The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum (8 page)

Once dry and warm, they weighed and measured him.

‘Fifteen hundred and fifty-eight grams—it’s low for thirty-four weeks,’ she said to Laya, then glanced over at where Khalifa was preparing to open the woman’s skull. ‘She possibly hasn’t been feeling well for some time, maybe not eating properly. Would she have been seeing a doctor or midwife regularly?’

‘I don’t know her, but she’s from the desert so I doubt it,’ Laya said. ‘It’s all very well to build hospitals and clinics but getting our people, particularly the women, to use them will take a lot longer than His Highness realises.’

‘His Highness?’ Liz echoed, and Laya nodded towards Khalifa.

‘He’s our leader—a prince, a highness,’ she explained.

Well, that settled all the fizz and sparking stuff, Liz thought, not that she’d ever had any indication that the man might be interested in her. As if he would be, pregnant as she was, and probably not even if she hadn’t been pregnant.

A highness, for heaven’s sake! And she’d been joking with him!

Though she should have twigged when he’d talked about the palace!

‘Did he not tell you?’ Laya asked as Liz wrote down the baby’s crown-heel length of forty-four centimeteres.

‘Well, yes,’ Liz admitted, ‘but somehow you don’t connect a bloke you meet in the corridor at work with royalty. I thought maybe like our prime minister—that kind of leader—an ordinary person with a tough job. Head circumference thirty-three.’

She made another note, her mind now totally on the baby, although the murmur of the surgical teams voices provided a background to all she did.

‘I’ve got a special-care crib waiting. Should we take him to the nursery?’ Laya asked when the little boy was safely swaddled and ready to be moved.

Liz glanced over at the woman on the table. The baby’s mother was unconscious, of course, but would she have some awareness? Would she know her baby had been taken? Would she need him nearby?

‘I think we’ll stay here to do the stabilisation,’ Liz responded. ‘The crib has monitors on it so we can hook him up to them to watch him, and give him anything he needs as he needs it. At this weight he’ll probably have some apnoea and will need oxygen support, caffeine to help his lungs…’

She knew she was thinking aloud, but the situation was so strange she wanted to make sure she was ready for every possible problem that could arise. CPAP, the continuous positive airway pressure, could be delivered through a nasal cannula, and if she put in a central venous catheter for drugs and measurements and a peripheral line as well, all the bases would be covered.

But without a special-care unit, where would they take the baby?

To the nursery?

No, from what Khalifa had told her, under normal circumstances they’d fly any premature baby to the capital.

Not a good idea, given what the mother was going through. Liz glanced towards the tall surgeon bent intently over the operating table.

‘Do new babies room in with their mothers here at the hospital?’ she asked Laya.

‘Some do,’ Laya told her. ‘It’s a choice the mothers are offered.’

‘And are there on-call staff rooms at the hospital—places where staff can stay over?’

Laya frowned at this question—not a big frown, more a worried grimace.

‘Of course. Why are you asking?’

Liz grinned at her.

‘I’m thinking maybe
this
baby can room in with his mother,’ she said. ‘Khalifa—’ should she keep calling him that now she knew about the Highness thing? ‘—said there were few financial restraints and, anyway, it would only mean maybe a couple of shifts of nursery nurses, preferably ones who’ve worked with fragile newborns, helping stablise them before they’re flown out, and we could keep him with the mother. I’d be happy to live in at the hospital to take a couple of shifts, and I’d still be able to do the preliminary work on the new unit at the same time. What do you think?’

It was Laya’s turn to glance towards the surgical team.

‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said. ‘But once she’s out of Recovery, the mother will go into Intensive Care…’

‘A very sterile environment for a newborn,’ Liz reminded her. ‘Of course, we’ll have to make sure there’s room for the crib and a nurse to watch his monitor, but if there is, wouldn’t it be best to have the baby near the mother? Wouldn’t that be more of a help to her recovery than a hindrance?’

Laya shook her head.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, glancing again at the table—or more particularly at the lead surgeon, who was still bent over the patient.

‘You think he’ll be a problem?’ Liz teased, then she realised Laya was genuinely distracted.

‘I know he lost his wife and child,’ Liz said gently, ‘but I would have thought that would make him all the more determined to achieve the best outcome for this mother and child.’

‘Of course,’ Laya told her, ‘but…’

‘But what?’

Laya hesitated, before saying, in a very quiet voice, ‘Will
you
ask him?’

The way she spoke reminded Liz of the fear some surgeons managed to instil in their theatre staff, roaring at the slightest mistake, swearing and cursing when things went wrong. Now she, too, looked back at this particular surgeon. She didn’t know him from Adam, but from the time she’d spent with him, she’d have put him down as the very opposite—quiet, reserved, not given to tantrums.

‘Is it because of the highness thing you don’t want to ask him?’ she said to Laya, who looked even more uncertain.

‘Not really. But I suppose it must be, because when he was just a doctor, if I did happen to run into him, it was just “Good morning, Doctor” like you do with all the staff you don’t know really well. But since he became our leader—well, it changes things, doesn’t it?’

Liz adjusted the cannula in the baby’s nose.

‘Did
he
change?’ she asked, and Laya gave the question some thought then shook her head.

‘He’s not here as often, of course, but when he is he’s just the same. And he always knows everyone’s name, which most of the doctors and even nurses from other departments don’t, but I don’t think he’s changed. It must be me who’s changed.’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Liz told her. ‘Just carry on as you always did. But, anyway, it was my idea we room the baby with the mother so I’ll ask him and make the arrangements, okay?’

Laya’s smile told her the nurse had relaxed, and her words delighted Liz even more.

‘Will you ask if he can arrange for me to be one of the nurses? I’ve travelled with preemie babies to the hospital in the capital so I know how to care for them, and I’ve already put my name down for training in the new unit.’

‘Then I’ll certainly ask for you,’ Liz promised as Khalifa straightened up, stepped back from the patient and pulled off his gloves.

‘Clean gown and gloves,’ he said to one of the surgical staff, then he walked over to look at the baby, tilting his head to one side as if to take the little being in more clearly.

‘You’re still here?’ He looked up at Liz as he asked the question and though she was about to make a joke about just being a mirage, the strain in his eyes told her this wasn’t the time.

‘No unit to take him to,’ she said lightly. ‘And I felt it was important to keep him close to his mother. In fact, Laya and I have just been talking about it, and we’d like him to room in with her if that can be managed. I’d be happy to live in here so I’m always on hand, and Laya and another nurse can share shifts with me. I realise the mother will be in the ICU for a while, but at least the atmosphere will be sterile and when the mother becomes conscious we’ll have the baby on hand for her to see so she doesn’t feel any anxiety or fear for him. I realise if you’re not done there, you can’t discuss it now, but we’ll wait here until you finish and maybe talk about it then.’

He probably wouldn’t understand the slang expression ‘stunned mullet’ but it described him to a T. Fortunately the scrub nurse called him for his fresh gown and gloves and one of his colleagues needed him back at the table, so any further discussion was suspended.

‘He didn’t look too happy about your idea,’ Laya ventured, and Liz grinned at her.

‘That’s probably only because he’s used to being the one with the big ideas,’ she said. ‘Once he’s had time to think about it, he’ll see it makes sense.’

And
living in at the hospital would keep her safe from fizzing and sparks—but that was a side benefit. The baby definitely came first.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
WO
hours later, as he stepped away from the operating table, leaving room for one of his assistants to close, Khalifa remembered the baby in the room—the baby and the woman caring for him!

She wanted the baby rooming in with his mother in the ICU?

The idea was bizarre, but even more confusing was her determination to stay at the hospital to care for the newborn. Was her own pregnancy making her ultra-sensitive?

Not that he’d noticed the slightest sensitivity on her part towards her pregnancy—the subject was not open for discussion. Yet it niggled at him, both the pregnancy and her seeming lack of interest in it.

He shoved his soiled gown and gloves into a bin, called for a fresh gown, although he’d finished at the operating table, and eventually, clean again, moved across the room to where the two women waited by the crib.

‘The mother will be in Recovery for some time,’ he said, addressing the air between Laya and the newcomer. ‘I suggest the baby goes to the nursery where Laya can keep an eye on him.’

Now he had to face his new employee. With her richly coloured hair hidden by a cap, the black-rimmed glasses dominated her face, making her skin seem creamier, her eyes a deeper blue.

‘Not a good idea,’ she said. ‘Look at him. You say he’s thirty-four weeks, but the mother may have miscalculated. Either that or he’s not been well nourished. Put him in among healthy newborns and he’ll look more like a skinned rabbit than he already does. Apart from anything else, it would be upsetting for the other mothers, with their chubby little pink-cheeked babies, to see him.’

Khalifa felt a twinge of annoyance. Dr Elizabeth Jones might have seemed the perfect person to set up the new unit at his hospital, but if she was going to argue with him every time he opened his mouth…

‘Apart from anything else?’ he queried, allowing his voice to reveal the twinge.

‘He should be with his mother,’ the annoyance replied. ‘Not while she’s in Recovery, of course, but surely you know where she’ll be sent. I can accompany him there and keep an eye on him, and Laya can return to her own shift in the nursery.’

She looked Khalifa in the eye, daring him to argue.

‘Minimum fuss, right?’ she challenged.

‘It is
not
right,’ he muttered, glowering at her. ‘You’ve barely arrived in the country, you could be jet-lagged—’

‘And might make a mistake?’

Another challenge but before he could meet it she spoke again.

‘That’s what monitors are for,’ she reminded him. ‘I fall asleep beside the crib—which, I might add, is highly unlikely—and something goes wrong then bells will ring, whistles will blow and people will come running. I’m a neonatologist, remember, this is what I do. This hospital or Giles, this is my work.’

Again the blue eyes met his, the challenge still ripe in them.

‘Any other objections?’

‘Wait here!’ he ordered, then realised that was a mistake for the baby’s mother was already being wheeled into Recovery and the staff beginning to clean away the debris of the operation.

‘No, wait outside in the corridor.’ He spoke to Laya the second time, avoiding the challenging eyes
and
the disturbing feelings just being near the other woman was causing him. He headed for the changing rooms but once there he realised he should have showered and put on clean clothes on the flight but with Liz—would thinking of her as Dr Jones be better?—in the bedroom he’d not wanted to disturb her.

Now, showered again, changing back into his travel clothes was unappealing and the only apparel he had in his locker was a row of white kandoras and a pile of pristine red and white checked headscarves—kept there for any time he might have to leave the hospital for an official duty.

Not that he minded getting back into his country’s clothing. Too long in suits always made him feel edgy, but walking hospital corridors as a sheikh rather than a doctor could be an offputting experience.

He wouldn’t wear the headscarf—no, of course he would. Both it and the black cord that held it to his head. He was home!

He was beautiful! Liz could only stare at the apparition that had appeared before her in the corridor. Khalifa and yet not Khalifa, remote somehow in the clothes of his country, a disturbing enigma in a spotless white gown, the twist of black cord around his head covering giving the impression of a crown.

His Highness!

She ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips and tried for levity.

‘Good thing it’s you, not me, in that gear,’ she said. ‘White is not a colour for klutzes. I’d have tomato sauce stains down it in no time flat.’

Laya, she noticed, was suddenly busy watching the baby, her head bowed as if Khalifa in his traditional dress had overawed her.

To be honest, he’d overawed Liz as well, but it wouldn’t do to show it.

‘Follow me,’ he said, ignoring her tomato-sauce remark and leading them along the corridor. Laya followed with the crib and Liz brought up the rear, telling herself that staying at the hospital was the best idea she’d ever had. Her body might have behaved badly to Khalifa in civvies, but that was nothing to the rioting going on within it now.

Stupidity, that’s what it was.

Hormones.

Oh, how she hoped it was just hormones.

Although, given the impossibility of anything ever coming of her attraction to the man, providing she kept that attraction well hidden it wouldn’t matter, would it? Just another unrequited love. She’d survived that once before when her fourteen-year-old self had fallen in love with Mr Smith, the school science teacher. Smith and Jones, she’d written in tiny writing all over the covers of her physics book.