'I can look after myself.' Tom sounded puzzled.
'Kids are just short people as far as the necessities of life go, aren't they?'
'This one's a bit special! He'll need extra care.'
Tom's hand was still on Emma's arm. She felt the encouraging squeeze. 'Is he so difficult to look after?'
'Not really.' Emma was happy to respond to the encouragement. She wanted Tom to succeed where she couldn't. It was the only acceptable option given that she wouldn't make it as far as the door if she tried to walk out of here. 'He needs to be carried a lot.'
'No problem.'
'And he still needs to wear a nappy. His bladder control isn't great yet.'
Tom clearly had to rally from a moment of being taken aback. 'I'll manage,' he decided. 'I've got friends with kids. They can give me a few pointers.'
'Mickey can tell you what he needs and how to do it.'
The nurse manager was shaking his head again. 'I don't know about this. It's very irregular.'
The orderly looked pointedly at the clock.
'Either Mickey goes with Tom or I'm discharging myself.' Emma's words came out with admirable firmness. She knew she was going to have to lie flat again in about two seconds. She was feeling sick and dizzy and the pain was biting at her leg again. There was just enough time to smile at Tom. 'Will you bring him in to visit me?'
He had a gorgeous smile. It made his eyes crinkle with genuine warmth.
'You'll probably have to chase us away when you need some rest.'
Emma was still smiling as she lay back against her pillow and let herself sink back into the release of temporary oblivion. Yes, Tom might be a stranger but how could you not trust someone who had risked their life to save you?
He was still saving her.
CHAPTER THREE
For the second time that day, someone was suggesting that Tom Gardiner was not thinking straight.
His younger sister, Phoebe, was being even more unkind. She was laughing aloud.
'Oh, man! This is great. What were you thinking of, Tom?'
He gritted his teeth. 'I was trying to help someone.'
'By babysitting? Night and day? For days and days and—'
'Yeah, I get the message. Stop gloating, Phoebs.'
'But, Tom...' It took a moment for Phoebe to get real control. 'You hate kids.'
'I don't hate them. I just don't know what to do with them. They make me nervous.'
'So you offer to be in loco parentis for an unknown length of time? You're nuts!'
'Look, I thought you might be able to help. I didn't ring up for a dose of sibling abuse.'
But Phoebe giggled again. 'Just wait till Mum hears about this. Oh...that wasn't you we just saw on the news, was it? Dangling over some van that was getting washed out to sea in a river? I told Mum it probably wasn't cos she was having kittens.'
'It was me, actually.'
'Holy heck! Just as well you're OK, then. Mum's gone to a lot of trouble making a roast chicken dinner for us. She'd be mad if you didn't show up.'
'I probably won't be able to show up. I'm going to be looking after Mickey, remember?'
'Bring him along. Mum could pretend he's one of those grandchildren she's got her heart set on.'
'I don't think so. He's a tired, frightened four-year-old, Phoebe. He doesn't need another batch of strangers to deal with.'
'Where does he usually live?'
'Wales.'
'Oh...' The penny seemed to be finally dropping. 'Is this something to do with that van in the river?'
'Yeah. I pulled Mickey out before his mother.'
'Is his mother all right?'
'She's injured, but not too badly. She'll be in hospital for a few days and she wasn't keen to have her son handed over to Social Welfare.'
'Hmm.' Phoebe sounded very thoughtful. 'So this mother—she's cute, huh?'
Tom ignored the bait. The batteries on his mobile phone were due to run out any time. 'Phoebe, I've got someone from Social Welfare turning up at the hospital to interview me any second to see if I'm acceptable as a caregiver,' he said crisply. 'I would prefer not to come across as a total idiot.'
'Which you are, of course.'
'Probably. Are you going to help me or not?'
'Tempting as it is to see you try and pull this off by yourself, big brother, I'll see what I can do.'
'Thanks.' Tom let his breath out in a huff of relief. 'What do I need?'
'My friend Alice has got kids. Her little boy is three and her daughter's just turned one. She'll know what you need and I'm sure she'll lend me some stuff.' Phoebe laughed again. 'She won't be able to resist if I promise to fill her in on all the gory details later.'
'How soon could you collect stuff?'
'I'll do it now.' Tom could hear a heavy sigh. 'Mum's giving me the evil eye here, Tom. You'd better talk to her. She's not going to be very happy about the meal. What time will you get to your house?'
'I don't know. There's a bit to sort out here first.'
'I won't wait for you then. I'll drop the stuff on your doorstep and then come back here. That way, at least one of us will get to eat dinner.'
'I'll make it up to Mum.'
'You'll have to. How old did you say this kid was?'
'Four. Nearly five but he's very small for his age. He's got spina bifida.'
There was a moment's shocked silence on the other end of the line, which was disconcerting. It was hard to shock Phoebe.
'Tom... ? Are you sure you know what you're doing?'
Nearly two hours later, Tom could almost smell the roast chicken dinner he was missing out on. He wished he had been able to attend the planned family gathering.
Emma was still in Theatre. The pleasant young woman from Social Welfare had been easily persuaded that Tom was up to the job of caring for a small, slightly disabled boy and had whisked him off to the nearest supermarket to help him purchase disposable nappies and other items deemed necessary.
Tom had collected Mickey from the care of the emergency department nurses to find his young charge was very displeased with the whole arrangement despite having had it explained to him by his mother before she'd been taken into the operating theatre.
'I don't like you,' he reminded Tom, as he was carried to the car park.
'I've got a dog at home,' Tom offered. 'Do you like dogs?'
'No. Dogs bite.'
'My dog doesn't bite.' Tom couldn't think of anything else to offer as an inducement. At least Mickey had been fed and toileted by the nursing staff while Tom had been at the supermarket. With a bit of luck, he could just put him to bed once they got home and then have a quiet beer or two while he thought about how to get through tomorrow. He tucked Mickey into the booster car seat the paediatric ward had supplied, along with a small wheelchair.
'It's only for a day or two until Mummy gets better.' Tom was reassuring himself as well as Mickey, he realised. 'It won't be so bad.'
It was bad.
Mickey caught sight of Max—Tom's elderly, longhaired German shepherd—and shrieked with fear.
He refused to be placated with any offers of food or drink and Tom's delight in finding that Phoebe had left a bag of toys, along with a selection of clothes and even a plate of chicken dinner covered with foil on his doorstep, was rapidly diminished as Mickey hurled one offering after another across the floor of his living room.
Max obligingly picked the rejected toys up and brought them back, one by one, to where Mickey was sitting, howling, on the couch.
'I don't think you're helping, mate,' Tom told his dog sadly. 'Maybe you should go outside for a bit.'
And maybe Tom should ring the appropriate authorities and admit defeat.
But how would he be able to front up and tell Emma he'd done that? What if she woke up in Recovery to learn that he'd betrayed the trust she'd put in him? Tom got a sudden memory of the look in Emma's eyes when he'd taken Mickey from her arms in the van. She had known there was a distinct possibility sh
e wasn't going to make it out of there alive and she had trusted him to take her son to safety and do whatever was needed to keep him safe. The depth of love for her child and the desperate plea for help tugged at something deep within Tom all over again.
There was no way he could betray that trust.
'Do you want to watch TV?' he asked Mickey.
Mickey shook his head and kept howling.
'Do you want to go to bed?'
The small face turned an even darker shade of red and the decibel level increased alarmingly. Small hands punched at Tom so he was forced to move further away. He stood there, looking down at the miserable scrap of humanity on his couch, and felt utterly helpless.
It wasn't a pleasant feeling.
No wonder he'd instinctively avoided having anything to do with kids. In terms of stress levels he'd choose dangling out of a helicopter or climbing into water-filled vehicles any day. Tom had had about as much as he could take.
'I'm just trying to help,' he told Mickey with a sigh. 'But I can't do this by myself, obviously. Do you want me to find someone else to look after you?'
'No-o-o...1 want Mummy.'
'I know you do.' So do I, Tom thought desperately. I want Mummy to come and scoop you up and make everything all right.
A thoughtful crease appeared between Tom's eyebrows. The idea was a little embarrassing but who was there to see, other than Max?
'Would a.. .a cuddle help, buddy?'
By way of answer, Mickey picked up a small, pink dog from the pile on the couch beside him and threw it at Tom. It bounced onto the floor a few feet away.
Max pricked up his ears. He looked at the toy and then he looked at Tom.
'I wouldn't bother.' Tom sighed more heavily this time. 'OK, Mickey. I'm going into the kitchen to get a drink. I'll be back in a minute.'
A beer. Icy cold and refreshing enough to clear his head. Tom popped the tab on the can and took a long swallow. He wondered what price Phoebe might extract from him in order to offer some hands-on assistance. She worked with kids all the time in her job as a physiotherapist. She'd know what to do to stop a kid making himself sick by crying.
He took another swallow. Removing himself from the near vicinity seemed to have helped because the noise level had dropped considerably. It was silent in the adjoining room, in fact.
Tom's beer can hit the bench with enough of a thump to send foam cascading down its side. Had Mickey rolled off the couch and cracked his head on the coffee-table? Was he lying unconscious on the floor while his carer was swigging alcohol in another room?
The panic subsided the moment Tom swung into the living room. He stopped in his tracks as he saw Max nudging the pink dog closer to Mickey from where he must have placed it on the couch cushion earlier.
Mickey was still snuffling and he still looked pretty miserable. He might have been trying to reject Max's offering when he picked the dog up and threw it again but Max was giving him the benefit of any doubt. The dog waved a still magnificent plume of a tail and went to retrieve the toy.
This time there was no mistaking a game had begun. Mickey scrubbed a wet nose with the back of his hand and threw the fluffy pink dog with purpose.
'Go!' he instructed Max.
Max went. So did Tom, slipping back into the kitchen, still unnoticed. Who was he to argue if his dog could do a better job of babysitting than himself? If it was working, Tom was quite prepared to go with the flow.
He took another peep into the living room a minute later. Max, bless him, wasn't even looking bored by the repeated track he was pacing on the living-room carpet. When Tom looked in again, however, Max had given up. He was sitting on the couch beside Mickey.
Normally, Tom would have ordered his pet off the furniture but Mickey had his arm around the big dog. He may not have wanted a cuddle from Tom but accepting the warmth and companionship from Max was something Tom could relate to perfectly well.
Less than a minute or two later, Mickey was sound asleep, his arm still around Max's neck. When Tom gingerly picked the child up and carried him to the spare bedroom, Max sloped along behind.
Tom agonised over whether he should change Mickey's nappy but decided that it wasn't worth the risk of waking the exhausted child. If he was too uncomfortable, no doubt he would wake and make his needs obvious. Tom would cope when he had to but why invite a new crisis when this amazing peace had settled in his disrupted household?
Max seemed to agree. He lay down beside the bed and put his nose on his paws with a heartfelt sigh. Tom drew the duvet up to cover Mickey's arms and then paused, caught by the sight of the sleeping child.
It was hard to believe he'd been so upset a short time ago. There was no sign of any misery on the small features now. Dark eyelashes sat like butterfly wings on pale cheeks and there was almost a hint of a smile on the soft-looking pink lips.
Emma's lips had that same soft look to them. Tom had to shake his head a little to stop himself wondering what Mickey's mother might look like when she was asleep.
The thought that she might not be asleep right now sent Tom to the telephone. He wanted to ring and reassure her that everything was all right. Emma was awake, apparently. Still drowsy after her surgery but a lot more comfortable. The nurse who relayed Tom's message had a smile in her voice when she returned to the phone.
'She said to say thank you. And to tell you that you're a hero.'
The echo of the smile that message had given Tom only really vanished the next morning when he went to Mickey's room to find Max stretched full length on the narrow bed with the small boy's arms wrapped firmly around his neck. A shaggy tail gave an almost imperceptible and very apologetic wag but Max made no move to get his paws on the floor where they belonged.
The thought of what the authorities responsible for ensuring the proper care of defenceless young children would have to say about it was a bit of a worry.
'I don't think we should tell Mummy that Max slept on your bed,' Tom said as he got Mickey up.
'Why not?' Mickey really was an expert in looking suspicious.
'Well, some people don't think dogs are all that clean. And that they should sleep in a kennel outside or at least on the floor.'
'He was keeping me warm.' The tone suggested that Tom would be confirming a lack of trustworthiness if he tried to stop Max sleeping on Mickey's bed in the future. 'I like Max,' Mickey added firmly.
The look was eloquent. Mickey may as well have had a balloon over his head saying, 'And I don't like you, remember?' Tom had to suppress a grin. He was starting to understand what made this kid tick. He had a lot of his mother's courage. He was prepared to fight to protect a new friendship he had chosen but he wasn't ready to let Tom invade the space he shared with Emma.
Being changed and washed by Tom that morning was an ordeal for both of them but the incentive of going to visit Emma straight after breakfast saw them through the rather fumbled necessities.
And the smile on Emma's face made it all worthwhile.
Emma had a lot of pillows on her bed. Several were behind her back, allowing her to sit up comfortably, and more were keeping her leg raised. Some minor adjustments were necessary to make space for Mickey to sit beside her and Emma prudently put one pillow between herself and her son.
'Try not to sit on my tummy, darling. It's still a wee bit sore.'
Mickey nodded, his face shining, his whole body tense with the effort of sitting still waiting for his mother's hug. He was attached like a limpet virtually the instant Emma held out her arm and she pressed more than one kiss to the curls on the top of his head.
'Are you being a good boy for Tom?'
Mickey's voice was muffled against Emma's neck. 'I'm always good.'
'Hmm.' Emma raised her gaze swiftly enough to catch the tail end of a somewhat contradictory look on Tom's face. She smiled, trying to convey her gratitude for all Tom was doing for them both.
Mickey didn't seem too traumatised by his first real separation from her. The initial hu
g had been fierce but he was relaxed and happy in her arms already. Maybe he'd made things difficult but Tom was clearly coping.
He looked away from her, as though the gratitude she hoped she was radiating was embarrassing. The toes protruding from the heavy bandaging on her leg seemed to be of great interest to Tom.
'Your skin colour looks good,' he commented. 'Not too much in the way of vascular damage, then?'
'Apparently nothing they couldn't repair. I believe there are a lot of internal stitches and a pretty massive scar on the outside.' Emma's tried to make light of the injury. 'Just as well I wasn't planning any beauty contests for a while.'
Tom glanced up and it was Emma's turn to feel embarrassed at the message she received. She hadn't been fishing for compliments. Looking away even more hurriedly than Tom had a few seconds ago, Emma focused on Mickey.
'That's a cool T-shirt you're wearing, hon.'
Mickey nodded, pulling back to stare down at the picture on the front of the garment. 'It's Power Rangers.'
It was also not Mickey's shirt, which was disconcerting. Emma had to catch Tom's eye again. 'You haven't been spending your money on clothes for Mickey, I hope?'
Tom shook his head. 'My sister has a friend with a son who's about the same age. She arranged a loan.'
'That's so kind of her!'
Tom's grin was wry. 'I'm not sure the motive was entirely altruistic. Phoebe's expecting me to fall in a huge heap, trying to look after Mickey. I suspect she wants enough input to feel justified in gloating.'
'I hope there's been nothing to gloat over so far.'
'No.' Was that a forced brightness in Tom's tone? 'We're having fun, aren't we, Mickey?'
'I like Max,' Mickey told his mother.
'Who's Max?' For a moment, Emma felt a shaft of disappointment. Maxine, perhaps? Tom's wife?
'Max is my dog,' Tom said.
'Oh.' That surge of relief was entirely inappropriate for more reasons than one. Emma squashed it ruthlessly. What had she been thinking of? Mickey was terrified of dogs. 'Um... what sort of dog is Max?'
'A German shepherd,' Tom said.
'A clever dog,' Mickey said at the same time. 'He can play with me.'
A Father Beyond Compare Page 4
