Leah Martyn - A Mother for His Baby

‘You could slip home at lunchtime and make sure he’s all right.’

Brady’s mouth twitched briefly. ‘I’m tempted—but, no, I don’t want to start being distracted from my job. That’s not fair to the rest of the team.’

‘Just till you and AJ settle in.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s kind of you to suggest it, Jo, but let me do this my way—OK?’

Jo’s mouth flattened in an apologetic smile. ‘It was just a thought.’

‘I know.’ His own smile was teasing and very direct. ‘It’s probably your mothering instincts at play.’

Jo felt her face warm. Now, there was a thought. ‘Uh, has Ralph handed over to you yet?’

‘Mmm. I spent the entire day here with him yesterday.’

Sunday? Jo frowned. ‘That was a bit above the call of duty, wasn’t it?’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mind. Especially in the circumstances.’

So Ralph had obviously told him about his grandson. ‘It’s a real blow for the family.’

‘I’d be completely gutted if anything like that happened to AJ,’ Brady replied soberly. Then in a beat his mood lightened and he moved to the door and held it open for her. ‘Come on, Dr Rutherford, or Vicki will be after our hides.’

Jo made a face. ‘Mondays are always nuts, aren’t they?’

‘Yep. But I’m really looking forward to meeting my patients and getting stuck in.’

‘Just yell if you need to consult about anything,’ Jo offered.

‘Thanks, Jo—for everything .’ For what seemed like aeons they held each other’s gaze and Brady felt his throat constrict. Her eyes were like emerald-green pools, inviting him to dive in.

Oh, damn. If only he dared.

He cleared his throat. ‘Uh, probably see you at lunchtime, then.’

She nodded and they turned, each heading in opposite directions to their consulting rooms.

* * *

With a feeling of optimism Brady picked up the card for his first patient from Vicki, then stuck his head into the waiting room and called, ‘Samara? Come through, please.’

A young woman in jeans and skinny-rib top rose to her feet. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ she said, click-clacking along in her sandals behind him and then taking the chair beside his desk.

‘Brady McNeal. I’m taking over Dr Mitchell’s patients.’

Samara, who was nineteen, pressed her hands together prayer-like, locking them between her jeans-clad knees. ‘I’ve had some tests done. Dr Mitchell said he’d have the results if I came back today.’

‘That’s right.’ Brady had gone carefully over the young woman’s notes with Ralph.

Originally, she’d presented with chronic fatigue and lethargy, and after several attempts to get at the cause of her problems with no worthwhile results, Ralph had sent her for a small bowel gastroscopy—a biopsy of the small intestine. The results were back and, bingo!

Brady brought up her file on the computer. ‘The results of your biopsy are pretty conclusive, Samara,’ he told his patient gently. ‘It appears you have what is known as coeliac disease.’ He spelled it out for her and said, ‘It’s pronounced, seal-e-ack .’

Samara shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. What does it mean exactly?’

‘In simple terms,’ Brady said, ‘it means you have an intolerance to gluten.’

‘That’s wheat and stuff, isn’t it?’

Brady nodded. ‘Especially wheat, but we can’t dismiss other grains like rye, barley and possibly oats.’

Samara chewed her bottom lip, digesting the information. ‘So what will I eat, then? I mean, there are additives in everything these days. Will I have to start reading every label on every bit of food I buy? That’ll be a real pain. I live away from home,’ she expanded, ‘so it’s not like I can get my mum to prepare my food.’

‘It will be a bit of a minefield,’ Brady agreed. ‘But don’t lose heart before you start. Just think that if it’s going to make the difference between you feeling well or not well, it’ll be worth doing, won’t it?’

‘I guess…’

He smiled reassuringly and pulled a couple of pamphlets from his drawer. ‘You won’t have to do it all on your own. There’s quite an active support group in the town. But read these for a start and I’ll give you a letter of referral to the dietitian at the hospital. Make an appointment as soon as you can. She’ll have a fund of information you’ll be able to tap into.’

Samara took the pamphlets and looked down at them. ‘Looks like I’ll have to be really picky about what I eat,’ she said glumly.

‘If it’s to be of benefit to you, the diet has to be strict,’ Brady pointed out practically. ‘But don’t imagine you’ll have to go on army rations. There will be a vast range of foods you’ll be able to eat. And enjoy. You’ll just have a different eating pattern from most of us, that’s all.’

Samara swept a hand through her white-blonde fringe, leaving it in little tufts. ‘So when I get going with this new diet, I should start to feel better, shouldn’t I?’

‘You should.’ Brady was cautious. ‘But it may be slow and gradual. You’ll begin to notice your energy picking up. That’ll be a good sign. Give your new diet a month or so and then come back and we’ll test your iron levels. That will be an indicator that you’re on the right track.’

Samara’s pretty mouth flattened in resignation. ‘Bang go my ham and pineapple pizzas, then. The bases are all made from wheat flour for sure. And toast! I love my toast!’

‘Hang on.’ Brady raised a hand in a halting motion. ‘Maybe not…’ He picked up his phone and depressed the number he’d memorised. ‘Ah, Jo, sorry to bother you.’ He explained why he was calling and listened for a moment. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, before clipping the receiver back on its cradle. ‘Samara, you’re in luck.’ His head came up and he smiled. ‘Apparently the baker in the arcade makes a gluten-free bread for special customers, but you’ll need to order it in advance.’

A tiny dimple flickered in Samara’s cheek. ‘So I can have my toast?’

‘Probably.’ Brady handed the referral letter to his patient and got to his feet to see her out. ‘But to be on the safe side, perhaps run it past the dietitian when you see her, OK?’

Brady ploughed on through his patient list, pleased he’d got through by one o’clock when the surgery officially closed for lunch.

He was feeling reasonably upbeat about his morning. He’d managed pretty well, he decided, and had coped without bugging his colleagues too much. Except for his query to Jo, he’d only had to double-check the name of a drug with Angelo before he’d prescribed it. In Canada the drug in question had been dispensed under another brand name entirely. Much better to make sure.

Tom and Jo were already in the staffroom when Brady made his way in. ‘Still in one piece, mate?’ Tom quipped, his nose buried in the sports section of the local paper.

‘And intending to stay that way,’ Brady quipped back. ‘Thanks for your help earlier, by the way.’ He turned towards Jo, who was trying to find the beginning of a new roll of clingfilm.

‘That’s OK. Oh!’ With a yelp of frustration she thrust the lot at Brady. ‘See if you can get it started. It hates me!’

He chuckled and took the offending box of cling film. ‘About lunch,’ he said, painstakingly setting about unravelling the mangled film. ‘Do we bring our own or what?’

‘We do a communal thing,’ Jo said. ‘Vicki collects money from us each week and then shops for fresh bread and various sandwich fillings. Just help yourself to anything in the fridge.’

Intent on his task, Brady continued, ‘So I pay Vicki, then?’

Tom sniggered. ‘She’ll hunt you down, mate. Never fear. Jo, are you doing me a sandwich?’