The Baby Swap Miracle

by Caroline Anderson

  Incredible. He could almost feel the power of her thoughts, the tight focus, and his admiration for her soared.

  She opened her eyes, let out a long, slow breath and smiled at him. ‘You’re back.’

  And she sounded pleased. Hugely pleased—relieved, in fact. Nearly as relieved as him, because there was no way he was leaving her.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you? Ice chips? A cold flannel?’

  ‘Ice would be lovely. And I might want to walk around.’

  She didn’t. A few steps in and she sagged against the wall. He caught her, hooking his arms under hers and taking her weight, as he’d been taught in the class, and she panted lightly through it and then lifted her head as she straightened.

  ‘Maybe not,’ she said with a little smile, and he led her back to bed and went to find ice.

  ‘Sam, you don’t have to be here,’ she said after another hour or two. She wasn’t sure, she’d lost track of the time, but she was coping. Maybe it was because he was there, maybe it was because she was doing OK, but she was concerned about him. He hadn’t wanted to be there, and as he protested now, she shook her head.

  ‘Sam, I know you don’t want to be here,’ she told him gently. ‘You’re only being nice to me.’

  ‘When was I ever nice to you?’

  She tried to smile, but another contraction was coming and she felt herself zeroing in on it. When it was over, she opened her eyes and found him just where she’d left him, his eyes on her, his concentration on her absolute.

  ‘OK now?’

  She nodded. The midwife came and examined her, and Sam turned his back and stared out of the window, giving her privacy and yet still not leaving. He hadn’t left her side once except to get ice, and when the midwife went he fed her another ice chip and wiped her head with the cool compress.

  ‘What about Daisy?’ she asked, belatedly.

  ‘Daisy’s fine. She’s gone home with the builder.’

  Emelia frowned. ‘Will she be all right?’

  ‘He’ll feed her—what do you think?’ he said drily, and she laughed.

  ‘OK.’ She glanced at the window and realised the sun was setting. It was late evening, and he hadn’t eaten. ‘Why don’t you go and get something to eat? I’m fine, really. This could go on for ages.’

  They were moving her when he got back from his hasty sandwich and coffee, and his heart jammed in his throat. She was linked up to a monitor, and he could see the baby’s heartbeat. Or was it hers? He wasn’t sure.

  The midwife kicked the brakes off the bed and looked at him.

  ‘We’re moving her to the delivery room but she might need a C-section. There’s a problem with the cord. Are you in or out?’ she asked.

  Emelia’s face was glazed with perspiration, her eyes unfocused as she concentrated on her breathing. And then the monitor went off and she started to panic.

  Her eyes sought his and clung, and he swallowed.

  ‘I’m in,’ he said, and stepped into the abyss.

  He was glad he’d been to the classes.

  He’d thought it would all be calm and slow and to do with finding the zone, but the baby’s cord had got twisted round its neck and the only zone he could find was one filled with chaos.

  People were everywhere, there was talk of Theatre, and the baby’s heartbeat was crashing with every contraction and taking an age to come back up again as they struggled to free the cord.

  Emelia clung to him, his hand crushed agonisingly in her surprisingly fierce grip. She’d been gardening, of course, day after day, and her hands were strong. Very strong.

  ‘OK, it’s free, you have to push now, as hard as you can,’ they told her, and from somewhere inside him he found the words to encourage her, not letting her give up, bullying her to keep going, praising her when she did, and all the time his heart was racing and he was shaking with fear.

  She couldn’t do it any more. She was exhausted, shocked and afraid, and it was all too hard, but then his face swam into focus and she locked on to his eyes. Slate-blue eyes, utterly calm, his smile encouraging. ‘Come on, sweetheart, do it for me. One more push.’

  She gave him one more push, and then another, and another, and then there was a mewling cry, a hiccupping sob and a full-blown yell of rage, and everyone was smiling and laughing and they were lying the baby on her, pushing her T-shirt out of the way and putting the baby against her skin.

  ‘He’s a gorgeous, bonny boy,’ someone said, but all he could think of was Emelia and how incredibly brave she’d been.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, and stepped back out of the way so they could get to her. He could feel tears tracking down his cheeks, and he scrubbed them away and tried to smile, but it was too hard so he gave up and just stared at the baby lying there on her chest.

  She was smiling down at him, her hands caressing him with a tenderness that brought a smile back to his eyes once more.

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Max,’ they said together, and shared a smile that threatened to push him over the edge again.

  ‘Congratulations, Dad!’ someone said, and he felt the floor dissolve beneath his feet.

  He was a father. He’d never thought he’d be a father, not since Alice. Well, only to Emily and Andrew’s baby, and that wouldn’t really be a father. That would be an uncle, nothing more, really.

  But this…

  They took the baby from Emelia while the midwives busied themselves with her, and he was wrapped in a soft white blanket and handed to Sam.

  ‘I’ll drop him!’ he said in panic, but they just smiled.

  ‘Of course you won’t. He’s the most precious thing you’ll ever hold. There’s not a chance you’ll drop him.’

  He stared down at Max, streaked with blood, a shock of black hair plastered against his head, and thought, She’s right. You’re the most precious thing I’ll ever hold. More precious by far than anything in my life has ever been.

  Except Emelia—and she wasn’t in his life. Not really, not in the way she should have been, the way he wanted her to be.

  But he could love his son.

  The dark blue eyes stared back at him, filled with the wisdom of the ancients, and he felt humbled and incredibly honoured to have been granted this gift.

  ‘Here, Sam, sit down,’ someone said, and pushed a chair behind his knees. So he sat, and he stared down into his son’s eyes, and fell head over heels in love.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘SHE’S had the baby.’

  ‘Sam—that’s great! How are they?’

  He could hear Emily shrieking in the background, and there was a stupid smile on his face that he couldn’t seem to get rid of.

  ‘She’s fine, Andrew. They’re both fine—’

  There was a clatter and Emily came on the line. ‘Sam, tell me all about it—is she OK? How did it go?’

  He felt the shock of it all come back and hit him. ‘Um—well, there was a bit of a panic at the end with the cord, but everything was OK. She was amazing. I don’t know how you women do it.’

  And then he remembered that this woman couldn’t do it, that this was the baby they might have been having, but for the monumental mix-up, and guilt hit him in the solar plexus.

  ‘Emily, I’m sorry, that was crass,’ he said, but she cut him off.

  ‘Sam, don’t be daft, we’re both thrilled for you. So how long’s she going to be in there?’

  ‘They said she can come home tomorrow, but her mother’s not here till the weekend, so I’m a bit wary about them discharging her.’

  ‘Want me to come?’ Emily said, after the tiniest hesitation, and he thought of the hurt it would bring—and, selfishly, that he wanted to be the one there for her.

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘Can you? There might be lots of personal stuff, Sam.’

  Of course. He hadn’t thought of that. He had no idea what might be needed, but although he would have done it all, he had the sense to realise that for Emelia, the presen
ce of a woman would be preferable.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  There was another tiny hesitation, then she said, ‘Of course I don’t mind! We’ll come tomorrow night. If you can bring her home and settle her, we’ll come as soon as we can.’

  ‘What about Friday?’

  ‘We’ll take a day off. That’s fine, Sam. This is family.’

  Emelia wasn’t family, he thought, and then it struck him that she was, of course she was. She was the mother of his child. How much more ‘family’ could she get?

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, massively grateful for the offer and deeply aware of what it must have cost her. Cost them both. ‘Bless you. I’ll get your room ready.’

  He couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t have known how to, after the tumult of the day. There was so much to think about, so much going on in his head, in his heart.

  He contemplated opening a bottle of champagne, but he didn’t want to drink it alone, so he made a cup of tea—about the hundredth he’d had that day—and then threw it down the sink, poured a small measure of malt whisky and went out into the rose garden.

  It smelt amazing. He’d taken to sitting here in the evenings, when the builders had gone home and Emelia was ensconced in her cottage, and he crossed to the arbour and settled on the old teak bench, drenched in the scent of the garden and surrounded by Emelia’s gift to him, and closed his eyes.

  He was a father.

  Not a husband, not really a lover, but he was a father.

  ‘Welcome to the world, little Max,’ he said softly, and then because his lids were prickling and his throat was tight, he drained the glass. It made him choke slightly, made his eyes water. He closed them, and saw the baby’s face, the serious eyes staring up at him.

  The eyes of his precious, beautiful son.

  Daisy came back with the builders in the morning, utterly delighted to see him again but just as happy to follow the builder in case he gave her any more treats.

  ‘I think you might have been spoiling my dog,’ he said mildly, and the man laughed.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. So, how are things?’

  ‘Great. Excellent. It’s a boy—’

  His voice cracked, and the builder slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Well, congratulations, Sam. Welcome to the world of sleepless nights and baby sick.’

  Except they wouldn’t be his sleepless nights.

  ‘Cheers. You’re all heart,’ he said drily, and went to phone his parents. He hadn’t told them last night, not after his conversation with Andrew and Emily, and it had been very late to call them, but he called them now, realising that for them this was a very big deal.

  Alice hadn’t only hurt him, she’d hurt them, taking away the grandchild they’d been longing for, and for the first time he felt sympathy for Julia and Brian Eastwood. They must have felt just like his parents had, only for them there would be no other chances. No wonder Emelia had been so forgiving of their deceit.

  His mother cried. His father sounded choked and was a little forced. He guessed they’d be over to see the baby just as soon as they could find someone to look after the animals.

  ‘Give her our love,’ they said, although they’d never met Emelia before, and he said he would.

  Even though he couldn’t give her his.

  He came to get her at midday, after she’d seen the midwife and the consultant who’d been there in the end at the birth. She didn’t remember him, but that wasn’t surprising. She hadn’t really been aware of anything but her body—except Sam. She’d been aware of Sam for every single moment.

  He’d been amazing—an absolute rock, even though she knew he’d found it hard. His reluctance had been obvious from the first, but he’d stayed with her, stayed calm, kept her focused. She couldn’t have done it without him.

  He walked in, looking a little wary and out of place, and she held out her hand to him and pulled him close for a hug.

  ‘Sam, thank you so much for yesterday,’ she murmured into his shoulder, and he perched on the edge of the bed beside her and hugged her back, his arms gentle.

  ‘You’re welcome. How are you? Did you have a good night?’

  ‘OK.’ It hadn’t been, really, and yet it had been the most amazing night of her life. She’d been sore and tired, but so wired, somehow, that she couldn’t sleep, and she’d spent half the night lying staring at baby Max so that now her eyes were gritty and she felt like death warmed up. ‘I could do with a nap.’

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, and looked into the crib. Max was wearing a tiny little sleep-suit, but even so the cuffs had been turned back and the legs were empty where he’d drawn his up inside it.

  ‘Could you call the midwife? She’ll take me down, they have to,’ she told him, and so he went to find her, still marvelling at the sight of those tiny little hands lying utterly relaxed on the ends of his skinny arms. So frail, so delicate, and yet tough enough to endure what must have been difficult for him, too.

  ‘Emelia’s ready to go,’ he told them, and they were escorted down to the car park. The baby seat was lashed into the back of the car, and they installed him in it, looking like a doll in the confines of the straps, tucked up in a blanket with his tiny little hat sliding over one eye.

  Hard to imagine him playing football or climbing trees, and with a little stab of fear came the realisation of what his parents had gone through when he’d been a child, wild and free and reckless with the scars to prove it. The very thought made his blood run cold.

  ‘You did a good job of that gatepost,’ she said as they turned into the drive and rattled slowly over the weeded cattle grid between the properly suspended gates.

  ‘Not just a pretty face,’ he said, and she looked at him. He wasn’t. There were depths to Sam that fascinated her, so many facets to his personality to discover—if only she ever had the chance.

  ‘Emily and Andrew are coming tonight,’ he said as they made their way up the drive. ‘I wasn’t happy about you coming home without your mother here yet, and Emily offered. She thought—well, that I shouldn’t really have to do some of the things that might need to be done, and I thought you might prefer it.’

  ‘Oh, Sam, that’s kind of her. Thank you.’

  ‘I also thought you should be in the house until your mother comes.’

  She hesitated. The cottage was all set up—but so, too, was the house. If she had one room with the baby, and Andrew and Emily had the other, sharing the Jack and Jill bathroom, then Emily would be near her if necessary. But Sam was ahead of her.

  ‘I’ve put a single bed in the nursery for now. I thought I could sleep in there and you could have my bed,’ he said. ‘But if you’d rather go to the cottage, I’m sure we can rearrange ourselves.’

  It would be easier for all of them at the house, of course, and also more room. But—Sam’s bed, where he’d made love to her with so much tenderness and passion?

  ‘It’s only for a night,’ he told her. ‘Then when your mother comes, you can go back to the cottage with her and it’ll all be clean and tidy and ready.’

  Of course it would. It made absolute sense, and it would be pointless and stupid to argue when she agreed with him. But—his bed?

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. And hopefully she’d be so tired tonight that she’d sleep wherever she was.

  There were flowers in his bedroom—roses and lavender, from the garden.

  They weren’t so much arranged as jammed in a vase, but Emelia thought she’d never seen anything more lovely and for the umpteenth time that day, her eyes filled.

  ‘Oh, Sam, thank you,’ she murmured, touching the rose petals.

  ‘Pleasure. You look bushed. Have you had lunch?’

  ‘No. I just want to rest.’

  ‘OK. There’s water here, or I can get you tea or coffee or fruit juice—’

  ‘Water’s fine. Thank you, Sam.’

  ‘I’ll leave the door open—yell if you need anything, or bang on the floor. I’ll be d
ownstairs. And don’t worry about Daisy coming up, she’s banished to the kitchen.’

  ‘OK.’ She listened to him go, to the steady rhythm of his feet on the stairs as he ran lightly down. Then there was silence.

  Absolute silence, and she realised the builders weren’t there. Either that or they’d been moved to another part of the house, because she could hear nothing.

  No radio, no tuneless whistling, no hammering or drilling or shovelling—just the sound of the birds in the rose garden below the open window.

  Sam, she realised, giving her quiet to rest after the birth. Sam, who’d picked her favourite roses.

  She undressed, went to the bathroom and then looked at Max, tiny in his cot. He was lying on his side, eyes shut, out cold, and she guessed that yesterday must have been hard for him, too. He’d probably wake soon for a feed, but she had to sleep.

  Maybe he’d last an hour or so. If she could just get an hour…

  She snuggled into Sam’s bed, sniffing the sheets and feeling ridiculously disappointed to smell the fresh scent of laundry. Of course he’d changed them. He’d done everything.

  Everything except love her—

  Don’t start, she told herself firmly. Just go to sleep.

  Max woke for a feed over an hour later, and Sam heard him cry and came up.

  ‘Stay there, I’ll bring him to you,’ he said, and ridiculously, after all that had taken place the day before, she felt shy.

  He took himself out of range, though, sitting by the window and staring out while she pulled her top out of the way and undid her bra, and she coped quite well, she thought, thrilled that feeding Max had come so naturally to her, fascinated by the sight of his tiny rosebud mouth beaded with milk, the fragile fingers curled against her breast.

  She swapped sides, resting him against her shoulder to burp him, but he just cried, his little legs drawn up to his tummy.

  Sam turned his head and frowned. ‘Can I help?’