The Pregnant Midwife. Fiona McArthur
arm, smaller than Hunter’s little finger, emphasised the extreme fragility of their tiny charge. Next to Kinny’s shiny, transparent skin, Hunter’s brown hand looked like carved stone. A little like his face whenever he needed to look at her, Kirsten thought dryly.
Kinny’s dad, Ken Baker, arrived from the delivery suite and his eyes misted at the sight of his tiny daughters as they lay pink and fragile amidst the technological paraphernalia. Attached to each baby, a network of leads snaked out through a port in the side of the humidicrib and connected to the digital monitor beside Kirsten’s and Patricia’s work area around the cribs.
Hunter’s voice was quiet as he spoke to Kirsten. ‘Now that we have them connected, if you want to get the surfactant from the fridge, I’ll have a quick word with their dad.’
Kirsten nodded and turned to go, but Hunter stopped her. ‘We can use half an amp for each baby down the tube—that will be plenty.’ She dashed off and Hunter gently steered the babies’ father closer to the cribs so he could watch their progress.
He shook Mr Baker’s hand. ‘It must look pretty daunting to you but both girls are doing really well.’ As an opening line it must have worked, Kirsten thought as she returned, because Ken seemed to sag a little with relief at Hunter’s smile.
She carried a tiny feeding tube to help ensure the hormone reached well into the little girl’s lungs.
Hunter went on. ‘Your daughters are sedated to allow them to rest while the ventilator expands and deflates their lungs for them. The tiny amount of liquid that Sister is squirting into their breathing tubes is a hormone to help stop their lungs from sticking together, which means less pressure is needed by the ventilator to expand their lungs.’ Ken nodded that he understood and Hunter went on.
‘Less pressure from the ventilator is a good thing because it means less long-term damage and less chance of a hole in the lung occurring.’
Kirsten listened to Hunter explain the humidicribs to the babies’ father with a small smile. ‘It’s like a miniature rainforest in that crib,’ he said, and his hands illustrated his point. ‘All premature babies around your daughters’ gestation are about eighty to ninety per cent fluid and they need moisture or they’ll dry out, a bit like chips.’
The father blinked at the graphic image and Kirsten turned away to hide her smile. Hunter was right but a less graphic description might have been better.
Ken shook his head at all the technology. ‘So how long do they stay here?’
‘This young?’ Hunter looked at the girls thoughtfully. ‘They stay on average the time it would have taken for them to come to term naturally. So about twelve weeks! If all goes well, we’ll wean them off the ventilator in about a week and even start them on maybe a few drops of breast milk every four hours in a few days. But they won’t get anything to eat till then.’
The girl’s father rubbed his stomach in sympathy. ‘But they get what they need out of the drip, right?’
Ken looked as though he couldn’t take much more information.
‘That’s right,’ Kirsten said. ‘I think you’re doing really well with the day you’ve had. Did you want to get back to your wife? You know you can come back any time.’ Ken nodded with relief. She handed him two instant photos of his tiny daughters which she’d taken while she and Patricia had weighed the babies earlier. ‘Take these with you. Please, let your wife know she’s welcome to come down and see your daughters any time.’
Kirsten showed him how to get back to the delivery suite and when she returned, Hunter was beside Kinny’s crib, looking in. ‘Dry out like a chip?’ she said, and shook her head.
Hunter had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, they do dry out.’
‘The poor man will worry that his babies will be crinkled when he comes back.’ Kirsten laughed and sat back on her stool to do the next round of observations and for the briefest moment they both seemed to forget the past as they shared a smile. Then they both looked away.
It was after three a.m. before Hunter decided he could leave his charges in the NICU staff’s hands.
Patricia looked up. ‘Do you want a coffee before you go, Hunter?’
Kirsten was surprised when Hunter agreed because the last thing he’d seemed had been eager to stay around. She wondered at his motives.
‘Sure. You ladies have done a great job tonight.’ By the warm glance that passed over her, Kirsten gathered even she was included in the compliment. He always had been fair with his appreciation. She looked away.
The last thing she needed Hunter to see was her confusion at approval when he’d been impersonating the basilisk all night. She knew she was good at her job, so why should it mean so much for Hunter to say it?
‘Decaffeinated shouldn’t keep me awake for what’s left of the night,’ he said. ‘I almost envy you girls a night shift if it means you can sleep through the day.’
‘You must get very tired,’ Patricia murmured sympathetically, and Kirsten shifted on her stool with resignation. And she’d thought Patricia a sensible woman. As if Hunter sensed her distaste at the drift of the conversation, he turned himself fully to face her. ‘And are you sleeping today, Kirsten?’
‘After lunch,’ she said shortly, and turned back to record Kinny’s vital signs on her chart. He came to stand beside the crib and looked down at her as she sat on the stool. They weren’t touching but she was aware of how close he was. She could have lifted her fingers a centimetre and she’d have been able to feel the warmth of his skin. It was strange, the way she could force herself to ignore these thoughts while they were working, yet when the tension was over it was as if the build-up she’d ignored took over.
‘So what’s planned for you this morning that’s more important than sleep?’
Kirsten smiled noncommittally and unconsciously leaned her body slightly away from him. ‘My new unit. I’ve unpacking to do.’ Her tone didn’t encourage further questions and he shrugged. Then she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘If you want to grab coffee, Patricia, I’ll stay here and watch both girls until you and Hunter come back.’
Patricia’s pleased smile wasn’t reflected in Hunter’s face and Kirsten stowed that piece of useless information away for later. The good news was he moved away to follow the younger woman to the tearoom and Kirsten felt the tension ease from her neck.
This was ridiculous. Already she could tell that half the women in NICU were attracted to the man and she knew better than to join the ranks. She’d seen how fickle he could be and how cold he became when he withdrew his favour. A brief glow under the Hunter Morgan sunlamp, despite the memories that could make her smile softly in weak moments of the night, were not worth the chill of being discarded. Now she knew why she preferred a non-threatening platonic friendship with men. She’d get on with her satisfying life as a single woman, and for male companionship she’d stick with those who were no risk to her peace of mind. Maybe she’d tattoo ‘Just friends’ on her forehead.
As if conjured up, a pair of masculine hands encircled her eyes from behind. ‘Boo,’ a male voice whispered, and Kirsten spun around under his light hold. Thin and blond, Marcus Gleeson, a young registrar she’d shared some of her MIRA experience with last time, grinned cheekily at her. ‘Hey, Wilson, where’d you spring from? You’re more gorgeous than ever.’
Kirsten looked him up and down. ‘I morphed out of this stool here. Gorgeous, eh? I’m sure three in the morning is my best time.’ She looked critically at the bags under the young man’s eyes. ‘How are you, Marc? Still playing the field?’
His smile wavered for a moment and then he shrugged. ‘I might tell you later, you always were a good listener. But what about you?’
Kirsten tilted her head and noticed his usual mischief was missing. Unable to help herself, she stood up, reached out and drew Marcus into a quick