Читать книгу The Spanish Consultant's Baby - Kate Hardy - Страница 9

THE next morning, Jennifer opened her desk drawer to find a neatly wrapped box sitting on top of her roster sheets. Odd. It wasn’t her birthday and any presents from grateful parents were always shared among the ward staff. Frowning, she looked at the card. The bold black script simply said, ‘Gracias. R.’

When she undid the ribbon and removed the paper, she discovered a box of very exclusive chocolates. Her favourites. Ones she never bought herself. The only person who ever bought them for her was Meg, at Christmas and for her birthday.

Why was Ramón buying her chocolates? Or had he done it for all the ward staff? No, surely not—he’d only been with them a week, and she hadn’t heard that he was cutting his secondment short.

She got the chance to ask him three hours later, when she was sitting with Sophie, an eight-year-old girl who had had a tonsillectomy, and teaching her how to draw horses.

‘Buenas días, señorita,’ Ramón said with a broad grin. ‘And how’s my favourite girl today?’

Jennifer stared at him in shock. He couldn’t possibly be this blatant! But, no…of course not. He was talking to their patient.

‘How are you feeling today, Sophie?’

‘My throat’s sore,’ Sophie croaked. ‘And Sister JJ made me eat toast for breakfast.’

‘For a good reason, I assure you,’ Ramón told her. ‘And that’s a very good picture you’ve drawn.’

‘Sister JJ’s teaching me. Look—she drew a sketch of me, too,’ Sophie said, passing the sketchbook to Ramón.

He glanced at the book. ‘A woman of hidden talents. I didn’t know you could draw so well, Sister Jacobs.’

There had been a time when she’d intended to make her career in art. But that had been a long, long time ago. Another world. In the days BA—Before Andrew. ‘Um, it came in handy for my exams.’

As if he sensed how embarrassed she was, he changed the topic. ‘Sophie, while I’m here I may as well check your throat, see how you’re healing,’ he said.

Sophie nodded. ‘I just open my mouth and say, “Ah”?’

‘That’s right.’ He smiled, and placed a depressor gently on her tongue so he could shine a light down her throat. ‘Good. Very good. I think that calls for jelly and ice cream today, Sister Jacobs.’

‘I’ll make a note of it.’ Jennifer smiled at the girl. ‘And I’d better go and see some of my other patients before Dr Martínez tells me off.’

‘He won’t do that,’ Sophie said confidently. ‘He’s too nice.’

‘Why, thank you, señorita.’ Ramón gave her a formal bow.

Jennifer left the cubicle. ‘Dr Martínez, may I have a word, please?’

‘It’s Ramón,’ he reminded her.

She flushed. ‘I just wanted to say thank you for the chocolates.’

‘Pleasure,’ he said. ‘You helped me out of a sticky situation yesterday. I wanted to show my appreciation.’

‘Anyone else on the ward would have done the same.’

‘No. Only you,’ he said softly. ‘Will you have lunch with me today?’

‘No.’

‘I know, you don’t like being obligated. How about if you buy me lunch, so I’m the one who’s obligated?’

‘No.’

‘Dinner?’

‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Jennifer asked.

He smiled. ‘I always get what I want in the end.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘No, cariña, it’s a promise,’ he said softly.

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she wasn’t sure whether it was one of pleasure or just plain fear. Why couldn’t he see that she wanted to be left alone, in her quiet, comfortable life—just her and her cat?

‘Why are you wearing those? They look ridiculous with that dress. Don’t you know anything? Go and put some proper shoes on—ones with high heels.’

She recognised that look on his face. He’d had a bad day. Someone had answered him back. And he was going to make himself feel better in the way he knew best. Putting her down. She knew all that…but it didn’t stop it hurting.

‘Come on, come on, we’re going to be late! I told you to be ready.’

Ready for another business dinner. Another dinner where she’d know nobody—though if she talked to anyone, he’d want to know exactly what she’d said. What the conversation had been about. Whether she’d shown him up or flirted or…

‘Don’t you ever listen to a word I say?’

Yes. Of course she did. But where had her attentive lover gone? The man who’d wanted to cherish her when they’d first met, put her on a pedestal. The one who loved music, who enjoyed wandering through art galleries hand in hand with her. The one who’d said he knew he was too old for her and should give her a chance to meet someone her own age who could make her happy, but he loved her too much to let her go. Where had he gone? And just when had this hurtful, critical impostor taken his place?

Keen to avoid a row, she rushed upstairs to change her shoes. And then wished she hadn’t a couple of moments later.

‘What’s this? Sketching?’ She felt a familiar churning in her stomach as she heard the paper slap onto the table. ‘I hope you’re not thinking about going to college or getting a job.’

‘I was just sketching, that’s all. For me,’ she said softly.

‘They’re not bad. But they’re not up to art-school standard. You’d just be wasting your time, trying to get in. I’m only thinking of you, Petal. How hard it would be to face rejection. You wouldn’t even get an interview at one of the studios. You’re not good enough.’ Not good enough. Not good enough…

Jennifer woke with a cry. She sat up straight, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms round her legs. She hadn’t dreamed of Andrew for months. Hadn’t heard his voice criticising everything she did. She’d used the wrong polish on the table. There were smears on the windows. Not enough salt—or too much—in whatever she cooked. He didn’t like her friends—they were leading her into bad ways and she was easily led. Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough…

She shuddered. She knew why it was all coming back to her. Ramón. Handsome, Spanish…and determined to have his own way. Just like Andrew had been. Somehow she had to make him back off. She was no longer mousy little Jennifer, scared of being on her own and being found wanting by the world. She’d grown up, changed. She was thirty-two years old, working in a senior position in a career she loved. And she was just fine on her own. Tomorrow she would make Ramón understand.

Though she didn’t get the chance. They were both so busy that she barely had time for a lunch-break. And then he caught her in the corridor. ‘Jennifer, I know you’re busy, but could you spare me five minutes, please?’ Clearly her doubts showed on her face because he said, ‘It’s work. Do you have much experience with cystic fibrosis?’

‘Some. How old’s the patient?’

‘Six months.’ He sighed. ‘And the parents have taken the news badly. You know better than I do what kind of help is available locally.’

‘OK. I’ll come now.’

She followed him into his office.

‘Mr and Mrs Stewart, this is Jennifer Jacobs, our senior sister in Paediatrics,’ Ramón said.

Mrs Stewart had clearly been crying.

‘Sister Jacobs, the Stewarts were concerned about little Keiran—he had a big appetite but never seemed to put any weight on,’ Ramón explained. ‘The health visitor noticed that his height and weight crossed three trend lines on the chart, and he’s always had a troublesome cough and slight wheezing. Mrs Stewart had mild asthma as a child and went to her GP to see if that was the problem with Keiran, and the GP sent them here for a sweat test.’

The sweat test, Jennifer knew, was one of the best ways of checking for cystic fibrosis. The child’s skin was covered with a chemical called pilocarpine which made him sweat, and the area was covered with gauze and wrapped in plastic for thirty minutes to collect the sweat. Until very recently, babies hadn’t been screened at birth. Although now the ‘Guthrie test’ blood sample collected at a week old was also used for testing for cystic fibrosis, Keiran had clearly slipped through the net.

‘Keiran’s test showed higher than normal amounts of sodium and chloride in his sweat. And Keiran’s stools are large, greasy and very smelly,’ Ramón continued.

Again, it was a typical symptom of cystic fibrosis—the pancreas couldn’t produce the right enzymes to break down food in digestion, so the child couldn’t digest fats.

‘So we’ve diagnosed cystic fibrosis.’

‘Which means he’s going to die,’ Mrs Stewart whispered.

‘The earlier we diagnose it, the better chance he has,’ Ramón said. ‘Every week, around five babies in the UK are born with cystic fibrosis. Thirty years ago, the average life expectancy was around five years—now it’s closer to forty years and most sufferers lead relatively normal lives.’

‘There isn’t any history of it in our family,’ Mr Stewart said.

‘It’s possible to be a carrier without having any symptoms,’ Ramón told him.

‘One person in twenty-five carries the gene. If both parents are carriers, there’s a one in four chance the child will have it, and a one in two chance he’ll be a carrier,’ Jennifer said. ‘Do you have any other children?’

‘No. He’s our first,’ Mrs Stewart said. ‘Does that mean if we have other babies, they’ll have cystic fibrosis, too?’

‘Not necessarily, though the risk is the same as Sister Jacobs said. One in four that a baby will have it, and one in two that the baby will be a carrier.’

‘We can arrange for you to talk to a counsellor who specialises in genetic disorders,’ Jennifer said gently. ‘She can help you decide what you want to do in the future.’

‘What does the disease do to him?’ Mr Stewart asked.

‘Cystic fibrosis is an inherited disorder of the digestive and respiratory system,’ Ramón explained. ‘His body can’t break down food properly, so it doesn’t absorb all the nutrients he needs—that’s why he isn’t growing as much as he should. His body also has a problem with a protein called CFTR, or cystic fibrosis transmembrane conductance regulator, which moves salt and water over his cell membranes. The mucus in his body becomes thick and sticky, and blocks the air passages to his lungs, which is why he wheezes and coughs. He’s more likely than the average child to catch a cold or have a fever, and this can turn to pneumonia.’

‘So he’s going to die,’ Mrs Stewart said again.

‘If he has no treatment, his lungs will be damaged by chronic infection,’ Ramón said. ‘But there are a lot of things we can do to help.’

‘You’ll need to give him some pancreatic enzymes in his food to help break down the starches, proteins and fats in milk and solid food,’ Jennifer said. ‘He’ll also need extra calories so he gains weight and grows properly, plus extra vitamins A, D and E.’

‘When you wean him, you must give him a variety of foods and extra calories and protein to compensate for the loss of fat and protein in his stools.’

‘Sausages are really good,’ Jennifer added.

‘If you help him become well nourished, he will cope better with infections,’ Ramón said. ‘We can give him steroids to reduce the inflammation in his airways and help his breathing.’

‘Steroids? Aren’t they the things bodybuilders use?’ Mrs Stewart asked, clearly horrified.

‘No, that’s anabolic steroids,’ Jennifer said gently. ‘These are corticosteroids, which are present naturally in the body, so there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘We can also give him a nebuliser so he can inhale drugs that relax his muscles and let his airways open—it’s very similar to asthma medication,’ Ramón said. ‘And when he’s old enough to crawl and walk and run, you must encourage him to exercise to improve the strength of his lungs. Encourage him to do things that make him get out of breath, such as running and swimming and football.’

‘Wheelbarrow racing’s brilliant,’ Jennifer said. ‘He’ll enjoy it so it won’t feel as if you’re making him work hard. It’s a stretching exercise, too, as well as helping to drain the secretions from his lungs.’