A Life-Saving Reunion

She was also breaking the unspoken rule that nothing personal existed between herself and Thomas any more. And she wasn’t doing it by a casually friendly comment like ‘How are you?’ or ‘Did you have a good weekend?’ No. She was lobbing a verbal grenade into the bunker that contained their most private and painful history.

In public. During working hours.

What was she thinking? Being angry at the distance Thomas was keeping himself from his patients and their parents was no excuse. Especially when she knew perfectly well why he had become like that. Or was that the real issue here? That she had known and tried so hard to help and had failed so completely?

‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But, for me, it’s never an anonymous donor organ that becomes available. I have to go and collect them so I get involved in both sides of the story.’

Thomas’s voice was like ice. He really didn’t want to be talking about this.

‘You choose to do it,’ he said.

He didn’t even look at her as he fired the accusation. He was staring out of the damned window again. Rebecca found that her anger hadn’t been erased by feeling ashamed of her outburst.

‘And you choose to shut your eyes.’ The words came out in a whisper that was almost a hiss. ‘To run away. Like you always did.’

There was no point in saying anything else. Maybe there was nothing more to say, anyway.

So Rebecca turned and walked away.

CHAPTER TWO (#u5be76022-c19d-53bb-b422-f0dea93878b1)

‘THE LINE HAS been crossed.’

‘Oh?’ Thomas had opened the file he needed on his laptop. He clicked on options to bring his PowerPoint presentation up and sync it to the wall screen he had lowered over the whiteboard in this small meeting room. ‘What line is that, Rosie?’

He certainly knew what line had been crossed as far as he was concerned. It had been a week since Rebecca’s astonishing outburst and he still hadn’t recovered from the shock of how incredibly unprofessional she had been.

What if someone had overheard? Members of the press were still all over any story coming out of Paddington’s. Imagine a headline that revealed that the leading transplant surgeon of Paddington Children’s Hospital described her donor organs as ‘spare parts’?

Anyone else could well have taken the matter elsewhere. Filed a formal complaint, even. And was Rosie now referring to it? Had it somehow made its way onto the hospital grapevine?

No. Her expression was far too happy to suggest a staff scandal. He tuned back in to what she was saying.

‘...and now that the bottom line’s been crossed, thanks to the flood of donations, the government’s stepping in to make up any shortfall. It only needs the signature of the Minister of Health and Paddington’s will be officially safe. There won’t be any merger.’

‘That’s good news.’ Thomas reached for the laser pointer in its holder on the frame of the whiteboard. ‘Very good news,’ he added, catching sight of Rosie’s disappointment in his lack of enthusiasm.

‘Mmm.’ Rosie looked unconvinced. ‘Apparently there’s going to be a huge party organised in the near future as soon as everything’s finally signed and sealed but some of the staff are planning to get together at the Frog and Peach over the road on Friday to celebrate early. Guess we’ll see you there?’

She was smiling but didn’t wait for a response. Other people were arriving for the meeting now and there were bound to be far more acceptable reactions from anyone who hadn’t heard the big news of the day. One of the physiotherapists, perhaps. Or Louise, who was the head dietician for Paddington’s. One of the staff psychologists had just come in, too, and Thomas nodded a greeting to the head of the cardiac intensive care unit, who came through the door immediately after her.

Everybody in the team who had—or would be—directly involved in Penelope Craig’s case had been invited to this meeting, including Rosie as one of the nurses that had provided so much of her care over the many admissions the little girl had had. One of the only people missing as the clock clicked onto the start time of eleven a.m. was her surgeon.

Rebecca Scott.

He hadn’t seen her all week, come to think of it. Not that he’d wanted their paths to cross. The shock of their last interaction hadn’t been only due to her lack of professionalism. Or that she had so unexpectedly crossed the boundaries of what their new relationship allowed.

No. Thomas had not been able to shake the echo of that vehement parting shot. That he chose to shut his eyes. To run away. And that he had always made that choice.

Did she really think he was such a coward?

He wasn’t a coward. Had Rebecca had no understanding of how much strength it had taken to deal with what they had gone through? How hard it had been to keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep going?

Obviously not.

No wonder their marriage had fallen apart so easily.

No wonder he had been left feeling such a failure. As a husband and as a father.

But to drag it out again and hurl it in his face like that...

It had been uncalled for. Unhelpful. Insulting, even.

And so, yes, he was angry.

‘Sorry we’re late...’ The door opened as Rebecca rushed in to take a seat at the oval table, followed by her senior registrar.

Thomas could feel himself glaring at the late arrivals.

Rebecca was glaring right back at him. ‘We got held up in Recovery after our last case. I couldn’t leave until I was sure my patient was stable.’

‘Of course you couldn’t,’ someone said. ‘We wouldn’t expect you to.’

Thomas looked away first. Just in time to notice the raised eyebrows and shared glances that went round the table like a Mexican wave.

‘No problem,’ he said evenly. ‘But let’s get started, shall we? We’re all busy people.’

The tension in the room behind him felt like an additional solid presence as he faced the screen and clicked the pointer to bring up his first slide.

‘As you know, we’re here to discuss a case we’re all involved with—that of Penelope Craig, who’s currently an inpatient in our cardiology ward. For those of you who haven’t been so directly involved in the last few years, though, here’s a quick case history.’

The slide was a list of bullet points. A summary of a clinical case reduced to succinct groups of words that made one crisis after another no more than markers on a timeline.

‘The diagnosis of hypoplastic left heart syndrome was made prenatally so Penelope was delivered by C-section and admitted directly to the cardiac intensive care unit. She underwent her first surgery—a Norwood procedure—at thirteen days old.’

He had been in the gallery to watch that surgery. Rebecca had been a cardiothoracic surgical registrar at the time and it had been the most challenging case she’d assisted with. She’d sat up half the previous night as she’d gone over and over the steps of the surgery and Thomas had stayed up with her, trying to make up for any lack of confidence she was feeling. Even as he paused only long enough to take a breath, the flash of another memory came up like a crystal-clear video clip.

He had been in the front row of the gallery, leaning forward as he looked down at the tiny figure on the operating table and the group of gowned and masked people towering over it. Over the loudspeaker, he had heard the consultant surgeon hand over the responsibility of closing the tiny chest to Rebecca. As they changed positions, she had glanced up for a split second and caught Thomas’s gaze through the glass window—as if to reassure herself that he was still there. That he was still with her with every step she took. And he had smiled and nodded, giving her the silent message that he believed in her. That she could do this and do it well.

That he was proud of her...

His voice sounded oddly tight as he continued. ‘A hemi-Fontan procedure was done at six months to create a direct connection between the pulmonary artery and the superior vena cava.’

Rebecca had been allowed to do most of that procedure and she’d been so quietly proud of herself. They’d found a babysitter for Gwen and they’d gone out to celebrate the achievement with dinner and champagne and a long, delicious twirl around the dance floor of their favourite restaurant.

Those ‘date’ nights had always had a particular kind of magic. It didn’t matter how frantic the hours and days before them had been or how tired they were when they set out. Somehow they could always tap back into the connection that had been there from their very first date—that feeling that their love for each other was invincible. That there could never be anyone else that they would want to be with.

The idea that the night after that surgery would be the last ‘date’ night they would ever have would have been unthinkable at the time. As impossible as losing their precious child.