Suddenly Daddy and Suddenly Mommy

by Loree Lough

  He?

  Ciara’s heart lurched as she pictured a miniature Mitch, running around the house on chubby bare feet. “So…the baby’s all right?”

  “We’ve had him monitored the whole time. If there was a problem, I’d have brought in a neo-natal specialist, stat. Trust me.”

  His words calmed her, soothed her. She thanked God and all the saints and angels. Thanked God again.

  So why on earth are you making a spectacle of yourself, she thought, embarrassed by the tears, the hiccuping sobs. Ciara crooked an arm over her eyes, like the child who thinks because he can’t see his mama, mama can’t see him, either.

  “Get her husband back in here,” the resident said to the nurse beside him. “He was lookin’ a little green around the gills when I kicked him out. You’ll probably find him in the men’s room….”

  “You know,” the nurse said, cocking an eyebrow, “you’re gonna be a fine surgeon someday.”

  He gave her a grateful grin. “You think so?”

  “Uh-huh.” Smiling, she shoved through the curtain. “You’re a natural…already a master at barking out orders and making nurses feel like peons.”

  He met Peterson’s eyes, then Ciara’s. “Nurses,” he huffed good-naturedly, “can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.”

  Ciara giggled nervously, and she didn’t stop until Mitch wrapped his big warm hand around her small, cold one.

  Once things were under control, Mitch stayed with Ciara while she slept, and Peterson left to make a few phone calls. When he returned, seeing that Ciara had fallen asleep, Dr. Peterson said, “I have a few questions, but I don’t want to wake her.” He stood at the foot of her bed, reading her chart. “Tell me, Mr. Mahoney, has she been staying off her feet, like I told her to?” he asked without looking up.

  Mitch’s heart pounded. She’d been told to stay off her feet? How long ago? And why? If she’d been told to rest, how did he explain the flower gardens, the spotless house, the—

  Peterson was looking at him now, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow. Mitch knew it was a simple enough question. Knew, too, that the doctor was probably wondering why Ciara’s husband didn’t have a ready answer for it.

  “It’s my understanding that you’ve been out of town,” the doctor said, peering over his half glasses at Mitch. “Maybe she hadn’t had a chance to tell you everything…yet.”

  Mitch swallowed. The man thinks you’re a no-good husband…because that’s what you are.

  “We’ve been carefully monitoring the baby for several weeks now, ever since Ciara started spotting.” Narrowing his eyes, he said, “She didn’t tell you any of this?”

  He hung his head. “I’m afraid not.” She hadn’t told him anything about the pregnancy, because he hadn’t been around. The thought of her going through this alone caused a nagging ache inside him.

  “Well, she does tend to be a secretive little thing, doesn’t she?”

  It was Mitch’s turn to frown. “How do you mean?”

  “Most young mothers—particularly first-time mothers—love to talk about their plans. You know,” he said, shrugging, “the nursery, baby names, whether or not to breast feed….” He looked at Ciara. “Not your wife.” After a long pause, Peterson met Mitch’s eyes. The doctor cleared his throat. “What happened today is proof she hasn’t been taking proper care of herself.”

  “What did happen, exactly?”

  “Placenta previa. The baby gets its nourishment and eliminates its waste by way of the placenta, you see,” he explained. “In Ciara’s case, the placenta began separating a bit. That’s what caused the bleeding.”

  His gaze fused to Mitch’s. “She’ll have to stay off her feet for the duration of the pregnancy. That means she’ll need someone with her at all times.” He glanced at his patient again. “From here on out, she cannot be left alone. Not even for short periods of time.”

  “That’s impossible,” Ciara said, her voice thick with drowsiness. “My parents are touring Europe. I couldn’t get in touch with them, even if I wanted to.”

  Why can’t you take care of her, Mr. Mahoney? was the question written on the doctor’s face. He turned to Ciara. “Do you have a sister? An aunt? A grandma, maybe?” he asked instead.

  “I’m the only child of only children,” she stated, “and my only living grandmother is in a nursing home.”

  “Hmm. Well, that pretty well covers it, doesn’t it.” He thought for a moment, then said to Mitch, “You could hire a live-in nurse.”

  Ciara sighed. “They’re bound to cost a small fortune.” Passing a trembling hand over her worried brow, she added, “I know my teachers’ insurance won’t cover that. I doubt the agency’s will, either.”

  Mitch was still bristling over the fact that the resident had also zeroed in on what he construed to be a problem between man and wife. Who does that little twerp think he is, sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong? “Doesn’t matter if the insurance covers it or not,” Mitch all but snarled. “We won’t need any live-in nurse. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my wife.”

  The doctor removed his glasses and gave Mitch a hard, appraising stare. “Day in, day out….”

  What does he expect from me? Mitch asked himself. I come back from seven months undercover—life on the line every day of it—see my wife for the first time, and she’s eight months pregnant! And during our first hour together, she collapses. “I have some R and R coming. I’ll be there round the clock.”

  “I’ll be back after I finish my rounds,” he said, and headed for the door. He left nothing behind but the memory of his smug, know-it-all smirk. Harrumphing under his breath, Mitch remembered his dad’s quote: “Give authority to a fool, and create a monster.”

  But in all fairness, the entire medical team had done a fine job. Mitch couldn’t hold any of them accountable for the guilt roiling in his own gut…or for the shame boiling in his head.

  You’re the fool, he told himself. And if anybody’s a monster, it’s you. Because, hard as it was to admit, if he hadn’t left Ciara alone all those months, she wouldn’t have felt obliged to turn their house into a home all by herself. All that work, no doubt, put a terrible strain on her, mentally, physically….

  He leaned his forearms over the bed’s side rail, clasped his hands together and watched her sleep. He’d watched her sleep on their wedding night, too. Then, as now, she’d breathed so lightly, he’d had to strain to hear her inhale and exhale, the whisper softness of her sighs, he imagined, were what angels’ wings might sound like. What had he ever done in his life to deserve an angel for a wife?

  Just before she’d collapsed, Ciara had asked him to pack his things and leave. He hadn’t wanted to do anything of the kind at the time, and he certainly had no intention of doing that now.

  Well, they’d be spending a lot of time alone together in the few weeks to come. With God’s help, Mitch hoped, he could earn Ciara’s forgiveness, could make up for the many months he’d left her alone. He would take better care of her than her mother would. Mitch fancied himself a fair-to-middlin’ cook, and his stint in the navy had taught him a thing or two about keeping his quarters shipshape.

  He tucked the covers under her chin, smoothed the bangs from her forehead. Lord, but she’s lovely, he thought. Her gracefully arched brows set off the long, lush lashes that dusted her lightly freckled cheeks, and her perfectly shaped full lips drew back in the barest hint of a smile.

  What are you smiling about, pretty lady? he wondered, tucking a tendril of honey-blond hair behind her ear. You married the village idiot, and now you’re stuck with him…at least till our baby is born.

  Our baby….

  Gently, so as not to wake her, he laid a hand on her stomach. “Hey, little fella,” he whispered. “How’s it goin’ in there? You don’t know me yet, but I’m your—”

  The baby kicked, and Mitch’s heartbeat doubled. He’d never experienced anything quite like it in his life…the sudden, insistent motion of
his child, squirming beneath his palm. Ducking his head, Mitch leaned in closer and lifted his hand, like a boy who’d captured a butterfly might steal a peek at his prize.

  The breath caught in his throat when he saw something—a tiny knee? a little heel?—shift beneath Ciara’s pebbly white blanket. The egg-sized lump reminded him of the way Scooter the hamster looked, scurrying beneath Mitch’s little-boy bedcovers. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, his hand covered the mound yet again, following its passage, until the baby finally settled down.

  If he knew he had an audience, would he continue to smile? Would he keep his hand pressed to his wife’s stomach? Would his gaze remain glued to the stirring of the child—his child—alive inside her?

  Ciara didn’t think so. And so she continued to watch him through the narrow opening between her eyelids. Thank you, Lord, she prayed, for showing me that Mitch does want this baby as much as I do.

  They were going to be spending a lot of time together in the next few weeks. Perhaps in that time, with the Lord’s guidance, they could find a way to repair the damage they’d done to their marriage. A girl can hope and pray, she told herself.

  Chapter Five

  Peterson insisted that Ciara spend the night in the hospital, where she and the baby could be constantly monitored. At midnight, as the floor nurse was busy taking Ciara’s vital signs, the doctor ushered Mitch into the hall.

  “If you’re smart,” he said under his breath, “you’ll go home, right now, and get a good night’s sleep, because starting tomorrow, she’s going to need you for everything.” There in the dim hallway light, he’d lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I don’t want her on her feet at all.”

  Mitch nodded.

  “I know it’s none of my business, Mr. Mahoney,” the doctor added, “but it’s obvious that something isn’t right between you two.” His voice took on a tone that reminded Mitch of his dad, scolding the four Mahoney boys when they allowed anything to interfere with school. The doctor continued, “Whatever your problems are, set them aside. Doesn’t matter who’s at fault or what it’s all about. The only important thing right now is that we keep Ciara healthy so we can to take that baby to term.”

  Mitch remembered the thirty-six-week explanation: it’s the critical time, the doctor had said, after which the baby’s vital organs are mature enough for survival outside the womb without requiring mechanical assistance.

  Peterson’s voice had come to him as from a long, hollow tube. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and focused on the man’s words. “You realize she’s lost a lot of blood….”

  Another nod.

  “And she may lose more….”

  He met Peterson’s eyes. Suddenly Mitch understood why, despite the belly, it seemed she’d lost weight. “I thought the bleeding had stopped.”

  “It has, for now. But placenta previa is a progressive condition,” he said matter-of-factly. “She’ll have good days and bad days.”

  “Until the baby’s born?”

  The doctor nodded somberly. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Not as much as today….” Four more weeks of that, and she would waste away to nothing….

  “I want you to understand the gravity of Ciara’s condition, Mr. Mahoney.”

  As he waited for the doctor to explain it Mitch’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. He gritted his teeth so hard, his jaws ached. And deep in his pockets, his nails were digging gouges in his palms.

  “If the placenta should tear, even slightly more, Ciara could hemorrhage.” He paused, giving Mitch time to wrap his mind around the seriousness of his words. “If it should separate completely, it will mean instant death for your child.”

  Mitch’s head began to pound. “Wouldn’t…wouldn’t she be better off here, in the hospital, where you guys could keep an eye on her? I mean, if something like that happened at home…” He ran a hand through his hair, scrubbed it over his face. “At least here, she’d have everything she’d need—”

  Shaking his head, Peterson said, “I disagree. Placenta previa is a very stressful disorder. The mother is constantly aware that one wrong move could be fatal, for the baby, and possibly for her as well. It’s been my experience that mothers-to-be rest and relax far better in their own homes, surrounded by the things—and the people—they love.”

  Despite the air-conditioning, Mitch began to perspire. He couldn’t get his mind off the possibility that, if he hadn’t left her alone, none of this would be happening. “What causes plug…ah—”

  “Placenta previa,” Peterson said, helping him along. Shrugging, the doctor shook his head. “There’s no cause or reason for it that we can determine. We only know that it’s there, to one degree or another, from the beginning of the pregnancy.”

  “Should we…should we take precautions so she won’t have this problem in the future?”

  “Are you asking whether or not the condition will repeat itself in future pregnancies?”

  Mitch nodded.

  “Despite the way things look now, Ciara is a healthy young woman. There’s no reason to believe her next pregnancy will be anything but perfectly normal, with absolutely no complications.”

  Mitch breathed a sigh of relief. So if you can pull her through this one, Mahoney… “I don’t mind tellin’ you, doc, I’m scared to death. What if I mess up? I mean, there are two lives on the line, here…my wife’s and my child’s. I can’t afford to make a mistake. Not even a small one.” He met Peterson’s eyes. “You’re sure she’s better off at home? Because I want to do whatever is best for Ciara.”

  Peterson smiled for the first time since he’d met the man. “What you said just now is all the assurance I need that she’ll be in the best of hands at home.”

  “But…but what if something goes wrong? What if the spotting turns into something more? What if—”

  “I’m going to put in a call right now, so the equipment will be ready for delivery when you get home tomorrow.”

  “Equipment? What equipment?”

  “The home monitor. Hooks up to the telephone and the TV, so we can get a look at what’s going on without Ciara having to endure the trauma of driving back and forth for tests. Plus, every other day or so, a visiting nurse will stop by to see how things look, do a blood count. It’s costly, but…”

  “I don’t give a whit about that. I only want what’s best for Ciara and the baby.” He hesitated. “How reliable is this equipment?”

  Peterson’s smile widened. “It’ll do its job. You do yours, and everything will turn out just fine.”

  Mitch had undergone years of extensive training to become an FBI agent. Had never felt anything but capable and competent, even in the most dangerous of situations.

  So why did he feel totally inept and inadequate now?

  For the first half hour, Mitch walked through the house, turning on lights and investigating the contents of every room. Even his staff sergeant would have been hard-pressed to find a speck of dust anywhere. Everything gleamed, from the old-fashioned brass light fixtures hanging in the center of every ceiling to the hardwood and linoleum floors beneath his loafered feet.

  He flopped, exhausted, into his recliner—a treat he hadn’t enjoyed in seven long months—and put up his feet. From where he sat, he could see every award and citation he’d ever earned, hanging on the flagstone wall surrounding the fireplace. His guitar and banjo stood to one side of the woodstove insert, his collection of canes and walking sticks on the other. The ceramic wolves he’d acquired from yard sales and flea markets held up his hard-cover volumes of Koontz, King, Clancy and London.

  The knowledge that, despite the way they’d parted, despite their many months apart, she’d turned this into “his” room swelled his heart with love for her…love and gratitude that she hadn’t given up hope…no thanks to Bradley.

  He grabbed the chair arms so tightly his fingertips turned white at the thought of his lieutenant’s part in their separation. But one glance at their wedding portrait, framed in cryst
al beside the photo of Mitch taken as he trained at Quantico, cooled his ire. You can deal with Bradley later, he thought, grinding his molars together. Right now, you have to concentrate on Ciara.

  Mitch closed his eyes and pictured her as he’d seen her last.

  After thanking Peterson, he’d headed back to her hospital room, to tell her goodnight and let her know he was heading home. Her eyes were closed, and thinking she was asleep, he’d started for the door.

  “I’m glad to see you have some sense in your head,” she’d said, her voice whisper-soft and drowsy. “It’s about time you went home and got some rest.”

  He’d pulled the chair beside her bed closer, balanced on the edge of its seat. “How’re you doin’? Feeling any better?”

  “A little tired, but otherwise I’m fine.” With a wave of her hand she had tried to shoo him away. “Go on, now. Get some sleep.”

  “I will,” he’d said, taking her hand, “in a minute.” He held her gaze for a long, silent moment. “You had me pretty scared there for a while.” He kissed her knuckles. “It’s good to see a little color back in your cheeks.”

  She’d smiled, sighed. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

  He kissed her knuckles again. “You must be delirious, because you’re not making a bit of sense.”

  “I’m just trying to see things from your point of view. You come home from seven months of terrifying, dangerous, undercover work, and what do you find? Your wife, eight months pregnant and grouchy as a grizzly bear. And then—”

  Gently, he’d pressed a finger over her lips. “Shhhh. You should be sleeping.”

  “True. At home. In my own bed. I know it’s irrational, but I’ve always hated hospitals!”

  “Dr. Peterson says you can come home tomorrow.”

  “But I feel fine. Why can’t I—”

  She’d looked so small, so vulnerable, lying there in that tilted-up hospital bed, that he couldn’t help himself. Mitch leaned forward and silenced her with a tender kiss. A quiet little murmur had escaped her lips as she pressed a palm against his cheek. “You could use a shave, mister,” she’d said, grinning mischievously as she rubbed his sandpapery whiskers, “unless you’re going for that Don-Johnson-Miami-Vice look.”