Linc walked the few hundred yards along the corridor. Pelican Cove was a small community hospital, not a sprawling metropolis with new technology sprouting from every corner. That was why, when the First Lady had gone into labour here, he’d had to transfer staff and equipment from San Francisco Children’s Hospital to ensure the safe delivery of the thirty-two-weeker.
As usual, the black-suited security detail was at the door—it was getting to the point they just blended into the background. He pushed open the door to the newly kitted-out NICU. The heat encompassed him immediately, the temperature warmer in here to compensate for the early arrival’s rapid heat loss.
He walked over to the incubator. Two of his best nurses were on duty.
‘What’s up?’
For a premature baby, the First Daughter had an air of determination about her, obviously a chip off the old block. She’d come out screaming, breathing on her own and continued to do so.
He glanced at the nearby monitor. Her O2 levels were good and there was no nasal flaring.
‘She’s not feeding well. In fact, we can’t get her to latch on at all.’
Lincoln frowned. A common complaint in premature babies who hadn’t yet learned how to suck. ‘What about kangaroo care?’
Ruth, the nurse, nodded and stared down at her charge, ‘The only reason Esther is back in here is because Jennifer Taylor is currently sleeping. She’s exhausted. Up until now it’s been skin-to-skin contact the whole time. Six hours since delivery and we’ve not managed to get her to feed yet.’ She leaned over the incubator. ‘And little missy is getting cranky.’
Lincoln scrubbed his hands at the nearby sink. He’d already examined Esther just after delivery, but there was no harm in rechecking. He pulled on some sterile gloves and slid his hands into the incubator. He ran his hand around and inside her mouth, ensuring her palate was correctly formed. Checked her skin tone, colour and fontanel for clinical signs of dehydration. Sounded her chest to check her heart and lungs and gently probing her small abdomen. Once he was finished he stripped off his gloves, washed and dried his hands again and checked her charts.
‘Okay, there are no immediate problems, except her blood glucose has dropped slightly since delivery. Once Jennifer Taylor wakes up, can you give me a shout and I’ll go and have a chat with her? I’m really reluctant to start any kind of supplementary or tube-feeding. At thirty-two weeks I think she’s more than capable of breastfeeding and I don’t want to do anything that will jeopardise that. We might have to suggest that Jennifer expresses some milk in the meantime to try and get some fluid into her.’
Ruth gave a nod. ‘I’m sure she’ll be awake shortly. I’ll give you a shout.’
Lincoln entered some notes in the electronic record and went back outside, glancing at his watch. Half an hour. Would David Fairgreaves be finished with Amy yet?
He walked over to the nurses’ station, glancing around him before picking up Amy’s notes. They were thicker than he would have expected for a healthy woman her age and he started to flick through them to read over her obstetric care. If he was going to look after her baby he needed to know what he was dealing with. IVF pregnancy. The words caught his attention instantly.
Why had Amy needed IVF? His fingers went backwards through the notes—away from the area of his expertise—and froze at the long clinical letter near the end. His eyes scanned it quickly, his breath catching in his throat. The diagnosis was in bold type at the head of the letter. Breast cancer. Amy had breast cancer.
No. She was too young. She didn’t smoke, rarely drank alcohol, and lived a relatively healthy lifestyle. How on earth could she be a candidate for breast cancer? It seemed unreal. Even though the words and clinical evidence were there in front of him. He couldn’t believe it. It was almost as if he were reading about someone else.
His eyes raked the letter for a date. And his brain did rapid calculations. He felt himself sag into a nearby chair.
Six years ago. Her diagnosis had been made six years ago when she’d left the Amazon boat. Had she known she was sick? Why on earth hadn’t she told him?
His hands skipped over her treatment plans, test results—some good, some bad. He turned to the inside cover of the notes, searching for her next of kin.
Nothing. No one listed. He’d known that her mother and father had died a few years before she’d joined the boat. She’d gone through all this herself?
Something twisted in his gut. Surprise. Anger. Hurt.
She hadn’t told him—and he was hurt. Six months he’d spent with her. They might not have confessed undying love to each other, but surely she’d known he would have supported her? Wasn’t that what friends did?
After all, that was why she was here now. She needed help—or her baby did. She obviously felt she could ask him for help now, so why not then?
He could feel the tension in his neck and jaw. Irrational anger built inside him. His fingers brushed the notes again. He had to push this stuff aside. He had to deal with her in a professional capacity.
He edged back along the corridor, approaching the curtains quietly. Two seconds later he heard a peal of laughter.
Not girly. Not tinkling. Deep, hearty, genuine laughter. David had obviously turned on his natural charm again. The man could have people eating out of his hand within two minutes of meeting them. Something about the ease and instant familiarity between the two of them bothered him. Made him want to march into the cubicle and stand between them. How crazy was that?
Linc cleared his throat loudly and edged his way between the curtains. ‘How’s things?’
David turned to face him, his head flicking back towards her. ‘Amy? Are you happy for Dr Adams to know about your condition?’
Amy blinked. They obviously hadn’t had that part of the conversation yet. ‘Actually, Dr Fairgreaves, Lincoln’s the reason I’m here. If this baby is coming early, I’m hoping that Lincoln will look after him for me.’
Lincoln cast his eyes over the monitor again, noting her rising blood pressure. ‘And is it, David? Is this baby coming early?’ Did he really want to have two premature babies in a community hospital not designed for the task?
David’s face remained static, expressionless to the underlying current of tension between the two of them. He nodded briefly and handed the notes to Lincoln.
‘Ms Adams in twenty-eight weeks pregnant. For the last few days Amy has shown some mild signs of pre-eclampsia. A slight rise in blood pressure, a trace of protein in her urine and some oedema. However, on today’s examination things appear to have progressed.’
He pressed a finger lightly into the swollen skin around Amy’s ankle, leaving a little dimple in the pale flesh that remained there once he removed the pressure.
‘Pitting oedema is now evident, her BP, both systolic and diastolic, has gone up by another 10mmg and the amount of protein in her urine has increased.’ He gave Amy a wry smile. ‘I’m giving Ms Adams the benefit of the doubt that she didn’t have the easiest job getting here today and that could account for the rise in blood pressur
e. She also assures me that, as of yesterday, she is now officially on maternity leave from her full-time job.’ His eyes went carefully from one to the other.
‘For the next twenty-four hours I’ve agreed with Ms Adams that she requires some careful monitoring. We’re going to monitor her blood pressure, her fluid intake and output and do a twenty-four-hour urine collection. So…’ he looked directly at Lincoln ‘…your services aren’t required in the immediate future but…’ he gave a little nod to Amy ‘…I’m not ruling it out.’
David took a measured breath, his cool grey eyes resting on Lincoln. ‘I’m sure you realise the importance of ensuring Ms Adams has a calm environment. I trust there will be no problems?’
Linc shifted uncomfortably. So David definitely had heard the earlier exchange. And even though his words were phrased as a question, this was a direct instruction.
Linc fixed a smile on his face. ‘Absolutely, Dr Fairgreaves. Thanks very much for agreeing to monitor Amy.’
His point made, David’s face relaxed and he gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. ‘Hey, what else am I doing?’ Then he slid out between the curtains.
The silence screamed in Lincoln’s ears. She was watching him again, waiting to see what he would say. His hand automatically ran through his dishevelled hair—what he wouldn’t give for a shower and a comfortable bed right now. What he really needed was twelve hours’ solid sleep, with some serious blackout blinds. But the way his brain was currently spinning, there was no chance of that.