Paula Roe - The Pregnancy Plot

Her fingers dug into the wood door frame, holding her up and keeping her steady while everything inside groaned in abject disappointment.

“I’m sorry, Matt. I...I can’t.”

“What?” He frowned as his hand slowly slid from the frame. “I thought—”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated lamely.

No! No, no, no. Her hands tightened on the door, breath caught in sudden hesitancy. He was right there in front of her, her memories a pale comparison to the reality of his warm body, skilled lips and practiced hands.

No. This wasn’t right.

It took all her willpower to steel herself against those seductive eyes and take a firm step past him, into the hall. “I can’t do this. I’m... Goodbye, Matthew.”

Then she turned on her heel and practically sprinted to the elevators.

Four

It was Thursday, surgery roster day. It was always odd walking the halls of Saint Catherine’s as a visitor and not rushing on his way to surgery, post-op or a meeting. Matt had passed reception and greeted the nurses, their unspoken questions creating a tiny frisson of discomfort as they returned his smile and nodded. The corridors held that familiar polarizing smell—people either loathed the mix of antiseptic, antibiotics and clean linen or found it comforting. For him it was about adrenaline, the scent of new scrubs, the weird soapy smell in the washroom. The jitters that always hit him a second after he gowned up. Then the rush of complete and utter calm as he scrubbed, studied his notes and prepared to cut.

He automatically glanced at the door numbers, then turned his focus down the hall. Katrina’s office was at the end and, as always, he had to go past the Blue Room to get there.

He picked up the pace, studiously ignoring the innocuous door with its private sign. He’d always hated that room: a room where bad news got officially delivered, where parents learned their child’s illness was terminal, where brothers, sisters, husbands and wives broke down and cried. The other surgeons called it “the grief room” in private.

A room he associated with so many names—Kyle McClain. Denise Baxter. Eli Hughes. Valerie Bowman. And the rest. He remembered them all.

Head cloudy with memories, he barely heard his name being called until he spotted a middle-aged couple heading down a corridor on his left.

“Dr. Cooper?” the woman said again, and he paused as they approached. “I thought it was you. It’s Megan Ross,” she added with a smile. “This is Jeremy. I don’t know if you remember us—”

“Of course,” he said, shaking Jeremy Ross’s hand. “I operated on your son, Scott.” Matt paused, then asked cautiously, “Is he okay?”

“He’s perfect.” Scott’s father waved away his concern with a reassuring smile. “We’re just visiting a friend.”

He nodded, relieved. “Good. Scott would be what—fourteen now? Oh, okay—” He paused as Megan Ross enveloped him in a huge hug.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, face flushed as she let him go. “But it’s the least we can do for the man who saved Scotty’s life.”

He smiled. “That was my job, Mrs. Ross.”

“Oh, no, you did more than that. You walked us through the procedure, answered all our questions and reassured us we were doing the right thing.” Her voice wavered and she gulped in a breath, giving her husband a shaky smile when he reached out to rub her back. “You gave up your time, sitting with us, talking about silly, inconsequential things and keeping us occupied while we waited for Scotty to come out of post-op. We were here for a month and you were there for us every time. Not many doctors would do that.”

Matt’s heart squeezed for one moment, remembering the little boy with the brain tumor, one of his very last cases at Saint Cat’s. “You are quite welcome.”

“We’ve just come back from Greece, went to all those places you told us about that night,” Jeremy Ross added. “Scotty loved it.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and withdrew a small drawstring bag. “We got you something.”

He put up a hand, alarmed. “Oh, you didn’t have to—”

“Don’t you go refusing it,” Mrs. Ross chided. “Scott picked it out especially for you.”

Could he feel any more awkward? Yet as the parents beamed at him with gratitude, the feeling fragmented. He took the velvet bag Mr. Ross held out and tipped the contents onto his palm.

“It’s Saint Luke,” Mrs. Ross said. “Patron Saint of Physicians. We got it on Naxos. They make them from the crumbling stones of the Gateway to the Gods.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said, turning the cool stone figurine over in his fingers. Intricate carvings detailed the ancient saint’s intricately folded robe and beard. He had a beatific expression on his lined face and he held a thick book in his hand.

A wave of emotion hit the back of Matt’s throat. “Tell Scotty it’s perfect.”

“We will. You know he wants to be a doctor when he grows up?”

He nodded. “He’ll make a good one.”

After another hug and handshake, they left. And Matt was left standing there in the cool corridor, completely undone.

He remembered everything so clearly, every moment he’d spent in their company, deflecting their grief and uncertainty with hard facts, then with uncomplicated amusing stories of his sister’s travels. They were good people, easy to talk to and relax around. Eventually conversation had turned to his own hopes, his plans to travel and see the world—plans that were merely a pipe dream considering his insane workload and commitment to the hospital. And the Rosses had regaled him with their ten-year-old’s antics, his love of science and classic Doctor Who episodes, his obsession with all things ancient.

Had it really been four years ago? The desire had been planted then, only months before his brother Jack’s death, before his life had taken a one-eighty and he’d turned his back on his parents’ demands, his career and his marriage.

Matt dragged a hand through his hair and stared down the long corridor. He’d finally seen the world, been to places he’d desperately wanted to go. He’d spent a whole year doing nothing except experiencing life. These days, GEM ensured his travel bug was sufficiently fed: he handpicked his assignments and delegated the rest to his capable staff.

He’d achieved all his goals. Well, except one. One deep desire that burned in the back of his mind, one so powerful that it had contributed to his marriage’s downfall, turned Katrina so bitter and angry that she’d demanded way more in the divorce than she was legally entitled to. Wracked with guilt, he’d given it to her.

I don’t want kids. She’d made that clear from the very start. And he’d agreed. He’d witnessed the devastation of losing a child, seen the agony and pain every day. You couldn’t escape it in a place like this. Plus, where would they find the time to devote to parenthood? Their entire lives revolved around equally demanding careers.

Then Jack had died and life as he knew it came crashing to a halt.

No, Katrina had said calmly when he’d broached the subject. I told you. We agreed.

I know, he’d replied, unable to meet her accusing eyes. But I’ve changed my mind.

She’d sighed. Look, we should take a break. I’ll get Kylie to book us a holiday.... We could spend a few days in Bali—

I don’t want a holiday, he’d shot back. I want you to consider us having a baby.

Oh, the look he’d gotten from that! And when she’d slowly crossed her arms in that I’m-tired-of-this-topic way of hers, he knew before she opened her mouth that his marriage was over.

That will never, ever happen, Matthew.

His phone beeped, breaking into his thoughts. He glanced at it. He was five minutes late. Katrina hated tardiness.