He smiled at her, sitting with her feet up on the railing of his balcony, her long legs sending a frisson of excitement through him.
‘Do you want me to do anything about the dinner—turn something over in the oven, get the cutlery?’
‘Just sit and relax,’ she said, sipping at her drink. ‘And after dinner, if you like, I’ll take you for a drive in my new car.’
‘You bought a car? Why didn’t you say? We could have gone straight down and looked at it.’
‘Yes?’ she teased, and he had to laugh, but her lack of excitement over such a purchase bemused him. Buying a new car, for him, was right up there with surfing big waves as far as excitement went.
But Sam?
He studied her for a moment, saw her in profile as she watched the moon put in its appearance over the ocean. She was different, this woman. He sensed she had an inner calmness of spirit that meant she could cope with whatever life threw at her. Someone at ease with herself.
Yes, she’d been upset about Rosa, but in no way had it affected her work, or her capacity to empathise with all the other patients and their families, all of whom he knew, even after a week or two, liked and trusted her implicitly.
If he’d been the peevish type, he might have resented her easy popularity—the way nurses would turn to her, parents seek her out—but instead he was proud, not only because he’d appointed her but because she was Sam, and he was happy for her.
* * *
Sam sipped her drink, delighting in the peace and quiet of the early evening, happy she could sit like this with Andy, not having to talk, or plan, or, in fact, do anything much.
Shortly she’d have to get up and check on their dinner, but right now all she had to do was sit, comfortable in his presence, relishing his closeness—the feeling of a bond between them that worked without words.
‘Sure I can’t do anything for you in the kitchen?’ he asked and she turned to smile at him, shaking her head.
‘Starving, are you?’ she teased. ‘You can’t hurry a roast dinner. I’ll take care of it, but we can sit a while longer.’
She paused, remembering the bad moments they’d had earlier in the day, and the outcome when he’d arrived home.
This could work, but being with Andy, enjoying the physical side of things, could she let it go when the ‘just for now’ ended?
She rather doubted it, so with a less content feeling she lowered her legs and headed for the kitchen to pull the lamb out of the oven and wrap it in foil to let it rest, then called Andy, asking him to set the table while she served up.
Which involved coming into the kitchen to get the cutlery and, it appeared, seizing her by the waist and waltzing her around the kitchen island, before releasing her to get on with her job.
But that carefree impulse had left her smiling and wondering again if ‘just for now’ would be enough.
The drive was forgotten as the meal became an erotic feast, feeding titbits to each other, feet tangling beneath the table, hands touching, stroking, the meal in the end only three-quarters eaten as the need grew too great and they moved to the bedroom to pursue the by now red-hot attraction.
Sam woke at three and slid out of the bed, careful not to wake Andy. She pulled on yesterday’s clothes to make her way down to her own small living space, showered and slipped into bed. She’d get a couple of hours’ good sleep before her alarm told her the new day was waiting for her.
* * *
Andy wasn’t surprised to find Sam gone when he awoke the next morning. Her work shift began at seven and he’d slept until close to eight. But as he touched the cold sheets beside him, he wished she was still there.
Not for sex, although that would have been nice—but just for company. And with nearly two hours before he had to be at work, he could afford to lie here for a while and think about her.
He felt comfortable with Sam—talking to her, being with her, even knowing she was close by when they were on the ward.
And somehow, to him, he decided, that was nearly as good as the sex—though it was great sex—something you couldn’t really say about most new relationships—well, in his case anyway.
To get his mind off that particular subject, he ran through the patients on the ward, mentally checking where they all were in their treatment. Grant was a worry. X-rays and scans of his head had revealed little damage to his brain—no swelling, no obvious injuries at all, and although the anaesthetist had reversed the anaesthetic he’d been given to keep him calm for a few days, he’d remained unresponsive.
A neurosurgeon was due to visit him today, and Andy closed his eyes briefly, praying there was nothing the other specialists had missed.
And Jake’s rash—still no answer to that.
He drifted back to sleep...
* * *
Colin Forbes had appeared as Sam was finishing her first round, checking on any changes to patients’ statuses during the night, noting down any problems or anomalies that would require more attention later.
But right now there was a visiting neurologist standing at the monitor desk, going through Grant’s file.
‘He was alert immediately after the accident?’ he asked, when Sam had introduced herself.
‘Alert and responding to questions the ambos put to him,’ Sam confirmed. ‘It was because of the extent of his physical injuries that the surgeons who patched him up decided to put him into an induced coma for a few days, to allow the healing process to begin.’
‘And they reversed it, when?’
‘Yesterday, late afternoon.’
‘And no change?’
‘None!’ Sam told him, drawing a vacant monitor towards her and pulling up Grant’s scans and X-rays.
‘Did they do an MRI?’ Colin asked, and Sam shook her head.
‘Get one done now and ask Radiography to copy to me. Now let’s see the boy.’
Sam spoke to the nurse about organising someone to take Grant down to Radiography, then led the specialist to Grant’s room, where his mother was reading to the unresponsive boy.
‘Good stuff!’ Colin told her, then introduced himself. ‘The more stimulation a coma patient has the better,’ he said, before adding, ‘although plenty dispute that. But you keep it up, touch him, talk to him, let him smell things and feel things. It can’t do any harm, and who knows what will help.’
Grant’s mother happily agreed, saying to Sam as Colin left the room, ‘What a lovely man!’
And indeed he was. Sam totally agreed with his notions about providing stimulation for coma patients.
But little Jake was her main problem, his rash far worse. She’d wondered if it could be measles, however unlikely that would be given the child’s isolation, but she did return to his bedside to open his mouth, trying to find tell-tale spots among the ulcers the chemo had caused, which was impossible.
Aware he’d been home before the bone-marrow transplant, she wondered if he might have been taken to the fair for a treat.
‘Oh, no—no way!’ Mrs Wilson responded. ‘We kept him well away from any other children and definitely away from crowds. We wanted him as well as possible for the transplant.’
Sam examined him gently, aware he was in a world of misery right now.
The rash was confined to his torso, which really ruled out the wild supposition of measles, the rash usually starting from the face down.
‘Could the donor have had some infection?’ Mrs Collins asked, but Sam shook her head.
‘The donor cells are tested, and then treated to ensure they’re totally clear of any infection. But for some reason he’s just reacted badly to the transfusion.’
‘But on the upside,’ a voice behind her said, and this time Andy had come into the room without shivers running up or down her spine, ‘it might just be a rash and it will clear up in a couple of days.’
Mrs Coll
ins smiled at him, and Sam wondered at the ease with which Andy could reassure both patients and their families.
They left Jake’s room together, Sam explaining the neurologist’s visit and his wanting an MRI for Grant.
Andy frowned, and shook his head.
‘Surely they’d have picked up anything when they did that in the ED before he was operated on,’ he said.
‘Unless there was a small bleed, and it’s just continued to bleed. He’s not on anti-coagulants—I checked what the surgeons had ordered, but—’
‘You’re right—a small bleed could have been missed,’ Andy finished for her.
And, as if summoned by their thoughts, two uniformed police officers appeared.
‘Grant Williams. We were told he’d be conscious again today,’ one of them said.
‘Might have been but even if he was, he wouldn’t be in any fit state to answer questions,’ Sam told the two men. ‘He’s badly injured, and he’s still in a coma, but you must realise that even when he comes out of it, he’ll be sleepy and confused.’
‘That right?’ one of them asked, turning to Andy as if he needed a male viewpoint on the situation.
‘Dr Reilly is in charge of the patient, so she should know,’ he said, and Sam felt her pique at the policeman’s question subside.
The two men left, and she turned to thank Andy for his support, but he just grinned at her.
‘Actually, I did it to save that poor fellow from one of your pithy set-downs. I could see the colour rising in your face.’
‘Wretch!’ she muttered at him, then added, ‘But I am worried about Grant—worried we’ve missed something important.’
‘Let’s wait for the MRI and the neurologist’s report before we start worrying. The kid’s had a rough few days—he needs time as much as anything else.’
A nurse appeared at that moment with a request from the ED, for someone to see a child with status epilepticus.
‘I’ll go down,’ Andy said, but Sam was already on her way.
‘You’re not on duty for another two hours,’ she reminded him, although inside she was rather hoping he’d come in early because he wanted to see her, maybe even brush against her—as she’d wanted to do with him.
Mind on job, she scolded herself as she arrived on the ground floor, though the thoughts she’d just dismissed did make her wonder again whether relationships between close colleagues were a good idea.
The child, Ahmed, was four years old, Sam read from his paper file as the ED doctor explained.
‘Suffers from epilepsy but usually controlled by drugs. Mother gave oral dose of a benzodiazepine, and the ambos established an IV line and gave a second dose. We have a breathing tube in place, blood sugar is low, so we gave a bolus of glucose IV but he’s still—well, you can see...’
The little boy was stiff, but his limbs were twitching and his little body twisting.
‘We’ll admit him,’ Sam said, aware they might have to begin second-level drugs, and do further blood and neurological tests. She was pleased to see the neurologist who’d been visiting Grant was listed as the child’s regular specialist. Perhaps he was still in the hospital or had rooms nearby.
Colin Forbes was not only in the hospital, but was in the PICU, at the monitor desk, reading a report on Grant from Radiography.
‘Look at this,’ he said to Sam, turning a monitor so she could see the screen. ‘Here!’ he said, using a pen to point to a darker mass of matter towards the back of the skull. ‘Poor lad was hit so hard by that damn vehicle he had a contra coup injury to the left side at the back of his brain—just a small contusion but it has bled. From his injuries, we know the car hit him on the right side, and his brain must have jolted forward then back against his skull. It wouldn’t have been picked up earlier because it wasn’t bleeding directly after the accident, then he went up to surgery and it was missed.’
‘Would it be causing his lack of response to the reversal of the coma?’ Sam asked, but Dr Forbes shrugged.
‘Possibly. A case of delayed concussion maybe—that’s always possible. But let’s just wait and see. It could resolve itself in a day or two.’
Not something Sam wanted to say to the parents, but she knew the specialist was right.
She told him about Ahmed, who should have arrived in the unit by now, and led the way to the room that had been allotted to him. Sam explained the treatment he’d received from the onset of the seizure, and to her surprise he asked, ‘And what would you use next?’
‘I suggested downstairs they use a second-line anti-epileptic drug like phenytoin, and if that doesn’t work by the time they get him transferred, paraldehyde diluted with point nine percent saline.’
He smiled at her. ‘You really don’t need me, but as Ahmed is one of my patients, I’ll definitely see him. I’d like to speak to his mother about the circumstances around the seizure—whether it was brought on by anything, or if the severity of his seizures has been increasing.’
Ahmed was settled in a bed, an ECG connected to his frail chest, the nurse checking the IV line hadn’t kinked during the transfer.
Sam checked the file and saw that phenytoin had been administered in the ED more than five minutes ago, and although Ahmed’s body seemed less rigid, the twitching continued.
‘Go ahead with paraldehyde,’ Colin told her, ‘and keep me posted on his progress.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
AND SO THE days progressed, some patients leaving, new ones arriving, but the small core of seriously ill children remaining with them. Grant had regained consciousness but remained in the PICU because of the severity of his injuries and Colin Forbes’s desire to keep an eye on his head injury.
But Jake was causing the most concern, the source of his rash still unidentified, although as yet he was showing no sign of rejecting the transfusion of stem cells he’d received. However, far from improving, he remained limp and listless.
Sam had gone from a week of early shifts to six days of night shifts so she’d seen far less of Andy, grabbing a meal together occasionally if he was home from work before she left for her shift.
She’d finished her final night shift and was looking forward to a full day’s sleep, possibly two or three, and sat in her office, writing up some notes. She’d visit Jake before she left, his condition still the main source of concern in the unit.
But as she came out into the airlock room to disrobe, there was Andy, looking so great even robed in white paper that her heart flipped.
‘How’s our boy?’ he asked, although his eyes said other things. Things that made her blush.
She pulled off her mask to smile properly at him, and was untying her gown when she started to feel sick. She ripped off her gown and raced out of the room, still wearing her booties and gloves, heading post haste for the staff lounge and its bathrooms.
Flushed with heat, she knelt by the lavatory, throwing up everything she’d snacked on during the night.
Then, clammy, and still feeling distinctly wonky, she sat back on the floor. She was aware she had to get up, wash out her mouth, wash her face and hands, and generally sort herself out, but she was unable, for the moment, to move.
Snacking on night shift was normal, mainly because the time seemed all wrong for eating a large meal, but what had she eaten that could do this to her? A couple of cups of tea with biscuits, coffee at some stage, and a sandwich from the machine in the corridor. She couldn’t even remember what had been in it, but that seemed the most likely culprit.
Hauling herself to her feet, she made her way out to the washroom to clean herself up and remove her gloves and booties, dumping them in the disposal bin.
Andy was waiting outside when she opened the door.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, concern clouding his features.
‘Fine now,’ she said, ‘but I must have eaten something that
disagreed with me.’
‘Or you’ve a virus of some kind. Maybe even something you brought back from South-East Asia. You’ll have to go home, Sam,’ he said. ‘I can’t risk you being here, maybe passing on something contagious to the children.’
‘I am going home,’ she reminded him. ‘End of night shift, four days off, remember, but I doubt it’s some bug I picked up before I came—just too long ago. It’s something I ate. I’ll be fine once I’ve had a sleep.’
He stepped towards her and she knew he wanted to hold her as much as she wanted to be held—not a done thing in a staff common room.
‘I’ll call in and see you when I get off,’ he said, reaching out and touching her lightly on the shoulder. ‘For now, go home and rest—we’ll talk later,’ he said quietly, then turned away, leaving Sam feeling weak and sick and badly in need of a hug that just hadn’t come.
Sorry she hadn’t driven her new car to work, Sam trudged home, feeling quite well now but upset that she hadn’t finished the handover and had let the team down—let Andy down!
She’d get her car and go to a pathology lab in town, ask for all the tests they could think of for possible overseas viral or bacterial complaints. But not today—today she’d sleep...
* * *
By the following morning, she felt so well she knew it couldn’t possibly be anything other than something she’d eaten that had disagreed with her. She phoned Andy to explain how well she was, but only midway through the conversation the sick feeling returned, bile rising in her throat, so she said a hasty goodbye and headed for her own small bathroom.
Where, fifteen minutes later, sitting on a different cool, tiled floor, her brain began to work again, and she had to close her mind against the answer it had reached.
Surely not?
It couldn’t be!
But it had been over two weeks since Rosa’s death, and she knew from the last time that a pregnancy was dated from the date of the last period, and that morning sickness could begin within three to four weeks of that date.
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