to wind down and looking forward to their maternity leave, not about to commence a three-month surgical internship at a busy city hospital. You don’t need me to tell you how busy Melbourne City is—you’ve spent the last nine months there for yourself. And Jeremy Foster may be a fine surgeon, but he’s coming back from a long stint on sick leave. He’s going to have a large backlog to catch up on and, more to the point, a lot to prove.’
‘What do you mean?’ Alice asked, her curiosity about her new boss for a moment overriding the issue of whether or not she worked.
‘Well, it was a serious motor crash he was in. No one really expected him to live, let alone walk. And now here he is, less than a year later, returning to work, apparently none the worse for wear. There’s going to be people watching him—rightly or wrongly, he’s going to have to do a lot of spadework to convince them he’s up to the job.’
‘But he’s a brilliant surgeon,’ Alice argued defensively. She hadn’t yet met Jeremy Foster, but you didn’t have to meet Jeremy to feel as if you knew him. He had broken more hearts throughout the hospital than Alice could keep track of. But despite his somewhat scandalous reputation there had never been any question as to his surgical brilliance. ‘He was the hospital’s rising star—I’m lucky to have got a place on his team.’
‘“Was” being the operative word. Look, Alice, Jeremy’s going to be under the pump and that means more work for you.’
‘I can handle it. Honestly, Brett, I’ll be fine. This three-month stint will take me up to thirty-seven weeks. Lots of first babies come late, which will give me nearly a month to put my feet up and think baby thoughts. Heaps of women work practically until they go into labour these days.’ She sounded so confident Alice almost convinced herself that she could handle it, but Brett wasn’t about to be fobbed off.
‘True,’ he said, then added gently, ‘But those women probably have a partner to come home to, or at least a supportive family. Someone to give them a bit of help and take away some of the strain. I know how much you need this, Alice, and I don’t want to ruin your plans—but I have to be sure you know what you’re doing.’
His words, however kindly meant, tore through her. The cool, confident façade melted in an instant and as she crumpled before him Brett came around the desk and handed her a handful of tissues.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘I didn’t want to cry in front of you. In front of anyone,’ she added.
‘Cry away,’ Brett said kindly. ‘I see a lot of tears in here. You’re not the only pregnant woman trying to make it all work. Trying to cram it all in before the baby comes along. Sometimes you need someone else to make the decision for you. To put the brakes on and tell you to slow down.’
Alice didn’t answer. Accepting the tissues, she wept for a moment. She felt mortified that it had come to this: sitting in a doctor’s office, begging to be allowed to work, begging for the chance to support her baby.
‘If I don’t finish my internship I won’t be registered as a doctor and that means I can’t apply to go on a GP training rotation.’
‘But you can do your surgical internship once the baby comes along.’
Alice shook her head. ‘I’m living in a bedsit. I can hardly afford the rent as it is. If I stop working—’
‘You can claim child support,’ Brett said in a practical voice. ‘You won’t starve.’
‘I don’t want my baby to start out life like that. You know how big the incentives are for country GPs. I’d have a home, a job. I could afford to have someone look after the baby while I work. I’d be able to give it a real future. If I don’t do this it will put my plans back by months.’
‘What about your parents? I know they’re in Adelaide and you’ve had your differences, but maybe they’re starting to get used to the idea now. Perhaps if you explained to your mum the problems that you’re having, trying to make it all work...’
Her stricken look said it all. ‘Then what about the baby’s father?’ Brett ventured gently. ‘Shouldn’t he be helping? After all, legally it is his responsibility.’
He watched as she stiffened. ‘He wants nothing to do with me or the baby,’ Alice said in a strained voice. ‘He made that perfectly clear.’
‘He might not want anything to do with you both,’ Brett said, making his way back to his seat, ‘but there are laws out there to protect women in exactly your position. Maybe it’s time he faced up to the truth that he’s about to become a father and the responsibility that entails. Even if it’s only financially.’
For the first time Alice didn’t have to pretend to be assured or confident; this was the one area of her life that was unequivocal. ‘I’m not asking him for a single cent. He’s either in or out of this baby’s life—not somewhere in between. Marcus made it perfectly clear it was the latter he was choosing when I found out I was pregnant, and as far as I’m concerned it can stay that way. I want nothing more to do with him.
‘Look, Brett, I really need this job,’ she pleaded. ‘If you think I’m stressed now, I’d be ten times worse if you told me I couldn’t work. If there was any question that my baby was in danger, of course I wouldn’t start, but you said yourself the baby’s fine.’
Brett didn’t answer for what seemed like an age. Instead, he started writing up her notes before finally looking up. ‘All right, then. But I want to see you fortnightly from now on. And if your blood pressure creeps any higher, or I’ve even the slightest hint that either you or the baby aren’t coping, I’ll sign you off—and I mean it, Alice. Get yourself some support tights, eat the right food and put your feet up every chance you get.’
Alice grinned as she stood up. ‘I promise.’
Brett found himself smiling back at her. He had been unsure there as to what to do. Instinct told him to sign her off, but he could understand her desperation. It was a tough call all right. Yet there was no doubt that Alice looked a lot more relaxed now she could go ahead with her plans. If he took her blood pressure now, he’d half expect it to be normal.
‘Make an appointment with Madge on your way out. I do late nights on Mondays for my working mums—that’ll probably suit you better.’
‘Thanks.’ Smiling, she made her way down the long carpeted corridor to the reception desk. ‘It’s OK, baby,’ she whispered, gently patting her bump as she walked. ‘Mummy’s going to be able to take good care of you now. We’re going to be just fine.’
WHOEVER had written in the mother-and-baby magazine Alice had read in the doctor’s waiting room that there was a lot more choice in maternity wear these days either had a bottomless wallet or terrible taste in clothes, Alice thought ruefully as she dressed. Her ‘bump’ seemed to have grown practically overnight. Though somewhat excited by the rapid changes in her body, the down side was she could no longer get by with undoing the buttons of her skirts and wearing loose-fitting clothes. Her trip to the maternity departments hadn’t been a howling success. Everything was either ludicrously expensive or trimmed with a disgusting lace Peter Pan collar or bow. Finally she had settled on a ‘maternity kit’ which consisted of a black Lycra skirt, swing top and trousers, and a little black dress which showed off rather a lot of her expanding
