For me, thereâs no more powerful emotion than witnessing the miracle of birth. As a kid on a farm, birth never ceased to leave me amazed and awed, and that feelingâs stayed with me all my life. So when I was asked to contribute to the Midwives On-Call anthology I jumped at the chance.
But my heroine has fertility issues, and as I wrote, these questions drifted through my writingâwhat makes a parent? What makes love? Five years ago grief drove my hero and heroine apart. How much love does it take to bring them back together?
The midwives of Melbourne Victoria Hospital are a tight-knit team, facing the complexities of birth and loveâand sometimes grief and lossâas part of their working day world. Life and death, love and joyâtheyâre what matters. In the Melbourne Maternity Unit we see those emotions every time our midwives walk through the door, so itâs only fitting that my lovers can finally find the power to love again.
Families take many forms. I hope you love the crazy, mixed-up bunch of loving that my Oliver and my Emily end up with.
Enjoy!
Marion
LATE. LATE, LATE, LATE. This was the third morning this week. Her boss would have kittens.
Not that Isla was in the mood to be angry, Em thought, as she swiped her pass at the car-park entry. The head midwife for Melbourneâs Victoria Hospital had hardly stopped smiling since becoming engaged. She and her fiancé had been wafting around the hospital in a rosy glow that made Em wince.
Marriage. âWho needs it?â she demanded out loud, as she swung her family wagon through the boom gates and headed for her parking spot on the fifth floor. She should apply for a lower spotâshe always seemed to be running lateâbut her family wagon needed more space than the normal bays. One of the Victoriaâs obstetricians rode a bike. He was happy to park his Harley to one side of his bay, so this was the perfect arrangement.
Except it was on the fifth floorâand she was late again.
The car in front of her was slow going up the ramp. Come on ⦠She should have been on the wards fifteen minutes ago. But Gretta had been sick. Again.
Things were moving too fast. She needed to take the little girl back to the cardiologist, but the last time sheâd taken her, heâd said â¦
No. Donât go there. There was unthinkable. She raked her fingers through her unruly curls, trying for distraction. Sheâd need to pin her hair up before she got to the ward. Had she remembered pins?
It didnât work. Her mind refused to be distracted, and the cardiologistâs warning was still ringing in her ears.
âEmily, Iâm sorry, but weâre running out of time.â
Was Grettaâs heart condition worsening, or was this just a tummy bug? The little girl had hugged her tight as sheâd left, and it had been all she could do to leave her. If her mum hadnât been there ⦠But Adrianna adored being a gran. âGet into work, girl, and leave Gretta to me. Toby and I will watch Play School while Gretta has a nap. Iâll ring you if sheâs not better by lunchtime. Meanwhile, go!â
Sheâd practically shoved her out the door.
But there was something wrongâand she knew what it was. The cardiologist had been blunt and she remembered his assessment word for word.
It was all very well, hearing it, she thought bleakly, but seeing it ⦠At the weekend sheâd taken both kids to their favourite place in the world, the childrenâs playground at the Botanic Gardens. There was a water rill there that Gretta adored. Sheâd crawled over it as soon as she could crawl, and then sheâd toddled and walked.
Six months ago sheâd stood upright on the rill and laughed with delight as the water had splashed over her toes. At the weekend she hadnât even been able to crawl. Em had sat on the rill with her, trying to make her smile, but the little girl had sobbed. She knew what she was losing.
Donât! Donât think about it! Move on. Or sheâd move on if she could.
âCome on.â She was inwardly yelling at the car in front. The car turned the corner ponderously thenâpraise be!âturned into a park on Level Four. Em sighed with relief, zoomed up the last ramp and hauled the steering wheel left, as sheâd done hundreds of times in the past to turn into her parking space.
And ⦠um ⦠stopped.
There was a car where Harryâs bike should be. A vintage sports car, burgundy, gleaming with care and polish.
Wider than a bike.
Instead of a seamless, silent transition to park, there was the appalling sound of metal on metal.