A Cover Up
The old woman’s lips pursed, as if the milk of her flat white had turned sour. April looked away from the cow’s deeply creased mouth, her eyes probing the space on the tabletop where her own coffee should be. She wanted to enquire about its whereabouts, but the waitress was busy, flittering from one customer to the next. Back aching and left bum cheek beginning to tingle, April needed so badly to adjust the way she sat, but didn’t dare. The warm baby in her arms had finally stopped wailing, his mouth now occupied with his favourite chew toy.
He’d latched onto her wrong again, April could tell. The millimetre or two he was out would cause her cracks to reopen and the knife-searing pain to return, but if she popped Jacob off her breast to try again, the old woman’s head would likely explode, so she’d just have to grit her teeth through the week of pain ahead.
A ding chimed above the chitter. April glanced up to see her latte now sitting at the waiter’s station, it’s dark complexion a beacon of hope, the reason she’d braved the big bad world in the first place.
Salvation—
A tiny hand slapped her across the face. With it came a tangy whiff of poo. April grimaced. Was that her? She sniffed her fingertips, getting only the sharpness of hand sanitiser. Somehow she’d managed to remember the tiny bottle in the 37 minutes it took to plan and pack for this outing, but forgot to bring wet wipes and a disposable nappy bag. April hadn’t realised this until she was knuckle deep in mustard-yellow shit, her baby screaming from behind a bush in the park as she dealt with his poonami, his skin turning mottled in the cold as she pulled his soiled clothes off. Deep inside her designer, genuine leather, baby bag—the must have item at all the baby fairs—she found the lightweight, 15% cashmere poncho her friends had given her at her baby shower, so she could breastfeed discreetly. April yanked it out and wiped Jacob clean with it, bundling it up along with his dirty clothes and nappy, jamming them back in her bag when she was done.
Ding ding. Yes, ding ding! Bring me my bloody coffee. April sat straighter, searching for the waitress and was treated to another slap in the face and a tsk from the old lady at the table next door. The hag’s clumpy mascara must have been obscuring her glare as she narrowed her eyes at April. April set her jaw, holding back official-sounding regurgitations from the Equal Opportunities Act and a woman’s right to breastfeed in public. Instead, she merely raised her brows at the lady, who scoffed and looked over her cake at her husband with a can-you-believe-the-youth-of-today expression. He didn’t catch it. He was too busy looking anywhere but in April’s direction.
Ding f-ing ding, people! The silky crème on her coffee now appeared pockmarked as it cooled and deflated. Probably for the best; she’d be judged for drinking a hot coffee above her baby’s head, same as she’d be judged for offering her baby formula instead of breastmilk. Same as she was being judged for breastfeeding in the open. Just as she judged herself for forgetting the wet wipes, for only having a short-sleeved change of clothes for him when today’s chill really required a long-sleeve, for daring to believe she could go out and do something nice and normal after being up four times in the night, feeding and shushing, swaying and settling.
“Why don’t you treat yourself to a coffee today,” her husband had said as he left for work, his hair still glossy from the shower he’d got to have, his eyes sparkling with the sleep he’d received. “Get out of the house for a bit…go, do something with your free time.”
Free time. Free. Time. April’s abdominal muscles, wrenched apart during pregnancy, never to be reunited, clenched as she leant in to kiss her husband goodbye. “Sounds like a great idea.”
Everything’s a great idea—until it’s not. This coffee date with her little man had now pushed him well past his nap time, her boob the only thing to stop the crying. Soon he’d fall asleep on her, which sounded sweet but in reality meant she’d be stuck at the café for another two hours with a building desperation to pee, old people shaking their heads at her and a general aroma of excrement in the air.
“Excuse me.” April managed to snag the waitress as she walked by. Jacob started crying again. “Can I get my coffee take away, please?”
“No problem.” The girl smiled, wrinkling her nose as she stepped past the baby bag.
April peered down at Jacob, trying to reattach him. “Shh, shh.” He was having none of it, his little mouth searched for the bullseye only to spit it out again when he found it. The gasp from the next table was even more grating than Jacob’s wails. April fumbled with the hook on her maternity bra, but Jacob squirmed and she suddenly needed both arms to hold onto him. She stood, managing to hoist her bag onto her shoulder, breast barely covered as the beige spandex of her bra flapped open, her shirt still unbuttoned.
“Your coffee.” The waitress held up the paper cup.
Jacob’s screams hit a new octave, his back arching, pulling back more of her shirt.
“For goodness sake!” the old woman cried. “Don’t you have something to cover yourself up with?”
April retrieved her poncho and slammed it into the woman’s carrot cake, plucked the coffee from the waitress’s hand, taking a sip on her way out. Finally, the bitter, lukewarm milk sent relief to her caffeine-starved veins. She sighed.
Worth it.
'A Cover Up' is a purely fictional work created by Pippa Oostergetel