For the Babies' Sakes (Expecting) (Harlequin Presents, No. 2280) (13 page)

‘Three
months
!' she gasped in horror.

Dan felt his stomach flip over. This was a nightmare.

‘Now,' the midwife said breezily, ‘remember this is only
if
they are born. You might be sent home intact after a little while, with instructions to take it easy and come back in January.'

Dan choked back a groan and began to pace up and down, trying furiously to hide his fears. With every fibre of his being he hoped this was a false alarm. It was unbelievable that Helen could give birth safely, so early. The twins would have been small under normal circumstances, but now…

He felt tears filling his eyes and brutally held them back. Helen needed him. She must be going through all kinds of hell.

Appalled at the situation, he took her hand and managed to smile at her petrified face.

‘One thing I insist on,' he said solemnly, somehow summoning up a twinkle in his eye. ‘On no account is any child of mine to be called Guy just because it's Bonfire Night. Or Catherine Wheel. OK?'

‘OK.' She produced a weak smile and squeezed his hand so hard that it hurt. ‘Scotland would be a nice place to be born,' she said shakily. ‘Lovely scenery.'

‘Yes,' he agreed, going along with her attempt at levity. ‘Personally, I'm torn. The idea of the Isle of Wight appeals—though Birmingham's good for shopping—'

Her mouth wobbled and he saw with dismay that she was close to tears. ‘Oh, Dan! Why can't we stay here? Scotland's so f-far away—'

‘Portsmouth!' announced the registrar, poking her head around the door.
‘Now.'

 

A trolley. Being wheeled through Accident and Emergency at a smart lick to a waiting ambulance. A gale whipping Dan's hair everywhere, blowing so hard that it seemed to be trying to stop him from climbing in after the trolley-stretcher. Torrential rain, making driving conditions treacherous.

The paramedics were worrying quietly about the floods, taking two diversions on the way. The blue light flashed as they screamed along the road, devouring miles in a third of the time it normally took to get to Portsmouth. The doctor monitored her, worryingly accompanying them in the ambulance, in case Helen gave birth before they reached the hospital.

They kept the banter going, telling jokes to relax them both, to stop their jittering teeth and trembling hands and to briefly change the looks of stunned horror on their faces.

‘Lunch and duty frees will be served by cabin staff,' announced the paramedic with a grin. And later… ‘This is your Captain speaking. We're flying at five feet, at a speed of—ah. Er, yes. Better keep quiet about that or we'll be nabbed by the cops. Now, if you look to your right, you'll see Paris, and on your left is Timbuktu. Estimated time of arrival…'

They both managed weak smiles. Anything rather than what they really felt like doing: yelling in despair, crying…

A chirpy midwife came to meet them at the hospital and she was calm and casual as if this was an everyday occurrence. It was a quiet, private room. They administered
yet more drugs for Helen to stop the contractions. Mercifully she slept.

Dan couldn't. Restless and agitated, he rang her parents and made light of it all, adopting the same merry tone as the midwife. Two a.m. He paced the floor relentlessly, blessing the vending machine that kept him topped up with caffeine.

Later that morning there were more steroid injections for Helen and an internal examination. What could he do? If only he could have had a medical career he would have taken charge then and there.

As it was, he felt helpless. As useless as a rice pudding. His only role was to pat Helen's hand and tell her that she'd be all right. As if the hell he knew. Neither of them believed it, anyway.

‘Well,' said the doctor an hour later, ‘your children are refusing to do what they're told. They're determined to be born before Christmas and see the New Year in. They're on their way, Helen, and they'll be born by tonight.'

‘Tonight!' they both gasped in dismay.

His arm came protectively around Helen. She buried her face in him, her body trembling pathetically. The dangers united them, he thought in misery. He held her close, afraid to let her go, clinging onto their moments together.

‘Definite. We'll wait till the contractions are stronger and then we'll whip you in for a Caesarean. A nice little bikini cut for a nice little bikini.'

Helen scowled. ‘Huh! Some hopes! I'll never wear one again!'

‘Oh, you will. And I bet she looks fantastic in one, doesn't she, Dan?'

‘Mega,' he croaked, fear clutching at his loins.

‘There!' said the doctor with satisfaction. ‘I knew it. Don't worry about a thing. Piece of cake, Helen. You'll wake up and it'll all be over.'

Dan felt his hand being crushed. ‘Piece of cake?' she complained crossly. ‘You have the babies, then!'

The doctor looked abashed. ‘You'll be OK,' he said gently. ‘Honest.'

‘And how dangerous will it be for the twins?' Helen asked in a small, scared little voice.

‘They'll be tiny and will need a lot of care, but we've done this umpteen times before. Don't worry. Relax. Rest as much as you can. Dan, Nurse will take you to the prem unit.'

‘No,' he said shortly, glaring at the doctor who seemed determined to part them. ‘I don't want to leave my wife—'

‘But she needs to sleep. She's fighting it and she needs all the rest she can get. Nothing's going to happen for a while.'

‘Helen?' he asked.

‘I am tired,' she admitted. ‘Sleep would be lovely.'

‘You won't take her away?' he said to the doctor suspiciously.

‘No. Ages to go yet. Let your wife sleep.'

Too numb to argue but reluctant to leave Helen, he saw the sense in leaving her alone. He knew his agitation would only communicate itself to her and she'd be unable to give in to her need for sleep.

Letting go of her hand was tough. At the door he turned to look at Helen but her eyes were already closed. Suddenly he felt alone. Shut out. She and the babies had each other, linked physically by a tie far greater than any contribution he'd made.

And she and the babies would go through this together while he sat on the sidelines, waiting, worrying, totally cut off from them.

The nurse coughed discreetly and he followed her, walking on legs of jelly to the intensive care baby unit. It
was like getting into Fort Knox. Eventually they were allowed in and he was ‘gowned up'.

There were two empty incubators in the unit. Looking at them, imagining his babies in there, Dan felt emotion shake his self-control, the reality of it all coming home to him.

Somewhere in the background, the nurse was trying to reassure him with her cheery voice and air of efficiency. It was all very well for her. These weren't her babies. It wasn't her partner who was going through an emergency operation. Her children weren't going to be so undeveloped that they'd be linked up to wires and machines the moment they were born.

He flinched. They'd be so small. So helpless. And those machines seemed brutal.

Shaking, sweltering in the heat, he wrinkled his nose at the clinical smell. Everywhere he looked in the barely lit room there were incubators, and batteries of alarming machines.
Star Trek
stuff.

‘There's one nurse per incubator and several doctors on the ward. After the ICU—Intensive Care Unit—they're moved to the high dependency unit, still on monitors. We'll show your wife a video of all this so she has an idea—'

‘Good grief!' he breathed in astonishment, glimpsing at a red, hairy and pathetically scrawny little baby in a nearby incubator. His heart contracted with compassion. If this were his child he'd be going crazy with worry. He felt suddenly sick. ‘How…how old is that kiddie?'

‘A day,' the nurse said gently. ‘She's only one pound in weight, though she's doing fine. We've had smaller ones than this. We can work near miracles here, Dan.'

‘Twelve-week-early miracles?' he croaked, hating the intense warmth of the unit. That poor little mite. All those tubes…

‘Oh, even earlier than that. Trust me.'

‘I don't have any choice, do I?' he muttered.

And wanted to howl. Instead he gritted his teeth and went back to Helen to watch the video with her. When she cried her heart out at the sight of the tiny, helpless scraps of babies, he felt his chest fill to bursting.

The babies would be in an incubator, with machines monitoring their heart and lung function and temperature. They'd be fed intravenously and might need additional oxygen. If they even lived. It was all terrifying.

‘It's very calm in the baby unit,' he said stiffly, trying to sound normal and positive. ‘And you can visit any time. They take Polaroids—and we can take photos if we want and be with them as much as we like—'

‘If they live,' she mumbled miserably, echoing his thoughts.

If she lived. The pain immobilised him. He wanted to give her a hug but kept his hands to himself and tried to be encouraging.

‘It'll be OK, they've done this so many times,' he soothed.

‘But I haven't! They haven't!' she sobbed.

‘Helen!' He hesitated and tentatively stroked her shoulder, hopelessly impotent to do anything for her. Her plaintive face almost broke his control. But he had to be strong and reassuring. It was all he could do and he'd damn well stay calm for her sake. ‘Sometimes,' he said gently, ‘you have to put your faith in other people. You have to forget your fears and make a judgement based on what you know about them.'

Her tear-swilled eyes blinked up at him. ‘Do you?' she snuffled.

‘Of course. And we know all the best equipment is here, that the staff have the skills and experience, and that
babies are able to survive even when they're very premature.'

‘So…' She looked thoughtful. ‘You're saying that we should trust someone if we know they've shown in the past that they can be relied on.'

‘Sure.'

‘It doesn't always work like that,' she said sadly.

‘These are the experts. We have to put ourselves in their hands,' he insisted.

To his relief, she seemed calmed by what he'd said. The day wore on slowly, deadly hour followed by deadly hour. Dan fretted at the slowness of it all, hating the pain and anxiety that Helen was going through.

Then, in the early evening, she suddenly shouted in agony and clutched her abdomen just as the midwife popped in to check her.

‘Dan! Stop it, stop the pain, I don't want it!' she yelled in despair.

‘I wish I could,' he said fervently.

‘Right. Labour ward for you,' said the nurse cheerfully, after a quick examination. ‘Into the wheelchair. Come on, Daddy. Don't stand there rooted to the ground. This is it. Keep up.'

‘Stay with me, Dan!' Helen cried frantically, her eyes huge with terror.

‘Like glue!' he muttered grimly, catching her up.

His heart sounded like a steam hammer, bruising his chest. He was scared for her, afraid she'd die, but he couldn't let that show. Instead he helped her with the gas and air for the next few hours in the labour ward, and cheerily told her stories about work, about the plans he had for growing organic vegetables in the garden, where the children would go to school, everything, anything, to take her mind—and his—off the lurking fear of the unknown.

It got worse with every second that passed. Before this, he'd thought you had babies quickly. A lot of yelling and then there they were. Nobody ever showed this terrible, devastating waiting. It made him feel sick with apprehension, his guts and his bowels churning around in a terrible state.

And he'd never been frightened like this, not even when he'd been beaten up at school, because at least at that time he'd been able to do something, to fight back and kick and yell blue murder.

Here, he was helpless. A bystander. Totally useless.

‘I wish I could have your pain,' he muttered to Helen.

‘You're not the only one!' she panted heavily. ‘Take it!' she yelled. ‘Be—my—guest!'

‘We're off,' announced the doctor suddenly after another check. ‘You can come on up, Dan, but you must say goodbye outside Theatre. You can't come in,' he explained, ‘because Helen's having an emergency Caesarean by general anaesthetic. Don't worry, you'll be a dad before you know it. OK, Mum?'

‘No!' she wavered, remorselessly honest as always. ‘Of course I'm not! I want to see my babies born!' she wailed.

‘No can do. They're transverse—lying sideways instead of head or bottom down. Next time, maybe,' smiled the doctor.

‘There won't be a flaming next time!' she shouted, making the nursing staff laugh indulgently.

It pained Dan that she was right. ‘Here,' he said gruffly as they hurried her along the corridor. ‘Hold my hand tightly and see if you can destroy each bone one by one.'

She gave a half-smile of gratitude. ‘Silly.'

‘Well, that's what you were doing earlier.'

‘Was I? I'm sorry.'

‘It wasn't much, compared with what you're going
through. Oh, and insist they stuff the babies back if they're not good-looking like us,' he whispered.

‘Dan!' Helen giggled and then her face crumpled and she burst into tears.

‘Oh, hell. Please don't cry…'

It was no good. He couldn't speak. There was so much he wanted to say but his throat was choked with tears and nothing was coming out. This was his opportunity to clear the air, to say how he felt.

Because there was a possibility that she might die.

He couldn't see. Damn it. Angrily he screwed a fist into his eye sockets and became aware that they were slowing down. This was it. And his mouth was giving way, refusing to hold its shape long enough to form words.