Steph didn’t have time for any more chit-chat. The baby that had been crowning when she’d last looked was now about to slip out into the world.
Preparing for the birth by strategically placing the Continuous Positive Airway Pressure instrument nearby, and soft, light blankets ready to receive the precious bundle, she held her breath and watched and waited for the inevitable.
The blue of her gloves was a sharp contrast to the pale skin on Melanie’s thighs. It seemed impersonal to be welcoming a newborn into the world with a pair of vinyl-covered hands, but it was safer, and this little tot would need all the protection from infections and bugs it was humanly possible to achieve. It had to survive, and survive well.
Melanie tensed. ‘Here we go again,’ she forced out through gritted teeth.
‘You’re doing fine.’
No point telling her otherwise. Baby was coming, ready or not. OMG. So tiny and vulnerable. And blue.
Steph worked fast but carefully, knew nothing but that she was trying to save the tiniest boy she’d ever laid eyes upon.
Why hadn’t she trained as a paediatrician instead of a nurse?
A tap on her shoulder didn’t stop her.
‘We’ve got this.’ A male command. ‘Fill me in fast.’
A quick sideways glance showed a man in scrubs. A further look around and she gasped with relief. The ambulance had stopped, the doors were open and emergency staff were crowding in.
‘First baby arrived...’ she glanced at her watch ‘...three minutes ago. There’s another coming. They’re ten weeks early.’
She rattled off details and obs, handing over the baby to another scrubbed-up doctor, who immediately began working on the infant.
Suddenly she was redundant. That relief expanded. Those babies weren’t relying on her and now had a fighting chance. Fingers crossed. She’d given her all, but was it enough?
Squeezing through to the front of the ambulance to avoid the crowd of medical staff at the rear, she hopped out through Kath’s door and stood out of the way, watching as the experts delivered the second baby. At least this wee lad went straight into an incubator. The first baby had already disappeared amidst gowned, masked staff with one purpose in their minds—to save his life.
Steph’s chest ached where her heart thumped. These babies had to make it. No other outcome was acceptable.
‘Can you unload the stretcher for us?’ someone asked.
Instantly Steph was at the back of the ambulance, unlocking the wheels as Kath took the weight to roll the stretcher out.
‘Here we go,’ she warned Melanie, who was looking all hollowed out, her face sunken, her eyes glittering with tears, hands limp on her less rotund stomach.
‘Are they—?’
‘Yes,’ Kath said firmly.
Please, please live, Steph begged the babies. Your mum needs you.
Once Melanie had been transferred to a bed Steph leaned close. ‘I’ll be thinking about you. Hang in there and all the best.’
Then she made herself scarce, not looking around the department where she’d worked until two years ago, not wanting those memories on top of what had gone down today.
Her knees were wobbly. Her head thumped. And, damn it, her eyes were tearing up. Quite the professional.
Around the corner, out of everyone’s way and sight, Stephanie stopped to lean her forehead against the cold wall and clasped her hands together on top of her head, her eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to halt the threatening waterfall.
Her first day working as a paramedic in Auckland and history had slapped her around the head. Her one attempt at IVF five years ago had failed and her husband had refused to try again, saying it was a waste of time when the doctors couldn’t find any reason for her infertility.
No problems in his department, apparently. And no relief for her empty arms that longed to hold her own baby. It had hit her hard today. Much harsher than it had in a while. She guessed that was what happened when she returned home to where it had all happened.
‘Stephanie? Is that you?’
The deep, throaty voice spun her name into unwelcome heated memories and warmed her skin to knock sideways the chill that had taken over in the ambulance.
Michael. Don’t move.
It might be that she’d imagined him. Anything was possible today.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Welcome back. You’ve been missed around here.’
The air swirled around her, touching down on the exposed skin of her face, her neck, her hands. A shape lined up beside her. A peek to the right and there was no doubt about it. Her imagination had not been playing games. She wasn’t sure if that was good. Or bad.
Dr Michael Laing’s shoulders and back rested against the wall, those legs that went on for ever were crossed at the ankles and his hands—oh, yeah, she remembered those hands as much as his lips—were jammed into the pockets of his crumpled scrubs. Just as she remembered him—utterly gorgeous, with that never quite styled hair falling over his forehead in soft curls.
When he said, ‘Still as quiet as ever,’ she shivered.
She wasn’t ready for this—not after those babies arriving in her unprepared hands. ‘Hi.’
Now leave me to pull myself together.
Right then her nose ran and she had to sniff.
He dug into a back pocket, held a handkerchief out. ‘Here, use this. I promise it’s clean.’
Did he have to sound exactly the same? Couldn’t he have grown a polyp in his throat? Or permanently lost his voice from too much shouting at the sidelines of a rugby game?
‘Those babies got to you, didn’t they? They would have got me too if I’d been there. Stephanie...’ He paused, gentled his voice. ‘They’re in expert hands, and everyone in PICU will be working their butts off to save them.’
Pushing away from the wall, she eyeballed him. Nearly choked on a sudden inhalation of air. Michael. That open, friendly face, those intense azure eyes still with the thin layer of need he’d hate to be recognised, that tempting mouth...
‘I know. Sorry for being a goof.’
‘Hardly. You’re human.’
His smile was warm. Tentative?
She blew her nose, gave herself breathing space. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
I was until twenty seconds ago. Liar.
She hadn’t been right since she realised her patient’s IVF babies were coming far too early.
His gaze was caring. Oh, how she remembered that caring. It was his middle name.
‘My thoughts exactly. Just having a bit of a kip against the wall. I get it. It’s how I cope with a crisis too.’
Uh-uh. Not so. Her memory was excellent. This man dealt with harrowing issues by striding out for hours, those long legs chewing up kilometre after kilometre as he went over and over whatever was eating him up. Her leg muscles had ached for days after she’d stuck with him for nearly three hours, charging along the city waterfront, listening as he worked his way through grief and anger one particularly dark day.
‘I haven’t suffered a crisis.’
Not much.
So why were her knees feeling like over-oiled hinges?
His mouth quirked in a funny, heart-slowing way.