The Doctor Delivers

“Tell you what,” Grossman said. “How about I take you into the unit and let you get some shots of the babies? Meanwhile, I’ll fill you in on the new procedure. It was written up in the New England Journal—”

“Excuse me, Dr. Grossman.” Catherine felt the situation slipping out of her control. “We wanted to avoid having camera crews in the unit, so we’ve arranged for pool footage of the babies.”

“Oh, Selena doesn’t want pool footage.” Grossman winked at the reporter as if to say he knew her lingo. “Come with me, I’ll have someone get you a gown.” He looked at Catherine. “If anyone complains, tell them to talk to me.”

Selena gave her a triumphant little smile and followed Grossman into the unit. May you go on the air with lipstick on your teeth, Catherine thought as she tied on a protective cotton gown and made her way down to the end of the unit where Grossman was holding forth for the benefit of the camera.

“The tall one is Connaughton.” He pointed to a figure in scrubs whose hair and lower face were covered by a surgical cap and mask. “Right now he’s putting in a breathing tube. He’s already wired up the other two.”

“Everyone seems kind of tense.” Selena looked at him. “Is the procedure complicated?”

“No, but it’s kind of tricky—like threading a needle, but a lot more exacting. The baby can’t breathe while it’s being done and the heart slows down.” He chuckled. “There’s always the risk you’ll get ’em properly tubed, but dead.”

Posturing idiot. Angry, Catherine saw Selena’s eyes widen, saw her scribble something else in her notebook. “Of course, that sort of thing doesn’t happen here at Western,” she added quickly.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Grossman agreed. “That was just a little joke. In our intensive care unit—” he tapped the reporter’s notebook “—we care intensively. You can quote me on that.”

God, this guy was truly insufferable. Catherine saw Connaughton look up and stare at the camera, then turn his attention back to the baby.

“Heart rate dropping,” a voice said from the cluster around the bassinet. “Heart rate sixty—fifty.”

The cameraman began filming.

“Heart rate forty.” The voice was urgent. “Come out now.”

Catherine saw a hand whisk something from the baby’s face. Someone else started pumping a black rubber bag. Moments later people began moving away from the bassinet. Connaughton said something to a nurse, then pulled his mask around his neck and walked over to where she stood with Selena Bliss and Grossman.

The cameraman followed with his lens.

“Dr. Connaughton.” As she moved toward him, Catherine felt the blood rush to her face. “Catherine Prentice. I met you this morning. I, uh…is the baby okay?”

“Turn that damn thing off.” He gestured at the camera. As he wiped his forehead with his mask, he looked from the reporter to Catherine. “The baby’s fine.” His face darkened. “What the hell is going on here?”

“You’ve created quite a stir.” She smiled at him. “There’s a whole conference room full of reporters downstairs all waiting to talk to you. Including—” she nodded toward Selena still standing with her microphone outstretched “—this reporter here—”

“Perfect opportunity for a nice little plug for Western,” Grossman said. “I’ve been telling Selena about some of the work we’re doing.” He winked at her. “Including, of course, some of our state-of-the-art neurosurgery—”

“Excuse me, Dr. Grossman.” Catherine looked from the surgeon to Connaughton and saw the strain of the past few hours evident in his eyes. Empathy vied with demands of the job. She motioned Selena Bliss and her crew to stay put and drew him aside. “Are you okay?”

“Okay?” With a glance at the reporter and cameraman clustered out of earshot on the other side of the unit, he stared at her as though he’d forgotten why she was there. “Sorry?”

“You look kind of…” Self-conscious, she decided to take a different approach. “How are the babies?” It wasn’t an idle question, she really wanted to know, but nerves made her plow on. “And the mother? I hear she’s up on postpartum. God, what an ordeal. Lucky for her you were there.” His eyes, a dark blue, were fixed on her, but she sensed his mind was elsewhere. Across the room, Selena Bliss pointedly glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m sure talking to the press is the last thing you want to do, but—”

“The press?”

“Every reporter in town wants to talk to you.”

“Tell them I have nothing to say.”

She smiled, although something told her he wasn’t joking. “Dr. Connaughton, I realize that you probably thought the request this morning was, uh—”

“Frivolous?” The faintest flicker of a smile crossed his face. “Well, I suppose you’d expect Scrooge to think that way, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah.” She tried to smile. “About that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s hardly the most damning thing I’ve ever been called.” He pulled off his surgical cap, ran his hands through unruly reddish-brown hair. “Look, I can’t discuss this now.” He started off down the corridor at a fast clip. “I missed an important meeting.”

“Okay then.” She ran along beside him. “When would be more convenient?”

“Never.” He reached the door to the emergency stairwell, pulled it open and started up the stairs. “Nothing’s changed. I don’t talk to the press.”

“Look, Dr. Connaughton…” She tried another tack. “What you did this afternoon, delivering those babies, was a wonderful, humanitarian gesture. People are really interested in that sort of thing. And with the babies here at Western, it’s really great public relations.”

“That’s what you said about Professional Match.”

“Right.” She thought quickly. “I know I did, but that was kind of fun PR. This is different. It’s terrific exposure for Western’s NICU. We could spend millions and not get better advertising.”

“I’m sorry.” He took the stairs, two at a time, glanced back at Catherine who trailed a step or two behind. “I don’t want to do it. Humanitarian gesture or not, had I known that helping would create all this attention, I’d probably have stayed in my car.”

“Just a minute, Dr. Connaughton.” She reached him on the top landing. “People want to know how the babies are doing. Can’t we at least do a brief condition update?”

“Two of them should be fine. I’m very concerned about the smallest one.” He pulled open the stairwell door and headed for administration. “If you want to relay that on my behalf, feel free to do so.” With that, he disappeared through the polished wooden doors into Paul Van Dolan’s office suite.

“HOW THE BLOODY HELL can he be tied up?” Martin looked from the chief financial officer’s secretary to the clock on her desk and tried to banish the image of Catherine’s dismayed expression. Surely it was his right not to talk to the press? “It’s five past four,” he told the secretary. “My presentation was at three. It was supposed to last for two hours. If I’d been there, we’d be right in the middle of it at this moment—”

“But you weren’t there, were you, Dr. Connaughton?” The secretary bared her teeth in a tight smile. “So Mr. Van Dolan made another appointment. He’s a very—”

“Busy man. I know, you already told me.” Later, he would stop by Catherine’s office and apologize, he decided. Explain that he’d been under pressure. “When is he available?” he asked the secretary.

“He’s tied up with budget meetings for the next two weeks.”

“All I need is half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

“He’s tied up with budget meetings for the next two weeks.”

“Are you telling me that from the time he comes in to the time he goes home, he doesn’t have thirty minutes to spare?”

“Dr. Connaughton.” The secretary sighed. “Mr. Van Dolan is a very busy man.”

“Did you check his calendar?”

“It isn’t necessary, he’s tied up with budget meetings for the next two weeks.”

After he left the administrative suite, Martin used a phone in the hospital lobby to call Van Dolan’s secretary.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he drawled. “I’m Randolph Manwell with the Mallinkamp Foundation. As you know, Western’s a top contender for the medical humanities grant—”

“Yes, Mr. Manwell—”