A daughter!
What did she look like?
Why hadn’t he asked Clare?
He glanced towards his still-open front door, but there was no light visible beneath her door, and no sounds coming from her flat.
He could wake her up and ask her, ask to see a photo—surely he deserved that much!
Pride restrained him.
Pride and the memory of her milk-white face…
He took himself to bed, only to find images of small girls flocking through his head—small girls with dark eyes and hair, pigtails maybe, toothy smiles. Did she need braces, was she tall or short? He gave an anguished moan and sat up. If he wasn’t going to sleep he could do some work. Alex had mentioned a new case coming in, an infant with Down syndrome and the added complication of an atrioventricular septal defect.
Because AVSDs were more common in children with Down syndrome, most of them had an echocardiogram soon after birth, even if no heart murmur was audible. Oliver opened his computer, doing a search through restricted medical sites for the latest information on the operation and its success rate. He was pleased to see it was now listed at ninety-seven percent success rate, though some patients, less than ten percent, had to return to Theatre later in their life for further surgery due to a leaky mitral valve.
Reminding himself of the procedure was a good idea, for now he could go to bed and run through it in his head—every intricate step—until sleep claimed him.
Slumped on the side of the bath, Clare held her head in her hands and tried to think, but her brain was exhausted by all the emotional upheaval of the evening and her body was drained of all energy.
How could she have reacted like that? What must Oliver have thought? Why hadn’t she known that this might happen?
Tears streamed down her face—she, who thought she’d emptied out all the tears provided for her lifetime years ago!
She wrapped her arms around her body, shivering and shaking, ashamed that the nightmare of the past should have come back to haunt her at that moment, and in that way. And what must Oliver have thought of her behaviour, one moment responding to his kisses with all the fervour of a lover and the next shrinking, fleeing from him.
Mentally unbalanced—that’s what he’d think, and from there it was only a small step to wondering if she was a fit mother for his daughter.
No! Don’t make things worse. You can handle this.
She nodded her response to the voice in her head. She’d have a shower and go to bed and not think about anything but sleep.
Well, sleep and Emily. Forget the past and think of the future. Go forward, that’s what they both had to do. They had three days to work things out. Em had phoned at daybreak this morning to tell her there was a party of some kind at the boarding school—year-twelve students leaving?—so she wouldn’t be coming home until Saturday morning and could Mum please collect her at nine.
Of course Mum could, Clare had assured her, and although normally she’d have felt a quick stab of depression at missing out on another night of her daughter’s company, with the advent of Oliver into her life again, the extra night had seemed like a blessing.
Oliver!
How could he think getting married would solve anything?
Although maybe he’d changed his mind about that idea after she’d pushed away from him.
Not that she could think of marrying Oliver, not now she knew how she’d react to his touch. He’d expect them to have a sexual relationship—why wouldn’t he expect it when he knew the attraction was still so strong between them?—but it would be impossible.
Memories, images, flashed across her mind, things she thought shut away forever tumbling through her head, making her feel so dizzy she had to sit again, breathing deeply to calm herself as she shoved the memories back where they belonged—back into the past.
She stripped off her clothes, then did something she rarely did—looked at her naked body in the mirror. The scars on her breasts were faint now, probably more in her mind than on her skin, but as she looked at them shame flooded through her.
No, she couldn’t marry Oliver!
Turning away from the tormenting image, she stepped under the shower, hoping having the water run hot and hard would wash away the ache of regret that grew inside her.
Of course she couldn’t marry Oliver.
But wouldn’t it be the best solution for Emily?
A platonic marriage?
A likely idea! Maybe if she hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t responded to his kisses like some sex-starved maniac, she could sell the platonic idea, but now it was too late.
Too late to even dream of such a thing, although later, as she lay in bed, she did dream of it, even feeling his hands on her body, exciting it as only Oliver could, then the dream turned to a nightmare, Oliver looking at her and backing away, repulsed by scars that had grown all over her body—scars that even in the dream she knew she didn’t have.
Damaged goods!
Did he say the words in the dream, or had she heard them as an echo in her head? Either way she woke in the early hours of the morning to find her pillow wet with tears.
She had to sleep. It was nothing but a bad dream. They’d work things out, she and Oliver, without having to get married. Getting married was just another dream, a different kind of dream—a foolish daydream that he’d awoken with his words.
Years of practice had taught her how to turn off her churning thoughts before she went to sleep, but tonight none of her strategies worked, until she thought of Emily, and remembered the excitement in her daughter’s voice this morning, the delight that she, a newcomer, had been included in the party.
Em’s joy was proof that being the child of a single-parent household hadn’t done her any irrevocable harm thus far. And thinking of Emily, happy and secure, helped Clare block out all the horrors the night had stirred up, and she was able to drift back to sleep.
Waking up, however, was a different matter. Happy and secure Emily might be, but when told she was about to meet her father…? How was she going to react to that? Clare had been so uptight about telling Oliver, she’d given little thought to the problem of how to introduce Emily to her father.
Unrefreshed from the restless night’s sleep and still feeling the effects of the stress-ridden previous twenty-four hours, Clare made her way to work. She was in Theatre with Alex today and hopefully Oliver would still be working with Angus, but she’d no sooner arrived in Theatre to have a chat to her machine, than Oliver appeared.
‘I’d like a photo if you’ve got one.’
Great opening! Although she should be thankful he was speaking to her at all, after her behaviour the previous evening. She faced him without flinching, outwardly at least. Inside she was flinched so tightly it was a wonder she hadn’t shrunk, and it seemed to her haunted mind as if the air in the theatre had become dense and heavy.
‘Of course I’ve got one,’ she replied, hoping the flinch wasn’t obvious in her voice and that the dense air would allow the passage of words. ‘I’ve probably got a hundred, and yes, I’ll find one, but Emily has been keeping a scrapbook for you, and she’ll want to give you that herself.’
‘Keeping a scrapbook for me?’ Oliver echoed. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Just that,’ Clare told him, relaxing a little now and allowing herself a small smile at his bewilderment. ‘It was her idea so we’ll wait and let her explain, but I did tell you I’ve always answered any questions she’s had about you, so it’s not as if you’ll be a complete stranger to her.’
‘She’ll be a complete stranger to me,’ Oliver retorted, and now, feeling his pain, Clare released a little of hers.
‘Let’s not go there, Oliver,’ she said, guilt over her abrupt reaction last night ensuring she spoke gently. ‘What’s done is done. Let’s look ahead and work out what we can do to make the outcome best for both you and Emily.’
Oliver glared at her, but as other staff members were drifting into Theatre, the co
nversation had to cease.
He sorted through what he knew about the patient, a four-month-old baby girl with a complete atrioventricular septal defect, meaning the walls between the heart’s right and left atria and right and left ventricles were incompletely formed so oxygenated blood from the lungs to the left atrium crossed to the right and went out again to the lungs, at far too great a pressure.
‘Has she been suffering congestive heart failure?’ one of the nurses asked as Oliver studied the notes while waiting for the patient.
‘Apparently not,’ he said, ‘which augurs well for us. That might be why Alex has decided to operate early rather than wait a couple of months for her to be stronger.’
The doors eased open and the gurney holding their patient was wheeled in, the infant looking so small, Clare felt a pang of concern, although she knew this operation was more or less routine for surgeons of the calibre of Alex and Oliver.
The team went smoothly into action, Clare more apprehensive than she’d been with baby Bob, probably because she was working with Alex for the first time.
‘The tricky part is sorting out the valves—dividing the common valve we see in the defect into working mitral and tricuspid valves.’
Clare watched as Alex stood back to let Oliver do this delicate procedure—a sign that the team leader had the utmost confidence in his fellow. Alex must have known Oliver could be trusted to complete the intricate task successfully, and so it proved, his gloved hands handling the instruments swiftly and surely.
‘Off pump.’
This time it was Oliver giving the order, the work on the little heart completed. Clare watched with the others, waiting nervously for the heart to beat, waiting, waiting. Alex massaged it, giving orders for drugs, then finally the heart moved of its own accord and a quiet cheer went up.
‘We’ll leave a pacemaker in her chest,’ Alex said. ‘The stitches we put in for the ventricular patch are very close to the tissue that supplies the electrical stimulus that makes the heart beat.’
The pacemaker fitted, Oliver closed the chest, and once again Clare couldn’t help but notice the care he took to get the closure neat, and the gentle way he touched the infant’s body.
He cares about his patients, she realised, although she’d known that back when they had lived together. He’d always spoken of them with genuine affection and part of the reason he had worked such long hours was because he went the extra mile for them—stayed at the hospital if there was any problem, or if the parents were overly concerned.
Would those qualities make him a good father?
Would professional care translate to personal care?
But was it caring she wanted for Emily from Oliver, or love?
Both, of course, but it was the love she wondered about. Could Oliver learn to love?
‘I think she’ll do well enough without ECMO, but be prepared for a call, Clare,’ Alex was saying.
‘I always am,’ Clare told him. ‘Now, what about baby Bob, am I taking him off the machine today?’
‘You’ll have to see what Angus thinks, but he was hopeful about it,’ Alex told her. ‘Oliver, maybe when you’ve changed, you and Clare could go and check it out.’
It was natural Alex would suggest they went, as both of them had been involved in Bob’s operation, but the way Alex had paired their names made a shiver run down Clare’s spine.
Oh, that it could be!
Dreamtime, Clare, get on with reality.
Oliver made his way into the locker room, wanting to change and be out of there before Clare came in. Bad enough that every time he saw her his body responded—something that had never happened to him before in professional situations, although he’d had relationships with colleagues—but to see her stripping off was asking too much of restraint.
Not that seeing him half naked appeared to affect her, for she’d come in, gone to her locker, picked up her mobile and appeared to be frowning at the message on it.
‘Bad news?’ he asked, a new anxiety banishing any thought of attraction. Bad news could involve Emily.
But Clare’s rueful smile assured him it wasn’t all that bad.
‘In a way,’ she said, coming across to him so she could speak quietly, yet pausing at arms length, tension coming in waves from her body for all she’d been smiling. ‘I thought we had until Saturday to figure out a plan but here’s a text from Em.’ She handed him the phone. ‘I assume you can understand nine-year-old texting.’
Oliver looked at the message which made no sense at all.
Nx wk not ths, cu 5 F
‘“Next week not this, see you at five on Friday,”’ Clare translated, making the original immediately obvious. ‘Em had phoned earlier in the week about a party this Friday night but apparently she’d got the date wrong.’
‘She’s only nine and you’re letting her go to parties?’
Oliver had to keep the demand to a whisper as other people were now in the room, but it was all he could do not to explode when Clare reacted with a smile.
How could she smile about a nine-year-old and parties?
‘It’s at the school,’ she explained, ‘in the boarding house, in fact—a party to farewell the senior students. She’ll be quite safe and I doubt it will go on later than nine—well, not for the junior school boarders anyway.’
‘How was I supposed to know that?’ he muttered but he was talking to himself, Clare having disappeared into one of the shower cubicles, returning only minutes later, fully clad in civvies once again.
‘You ready?’ she asked, and he was about to ask, Ready for what? when he remembered they were going to find Angus to check if baby Bob should come off ECMO.
Was he rattled by her presence, by the stuff that had happened between them last night, or was the knowledge that he had a daughter distracting him from his usual cool professionalism? It had to be the latter, Clare decided. Finding out something like that would distract the Sphinx. He was pulling a white coat over his striped business shirt and the sleeve caught.
Without thinking, she reached out to straighten it, but touching him was a mistake. Once again her body was responding to Oliver’s, heating and swelling with a longing that she wondered if she could ever conquer.
Of course she could—she had only to remember how she’d reacted to his fingers on her breast and shame would be better than a cold shower.
Yet the longing remained, stirring up anger. The voice in the dream had been right—she was damaged goods…
She headed out the door, away from any temptation to touch him again.
‘So, we’ve got until Friday to come up with a plan?’
Oliver fell into step beside her as she headed for the PICU.
So much for attraction! He was obviously feeling nothing, and now she came to think of it, that kiss last night hadn’t been about attraction on his part; it had simply been to prove a point—to prove marriage could work between them.
Unfortunately it had failed in the worst possible manner, but refusing to dwell on that again, she turned her full attention to Emily.
‘I don’t suppose we need a plan,’ she admitted. ‘I think I’ll just tell her you’re working here. It must be fate, I’ll say. She’ll like that bit. She’ll think the gods were doing it just for her—for all I know she’s been praying for this to happen, so maybe that’s how it did come about.’
‘And what about you? Do you believe it’s fate?’
Clare turned to face him.
‘I think it’s just the most bizarre coincidence of all time, and I find the thought that there might be Fates who play around with the lives of humans to this extent scary.’
Extremely scary, she could have added, but she didn’t want to sound paranoid, especially as Oliver was studying her with a strange expression on his face. Not exactly amused, but questioning somehow, and suddenly she was swamped, not with the attraction that had been confusing her so much—the bodily reactions—but with remembered love for this man.
At least, she hoped it was remembered love, not a new infection of the insidious disease, because love between them would be impossible.
‘I don’t know about the Fates playing with our lives,’ he was saying, while Clare assured herself it had to be remembered love. She couldn’t possibly still love him and there hadn’t been time to fall in love with him again, especially as they’d been arguing for much of the time. ‘But I could believe that this was meant to be. Why else would we have been brought together if not for Emily and me to get to know each other?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ Clare said, aware she’d spoken shortly, but so thrown out of kilter by the feeling she’d had—the love idea—it was surprising she could speak at all. ‘Let’s forget all about it for the moment and see how Bob’s doing.’
Oliver followed her into the PICU, but for once his mind wasn’t totally on work. Something was upsetting Clare, something quite apart from introducing Emily to her father. Something from her past? He knew without a doubt that the attraction between them was as strong as ever, yet she’d ended the kiss in a panic, fear in her eyes…
Suspicion sneaked into his mind…She’d been married—not for long, a mistake…
Did he remember her saying that?
The hot rage that grew inside him was so unexpected and so strong he had to close his eyes lest they reveal his emotion.
You’re only surmising, the few working neurones in his head reminded him. Now stop leaping to conclusions and think of your own problems. Think of Emily, of Clare in the context of a mother, not a lover.
‘Are you concerned your relationship with Emily will change?’ he asked, not realising where they were, by the monitors, and that Angus and a couple of nurses had probably heard the question.
‘Who’s Emily?’ one of the nurses asked, and although Clare threw a scathing glance at Oliver, she ignored the question, asking one of Angus instead.
‘Are we taking Bob off ECMO?’
‘I think so,’ Angus said. ‘Originally I thought maybe he’d need another day but he’s doing so well I think we should give him a go on his own. Let’s take him into the procedure room and disconnect him, although I’ll keep the cannulae in place just in case. You want to do it, Oliver?’
Christmas at Jimmie's Children's Unit Page 21
