The other hand held a bottle and with every stroke of her fingers, fat droplets of milk fell into its open neck. As Jena came in, her face softened. “I’m glad to see you.”
Jena approached the bed. “How are you?”
“Tired. But well, I think.”
“Was it hard?”
“It’s always hard. It is the way of these things.” She gave one final stroke and then set the bottle down on the bedside table. It was about half full, a creamy yellow tideline circling the container’s transparent perimeter. As the liquid seemed to bead and thicken, Jena felt her stomach lurch.
What Kari had given the baby today was a paler version of this, thinned with boiled water. When a daughter was new it was important she have milk from the breast. It was full of things to make her strong, to turn her eyes to the world and make her thirst for the life it offered. But it was also rich. Too much, too soon, was not good for a daughter. Acquired early, a taste for fat was difficult to unlearn.
Mama Dietz clipped a lid onto the bottle. She shrugged her shirt back across her chest and began fastening the buttons. Jena couldn’t help casting a sideways glance. Even through the coarse material, the outline of her heavy breasts was unmistakable.
Had it been the same for her own mama? She supposed it had. But how strange it must be to have your body swell beyond you like that. First the belly and then the breasts, and things never quite returning the way they had been, even when the baby was long grown.
There was no need to think on such things though. Jena showed no signs of thickening early and people said her mama had been the same. She had tunnelled sixteen seasons before Jena was born, the longest of anyone before or since.
Like mama, like daughter, Jena hoped. Mother Irina had said as much once when she was measuring her at the Centre. She had clicked her tongue as she stretched out the tape.
It comes easy to you, doesn’t it?
At six, Jena had heard only praise in the Mother’s voice. By the time she realised there might have been something else, the day was long past.
“Perhaps you could take this to Irina in the morning?” Mama Dietz slid the bottle towards Jena. “She’ll need more and I wouldn’t mind sleeping in. Actually” – she reached to the floor beside the bed – “you could take this to Berta too.”
It was a different sort of bottle – long and brown, with a cork stopper in the end. There was no milk in this one, just the final dregs of a thick, dark liquid congealed at its base.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure,” Mama Dietz replied. “Just something she gave me yesterday. After a while you stop asking. It seems like every time you turn around there’s a Mother holding a bottle. Something for nausea, or strength, or to help you sleep. I wonder if they do much of anything, really.” She gave a faint smile. “Still, I can’t say I wasn’t glad of a good night’s sleep this morning. I couldn’t believe it when the pains started.” She rose slowly to her feet.
As Jena reached for the bottle, something struck her. “This morning?”
“I thought they were just cramps at first. It was so early I thought they couldn’t possibly be the real thing.” Mama Dietz gave a rueful laugh.
“So you didn’t labour overnight?”
“No, thanks be. This one was short and sharp.” Mama Dietz hesitated. “Is something wrong?”
Jena realised she was frowning. “No. It’s just …” She was thinking of what Luka had said about the Mothers. About how excited they had been last night, thinking a six-moon baby was coming. But if the pains hadn’t begun until this morning, then …
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
Maybe Luka had simply misspoken. Or perhaps it was just another of those strange things about the Mothers. Sometimes there was no explanation for the things they seemed to know.
Mama Dietz threaded her last button into place. “All right. Shall we eat then?”
Jena took Mama Dietz’s
Jena approached the bed. “How are you?”
“Tired. But well, I think.”
“Was it hard?”
“It’s always hard. It is the way of these things.” She gave one final stroke and then set the bottle down on the bedside table. It was about half full, a creamy yellow tideline circling the container’s transparent perimeter. As the liquid seemed to bead and thicken, Jena felt her stomach lurch.
What Kari had given the baby today was a paler version of this, thinned with boiled water. When a daughter was new it was important she have milk from the breast. It was full of things to make her strong, to turn her eyes to the world and make her thirst for the life it offered. But it was also rich. Too much, too soon, was not good for a daughter. Acquired early, a taste for fat was difficult to unlearn.
Mama Dietz clipped a lid onto the bottle. She shrugged her shirt back across her chest and began fastening the buttons. Jena couldn’t help casting a sideways glance. Even through the coarse material, the outline of her heavy breasts was unmistakable.
Had it been the same for her own mama? She supposed it had. But how strange it must be to have your body swell beyond you like that. First the belly and then the breasts, and things never quite returning the way they had been, even when the baby was long grown.
There was no need to think on such things though. Jena showed no signs of thickening early and people said her mama had been the same. She had tunnelled sixteen seasons before Jena was born, the longest of anyone before or since.
Like mama, like daughter, Jena hoped. Mother Irina had said as much once when she was measuring her at the Centre. She had clicked her tongue as she stretched out the tape.
It comes easy to you, doesn’t it?
At six, Jena had heard only praise in the Mother’s voice. By the time she realised there might have been something else, the day was long past.
“Perhaps you could take this to Irina in the morning?” Mama Dietz slid the bottle towards Jena. “She’ll need more and I wouldn’t mind sleeping in. Actually” – she reached to the floor beside the bed – “you could take this to Berta too.”
It was a different sort of bottle – long and brown, with a cork stopper in the end. There was no milk in this one, just the final dregs of a thick, dark liquid congealed at its base.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure,” Mama Dietz replied. “Just something she gave me yesterday. After a while you stop asking. It seems like every time you turn around there’s a Mother holding a bottle. Something for nausea, or strength, or to help you sleep. I wonder if they do much of anything, really.” She gave a faint smile. “Still, I can’t say I wasn’t glad of a good night’s sleep this morning. I couldn’t believe it when the pains started.” She rose slowly to her feet.
As Jena reached for the bottle, something struck her. “This morning?”
“I thought they were just cramps at first. It was so early I thought they couldn’t possibly be the real thing.” Mama Dietz gave a rueful laugh.
“So you didn’t labour overnight?”
“No, thanks be. This one was short and sharp.” Mama Dietz hesitated. “Is something wrong?”
Jena realised she was frowning. “No. It’s just …” She was thinking of what Luka had said about the Mothers. About how excited they had been last night, thinking a six-moon baby was coming. But if the pains hadn’t begun until this morning, then …
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
Maybe Luka had simply misspoken. Or perhaps it was just another of those strange things about the Mothers. Sometimes there was no explanation for the things they seemed to know.
Mama Dietz threaded her last button into place. “All right. Shall we eat then?”
Jena took Mama Dietz’s
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