The Surgeon's Doorstep Baby

Get the lady her bag. Now.

The bag was a huge case-cum-portable bureau, wedged into the back of an ancient family wagon. He grabbed it and grunted as he pulled it free—it weighed a ton. What was it—medical supplies for the entire valley? How on earth did a diminutive parcel like Maggie handle such a thing?

He was a week out from an appendectomy. He felt internal stitches pull and thought of consequences—and headed for the back door and grabbed the wheelbarrow.

Medical priorities.

If he broke his stitches he’d be no use to anyone. Worse, he’d need help himself.

One bag coming up. By barrow.

He pushed his way back into the living room and Maggie’s eyes widened.

She’d expected landlord with a bag.

What she got was landlord, looking a bit sheepish, with her firewood-carting wheelbarrow, plus bag.

‘Appendectomy,’ he said before she could say a word. ‘Stitches. You don’t want two patients.’

Oh, heck. She hadn’t thought. He’d told her he was here recovering from an appendectomy. She should have …

‘It’s fine,’ he said, quickly, obviously seeing her remorse. ‘As long as you don’t mind tyre tracks on your rugs.’

‘With my family I’m not used to house-proud. Thanks for getting it. Are you okay?’

‘Yes.’

She cast him a sharp, assessing look, and he thought she was working out the truth for herself, and she figured he was telling it.

‘If I tell you how, can you make up some formula? This little one’s badly dehydrated.’

‘Can I see?’ he said, over the baby’s cries.

The baby was still wailing, desperation personified.

He stooped beside her. He didn’t try and touch the baby, just pushed back the coverings further from its face.

Maggie had obviously done a fast check and then re-wrapped the infant, leaving the nappy on, tugging open the stained grow suit to the nappy but leaving it on, rewrapping the baby in the same blanket but adding her own, a cashmere throw he’d seen at the end of the sofa.

With the blankets pulled aside and the grow suit unfastened, he could see signs of neglect. This was no rosy, bouncing baby. He could see the tell-tale signs of severe nappy rash, even above the nappy. He could see signs of malnourishment.

She was right about dehydration. They needed to get the little one clean and dry—but first they needed to get fluids in and if it was possible, the best way was by mouth.

‘Tell me where, tell me how,’ he said, and she shot him a grateful glance and proceeded to do just that. Five minutes later he had a sterilised bottle filled with formula, he offered it to Maggie, she offered it to one tiny baby—who latched on like a leech and proceeded to suck like there was no tomorrow.

The sudden silence was deafening. Even the dogs seemed to sigh in relief.

Maggie’s wide, expressive mouth curved into a smile. ‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve just saved yourself from evacuation, hospital and IV drips. Now, let’s see what we have here.’ She glanced up at Blake. ‘Are you man enough to cope with the nappy? I’d normally not try and change a baby in mid-feed but this one’s practically walking on its own and I hate to imagine what it’s doing to the skin. It needs to be off but I don’t want to disturb the baby more than necessary. While the bottle’s doing the comforting we might see what we’re dealing with.’

He understood. Sort of. There was a medical imperative.

What he’d really like to do was offer to take over the holding and feeding while she coped with the other end, but he’d missed his opportunity. There was no way they should interrupt established feeding when it was so important. This baby needed fluids fast, and Maggie was the one providing them.

So … the other end.

He was a surgeon. He was used to stomach-churning sights.

He’d never actually changed a baby’s nappy.

‘You’ll need a big bowl of warm, soapy water,’ she told him. ‘The bowl’s in the left-hand cupboard by the stove. Get a couple of clean towels from the bathroom and fetch the blue bottle on the top of my bag with the picture of a baby’s bottom on the front.’

‘Right,’ he said faintly, and went to get what he needed, with not nearly the enthusiasm he’d used to make the formula.

Baby changing. He had to learn some time, he supposed. At some stage in the far distant future he and Miriam might have babies. He thought about it as he filled the bucket with skin-temperature water. He and Miriam were professional colleagues having a somewhat tepid relationship on the side. Miriam was dubious about attachment. He was even more dubious.

He suspected what he was facing tonight might make him more so.

‘Oi,’ Maggie called from the living room. ‘Water. Nappy. Stat.’

‘Yes, Nurse,’ he called back, and went to do her bidding.

CHAPTER TWO

BLAKE removed the nappy and under all that mess… ‘She doesn’t look like she’s been changed for days,’ Maggie said, horrified … they found a little girl.

They also found something else. As he tugged her growsuit free from her legs and unwrapped her fully, he drew in a deep breath.

Talipes equinovarus. Club feet. The little girl’s feet were pointed inwards, almost at right angles to where they should be.

Severe.

He didn’t comment but he felt ill, and it wasn’t the contents of the nappy that was doing it. That someone could desert such a child … To neglect her and then just toss her on his doorstep …

How did they know Maggie would be home? Maggie had dogs. How did they know the dogs wouldn’t be free to hurt her?

Seeing the extent of the nappy rash, the dehydration—and the dreadful angle of her feet—he had his answer.

Whoever had done this didn’t care. This was an imperfect baby, something to be tossed aside, brought to the local midwife, but whether she was home or not didn’t matter.

Returning damaged goods, like it or not.

He glanced up at Maggie and saw her face and saw what he was thinking reflected straight back at him. Anger, disgust, horror—and not at the tiny twisted feet. At the moron who’d gunned the car across the bridge, so desperate to dump the baby that he’d take risks. Or she’d take risks.

‘Surely it was a guy driving that car?’ Maggie whispered.

Sexist statement or not? He let it drift as he cleaned the tiny body. The little girl was relaxed now, almost soporific, sucking gently and close to sleep. She wasn’t responding to his touch—he could do anything he liked and it was a good opportunity to do a gentle, careful examination.

Maggie was letting him touch now. She was watching as he carefully manipulated the tiny feet, gently testing. As he felt her pulse. As he checked every inch of her and then suggested they lower her into the warm water.

She’d had enough of the bottle on board now to be safe. He doubted she’d respond—as some babies did—to immersion—and it was the easiest and fastest way to get her skin clean.

‘You’re a medic,’ Maggie said, because from the way he was examining her he knew it was obvious. And he knew, instinctively, that this was one smart woman.

‘Orthopaedic surgeon.’

She nodded as if he was confirming what she’d suspected. ‘Not a lot of babies, then?’

‘Um … no.’

‘But a lot of feet?’

‘I guess,’ he agreed, and she smiled at him, an odd little smile that he kind of … liked.

Restful, he thought. She was a restful woman. And then he thought suddenly, strongly, that she was the kind of woman he’d want around in a crisis.

He was very glad she was there.

But the priority wasn’t this woman’s smile. The priority was one abandoned baby. While Maggie held the bottle—the little girl was still peacefully sucking—he scooped her gently from her arms and lowered her into the warm water.

She hardly reacted, or if she did it was simply to relax even more. This little one had been fighting for survival, he thought. Fighting and losing. Now she was fed and the filth removed. She was in a warm bath in front of Maggie’s fire and she was safe. He glanced at Maggie and saw that faint smile again, and he thought that if he was in trouble, he might think of this woman as safety.

If this baby was to be dumped, there was no better place to dump her. Maggie would take care of her. He knew it. This was not a woman who walked away from responsibility.

He glanced around at the dogs on either side of the fire. His father’s dogs. When his father had gone into hospital for the last time he’d come down and seen them. They were cattle dogs, Border collies, born and raised on the farm. The last time he’d seen them—six months before his father had died—they’d been scrawny and neglected and he’d thought of the impossibility of taking them back to the city, of giving them any sort of life there.

His father hadn’t wanted him here—he’d practically yelled at him to get out. And he’d told him the dogs were none of his business.

Despite the old man’s opposition, he’d contacted the local hospital and asked for home visits by a district nurse.

Maggie had taken his father on, and the dogs, and when his father had died she’d suggested she take this place on as well. It had solved two problems—the dogs and an empty farmhouse.

This woman was a problem-solver. She’d solve this little one’s problems, too.

The baby had fallen asleep. Maggie removed the bottle, then took over from him, expertly bathing, carefully checking every inch of the baby’s skin, wincing at the extent of the nappy rash, checking arm and leg movement, frowning at a bruise on the baby’s shoulder. A bruise at this age … Put down hard? Dropped?

Hit?

‘There are basic baby clothes at the bottom of my bag,’ she said absently, all her attention on the baby. ‘And nappies. Will you fetch them?’

He did, thinking again that no matter who the lowlife was that had cared for the baby until now, at least they’d had the sense to bring her to the right place.

He brought the clothes back as Maggie scooped the baby out of the water, towelled her dry and anointed the sores. Looked again at her feet.

‘They should be being realigned now,’ he growled, watching as Maggie fingered the tiny toes. ‘Three weeks after birth … We’re missing the opportunity when the tissue is soft and malleable. The longer we leave it, the longer the treatment period.’

‘I’ve only seen this once before,’ Maggie said. ‘And not as severe as this.’

‘It’s severe,’ he said. ‘But fixable.’

‘We have basic X-ray facilities set up at my clinic—at the church hall,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve brought them in so I can see the difference between greenstick fractures and fractures where I need evacuation.’

‘We don’t need X-rays tonight. This is long-haul medical treatment.’

‘I don’t want to call out emergency services unless I have to.’ Maggie was still looking worried. ‘They have their hands full evacuating people who are being inundated, and in this rain there’s no safe place for the chopper to land.’

‘There’s no urgency.’

‘Then we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,’ she said, her face clearing, and she dressed the little one so gently he thought the dressing was almost a caress in itself. The baby hardly stirred. It was like she’d fought every inch of the way to survive and now she knew she was safe. She knew she was with Maggie.

Maggie wrapped her in her soft cashmere rug—the one she’d tugged from her settee—and handed her over to Blake. He took her without thinking, then sat by the fire with the sleeping baby in his arms as Maggie cleared up the mess.

She was a restful woman, he thought again. Methodical. Calm. How many women would take a child like this and simply sort what was needed? Taking her from peril to safe in an hour?

She was a midwife, he told himself. This was what she did.

This baby was her job.

She was gathering bottles, formula, nappies. Placing them in a basket.

A basket. He’d been drifting off in the warmth but suddenly he was wide awake. What the …?

‘Are you thinking we should take her to hospital?’ he asked. ‘I’m not driving over that bridge.’

‘Neither am I,’ she said, and brought the basket back to him. ‘She looks fine—okay, not fine, neglected, underweight, but nothing so urgent to warrant the risks of crossing the river again. I think she’ll be fine with you. I’m just packing what you need.’

‘Me?’

‘You,’ she said, gently but firmly. ‘Your baby tonight.’

‘I don’t want a baby,’ he said, stunned.

‘You think I do?’

‘She was brought to you.’

‘No,’ she said, still with that same gentleness, a gentleness with a rod of inflexibility straight through the centre. ‘She was brought to you. If I didn’t think you were capable of caring then I’d step in—of course I would—and I’m here for consulting at any time. But this little one is yours.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re the midwife.’

‘It’s got nothing to do about me being a midwife,’ she said, and searched the settee until she found what she was looking for. ‘I found this when you were making the formula. It was tucked under her blanket.’

It was a note, hastily scribbled on the back of a torn envelope. She handed it to him wordlessly, and then stayed silent as he read.

Dear Big Brother

The old man’s dead. He never did anything for me in my life—nothing! You’re the legitimate kid, the one that gets everything. You get the farm. You get the kid.

This kid’s your father’s grandkid. My father’s grandkid. I don’t want it—just take a look at its feet—they make Sam and me sick. I called it Ruby after my Mum’s mum—my grandma—she was the only one ever did anything for me—but that was before I figured how awful the feet were. So it’s deformed and we don’t want it. Change the name if you like. Get it adopted. Do what you want. Sam and me are heading for Perth so if you need anything signed for adoption or anything stick an ad in the Margaret River paper. If I see it I’ll get in touch. Maybe.

Wendy

Silence. A long, long silence.

‘Wendy?’ Maggie said gently at last.

‘My … my half-sister.’ He was struggling to take it in. ‘Result of one of my father’s affairs.’

‘Surname?’

‘I don’t even know that.’

‘Whew.’ She looked at him, still with that calmness, sympathetic but implacable. ‘That’s a shock.’

‘I … Yes.’

‘I think she’ll sleep,’ Maggie said. ‘I suspect she’ll sleep for hours. She’s not too heavy for you to carry. If you need help, I’m right through the door.’

‘This baby isn’t mine.’ It was said with such vehemence that the little girl—Ruby?—opened her eyes and gazed up at him. And then she closed them again, settling. She was dry, warm and fed. She was in Blake’s arms. All was right with her world.

‘She’s not mine,’ Blake repeated, but even he heard the uselessness of his words. Someone had to take responsibility for this baby.

‘I’m a nurse, Blake,’ Maggie said, inexorably. ‘I’m not a parent. Neither are you but you’re an uncle. Your sister’s left her baby with you. You’re family. Let me know if you’re in trouble.’ She walked across to the porch and opened the door. ‘But for now … You have everything you need for the night. I’ll pop in in the morning and see how you’re going.’

‘But I know nothing about babies.’

‘You’re a doctor,’ she said cordially. ‘Of course you do.’

‘Looking after them?’

‘If fifteen-year-old girls can manage it, you can. It’s not brain surgery.’

‘I’m not a fifteen-year-old.’ He was grasping at straws here. ‘And I’ve just had my appendix out.’

‘Fifteen-year-olds who’ve just had Caesareans manage it. How big are babies compared to an appendix? Toughen up.’

He stared at her and she stared right back. She smiled. He thought he sensed sympathy behind her smile, but her smile was still … implacable.

She’d given him his marching orders.

He was holding his niece. His.

Maggie was holding the door open; she was still smiling but she was giving him no choice.

With one more despairing glance at this hard-hearted nurse, at the crackling fire, at the sleeping dogs, at a domesticity he hardly recognised, he accepted he had no choice.

He walked out into the night.

With … his baby?

She shouldn’t have done it.

The door closed behind him and Maggie stared at it like it was a prosecutor in a criminal court.

Maggie stands accused of abandoning one defenceless baby …

To her uncle. To a doctor. To her landlord.

To a guy recovering from an appendectomy.

To a guy who was capable of driving from Sydney to the valley, to someone who was well on the way to recovery, to someone who was more than capable of looking after his baby.

His baby. Not hers.

This was not her problem. She was a professional. She cared for babies when they needed her medical intervention, and she handed them right back.

She’d done enough of the personal caring to last a lifetime.

She gazed down into the glowing embers of the fire and thought, My fire.

It had taken so much courage, so much resolution, so much desperation to find a house of her own. Corella Valley had practically no rental properties. She had so little money. It had taken all the courage and hope she possessed to gird her loins, approach Blake at the funeral and say, ‘I’m looking after your dad’s dogs; why don’t you let me take care of your house until you put it on the market? I’ll live in the housekeeper’s residence and I’ll keep the place tidy so if you need to use it it’ll be ready for you.’

The feeling she’d had when he’d said yes …

Her family still lived less than a mile away, on this side of the river. She was still here for them when they needed her—but she wasn’t here for everyone when they needed her. She was not ‘good old Maggie’ for Blake. This baby was Blake’s problem. Blake’s niece. Blake’s baby, to love or to organise another future for.

If she’d responded to the desperation in his eyes, she’d have a baby here, right now. A baby to twist her heart as it had been twisted all her life.

Eight brothers and sisters. Parents who couldn’t give a toss. Maggie, who spent her life having her heart twisted.

‘Of course you’ll stay home today and look after your brother. Yes, he’s ill, but your father and I are heading for Nimbin for a couple of days for the festival … You’re a good girl, Maggie.’

Two guitar-toting layabouts with nine kids between them, and Maggie, the oldest, the one who had cared for them all.

She did not need any more responsibility, not in a million years. She had two dogs. She had her own apartment, even if it was only until Blake sold the property.

She was not taking Blake’s baby.

And on the other side of the wall, Blake settled the sleeping baby into a cocoon of bedding he’d made in a tugged-out bureau drawer, then stood and stared down at her for a very long time.

Even in two hours she’d changed. Her face had filled out a little, and the signs of dehydration were fading. She’d been stressed since birth, he thought. She was sleeping as if she was intent on staying asleep, because being awake was frightening and lonely and hard.

He was reading too much into the expression of one sleeping baby. How did he know what she’d been through? How could he possibly guess?

This little one was nothing to do with him. As soon as the river went down he’d hand her over to the appropriate authorities and let them deal with her. But until then …

Maggie should take her, he thought. That was the reasonable plan. A trained midwife, accustomed to dealing with babies every day of her working life, was a far more suitable person to take care of a little one as young as this.

But there was something about Maggie that was implacable. Not My Problem. The sign was right up there, hanging over her head like a speech bubble. Said or not, it was what she meant and it was how she’d acted.

She’d sent him home with his niece.

His niece.

He watched her sleep for a while longer. Ruby, he thought.

His niece?

He didn’t feel like he had a niece. He didn’t feel like he had a sister. He’d only seen his sister that one appalling time, when she’d been little older than Ruby. The moment had been filled with sounds enough to terrify a six-year-old, two women screeching at each other, his father threatening, the baby crying and crying and crying.

He remembered thinking, Why don’t they stop yelling and cuddle her? He’d even thought of doing it himself, but six was too young to be brave. He’d wanted a cuddle himself. He’d been scared by the yelling and far too young to cope with a baby.

Was he old enough now?

He didn’t feel old enough.

He looked down at the tightly wrapped bundle and thought of the tiny feet, facing inwards, needing work to be aligned. He could do that. He was an orthopaedic surgeon. Fixing twisted limbs was what he did.

Not the rest.

Maggie was just through the door. A trained midwife.

The phone rang and he picked it up with relief. It’d be Maggie, he thought, changing her mind, worrying about a baby who should rightly be in her charge.

It wasn’t. It was Miriam, doing what she’d promised. ‘I’ll ring you when I’ve finished for the day,’ she’d told him. ‘You don’t mind if it’s late? You know I’d like to be with you but the board meets next week to appoint the head of ophthalmology and I need to be present to be in the running.’

Of course he’d agreed. They were two ambitious professionals, and a little thing like an appendectomy shouldn’t be allowed to get in the way of what was needed for their careers.

A little thing like a baby?

Miriam didn’t notice that he was preoccupied. She asked about the floods. He told her briefly that the bridge was blocked, that he was fine, that she needn’t worry. Not that she’d have worried anyway. She knew he could take care of himself.

There was little she didn’t know about him. They’d been colleagues for years now, in a casual relationship, maybe drifting toward marriage.

And now …

Now he was about to shock her.

‘I have a baby,’ he told her, and was met with stunned silence. He heard her think it through, regroup, decide he was joking.

‘That was fast. You only left town on Friday. You’ve met a girl, got her pregnant, had a baby …’ She chuckled—and then the chuckle died as she heard his continued silence. ‘You’re not serious?’

He outlined the night’s events, the letter, Maggie, their decision not to call for medical evacuation and Maggie’s insistence that he do the caring. He heard her incredulity—and her anger towards a nurse she’d never met.

‘She’s dumped it on you?’

‘I guess.’ But it was hardly that.

‘Then dump it right back,’ she snapped. ‘Fast. She has to take care of it. She’s the local nurse. It’s her job. This is like someone turning up in your office with a fractured leg and you refusing to help.’

‘She did help. She bathed and fed her.’

‘Her?’

‘She’s a little girl. Ruby.’

‘Don’t even think about getting attached.’ Miriam’s voice was almost a hiss. ‘That’s what she’ll be counting on. You being soft.’

‘I’m not soft.’

‘I know that, but does she? The nurse? And this sister you’ve never told me about … Who is she?’

‘I know nothing about her other than she’s called Wendy. I can’t be soft to someone I don’t know.’

‘So call in the authorities, now. If the bridge is properly cut …’

‘It is.’

‘How did they get over?’

‘They went round the road block and risked their lives.’

‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘I don’t want you risking your life. You’ll probably have to wait till morning but then call for a medical evacuation.’