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‘Let’s go,’ she said, and Marty needed no second telling.
The drive, along winding mountain roads, seemed endless, although they must have made it to the hospital in record time. Marty had given Mac the relevant phone numbers to call so by the time they pulled up at the emergency doors, they had not only a trolley and staff waiting but Izzy’s obstetrician.
Emma hung back as Izzy was wheeled away, to be examined, treated, and have decisions made about her condition and the safety of both her and the baby. There were so many variables—and so many risks—connected to the condition, Emma found herself shivering as she followed the parade into the ED.
‘I think I should go and get Nikki.’
Just when Marty had caught up with her, Emma wasn’t sure, but when he materialised beside her she wasn’t altogether surprised. He made a habit of it, the materialising thing…
She turned to him and nodded.
‘You’re right, I think she’d like to be here. You’ll be, what, a couple of hours? I can explain to Mac—’
‘Couple of hours be damned, I’ll fly over. I’ll phone Hallie to let her know I’m coming and what’s going on, and she’ll track Nikki down.’
He paused, then smiled—the kind of smile that Emma wished had been for her.
‘Come to think of it, Hallie will want to be here too, and I think Izzy might need her.’
He really was a special person, Emma thought as Marty dashed off. Always thinking of others, thinking ahead then working out the best way he could help.
As special as Simon?
The thought was so startling she stopped in her tracks, shook off her straying thoughts and walked swiftly into the emergency room, where Izzy was being examined.
Except she wasn’t there. Mac met her at the door.
‘They’ve decided to deliver the baby, she’s been wheeled up to theatre for a Caesar,’ he said, his voice tight with strain. ‘She’s only thirty-one weeks, but the foetal heartbeat isn’t that great. She’s had anticonvulsant medication and steroids to help the baby’s lungs develop more quickly, but her obstetrician doesn’t want to wait.’
‘Thirty-one weeks? Braxton PICU won’t be able to keep the baby. He or she—’
‘He,’ Mac put in. ‘We only decided at the last scan that we wanted to know, and, yes, I’d been thinking the same thing. Where will they send them?’
‘I haven’t been here long enough to know,’ Emma told him. ‘But I’d say Retford. It’s the major hospital in the region and as it’s attached to the regional university I would think they’d have a top-class PICU.’
Mac gave a huff of laughter.
‘I actually know that, having sent a baby there myself. Shows the state I’m in.’
‘As does the fact you’re standing here chatting with me. I know they’ll have to prep Izzy for the op, but shouldn’t you be up in Theatre, waiting for her?’
Mac’s face paled.
‘Of course,’ he said, his voice so hoarse Emma could read the fear he felt for his wife.
‘They’ll both be fine, so go,’ she said to him, giving him a little push in the direction of the theatre.
Should she follow?
Could she follow?
She’d been battling to keep focussed from the moment she’d crossed the barn to sit beside Izzy, battling to keep away the memories that were threatening to flood her brain and render her totally useless. Thinking about Marty to distract herself?
But they could no longer be pushed back, and as she walked along the corridor towards the theatre she remembered being wheeled in, still numb from Simon’s death, not really aware of anything that was happening around her, let alone within her body.
She turned, seeking privacy in the ER tea-room, quiet at night with only a skeleton staff on duty. She fiddled with the kettle so if anyone came in she’d have her back to them and at least look busy.
And now she let the memories flood in. The mad dash to the hospital, pre-eclampsia—the dreaded word—being muttered somewhere outside the fog that was in her head.
Decisions being made by experts because this had been one shock too many for her. Bed rest not helping, and a Caesar the only option.
But her baby, Simon’s baby, hadn’t lived and now the tears she hadn’t been able to shed then because Simon’s death had left her empty—now those tears, the tears for her baby, rolled down her cheeks.
‘Has something happened? Izzy? The baby?’
Once again Marty was there, behind her this time. She swiped away the tears, aware she must have been staring at the kettle for at least an hour.
Probably longer…
‘They’re fine, as far as I know,’ she said, turning to find not only Marty in the room but a teenager Emma assumed must be Nikki, with Hallie close behind her.
