over. The second and third yells were drowned out as the coach turned out of the parking lot, growing louder and louder until nothing could be heard at all.
Gina made to stand—she made to get herself out in front of the coach to stop it—but then there was a tiny choking sound from the baby. Her eyes flew back to him. Was she imagining it?
No.
If he was choking… His airway must still be slightly blocked. She had to get his trachea clear.
Once more she lifted the baby and turned him face down, and her fingers searched his mouth. The coach was forgotten. She desperately needed equipment. There might well be liquor or meconium stuck in his throat or on his vocal cords. How to clear his tiny airway without tracheal suction?
She shook him, carefully, carefully, supporting his neck as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
He choked again.
Something dislodged—a fragment of gunk—and she had it clear in an instant.
She turned him back over and breathed for him again.
This time his chest rose higher.
It fell.
It rose—all by itself.
Again.
Again.
She was breathing with him, willing him to breathe with her. And he was. Wonderfully—magically—he was.
She wiped his mouth again, using her T-shirt, and then searched her bag for a facecloth. She was cradling him against her now. She had to get him warm. Once she had him breathing, heat loss was his biggest enemy.
At least the outside air was warm.
She had to get help.
The coach was gone.
As if on cue, CJ appeared back from his tiger yelling. ‘I think they heard me,’ he told her, uncertain whether to be proud or not. His expression said he was definitely uncertain about the baby his mother was paying such attention to. ‘One of the ladies on the coach waved to me as it went past.’
Fantastic. She could hear it in the distance, rumbling down the unmade road, starting its long trip to Cairns.
To the airport. To America. Home.
She couldn’t think of that now. All that mattered was this tiny baby. His breathing was becoming less laboured, she thought, or was it wishful thinking? She wanted oxygen so badly.
She didn’t have it. She had to concentrate on the things she could do.
Swiftly she checked the baby’s umbilical cord. It looked as if it had been ripped from the placenta. Now that his heart was beating strongly, the cord was starting to ooze.
How long had the cord been cut? she asked herself, a bit confused. Obstetrics wasn’t her strong point, but surely the cord shouldn’t still be bleeding?
How much blood had he lost?
Where was the nearest hospital to Gunyamurra?
She couldn’t depend on a hospital. She was all this baby had.
She tugged the drawstring from her backpack and tied the umbilicus with care, then hauled the backpack wide and found her own windcheater—a soft, old garment that she loved. It’d do as a blanket.
Once again she checked his breathing, scarcely allowing herself to hope that this frail little scrap of humanity might survive.
But as if he’d read her mind and was determined to prove her wrong, he opened his eyes.
And even CJ was caught.
‘It’s a real baby,’ CJ breathed, awed at this transformation from what must have seemed a lifeless body to a living thing, and Gina could only gaze down at the baby in her arms and agree.
More. There were no words for this moment. For this miracle. She was suddenly holding a little person in her arms. A baby boy. A child who’d one day grow to be a man, because CJ had found him and her lifesaving techniques had blessedly worked.
How could missing a coach possibly compare to this? How could being stuck in this outlandish place possibly matter?
He was so tiny. Four, maybe five pounds? Premature? He had to be. His fingernails had scarcely started to form and he was so small.
His lips were still tinged with blue. Cyanosis? The tips of his fingers were still blue as well, and she started to worry all over again. As he’d started to breathe, his little body had suffused with colour, but now…
She checked his fingers and toes with care, trying not to expose him any more than she had to. It was a hot day, so the wind was warm against the baby’s skin. How long had he been exposed?
Maybe the warm wind had helped save his life.
But there were still those worrying traces of cyanosis. His heart wasn’t working at a hundred per cent.
It wasn’t his breathing, she thought. He was gazing up, wide-eyed, as if wondering where on earth he was, and his breathing seemed to be settling.
So why the skin blueness?
She wanted medical back-up. She wanted it now.
‘How will we get home?’ CJ asked, and she held the baby close and tried to make herself think.
‘We need to find someone to help us.’
‘Everyone’s gone,’ CJ said.
‘Surely not everyone.’
But maybe everyone had. Gina’s heart sank. The rodeo itself had finished almost an hour ago. A group of country and western musicians from down on the coast had booked the coach to transport their gear. They’d played at the closing ceremony, then organised the coach to stay longer, giving them time to pack up.
The timing meant that the crowd had dispersed. The rodeo had taken place miles from the nearest settlement—which itself wasn’t much of a settlement. There’d been mobile food vans and a mobile pub, but they’d gone almost before the last event.
CJ might well be right.
‘Someone must be here,’ she said, trying to sound assured. She tucked the baby underneath her T-shirt, against her skin, hoping the warmth of her skin would do the same job as an incubator. ‘Come on, CJ. Let’s go find someone.’
CJ was looking at her as if he wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to accompany her or not. ‘Is the baby OK?’
‘I think so.’ She hoped so.
‘You’ve got blood on your shirt.’
She had. She grimaced down at her disgusting T-shirt but she wasn’t thinking of her appearance. She was thinking of how much blood the baby had lost.
Why
