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‘Marilyn?’
‘As in Monroe.’ Cos she’s gorgeous and misunderstood.’
His mouth quirked into a trace of a smile. A damned attractive smile, her hormones said.
No, she told her hormones.
‘Marilyn it is, then,’ he agreed. Then his smile died. ‘But I need to tell you she’s not likely to make it.’
‘I can’t believe I didn’t pick up that she was in labour. I thought she was just fat.’
‘You’re hurt yourself.’ He turned back to her, refocusing. ‘Go back to the settee,’ he said. ‘Please. This won’t be pretty.’
‘You’re not putting her down?’
‘Not yet.’ He motioned to the drip. ‘I’m getting some fluid on board. She’s still having weak contractions. My guess—and I’ve just spoken to the vet in the next town and she concurs—is that she’s been in labour for some time. We think she’s got a pup stuck. Maybe that’s why she was dumped. Maybe she got into trouble giving birth, someone said they’d take her to the vet—maybe to keep kids happy—and then they dumped her. Taking a pregnant bitch to the vet costs money.’ His face tightened. ‘Dumping her would be easier. Throwing her out where you said they did—my guess is they intended her to go in the river. It’s only a guess, but people can be cruel.’
He spoke like he knew what he was talking about. He spoke like a man with ghosts. She registered it, but only fleetingly. Her foot was hurting, her hormones had taken a back seat to discomfort, and she only had so much registering space possible.
‘So what are you doing?’
‘Trying to get the pup out.’
‘A Caesarean?’
‘I can’t. She’s so weak it’d kill her even if I had the skills—which I don’t.’
‘Neither do I,’ she said regretfully. ‘I’m an accident and emergency consultant.’
‘You’re a doctor?’ he demanded, clearly astounded.
‘I am.’ She wriggled closer. He was loading a syringe. ‘What is that?’
‘Lubricant,’ he said, and the surprise he’d shown disappeared as he turned back to what he was doing. He was carefully filling a syringe full of gel. Then he moved, deliberately blocking her view.
‘You’ll kill the puppy,’ she said, appalled. How could he manoeuvre lubricant into a blocked birth canal without…?
‘The pup will be dead anyway,’ he said flatly. He was speaking almost to himself. ‘Fiona…my vet friend…tells me if it’s been wedged for hours there’s no chance it’s still alive. She tells me I have a choice. I put Marilyn down now, or I try and get the dead pup out of the birth canal so whatever’s behind can come out of its own accord. If it doesn’t work then I’ll have to put her down, but I intend to try. So if you could shut up…’
‘I’m shutting up,’ she said, and pushed herself forward a bit more. ‘But you have an assistant. I may not be sterile but I’ll do whatever I can to help.’
It was a nasty procedure with an initial nasty outcome. Dom inserted the lubricant with difficulty. He injected oxytocin. He used forceps with even more difficulty. He fitted the forceps just as a contraction hit. He tugged. The thing shifted and suddenly it was there. Just as Fiona had foreseen.
He glanced back at Erin, who was lying full length on the floor, keeping a light touch on Marilyn’s carotid artery, feeling her pulse, and stroking her ears. ‘One pup,’ he told her softly. ‘Dead.’
Amazingly, Marilyn struggled, raising her head as if to see. She moaned, a low doggy moan that sounded almost like despair.
‘Hush,’ Erin said softly, fondling the big dog’s ears as Dom removed the dead puppy. ‘I know, it’s your baby and I’m so sorry, but you did the best you could. Relax, girl. We’ll take care of it.’
Her bedside manner was great, Dom thought, though it was slightly more personal than the approach he’d learned in medical school. She was lying nose to nose with her patient.
‘And you moaned,’ Erin whispered. ‘That’s the first sound you’ve made since I found you. That has to be good.’ She glanced up at Dom again. ‘What’s happening?
‘I’d imagine this pup died in utero some time ago,’ Dom said grimly, wrapping the tiny body in a towel and placing it gently to one side. ‘It’s not completely formed and it’s stiff. That’s why it’s blocked the birth passage.’
‘If they’re all like that…’
‘The oxytocin’s only so good at getting the contractions going again,’ he muttered. ‘We need a bit of luck…’
He stopped.
The pressure behind the dead pup must have been overwhelming. The contraction Marilyn was having now was almost nonexistent, but it was enough. A wobbly, limp body was propelled outward in a rush. Dom caught it as it came—and the tiny bundle moved in his hand.
Again, Marilyn tried to turn. ‘It’s okay, girl,’ Erin whispered. ‘Leave your babies to Dr Dom. He’s doing it all for you. We’re both in his hands.’
What was in Dom’s hands was a live pup. Dom peeled membrane away from one tiny nose. He held the tiny creature upside down and gave it a faint jiggle.
It gave a sound that could almost have been…a bark?
‘Dear God,’ Erin said, and burst into tears.
‘You cry, you’re out of my theatre, Dr Carmody,’ Dom said, but he was grinning. ‘Some surgical assistant you are.’ He headed down the hall with the pup in his hands. ‘Don’t let her have another contraction till I come back.’
He needed warm towels. Hell, he’d never anticipated a live birth. Luckily he had heated towel rails in the bathroom. He grabbed the family towels, wrapped the pup in one and tucked another two towels under his arm.
By the time he got back to the hall Erin had his doctor’s bag tipped out on the floor. ‘Dental floss,’ she murmured in approval as she searched. ‘You’re a man after my own heart. What sort of doctor doesn’t carry dental floss?’
He grinned, then laid the pup on a towel on the floor right near Marilyn’s head.
‘Do we need to clamp and tie the umbilical cord?’ Erin asked doubtfully.
‘You’re asking me as a dog expert? Let’s do it anyway.’ Then, as another contraction rippled through, he left the pup to Erin and went back to delivery mode.
And two pups later it was over. At least he guessed it was over. There was no heartbeat that he could hear inside—there were no signs that there were any more to come. The third live pup slid into the world and Marilyn’s body seemed to sag in relief.
‘Don’t you dare die now,’ Erin said to her, almost fiercely. ‘Dr Dom’s getting fluids into you. He’s doing everything he can. You have three puppies totally dependent on you. You can’t die.’
Not completely dependent, Dom thought ruefully as he watched Erin. Marilyn was lying back, exhausted to the point of death, but as Erin presented each of her pups to her she nosed them with the beginning of maternal interest. As Erin set them at their mother’s teats, they knew what to do.
Erin was doing everything she could to give these puppies a start in life, and Marilyn was trying herself. The big dog was breathing deeply, evenly, as if she guessed that she had to concentrate on gathering her strength.
‘She’s a dog in a million,’ Erin said fiercely, echoing his thoughts. ‘How can they have just thrown her out?’
‘It beggars belief,’ Dom said sadly. ‘But that’s life. We just pick up the pieces.’
‘You sound like you do it all the time.’
‘I’m a family doctor.’
‘Yeah, family.’ She gazed up at him, seeming suddenly to realise that she was semi-naked, lying full length in the hall of…a family doctor. A doctor with a family. ‘Um…how come we haven’t woken your wife and kids?’
Maybe now wasn’t the time to let her know exactly what his family consisted of, Dom thought. He needed her settled tonight, and if the thought of a wife and kids upstairs would do it, then that’s what she’d get. ‘I’m a family doctor,’ he repeated, with tired humour. ‘In this family we learn to sleep with bombs going off—or sometimes that’s what it feels like. I nap between explosions. Now…’ He looked down at Marilyn, who was almost visibly relaxing. Her eyes were three-quarters closed. The puppies were a living, breathing pile of life, nuzzling her teats. The fire in the living room was sending its warmth out here. Marilyn was safe, and she was delivered.
‘You know what? I’m going to leave her right here,’ Dom said. ‘I’ll put a heater out here to make it even warmer, but she looks like she’ll sleep for hours and I don’t want that IV line to move. In the morning I’ll do something about cleaning up her side but it looks like superficial scratches. Fiona told me what antibiotic to give. I’ll clean the mess up later.’ He rose. ‘Which means…’ He looked down at Erin, who was smiling goofily at the pups. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Feet. I’m not leaving them till morning.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘You’re nicely doped on morphine and you could walk another three miles or so. Or not. Dr Carmody, you know very well that your foot has to be attended to, and it has to be attended to now.’
There was nothing to say. Even if there was a decent rebuttal she was too tired and too drugged to think of one.
‘Yes, Doctor,’ she said meekly, and held out her hands so he could help her to her feet.
He didn’t.
‘You’ve walked far enough tonight,’ he growled. ‘’You need to come through to my surgery at the back of the house.’ And before she could guess what he intended—or protest—he picked her up again and was carrying her through the house to his clinic beyond.
What followed was nasty. Dom gave her as much analgesic as he could, but short of a general anaesthetic—‘and I’m not doing that on my own’—he couldn’t stop all the pain.
There was gravel, deeply embedded. She’d felt pain as she’d walked but there hadn’t been a choice. She’d just kept on walking.
‘Any other night there’d be traffic on that road,’ he told her.
‘But it’s the Thursday before Easter. The whole town’s either left for holidays or hunkered down with visitors.’
He was trying to distract her. She lay back and tried really hard not to think about what he was doing. He was making sure not one trace of gravel remained.
‘So why aren’t you either on holidays or hunkered down with visitors?’
‘Hey, I am,’ he said, smiling suddenly. She liked it a lot when he smiled, she decided. Normally his face looked strained. Like life was hard. But when he smiled the sun came out. It made her feel…silly. No, she chided herself. That was the morphine. One man’s smile shouldn’t make her feel silly. She was a very serious person. Or she would be if he’d stop smiling.
‘One woman with a sore foot,’ he was saying. ‘One dog and three puppies. That makes visitors. Pity about the Easter buns.’
‘The Easter buns?’
‘They didn’t rise,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I’m in all sorts of trouble. But don’t you worry about me. You just think about your own worries. Crashed car. Injured foot. Bruises all over and a messed-up holiday to boot. You keep thinking about them and let me get on with my own troubles. Easter buns as flat as pancakes.’
She chuckled. The sound surprised them both. He glanced up at her and grinned and then he went back to what he was doing. Ouch. Her smile faded. She bit her lip, then decided she needed to smile again. Suddenly it seemed really important to keep smiling.
‘It’s okay not to be a martyr,’ he said gently. ‘Swear if you want.’
‘I don’t swear,’ she said with an attempt at dignity.
‘I chop things.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I have an axe,’ he said. ‘When life gets tough—when things go wrong or when Gloria Fisher comes in with her something’s-wrong-with-me-middle complaint for the fourth time in a week and she still refuses to stop wearing too-tight corsets—I go outside and chop anything that comes to hand. Luckily there’s lots of old tree stumps on this place. I keep the family in firewood year round.’
‘Venting spleen?’
‘That’s the one,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you like I’ll let you borrow my axe. Only not tonight.’
And then, magically, he set aside his instruments. ‘All done. Now there’s nothing else you’re not telling me about? Pain-wise?’
‘I… No.’
‘You swear?’
‘My shoulders ache from carrying Marilyn. I suspect I’ll ache for a bit but I was well strapped in when the car rolled. I really will be okay.’
‘So who do we phone to come and get you?’
She blinked. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Charles. Her parents. Charles’s parents. Of course she should ring them. But it was, what, three in the morning, and they were angry with her already.
‘Family?’ he asked, and she nodded. Her parents were with Charles and Charles’s parents. The whole domestic catastrophe—except the one element that was supposed to complete the whole.
The pig in the middle. A small, rebellious pig.
‘You know, if you were heading to your parents’ for Easter and don’t want to wake them—if you’re sure they won’t be worrying—you’re welcome to sleep here,’ he said gently, watching her face. ‘I don’t want to move your dog until morning anyway. The settee’s as big as a bed and the fire’s comforting.’
She thought of the alternative. Ringing Charles. Waking Charles’s parents and her parents; scaring them with the news of another accident. They’d send Charles to fetch her. He’d be kind and supportive and not offer a word of reproach until she was over her shock. And… Taking Marilyn?
Aaagh.
Dom must be reading her face. He placed a last piece of dressing on her foot and touched her lightly on her ankle. It was a feather touch of reassurance, and why it had the capacity to make her feel reassured she had no idea. But, unaccountably, it did.
‘Hey, no drama,’ he said. ‘Your settee’s practically made for you anyway. But I do need a guarantee that no one will be looking for you.’
‘Not…my family. They’ll assume I stayed in Melbourne until the morning.’ They might even assume she’d decided not to come at all, she thought ruefully. She darn near hadn’t. ‘But if those yahoos saw me go over the cliff…’
‘They may have reported it. It’s unlikely, or you’d have been found before this. I’ll ring the local police and tell them if anyone reports a crashed car I have the driver safe. Okay. All sorted. And now the driver needs to sleep.’
And before she knew it, once again she was in his arms. Was this how country doctors transported patients? The thought made her feel silly again.
‘What?’ he asked as he carried her through the silent house.
The man was percipient, she thought. She’d allowed herself a tiny smile, meant only for herself, but he’d picked up on it.
‘I’m just thinking most hospitals have trolleys.’
‘Yeah, and hospital orderlies,’ he said with wry humour. ‘And nurses and regulations about lifting and role demarcation. But orderlies are in short supply around here. So lie back, pretend to be a really light suitcase and let me do my job.’
The man was seriously efficient. He set her in an armchair for a couple of minutes, disappeared and came back with linen, pillows and blankets. She watched as he made up her bed—faster than she’d thought possible. The man had real domestic skills. Except in making Easter buns.
‘Um…doesn’t your wife cook?’ she asked, but the idea didn’t last. She almost forgot the question before it was out of her mouth. The heat of the fire, the morphine and the events of the night were catching up with her. Her words were slurring.
