by Annie O'Neil
Or abject horror that he’d hired her in the first place.
Even so... If the roles had been reversed she was pretty sure she would’ve invited him to a barbie, or on a guided tour of Sydney’s finest offerings, or at the very least offered him a quick glass of beautiful Aussie wine to break the ice.
Maybe he doesn’t want to break the ice. Did you think of that, Kirri?
The scenes of their brief encounters replayed on a loop.
There’d been a flash of something when their eyes had first met. Connection. A crackle of response when their fingers had brushed as he’d handed her the umbrella. The flare of it had blazed again when she’d seen him from the scrub room. Lightning bugs had danced round her belly and she was sure she’d sensed the same in him. But she’d thought the same of her ex. Thought the connection she’d felt zinging between them had meant they could weather any storm.
She put down the coffee and took a slug of ice-cold smoothie.
Delusion juice.
Her brother called it that when she’d appear, bleary-eyed, after another long night in the lab, wielding a green smoothie to be chased up by a double hit of espresso.
“Hitting the delusion juice early, are we?”
Lucius had had a point. He’d had lots of points, actually. Despite the turn of phrase, she’d always known he wasn’t being snarky. He wanted her to focus on the job that she had. The one she was paid to do. Neonatal surgery. And she did focus on it. When she was doing it. The rest of the time it was all about holing up in the lab she’d crafted out of one of the old store cupboards, trying to tag team all the huge research centers that were also trying to create baby grow bags.
Or, in her brother’s words, letting her life pass her by.
Up until the moment she’d boarded the plane to Atlanta her day-to-day existence had pretty much been comprised of surgery to keep her brother happy, research to keep herself happy, and sleep because... Well, that part was obvious.
Eating had happened. The odd night out with colleagues had happened. Dates rarely happened. Which was another problem. Because she didn’t just want a child of her own. She wanted the whole nine yards. The doting husband. The cute little house. Nothing fancy. Just room for a barbecue and maybe an apple tree with a bench seat swing. A treehouse for the kids...
She conked her head on the breakfast bar and groaned. Her brother was right. She was on a full dose of delusion juice and showing few signs of recovery.
Creating a properly functioning artificial womb wasn’t just a pipe dream. It was a constant reminder of the one thing she didn’t have. A womb of her own.
She could joke, and wear tough-girl clothes, and maybe sometimes have one too many tequila shots, but the facts remained the same. Mother Nature had skipped over her when she was doling out baby-making equipment and it scraped her heart raw.
Mayer-Rokitansky-Küster-Hauser syndrome was a rare condition. She’d been born with ovaries, eggs and female hormones, but no womb. No ability to get pregnant. And there was nothing she could do about it. She’d never have a child of her own. There were, of course, womb transplants now, at a handful of hospitals around the world, but at thirty-seven years old, and chronically single, she didn’t see the point.
Besides, the break-up with her ex had been so scarring she’d unwittingly begun to fulfill his prophesy. He was right. Her work life had rendered her completely unfit to be a mother.
The only counterbalance was knowing she was trying to help women who weren’t in her rather fetching knee-high boots. Women who could get pregnant but struggled to carry the pregnancy to term. Hence the need for a baby grow bag, to nurture extremely preterm fetuses.
If she could develop it, it would be the most advanced neonatal incubator in the world. Not to mention that it would take fetal survival to the next level. There were other advantages too. Surgery, for example. Much easier on mother and child because they wouldn’t be compromising the mother’s life. And, of course, access would be much easier.
But, as with so many of these things, there was a complicated web of medical ethics to navigate and research was still—ha!—at the incubating phase. She’d be old and gray and maybe dead before it ever actually happened, so perhaps her brother was right. It was time to give up the delusion juice and start hitting the truth serum. She was a gifted surgeon, and if she really wanted to help she should give more of that gift on a daily basis rather than devoting herself to a pipe dream.
As if her brother had been reading her mind, her phone buzzed with a video call from him. It had been five days since she’d left. Maybe this time he was checking to make sure she was alive rather than detailing the terms of her contract in full capital letters. A contract she was very much breaking by being here in Atlanta.
But dreams were worth breaking a few rules for, right? So she pressed “accept”, put on her cheekiest smile and grinned at her brother.
“Hey, Luci!” She always called him Luci when she wanted to make him grumpy.
“Hey, yourself, Maple Top.”
Hmm... He was using the term of endearment he’d coined years back, because Kirrily meant leaf. He only ever did it very occasionally. He must want something. She braced herself for a speech.
“How’s it going up there?”
Unusual... Chit-chat before laying into her. It was a tactic he’d never used before.
She played along. “Good. The facilities are amazing. Dr. Sawyer’s got quite the set-up.” She launched into a vivid description of the modern lab, the access she had to all the Piedmont research and how exciting it all was.
“More exciting than down here?”
Was that...? Wait a minute. Was her brother missing her?
“No, not at all...” she floundered. Because it was—a little bit. “It’s just different. New. Nice to get a fresh perspective on things.”
She could almost see the words arrowing straight to Sydney and crashing against her brother’s solid stance. He still thought that the only thing she’d gain from coming to Atlanta were some frequent flyer miles.
“Right, well...” He scrubbed his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Thanks for sorting out the roster. See you in a few weeks.”
Suddenly she missed her brother like she’d miss a limb. Sure, he was a pain, and they never had deep and heavies or hugged out their differences, but even if he wasn’t a cuddly-bear-style big brother he always had her back. This call was proof that, no matter how cross he was with her, he still did.
“Thanks for ringing. I’ll be sure and keep you up to date with everything here.” Kirri swallowed back the sharp sting of tears, trying to keep her smile bright. He was a good man, her brother. She really needed to push herself hard at the clinic. Prove to him that what she’d done had been worth the risk.
“You take good care, then.” He hung up the phone.
Kirri stared at her handset in disbelief. It was possibly one of the longest personal conversations they’d ever had. Usually just about everything they talked about at length involved the clinic.
Before she had a chance to think about it too much, her phone rang again. Kirri didn’t even bother looking at the number and answered playfully, “Well, hello again, stranger.”
“Kirri?”
Kirri’s cheeks flushed hot pink. What was Ty Sawyer doing on the end of her phone?
“Dr. Sawyer! Apologies. I was just speaking with my brother. Sorry. What can I do you for? For you?”
Stop! Talking!
Ty, unsurprisingly, sounded confused. “We’re a surgeon down today. Childcare issues. I was wondering if you might be up for a day in the OR rather than in the research lab?”
Was this an olive branch? Or desperation? Didn’t matter. She was going to pounce on the invitation like a hungry cat.
“Absolutely. What sort of surgeries are on the roster?”
He rat
tled off a few in-utero procedures she’d done before. Nothing wild, but operating on a baby still inside its mother always made life interesting.
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Ty asked.
Hmm... Make microscopic advances in her research or spend all day making magical medicine with Dr. Chocolate Eyes?
“Of course. Definitely. Can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”
Especially if it got her in Ty’s good books again. Even his normal books would be good. Whatever those were.
Ty Sawyer was still very much an enigma to her. And he might stay that way if she didn’t start behaving like someone who didn’t go all fluttery and googly-eyed whenever she was in his presence.
“Any particular time?”
“Whenever you can get here.”
“Consider it done.”
Kirri flew in and out of the shower, tugged on a lime-green A-line skirt and a T-shirt bedecked with a unicorn jumping over a rainbow and was out the door in a matter of minutes.
Once scrubbed up and in a surgical gown, she felt more grounded. The OR was her “can-do” zone. A place where she felt comfortable. Confident.
But hitting the right note was critical. A day showing the team what she was really made of would set her up perfectly for the next six weeks of research. And perhaps the next six weeks of Ty Sawyer.
* * *
Ty had to admit it. He was impressed. Three surgeries down and Kirri seemed indefatigable. She was a precision surgeon. Gifted, even. She approached repairing the most delicate components of a tiny infant’s body as naturally as she might approach breathing. She was also excellent with anxious parents. Both the mothers who had to go into surgery and the parents who had to watch their infant children being wheeled down the hall on a gurney. He found those moments tough. Especially as a father himself.
Amanda had been right to push him into asking her to join them in the OR today. Just as well, considering he hadn’t exactly given Kirri a warm welcome. Before he’d met her, he’d planned on inviting the visiting doctor to dinner with his family over the weekend. Taking her and Lulu on a cycle tour of the sprawling Piedmont Park. Pointing out the best places for that essential morning cup of coffee.
In short, he’d planned on pushing himself out of his normal mode—recluse—in an effort to get to know the woman behind one of the most exciting medical innovations he’d seen.
And then he’d met her.
The lack of a specialized surgeon this morning had backed him into a corner. Get over himself or cancel the surgeries. He hated leaving patients hanging, so he’d relented and called Kirri, convinced she’d barely make it through one surgery, let alone three. But working with her was like working with an extra set of his own hands. Pure synchronicity.
They often had visiting specialists, and there was always some new little technique to pick up, or a different instrument to try. Sure, surgery was meant to be textbook—but someone had to write those textbooks and Kirri was definitely in that league. Beyond it really. She was the definition of “in a league of her own”.
“So who’s next?”
Kirri pushed through the OR doors with a fresh surgical gown billowing behind her, looking like a pop star about to dazzle thousands of fans. She was doing that, all right. Even if those fans were an OR full of nurses, anesthetists and surgical students. And, Ty had to admit, one single dad who had been figuring out the best way to tactically avoid her for the next six weeks.
Ty ran her through the case. A six-month-old little girl, Meredith, who had gastro-esophageal reflux. The poor little thing wasn’t getting all her nutrients and, more importantly, was in danger of breathing food or drink into her windpipe, which would irritate her lungs or cause infections.
They’d be performing a fundoplication. If things went as smoothly as they had in previous surgeries, the non-invasive procedure should have the little one right as rain in a matter of weeks.
It had been Amanda’s idea to call Kirri when Ty’s senior partner Mark Latham had called in, unable to come to work. His wife was out on the West Coast, doing some corporate lawyer thing, and one of his little girls was sick. When Amanda had suggested they call Kirri, rather than reschedule all the patients, Ty had balked.
Amanda had pressed. Said it was in the interest of their patients. They all knew that was the easiest way to get him to agree to anything.
It turned out Ty had had absolutely nothing to worry about. Kirri was every bit as knowledgeable, patient, willing to learn and talented at teaching her own deft surgical techniques as her reputation had suggested. She was so relaxed as she conducted the extremely delicate neonatal surgeries that she was even able to chit-chat.
She’d already won over the surgical nurses with her compliments about the facilities, their work ethic, their exactingness and, of course, their scrubs. They had fun scrubs here at the Piedmont Women and Baby Pavilion. Every color of the rainbow and each splashy print singular to the state of Georgia.
“And what do the green scrubs represent? That’s the anterior retraction of the left lateral segment of the liver set. Could I get a Babcock clamp, please?” Kirri held out her hand for the device.
The nurse who handed it to her—Stella—answered for the team. “Oh, those are for the state amphibian.”
Kirri’s eyes flicked up to meet Ty’s, and he saw a twinkle of amusement evident, even through her surgical glasses.
“The state amphibian?” she said dryly.
“The green tree frog,” Stella explained, without a drop of humor. She took more pride in her home state than most. There wasn’t a ball game with the letter G involved that she wasn’t cheering for.
“Love it.”
Kirri prepared the second incision. A three-millimeter cut that would disappear just a few weeks after surgery, if all went well.
“So, what are the other state emblems?” Quick eye-flick to Ty. “Suction, please. I’m just about to prepare the second five-millimeter port.”
She did it swiftly and efficiently as Stella rattled through Georgia’s other state emblems.
“The state bird is the Brown Thrasher. The fish is the Southern Appalachian Brook Trout.” She listed a few more. The fruit—peach, obviously—the state flower, the state gem, the state insect... “And our state crop is the peanut, of course.”
Kirri laughed. “The peanut?”
“Oh, yes,” Stella assured her. “There’s even a state monument. Isn’t there, Dr. Sawyer?”
Ty threw Stella a look that he hoped communicated the following: Would you please stop trying to draw me into this conversation? I know what you’re doing.
The nurses—Stella in particular—were on a mission to set him up with near enough every single female who walked through the clinic’s doors. All those over twenty-five years old, anyway. Had been for the past year. It was as if they’d all decided that four years was long enough to mourn his wife’s passing and it was time for him to pull up his socks and get on with the business of loving again.
As if it were that easy.
“Peanuts...” Kirri gave a happy little sigh. “I’ve definitely been through my fair share of those. Right, then! Here’s the five-millimeter trocar—done. Are you ready to put in the neonatal gastroscope, Doctor?”
Ty nodded, his eyes once again connecting with Kirri’s. There was something joyfully infectious about her energy. It was like that yellow brick road to Oz. Alluring, but frightening as well. The great unknown. Loving the same woman from the age of sixteen made the idea of falling for someone new little less than terrifying.
He had his routine. No need to veer from it now, when Hurricane Kirri was going to be back off to Australia in a handful of weeks.
“The next thing you’ll be telling me is that there’s a state-sanctioned barbecue,” Kirri said, and laughed as she lowered her surgical goggles into place.
Everyone gasped. “But there is!”
Conversation erupted around the pair of them—Ty and Kirri—about whether dry rub was better or sauced barbecue. Beef or pork. And, of course, the more complicated question of what side orders to choose. Colorful language burst into play when someone said they were considering going vegetarian and were looking for the perfect way to grill an eggplant.
Kirri merrily worked away through the lively debate, with Ty serving as her second set of eyes and hands. And then someone mentioned Chuck’s Charcoal Heaven.
Uh-oh. Ty knew where this was heading. He didn’t hire the smartest nurses in the country for nothing, but sometimes... Sometimes they got the better of him.
“You go there every Tuesday, don’t you, Dr. Sawyer? To Chuck’s?”
Ty barely held back his Oh, no, you don’t. Stella could sound as innocent as a child when she wanted to. Like a child asking if they were possibly maybe going to be passing an ice cream store when she knew damn straight that they were.
“They have some lovely barbecue at Chuck’s,” Stella pressed, clearly intent on making good her self-proclaimed role as his personal cupid. A role he truly wished she would relinquish. If he wanted to go on a date, he’d go on a date.
The unspoken lie gave him a sharp twist of discomfort.
“You’ll know when you’re ready, darlin’...”
He tipped his head toward Kirri and said. “Perhaps we should give Dr. West a bit more quiet space to conduct her surgery? I doubt the finer points of dry rub or sauce are of interest to her right now.”
“Oh, no. Don’t stop. It helps me relax.”
One glance and it was easy to see she was smiling. Ty knew quite a few surgeons who liked music while they operated. He was a fan of country, himself, but it had been his wife’s favorite as well, so for the past five years he’d operated in silence. Detailing Georgia’s finest delights as if the entire surgical team were moonlighting for the tourist board was a new one for him.