He’d lied to her. And she didn’t know what it meant.
She’d been right that he had a complicated relationship with his parents. But she didn’t know whether to be relieved that he clearly didn’t have much time for his parents, or concerned that he clearly didn’t intend to talk to her about it. The way the topic had come up so naturally had seemed like a good opportunity to ease her way into admitting the truth.
But if Max wasn’t prepared to tell her even the first thing about them, then how could she possibly admit she’d met them, let alone that they had paid her to keep his daughter from Max?
And yet, as awful as it sounded, wasn’t it better that he didn’t appear to be close to them given their utter indifference to their granddaughter? Having experienced both sides of it herself, a loving home with her mother and stepfather, and a difficult relationship trying not to antagonise her father, she knew she would have been just as well off if her father had never been around at all.
She dropped her head to her daughter’s. She’d do anything to protect her baby from anyone who could hurt her, mentally or physically.
Almost in response, Imogen reached up and grabbed Evie’s cheeks in her chubby little hands, smacking loud kisses onto her mother’s face before burying her head into Evie’s neck and nuzzling.
Evie’s heart swelled. It was a feeling like no other. It hadn’t bypassed her that although Max was clearly comfortable holding a baby from his time as a surgeon, skilled enough to be able to keep them calm and confident enough to examine them, he was detached about it. His daughter might as well have been any baby in his care. There was no bond.
Was it just a question of time? Or would there never be a special father-daughter bond there?
What would happen when she was in hospital? In this particular unit? Between going in for the pre-op and the transplant itself, she would be kept in a sterile environment where Imogen wouldn’t be allowed to visit for at least a week. Maybe longer.
Her daughter had spent her life being showered with love, kisses, constant affection. From herself, her brother, Annie, even her nephew. Evie had no doubt that Max would meet Imogen’s physical needs. But what about those emotional needs? She would need to see him soften towards Imogen, to look at her as his daughter rather than just a baby on whom he was going to operate, before she would be comfortable about being separated from her daughter for so long.
She was just going to have to teach Max how to show his emotions. The prospect filled her with both trepidation and exhilaration. How exactly was that going to complicate things between the two of them?
And teaching him how to change a nappy properly wouldn’t be a bad idea, either. She stifled a giggle.
‘Come on, precious girl. Let’s get you sorted out, and find you a pretty baby suit, then we’ll go downstairs and show your daddy how neat and tidy you look.’
* * *
Evie sniffed appreciatively as she entered the kitchen where Max was cooking on the stove.
‘Barely five minutes and something already smells heavenly.’ She grinned.
‘Imogen’s crying,’ Max exclaimed, turning around.
‘Yes, thank you, I can hear that.’ Evie couldn’t help chuckling at his expression of horror.
‘But...she’s with you.’
‘So?’
‘So, I wouldn’t have thought she’d cry with you. I thought it was just me.’
‘I’m not a panacea. Once I got her changed and the nappy contortionist had left, she realised how hungry she was.’
Belatedly she realised that if she wanted to encourage him not just to look after his daughter, but actually interact more with her, then teasing him might not be the best idea. With her transplant looming all too quickly, in a couple of days she’d be in hospital; Max would be all Imogen had. But to her relief he laughed along with her.
‘Glad my efforts weren’t completely in vain—at least they had entertainment value. I can’t believe she was as patient as she was with me.’
‘Depends on the day,’ Evie responded, realising it would be good to show Max there was no magic wand. ‘Some days she might be patient, other days everything might unsettle her. She’s a little person, and just like you or I she has good days and off days. If things aren’t going well one day, don’t assume it’s something you’ve done. There’s no fix-all solution.’
Max looked even more horrified.
‘If she’s fed, burped, slept and has a clean nappy, she’ll be happy, though, won’t she?’
‘Usually. Not every time. All I’m saying is don’t assume you’ve done something wrong. Maybe it’s her teeth, or growing pains, or her tummy. Just be ready just to cuddle her, that’s all I do and that’s what she’s used to. What are you doing?’
‘Getting a pen to write it down.’
‘Max—’ Evie was incredulous ‘—you’re one of the foremost surgeons in your field. You said you looked after babies and young children in Gaza. You don’t need to overthink it.’
‘My field isn’t babies. And, despite Gaza, I’m not a paediatric plastic surgeon,’ he pointed out, pulling a handful of pens and an old envelope from a drawer and proceeding to test the ink. ‘Also, when I do see babies in the hospital, they’re usually unwell.’
She didn’t mean to, but the smile erupted from her before she could hold it back. She’d never seen him anything but authoritative, completely in control of any situation or crisis, the go-to guy for several of his colleagues.
To see him so flummoxed simply by taking care of a baby, his own daughter, was something she hadn’t anticipated. It somehow made him more human.
‘Here, why don’t you take Imogen while I get something ready for her?’
She stifled a laugh as he physically took a step backwards into the refrigerator when she advanced with the now-bawling Imogen.
‘I don’t think... I’m in the middle of making breakfast.’
‘I can wait. Imogen won’t.’
Evie held his daughter out in amusement and reluctantly he took her, delighted when Imogen’s cries eased up a little. Despite his uncharacteristic uncertainty about keeping a baby happy, he was clearly more than comfortable actually holding one.
Something to do with the surgeon in him who was able to soothe and examine any patient, just as long as they weren’t being asked to change nappies or feed them.
‘What should I...?’
‘Just cuddle her, and show her what I’m doing. Talk her through it—it might distract her.’
‘Look, baby Imogen, your mummy’s opening the cupboard,’ he began awkwardly.
Evie stuck her head inside and laughed quietly. It was surreal watching the super-surgeon Max Van Berg so wholly out of his depth. She’d never seen it before, and she could bet no one at Silvertrees—or anywhere else, for that matter—had ever seen it, either.
‘Look, your breakfast. Oh, you understood that, huh?’
She could hear his surprise as Imogen’s cries lessened slightly as she turned her head to look.
‘Um... Oh, I can see a breakfast bottle, how about you, Imogen?’ He loosened up slightly, gaining confidence as his daughter rewarded his efforts with snuffles now instead of cries.
Evie moved around the space easily; nothing had really changed from the last time she’d been here. Except for the circumstances, of course. Max continued talking, albeit stiltedly, to his daughter until Evie was ready and offered to take Imogen back.
His relief was evident as he hurried towards her, and she stamped down a surge of disappointment that he didn’t want to feed his daughter himself. It was something she loved to do. Still, he’d made good progress. And it was only the first morning.
‘What are we doing today?’ Evie ventured as she settled on the chair to give Imogen her feed.
‘I have surgeries
this morning,’ he answered apologetically.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was six-thirty already. He was running late.
‘I cancelled all the electives I could, or passed them onto colleagues,’ he answered her unspoken questions. ‘I’m not on the rota for emergencies so this morning I’m clearing my desk of any immediate cases. I should be finished by the time you go in for your dialysis session this afternoon, but if not just go to the crèche and tell them who you are. They’ve reserved a place for Imogen until I finish.’
‘Silvertrees crèche? How did you get her in there?’ Evie exclaimed. ‘It’s a twelve-month wait list, isn’t it? There was a nurse who had just put her kid down when I was working in A&E. She was told she probably wouldn’t be able to get him in until he was nine months old, and she was pregnant at the time.’
‘Perks of being one of Silvertrees’ senior surgeons.’ Max winked at her.
Her stomach flip-flopped in response.
‘Isn’t it just,’ she murmured distractedly before a concerning thought settled on her. ‘Max, you aren’t planning on leaving her there every day when I go in, are you? I mean, she’s never been to a crèche before. She’s always had myself, or Annie. If I’d thought you weren’t going to be looking after her, I would never have agreed to come here.’
‘I know that, stop worrying. I told you, I have a few cases to clear off my desk but I’ve sorted out the rest. I’ve booked two weeks off and I will be looking after our daughter personally. I will not be palming her off on someone else, because I know that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Well, good.’ She refused to apologise for caring about her daughter.
However, she didn’t dare ask how he’d managed to secure two weeks off at such short notice. He’d either pulled in a fair few favours, or promised them, and she was grateful for it.
‘Right, well, whilst you’re feeding the baby, let me finish your breakfast.’
He passed Imogen back to her, each hand-off getting easier than the last. He was clearly growing in confidence as Imogen’s father. But she needed his progress to be quicker. Max was obviously thinking of her recovery—it was one of the reasons he’d brought her here, so that she was closer to the transplant unit at Silvertrees. But she didn’t know if he realised just how integral their daughter’s welfare was to how stress-free her recovery would be.
Evie was determined to see some kind of bond between the two of them before she went into hospital. It would make her feel a heck of a lot more confident about being away from her precious baby girl.
CHAPTER SIX
THAT WAS THE last of the paperwork cleared up.
Max glanced at the clock on his wall in satisfaction. He was due to collect Imogen within the next half hour and take her to see Evie. Tonight might be Evie’s last opportunity to spend time with her daughter before her transplant.
He had one outstanding patient, a particularly complex, long-standing case, which he intended to return to do himself. He’d already approached his colleague, Gareth Collins, to monitor the pre-op tests and pass on the results, but there were just a couple of last points he wanted to go over. Gareth was on call tonight, so Max knew if he swung by A&E he’d likely catch the guy. Hopefully in between cases.
He moved purposefully through the hospital. It was a novel experience, getting ready for time out that wasn’t going to be spent out in some war zone with the charity. How was it that he had never once questioned his ability to handle anything they could throw at him, and yet the prospect of a couple of weeks with his baby daughter filled him with a long-forgotten feeling of inadequacy?
Caught up in a sudden memory of his childhood, wondering at nine years old whether he really was cut out to be a surgeon as his parents expected, he burst through the double doors only to come face to face with a familiar—battered and bloodied as usual—face.
‘Hey, Dean, been fighting again?’
He crossed the resus bays to where the young boy lay, his mother worried and teary by his bedside, and his broken nose only the start of his injuries by the looks of his chart.
‘Punctured lung?’ He cocked his eyebrow at the kid to conceal his deep concern. ‘You can’t let them get to you, mate.’
Not that the boy was in much condition to respond anyway, but the soft touch didn’t work with this particular lad, as Max already knew. This was the fourth time the boy had been in in as many months and the injuries were getting substantially more serious. This time it was a fractured rib with a suspected lung injury.
Max’s instinct told him it had been a fight where Dean had been on the ground when he’d been kicked in his ribs. A fight Dean had likely started, from everything Max already knew.
And all because he had prominent ears. Wing nuts. Jug-head. Dumbo. Dean had heard them all and was desperate for surgery to correct the problem. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen. Max stepped away from the curtain just as a man shot around the corner and hurtled into him.
Dean’s dad.
Max caught the man before he rounded the curtain, leading him a step away.
‘You know I can resolve the problem, don’t you?’
‘Mr Van Berg.’ The man recognised him instantly.
‘General anaesthetic and ten days in a bandage and it’ll all be done.’
He only had to cut away the skin and tissue behind the ear and stitch the ears into their new positions. The main issue was ensuring the surgeon was competent enough to carry out a procedure that required such visual accuracy. Badly done and the patient would end up with ears that either didn’t match, or looked plastered down.
Max wasn’t worried. His skill wasn’t in question.
‘We understand.’ The father nodded with a sad smile. ‘But we just don’t know what to do for the best. To the wife and me, Dean’s a handsome little lad with a great personality, and so what if his ears stick out a little? But...’
‘But...?’ Max encouraged.
‘But we’ve spoken to some experts who’ve said that it’s just name-calling and that life can be a lot harsher than that so Dean needs to learn to ignore kids like that. They’ve pointed out that he can’t go through life fighting everyone who says something unpleasant to him, so if we let him have surgery then he’s just never going to learn how to deal with criticism.’
Easier said than done, especially when you were eleven years old. But Max appreciated Dean’s parents had only their son’s best interests at heart. Better than his own parents.
‘And what does your gut tell you?’ Max shoved away the shadows that stalked the edges of his memories.
Like the time he’d ended up in hospital for exactly the same thing at about the same age Dean was now, for pretty much the same injury. Max had had his own share of fights, and instigated by himself just like Dean. But unlike Dean, he hadn’t had a valid reason for them. He hadn’t got any obvious physical or mental impairment, and unlike Dean’s concerned parents, who were trying to teach Dean to be strong of mind, Max could only remember his own parents expressing disappointment at such childish and inappropriate behaviour, before getting back to their all-important careers. But now wasn’t the time to push Dean’s parents.
Maybe Evie would be the best person to teach him how to go about helping the kid? He didn’t know what it was but something about the boy made Max want to do more to help.
‘My gut says that my son’s coming home with broken bones,’ the father exclaimed, torn. ‘That isn’t something he should have to learn to deal with at eleven years old. But I just don’t know.’
‘Well, you know where to find me, Mr Foster.’ Max nodded. ‘Any time you need me.’
Allowing the father to get back to his son, Max continued down the corridor in search of his colleague, but he couldn’t shake the desire to do more for the lad. Before the kid ended up in here,
and didn’t leave. He’d just have to be careful; he couldn’t afford to push these parents into something they weren’t ready for.
By the time Max had got a moment with his busy colleague to go through the patient’s notes, it had already been getting dark outside. He’d long since missed taking Imogen to see Evie, and had been compelled to call the crèche and arrange for another of his colleagues to take the baby to her mother. He’d been inflexible about being informed exactly who was taking his daughter, and when they were doing so, even ensuring it was a colleague he knew well. But none of it made up for the fact that he was doing the very thing he’d been so afraid of—the very reason he’d never wanted a family—he’d let them down, broken his promise to them, and all because his career had got in the way.
It had felt like small consolation that he’d subsequently swept through the hospital actively looking forward to collecting his daughter and hopefully spending a little quality time with her before putting her down in her cot.
* * *
And now, he stepped into his voluminous hallway at home, Imogen finally in his arms, as the home automation system was already lighting the house for them.
‘So what shall we do, hey?’ he asked his unblinking daughter.
As if in response, a pungent smell filled the air.
Wait, was that...?
He didn’t need to lift Imogen too close to his nose before he had the confirmation he needed.
‘Right, little lady.’ He headed quickly for the stairs, grateful to be occupying himself. ‘You definitely need a change.’
Whether she resented being taken in the opposite direction from her play mat, or simply the fact that she could sense his tenseness, her wail of objection began even before Max lowered her onto the changing mat. Pulling her legs into her tummy and trying to roll over, she made it clear that she wasn’t going to make this an easy change for him.
For a moment, Max stared hopelessly. This afternoon’s complex procedure had been challenging and exhilarating, but he hadn’t questioned his ability for a second. So how was it that now, faced with a five-month-old baby in a dirty nappy, he was filled with self-doubt?
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