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‘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.
