Her Baby Out of the Blue

‘I wanted you to think about the part you have in this wee lassie’s life.’

Jane wasn’t looking at Sophie now. She was glaring at Dylan and she had the nerve to look self-righteous.

‘I could have called the police. Or Social Services.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No. Lucky for you. There are laws about child neglect. Abandonment.’

‘Why didn’t you call them, then?’

Her gaze slid sideways. ‘Because I didn’t want people knowing about this.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s private.’

‘Maybe you don’t want people knowing that you’re not prepared to acknowledge your own child?’

‘I am prepared to acknowledge her! I’m prepared to support her in whatever way I can. I want what’s best for her—just like you do. And…’ The glance at the sleeping infant was triumphant. ‘Being with you is clearly what’s best for her.’ Jane walked past Dylan. ‘Have a seat,’ she instructed. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’m make us something to eat and we can talk. Scrambled eggs all right with you?’

‘Fine.’ But Dylan did not obey the command to be seated. He might be prepared to do anything for wee Sophie but he’d had enough of Dr Walters giving orders. And assuming that she had control and had just made all the decisions that needed to be made. Seething quietly, Dylan walked towards the windows, turned and surveyed what he could see of this luxurious apartment.

Jane was busy in the kitchen area. Opening cupboards and a gleaming stainless-steel refrigerator. A saucepan and a bowl and a tray of eggs were already on the spotless black bench top.

‘Very nice,’ he said eventually, into a silence that was being broken only by the sound of Jane preparing their meal.

‘Thanks. I like it.’

‘Close to the hospital.’

‘Yes. I take a longer route through the park in the summer and get my exercise that way. It’s beautiful.’

‘Must be hard—keeping white furniture so clean.’

Jane was cracking eggs into the bowl. ‘Not at all. I live alone, have no desire to keep pets and I have a cleaner who comes twice a week.’ She turned her head as she reached to pick up a whisk. ‘My apartment, like my life, is exactly the way I like it. The way I planned it to be.’

Dylan said nothing. It figured. An important position in a large hospital would leave little time to create a home and this was nothing like a home. It looked like a set for a photo shoot by some house-and-garden publication. The perfect city pad for the young professional. Tasteful, modern, comfortable and…completely without soul.

Had the interior designer chosen the artwork hanging on the walls? Random splashes of colour that were echoes of carefully positioned items like cushions and rugs to try and tone down the sterile white on white of everything else. Here it was well into November but there was no hint of Christmas coming. Did she have a white, artificial tree packed away somewhere? With white icicle lights to hang on it, maybe?

It was all so unsuitable for a baby it was a joke. As funny as trying to imagine Jane changing nappies or playing with a baby in a bath. Blowing bubbles or swimming a plastic duck through the water and making quacking noises.

Except it wasn’t funny, was it?

It was incredibly sad.

The eggs were fabulous. Lots of chopped parsley and freshly ground black pepper and thick, toasted whole-grain bread. Jane hadn’t realised how hungry she was. Normally, she would have poured herself a nice glass of chilled sauvignon blanc to go with the meal but it didn’t seem appropriate tonight. You didn’t quaff alcohol when you were looking after a baby, did you?

Except that the responsibility had now been handed back. The relief and release of tension was as good as several glasses of wine could have achieved. Jane took another mouthful of the eggs and savoured it, then glanced up to see Dylan picking up some egg-laden toast with his fingers.

‘All right?’

‘Wonderful. You can cook.’

‘You sound surprised.’

Dylan’s grin was charmingly shamefaced. ‘I guess it’s not a skill I associate with important, busy surgeons.’

‘How many important, busy surgeons do you know?’

‘Oh, heaps.’

‘Oh?’

Curiosity about her unexpected visitor surfaced. He had shed the leather jacket now and looked…larger, somehow. Well-defined muscles on his bare upper arms suggested he was fit. The tan might mean he worked outdoors. The hair was too wild to fit with a white-collar job and…Good grief, she’d been right to suspect an ear piercing. It wasn’t a gold ring, though. Just a tiny gold stud.

‘So what do you do?’ Jane asked.

‘I’m a nurse.’

The statement was terse. Cut off by a mouthful of food, but Jane was being watched. Those dark blue eyes were on her face. Waiting for her reaction.

He was a male nurse. She was a female surgeon. Was he expecting some kind of put-down? Jane simply nodded.

‘So you and Josh both went into medicine, then. Do you have a specialty area?’

The hesitation was so brief Jane wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been watching for his reaction to her reaction. She saw her words being registered and she saw the wariness leave his eyes and an approving gleam take its place.

And, for some inexplicable reason, she felt like she’d passed a test. Supplied the correct answer. Won a prize, even. A tingle of pleasure made her aware of just how tense and miserable she’d been ever since this man had appeared in her life with his devastating news and his alarming young companion.

‘I love kids,’ Dylan answered when he’d swallowed. ‘I’ve done a fair bit of time in Theatre but I prefer my patients awake. I’ve done everything over the years. Nursing’s a great job to travel with and I’ve got the world’s itchiest feet. I never stay in one place for more than a few months.’

So she’d been right about more than the ear piercing. He was a gypsy. Would he cart Sophie from pillar to post with him?

Jane opened her mouth to tell him how unsuitable a life that would be for a young child and then snapped it shut. It wasn’t her place to criticise. He loved the baby. She was happy with him. He was a nurse and he loved kids and he was Sophie’s uncle. End of story.

Any niggling doubt was erased by looking down to where Sophie was sound asleep in her car seat beside Dylan’s chair.

‘Is she all right, sleeping in there? Doesn’t she need a cot or bassinette or something?’

‘She’ll be fine. I’ll make up a bed with pillows and she can share my bed.’ Dylan was scraping up the last of his scrambled eggs. ‘When I find one, that is.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I came straight to the hospital from the airport. I was going to ask you for a recommendation for accommodation but we didn’t really get that far, did we?’

‘You mean you haven’t got something booked? It’s after 10 p.m.! What have you been doing for the last few hours? I thought you’d be getting yourself sorted. With a hotel and a cot and supplies and so on.’

‘Did you now?’ Dylan’s gaze was steady. ‘You hoped I’d be riding back in on my white charger to rescue you from any responsibility?’

Jane could feel the heat creeping up from her neck to her cheeks. It was exactly what she’d been hoping.

‘Um…how long are you expecting to stay?’

‘As long as it takes.’

‘As long as what takes?’ Dismay enveloped Jane. This was actually a very long way from being sorted.

‘You need time,’ Dylan said calmly. ‘A chance to get used to the idea that you’re a mother. Your only chance to be one, from what you’ve said.’ He pushed his plate away but he was watching Jane with that intense kind of focus he seemed very good at. ‘You never intended having a child and you’re not about to change your mind.’

Jane would have confirmed his statement but he didn’t give her the chance. He kept talking. Quietly. His voice was compelling.

‘If you send us away, we’ll go, but you’ll probably never see Sophie again. You’ll never know what it’s like to hold a baby in your arms and know that she’s yours. That she’s utterly dependent on you and that she’s going to love you in a way that no one else can ever love you. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to break that connection, Jane. It might very well be the only one you ever have.’

He’d called her Jane. In that soft, lilting tone he’d used throughout that extraordinary short speech.

He’d go away, he said. If she chose. He’d go away and take the baby with him.

She wouldn’t have to hear him tell her about the responsibility she should be taking on. She wouldn’t have to feel guilty or contemplate the shattering effect this child could have on her life.

She wouldn’t have to see him sitting here—so out of place in her perfect apartment—with his big, masculine body and his tousled hair. She wouldn’t have to listen to that accent that reminded her of Josh and…and Izzy.

She wouldn’t hear him calling her ‘Jane’ like that. Like he knew her.

Like she mattered.

Jane had to swallow hard. And move. She gathered up the empty plates.

‘Fine,’ she managed to choke out as she stood up. ‘You can stay here tonight.’

CHAPTER FOUR

SOMETHING was different.

Flipping open another set of patient notes that Mike handed her, Jane took a quick glance at her watch. It was 9 a.m. and they were well into their Saturday morning rounds that had started at 8. ICU had been covered and they were on their way around the ward. Not behind or ahead of themselves. Nothing important had been missed. Everything was the same as it always was.

Except it wasn’t. Something different, that shouldn’t be here at work, was making its presence felt, even though Jane couldn’t identify what it was. She tried to push the odd feeling of disquiet away. It was hardly surprising that life seemed slightly out of kilter this morning, given that she’d left a half-naked man and a baby in her apartment.

Well, not really half-naked. Dylan had been wearing those faded blue denim jeans and a singlet when she’d discovered him in her kitchen at 6 a.m. He had been mixing baby formula with one hand, his other arm occupied by holding Sophie, and he was making what had to be an awkward task look effortless.

Jane hadn’t heard the baby awaken. The apartment had been peaceful and disconcertingly normal when she’d shut herself in the bathroom for a shower. They must have just emerged from the small spare bedroom when Jane had found them. The baby’s fine dark hair had been almost as tousled as her uncle’s, but only Dylan had smiled at Jane. Sophie had taken one look and started wailing.

‘Coffee,’ Jane muttered—as she had done in response to the ear-splittingly loud noise that baby was capable of producing.

‘Sorry?’ Mike sounded startled. ‘You want…um…coffee?’

‘No.’ Jane gave her head a sharp shake. ‘Of course not. I…’ She glanced up from the notes she was holding into the door of the room they were standing outside, her brain finding an escape route with commendable speed. ‘Matthew’s parents are looking pretty tired, don’t you think? They might appreciate a coffee.’

Her registrar gave her a strange look. Jane ignored him and stepped briskly into the room where fifteen-month-old Matthew was standing in his cot, banging a plastic hammer on the top bar. His father was trying to read him a story and his mother, Sarah, was picking up toys that looked as though they had been flung from the cot.

Jane smiled. ‘I see Matthew’s feeling a lot better.’

Sarah’s smile chased much of the weariness from her face. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? He’s almost himself again.’

‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘Not much.’

‘We can let Matthew have a bit more freedom today. He’s doing exceptionally well, seeing as his surgery was only three days ago.’

‘What about the results?’ Matthew’s father had discarded the picture book. ‘Are they all in now?’

‘Most of them. They’ve confirmed the first results we obtained during the surgery. Matthew’s neuroblastoma is definitely Stage 1.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Sarah dropped the toys she was holding into the cot and responded automatically to her son’s raised arms and demanding chirps, scooping him up gently to hold him.

‘It’s the best we could have hoped for,’ Jane agreed. ‘We’ve managed to remove the tumour completely and there’s very few signs of any microscopic residual disease. Tests on the lymph nodes have all come back negative.’

Tears shone in Sarah’s eyes. ‘So he’s going to be all right?’

‘He’s low risk.’ Jane had to add a note of caution. ‘My part in his treatment is over for the moment. The paediatric oncology team will be in to see Matthew and talk to you very soon. They’ll be the ones to make any decisions about chemotherapy and any other treatments.’

‘So it could come back.’ Matthew’s father moved closer to his wife and son. He put his arm around Sarah. Matthew smiled and reached up with a chubby fist.

‘Dad dad dad,’ he said proudly.

‘The five-year survival rate for children with Stage 1 disease is seventy to ninety per cent,’ Jane told them, trying to sound upbeat. ‘We’re going to watch Matthew very carefully but the odds are good. Very good.’

But not good enough, judging by the fear Jane could still see in the eyes of Matthew’s parents.

She had seen that fear before. Many times. Jane specialised in dealing with patients like little Matthew who had needed surgery for childhood cancers. She was very good at what she did and she knew that her skills improved the odds for survival. Sometimes even provided a complete cure.

Yes, she was used to seeing that fear. Understanding it and reassuring people as much as possible.

But this time it was different.

Jane could not only see the fear and understand it. She could feel it. As if it were her own. As if it were Izzy and Josh standing there, holding Sophie, and she had just delivered a verdict on odds that didn’t sound so great if you turned them around and said that this baby had a ten to thirty per cent chance of not surviving.

This was what was different today.

Because her world had tipped and now included a baby she was connected to—whether she liked it or not— Jane was seeing her world through a new perspective.

A dangerous perspective. One that she had deliberately avoided. Yes, she was good at what she did but she intended to get a whole lot better. She couldn’t afford distraction or burnout and if she became too emotionally involved with her caseload, that was precisely what could happen.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t or didn’t empathise with her patients and their families, but Jane had to hang on to the clear, scientific perspective that enough distance could provide. She had to think like a doctor, not a parent.

She had always known that if she became a parent it had the potential to cloud her judgement. Colour her decisions. Leach a little more of her strength every time she had a difficult choice to make or a heartbreaking result.

She couldn’t be a parent.

Sophie seemed to know that, too, because she hated the sight of her, as she had demonstrated so ably again this morning. And that was a good thing. It would make sorting this situation so much easier. It was also good that the rest of this weekend was available to focus on doing exactly that.

Jane popped into the ward office before she left work a little after 11.30 a.m.

‘Sally? Thanks again for your help yesterday.’

‘My pleasure.’ The older nurse manager smiled at Jane. ‘What a wee poppet. It was a treat to have a healthy baby to play with for a while.’ She reached for the files Jane had put down on the side bench. ‘We tend to forget that most of the babies in the world are like her. Our perspective gets a little skewed, working in a place like this.’

‘Mmm.’ Jane had the disconcerting thought that Sally sensed the way her perception had been challenged that morning.

Had Sally touched on how paediatric doctors who were also parents coped? By being aware of that balance? Did they get to relieve some of the stress engendered by work by appreciating what was normal and healthy?

They still had to be too much in tune with how their patients’ parents felt, however, and that had to dilute the kind of focus you needed if you wanted to be exceptional in your field.

The way she intended to be.

Sally was slotting the files into the trolley in alphabetical order. ‘Did it get sorted?’ she queried. ‘The crisis that left you looking after Sophie?’

‘We’re working on it.’ Jane’s hesitation was only momentary. Sally had seen it all over the years, hadn’t she? She was motherly and wise. ‘The baby’s actually an orphan.’

‘Oh!’ Sally’s face creased in sympathy. ‘The poor wee mite!’

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