Clinton Green

Mother's Milk

She sits in our loungeroom, perched on the end of an over-stuffed chair which pleads to be slouched in. The constable does not slouch while on duty. Especially while performing a duty such as this. The seams on her navy blue skirt are sharp enough to cut. Her policewoman's hat sits primly in her lap.

Despite all her training, she is no doubt wondering the same thing as me; how long will she stay? She is not actually doing anything. She is just "being there." I don't know if I want her to stay or go. My decision-making apparatus seems to have deserted me.

"Is there anyone I can call for you?" she asks. Her voice is gentle, but still professional. Has she been trained especially these situations? Or is this the burden of the female police officer, while her male partner waits uncomfortably in the patrol car?

"No, thanks." It is just after 3 a.m. Everyone who needs to be called has been. The others can wait until tomorrow. She smiles grimly, lips pressed together almost painfully. Brow furrowed, a breath let out through her nose like a resigned sigh.

She has been of some help to me. Talking me through the various forms. Death certificate, prelimary arrangements for Marg's funeral. Driving me home from the hospital. Putting Mary in her basinet when I couldn't stop my hands from shaking.

"You should try and get some sleep." I nod. This is her cue, I realise. I stand, she follows. At the door she gives me her card. "If you need anything, anything, please don't hesitate to call." She makes her way to the police car parked in the street. I can make out a vaguely male shape in the driver's seat.

I find myself in the kitchen; did I really walk here from the front door? I have no memory of this at all. The kettle begins to hum. I must have turned it on myself. Why is the fridge door open in front of me? Ah, I am on parental auto-pilot. Mary will wake for her feed in an hour or so.

I take a bottle of Marg's expressed breast milk from the fridge and place it beside the kettle. Holding back a bursting dam of panic in my mind, I write "formula" on the whiteboard hanging next to the phone.

The phone rings as the milk warms. I know it is Mum. I cannot speak to her; what more is there to say? It was a car accident. No, I don't know who's fault it was. I don't care, Mum. She's gone. She's gone.

The phone may wake Mary, but I'm still unable to answer it. The milk sprinkled on my wrist is luke warm. I'm neither dead or alive. The phone continues to ring.

It is nearly 4am.

I unscrew the teat and raise the bottle to my lips. I taste a sweetness that memory will never know.