The Heart Doctor and the Baby (8 page)

So much for sneaking out of the clinic early today.

 

The next morning Jon cruised by René's office on his way to discuss his schedule with the receptionist, Gaby. The door was closed. A young woman with bright red hair, a stained-glass-patterned tattoo covering one arm and a brow ring, sat just outside, flipping through a magazine.

Immediately forgetting Gaby, he pushed on to knock on René's door to see how she was doing, and the woman jumped to her feet.

“Sorry, but it's Dr. Munroe's quiet time,” she said.

“Pardon?” He must have heard wrong. Since when had René employed a bodyguard?

“She's resting. She had a long night of surgery, and needs extra time with her feet elevated to make up for it.”

“And you are?”

“Gretchen. I'm her doula.” She extended her hand at the end of her highly decorated arm.

Oh, right, René had told him about hiring a woman as her pregnancy advocate. He shook her hand and made a
U-turn. He'd wait until later to quiz René about their patient and how the C-section had gone, and besides, he really did need to talk to Gaby about his schedule.

At noontime, René didn't come into the lunchroom, and even though he'd promised to avoid her as much as possible, he went looking for her. He'd been too busy all morning to call her office, and after seeing the size of Chloe's heart on X-ray, he became really curious about the health of the infant.

With cardiomyopathy of this magnitude in their latest patient, it made sense that the dusky lavender-rose color of her lips had nothing to do with lipstick and everything to do with low oxygen.

He forked several bites of spaghetti and meat sauce before his curiosity got the best of him. He shoved his food aside. Rounding the corner to René's office, determined to get some face time, he came to an abrupt halt. Tattoo lady stood behind René's chair, massaging something into her temples.

“Take several deep breaths,” she said, and René did as she was told. “That should help your headache.”

This was wrong. Totally wrong. If she needed someone to give her a head and neck massage he could fill that bill. Hell, he could be a lot more creative than smelly cream and deep breaths. He'd distract her with a leisurely afternoon in his bed, working her into a frenzy and satisfying her every need.

Damn, he had to quit thinking this way, because he wasn't doing himself any favors. He'd had to fight off his imagination daily since he'd kissed her, and his resolve was growing weak. He cleared his throat, and Gretchen snapped her head toward him.

René glanced up bearing a sheepish look, and peachy
pink cheeks, the color of the afterglow he'd guarantee her if she'd only jump into his fantasy—a fantasy he shouldn't be having in the first place, remember!

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey. It smells like—” he sniffed the sweet aroma “—peppermint?”

“And eucalyptus,” Gretchen added. “Perfect for tension headaches—that's what pregnant women suffer from when they don't get enough sleep.”

“Ah.” He honestly couldn't think of a proper response.

“Gretchen, thanks so much, but I'd like to talk to Jon if you don't mind.”

The full-bodied and freckled, where she wasn't tattooed, woman gathered her huge bag of goodies and prepared to leave the room. “Don't forget to take your prenatal vitamins. Here.” She set a plastic container in front of René. “This is your lunch. It's perfectly balanced for you and the baby's dietary needs.”

He understood women had different perspectives than men on many levels, but had their clinic nurse practitioner, Claire, really recommended this woman to René? And René had hired her? Which part of the equation was he missing?

He folded his arms, leaned against the door and waited for the woman to leave. René slanted him a look filled to the brim with apologies and embarrassment. Once the woman had cleared the door, he took the seat across from René's desk.

“I had no idea she would go this far,” she whispered.

He glanced over his shoulder. “She's definitely into her job. I guess that's a good thing.”

She shrugged. “She's nice enough. Very caring.”

“She could use a hint about knowing when to stop playing bodyguard, though.”

René let go a soft laugh. Up close he could easily see the fatigue, and a touch of purple smudged under her eyes.

“How'd the surgery go?”

She sighed. “Rough. It was really rough. Chloe had an incredibly high tolerance for anesthesia, which threatened her baby. I had to work fast, and the poor thing was so tiny due to IUGR. She barely weighed three pounds—at eight months' gestation! Can you believe it?”

“Yikes. It's not surprising about intrauterine growth retardation, because Chloe's heart is a mess, and hasn't been delivering enough oxygen to the fetus. Chances are she'll suffer progressive deterioration of her heart, but there's a slight chance it could go back to normal size. By six months from now we should know if the disease has reversed or not.”

“If we can keep track of her,” René said, unconsciously rubbing her tiny baby bump.

If he didn't know better, he'd never suspect she was even pregnant, but he'd known the results, and she'd called him at the first sign of life. He'd been flattered that she wanted to share the news with him, then had the audacity to fall asleep on the phone. Yeah, Mr. Exciting—wasn't that what Cherie had always called him?

“As for the baby, well, that's another story,” he said.

“Do you suspect brain damage?”

“It's very possible.”

“At least her baby's in the NICU and social services will make sure she's taken care of properly,” René said.

“Good.”

“Let's hope the little one's a fighter.”

Jon thought about the baby inside René, hoping it was
a real fighter, too. He also thought about Gretchen and her bag of surprises, and suspected that from now on, René would share all things on the pregnancy front with her. So much for superfriend status. A pang of envy made him stand. He had no right to expect anything more.

“I guess you'd better eat your lunch,” he said, slipping out of the room. “And whatever you do, don't forget those vitamins.”

He left her quietly laughing. It was the least he could do. Feeling as irritable as a duck in the desert, he thought how things would only get worse as her pregnancy progressed. He wanted to be involved, yet the price he had to pay was too great. And it wasn't fair to René to insinuate himself into her life, only to leave.

“I think I know who the father is,” Lois whispered to Gaby near the front desk.

“I'll tell you who I think it is, then you can tell me who you think it is. Maybe we think it's the same person.” Gaby's gaze lifted in time to see Jon pass. She quickly guarded her look and pretended to do some work. Lois flashed a glance over her shoulder, displaying similar surprise.

Maybe it was better to leave sooner than later.

He knew three or four doctors in practices who'd expressed an interest in him joining them, but had been too content to ever give it a second thought before. Maybe now was the time to start a job search; that is, if they would also be okay with him going on sabbatical.

Eighteen weeks' gestation, late June

R
ENÉ
lay on the paper-lined exam table as her doctor performed an ultrasound. The ethereal outline of the baby seemed to emerge from what looked like a triangular-shaped dust storm. A perfect profile of an alien child came into view, complete with huge head and torso, tiny hands, feet and turned-up nose. Could anything possibly be wrong with her baby?

She was thirty-six, and she recommended amniocenteses to her patients beginning at age thirty-four to rule out genetic disorders and chromosome abnormalities. In her opinion, this study needed to be done.

Once her doctor established the placement of the baby in her uterus and marked it, her nurse swabbed René's belly with topical disinfectant, then placed a paper sterile field with a whole in the middle over the X marks the spot. Under constant ultrasound guidance to avoid injuring the fetus or placenta, a long needle was inserted into her abdomen. The pinch of entry through the skin was bearable thanks to topical anesthetic, but then came an odd pressure as the needle pierced her uterus and entered the
fluid-filled sac surrounding her baby. She wouldn't describe it as painful, but the process of withdrawing the fluid gave an odd pulling sensation as the syringe sucked thirty ml. into its barrel, and that definitely got her attention. Could the minor procedure cause a problem? She knew there was a small risk for miscarriage by having this done, but in her opinion, the greater gamble was not being prepared for a handicapped baby.

Gretchen was quick to be at her side, and René was grateful not to be alone through the procedure. But holding Gretchen's hand left her wanting, and oddly enough she had a brief fantasy about Jon. Why couldn't she get beyond him? In her thoughts, he sat beside her with narrowed eyes watching her every move, as if monitoring her well-being. The fanciful vision of Jon worrying about her gave an added sense of security to the procedure, even if only made-up.

Within a few minutes, everything was over and she was dressed.

“You know the routine,” René's OB doctor said. “We'll send the specimen to the special lab where they'll analyze the cells and study the chromosomes. Report any bleeding immediately.”

Now all she had to do was wait two long and nerve-racking weeks for the results.

“By the way, do you want to know the sex of the baby?”

René had quickly looked away from this ultrasound, as she had with all the others to avoid seeing anything that might expose the sex. Many of her patients wanted to know the gender in advance, but not her.

“No, thanks,” she said, opting for the gift of surprise at the birth.

 

“What are you going to give Dr. Munroe for the baby shower?” Jon overheard his nurse, Lois, ask Christina, the medical aide, the next day.

“I was hoping to go in with someone so we can get her something really nice.”

Jon craned his neck to better hear the conversation.

“Oh, I'd like to do that. Let's decide what we should buy at lunch,” Lois said.

“Sounds good. Um, who do you think the father is?”

“There's no telling. A woman like Dr. Munroe could have any man she wanted.”

“You think she arranged to get pregnant? She never mentions a boyfriend, and she's getting on in age,” Christina said.

“You mean, like a sperm donor, or a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am?”

Jon had heard enough. He pushed back his chair and strode to the office door. “Ladies? Don't you have work to do?” He thought about making a snide remark about how it wasn't any of their business who the father of René's baby was. He tried to figure out how he might react if he wasn't personally involved. As it was, he felt paranoid, and thought it might seem too obvious if he said what was on his mind, so he gritted his teeth and forced a smile.

“Oh, sorry, Dr. Becker,” Lois said. “I'll get your next patient in the room ASAP.”

He rubbed his jaw. He hadn't thought about an office baby shower. Now he'd have to come up with a gift for René that wasn't too personal. Something well-built…and functional…like him. Right. That was the last thing she needed. Or wanted.

He smiled, deciding to give René the same thing he'd
given Jason and Claire for their son, a top-of-the-line stroller. On a whim, he made up his mind to purchase one with a special and extra feature, and he knew exactly where to buy it, too.

 

Saturday morning, René indulged herself in a shopping spree. She'd seen her hospitalized patients that morning and told Gretchen, who was beginning to overstep boundaries and get on her nerves, that she preferred to do this alone.

The woman had proved to be a bit overbearing with her ideas and suggestions, and René didn't want a comprehensive rundown of every nursery item that caught her fancy. She just wanted to shop for her baby…in peace.

The Babies, Babies, Babies! store was nestled in an upscale, Mediterranean-styled corner mall on Coast Village Road in nearby Montecito. She stepped into the display room and almost gasped at the assortment. How in the world would she be able to choose which crib, dresser and changing table she wanted with a gazillion sets? Every color, style, size—simple to ornate, over-the-top to understated to trendy—were on hand for the choosing.

She wandered toward the cribs: natural wood, cherry wood, dark wood and white; French country, modern and Scandinavian styled. There were cribs that could break down to become head- and footboards for future toddler beds, cribs big enough to take up the entire second bedroom in her home and cribs for twins and triplets. Everything seemed to have double functions, and for these prices she could see why.

Her head spun at the overabundance of merchandise with too many choices, and wished she'd invited a friend
along to help her decide. She glanced across the store at the checkout desk and needed to grab the nearest crib rail for support. Should she hide? Why?

There stood Jon, Saturday casual in jeans and a snug bright green polo shirt he hadn't bothered to tuck in. He produced a card and handed it to the lady.

Funny how the sight of him made her feel a bit giddy these days, especially since he'd been making himself scarce at work. At first she thought it was the hormones messing with her body, but she'd noticed a consistent tingle shower each time she'd seen him since their kiss. Man, he was a good kisser.

She had no right to think about him in that way—there was no purpose in it—yet occasionally her mind would drift to that night at his loft.

He turned just when she'd been remembering their kiss, and must have seen her with quite an expression on her face. His gaze gravitated to her lips, then, as if he'd been caught red-handed in some nefarious deed, he blushed. Full out, all the way to the shells of his ears, he reddened, and it became him.

With piqued interest, she forged her way over to the counter.

He took a few steps toward her, closing the wide gap between them. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

She glanced at her stomach, beneath the blue plaid pin-tuck tunic top. “Shouldn't I be asking that question?”

“A guy doesn't have the right to come here? How sexist, Dr. Munroe.”

She laughed. “Fine, you're right. What'd you buy me?”

He pulled in his chin. “You're awfully presumptuous, aren't you?”

“Okay, play dumb. I'll find out eventually. In fact…”
She approached the counter, noticed his Saturday-morning didn't-bother-to-shave stubble and felt that tingle buzz all over again. She faced the salesclerk. “May I ask what this gentleman purchased?”

The clerk's eyes widened as her gaze darted toward Jon. He placed his index finger over his lips, and the woman nodded. She gave René a sympathetic smile. “I think since he paid for it, I have to keep my lips sealed. Sorry.”

René tossed Jon a glance loaded with attitude. “Okay, I get it. So since you're here, want to help me pick out a crib?”

An hour later, after Jon had proved what fantastic taste he had, she made her purchase and arranged for home delivery the next week. He'd found a well-made yet not overbearing crib that matched the natural woodwork in her Craftsman home. The fact he'd thought about it surprised her, and she'd thanked him profusely for helping her make the decision.

“I'm good at painting, too, in case you're wondering,” he said. “Looks like you've got a week to whip that room into shape before the furniture arrives.”

“Are you offering?”

“We could negotiate, but only if you'll feed me.”

Could they manage to be in a room, alone together, and not make lust-filled fools out of themselves again? She wasn't sure it was worth the risk.

He must have read her mind when he dipped his head and lowered his voice. “I'll be good, I promise.”

From where she stood, she could take his statement two different ways, and the first to pop into her mind made her cheeks heat up.

“I'm sure you will,” she said, smoothing her hand over her hair. She stared at her feet until the warmth receded, then headed for the exit with Jon hot on her heels.

Just before she'd made it out the door, over in the corner, she spotted a bassinet. A perfect bassinet. White wicker complete with hood. She stopped abruptly, and Jon ran into her.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, his chest pushed against her back, hands on her shoulders. “Didn't see your brake lights.”

She glanced behind; his chin was eye level. He may not have shaved but he'd definitely showered, and she was close enough to smell his faint cologne, a heady spice scent with a touch of lime. The tingles cascaded from head to shoulders to arms, making her grateful she'd worn long sleeves and he couldn't see her goose bumps. He'd also managed to erase her mind.

“Is this what you were looking at?” He approached the bassinet, a quizzical lift of his brows.

“Yes,” she said, finding her voice again. “Isn't it perfect?”

He locked into her gaze. “Perfect,” he repeated, though she had the distinct impression he wasn't commenting about the bed. Needing to change the direction of her mind, she focused on the bassinet.

“Oh, my gosh, look. It converts into a rocker.” She laughed. “Does everything here have a double function?”

He smiled and mindlessly set the bassinet to rocking.

“I can just imagine the baby in it,” she said, slowly lifting her eyes to his. The subtle expression in his velvet brown stare made her hold her breath.

“The baby will arrive before you know it,” he said.

A contract worth of unspoken words traveled between them. As long as he was in her life, she'd be reminded of his connection to the child. A signature on paper couldn't rub out the truth—they'd made a baby together. This child would be theirs, though she'd vowed to never include Jon
in the upbringing. She'd wanted it that way and he'd demanded it, as he'd be gone in another year.

Yet she longed for his input, like today, when he'd helped her choose the furniture. It had taken what had previously seemed overwhelming, and made it easy, and fun. And under Jon's tutelage, she was sure to enjoy painting her first room. Too bad he'd consented to not have anything to do with this baby, because if today was any indication, they'd be great together.

She'd crave his wisdom on so many topics over the next several years, yet she'd have to walk the fine line of colleague, coworker and friend. She'd always second-guess her decisions and wonder if Jon would handle things differently, if he'd approve of hers. He didn't want any more children. He'd made it clear—he was happy with his daughters and, at forty-two, he looked forward to a different kind of freedom when they went away to college. He had plans to study medicine in China. He'd laid it all out for her the night she'd asked him to be the sperm donor. How clear could it be?

Yes, yes, yes, she'd said, brushing each point away. She'd been so focused on what she'd wanted that she'd overlooked the bigger picture, the one where she and the baby stood in the center, looking on the outside at Jon. The gap that felt empty without him.

The last thing he needed was to start all over again; she knew it as sure as the baby in her womb. And she'd asked enough of him already. She took one more glance into his deep, distancing eyes, and forced her gaze away.

“Yes, my baby will be here before I know it.”

Okay, she'd finally read him loud and clear. The bassinet was for her baby.
Her. Baby.

 

Jon walked his patient to the small lab located across from René's office, as an excuse to drop off the paint chips. She'd talked about yellow, or peach, or powder blue—something light and airy—the morning they'd chosen the baby furniture. He'd stopped her before she could name any more colors.

Last night he'd dropped by the paint store and found some samples he thought she'd like, and wanted to show them to her this morning. There was Gretchen, fussing with flowers and candles in René's office.

“She's with a patient,” she said, in answer to his quizzical, narrowed stare.

“I'll come back later, then,” he said.

He almost asked,
Don't you have a job?
but realized this
was
her job, but surely she must have other clients, too. About to pocket the samples, they apparently had caught her attention.

She approached and reached out her hand. “Are those for René?”

So they were on a first-name basis now. He nodded, annoyed that it bothered him what Gretchen called René.

“May I see them? Color in a nursery is very important. Hmm. That's a no. Oh, this? I don't think so. Maybe this one. I'll run them by René later. We're planning to paint the room this week.”

Had René changed their plans? They hadn't set up a firm date, but he'd thought tomorrow night would be good. He hoped, once she'd seen the paint chips, and made her choice, he could pick up the paint on his way home from work tonight and get started on the job ASAP.