Babies in the Bargain (2 page)

She shook her head. “I can’t afford to waste a minute.”

Marc spread his hands in mock desperation. “No break? Tsk, tsk, that’s not healthy.”

She unlocked the door to her fellow’s room and stepped inside. “The only break I need is a shower and a good nap. See you in Delivery. Whenever.”

Mierda
. He was still on her blacklist. “If you change your mind, I’ll be here, sweetie.”

Spinning toward him, she crossed her arms on her chest. “You can drop the ‘sweetie’.” She had her don’t-mess-with-me tone.
Dios
, she really resented him.

“We’re not in the delivery room, Dr. Collier.” He rubbed his chin, thinking fast. He needed a different approach to get back in her good graces.

“My name is Holly. Feel free to use it.” Her chin rose and her eyes glowed with incandescent green.

He longed to take her in his arms and kiss the irritation out of her system. “If you insist,
Holl-lly
.” He smiled, hoping to pacify her.

His pager buzzed. Holly’s pager echoed. She picked up her phone, called administration, and then faced him. “An emergency. A bad accident involving a pregnant woman.”

* * *

Without wasting any time, Holly slipped on clean scrubs and rushed out of her room. Twisting her hair in a bun, she ran along the hallway, the rest of the administrative assistant’s words still ringing in her ears. “Bad accident. OR 3, stat. They’re all there.”

After two incredibly long years of training, Holly always hoped for the best, but she knew better. A night without complications at WCH? Just wishful thinking.

In pre-op, she scrubbed and adjusted her cap and mask. An incongruous silence greeted her in OR 3 where a dozen medics and nurses crammed into the delivery area.
Holly’s skin prickled as tension crackled through the air.

She strode toward her station
and
caught sight of Marc slumped against the wall, his broad shoulders straining the cotton of his scrubs.

For the first time since he’d come back to work at WCH five weeks ago, the dashing doctor looked somber, his eyebrows gathered in a deep scowl and his lips tightened in a thin line.

Wavy black hair curled out of his cap and a surgical mask dangled on his chest. Gone was the devastating smile that brightened his tanned face and melted female hearts.

Marc didn’t tease her with a wink. He didn’t even glance at her when she crossed the room.

A spectator. A grim spectator. His gaze remained glued to the operating table where a pregnant woman lay immobile.

Why wasn’t he involved in the operation?

Holly threw a look at the patient...and the blood drained from her face.

Lydia.

With a deep bruise marking her forehead.

Oh, God, the accident involved Marc’s sister-in-law. Disbelief squeezed Holly’s chest. Celebrating their anniversary had meant so much to Lydia. With a pinch of envy, Holly had wished she too had something to celebrate other than passing exams and graduating.

Poor Lydia. She’d been so worried about the delivery. Reality had hit her worse than her frightful nightmares.

Where was Carlos?

Holly shifted her gaze to Marc and cringed. Goosebumps sprouted on her arms at the grim expression that added years to his beautiful face. It was an answer to her question. She shivered, wishing she could reach for him. Hug him.

Hug him
?

Maybe he wouldn’t welcome her hug anyway. Not after she’d recently refused to go out with him and thoroughly avoided him.

Marc’s eyes, darker than usual, were fixed on his sister-in-law, following every move of the medical personnel crowded around the operating table. His throat worked as he swallowed. Hard.

Had Holly been too harsh on him? Unable to forgive and forget?

Regret overshadowed her aloofness. The Hippocratic Oath played in her ears.
Do no harm
. And her personal ethic resonated in her brain.
To help all patients
.

Marc wasn’t a patient, but if things went wrong, but if things went wrong, she just couldn’t ignore his pain, could she?

No, the proud Dr. Suarez would never seek sympathy or help.

Chris Guerlin, the anesthesiologist, studied the heart monitor, the
blip-blip-blip
resonating in the quiet OR.

“Collapsed lungs.” He had put Lydia on artificial respiration. A tube in her neck forced air into her lungs.

There was no expectant dad, no camera, and no joy in this delivery room. The staff performed with quiet efficiency, like a well-orchestrated ballet on a mute screen. Dr. Halsdale opened his hand and the nurses deposited the surgical tools in his palm. For a change, he didn’t say a word before starting the C-section.

It was Guerlin who broke the agonizing silence. “Heart rate dropping. Blood pressure down to 60 over 40. Open the crash cart. Epinephrine,” he ordered.

“Too much blood.” Dr. Halsdale muttered as soon as he cut through the abdomen. “Internal bleeding.”

Holly flipped her gaze toward Marc. His jaw constricted and a muscle twitched at the base of his neck. Her breath trapped in her throat as his suffering punched her straight in the stomach.

Please, God. Save Lydia and the baby. Holly suppressed her tears.
Maybe I should have told her to stay home
.

It was the wrong time to indulge in emotional confusion.
Pull yourself together
. They all counted on her. Dr. Halsdale, Marc, Carlos and Lydia. How often had Holly reassured Lydia she’d have a healthy baby?

“A boy,” Dr. Halsdale announced. He cut the umbilical cord. Holly heaved in a deep breath and raised her hands. Time to act on her promise to Lydia. The obstetrician handed her the baby. The infant was limp, slippery and moist from the gray vernix covering him. Holly placed him under the radiant warmer and dried him off.

“No chest movement. Stacey, measure the heart rate while I work on the baby.” Holly suctioned the nose and mouth. “I think he’s breathing. Weakly.”

The nurse pressed the stethoscope on the infant’s belly. “Heart rate, 70.”

“Hand me a resuscitation bag. Keep listening for breath sounds while I bag him.” Holly fixed the cushioned mask over the baby’s face covering the tiny mouth, nose, and tip of the chin, and then squeezed the bag to blow air into the lungs. “What’s the heart rate now?”

“Still 70. Breath sounds louder on right than on left.”

“I’ll intubate.” Holly opened her hand to receive the breathing apparatus. Holding the light to illuminate the infant’s throat, she gently slid the thin silicone tube inside the preemie’s mouth and down his throat. “Heart rate?”

“Below 60.”

Damn it, why? “Take the tube out. Give me a new one with a stylet. Let’s reintubate.” Holly reinserted the endotracheal tube between the vocal cords and called to the other nurse. “I’ll hold it. Linda, tape it in place.” The nurse secured the tube under the preemie’s nose. “Good. Now, heart rate? Breathing?”

“Louder on the right,” the nurse mumbled.

Holly pulled back the tube slightly. “Now?”

“Breath still louder on the right. Heart rate 50. Dropping to 40...35...30.”

Oh, shit. The preemie lay still, as gray as a mud doll, three pairs of hands fumbling on his clammy skin. Holly winced, her breath caught in her throat. The image of her baby brother and her sobbing mother flashed through her mind.

Oh, God, don’t let this one die
.

Holly swabbed an antiseptic solution on the baby’s side, inserted the catheter through the sunken chest and pushed. A shiver crawled up her spine and with it the memory of her father, grumbling about doctors’ incompetence.

Please, don’t die on me
.

Blood pounded against her temples, but her hands remained steady. She pressed harder on the syringe.

The trapped air escaped from the baby’s collapsed lungs. The whooshing sound echoed against Holly’s sigh of relief. “He’s back.”

“Heart rate 40...50...70, going up...100...120. You did it.” The nurse’s voice exploded triumphantly, breaking the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

“I did it,” Holly whispered as she secured the needle in place. The baby’s eerie pallor receded. Holly gazed at her little patient. “Thank you, sweetheart.” Grabbing the stethoscope, she listened to the heart. Normal. A regular sound that chimed like a victory bell, proof that she could be—that she was—a good doctor.

The little bundle squirmed and squeaked. Holly measured his vitals. He was small, only four pounds, but so cute with a tuft of black hair. She sighed with relief as she examined him and enveloped him in a plaid blanket. With a feather-light touch, she traced a finger on his forehead and cheek. He had the Suarez features, but with a yellowish complexion, the beginning of jaundice. The baby opened his eyes, dark chocolate, just like Marc’s.

Pity filled her heart. She’d seen many similar cases, yet she always felt this uneasy angst about the fate of the tiny patients she saved. When would she learn to distance herself from
her
babies?

Not in this case, obviously. Her insides twisted as her gaze riveted on the baby. Marc’s nephew. She’d done her best for the preemie. He was safe for now.

What about Lydia? Would she survive? Holly didn’t like the scowl gathering on the anesthesiologist’s forehead as he focused on the heart monitor.

And what about Marc? Her arms tightened protectively around the baby as her thoughts swirled frantically and her skin crawled with joyful and frustrating memories from seven years ago. Could she help the man she had once loved so foolishly and then sworn to forget?

* * *

Rooted in place, Marc stared at Lydia. His mind hit with the tragic news only a few minutes ago refused to assimilate the catastrophe.

Halsdale, his expression grimmer than usual, had caught him on his way to Delivery. “Bad news, Suarez. I had your sister-in-law rushed to OR 3. Join me there stat.” The old doctor hadn’t minced words to announce the accident and Carlos’s death.

Marc had run to his brother lying on a gurney in ER, and felt his pulse. Nothing. Numb with shock, Marc had darted to OR. They needed to save Lydia and the baby.

Thanks to Holly’s professional expertise, the infant was safe. Marc didn’t doubt the baby was a beautiful boy, although he’d hardly looked at him. He was so distressed about Lydia. And Carlos...

“Dead,” Marc mumbled without conviction.

No, it couldn’t be
.

He hadn’t had his stethoscope with him to check Carlos’s heartbeat. Feeling a pulse wasn’t enough to give a definite diagnosis. Maybe it was just a coma from the impact. Lydia would be fine, and in a moment, Marc would run to see Carlos and check him again, thoroughly. Maybe...

Dr. Halsdale sutured the incision. Before he needled the last stitch, Chris groaned. “She’s going. CPR stat. Now.” Marc’s head snapped toward the heart monitor. It had tapered to a flat line. Chris grabbed the electrodes a nurse handed him and plunked them on the patient’s chest, pressing hard. “Now.” Lydia’s body jerked, then fell back. “Again.”

Nothing happened. “More,” Chris called.

On the monitor, the line trembled and stayed flat. Chris turned toward Marc, a helpless appeal in his eyes.

Without a word, Marc strode forward. He snatched the electrodes from Chris’s hands and tried the resuscitation. “Come on, Lydia. Work with me. Please.”

Lydia remained lifeless, but his own heart drummed against his ribs with painful rage.

“Again.” Her body didn’t respond. “Stronger,” he barked, slamming on her chest with all his strength. But she was gone. His breath jammed in his lungs. His shoulders slumped.

Dr. Halsdale put a comforting hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. We did our best considering the internal injuries. She had a perforated spleen. ” He glanced at his watch. “Time of death: 1:05 am.”

Ignoring his boss, Marc threw the electrodes on the table and clenched his fingers on the rail of the bed. “Wake up, Lydia. Wake up for heaven’s sake.”

Her hair hidden under a cap, Lydia’s pale face remained serene, marred only by the bruises of the accident that had claimed her.

Collapsed lungs, perforated spleen, internal bleeding. The medical diagnoses hit his professional mind with deadly accuracy. Time of death... The nightmare was a reality.

“Why, Lydia. Why?” Despair invaded his heart.

Being in denial didn’t help. As a doctor, he routinely dealt with road casualties, but the man in him rebelled against the unfairness of the situation. He’d treated hundreds of patients and saved them.

Why couldn’t he save Lydia?

A loud wail pierced the silence, followed by soft cooing. Marc raised his head and glanced at the little bundle in Holly’s arms, a tiny mirror image of Carlos.

Marc sucked in a deep breath as she placed the newborn in the incubator and hooked the breathing tube to a ventilator.

Thank you, Holly
. The baby was very much alive, in need of attention.

A pulse pounded in Marc’s forehead. His brain was about to explode. He’d take care of his nephew later. He lifted Lydia’s hands to his lips and kissed them. “
Adios
,
querida
. I’m sorry I’ve failed you. I promise I’ll never leave your son.
Dios
, I’m going to miss you so much.”