Christmas at Jimmie's Children's Unit (19 page)

He wasn’t ready to concede that yet.

‘Oliver!’

He turned to face her again, taking in her upright posture, her head held high, challenge in every line of her body.

‘This is not the time for recrimination,’ she said, voice cool, although he thought he caught a slight waver in it. ‘You can think what you like about me but what you have to decide is how much involvement you want to have with Emily, then we have to work out how and when to tell her. She has to come first in all of this. We’re adults and we’re supposed to be able to handle flak in our lives—she’s a child and it’s our duty to protect her.’

Oliver bit back the ‘you’re her mother, you tell her’ response that leapt to his lips. Emotional reactions were
not
appropriate right now. Clare was right. They had to put the child first. But for possibly the first time in his life, his usually clear and analytical brain had gone AWOL. He couldn’t string two thoughts together, let alone form a plan for introducing a nine-year-old to her father.

And did he want to be a father? It was all very well deciding in principle that he didn’t want a child, but now he knew one existed, how was he going to handle it?

By rejecting her as first Owen and then his birth father had done to him?

Totally unacceptable.

Unthinkable.

Anger burned, directed once again, possibly unfairly, at Clare for putting him in this position, but before he could find words to release it, she was speaking again.

‘Perhaps if you could get to know her as a person first, then we do the father thing later,’ she suggested.

‘You mean do things with the two of you at weekends, then in a few weeks, if she doesn’t take against me for some reason, announce that I’m her father?’

Boy, was that ever a legitimate reason for anger release!

Clare felt her shoulders slump again as this new wave of Oliver’s attack washed over her. She sat down again, the better to absorb it.

Of course they couldn’t do that to Em.

‘I’ll have to tell her straightaway—explain you never got my letters, and so you didn’t know about her. She knows your name anyway. I’ve talked about you—’

‘And told her what?’ Oliver demanded, fury still reverberating in his voice. ‘That her father didn’t care enough to want her? That I didn’t want a child at all?’

His accusations were so unjust Clare couldn’t help herself. She glared at him across the desk, although she knew anger only bred more anger and that arguing was futile.

‘Well, did you? At least be honest, Oliver. We split up because a child was the last thing you wanted—then or ever. And you had logical reasons to back up your stance—your own childhood, not knowing who your father was, not wanting to pass on an uncertain heritage to a child. You were definite enough!’

But even through her anger she could still feel the manifestations of attraction, all the physical magnetism that Oliver had always exerted over her. And feeling them, looking at him, seeing his pale, tight face, she wanted nothing more than to go to him and put her arms around him, to comfort him as he grappled with this momentous, life-altering news.

She was pathetic.

After the way he’d behaved,
she
wanted to comfort
him.

‘How much does she know about me?’

The physical reactions lessened at the abrupt question, but at least it was something Clare could answer honestly.

‘Quite a lot. She knows you’re a doctor, a paediatrician, and from when she was quite young she decided off her own bat that the reason you weren’t around like some other kids’ fathers was because you were too busy looking after sick babies.’

Oliver felt a growl beginning deep down in his throat, but he held it there, breathing deeply, knowing getting angry again wouldn’t help anything. Clare’s words had somehow made his daughter come to life, and though his anger at Clare still simmered deep inside him, a different churning had begun. He’d been cheated out of nine years of his daughter’s life and was now expected to step into a fatherhood he hadn’t wanted.

With an effort of iron will, he forced himself to calm down, to think rationally.

He mentally repeated what Clare had told him, and realised it might help them sort the ‘telling Emily’ problem out.

‘I’ve been overseas—so have you—so obviously we couldn’t have been looking after the same sick babies up until now. But surely if she knows about me, can’t you just tell her we’ve met up again? Exciting news—her father’s working in the same place as you are!’

He got that far before apprehension swamped him, and he stood from behind the desk to pace again.

‘
Would
it be exciting news for her?’

‘It would be the ultimate in exciting news for her,’ Clare said, so softly he had difficulty making out the words.

‘The problem is,’ she continued, ‘where do we go after the excitement. I can’t give her a father who really doesn’t want to be a father, one who’s not willing to go the whole way. That doesn’t just mean going to parentteacher meetings and taking her to the zoo, but guiding her path through life, teaching her right and wrong, disciplining her when necessary and helping her cope with things like bullying, and jealousy, and teachers she thinks are mean to her at school.’

She paused, then while Oliver was still trying to take in all she’d said, she added, ‘You’d have to be a dad.’

How could he be a dad?

He, who’d never really known his father—well, the father he’d thought was his?

Owen had been cold, reserved and distant. Because Oliver wasn’t his blood son? Perhaps, but even as a stepfather he hadn’t been much of a model for Oliver to follow, and the men who’d come into his mother’s life after Owen hadn’t bothered to pretend to be interested in their stepson.

‘I’ll leave you to think about it,’ Clare said, standing again, but Oliver was so lost in his own thoughts he barely heard her, simply nodding, although he realised the conversation was far from over.

Escaping from Oliver’s office had been relatively easy, but escaping her thoughts and turbulent emotions were an entirely different matter.

Except that she still had work, and turning her mind to work would at least block out any thoughts of Oliver and where they stood in regard to Emily.

She made her way to the PICU where Bob was now installed. At least she didn’t have to worry about how he looked. He lay in his crib, all pink and contented, totally beautiful if you ignored the dressings and tubes and monitor leads. Not wanting to intrude as both his parents were by his side, Clare checked the machine was working smoothly, that all the settings were correct, then slipped away, stopping by the outside monitors, where she watched the screens which were confirming he was doing well.

‘I’m leaving the hospital now,’ she told the nurse who was watching Bob’s screens, ‘but I’ll have my pager, so if there’s any change don’t hesitate to contact me.’

‘You and all the rest of the team,’ the woman said, smiling at Clare and pointing to the list of numbers by the monitors. ‘This little guy has captured a lot of hearts in a short space of time.’

‘They all capture mine,’ Clare admitted. ‘So small and so resolute, the way they come through the terrible stresses we put on their little bodies. Every one of them is a miracle.’

‘Aren’t all babies miracles, especially for their parents?’ the nurse asked, and Clare nodded her agreement.

Think of Bob, she told herself as she left the hospital. Think of the part you play in saving the lives of babies like him. Think positive, woman! You can handle this situation. Em will handle it as well. Okay, so it might be a bit awkward at first, but eventually the three of them should be able to find a way to fit Oliver into Em’s life, and Em into his, without too much disruption.

When Clare left his office, Oliver replayed in his mind the list of things she’d said he’d have to do—a very small part of dadhood, he imagined—but though theoretically they all seemed doable, the idea of someone bullying his daughter at school filled him with a white-hot rage.

Clare would have to handle things like that, but what about all the other stuff he heard parents discussing, like how much television their children should watch, and the perils of the internet.

He slumped down into his chair, banged his head against the desk and groaned.

Being a father in name only wasn’t an option—Clare had made that abundantly clear—but could he take on the task that was becoming more mountainous every time he thought about it, new worries like adolescence and dating sneaking into his head?

Damn the woman! Surely it would have been easier if they’d been together all the time, and he’d have had the opportunity to grow into the job.

Feeling justifiably aggrieved now, he stacked the files into one pile. He’d have to read them some other time, some time when he might manage to take in what was in them. For now he had to think, had to talk some more to Clare, had to work out just where in his life he could fit a daughter.

Or where his daughter might fit him in!

Clare would have to help him. Had she gone home? He glanced at his watch and realised it was late enough for her to have left the hospital, but with baby Bob Stamford on ECMO would she be on duty?

She wasn’t in the PICU, although according to the Stamfords, she’d just left. He set off for his flat, striding
down the road, feeling hard done by again. How could he possibly be a dad? He found the source of his aggravation sitting on the front fence.

‘Most fathers learn on the job,’ he told her without any lead-in conversation at all, ‘so it’s easier than having it dumped on them like this.’

She studied him for a moment, then half smiled.

‘At least be honest with yourself, Oliver,’ she said. ‘How much learning time would you have had? Had we still been together, how often would you have been home to bathe Emily, or change a nappy, or play with her, or read her a bedtime story? You’re thinking of you now, all qualified, but back then?’

She was right but no way would he admit it, although a change of subject might be in order.

‘What are you doing sitting out here?’

It was a full smile this time, though her flushed face suggested it was hiding embarrassment.

‘Changing the subject? I forgot my keys. I kind of rushed away and must have left them in my locker at the hospital. Rod’s not home, so I was hoping you’d eventually return and open the front door.’

‘And your flat? How do you propose to get into that?’

The smile became more natural.

‘I keep a key above the door. I’ve always had a key hidden somewhere outside in case I lost mine, or Em lost hers and something happened and she needed to get in. Rod’s usually home downstairs, but she knows if he’s not home Annie’s got a key for the outside door, so all bases are covered.’

A horror he’d never felt before crept into Oliver’s bones, turning the marrow to ice.

‘She’s nine years old,’ he said, restraining the yell to a muted roar. ‘Why on earth would she ever be out on her own and need a key to get back in? What kind of a mother are you, to be letting a nine-year-old roam the city on her own?’

Feeling incredibly weary, and sorry she’d ever started the Emily conversation, Clare stood.

‘For your information she doesn’t roam the city on her own, but things happen. I just believe she must always know how to get into her own home, in case something
were
to happen when she
might
find herself alone and need the refuge of her home. She also, if you want to know, has a mobile phone and a cab charge card. I realise it’s so unlikely it’s stupid to even talk about, but what if she ran away from school? You did several times, I remember you telling me. What if she has your running-away-from-school gene?’

She walked towards the door, then realised the man with the key was still standing where she’d left him by the fence.

‘Do you have to think ahead that much?’ he demanded. ‘All the time? Do you have to imagine every possible eventuality and plan for them? Is that what parenting is all about?’

Clare walked back and stood beside him.

‘You can never imagine every eventuality, believe me, but you can plan for the ones you do imagine—that way you sleep better at night. Not well, mind you, because there are always bits of child worry buzzing about in your brain, but better.’

She touched his arm to draw him towards the door, feeling exhausted by the tension and emotion of the day, and wanting nothing more than to have a hot shower and collapse into her bed.

He walked with her towards the porch, obviously thinking over what she’d said. Finally he unlocked the front door, opened it and stood back for her to enter first. The sensor light came on and she climbed the steps, every one an effort, but when she reached above her lintel for her key and opened the door, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

‘You do realise we’ll have to get married,’ he said.

C
LARE
stalled in the doorway.

Surely Oliver couldn’t have said what she thought he’d said!

Dismissing it as some kind of hallucinatory madness, she took another step into the sanctuary of her flat, but that didn’t stop her hearing his next words.

‘It’s the only sensible thing to do—and the best thing for Emily, you must admit.’

Now she had to acknowledge the words were real. She spun towards him.

‘Are you mad? Get married? What on earth put such an absurd idea into your head?’

He’d followed her into her flat, for now he was there, right in front of her, his body sending out those weakening subliminal messages, her own body, lacking any steel at all, responding.

‘Everything you read tells you that children brought up by two parents are better adjusted than those from single-parent families.’

‘That’s rubbish and you know it. For as many articles you find saying that, there are just as many to refute it. As if a child isn’t better off with one happy, well-adjusted parent than with two who are at war all the time.’

‘But would we be at war?’ he asked, so softly she wondered if she’d imagined the words. But when he leant towards her and added, ‘
All
the time?’ she knew exactly where the argument was going. The physical attraction she’d been trying to deny since he’d come back into her life hadn’t been all one way, and now Oliver was going to use it against her.

She could have moved, should have moved, but her legs refused to obey the instructions from her brain. Perhaps because they’d been very weak instructions, while the one from her brain to her lips—don’t kiss him back—was positively pathetic.

His mouth claimed hers, capturing her lips and defeating any feeble resolve she might have had, for kissing Oliver was so mind-blowing she could only feel, and touch, and kiss him back.

Feel.

Surely there was a better word to describe the wave of languorous warmth the kiss brought with it, to describe the way her body grew heavy with excitement, the way her nipples peaked and tingled as they brushed against his chest. This wasn’t feeling; this was bliss. It was wonderment and ecstasy and a hunger so deep and haunting she began to ache with it.

She wanted more; she wanted all of him, her body splayed across his now, he her sole support. The kiss had left her lips, his mouth moving to her temple, then her ear, her skin shivering beneath his attentions. Then those questing lips found her neck, the hollow where the heavy thunder of her pulse would be a dead giveaway of her arousal.

Clare knew she should break away, or at the very least stop responding to his kisses, but it was as if ten years
had never been—no, that was wrong. It was the gap of ten years, that huge, insurmountable gap, that made the kisses so mind-blowingly intense. Heat raced through her body, not languid warmth now but something fierce and searing, burning away memories and scars she’d thought would stay for ever.

Oliver’s body hummed with excitement, stirring, hardening, seriously hungering for the woman in his arms, his erection hard against her belly. His hand skimmed her breasts, felt the peaked nipples that told of her excitement, then he caught one lightly in his fingers and—

She was gone, pushing away from him, shuddering, shivering, pale as milk. He reached out for her but she spun away.

‘Please go, Oliver!’

The words were shaky, strangled, but he heard pain and terror in them, so crystal clear he backed away without a second thought, shutting her door behind him.

But after unlocking his own door, he didn’t go inside. He remained on the landing, listening, worried now that there was something seriously wrong. His mind was totally occupied by Clare, Emily pushed into the background, although he knew he’d have to give
that
matter more thought.

And soon!

For now, he stood in his hallway, the door still open, wondering about Clare, puzzling over her extreme reaction.

Puzzling wouldn’t help, especially as the reasons that leapt to mind were very discomforting.

He’d think about Emily instead, but his mind wouldn’t move past the whiteness of Clare’s face and the horror in her dark eyes as she’d backed away from him.

Was she okay?

Of course she was. She was probably in bed by now.

Bed.

As he’d kissed her, ideas of bed had inevitably filtered into his mind, certain that the kisses would lead—if not tonight, but one night soon—to them resuming their physical relationship.

Until she’d flinched away…

It wasn’t frustration gnawing at him now, preventing him from even considering his major problem—he had a daughter. It was that flinch—Clare’s reaction.

He’d hurt her, he knew that, back when they’d parted. Then, not hearing from him and assuming he’d ignored her letters about her pregnancy would have hurt her even more.

But that had been emotional hurt. Could it extend to the physical, to the extent that she’d all but fainted when he’d touched her breast?

He shook his head.

There was no way he could guess the answers to his questions and he suspected he was thinking of Clare to stop himself thinking of his daughter—of Emily. But how could he think about a child he didn’t know? Where did he start?

Feeling anger rise again, he moved, striding into the living room and slumping down into one of the surprisingly comfortable armchairs. Rod Talbot knew his furniture. And why was he thinking about Rod Talbot and furniture? Again the answer was Emily.

Perhaps if he didn’t think at all, simply went about his business as if nothing had happened, his subconscious could chivvy away at the problem and maybe come up with some answers for him. Answers to questions like how do you get to know a nine-year-old? How do you even talk to a nine-year-old?

No, he knew how to do that—he’d had patients who’d been nine. He
could
talk to children, even if all the practice he’d had had been with patients, not daughters.

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 conversation 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.