GOING TO WORK seemed something of an anticlimax after the excitements of the weekend, but once there Emma found it soothing to be back in a familiar environment, and even welcomed the rush of the busy morning—patients who hadn’t wanted to waste their own precious time over the weekend in the local A and E came rolling in with a variety of complaints.
‘Half these people should be visiting their GP,’ Helen, no doubt suffering broken sleep patterns given her advanced pregnancy, grumbled.
‘Or have come in earlier,’ Emma said, having just admitted a small girl with a severe headache and the suggestion of a rash appearing on her body.
‘Has she had her meningococcal vaccination?’ Emma had asked the concerned parents.
‘Oh, no, we don’t believe in that kind of thing,’ the mother had replied, while Emma had cursed under her breath and hoped it was just an infection that could be cleared up with antibiotics.
But she’d ordered a lumbar puncture to collect a sample of cerebrospinal fluid and in the meantime put the child on a strong antibiotic drip. And she’d spoken to the mother about the importance of vaccinations, not only to protect the individual child but to stop many childhood diseases reaching epidemic proportions once again.
She knew the woman hadn’t listened—knew also it wasn’t because she was concerned for her child. No, this particular parent had made a stand and had no intention of changing her mind on the subject.
Recognising a lost cause, and admitting to herself that everyone was entitled to their opinion, Emma had walked away, though inwardly seething. Aware she couldn’t meet another patient in that state, she’d headed for the tea-room to calm down.
Only to find Marty ensconced in the most comfortable armchair. In fact, the only comfortable armchair, the room seemingly furnished with odds and ends of rejected chairs no one else wanted.
She glared at him and he held up his hands.
‘Hey, what have I done?’
Sat in the chair I wanted.
No, she couldn’t use such an inane excuse for her temper.
She made herself a coffee—instant.
‘One day I’ll buy a decent coffee machine for this place,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Someone would probably pinch it,’ Marty said laconically from the depths of the armchair. ‘Is it instant coffee that’s got you all steamed up or something else?’
‘Of course it’s not instant coffee, although I hate the stuff,’ she stormed. ‘It’s parents who don’t believe in vaccinating their children. Honestly, Marty, they must never read a paper, never listen to the news to not know how much danger they put not only their own child in but other children in too. I know they have good reasons or beliefs, but if they’d ever seen a child with meningococcal—a child who’s lost a limb, or his hearing, or even died, surely they would agree it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
He smiled the lazy smile that did funny things to her heart.
‘As you said, they have their reasons or beliefs, and they’ve freedom of choice because we’re not a police state—yet.’
Resisting an urge to throw her coffee at him, she settled into the next best chair, comfortable enough if you knew to sit on the left side so the loose spring on the right didn’t get you.
‘Maybe we should be in some instances,’ she muttered darkly, although she knew she didn’t mean it. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here?’
‘Brought you a family update,’ he said, not smiling now but she knew from his eyes he was still amused by her tantrum. ‘Mother and baby are both doing very well. The local GPs in Wetherby have offered to cover the hospital for Mac so he can stay down in Retford for as long as he feels he’s needed. Hallie and Nikki will stay on for the week. I’ll work out when I’ll be off duty, so I can fly down and take them home.’
‘So all’s well that ends well,’ Emma said with a smile. ‘That’s terrific. Will they transfer the baby here when he’s old enough for us to cope with him in our PICU?’
Marty shook his head.
‘I don’t know for certain, but as he’d still be an hour away from their home if he’s here, I can’t see the point. They might as well stay there until he’s due for discharge.’
It was a nice, normal conversation, so why did Emma feel it held undercurrents she couldn’t understand?
She drank her much-maligned coffee, improving it slightly by dipping gingernut biscuits into it, so aware of Marty across from her, her nerve endings were screaming.
He’d lapsed into silence, which made things worse. Marty was usually good at casual banter—far better than she was. Having worn out the coffee conversation, and parents who didn’t vaccinate their children, she had no idea where to start a new one.
Marty had sat forward—perhaps he was going to help out with some idle chatter.
Gossip, local news.
No such luck, for he fixed those blue eyes, serious now, on her face, and asked, ‘Did you lose a baby? Before you had the twins?’
She couldn’t speak, just stared at him. How on earth could he have picked that up?
And what business was it of his?
But she knew that was unfair—he hadn’t asked out of curiosity but because he cared, because he was a caring man.
And suddenly it was easy…
‘Not long after Simon died,’ she told him quietly, glad she’d used up all her tears for the baby the night they’d brought Izzy in. ‘I was stressed, lost in grief, I suppose, and didn’t recognise the symptoms. I was only twenty-one weeks, the baby didn’t have much chance of surviving and it didn’t. She didn’t.’
* * *
Well, he had asked, Marty muttered in his mind. And if staying in the chair—not crossing the room to take her in his arms and hold her—was the hardest thing he’d ever done, then too bad.
‘You saw me crying—the night Izzy was brought in?’ Emma had paled at his question but her voice was steady.
He had to nod—agree—because he had seen the hastily wiped-away tears and his heart had been gripped by pain.
But Emma seemed less upset now, so maybe he hadn’t made a mistake in talking to her about it.
She was looking directly at him, and spoke slowly, as if finding the right words was difficult.
‘I think I hadn’t properly grieved for the baby,’ she admitted. ‘I was still so lost, still hurting over Simon, so the other night, when it all came rushing back, well…’
She half smiled, and he marvelled at her bravery.
‘When something like that happens, at first you’re angry—the “why me” thing. I’d been exactly the same with Simon, though more “why him”. Then losing the baby, his baby, I felt as if my world had ended a second time and I just shut down.’
She paused, and though he ached to hold her, to comfort her—protect her really—he stayed still and silent, aware she hadn’t finished and probably needed to say more.
‘In a way it was a good thing, the tears the other night. They released something that had been pent up inside me for too long,’ she finished, standing up and crossing to the sink to wash out her cup, returning the biscuits to their tin.
Her movement told him the subject was closed—probably forever. But how could he not love this small woman who had been through so much, yet soldiered on, wanting only the best for her patients and the very best for her boys, her father, her family?
A woman who trusted him with her children…
‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ she said, telling him in no uncertain terms that the intimacies were over.
Although…
She’d stopped at the door and turned back towards him.
‘And now I’ve told you my last bit of secret pain, sometime you can tell me yours.’
He was dumbfounded.
‘Secret pain?’ he echoed, and she smiled and nodded.
‘That innocent act doesn’t fool me for one minute, Marty Graham. Next time it’s your turn to talk.’
* * *
Emma returned to work in a more positive state of mind. She’d vented her anger and shared something very personal with a friend—something she hadn’t done for a very long time.
A friend?
The tiny whisper in her head was nothing more than wishful thinking. Marty was a friend, full stop.
Fortunately, before that devious voice could whisper again, she was diverted by two patients, herded into A and E by a large and obviously angry man.
‘Bloody idiots,’ he said, waving his hand towards the two teenagers who’d sunk down onto the nearest chairs, blood visible on the hands that held their respective heads.
‘Fighting in the school grounds—which is banned,’ the man continued, ‘and over which football team is the best, of all things. What does that say about sport?’
Helen was there, leading one of the combatants towards a cubicle, while Joss appeared to take the other one.
‘I think it’s only minor damage—a lot of blood from head wounds, but we need to get them checked out,’ the man said, then, as if remembering his manners, he held out his hand.
‘I’m Andy Richards, assistant sports master at the high school. You’re new here, aren’t you?’
Emma took his hand—a nice firm hand.
‘I’m Emma Crawford, and, yes, I’m new in town.’
He studied her for a minute.
‘You’re not by any chance Ned Crawford’s daughter?’
Emma nodded.
‘Do you know my father?’
Andy grinned at her.
‘No, not had the pleasure, but if I’ve heard one story about what Ned and my father got up to in the “old days”—’ he gave the words inverted commas with his fingers ‘—I’ve heard a dozen. Dad hasn’t been well lately, which might explain why he hasn’t realised Ned’s daughter is in town. I know he’d love to meet you.’
‘Then maybe he’d also like to see my father,’ Emma suggested. ‘He’s back in town with me. I’m a single mum so he looks after my boys when I’m at work, and generally takes care of things. But I know he wants to catch up with old friends. I’d better see to your two lads now, but if you give me your father’s number, Dad can give him a call.’
Andy produced a pen and a rather grubby piece of paper from his pocket and jotted down a number.
‘I live there too—with Dad,’ he said, and she had a feeling he was telling that bit to her, not as a message to her father.
She put the note in her pocket and hurried to the first cubicle, where Angie had cleaned up a forehead wound and was busy putting plastic strips across it.
‘I don’t think it needs stitching,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
Emma agreed with her and left her to finish the dressing. But the second combatant had come off the worse for wear, a cut close to his eye definitely needing stitching, and he had enough bruising on his face, especially near the temple, for Emma to decide a CAT scan was necessary.
‘It’s purely precautionary,’ she told their patient. ‘I’ll put a temporary dressing on that cut until after I’ve seen the scan.’
Not that the scan would make any difference to her treatment of the wound, but she felt it was more urgent than a few stitches.
She left Joss with him to arrange the scan, then crossed the room to explain to Andy what they were doing.
‘It won’t take long, but if you need to get back, we could phone when he’s ready to leave.’
Andy shook his head.
‘I’ll stay—duty of care and all that.’
She smiled at him.
‘Something we’re all only too aware of these days,’ she agreed.
It was close to an hour before she’d finally stitched the cut, and between patients had stopped a few times to speak to Andy. He seemed a really nice guy, and if he lived with his father, maybe he was single—
What on earth was she thinking?
Was she really stalking the single men of Braxton?
Hadn’t she decided she could kick a football with the best of men?
And that she’d get a housekeeper to free up her father? After all, she could afford one…
Or was she using the ‘single men’ idea in her head to stop her thinking of Marty?
Some questions had no answers.
* * *
The days flowed smoothly after that, and Emma realised she was getting into the routine of the hospital, fitting in as she learnt the ways that things were done, and feeling comfortable at work. She’d found she liked being part of a smaller hospital where the different departments all mixed far more than they did in city hospitals.
And it was easier to follow the progress of a patient she’d admitted than it had been in the labyrinth of wards where she’d worked before.
Yes, all in all, it was great.
Until late on Friday afternoon, when one of the coastguard officers called the emergency line.
‘We’ve got a seaman badly injured on a large container ship east of Wetherby. I’ve alerted helicopter rescue but we’ll need to drop a doctor on board to check him out before he can be moved.’
Emma sighed.
If there was one thing she hated more than winch practice it was being winched onto the deck of a moving ship. Not that she’d done it for real, but the practice sessions on Sydney Harbour had been terrifying.
But it was her call. The doctor who’d come in on the swing shift was too old for helicopter work but would cover her in A and E.
She took the phone.
‘How badly hurt? And do we know how it happened?’
‘They’ve come through some bad weather and it’s still a bit rough out there, but he was checking the chains on the containers when one moved and trapped him somehow. We’re thinking crush injuries to his legs and chest, and probable internal injuries.’
She had to go!
She thanked the man absentmindedly, her mind racing as she thought of drugs and equipment she might need. She could already hear the helicopter approaching but by the time it put down she was ready for it, scrambling on board with Mark’s helping hand.
Mark handed her a flight suit and helmet, and she hurriedly pulled them on, replacing the sneakers she wore to work with the sturdy boots, her pair now marked with an E for Emma.
And lastly the helmet.
But she no sooner had it strapped into place than Marty’s voice came blasting through it.
‘Are you up to this?’ he demanded. ‘Have you had marine rescue training? Mark’s a qualified paramedic, he can go down to the boat if you’re not sure.’
Put out by his doubts about her ability, her replies were naturally tetchy.
‘Yes, I am up to it,’ she snapped, ‘and, yes, wonder of wonders, I’ve done marine rescue training, and if you think landing on a small motor boat on Sydney Harbour in gale-force winds is easier than landing on the massive deck of a container ship, then you’ve never tried it.’
She paused before remembering the last bit of his conversation.
‘And although Mark’s a great paramedic, just maybe someone who’s had a container land on him actually needs a doctor.’
A silent clapping from Mark made heat rise to her cheeks. She’d broadcast her conversation to all of them, rather than holding the button that would have taken it only to Marty.
‘Stop it,’ she hissed at Mark, who was grinning with delight.
‘No way,’ he whispered, his mic well away from his lips. ‘The boss needs to be put in his place now and then. He’s far too protective of all of us.’
Which, Emma decided as she tightened the straps on the harness that would hook her to the winch, was probably a good thing.
And another good thing was that it wasn’t personal. Marty behaved protectively towards all his crew, not just her.
They saw the slowly moving vessel within minutes of crossing the coastline, and Emma watched as it grew bigger and bigger. Then it was beneath them, Marty matching his speed to it, holding the chopper at a steady pace above a mark the crew had painted on the deck. Mark clipped her and her bag to the winch before opening the side door, and after a quick prayer to any god that might have been hovering nearby, she sat in the doorway, took a deep breath, signalled she was ready to go and began her careful descent.
The wind wasn’t as strong as she’d expected, but it gusted unpredictably, teasing her with a push or shove every now and then.
The crewmen awaiting her were close now, their excitement rising in their voices. Someone caught her legs and guided them down onto the deck, where Emma unclipped herself and her bag and sent the wire back up for the stretcher.
None of them had had any doubt that it would be needed.
Her patient lay in the shadow of the towers of containers, and Emma could see the one that had moved slightly out of alignment, apparently pushing him against the next, though what he’d been doing between the two she couldn’t fathom.
Not her problem.
One of the crewmen, wearing a uniform that suggested rank, explained what had happened in careful English, then added, ‘He was conscious at first, but then not. I do not think his head was injured, but he is not speaking.’
Even before examining the extent of his injuries, Emma could believe he’d passed out because of pain. Which was better as far as she was concerned. Giving pain relief to a patient likely to be heading straight into Theatre was always tricky.
She knelt to examine the man, lifting temporary dressings off his legs, shuddering at the damage that had been done.
Airway!
His breathing was rapid but shallow and his lips slightly blue. It hardly needed the misalignment of the trachea to tell her the cause.
Tension pneumothorax.
She found the needle she needed and inserted it into the second rib space on the damaged side, drew up some air into the syringe, then carefully withdrew the needle, leaving the cannula in place.
Air rushing out told her she’d done the right thing, although she knew this was only temporary relief for the blood vessels in the man’s chest. She secured the tube, fixed a loose dressing over it, and checked his blood pressure.
Far too low, but the best thing she could do was get him on the stretcher and into the chopper, where she could work on him as they flew him to hospital.
With the help of the crew, they slid the two sides of the stretcher under him and clicked the parts together, then wrapped him in the protective wings and fastened the straps that held him securely in place.
Worried that a vertical lift might injure him further, she radioed up to let Dave know she was sending him up, attaching four straps to the winch wire, and signalling to lift.
As ever, it seemed to take an age for the winch wire to descend again for her, but when it did, a crewman handed it to her and she slid the little seat between her legs and clipped on, signalling again to lift.
By the time she unclipped back in the helicopter, Mark had the stretcher secure and a cannula inserted in the man’s hand, ready for fluid resuscitation, and an oxygen mask on his face.
‘Braxton or straight to Retford?’ Marty asked.
‘Retford,’ Emma told him, aware that the Braxton Hospital didn’t have the surgical teams the man would need.
Working carefully, she and Mark removed the man’s boots, cutting the laces to ease them off his feet before cutting away his socks and the tattered clothing on his legs. They irrigated the wounds, squirting most of the loose debris away, but had to resort to tweezers for the deeper pieces.
‘It’s a mercy he’s unconscious,’ Mark said as they wrapped clean dressings around the injured limbs. The tibia was broken on both legs and from the position of the break, Emma suspected the fibula would also have suffered. But the breaks were above the ankles, which would make surgery and recovery simpler.
His thighs were less damaged.
‘Probably because his right hip bone and pelvis bore the brunt of the pressure,’ Mark said, but for all the IV fluids they were pumping into him, his blood pressure remained worryingly low.
Had a major blood vessel been impacted when his chest had been caught by the great weight? But wouldn’t he have already bled out if that was the case? The question tormented Emma.
Should they put down in Braxton first so a surgeon could open him up to look for a rupture?
‘ETA Retford thirty minutes.’
Marty’s message decided her. Retford was definitely the best option.
She radioed her findings to Retford Hospital, adding her suspicion about internal bleeding, so was pleased to see a crash team waiting as they touched down.
The man was rushed straight into Theatre, and she sat in the doorway of the helicopter to complete her paperwork. One copy had accompanied the man, but this second sheet was required for the Search and rescue service records.
‘You want to come and see George?’ Marty asked, dropping down to sit beside her.
Did she?
Her boys had been premmie, but only by six weeks, but she’d still spent enough time in a PICU to know she didn’t really like the places. There was always a positive vibe, and few premmie babies were ever lost, but the sight of the wee mites in their cribs brought back memories of the baby she had lost—the baby who had been too small to save.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, but probably so long after he’d asked the question that he’d guess what she’d been thinking.
‘No worries, but I’m popping in to see the family, so why don’t you go over to the canteen? Dave and Mark will be there. We’ll leave in thirty minutes unless there’s another callout, in which case I’ll contact you.’
He jumped to the ground and walked away, leaving Emma feeling very alone, and more than slightly put out.
Normally, Marty would touch her shoulder as he passed her, or at least turn around and wave if he was walking away.
Had she let him down, not going to see George?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, get your head on straight, she berated herself. There was no reason on earth why Marty should wave or touch her shoulder. In fact, it was far better that he didn’t because if either thing had happened it would have affected her body in ways she didn’t want—her shoulder would have felt warm where his hand had been, while a wave, or the smile that always accompanied it, would have sent shivers down her spine.
But physical reactions stemmed from attraction—that’s all it was. After all, he was an attractive man—hadn’t half the women in town been attracted to him at some time?
And if it was attraction, then all she had to do was resist it…
* * *
Marty headed straight for the PICU, knowing at least one of the family would be there.
Mac and Nikki were.
‘Hallie’s taken Izzy to get some clothes—little essentials like underwear and nightdresses and stuff to wear during the day,’ Mac explained.
‘And I’m in charge of George,’ Nikki announced. ‘Of talking to him, I mean. You have to talk to the babies, did you know that? I’ve been telling him about Wetherby and how we’ll play in the sand when he gets a bit bigger and how I’ll help him make sandcastles with moats around them and even volcanoes.’
‘Might be a while before you get to volcanoes,’ Mac put in drily.
Marty laughed, then bent to examine his new nephew.
‘He certainly looks good, given how premmie he is,’ he said, and Mac nodded.
‘He’s the unit champ already,’ he said, and the note of pride in Mac’s voice pierced through a special shield Marty had wrapped around his heart.
No babies! he reminded himself, but he knew the wound remained and always would.
But Nikki was pointing out his tiny toes, and Marty found a smile for this girl he’d known since she’d been born.
‘You were in a crib like this, and you had even tinier toes,’ he told her, and she laughed.
Which was a good way to leave them, Marty decided.
‘Well, I’d better get the crew back to Braxton,’ he said, kissing Nikki and patting Mac on the shoulder. ‘Give Izzy my love, and Nikki, tell Hallie to phone me when you’re both ready to go home.’
‘I can phone you. I do have a phone, you know,’ Nikki told him, so he was smiling as he left.
Still smiling when he reached the chopper to find Emma sitting where he’d left her.
‘Didn’t you want refreshment?’ he asked, and she looked up as if he’d startled her.
Her eyes met his and messages he couldn’t understand seemed to flash between them, messages that made him feel hot, and light-headed at the same time.
Made him want to close the distance between them in long strides and take her in his arms…
Kiss the eyes that sent him messages…
Was he nuts?
This was Emma.
Emma, who’d already suffered two terrible losses in her life. No way could he cause her more disruption. Yes, he was attracted to her—maybe very attracted to her—but…
But what?
Love?
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, aware that this wasn’t the first time that word had filled it when he thought of Emma…
* * *
She watched him walk towards her, feeling such a mix of emotions she didn’t have a clue which one dominated.
Attraction was in there for sure, but it was more than that. It was something deep inside her gut, some instinct that was telling her stupid things, telling her this man was important in her life and—worse—that she wanted him there.
He is in your life, stupid, she told herself. He’s a friend, a colleague, almost a relation if Ned’s friendship with Carrie leads to something more…
He’d reached her now, and settled himself beside her in the doorway.
‘Tell me?’
It was gently asked, his voice deep and slightly husky, and it would have been foolishly naïve to ask him what he meant.
‘I met Simon, my husband, when I started work as an intern in the ED of a big Sydney hospital. He was senior staff and I knew he’d barely notice me, but he did. I’d already noticed him—thought him wonderful, and although at the time that was more hero worship of a junior to a very accomplished man, I found out he was wonderful. He was everything a top ED specialist should be—kind, caring, compassionate yet firm with drunks and time-wasters.’
She glanced at Marty, wondering how he was taking this—really wondering why he’d asked…
‘Tough competition for any bloke coming along now,’ he said, and she felt a little spurt of anger.
‘Well, it shouldn’t worry you, because you’re not, are you?’
‘Not what?’ he asked, all innocence.
‘Competition! You don’t do commitment, remember?’ she snapped. ‘Now, do you want me to finish or not?’
Talking about Simon had stirred up the memories she usually kept tucked carefully away in a box in the back of her mind, but now she saw him in her mind’s eye, striding through the ED, flashing a smile here, touching a shoulder there, always so equable, so patient—always with time for everyone.
Especially for her.
Always for her…
‘Please,’ Marty said, and it took her a moment to remember what she’d asked.
Could she go on?
Best if she did.
Hadn’t Dad been telling her she should talk about the man she’d loved, if only for the boys’ sake?
‘We got married; I kept working until I fell pregnant then Simon began to get headaches, not telling me at first—not, in fact, until he’d seen a specialist, had all the scans and tests, and been told he only had six weeks to live.’
Try as she might, she couldn’t shut the box of memories now and her eyes blurred with tears.
‘I’ve told you most of the rest—the “why me” reaction that is purely selfish, then living with a loved one’s pain, feeling his suffering and knowing I couldn’t ease it, pretending all the time that life goes on when, really, it doesn’t—it stands still, seemingly forever…’
‘And the boys?’
The question was so out of left field, so startling, she forgot her tears, and just stared at the man who’d asked it.
‘You were pregnant but you lost that baby,’ he reminded her gently, moving closer to put his arm around her shoulders.
The pain she’d been feeling receded.
‘I think the day Simon had the news, he went to see Stephen. They’d been contemporaries at university. Simon and I—we’d talked about our family, what we’d like in the way of kids. We knew we wanted more than one, so just in case I ever decided to have another one, he had some sperm frozen.’
Emma paused, wondering if talking about stuff you didn’t want to talk about really was cathartic, because somehow now she was feeling better.
‘For a long time after I’d lost the first baby, having another just wasn’t on the agenda. I was still grieving for Simon and for his baby—our baby—as well, so I’d completely forgotten the frozen sperm.’
She paused, thinking back to that momentous day when Dad had suggested using it.
And smiled.
‘Dad suggested it, promised to help, to mind the baby while I kept on working. It was three years after Simon’s death and I must have been ready, because suddenly it was the best idea I’d ever heard. I went to see Stephen and the rest, as they say, is history. The very best part of it was that I conceived not one but two babies.’
* * *
Marty drew her closer and clasped her hands in his, aware how hard it would have been for her to tell this story. But she’d been through so much loss and pain his heart hurt, thinking about it.
But now he understood her detached approach to the search for a father for the twins. She’d suffered too much to want to love again—to risk that terrible pain…
So he sat and held her, felt her warmth, knew whatever it was between them could not continue.
Except for friendship.
That he could provide…