Alison Roberts - Midwives On-Call

She should still thank him.

Except … he’d kissed her. He’d said he loved her.

She stood in the kids’ bedroom, between the two cots, watching them sleeping in the dim light cast by a Humpty Dumpty figure that glowed a soft pink to blue and then back again.

She had to work with him, she reminded herself. She needed to get things back to a formal footing, fast.

Resolute, she grabbed her phone and texted.

Thank you for today. It was really generous. The kiss was a mistake but I dare say the gulls are grateful. And Mum and I are grateful, too.

That’s what was needed, she thought. Make it light. Put the gratitude back to the plural—herself and her mother—and the seagulls? She was thanking someone she’d once known for a generous gesture.

Only … was it more than that? Surely.

He’d kissed her. Her fingers crept involuntarily to her mouth. She could still feel him, she thought. She could still taste him.

After five years, her body hadn’t forgotten him.

Her body still wanted him.

He’d said he still loved her.

Had she been crazy to walk away from him all those years ago? Her body said yes, but here in this silent house, listening to the breathing of two children who’d become her own, knowing clearly and bleakly where they’d be if she hadn’t taken them in, she could have no regrets. Her mind didn’t.

It was only her heart and her body that said something else entirely.

What he wanted to do was stand outside and watch the house for a while. Why? Because it felt like his family was in there.

That was a dumb thought. He’d laid down his ultimatum five years ago and he’d moved on. He’d had five professionally satisfying years getting the skills he needed to be one of the world’s top in-utero surgeons. Babies lived now because of him. He’d never have had that chance if he’d stayed here—if he’d become part of Em’s menagerie.

He couldn’t stay standing outside the house, like a stalker, like someone creepy. What he’d like was to take his little Morgan for a long drive along the coast. The car was like his balm, his escape.

Em had smashed his car. She’d also smashed … something else.

She’d destroyed the equilibrium he’d built around himself over the last few years. She’d destroyed the fallacy that said he was a loner; that said he didn’t need anyone.

He wanted her. Fiercely, he wanted her. He’d kissed her tonight and it would have been worth all the fish.

It had felt right.

It had felt like he’d been coming home.

His phone pinged and he flipped it open. Em’s polite thank-you note greeted him, and he snapped it shut.

She was making light of the kiss. Maybe that was wise.

Dammit, he couldn’t keep standing here. Any moment now she’d look out the window and see him. Ex-husband loitering …

He headed back to the hire car. He had an apartment at the hospital but he wasn’t ready for sleep yet. Instead, he headed back to the beach. He parked, got rid of his shoes and walked along the sand.

The night was still and warm. This evening the beach had been filled with families, kids whooping it up, soaking up the last of Melbourne’s summer, but now the beach seemed to be the domain of couples. Couples walking hand in hand in the shallows. Couples lying on rugs on the sand, holding each other.

Young loves?

He walked on and passed a couple who looked to be in their seventies, maybe even older. They were walking slowly. The guy had a limp, a gammy hip? The woman was holding his hand as if she was supporting him.

But the hold wasn’t one of pure physical support, he thought. Their body language said they’d been holding each other for fifty years.

He wanted it still. So badly …

Could he take on the kids? Could he take that risk?

Was it a risk? He’d held Gretta today and what he’d felt …

She had Down’s syndrome with complications. Tristan said her life expectancy could be measured in months. It was stupid—impossible even—to give your heart to such a kid.

He could still hear his adoptive mother …

‘It’s not like he’s really ours. If we hadn’t had Brett then we wouldn’t have known what love really is. And now … we’re stuck with him. It’s like we have a cuckoo in the nest …’

If he ever felt like that …

It was too hard. He didn’t know how to feel.

But Em had made the decision for him. She’d moved on, saying he was free to find someone and have kids of his own. Kids who he could truly love.

Hell. He raked his hair and stared out at the moonlit water.

Melbourne’s bay was protected. The waves were small, even when the weather was wild, but on a night like this they were practically non-existent. The windsurfers had completely run out of wind. The moonlight was a silver shimmer over the sea and the night seemingly an endless reflection of the starlit sky.

He wanted Em with him.

He wanted her to be … free?

It wasn’t going to happen. She had encumbrances. No, he thought, she has people she loves. Kids. Her mother. Not him.

It’s for the best, he thought, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and practically glaring at the moon. I should never have come to the Victoria. I wouldn’t have if I’d known Em would be here.

So leave?

Maybe he would, he thought. He’d agreed with Charles Delamere on a three-month trial.

Twelve weeks to go?

ON MONDAY OLIVER hit the wards early. He’d been in the day before, not because he’d been on duty but because he’d wanted to check on Ruby. But Ruby was doing all the right things and so was her baby, so he didn’t check her first. He worked on the things he needed for his embryonic research lab, then decided to check the midwives’ roster and choose a time to visit Ruby when he knew Em wouldn’t be around.

So he headed—surreptitiously, he thought—to the nurses’ station in the birthing centre—just as Isla Delamere came flying down the corridor, looking, for Isla, very harassed indeed.

When she saw Oliver she practically sagged in relief.

‘Dr Evans. Oliver. I know your specialty’s in-utero stuff and I know Charles has said you can spend the rest of your time on your research but you’re an obstetrician first and foremost, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Of course he was.

‘I have four births happening and we’re stretched. Two are problems. Emily’s coping with one, I have the other. Mine’s a bit of a spoilt socialite—she was booked at a private hospital but had hysterics at the first labour pain so her husband’s brought her here because we’re closer. I can deal with that. But Em’s looking after a surrogate mum. She’s carrying her sister’s child—her sister’s egg, her sister’s husband’s sperm, all very organised—but the emotion in there seems off the planet. Maggie’s a multigravida, four kids of her own, no trouble with any, but now she’s slowed right down and her sister’s practically hysterical. But we can’t kick her out. Oliver, Em needs support. Our registrar’s off sick, Darcie’s at a conference, Sean’s coping with a Caesar so that leaves you. Can you help?’

‘Of course.’

‘Excellent. Here are the case notes. Suite Four.’

‘You’re okay with yours?’

‘My one wants pethidine, morphine, spinal blocks, amputation at the waist, an immediate airlift to Hawaii and her body back,’ Isla said grimly. ‘And she’s only two centimetres dilated. Heaven help us when it’s time to push. But I’ve coped with worse than this in my time. What Em’s coping with seems harder. She needs you, Dr Evans. Go.’

The last time he’d seen her he’d kissed her. Now …

Em seemed to be preparing to do a vaginal examination. She was scrubbed, dressed in theatre gear, looking every inch a midwife. Every inch a professional. And the look she gave him as he slipped into the room had nothing to do with the kiss, nothing to do with what was between them. It was pure, professional relief.