by Annie O'Neil
“So...remember the other day, when I sobbed into your chest and then looked up into your beautiful blue eyes? There was some kissing and nothing else in the whole world seemed to matter? Well...turns out I had your baby! Two years ago. Ha! Yeah. Funny, isn’t it?”
That version had to be scrubbed.
Just like the name of her last patient, which she’d just struck off the list. Her third case of prawn cocktail food poisoning this week. Why the dish was a seasonal favorite was beyond her. Buffet dining often meant food poisoning.
Harrumph. Maybe being a doctor carved just a bit too much magic out of the holiday season. She saw mistletoe poisoning where others saw a chance to kiss their lover.
Mmm... Kissing...
Matthew.
She pushed back from the wall and forced herself to look at the assignment board, vividly aware that she was already tuning in to the sound of Matthew’s approaching voice as if he were a homing beacon.
She snorted. As if.
At least that was what she kept telling herself to justify not telling him he was a father. She wasn’t blind. His flirting wasn’t solely reserved for her. Mostly for her. Natch. She did have her pride. But not all—and that was a daily reminder that Matthew Chase was at the opposite spectrum of your typical family man.
She shrugged her shoulders up tight to her ears and jiggled them up and down a few times, trying to shake some sense into herself. She was the one acting like a giddy teen. He...he was just doing his job and making it fun.
Amanda forced herself to focus on the board, pressing her hands into her lower back, taking note of all the same ol’, same ol’ cases with a whole lot of Good Tidings making the usual injuries take on a more festive flair.
Like the allergy to a Christmas tree she’d treated that morning. Just thinking of the red raw skin the poor girl had revealed beneath her bauble snowman jumper made her wince afresh. Youch!
“Dr. Wakehurst?”
She turned and smiled at Dr. McBride. He was wearing a seen-better-days jumper that resembled a green elf’s costume and looked his usual weary, not entirely cheery self. He had infant twins at home, he’d confided over a quick cup of tea and a gingerbread Santa Claus. Being here in the chaotic A&E was his “downtime.”
She’d commiserated. The first few months after she’d had Tristan it had been as if bottles, nappies, laundry and jiggling him first on one hip and then the other until he finally went off to sleep had eaten her days alive, let alone the midnight hours.
Her gaze drifted across to Matthew. He was swiftly carrying a young child toward the swinging doors that led to Triage. A little boy with blond curls, from the looks of things. His parents didn’t seem to be with him. Poor chap. Perhaps he’d been at daycare. There was a center just round the corner that had already sent in a sprain and a chipped front tooth today.
She began to refocus her attention on the relentless flow of conversation at the main desk behind her. One voice in particular stood out.
“I don’t care how high on the management chain you need to go, I insist you locate Dr. Wakehurst at once!”
“Auntie Florence?”
She whirled around and saw her auntie’s face creased in frustration, blood on her jacket, her eyes dark with... Wait a minute. She took off at a run, pulling aside curtain after curtain until she found Matthew and her little baby boy.
“I’m sorry—you can’t be in here,” Matthew was raising a hand, not looking up from his young charge. Tristan had a head wound—bleeding profusely, as most of them did—and was whimpering softly for his mother.
“It’s all right, darling,” Amanda soothed, ignoring Matthew entirely as she raced to the bedside and stroked her fingers along her little boy’s cheek. “Mummy’s right here.”
Matthew’s eyes snapped to hers and she instantly looked away. “This is your son?”
She nodded, taking in the scene as best she could, but her mind was buzzing with the static of emotion and fear.
No, no, no, this wasn’t happening! None of it.
Her son covered in blood. Matthew being the attending physician. Him not knowing this was his own flesh and blood he was treating.
A long cut ran from Tristan’s eyebrow up to his hairline. It was difficult to tell how deep it was because of the blood. Head wounds always bled heavily, but when it was your own son...
A swell of nausea rose in her throat. There was so much blood!
“Have you called X-Ray?”
She still couldn’t look Matthew in the eye. This was not the way she had planned on letting him know he had a son. She still hadn’t entirely decided whether or not she was ever going to tell him. Making that decision while her little boy lay in front of her bleeding was too much to contemplate. Right now she was a mother. That had to be her priority.
Matthew pressed a roll of gauze to the wound, issuing instructions to a nurse as he did so to get a suture kit and a few other items.
“I’ve called X-Ray. We need to speak with whoever was with the little chap—”
“My aunt. Auntie Florence,” Amanda snapped, her mind reeling. As ridiculous as it seemed, she felt as if he should know these things. These details. This was his son. Their son.
“And his name is Tristan.”
Matthew looked up at her, a quizzical expression crossing his face. Just as quickly it passed and he assumed a more professional expression. One she could tell he reserved for relatives who were becoming overwrought.
“Are you sure you’re all right to be in here, Amanda? I can get one of the nurses to sit with you. Your boy will be in good hands.”
Amanda’s draw dropped in disbelief, her tongue went dry and every word in her vocabulary just...whoosh...disappeared.
Matthew wasn’t allowed to treat Tristan any more than she was.
“He’s—”
Matthew’s bright blue eyes snapped up to meet hers, his impatience growing. “C’mon. It’s make your mind up time, Mummy. Are you going to be a brave girl and help your son by holding his hand, or do we need the nice nurse here to take you out and find you a cup of tea while the doctor takes care of everything?”
“I’m not moving.”
She heard the words in slow motion, but saw Matthew register them in double-time. She might have been fighting fiercely for the A&E post, but when it came to her son it was Mama Bear all the way.
“Oh! Thank heavens I’ve found you, Amanda, darling. I’m terrifically sorry. He was in the bath, playing, and I had a bit of a headache, so I just nipped across the hall to my room for some paracetamol and...” Her fingers flew to her mouth to stem a sob. “Oh, darling. I only took my eyes off him for one minute and the next thing I knew...”
“Did he fall on the tiled floor?” Amanda laid her hand on her aunt’s arm. She wasn’t angry. Of course she wasn’t. But every detail was important.
She scrunched her eyes tight as she listened, willing herself not to think of the most painful times of death she’d had to call. Brain injuries were so unpredictable... Again the nausea threatened to overwhelm her.
“Yes, he was reaching for something on the towel rail. His boats, I think. The ones you gave him for his birthday. I can’t imagine how he got the cut—perhaps that old ridiculous cast iron soap holder...”
“Has he had his tetanus shot?” Matthew asked, steadily clearing away the blood, replacing the soaked gauze with a fresh round.
Amanda stood, mesmerized, as she watched his long fingers gently swab across Tristan’s forehead. The toddler seemed bewitched by Matthew’s eyes, was reaching his hands up to him...or perhaps it was just to the shiny swing of his stethoscope.
“Amanda?” Matthew prompted, with another quick glance in her direction. “Tetanus?”
“He’s had the first three doses.” Amanda tried to picture the paperwork as
she absorbed the sight of the large bump she could now see emerging on her son’s forehead. “He’s not old enough for the booster.”
“How old is he?”
Amanda’s blood ran cold.
Just concentrate on the facts.
Matthew was asking the question as a doctor, not as a man trying to determine whether or not this was his son.
“He’s just turned two,” she forced herself to reply.
The little boy whimpered and let out a cry as Matthew replaced yet another round of gauze.
Florence covered her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at her grandnephew, pale-faced and tearful on the examination table. “Tristan, darling, are you all right?”
Matthew accepted the suture kit from the nurse, then asked her to make a call up to Neurology to see if there was any chance of getting a CT scan.
“CT scan? Why? Are his pupils—?” Amanda shoved her fist against her mouth.
The moment Matthew truly looked into her little boy’s eyes he’d know. He would just have to know.
Mistaking her distress for maternal concern, Matthew put on a bright “for children” voice, pulling out his pencil light as he did so. “Seeing as we’ve got one of the knights of the round table here, I’m sure Tristan will be very brave. He’s not lost consciousness, and he presents no signs of cerebrospinal fluid or bruising behind either ear. Without the scan we can’t completely rule out a subdural bleed, but he isn’t complaining from anything other than the superficial wound and what looks to be shaping up to be a rather impressive bump.”
Amanda nodded, practically hearing all the explanations in advance. She knew this. She knew all of it. She was a doctor, for goodness’ sake. But this was her son and he was being cared for—with tenderness and compassion—by the father she’d thought her boy would never know.
Through some miracle of will, she compelled herself to tune back into Matthew’s voice.
“As you know, Dr. Wakehurst, all the scans and X-rays are merely precautionary. A course of action I’m sure you would follow if you were in my shoes.”
Matthew ducked his head and looked up at her, impatiently awaiting a nod of agreement. But she just stood there, frozen, staring into those sapphire-blue eyes. If Tristan was being treated by anyone other than Matthew...
“Right.” Matthew gave his hands a brisk rub. “I’m just going to get some ice on this bump and glue the wound together before we send the pair of you up to X-Ray. We can get a nurse in to help, if you’d rather not be here.”
Matthew looked from Amanda to her aunt and back again.
“How about you two ladies go out and find yourselves—?”
“It’s you!” Florence stumbled back a step, staring at Matthew as if she was looking at a ghost.
“I’m sorry?” Matthew ruffled his fingers lightly through Tristan’s hair and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before pressing himself up to his full height and looking, more intently this time, from Amanda to Florence. “Have we met?”
“You’re—” Florence looked at Matthew, then widened her gaze as she turned to Amanda, as if waiting for her to point out the obvious.
“I’m what?” Matthew glanced down at Tristan. “Ladies, I really need to get our little chap here sorted...”
“You’ve already told him?” Florence’s voice was no more than a whisper as her eyes widened in astonishment.
“Told me what?” Matthew’s voice was tight now. “Is there anything I need to know in advance of treating the patient?”
“He’s not ‘the patient.’” Amanda couldn’t hold back any longer. “He’s your son.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
HIS SON?
Everything in Matthew stilled. The symphony music that was the usual soundtrack in the A&E turned into a dull buzzing in his ears. Strangely, he could hear his own heartbeat. The rapid cadence overriding any ability to make sense of what he’d just heard. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the soft silk of the young boy’s straw-colored hair. A darker shade of Amanda’s more honeyed blond.
Matthew’s eyes were glued to Amanda’s, willing them to tell a different story, but she returned his gaze with the solid strength of an Amazon princess. Fierce and proud. There wasn’t an ounce of apology for having had their son. There was pride.
A thousand questions clamored for supremacy, but his ability to comprehend the news demanded only one. A repeat. As if hearing it again would make it real instead of this halfway house between reality and...was it a nightmare or a dream come true?
“What did you say?”
Tears flooded Amanda’s eyes, blurring her hazel irises into a wash of unchecked emotion. “He’s your son.” She blew out a trembling breath. “Our son.”
She looked away—which was just as well, because he was fairly certain he wasn’t giving an ideal response. There wasn’t even the chance to register a pregnancy. There was a living, breathing little boy’s future at stake.
Unable to look down at the table, he closed his eyes and systematically went back through the minutes—was it five already?—he’d been with the boy.
Tristan.
He had a son.
Focus!
Think.
He’d lifted him from Amanda’s aunt’s arms when he’d seen the blood. Done a cursory pupil response the moment he’d laid him on the table.
What color were his eyes?
This was his son. Why couldn’t he remember the color of his eyes?
He willed the color to come to him. As clear as day he could see his brother. Bright blue eyes—just like his. A shock of wild dark hair. A smattering of freckles he’d always said should have belonged to someone else. A girl. One of the many things he’d added to his list of “Things I Hate About Being Charlie.” He’d had a list. An actual list. They’d found it when they had finally gathered the strength to clear out his room.
“Matthew, please. Can we get him up to X-Ray?” Amanda pleaded. “If there’s any internal bleeding...”
She left the sentence unfinished, her fingers unconsciously templing into the prayer position and coming to a rest against her lips. He saw her lips move again but heard no sound.
Please.
It struck Matthew that he was seeing Amanda in an entirely different light.
The mother of his child.
She was beautiful. Arrestingly so.
Now he understood with vivid clarity why her curves bore the swoop and ripe essence of a woman who’d borne a child. She was fiery. Smart. A talented doctor. A man would count himself more than lucky to have a woman like her by his side. Blessed, even.
And yet it all sang of commitment. Commitment he had vowed never to be a part of.
And then he snapped his mental switch on. The one he always used when his emotions grew too powerful, his memories turned too dark.
“Of course. Would you like to bring him up?”
Amanda nodded, swiping at the tears spilling down her cheeks.
He was seized by an urge to wipe them away. To pull her into a strong half hug as they turned to their son so he could run his fingers through his little boy’s hair again and tell them everything would be all right. But he knew more than most that life had a way of careening out of control. He’d promised his parents he would look after his brother that day and—
How could he be trusted to care for a son?
Taking a deep breath, he chose his words carefully. “I think it would be best if I handed this case over to another doctor to oversee. We’ll get a nurse in to glue this wound now that the bleeding has ebbed.”
“You’re not even going to glue the wound?” Amanda’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“No, I—”
He blinkered his vision, focusing solely on the wound. His instruments. Co
mpletely unable to look his son in the face. He just couldn’t.
He gave Amanda a curt nod, then pulled back the curtain. “I’ll just pop out to find a nurse and let Dr. McBride know you’ll be off the roster. Won’t be a minute.”
He pulled the curtain back into place, leaving an open-mouthed Amanda behind it, and took a step forward—willing, praying for the wash of emotion threatening to engulf him to stay at bay.
This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He couldn’t respond to the news that he was a father with fear. Just run away. He’d been in war zones, for heaven’s sake.
By choice, he swiftly reminded himself. When his parents had made it more than clear that the Chase Family was no longer a family he’d gone off and found his own way. First at med school. Then in the army. But always with a protective shield curved around his heart.
He tipped his head up, surprised to note he was almost smiling. He could just hear Dr. Menzies’s voice: “Taking on a job like this means no more bunking off to foreign climes, my boy. There’s no running away from your demons here. There’s only overcoming them.”
It looked as if life had thrown him the full package. Fear of commitment. Fear of responsibility. Fear of... He shook his head as the word he knew terrified him the most popped into his head.
Love.
After losing his brother—a big brother he had adored as if he were Hercules himself—then growing up in the shadow of his parents’ unstemmable grief, Matthew knew more than anything that he was not capable of that sort of deep, unconditional, selfless love. And a child deserved a father’s entire heart.
In a few swift strides he was at the central assignment desk. He briskly organized for a nurse to see Tristan and to direct Amanda up to X-Ray. Ignoring the raised eyebrows, he asked Dr. McBride for the case to be referred to another doctor and that he be assigned only to all the significant trauma cases that regularly swept through their doors. “Research,” he called it.
Avoidance, more like.
