Alison Roberts - Midwives On-Call

Not very much time.

That he had this time with her today was precious. He didn’t know her, she wasn’t his kid, but, regardless, it was gold.

If he could somehow take the pain away …

He couldn’t. He couldn’t protect Gretta.

He couldn’t protect Em.

Hell, but he wanted to. And not just for Em, he conceded. For this little one. This little girl who laughed and twisted and buried her face in his shoulder and then turned to face the world again.

Em loved her. Loved her.

An adopted child.

He’d thought … Yeah, okay, he knew. If Em was able to have her own child it’d all change. Gretta would take second place.

But did he know? Five years ago he’d been sure. He’d been totally judgmental and his marriage was over because of it.

Now the sands were shifting. He was shifting.

‘More,’ Gretta ordered, and he realised two small waves had washed over her feet and he hadn’t done the lift and squeal routine. Bad.

‘Em wouldn’t forget,’ he told Gretta as he lifted and she squealed. ‘Em loves you.’

But Gretta’s face was buried in his shoulder, and that question was surfacing—again. Over and over.

Had he made the mistake of his life?

Could he …?

Focus on Gretta, he told himself. Anything else was far too hard.

Anything else was far too soon.

Or five years too late?

BY THE TIME Em and Adrianna arrived home, Oliver had the kids squeaky clean. He’d bathed them, dressed them in their PJs, tidied the place as best he could and was feeling extraordinarily smug about his child-minding prowess.

The kids were tired but happy. All Em and Adrianna had to do was feed them and tuck them into bed. He could leave. Job done.

They walked in looking glowing. They both had beautifully styled, shiny hair. They both looked as squeaky clean as the kids—scrubbed? They’d obviously shopped a little.

Em was wearing a new scarf in bright pink and muted greens. It made her look … how Em used to look, he thought. Like a woman who had time to think about her appearance. Free?

And impressed.

‘Wow.’ Both women were gazing around the kitchen in astonishment. The kids were in their chairs at the table. Oliver had just started making toast to keep them going until dinner. ‘Wow,’ Adrianna breathed again. ‘There’s not even a mess.’

‘Mike took them all to the beach,’ Em reminded her, but she was smiling at Oliver, her eyes thanking him.

‘Hey, I had to clean the bathroom,’ Oliver said, mock wounded. ‘I’ve had to do some work.’

‘Of course you have.’ Adrianna flopped onto the nearest chair. ‘Hey, if we make some eggs we could turn that toast into soldiers, and the kids’ dinner is done. Kids, how about if I eat egg and toast soldiers too, and then I’ll flop into bed, as well. I’m pooped.’ But then she turned thoughtful. ‘But, Em, you aren’t ready for bed yet. You look fabulous, the night’s still young, the kids are good and Oliver’s still here. Why don’t you two go out to dinner?’

Em stared at her like she’d lost her mind. ‘Dinner …’

‘You know, that thing you eat at a restaurant. Or maybe it could be fish and chips overlooking the bay. It’s a gorgeous night. Oliver, do you have anything else on?’

‘No, but—’

‘Then go on, the two of you. You know you want to.’

‘Mum, we don’t want to.’

‘Really?’ Adrianna demanded. ‘Honestly? Look at me, Em, and say you really don’t want to go out to dinner with Oliver. Oliver, you do the same.’

Silence.

‘There you go, then,’ she said, satisfied. ‘Off you go. Shoo.’

What else could they do but follow instructions? The night was warm and still, a combination unusual for Melbourne, where four seasons were often famously represented in one day. But this night the gods were smiling. Even the fish-and-chip kiosk didn’t have too long a queue. Oliver ordered, then he and Em walked a block back from the beach to buy a bottle of wine, and returned just as their order was ready.

They used to do this often, Em thought. Once upon a time …

‘I still have our picnic rug,’ Oliver said ruefully, as they collected their feast. ‘But it’s in the back of the Morgan.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Just be glad your wagon only got scratches—you’re the one who’s dependent on it. Moving on … Hey, how about this?’ A family was just leaving an outside table and it was pretty much in the best position on the beachfront. Oliver swooped on it before a bunch of teenagers reached it, spread his parcels over it and signalled her to come. Fast.

‘You’re worse than the seagulls,’ she retorted, smiling at his smug expression. ‘Talk about swoop for the kill …’

‘Table-swooping’s one of my splinter skills,’ he told her. ‘Surely you remember.’

‘I try … not to.’

‘Does that help? Trying not to?’

Silence. She couldn’t think of an answer. They unwrapped their fish and chips and ate a few. They watched a couple of windsurfers trying to guide their kites across the bay with not enough breeze, but the question still hung.

How soon could you forget a marriage? Never? It was never for her.

‘I … How was America?’ she asked at last, because she had to say something, the silence was becoming oppressive.

‘Great. I learned so much.’

‘You went away an obstetrician and came back …’

‘I’m still first and foremost an obstetrician.’

‘But you have the skills to save Ruby’s baby—and countless others. You must feel it’s worth it.’

‘Em …’

‘And you wouldn’t have done that if we’d stayed together.’ She was determined to get this onto some sort of normal basis, where they could talk about their marriage as if it was just a blip in their past. It was nothing that could affect their future. ‘But I’m surprised you haven’t met anyone else.’ She hesitated but then ploughed on. She needed to say this. Somehow.

‘You ached to be a dad,’ she whispered, because somehow saying it aloud seemed wrong. ‘I thought … There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me who has the fertility problems. I thought you’d have met someone else by now and organised our divorce. Isn’t that why we split? I sort of … I sort of wanted to think of you married with a couple of kids.’

‘Did you really want that?’ His curt response startled her into splashing her wine. She didn’t want it anyway, she decided. She put down her glass with care and met his look head-on.

Say it like it is.

‘That’s what you wanted. That’s why I agreed to separate.’

‘I thought ending the marriage was all about you needing a partner so you could adopt.’

‘It’s true I wanted kids,’ she managed, and her voice would hardly work for her. It was hard even to whisper. ‘But I never wanted another husband than you.’

‘You didn’t want me.’

‘Your terms were too hard, Oliver. Maybe now … maybe given some space it might be different. But we’d lost Josh and I was so raw, so needy. All I wanted was a child to hold … I think maybe I was a little crazy. I demanded too much of you. I hadn’t realised quite how badly you’d been wounded.’

‘I hadn’t been wounded.’

‘I’ve met your adoptive parents, remember? I’ve met your appalling brother.’

‘I’m well over that.’

‘Do you ever get over being not wanted? You were adopted, seemingly adored, and then suddenly supplanted by your parents’ “real” son. I can’t imagine how much that must have hurt.’

‘It’s past history.’

‘It’s not,’ she said simply. ‘Because it affects who you are. It always will. Maybe …’ She hesitated but this had been drifting in and out of her mind for five years now. Was it better left unsaid? Maybe it was, but she’d say it anyway. ‘Maybe it will affect any child you have, adopted or not. Maybe that’s why you haven’t moved on. Would you have loved Josh, Oliver, or would you have resented him because he’d have had the love you never had?’