Kitabı oku: «The Children's Doctor and the Single Mum»

‘Which ones are yours?’ Laird asked, beside Tammy. ‘The kids, I mean.’

‘Oh. Which ones? All of them!’

‘All five?’

‘Yes.’ Was he turning pale? She wouldn’t blame him. People often did.

‘I somehow thought it was three,’ he murmured.

‘No, it’s five.’ She held up the correct number of fingers, just to drive the point home. ‘Three four-year-olds—’

‘Triplets!’

‘You’ve turned pale.’

He really had.

‘Five kids, including triplets,’ she went on. ‘That’s why I need five ice-creams.’

‘And you’re on your own with them.’

Was he horrified or impressed? She couldn’t tell.

He’d looked quickly down at his coffee, but somehow a memory had imprinted in his mind and he couldn’t seem to let it go.

I want her. In my bed. In my life.

Bestselling romance author Lilian Darcy has written over seventy novels, for Silhouette Special Edition, Mills & Boon^® Medical™ Romance and Silhouette Romance. She currently lives in Australia’s capital city, Canberra, with her historian husband and their four children. When she is not writing or supporting her children’s varied interests, Lilian likes to quilt, garden or cook. She also loves winter sports and travel. Lilian’s career highlights include numerous appearances on romance bestseller lists, three nominations in the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA^® Award, and translation into twenty different languages. Find out more about Lilian and her books or contact her at www.liliandarcy.com

Look out for a new book by Lilian Darcy next month!

A PROPOSAL WORTH WAITING FOR

is the next story in the fabulous mini-series

set in Crocodile Creek—available September 2008, only in Medical™ Romance!

THE CHILDREN’S DOCTOR AND THE SINGLE MUM

BY

LILIAN DARCY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘WE NEED another nurse,’ Laird muttered.

He had one standing right beside him, checking the two resuscitaires, plugging in tubing for oxygen, laying out the plastic wrap that would help keep the twins warm once they’d been born. He could see the nurse mentally confirming that all the equipment on the resuscitaire trolleys was in place—laryngoscope, endotracheal tubes, Magill for-ceps—and she moved adroitly around the awkward positioning of various fixtures in the operating theatre.

She looked as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

All well and good, but one nurse wasn’t enough. The scrub nurse and circulating nurse adding to the crowd in the operating theatre would be fully occupied on the surgical side. They weren’t here for the babies themselves. This patient was about to have a Caesarean delivery.

Two paediatricians, one NICU nurse, two twenty-seven-weekers about to be born—it didn’t add up, especially when the babies had stage three twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. You really needed two medical people for each twin when they were going to be so fragile and small and ill and would need transfer to the NICU as soon as they were stabilised after birth. At least Sam Lutze was a good doctor, and the one neonatal nurse they did have seemed unfazed by the whole situation.

But she’d heard his muttered complaint.

‘Sorry, but there’s only me,’ she said, calm and matter-sof-fact, still checking her equipment. ‘Someone’s just gone off sick. We have a supernumerary and we’re shifting things around, but for now… Yeah. You’ve got me.’

‘It’s not good enough,’ he muttered again.

‘I know. But we have a whole NICU full of sick prems. Someone’s on the phone, seeing if there’s anyone we can transfer to another hospital. We’re doing our best.’ She glanced over at the operating table, where their pregnant patient was about to be delivered, by Caesarean. ‘Give Dr Lutze the recipient twin, if he’s the strongest, and you and I can take care of the donor. Would that be the way to go?’

‘We’ll see how it pans out. I haven’t met you before,’ Laird said.

He couldn’t help turning the statement into a challenge. It was one in the morning and Sam Lutze had called him in half an hour ago—Laird had only left the NICU two hours before that—when Fran Parry’s obstetrician had decided her labour was unstoppable.

Laird had seen the latest scans and tests on the babies. They would have needed an emergency delivery within the next few days anyway, because the recipient twin had heart problems developing, while the donor twin just wasn’t getting enough blood.

This woman…

What was her name? He discreetly checked her badge. Tammy Prunty. Was he reading that right?

She had better be more than competent at her job.

‘No, you haven’t met me,’ she answered. ‘But plenty of people at Royal Victoria NICU have. Dr Cathcart, Dr Leong, Dr Simpson. I was there for eight years, on and off, before I came here.’

Here being Yarra Hospital, several kilometres northeast of Melbourne’s city centre, while Royal Victoria was closer in.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t pushing for your résumé.’

‘Well, I can understand why you wanted it.’ She unkinked a cable, switched something on. She had a comfortable figure—some people might call it plump, others voluptuous—but her movements were fast, deft and sure, and Laird had the grudging realisation that she seemed to know her way around the equipment better than he did.

‘Don’t tell me this is your first shift here, though, please!’ He could hear all too well how crabby he sounded, but the prospect of staffing issues affecting a high-risk birth like this one always got to him.

‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Second.’

‘Oh, great!’

‘But so far it’s pretty similar to how we did things at RV. Everything’s the same colour!’

Her calm good cheer soothed his irritation, and his impatience seemed to have affected her like water on a duck’s back, thank goodness. Her disposable cap stuck out all around her head, like a cross between a pancake and a Madonna-blue halo, and her pale forehead was shiny above a pair of brilliant blue eyes. If she had hair, he couldn’t see it.

They were ready for the babies now.

Or as ready as they’d ever be.

‘Everything all right, Mrs Parry?’ asked her obstetrician, Tim Wembley.

‘I can’t feel anything now.’ Her voice sounded shaky, and her husband squeezed her hand and hissed out a tense breath. Both of them were understandably frightened and emotional. They were in their late twenties, which was starting to look young to Laird at thirty-four.

‘That’s the way we want it.’

‘Good to go here,’ the anaesthetist said.

‘Not long now,’ said one of the two theatre nurses, giving Mrs Parry’s shoulder a pat. She was circulating, not scrubbed and sterile like her colleague. Both women had kept up a cheerful stream of reassurance, explanation and general chat as preparations for the Caesarean birth were completed.

‘Dr Burchell, Dr Lutze, how are we over there?’ Dr Wembley asked.

‘We’re good,’ Laird answered, and Sam nodded, too.

Dr Wembley made the initial incision, working cleanly and with no fuss. When the babies were so fragile, they needed speed as well as a gentle touch. Being born could be a jarring process, even for a healthy baby at full term.

Laird watched, standing at the resuscitaire so that he’d be ready to work on the first baby as soon as he was freed from his mother’s womb. The latest scan suggested this would be the smaller and frailer of the two—the so-called donor twin.

The Parrys understood the terminology by now. Laird had seen them in his office last week after it had become clear that the amniotic fluid reduction procedures weren’t doing enough to help the babies.

They seemed like a pretty sensible couple. They knew that roughly fifteen per cent of identical twins developed TTTs, with varying degrees of severity, and that it occurred when the webbing of blood vessels in the babies’ shard placents grew unevenly, creating a circulation system that favoured one twin at the expense of the other.

They’d asked him a whole lot of questions, which he’d done his best to answer. Unfortunately there’d been a couple of factors, including a badly positioned placenta, that had made laser surgery on the placental blood vessels a very risky option. This had meant that any treatment, including the amnio reductions and steroids to develop the twins’lungs, had only been an attempt to head off worsening problems, and had done nothing to deal with the underlying condition.

Scans showed that the donor twin—the one sending too much of his own blood into his brother—was undersized and passing too little urine, while the recipient twin’s heart was enlarged and working way too hard as it attempted to deal with the excess fluid.

The Parrys already knew that their boys were lucky to have survived this far, and that one or both of the babies could still die.

‘OK, here we go,’ Tim said. ‘Yes, this is the donor twin.’

‘Adam,’ said Chris Parry firmly. ‘His name is Adam, for heaven’s sake, not The Donor Twin.’

‘Adam,’ Tim echoed at once.

Parents were sensitive at a time like this. Laird had seen the racking emotions they went through over and over again, and it kept him humble. He wasn’t a father himself. Not yet. Or not ever? Insufficient evidence to reach a conclusion on that one.

From what he regularly saw in the NICU, parenthood seemed to him like the dramatic, uncharted territory of an undiscovered island—alluring and frightening at the same time. He wondered if he’d have the same strength he saw over and over in the parents of ill babies.

‘Nice. Look at that movement!’ Tim said. It was feeble, but it was there. The baby was very pale. ‘Hey, Adam, going to breathe for us?’

He wasn’t.

No surprise.

He was blue and so small, well under a kilogram at a guess.

‘What’s our other one’s name?’ Tim was asking. After the dad’s moment of anger and Tim’s own carelessness, he’d recovered his sensitivity. These parents needed everyone to treat these tiny, fragile creatures as beloved human beings right from the start.

‘Max,’ Fran Parry said.

‘Here comes Max.’

Laird didn’t waste time waiting to see whether Adam’s breathing would happen on its own. The NICU nurse took the tiny baby from the obstetrician’s gloved hands into the dry, pre-warmed towel she had waiting, then laid him in the heated resuscitaire and folded the nest of plastic wrap over him, leaving his head and umbilical cord exposed. Laird decided he didn’t need to suction the tiny nose and mouth. There was no evidence of meconium staining in the waters or blood visible at the baby’s mouth.

In the resuscitaire, baby Adam seemed lost in a wasteland of white mattress. The nurse dried his head and covered it with blue tubular bandage, while Laird began the resuscitation process. He found a pulse at the umbilical artery—roughly sixty beats per minute—and said after a moment, ‘We have a nice heartbeat.’ He heard tearful sounds of relief from Fran Parry. ‘We’re going to get some oxygen into you right now, little guy.’

He found the heart-breakingly small premmie intubation equipment ready for him right at the moment he needed it and took it from the nurse. He had already forgotten her name. Something a bit odd and comical, which belied her wonderful competence.

‘That’s nice. That’s good,’ he said, just to reassure the parents.

OK, here we go, tube going down. Such a tiny distance, seven centimetres, and the tube was only 2.5 millimetres wide. Gently…gently…

The nurse—Plummy, he was going to have to call her for the moment, in his head, even though he knew it wasn’t quite right—clamped and cut the cord, leaving several centimetres intact to allow umbilical line placement.

‘Max is going to need some help here…’ Tim was saying.

One of the theatre nurses took the recipient twin into a second warmed towel, laid him in the resuscitaire and wrapped him, while Sam Lutze checked his responsiveness on the Apgar scale. At a quick glance, Laird expected the one-minute score to come in at two or less. Adam’s had squeaked to three, and he wanted it higher soon. His colour had begun to improve, some pink radiating outwards towards his little limbs.

‘Swap,’ Sam muttered to Laird, about Max. The one-syllable request acknowledged Laird’s extra year of experience and his reputation for superhero skills at resuscitating the sickest babies. ‘Look at him, it’s his heart. And he’s floppy, no reflex. Give me Adam, he’s almost ready for transfer. Tammy, you’ll stay with Max and Dr Burchell.’

She nodded, finished what she was doing at Adam’s resuscitaire and switched straight to Max, wrapping the plastic, slipping the tubular bandage onto his tiny head with a couple of soft movements.

Laird devoted a critical few moments to repeating Tammy, Tammy, Tammy, over and over in his head, as he moved to the unresponsive baby. Max was a darker red than he should have been, filled with the excess of blood he’d innocently robbed from his much smaller brother. Thick blood, they often called it, because a baby’s tiny liver couldn’t process it and remove the waste. His heart had been struggling, and even without the TTTS the simple fact of prematurity could often present its own cardiac issues.

‘Right, let’s do this,’ Laird muttered. He understood the junior doctor’s reluctance. Max was going to be much harder.

He looked down at the baby, willing it to show some strength and fight, willing the parents’ love to make a difference, to have some power over life and death. Later on it would. Premature babies responded wonderfully to the familiar voice of their mother or father, and to the right kind of touch. Now, though, it was more about medicine than hope.

‘What’s happening? Is he OK?’ Chris Parry had sensed the increase of tension in the medical personnel, and he could probably see for himself that the second baby, although larger, wasn’t looking as good as his twin.

His wife moaned. ‘Max?’ she said. ‘Hang in there. Mummy’s here, and Daddy. We love you so much.’ Her voice cracked and she couldn’t speak any more.

‘Is he going to be OK?’ Chris asked again.

‘We’re going to do everything we can,’ Laird said. Terrible words. Yet false promises were even worse, he considered. ‘Tammy, start cardiac massage while I tube him.’

He hoped she’d sense when he needed her to get out of the way and that she wouldn’t need to be talked through it.

‘Adam’s looking good,’ Sam said, after a moment. ‘I’m getting 85 bpm, his chest’s moving. I’ll get an umbilical line into him now. Then you can go for a ride, little man.’

Laird heard more sounds from the Parrys. Relief and anguish. Then from Tim a suspiciously calm ‘All right, we’re going to have to pack this. Do we have some blood, Helen?’

Mrs Parry had begun to bleed too much, a reasonably common side effect following the procedures she’d had over the past few weeks to reduce her amniotic fluid. ‘What’s happening? What’s going on now?’ Chris demanded, distraught. Like his wife, he had fair, freckled colouring, which made him look very pale under the harsh lights. Fran’s lips were white.

Laird couldn’t spare a thought for them right now. Max needed him too much, needed the tube, needed the massage, needed treatment for that thick blood and some relief for his heart as soon as they had him stable.

At every moment, the Tammy nurse was there. Hands in the right place. Voice pitched low enough to soothe the baby but loud enough for Laird to hear. Fingers nimble and delicate. No unguarded exclamations of doom to scare the stricken parents. Laird spared her a glance and managed a muttered ‘Thanks.’ She nodded, and there was this odd little moment that he didn’t understand. More than mere relief at being paired with a competent colleague. More like…recognition?

He didn’t have time to think about it now.

Chris had tears streaming down his cheeks. Fran was pressing her dry lips numbly together and clamping a death-like grip on her husband’s hand.

‘Come on, darling,’ Tammy cooed to the baby. Her fingers seemed to flutter against his miniature sternum, and her voice was delicious, soft and musical and honey sweet. ‘Come on, sweetheart, let’s see what a big strong boy you are. Let’s try really hard…’

‘OK, he’s tubed,’ Laird finally said. Like Tammy, he’d almost been holding his breath. He saw her nod and look of relief. She cared. ‘Heart rate’s coming up. Not counting chickens…’ he added quietly.

She understood. ‘Want the umbilical line?’

‘Can you? I’ll give a first dose of adrenalin via the ETT, but let’s have that UVC.’

She got the line in with incredible speed and dexterity and he delivered a carefully calculated dose of adrenalin through the endotracheal tube. Next, Tammy nested the baby in a rolled and warmed towel and adjusted the radiant heat setting.

Time had passed, ceased to have meaning. All of this took longer than a non-medical person would expect.

‘Let’s move him now,’ Laird murmured. ‘We need to get him stable and quiet, get him under bili lights to get his blood sorted out, and this is torture for the parents.’

‘I know.’

He raised his voice a little, and told them, ‘We’re ready to move him to the NICU now.’

‘Can Chris go with you?’ Fran asked feebly. Tim was still packing her uterus to stop the haemorrhaging and she looked very pale and weak, alert through sheer force of will and a desperate need to know how her babies were doing.

‘Chris, it’s better if you stay here until Fran’s in Recovery,’ Laird said. ‘Then you should be able to come and see both babies and let her know how they are.’

It would be an enormously stressful time for her, he knew. This first hour. The first day. The first week. No guarantees, yet, as to if or when she’d be taking her babies home—her own process of recovery from the stressful pregnancy, the surgery and blood loss almost an afterthought.

The journey to the NICU was short, and there was an incubator already set up for Max at thirty-six degrees Celsius and eighty-five percent humidity. Little Adam had a nurse working over him, checking his temperature, setting up more lines and monitors, applying a pre-warmed soothing and moisturising ointment to his skin.

They moved Max from the resuscitaire into a second incubator, weighed him in at 830 grams, took his temperature and began to set up and secure his lines. The Tammy nurse with the beautiful voice went looking for a bili light and Laird put in an order for blood for Adam, who weighed just 580 grams. Sam was called to the other end of the room to assess one of his patients whose oxygen saturation levels had fallen.

‘Just need to tell you, Tammy, I’m going home, taking a break,’ announced a mother some minutes later, coming over to her after she’d returned with the phototherapy equipment. The woman spoke too loudly and seemed not to notice tiny Max in his humidicrib or that Tammy was now busy making notes in the baby’s brand-new chart. Again, Laird had lost track of time, except as it related to observing Max.

Tammy looked up from her notes. ‘That’s sensible, Mrs Shergold.’ She took the woman’s arm and led her gently away from Max. She spoke quietly. ‘You were only discharged this morning, weren’t you?’

‘I know. I wanted to stay another couple of days, but no go. It’s just wrong, isn’t it? It’s the insurance companies, and the government. Do they have any idea?’ She still spoke too loudly, hadn’t picked up on the soft cue given by Tammy’s lowered voice.

Laird caught an angry glance in the woman’s direction from an exhausted-looking blonde mother in a nightgown and slippers, who was bending over her own baby’s humidicrib.

One of her own babies’ humidicribs, he corrected mentally as he took in who she was. She’d had IVF triplets. Twenty-nine-weekers. Another Caesarean delivery. Five days old. All three babies were very, very fragile and ill. The mother moved gingerly, her incision still fresh and sore, making way for a nurse who was due to give another session of clustered observations and medication.

‘How’s your baby doing?’ Tammy asked the loud woman, still pitching her voice low.

Again the woman ignored the cue regarding her own volume. ‘Oh, she’s great, she’s so beautiful! It’s so hard to see her like this!’ She burst into noisy tears. ‘But she’s coming off the ventilator tomorrow!’

Tammy led her farther away towards the corridor. The mother of triplets checked her babies’ oxygen saturation levels on the monitor. ‘Look, they’ve dropped,’ she said, low and angry, to the babies’nurse. Clearly she blamed the disruptive and self-absorbed presence of the other mother, and quite possibly she was right.

When Tammy came back, she patted the triplet mum—Alison Vitelli—on the shoulder and asked, ‘How’s Riley?’

‘Oh…the same, Dr Lutze says.’ She didn’t look as if she’d brushed her hair that day, and even her skin looked tired. ‘Tammy, can you, please, please, keep that horrible woman away from here?’

‘Well, she has a sick baby of her own.’

‘A thirty-two-weeker!’ Mrs Vitelli said angrily. ‘She keeps crowing about Rachelle’s progress, and how she’ll be graduating out of here in a day or two to the special care unit, as if we all care. As if any of us care! We would care, if she was nicer. But hasn’t she noticed how ill the rest of our babies are? I hope Rachelle does get better fast, because if her horrible mother is around here much longer…’ She trailed off into silent, desperate sobs, and Tammy hugged her and soothed her, stroking her back below the unbrushed tangle of blonde hair.

‘I know, I know,’ she murmured. ‘Try to tune her out, if you can. She’s not important. People can be insensitive sometimes.’

‘Just her,’ Mrs Vitelli sobbed. ‘I hate her! I really hate her! She’s appalling. And I’m going home tomorrow, and I don’t want to leave my babies…’

Tammy looked over Mrs Vitelli’s shoulder and caught Laird’s eye. She was still patting the woman’s back and making low, soothing sounds of agreement, caring—he thought—more than she really should. He read the questions in her face. Is this OK? Do you need me? How is Max?

He made a gesture that said, Stay with her till she’s feeling better, and Tammy nodded. ‘How about you go back to your room and get some sleep now, before morning, Alison?’ she said gently. ‘Your babies don’t need you to get this tired…’

It took Tammy several minutes to soothe Mrs Vitelli’s sobs away and persuade her that sleep was the sensible thing, then she came back to Max and noted the next set of figures in his chart. ‘Oxygen saturation is up,’ she said.

‘Hovering at 93 per cent,’ Laird answered. ‘CO₂ is within range. I changed the settings a little, as you can see. So far he’s handling the sedation. And he peed.’

‘Wonderful! Adam hasn’t…?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Let’s hope.’ She cast a practised eye over the monitors, checking the relationship between the various settings. Any time she came near the babies, something changed in the way she moved. She became even gentler, even calmer—but it was more than that. Laird couldn’t put his finger on it.

‘You must have managed a fair bit of practice with some of this stuff over at Royal Victoria,’ he said, curious to know just how lucky he might come to consider himself, professionally, that she belonged to Yarra Hospital now instead.

Beneath the blue halo of her cap, she grinned. ‘They even let us loose on real babies sometimes.’

Laird still hadn’t seen her hair. He had a horrible feeling he might not recognise her if he saw her in another part of the hospital, garbed in street clothes. Her colouring and features were average—Scottish skin, those amazing blue eyes, pretty-ish, from what he could tell, in a nursy kind of way. In his experience, women didn’t go into nursing if they looked like they could be models—which was probably to the benefit of both professions.

Keeping his voice low, he asked, ‘Why did you make the move?’ He waited almost smugly for some line about the fantastic reputation of the NICU at Yarra. He’d felt fortunate to win a position here himself, and intended to bring the profile of the place even higher as he worked his way into a more senior role.

‘It cuts seventeen minutes off my commute,’ she answered at once, without smiling.

He smiled in response, though, and conceded, ‘Question too personal for this time of night? OK. That’s fine.’

‘No, I’m serious.’

‘You changed hospitals to cut seventeen minutes off your commute?’

‘Seventeen minutes each way, four or five days a week, that’s more than two hours. You can get a lot done in two hours.’

‘I suppose you can. A couple of routine Caesareans, a good session at the gym, a DVD with a glass of wine.’

‘The vacuuming,’ she retorted. ‘Two casseroles ready to freeze. Three parent-teacher conferences and a stock-up at the supermarket. Nuclear disarmament, that could be doable in two hours, I reckon, if I really pushed. At least, it sounds easier to my ears than getting the garden in shape. And then there’s…sleep.’ She uttered the word with longing.

He laughed. ‘Those things, too.’ He belatedly registered the fact that she seemed to have three children and realised he was in the presence of a genuine dynamo—one of those women who’d explored the wild island of parenthood and survived intact.

Then one of Max’s monitor alarms went off, they both took it as a signal to get back to work, and he didn’t think anything more about her for the rest of the night.

‘Mum-mmee-ee!’ All three triplets cannoned into Tammy within three seconds of her arrival in the kitchen via the back door. Having braced herself for the onslaught, she withstood it, bent down, hugged three four-year-old bodies—two sturdy, one still a little smaller than his sisters, as he probably would be until puberty.

‘Leave Mummy alone, guys,’ said Tammy’s mother, who wasn’t yet dressed, just wrapped in a towelling robe over a floaty nightgown and boat-like slippers. What time had the kids woken her up? The crack of dawn, as usual?

‘It’s fine,’ Tammy told her. ‘I have seventeen extra minutes now, remember? Nineteen, if I get a really good run and hit all the green lights.’ She’d resisted leaving Royal Victoria for a long time, reluctant to lose the familiarity and the friendships, but the shorter commute had won out in the end.

‘Well, spend eight of them with the kids and the other nine on extra sleep,’ her mother drawled, as if she shared Dr Laird Burchell’s opinion of the value of seventeen minutes. She should know better! ‘You’re back there at three, aren’t you?’

‘And an eight-till-eight on Saturday. But then I’m off until Tuesday night.’ Tammy had been very firm with the hospital about not working daytime shifts on weekends.

Mum could come in from her garden flat at the back of the house and handle the kids when they were at school and pre-school during the day, or when they were asleep at night, but it wasn’t fair to ask her to babysit regularly on weekends in daylight hours when they were all home or shuttling around to soccer and swimming.

Not when there were five of them.

Not when the army had transferred Tom to Darwin two years ago, giving him the excuse he’d been looking for, for the past five years, to cut himself off from their lives. He hadn’t seen the kids since the Christmas before last.

The money he sent as part of their divorce settlement was just regular enough and just generous enough to keep Tammy from taking him to court, but was nowhere near enough to cover what five children and a hefty mortgage really cost. With a generous gift from Mum, she’d managed to buy out his share of the house, but had nothing in savings now. They lived from pay cheque to pay cheque.

So, yes, physically, Tom had been gone from their day-to-day lives for two years. Emotionally, he had been absent since the day he and Tammy had found out that her planned third pregnancy was going to deliver three babies instead of one, following the births of Sarah and Lachlan who had then been aged four and two.

She and Tom had been formally divorced for three years.

Sometimes she still found it hard to understand how he could have done it, how his panic at the prospect of triplets could have brought such an ugly, self-absorbed side of him to the surface. How much had he simply been looking for a good excuse to bail out? How long would their marriage have survived even without the triplets?

Don’t go there, Tammy, she told herself. Not when you’re this tired.

She’d been angry and deeply wounded by his betrayal for a long time. Mostly, she was over it now. Sometimes, though, on a bad day—on the way home from work at close to midnight or when the money was stretched so tight she expected something to snap—yes, she took a backward step and got angry again. It was like what parents said about the NICU. A roller-coaster ride. Three steps forward, two steps back.

‘How was work, anyway? An easy night, I hope,’ Mum asked.

‘I wouldn’t recognise an easy night in the NICU if it jumped up and bit me. But we managed to get two fragile little twins through their first six hours. I’ll have my fingers crossed for them all day.’

‘You won’t,’ Mum retorted. ‘Because you’ll be asleep.’

‘True.’ She yawned, aching for her bed the way some women ached for a lover.

Her mother decreed, ‘Someone else can cross their fingers.’

‘Sounds good.’ She thought about Dr Burchell again. He might cross his. He seemed to care. Well, neonatology wasn’t a field you went into if you didn’t.

She had a sudden flashback to the time he and she had spent getting Max stable in the delivery room, bending their heads over the little boy, reaching past each other. He’d looked at the baby with a kind of intensity that had almost generated heat, and there hadn’t been a moment where she could have doubted his skill or his attitude.