The Surgeon King's Secret Baby

She’d had Peter.

“Let me see him!” she’d cried, relieved that the birth was over.

Only none of the doctors had answered her. Marisa, her OB/GYN, hadn’t looked at her. It was in that moment that Reagan had realized the baby wasn’t crying. There wasn’t a sound coming from him at all.

“What’s wrong?” Reagan had asked.

She’d craned her neck as Marisa had turned back to her, watching the pediatrician on call with her baby in his hands, blue-grey and barely moving.

It had only been a couple of hours later when she’d learned that her baby had cardiomyopathy and would be staying in the hospital indefinitely. The only reminder of her and Kainan’s time together was placed on the list for UNOS and would be staying there while he waited for a new heart.

The nursery she had so painstakingly started to prepare in her small apartment before his birth was still unused, and she hadn’t been able to look at it the few fleeting times she’d managed to get home.

Don’t think about it—and don’t think about Kainan.

Even a year since his death often Kainan crept into her thoughts because Peter looked like him so much. And she couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like had Kainan lived.

Reagan had had a couple of relationships before Kainan, but they’d failed because of her—because she couldn’t trust. At the back of her mind she was terrified she’d disappoint, that she’d never be good enough and her heart would be broken. Again.

It was better this way.

She was better off alone.

“Reagan, you look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep!”

Reagan rubbed her tired, sore eyes and saw the Chief of Surgery leaning over the central desk, where he’d been studying a chart.

Michael McNeil had been so understanding. He’d trained her as a resident, and encouraged her into the Canadian Armed Forces to expand her skills, and since she’d announced her pregnancy and Peter’s birth he’d been accommodating, knowing she needed to work. Right now he was looking at her with pity. Like most people. She hated pity.

“We need better cots on the NICU floor,” she mumbled, stifling a yawn.

“Are you going to be able to work with this new doctor?” he asked.

Reagan nodded. She needed this job. It was more pay, and not so much time spent doing surgical rounds. Right now she couldn’t do a lot of surgery. A call about a heart might come in at any time, and she needed to be near Peter.

Peter was all she had.

She really needed sleep, but right now she needed work more. It kept her sane. And she was looking forward to this new job. It was more flexible.

“Yeah, I’m good.” She walked to the other side of the central desk and poured herself another cup of coffee into a plastic cup and capped it.

“Good. I know things have been hard—”

She held up her hand to cut the chief off. “Michael, I’m okay. I need the work. I love the work. And Peter is not that far away. Besides, I’m the only staff member available who knows American Sign Language.”

“And you worked in Isla Hermosa as well,” Michael said, setting down his chart.

Reagan’s heart skipped a beat—which was silly. “The new specialist is from Isla Hermosa?”

Michael nodded. “The Canadian government is giving him asylum. His work is important. That’s all I know. And he’s a brilliant teacher. I think he will be an asset to our medical students.”

“I wonder if I worked with him?” Reagan said, taking another sip of the bitter coffee. The caffeine was doing its job. There had been many other Hermosian physicians out in the field whom she’d worked alongside, but none had been like Kainan.

No one will ever be like Kainan.

She couldn’t think about him now.

“I don’t know, but the Canadian government was very adamant that he should be given asylum here, and after chatting with him over email I’m very excited to have him on board.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Reagan. “To become a surgical consultant when you can’t speak—that’s impressive.”

She couldn’t recall any nonverbal surgeons out in the field on Isla Hermosa. Of course it had been a war zone. Everything was a bit blurry about her experience. Except...

“Well, he could speak before. He was injured at the front and a badly placed endotracheal tube damaged his vocal cords. I’m told he can speak a bit—but not much, and not for long periods of time. He will be getting corrective surgery here before the New Year, but for now you’ll help him.”

“Of course,” she agreed. She would be happy to. “Does he know about my son and my need for flexibility?”

“No,” Michael said. “I told him you needed a flexible schedule, but I thought it best if you tell him about Peter if you want to.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

It was exhausting, constantly explaining Peter’s condition to people. It drained her. The new surgeon didn’t need to know about Peter, he just needed to know she needed flexibility—which Michael had taken care of.

Reagan fell into step beside Michael as they walked toward his office, where she would meet this Hermosian doctor and they could get to work.

“So, my job consists of interpreting American Sign Language to the students so he doesn’t overtax his voice?”

Michael nodded. “You can use my office to draw up your plans. The first medical students will be coming at one—after the lunch rotation.”

Reagan nodded. “Sounds good, Chief.”

Michael smiled, and then said softly, “You know we’re all here for you, Reagan. If there’s anything more we can do...”

Reagan gave Michael a quick nod. She appreciated it, but she didn’t want pity or help. Too many people pitied her, and she was tired of it. She was still a surgeon. She was still Reagan Cote, even if it sometimes didn’t feel that way.

“I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” Michael asked, and there again was that expression of pity that she loathed, directed toward her.

She couldn’t push Michael away like she did so many. He had been her mentor when she was resident. He’d taught her compassion and patient care. Things she hadn’t been able to learn from her parents. When she’d started her bedside manner had been atrocious, but Michael had guided her, and he had been the one who welcomed her back with open arms when she’d finished her tour of duty.

“I appreciate it so much, Michael. You know that, but I’m fine. Let me work—it keeps me busy.”

Michael gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head and whispered, “He’ll pull through.”

She nodded, blinking back the tears that always threatened to fall when someone started talking about Peter and his condition. Tears that she had learned to swallow because she had to be strong for Peter.

And for herself.