Christmas at Jimmie's Children's Unit (20 page)

‘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?’

Oliver felt a swell of pride, enough to get his mind one hundred percent back on work. In some fellowship situations the fellow was a dogsbody, rarely given the opportunity to do much operating, but Alex had been definite that he worked differently—he actually wanted his fellows doing major surgery. And although disconnecting Bob from the ECMO machine wasn’t major, it was still a responsibility that Angus, too, was giving to Oliver.

After the procedure was completed, Oliver spoke to the nurse who would monitor Bob, ‘We’ll need full blood values now, and continuous readings. Any sign that he’s slipping back, just page me.’

He glanced at Angus, who nodded approval that Oliver had taken responsibility for the task right through to completion—sorting out the next stage of Bob’s care.

Angus walked away, and a nurse wheeled Bob back out into the PICU, but Oliver waited, watching Clare fiddle with her machine, securing lines and turning off the monitors.

‘What do you do now?’ he asked her. ‘Hand it over to one of the techies to clean and sterilise?’

‘Theoretically yes,’ she said. ‘I did that up in Theatre with the heart-lung machine, because they have the gear there to do it more efficiently than I could and they know the routine. But the ECMO machines, I like to do them myself. It’s such a dicey thing, having a baby on one of them, that I want to know every one is working perfectly.’

He waited until she wheeled the machine out through a rear door, and would have liked to follow, just to see how it was made ready for the next patient.

Or was the real reason he wanted to follow because he wanted to spend longer with Clare, with the very professional Clare he felt he didn’t know at all?

He’d told her he thought it was meant to be, them coming together so he could meet his daughter, but although the thought of that meeting generated equal amounts of excitement and sheer terror, his finding Clare again was a whole different ball game. Something deep inside him told him that this, too, was meant to be, but the emotional upheaval of the things he’d learned in Italy might have made him susceptible to such fancies.

And she obviously didn’t share his sense of rightness about their meeting up again, mocking him when he
suggested marriage, making it sound like an indecent proposal. Yet her response when they’d kissed was undeniable—the physical attraction that had flared between them from their first meeting had, if anything, become stronger.

Until…

He shook his head, admitting he had little knowledge of what went on inside Clare’s head—any woman’s head, for that matter—and here he was, about to get another female in his life.

Emily.

He checked on Bob before leaving the PICU, went into the recovery room to find Alex with the baby girl they’d operated on earlier and, having assured himself he wasn’t needed with either patient, wondered how he’d find Clare again. Suddenly the need to see a picture of his daughter had become urgent. He’d missed nine years and didn’t want to miss another minute, but, of course, fate wasn’t
that
co-operative, for Clare had disappeared.

C
LARE
should have been relieved that Bob was off ECMO, and that the morning operation had gone well. She’d even managed a brief conversation about Emily with Oliver without falling to pieces, but none of these reassuring things lessened the agitation she was feeling. Inner agitation—twitchy; she felt twitchy.

Unwilling to go home lest she run into Oliver, she paced the tea room, pleased there was no-one to observe her agitation. Not much to attract the attention in a tea room, although there was a corkboard on one wall, covered in small notices, photos and postcards.

To divert herself from thoughts of twitches, attraction and Oliver in general—even from thoughts of Emily—she studied it.

The postcards must be from people who had worked with the team at some time, and she smiled to think where some of them had ended up—Italy, South Africa, even one from someone who’d moved on to her old hospital in Chicago. The photos were obviously of children who had been through the cardiac paediatric unit. All the photos were evidence of the success of cardiac surgery with the kids smiling and happy.

But it was a small notice decorated with balloons and streamers that caught Clare’s interest.

Wanted—Bodies, it was headed, the words compelling attention.

Jimmie’s Entertainment Unit is looking for people willing to give up some time between now and Christmas Day to ensure that all the children in hospital over the festive season are visited and treated to a little silliness.

Clare had to smile. These days professional clown ‘doctors’ were involved in most children’s hospitals, but she knew from experience that volunteers were usually needed to augment the clowns’ appearances, especially at Christmas when most entertainment units made a special effort.

Now here she was, back where she’d started. She’d taken out a pen to make a note of the contact number when she realised that the first meeting of the expanded entertainment group was tonight. A map at the bottom of the notice showed her how to get to the canteen in the other tower where the meeting would be held.

She had her pager, and another perfusionist was on duty, so there was no reason why she shouldn’t join the troupe.

Although the performances would be close to Christmas when Emily would be home…so could she spare time away from her daughter? Or would Em be happy to join in?

Clare knew she would. Emily had often come to work with her, usually on weekends when Clare wasn’t on duty but had wanted to call in to check on a particular
patient, and Emily had enjoyed visiting the children’s ward and chatting to the small patients. Best of all, she loved the babies and would stand outside the nurseries, peering through the glass, giving all the infants names as if they were her dolls.

Clare smiled at the thought, and for the first time since Oliver’s stupid comment about marriage and the subsequent kiss had sent her spinning back into turmoil, she felt the dark cloud of unhappy memories lifting. In fact, the thought of performing again, even if it was only a bit part in a Christmas pantomime, was so therapeutic she made her way to the second tower with brisk, excited steps.

But no sooner had her spirits lifted than the cloud was back, and all because the first person she saw as she walked into the canteen was Oliver—large as life and twice as handsome—although she doubted it was his looks that made her heart race. Oliver could have looked like an ogre and he would still have the same effect.

‘Did you come because you knew I’d be here? That’s pretty close to stalking.’

She spat the words at him as soon as she drew near, so was disconcerted when he looked more puzzled than guilty.

‘I’m sorry. I should have realised you’d be interested but I didn’t give it a thought. Becky, the unit secretary, was printing out the notice as I went past her desk and she more or less bullied me into coming. She made out it would be a good way for me, and other new members of the team, to meet some staff from other sections of the hospital, but what she was really doing, I think, was making sure someone from the unit would turn up.’

Idiot that I am, of course she’d be interested, Oliver was thinking to himself. And here he’d allowed Becky to talk him into it, because he hadn’t been able to find Clare but had guessed she was still at the hospital, not at home.

‘Okay, listen up, everyone.’ Someone had stepped onto a table to open the meeting. ‘I’ve put out a plea for extra people as I thought we might do a pantomime this year. We can have the Starlight Room for the main performance, but I wondered—if we have enough people—if we could run two or three similar shows, the second and third ones with smaller casts so they can perform in the wards for the children who can’t be moved.’

Having worked with hospital entertainers from the time she was doing her drama course at university it was easy for Clare to imagine this proposal, the smaller units doing little more than appearing in costume in the wards. Oliver, however, looked confused.

‘I’ll explain later,’ she whispered to him as the speaker introduced himself as Dr Droopy, then waved a hand to four other people who were the regular hospital clowns, introducing them in turn.

‘I thought we’d do
Cinderella
which is a fairly easy pantomime, and so for the smaller performances we’d need only seven characters—Cinders herself, the prince, two ugly stepsisters and their mum, and a fairy godmother, plus an announcer-cum-voice-over-person. For the Starlight Room performance we need mice and jokers and extras for the ballroom scene—say, twenty if we can get them. So that’s thirty-four in all—let’s make it thirty-five minimum.’

He looked around.

‘Now, there definitely aren’t thirty-five people here, so I’d like you all to do some active recruiting, preferably within your own wards or units. That way, if you miss a rehearsal because you’re on duty—and that’s the only excuse I accept—there’s someone handy to let you know what you missed.’

One of the other clowns was working his way through the gathering collecting names, contact numbers and places of work.

‘Good,’ he said when he reached Clare and Oliver. ‘You two can be the nucleus of the cardiac department’s show. Got anything against being an ugly stepsister?’ he added to Oliver, who shrugged his shoulders as if it didn’t matter, although he did wonder what he was getting himself into.

‘You, of course,’ the clown said to Clare, ‘will be Cinders.’

‘Cinderella is fair,’ Clare pointed out. ‘I can do ugly—I can be an ugly sister or even the stepmother.’

‘No way,’ the clown told her. ‘We need
some
beauty in the show.’

He was flirting with her, Oliver realised, and against all logic his blood began to heat with something he hesitated to call jealousy but could be little else.

‘Or fairy godmother—that’s what you can be. We’ll have a beautiful—’ the fellow was saying now, but Clare cut him short.

‘No way, the fairy godmother should be a bloke and a big bloke at that. I’ve done enough panto to know that. Anyway, you’ve got other names to gather and it seems to me that Dr Droopy is the boss and he’ll decide who plays what.’

The clown gave her a disappointed look and moved on. Dr Droopy was asking everyone to try to recruit more bodies and announcing the next meeting the following week.

‘Same time, same place,’ he finished, and the crowd began to disperse.

‘Actually, I don’t think I’d be very good at pantomime,’ Oliver said to Clare as they walked towards the door. ‘I only came because Becky seemed to think someone from the unit should attend, but as you’re here—’

Clare spun to face him.

‘Don’t you even
think
of backing out, Oliver Rankin,’ she said. ‘In fact, given what Droopy said, you should be thinking of who you can con into joining us, not deserting a ship before it’s even begun to sink!’

He had to smile at her vehemence.

‘Hey, all I said was that I didn’t think I’d be very good.’

Now she was smiling too.

‘No one can be bad at pantomime,’ she said. ‘Making mistakes just makes it funnier—people will think you did it deliberately. Besides, everyone has to get involved in something over the festive season and anything is better than putting up balloons and tinsel.’

The enthusiasm in her voice died away at the end of the sentence, the change in her tone so obvious he had to ask.

‘You don’t like balloons and tinsel?’

She studied him, the smile gone now.

‘Balloons I don’t mind, even plastic evergreen I can handle—after all, I have to have a tree for Emily—but tinsel? It’s like love, isn’t it? Pretty and shiny when you
first come across it, then before you know it, it’s fallen down and people have walked over it and it’s dirty and tawdry and done with.’

Oliver stared at her in dumb astonishment. Yes, ten years had passed since he’d last seen Clare, but bitterness had never been part of the eager, laughing, loving woman he had known. Without thinking, he reached out and touched his hand to her cheek, looking down into her dark eyes and seeing a stormy unhappiness he couldn’t understand.

Although the memory of her face last night, white and fearful…

She blinked and moved away.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, without looking back at him. ‘Not a good time for me, Christmas, and with all the unrelenting jollity and goodwill it’s hard to always put on an act.’

‘Yet you’re joining the panto,’ he pointed out.

She spun back towards him.

‘That’s for the kids,’ she said. ‘Besides, being in the panto gives me a great excuse for not going to a lot of the parties that are usually on at the same time. With the panto you can plead rehearsals, costume fittings, costume sewing, a multitude of excuses that no-one ever questions.’

‘Is it because we broke up when we did that you’re so vehemently anti-Christmas?’

He
had
to ask.

She scanned his face, studying him for a moment, then shook her head.

‘Maybe, though I’m not actually anti-Christmas—you can’t be when you have a child—just anti-tinsel. You wait and see, two days after Christmas and the
floors will be awash with it. It will be sticking to your shoe when you least expect it, and curled in corners of the elevators every time you go up and down. It’s all-pervasive, everywhere—tired and dirty and worn.’

Like love?

Oliver wanted to pursue it, but sensed she was already regretting saying as much as she had. Was it their relationship that had made her feel this way, or her marriage? Although it wasn’t relationships or marriage she was talking about; it was love.

And what did he know about love?

Not a single, solitary thing.

He shook his head as he followed her into the elevator and sneaked a glance into the corners for any rabid tinsel.

Clare believed in love. Love for her family, love for her friends, love for him at one time. Back when he’d known her, love had guided her life. So why had she taken this stand? How had love gone so bad for her?

A relationship that ended badly, a marriage that didn’t work out—of course she’d be put off love. Yet could a woman as full of love as Clare had been set it aside like dirty tinsel?

He sighed inwardly, realising he didn’t have a clue how this new Clare felt or thought.

But they’d be sharing a child. He
should
know her better.

‘Will you have dinner with me?’

The question was out before he could give it proper consideration, and apparently it had surprised her almost as much as it had surprised him, for she was staring at him as if he’d suddenly spoken in tongues.

‘Have dinner with you?’

Incredulity rattled the words.

Fortunately he had a perfect excuse.

‘You could tell me more about Emily, and you have to remember it’s been ten years since we saw each other. A lot has happened to both of us in ten years. Won’t it make it easier for us, considering we’re linked by Emily, if we fill in some of the blanks?’

‘I guess.’

The response was so reluctant Oliver had to smile.

‘Don’t overwhelm me with enthusiasm now,’ he said. ‘We could go to the beach—down to Coogee. There are plenty of restaurants there to choose from, and if we sit on the pavement there’ll be a sea breeze.’

They’d reached the ground floor so she didn’t answer immediately, but once they were clear of the crowd exiting the elevator, she turned towards him.

‘Do you know Sydney well, that you know about restaurants at Coogee?’

As questions went it was a fairly average one, but it lit a minute spark of hope in Oliver’s gut. At least she was going along with the idea.

‘I stayed at a hotel in Coogee when I was here working with Alex earlier in the year. It was close and easier than looking for a furnished apartment.’

An ordinary conversation in the busy foyer of a children’s hospital, yet Clare felt tension coil within her body. Oliver’s excuse for dinner was to talk about Emily, but would he bring up the marriage idea again? Was he thinking he could discuss it over dinner in a public place where her reaction couldn’t be too volatile?

Her heart quivered at the thought, although common sense decreed he was hardly likely to bring it up again after the way she’d pushed him off last night.

‘Don’t look so stressed—it’s only dinner,’ he was saying. ‘We both have to eat.’

She nodded, agreeing they both had to eat, assuring herself she could get through a dinner with him without falling apart.

‘This is really stupid,’ she told him, pretending to a lightness she was far from feeling. ‘Here we are, once in a relationship together, and behaving with the formality of two people discussing a blind date.’

‘Well, it feels a bit that way to me,’ Oliver said, so quietly Clare wondered if she’d really heard him.

Blind dates were awkward things, and Oliver, overloaded with a magnetic attraction for women, could never have felt that awkwardness.

Could he?

‘Do you have to check on Bob?’ he asked, and when she nodded he continued, ‘Then I’ll go home to get the car and meet you back here—when? Half an hour?’

‘Half an hour’s good,’ she said, although, contrarily, given that this was far from a date, she had an urge to make the time longer so she could rush home and change out of the neat and practical jeans and polo shirt she’d worn to work this morning.