A Father by Christmas Read online

  Sophie had to laugh, then she washed her hands and splashed more water on her face, drying it on a paper towel.

  ‘I’m on my way to lunch. Are you off? Want to join me?’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ Sophie said, pleased she’d been able to remedy her lie but even more pleased to have the opportunity to talk to Marty, whose down-to-earth attitude might help her sort out her thoughts about the woman on life support and her unborn child.

  Then she’d only have to sort out her thoughts about Gib and she’d be OK!

  ‘How did your sister die?’ Marty asked, when they’d chosen what they wanted for lunch and carried their trays to a corner of the canteen.

  ‘Breast cancer.’

  ‘Does it worry you—the familial thing?’

  Sophie shook her head.

  ‘I had genetic testing and I don’t appear to have a problem. In fact, there’s always been so much else to worry about since Hilary was diagnosed, apart from the testing which I had done at the hospital where I worked in Sydney, I haven’t given it a thought.’

  ‘But you check yourself?’ Marty demanded, and Sophie wondered guiltily how long it had been since she had.

  ‘Not often enough,’ Marty surmised. ‘Get your act into gear and do it regularly.’

  ‘I will,’ Sophie promised, then changed the subject, asking Marty about the woman through whom they’d met.

  ‘She’s my obstetrics patient now. As I’m on staff here, her obstetrician suggested I look after her. It’s mainly a question of balancing her nutritional needs with regard to the pregnancy and checking on the foetus. The ICU staff see to her physical welfare, moving her limbs, turning her body, watching the monitors for any changes.’

  ‘Does it worry you?’ Sophie hadn’t intended asking, but somehow the question popped out.

  ‘Enormously,’ Marty said. ‘So much so I’ve become quite dotty. I touch her tummy and talk to the baby—the ICU staff think I’m mad—but the baby deserves more than to just be there, and if the family think this is what she’d have wanted, then surely she’d have wanted someone to keep talking to her child. Mind you, they’re not ever there themselves. The bloke who was driving the car wasn’t the husband, who’s working somewhere overseas and hasn’t been able to get back. Or maybe they couldn’t contact him. Her parents made the decision about the baby. I’m not sure who the driver chap is, but he’s just out of the ICU himself and is so distraught about her condition he can’t cope with visiting her. I know people visit him, but not her, for some reason.’

  ‘Because it’s too darned hard,’ Sophie said. ‘It’d kill me if she was my sister. At least Hilary died peacefully at the end. But you’re right about the baby. I’ll come and talk to it, too. Do I need permission to go in?’

  Marty smiled at her.

  ‘I’ll let them know you’ll be up. Explain the baby’s your province. It’ll be a great treat for them to have two nutcases visiting the unit!’

  Sophie laughed, grateful to Marty for cheering her up, not to mention diverting her thoughts, which had been veering dangerously close to self-pity.

  Gib ordered sandwiches and ate them in his office, telling himself it was really good that Sophie hadn’t wanted to have lunch with him—or dinner, for that matter. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked her, given that he didn’t want to get involved.

  Was it wearing off—his commitment to non-involvement?

  Or had a young woman with long black hair and smoky grey eyes bewitched him?

  He should never have kissed her once, let alone three times.

  ‘Yes!’

  The loud jangle interrupted the thoughts he shouldn’t be having, so he barked the word into the phone, then had to apologise to Claudia when he realised who it was.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know there’s a memorial service for Hilary Cooper this Friday at four.’

  She gave him the address of a small non-denominational chapel where it was to be held, but although he jotted it down, he was barely listening—just waiting until she stopped talking so he could ask questions.

  ‘So I thought you mightn’t have heard and gave you a call,’ she finished.

  ‘Hilary’s dead?’

  ‘Oh, dear, you didn’t know! Breast cancer nearly a year ago, poor thing.’ The sympathy in Claudia’s voice was only partly genuine—she and Hilary had never been close. ‘You knew she’d gone back to Sydney—yes, of course you did, that was before you left. Well, apparently it was diagnosed soon after her return. She had treatment, of course, but it was too aggressive and she lived—what?—I suppose it would only be three years. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.’

  And it was a good excuse to get in touch, Gib thought. When he’d first joined the research institute Claudia had made it obvious she was interested in him, and even intimated that him being married wouldn’t bother her.

  ‘Thanks, Claudia. I’ll certainly try to make it.’

  ‘And I’ll look forward to seeing you,’ she said sweetly.

  Gib hung up the phone then stared at it for a long time, thoughts jostling senselessly in his head.

  Hilary was dead. He’d liked Hilary—admired her self-containment, her dedication to her job and her determination to get things right. That determination would have got her through her initial treatment—in fact, she’d have fought to the end.

  But!

  He rested one elbow on his desk and sank his forehead into his palm, fingers scratching at his scalp as he tried to make his mind work through the maze of conjecture swirling in his head.

  Had she been pregnant? The hormonal changes of pregnancy could trigger breast cancer in younger women, and could hasten the grip it had on the patient.

  She’d wanted a child, he reminded himself before more guilt could sneak under his guard.

  But had she had the child?

  Had she even conceived?

  He had no idea, but going to her memorial service shifted from something he wanted to do for her to an opportunity to find out more.

  Which made him feel guilty again!

  ‘You do know you’ve got an outpatients’ session?’ Marilyn had tapped on the door, before putting her head around the corner of it.

  ‘Coming right now,’ he told her, wondering just how long he’d sat with his head on his hand, useless conjecture clogging up his mind.

  ‘Are you not well?’

  Gib forced himself to smile at Mrs Jackson as he assured her he was fine.

  ‘You seem distracted,’ she persisted, although he was certain he’d explained quite lucidly that premature babies often had problems with their teeth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking another look at the baby teeth in Ellie’s tiny mouth. ‘We know that stress and illness can cause delay in teeth formation and also alter normal formation. It’s during the last months of pregnancy that the enamel for teeth is put down—formed by calcium and phosphorus—so with preemies they might not have enough of these minerals stored for when their teeth come through. But usually only the baby teeth will be affected. Although Ellie’s teeth now are grey and a bit pitted, her second teeth should be OK.’

  Gib patted her on the head and Ellie took herself off to the corner of the room, where she pulled a puzzle off the shelf and sat at a small table to play with it.

  ‘And if they’re not?’

  ‘Well, the most likely to be affected would be the first ones to come through, which are her front incisors and her six-year-old molars. A good paediatric dentist will be able to tell you more, and also help you teach Ellie how to care for her teeth.’

  ‘Will she need braces?’

  Gib smiled at Mrs Jackson.

  ‘It’s not only parents of preemies that ask that question about their children’s teeth. I think every parent dreads the day when they have to include braces in their yearly budgets. I can’t answer the question, and I doubt a dentist could either, until the new teeth come through, although X-rays could give some indication. But I’m sure if braces are
the only problem she has in her future, we’ll all be more than happy.’

  Mrs Jackson laughed.

  ‘You’re right, but maybe I’m worrying about braces to stop myself worrying about other things. She starts school next year—it’s so close now, and I’m terrified. Terrified I’ll be a wimp about letting her go, terrified she’ll find it too hard, terrified the other kids might tease her.’

  ‘They’re normal fears,’ Gib said gently, ‘but she’s not going off alone. You’ve done everything you can to make the transition easy for her—she has friends from preschool going with her and she’s a very sociable little being so I doubt anyone will laugh at her. It’s more likely they’ll treat her as special because she is so tiny.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Developmentally, well, as you know, we can’t tell what learning difficulties she might have, but she coped so well at kindergarten and preschool. Look at her now, she’s doing that reading readiness puzzle with no problems at all. I think she’ll be fine, and if she has problems, well, she couldn’t have two better or more supportive parents to give her extra help.’

  ‘You’re so good!’ Mrs Jackson told him, bringing out a handkerchief and blowing her nose. ‘Thanks, Gib.’

  She tucked the handkerchief away then added, ‘I suppose you know that most of us parents come to see you for reassurance, rather than concerns over our preemies’ health.’

  ‘I sometimes wondered,’ Gib said, standing up as she rose and coming to put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Come whenever you like,’ he assured her, as Ellie ran to take her mother’s hand and the pair prepared to leave.

  ‘Give Gib his present,’ Mrs Jackson reminded her daughter, who opened up her shiny pink handbag and produced a small, clumsily wrapped parcel which Gib knew from experience would be aftershave lotion.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and meant it as he took the gift. Surely it didn’t matter whether Hilary had had a child when he had all these surrogate children in his life?

  He worked through the afternoon, collecting gifts as he did so, realising, when the last patient had departed and he was staring at the small pile, that he had still to buy presents for his family.

  And on Saturday he was committed to helping Thomas decorate the tree.

  Sunday, he could shop on Sunday. Mum and Dad, Aunt Etty, the Pritchards and Marilyn. Thank heavens for the magazine subscriptions he gave his sisters and their progeny! But the rest of the list was still there in the backwaters of his mind. And should he add Thomas? Surely he should. After all, Christmas was for kids and he was growing very fond of the little boy who shared his house.

  Pity he was too young for aftershave!

  ‘I think all of these are for you.’

  Sophie came into his room and dropped another pile of presents on his desk.

  ‘Thanks!’ he said, and she chuckled at the dryness in his voice.

  But seeing the presents, thinking of Thomas, he found himself wondering…

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

  She looked startled, as if the presents, and the decorations going up both in the hospital and around his house, hadn’t registered with her.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to work if you want me to. Thomas is still too young to really understand what it’s all about, and he certainly wouldn’t know which day it was on, so he can open his presents any day I happen to have off, and we can take a picnic to the park, or whatever.’

  ‘You don’t have friends you’re going to? No family up here?’

  It wasn’t that he was crazy about Christmas, feeling that the hype of it was overdone, but he usually called in to see Gillian’s parents in the morning, on his way to lunch at his parents’ place—a chaotic affair with sisters, nieces and nephews and, these days, boyfriends and girlfriends of the older ones.

  So Sophie’s quiet ‘No’ disturbed him, then he remembered her offer to work on a day staff hated working, and seized on it.

  ‘If you really don’t mind working…’ he said tentatively.

  ‘I don’t,’ she assured him. ‘I’m happy to work Christmas Day, then Thomas and I will have our Christmas on Boxing Day.’

  Although she sounded quite cheerful about the prospect, it seemed bleak to Gib, but before he could think of anything to say she’d left the room. No doubt to get ready for the ‘someone’ she was seeing.

  He put the uneasiness in his stomach down to not finishing his sandwiches at lunchtime then remembered why he hadn’t finished them and shook his head. Too many unconnected thoughts rampaging through his mind—he’d go home, have a swim…

  And what?

  Phone Claudia?

  She’d be only too happy to have dinner with him.

  Hell! Staying home watching something really dreary on television would be preferable.

  He’d go home, have a swim and think about the rest later.

  ‘Great,’ Etty greeted him. ‘Just the man I need. I’ve got to get my Christmas shortbread into the oven and Thomas is ready for his bedtime story. Would you mind?’

  ‘Putting the shortbread into the oven? Not at all!’

  ‘Reading to Thomas! Go!’

  He went, although he felt like an intruder as he walked into the flat.

  It was curiously impersonal. Apart from toys scattered around, there was little to suggest the place was tenanted.

  Until he entered Thomas’s room and saw the bright posters on the walls and the soft toys on the cabinet. More toys poked out of a wicker toybox at the bottom of his bed.

  ‘Gib!’ Delight lit the small face. ‘Are you going to read my story?’

  ‘I am,’ he said, settling onto the side of the bed next to the little boy and taking the picture book from his hands. ‘What’s the story about?’

  ‘An elephant,’ Thomas told him. ‘I like elephants.’

  Thomas turned and pulled a tattered grey amorphous blob that might once have been an elephant into his arms, and smiled expectantly at Gib. But though the words ‘I like elephants’ were echoing through Gib’s head, his eyes were riveted to a photo on the bedside table—previously hidden by the elephant—and his voice box seized up as his mind made leaps too confusing for rational thought to follow.

  ‘Who is that in the photo?’ he managed at last, and Thomas turned to touch the smiling face with his fingers.

  ‘That’s my mum,’ he said, then he turned back to Gib. ‘I don’t really remember her, except that she was sick. Sophie said she really, really loved me, but mums are supposed to do that, aren’t they? Can you read the story now?’

  Could he read the story now?

  How could he read?

  How could he even sit here?

  And Sophie?

  Did she know?

  Had she been keeping this a secret from him?

  Or wasn’t there a secret to keep?

  ‘About the elephant?’ Thomas prompted hopefully.

  Gib opened the book and read the story, although his eyes kept straying to the child in the bed, and from the child to the photo of his mother—a laughing woman who had once asked Gib a favour…

  A favour he’d at first refused…

  Thomas fell asleep before the story finished, but Gib sat there, gazing at the sleeping boy, seeing the fair curls clustered around his face, seeing mental images of old photos of himself, with dark hair, not fair, but with curls.

  Curls told you nothing. DNA—he could do a test! The idea that he was even considering taking a buccal swab from this child horrified him.

  He closed the book, tucked the tatty elephant down beside the sleeping child, then pulled the sheet up over both of them and bent to kiss the baby-soft cheek.

  His mind barely working, he made his way back to the kitchen where Etty was taking trays of shortbread from the oven.

  ‘Did you know Sophie isn’t Thomas’s mother?’ he demanded, then, seeing Etty’s quick frown, realised he’d probably spoken far too loudly.

  ‘Not his biological mother, but my
guess is she’s the only mother he’s really known. He showed me the picture of his mother and told me she’d died. From what I’ve gathered, she was Sophie’s sister.’

  But Hilary’s name was Cooper, Gib’s head protested, then he remembered talking to Hilary about marriage—heard her voice as clearly as if she was in the room.

  ‘I’m not genetically programmed for marriage, Gib,’ she’d said. ‘My mother’s on her third marriage, my father on his fourth. So it’s definitely not in my plans.’

  ‘And did you ask Sophie about her? About what happened to her?’ he demanded of Etty.

  Etty’s frown returned.

  ‘Why should I?’

  Now Gib was frowning.

  And growling.

  ‘Natural curiosity, I would think!’

  ‘Sophie’s a very private person,’ Etty said quietly. ‘And I would never pry. I do know she’s very stressed at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed. She’s organising something for Friday. She started to tell me about it but Thomas fell over and scraped his knee and that was the end of that. She hasn’t said anything to you?’

  About organising a memorial service for her dead sister?

  Of course she hadn’t.

  Why would she when he’d given her his spiel about non-involvement?

  ‘We don’t get much opportunity to chat,’ he said, hoping he was concealing the irrational rage churning inside him.

  ‘Maybe you should make some opportunities,’ Etty said. ‘Especially now you’ve taken off your wedding ring!’

  Gib opened his mouth then closed it again but opened it once more to growl, ‘I’m going for a swim.’

  He whirled away, heading downstairs to the pool where he stripped off and plunged into the cool water, swimming laps with a ferocity that would, hopefully, leave him exhausted enough to sleep.

  But swimming didn’t take much brain power, and his mind tried to make sense of what he’d learned and debated the future—and the relevance of the past.

  He’d said no at first—when Hilary had asked. No, and no, and no. He was married and wouldn’t contemplate having a child outside his marriage, neither would he dream of being unfaithful, even at arm’s length, to Gillian.