but effective. She was efficient, then, this Dr Maggie.
He needed to be as well. He tugged the ultrasound case, grabbed another case labelled ‘Pain/Anaesthetic’—and then, thinking of the strain on the old lady’s face and the wheeze behind her voice, he grabbed an oxygen canister as well.
Okay. Doctor with equipment.
They dropped their linked hands as he walked back into the room. Up until now he’d seen only an underlying tension, but there was now an obvious tie between the women. Emotional as well as physical?
Was the old lady really dying? He gave himself time to look at her—really look. She was dreadfully gaunt, as though eating had long ceased to be a priority, and her face was taut with pain. And her eyes…He’d seen that look before. Turning inward.
‘Betty needs a shot of morphine,’ Maggie said before he could say anything. ‘Please. Ten milligrams. You’ll find everything in my bag.’
‘The baby…’
‘One injection’s not going to take time. Betty needs it badly.’
‘Diagnosis?’ he said, watching Betty now and talking directly to the elderly woman.
‘Bone metastases,’ Betty whispered. ‘Ovarian cancer ten years back. I knew it’d get me in the end.’
‘Is Maggie your treating doctor?’
‘Now I’m not in hospital, she is,’ Betty said fretfully. ‘But look after her. I’m fine.’
But Max was already flipping open the case, drawing up the injection, aware both women were watching him like two hawks with a mouse between them. Or two mice with a hawk?’
‘You agree to this?’ he said, watching Betty’s face. Feeling Maggie’s tension behind him.
‘Yes,’ Betty whispered. ‘Please.’
He injected the morphine, feeling her pulse as he did so. Faint, irregular. If she was forty he’d be roaring for help, he thought, bullying her into hospital, pulling out all stops to help her, but her body language told him she knew exactly what was happening. He placed pressure on the injection site for a moment and her hand lifted to his and held.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and closed her eyes. ‘Now Maggie.’
‘Now Maggie,’ he agreed, and Maggie nodded and pointed to a power plug behind the couch.
‘We can do it here.’
‘You don’t want to be private?’
‘I doubt I’ll shock Betty by showing a bit of skin,’ Maggie said, smiling wryly. ‘And it’s warm in here.’
She shivered as she said it. He didn’t comment, though—she’d know as well as he did that shock would be causing her to shiver.
And internal bleeding?’
Please not.
‘You’ve used one of these before?’ she asked him.
‘Not a portable one.’
‘Nothing to it,’ she said.
And there wasn’t. In moments he had it organised, set up on a side table right by Maggie’s abdomen.
She was wearing jeans with an elasticised waist and a sloppy windcheater that could easily be pulled up. He rubbed the stethoscope in his hands to take away the chill, then knelt beside her. As she tugged up her windcheater, he glanced up at her and once again saw the flash of fear. He should take her blood pressure first, he thought, and check her pulse, but he had a feeling they’d be high and racing until he gave her the reassurance she needed. Was she shivering from shock or shivering from fear? Probably the latter.
So he placed the stethoscope over her tummy and listened.
And heard.
‘What is it?’ she whispered, and he glanced up and realised his emotions were showing in his face. How many years since he’d done this? And the last baby he’d heard…
‘It’s fantastic,’ he said, but he said it too fast, and saw doubt remain. Try as he may, he couldn’t get his face in order. As an alternative he put an arm around her shoulders, propped her up and handed the stethoscope to her.
She listened, and her face relaxed. As it should. And strangely he found himself relaxing as well, in a way that had nothing to do with the sound of a strong baby’s heartbeat. He was holding her, feeling the tension ease, feeling her body relax into his.
Just like…
No.
‘You looked like there was something wrong,’ Maggie whispered.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Then why—?’
‘No reason. Let’s move on with this ultrasound,’ he said, more roughly than he’d intended, and she nodded and lay back on her cushions and looked at him directly.
‘Do you need me to tell you how to work this?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘But—’
Okay, truth time. ‘Maggie, I’m not a general surgeon,’ he told her. It went against the grain to admit it but he was up to his ears in this mess already—he may as well commit the whole way. ‘I’m a gynaecologist.’
‘A gynaecologist,’ she said, stunned.
‘Yes. I’m in charge of surgical gynaecology at Sydney South.’ He smiled wryly and glanced across at Betty. ‘If Betty’s ovarian cancer had been diagnosed now rather than ten years back maybe I’d be able to help her. It’s what I’m good at.’
He was searching for gel, laying out what he needed. She was staring at him as if he’d just grown two heads.
‘A surgical gynaecologist,’ she muttered, awed. And then: ‘You don’t get to be a gynaecologist in this country without being an obstetrician as well.’
‘I’m English. But, yes, that’s right. I’ve done the training.’
‘You’re a baby doctor?’ He’d thought Betty had drifted into sleep as the morphine took effect, but now the old lady’s eyes flew open. ‘We so need a baby doctor,’ she whispered.
‘I’m not a baby doctor,’ he said, more roughly than he’d intended. ‘I work with women with gynaecological problems. Surgical problems.’
But Betty was no longer listening. Instead she was smiling. ‘That was the only thing missing,’ she said. ‘Now we have everything we need. Oh, Maggie…’
‘Don’t you dare give up,’ Maggie said, sounding fearful, and Betty tried a feeble wave but didn’t
