss and said, “Have heaps of fun at Inflatable World. I’ll miss you very much, but you can tell me all about it when you get home.”

  “Except you won’t be there to bounce like monkeys,” Olivia said.

  “No,” I said, “but I’ll be here to write the story afterwards.”

  Upstairs, I took a very fast shower, feeling jumpy despite myself at the thought of Max still being in the house—how could your life shift that fast?—and dried myself even more quickly. I brushed my hair and washed my face, tried not to wonder when the last time was that I’d moisturized, and changed my clothes without looking in the mirror any more than I could help. I could tell, from the way there were fewer rolls when I’d bent over to shave my much-neglected legs, that I was on as much of a track toward losing the baby weight as could reasonably be expected, but that didn’t mean everything had shifted into its proper place yet.

  Not that I looked in the mirror very often. I tended to forget about my presentation, one way or another. I’d look later, when I wasn’t so tired, when I was looking in a constructive way. Like, “Look what my body can do! Yay, me!” Instead of, “Oh, my God. That’s horrible.”

  What had I been thinking, having Matiu here overnight? In my sitting room? I could see now what I should have done. Which was, yes, changing into something more flattering than ancient maternity PJs and having our cup of tea in the main lounge, as opposed to a few meters from my bed, as if I wanted to drag him in there. Like a woman with a smidgen of pride. I hoped he didn’t know. How had I looked at him when he’d taken his shirt off?

  I knew how. I was doomed.

  Could you have a midlife crisis at thirty-three? Next thing you knew, I’d be buying black-leather trousers and doing drunken scream-singing, dancing with my arms up over my head in clubs with my girlfriends, where I’d eye up fit twenty-two-year-old Uni students and talk about being a cougar.

  “Ugh,” I said aloud, pulling a nursing bra and a forgiving purple top over the inevitable black leggings. “Ugh. Ugh. I’m embarrassing myself.”

  “Well, yeh.” The voice came from behind me. “Possibly. Stress, eh. Never mind.”

  I jumped and whirled. “How long have you been standing there?”

  Max smiled. “Long enough to see that you’re looking better than I’d have expected. But then, you always did bounce back fast. You never let yourself go the way so many women do. Soon be fit again, I’d say.”

  “Divorce diet,” I said, trying not to look as rattled as I felt. “That’s what it’s called.” I didn’t say, Easy for you to say. You have no idea. Your body’s taken over by an alien, you have to feed it and grow it and make more blood and more nutrients and more everything for nine long months? You think your body and your skin magically snap back into shape again after that? You think that if it doesn’t, or if it doesn’t do it as easily at thirty-three as it did at twenty-eight, the third bloody time, that’s ‘Letting yourself go’? I didn’t say that, because it wouldn’t come out in any way he’d hear right now, and there was that “bitchy” thing, too. I thought it, though.

  He shifted like he’d heard what I hadn’t said, or maybe like he’d heard one word. Divorce. “About that, babe ... Do you really want to do this? Isn’t it just too hard on you? The kids and all?”

  Oh, boy. Now I wanted to say something else. Something about how I wasn’t the one it seemed too hard for, about how he hadn’t fed them this morning, and he hadn’t fixed Livvy’s hair. Something about how I was sure it was too hard for him, which was why he’d never done it.

  Oh, no. I was bitter. I’d never been bitter. Had I? Now I wasn’t just worried that I was going to be wearing leather trousers and bobbing up and down in my too-high heels and my too-heavy mascara in that 120-decibel club with my girlfriends. Now I was worried that I’d be that woman telling her online date, carefully met in a café, about her horrible ex and her three kids, and seeing his eyes get ever-wilder until he bolted for the door.

  I did not want this life.

  Maybe you had to accept that you’d make mistakes, though, and that you’d careen from one extreme to the other until you found your new path. Or maybe you just had no choice. I was out of ideas, and, apparently, much too close to being out of adulting skills, too.

  I sank down onto the barely-made bed and said, “You should probably get Pull-Ups—you know, training pants—for Olivia at night, for now. Her potty training was always bound to get sidetracked, between the new baby and the separation and all. That’ll make it easier. Why did you come home at six-thirty with the baby, when it was meant to be nine? What happened?”

  He sat beside me like he’d done a hundred times. A thousand tim
es. How many times, in eight years? I couldn’t even think. I was so tired, suddenly, it was like my body was weighed down with iron chains. He said, “Isobel kept crying, and I couldn’t get her to go to sleep. I’d no sooner manage it than Olivia would wake up crying herself. One after another, all night long. The place has three bedrooms. I thought that would be enough.”

  “It’s an apartment,” I said. “Sound carries. And Olivia will be off-balance. Did you swaddle Isobel?”

  “Yes. I put her blanket around her. I put her on her back, too, like you’re supposed to, before you ask.”

  I swallowed down the irritation one more time. Could swallowing down irritation give you heartburn? I’d bet “yes.” I said carefully, “You need to wrap her tightly, is the idea, like a burrito. I’ll show you before the next time. It keeps her from startling herself awake. Do you still want to take her another time?”

  “Of course I do,” he said. Crossly, because he was cross. Possibly because he was discovering that “sleep deprivation” wasn’t just an overnight flight to Shanghai. “They’re my children.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Then you should probably go on and take Hamish and Olivia now. As it’s your weekend.”

  He looked at me. “Don’t say it,” I told him. “That you could spend your special Dad-weekend here with me, and I could help you do it. I’ll laugh. Doesn’t Violet want to help? Oh, I forgot. Broken arm. Sad.”

  Could you write a kid’s book about divorce? Of course you could, if you were careful. If you ... what? Made it funny, somehow. Better than Hazel’s Powerful Placenta, anyway.

  “It’s not what you think,” Max said, so sincerely that I’d have known he was lying even if I didn’t, you know, know, and I thought, Seriously? Seriously? “Anyway,” he said, “why is ... what’s-his-name here? He’s your doctor. That can’t be right. Why does either of us need anybody else? Why can’t we admit we’ve made mistakes and put our resources into this instead? Into our marriage, and our family? We’ve come too far together to lose it over something so meaningless.”

  I breathed. In. Out. “I wasn’t the one who cheated, and I don’t care what you think I did or didn’t do, I didn’t deserve that. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice, and you made it. And his name is Matiu Te Mana. He’s Jax’s wife Karen’s brother-in-law’s cousin.”

  “Which makes you about as related to him,” Max said, “as to any random bloke in New Zealand, and doesn’t answer my question.”

  “The answer is,” I said, “that I don’t have to give you an answer. Just like you don’t need to give me one anymore.” I stood up, weighted-down body and all. It was a struggle, but I did it. “Let’s focus on being parents instead. I’m not going to tell you how to do Olivia’s hair. I’m telling myself that it doesn’t matter, that battles over her hair are power struggles and nothing more. I am going to remind you that it’s your special weekend and that the kids have been asking about it all week, and that Isobel will be happier and sleep better next time if you put ointment on her bottom when you change her, and if you change her often and clean her well. You can be angry that I think you’re stupid or whatever it is, but I’m going to tell you anyway. If you already knew, then never mind.”

  “Babe,” he said, taking my hand and tugging me back down onto the bed. “No. Don’t do this. Don’t throw us away. Please.” I heard it, and I also heard the tiny whimper from Isobel that would be a wail in about sixty seconds.

  I’d missed the chance for my nap. I wanted to cry about it myself. Instead, I picked the baby up and put her on her pad, grabbed the wipes and nappies, and went to work, my hands knowing what to do without any input from my brain, fortunately. I said, not looking at Max, “I’m thirty seconds from screaming at you and scaring the kids. I’m going to say instead that I hope you have a wonderful time bouncing at Inflatable World with them, because we both love them very much and this is the new way our family works, and I’m going to look forward to seeing them tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to feel extremely virtuous about all of that, hopefully, and then I’m going to feed the baby and hopefully fall asleep with her.”

  Max didn’t move. Instead, he said, “He’s not attracted to you, and he doesn’t love you. He wants the money. Get your head out of the clouds and get a clue, Poppy. If he’s not banging every pretty nurse on staff, color me surprised, and you’re no prize just now.”

  I was about to feed Isobel again, and besides, domestic violence was wrong whoever did it. That was why I didn’t slap him. Well, honestly, it was probably only because of the “Isobel” part. There was a red mist over my eyes, and my head was so hot, I’m surprised my hair didn’t spontaneously combust. I said, knowing my voice was shaking and not able to help it, “Out. Get out. Go take the kids. Go be their dad. You can’t be my husband anymore. You don’t have the right.”

  16

  Facing Facts

  Matiu

  Friday was meant to be my day off. A long run plus a gym workout, groceries, laundry, et cetera. It didn’t happen quite like that.

  I got to the hospital at nine for a meeting with the hospital administrator. Get it over early, I’d thought when he’d asked me to attend the day before, and then I’d be off to run with Daisy. I’d been going to the gym and the pool, or for one of those long runs, every day since I’d moved, for the simple reason that I didn’t have enough to do down here in Dunedin, or maybe that I needed distraction. Something was different, anyway.

  On the plus side, I was going to be in great nick if I kept this up. On the minus side, I was wondering if I’d developed late-in-life obsessive tendencies.

  For example, I’d picked up the phone a dozen times to text Poppy, and I’d put it down a dozen times as well. She’d answered my checking-up text on Sunday with, Thanks for coming by. Sorry it was all so fraught. I’m better now. Kids did OK too, and when I’d followed up with a No worries. Glad I could help, then added, after thinking about it, Let me know if I can help again, I’d got nothing.

  I’d spent a couple decades trying not to get entangled. Now, I couldn’t entangle myself to save my life. Be careful what you wish for.

  Anyway, Ian, the administrator, had asked me to meet him in the conference room this morning and hadn’t said much more. Something about the department, I’d guessed. Asking my opinion.

  Not exactly.

  A middle-aged bloke with a ruddy complexion and thinning hair, Ian’s normal expression could be described as “genial.” Today, when his pale-blue eyes swiveled around to mine, it wasn’t.

  Also, he wasn’t the only one there.

  The table had seven other people around it. This wasn’t so much a meeting as a tribunal.

  Ian said, “Thanks for coming in,” as if I’d had a choice. “Have a seat, please.” When I did, he looked down at an opened folder, sighed, pressed his palms flat against the table, and said, “This is a meeting of the Ethics Committee.” They clearly weren’t asking me to join it. He added unnecessarily, “We’ve had a complaint.”

  I didn’t worry about it. Not then. When you saw as many patients every day as I did, and when their situations could be that extreme, you got complaints. “Nothing we could do” didn’t always go down well, and then there were the times when you did make a mistake. It happened, and administrators knew it. Also, I hadn’t done anything to get any ethics committee excited.

  Sex, drugs, or drink. Those were the only real possibilities, and I was good there. I’m not saying I’d never had sex with a nurse, or another doc, either, but that was hospitals. Emergency department adrenaline. Camaraderie, you could call it. If they censured staff for that, they’d have to close the whole place down.

  They were going through the motions, that was all. I said, “Tell me,” leaned back in my chair, propped one ankle on the other knee, and reconsidered the wisdom of wearing jeans and a T-shirt to this meeting.

  Emergency docs tend toward the casual. The only time I went for flash was on a date, and dates were another thing I wasn’t having.
Or sex in the on-call room or a handy stairwell, for that matter. For quite some time now, in fact. Not something I’d meant not to do, just something I hadn’t done, if you see what I mean.

  Anyway, casual could be good. I was working hard on “casual.”

  Ian sighed again and said, “Not the complaint I’d have expected, as experienced as you are.” His eyes came up to meet mine from three meters away. He didn’t make me wait for it, though, but said, “Inappropriate behavior with a patient. And by ‘inappropriate,’ I mean ‘sexual.’ On September thirteenth, you delivered a woman’s baby. You spent last Saturday night with her, and were discovered in a state of undress by her husband. Allegedly. How would you respond to that?”

  I took a minute, then said, keeping my tone absolutely neutral, “I’d respond that if you think I’d have sex with a woman who’s not even five weeks postpartum, you know nothing about me as a doctor or a man.” I looked around the table. A few docs I knew, and some I didn’t. I picked out a gynecologist I’d met, a good-looking blonde with a wide, humorous mouth and red-framed specs, and told her, “A woman who hemorrhaged and tore.”

  “There are more definitions of ‘sexual’ than ‘vaginal intercourse,’ of course,” she said.

  “And I didn’t have any of those, either,” I said. “Who made this complaint?” Although I knew.

  “Her husband,” Ian said, after a long moment when he probably debated whether to tell me.

  “From whom she’s separated,” I said. “And who isn’t happy about it. But that isn’t what’s important anyway. She’s part of my whanau.” I didn’t want to dignify the complaint with an explanation. I was hot as hell. I didn’t get hot, but somehow, I was doing it anyway.

  I got over it. No choice. I explained the relationship, and everybody sat for a second. Asked and answered, I thought. Rubbish way to spend my day off, though. I may even keep up with Daisy on the run today, with this much adrenaline. Then Ian said slowly, “Not what you’d call a close family connection.”