Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2 by Various Authors Page B
Authors: Various Authors
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coming here to see her about once a year since their parents had died, so he knew where he was going.
He knew, too, that childbirth could take many hours. He'd tried phoning her before he left England, once from the bus that took him to the airport and again from the departure lounge, but both times it had gone straight to voicemail. He guessed that Claire wouldn't be able to talk until after her daughter was born, and there was nobody else he'd need to talk to until the restaurant opened later in the day, so he had switched off his phone and pushed it into the bottom of his bag.
He parked and went in through the nearest door. It turned out to be the place where ambulances dropped off the emergency cases. Disoriented, he walked along a tiled corridor, trusting that the efficiency of French design would soon help him out. It did: all routes led to a central reception desk facing a bank of lifts.
"I'm looking for Mademoiselle Moreau, Claire," he said. "Can you tell me which floor?"
The receptionist consulted her computer. Her smile faded as she clicked and typed. It looked like she was having trouble finding Claire's name. After a long pause she said, "Take a seat, Monsieur. Somebody will come to meet you."
There was a guide for visitors beside the row of chairs. Maternité Obstétrique was listed on the fifth floor. Jules said, "I'll just go up."
"No, please wait. Somebody will be here in a moment."
He paced around the reception area, looking at the health advice posters without reading any of them. Perhaps Claire wasn't here, he thought. If they were overcrowded they might have sent her somewhere else. It would be annoying if he had to drive back to the city. He should have checked his phone as soon as the plane landed. It was still in his bag in the car. He considered going to get it but before he could decide which corridor to take, a woman came out of the lift and approached him.
He had expected a nurse but she was not in uniform. She was plump and grey-haired, carrying papers. She wore a skirt suit and an identity badge that he didn't bother to peer at. She said, "You are Monsieur...?"
"Moreau. I'm here to see my sister, Claire Moreau."
She led him into a small room to one side of the reception area. There were three chairs: she took one and motioned him to another, but he didn't sit down.
She explained that she was a social worker attached to the hospital. She looked down at the papers in her hand. "Are you Jules Moreau? Do you have some identification?"
He was surprised but remembered reading that security had been tightened on maternity wards in France after the abduction of a baby a few years ago. He reached into his jacket pocket for the driving license that had been there since he picked up the car.
She glanced at the name and photo and passed it back. Then she looked up at him. Her face had taken on an expression of impersonal concern that he knew meant bad news. His heart began to thump.
"I am sorry to tell you, Monsieur Moreau, there were problems with the birth." Her words were formal but her tone was gentle. "The baby was in difficulties in the womb and an emergency Caesarean section was necessary. These operations are more or less routine but there is a small risk with every surgical procedure. We don't know exactly what happened— there will be an investigation— it may be that she had an unsuspected heart defect. She didn't survive. I'm very sorry."
The baby hadn't survived? That was sad, he thought. Claire would be upset and he could understand they wanted him to know before he saw her, but why couldn't he have been told on the way up there? Bureaucracy, no doubt. There would be some form he had to sign. He was annoyed, impatient to get to Claire.
The stupid woman was still talking and he hadn't heard a word. He interrupted her. "I would like to see my sister, please."
"Of course. In fact, I need to ask you to identify her. She gave your name as her nearest relative. But wouldn't you like
He knew, too, that childbirth could take many hours. He'd tried phoning her before he left England, once from the bus that took him to the airport and again from the departure lounge, but both times it had gone straight to voicemail. He guessed that Claire wouldn't be able to talk until after her daughter was born, and there was nobody else he'd need to talk to until the restaurant opened later in the day, so he had switched off his phone and pushed it into the bottom of his bag.
He parked and went in through the nearest door. It turned out to be the place where ambulances dropped off the emergency cases. Disoriented, he walked along a tiled corridor, trusting that the efficiency of French design would soon help him out. It did: all routes led to a central reception desk facing a bank of lifts.
"I'm looking for Mademoiselle Moreau, Claire," he said. "Can you tell me which floor?"
The receptionist consulted her computer. Her smile faded as she clicked and typed. It looked like she was having trouble finding Claire's name. After a long pause she said, "Take a seat, Monsieur. Somebody will come to meet you."
There was a guide for visitors beside the row of chairs. Maternité Obstétrique was listed on the fifth floor. Jules said, "I'll just go up."
"No, please wait. Somebody will be here in a moment."
He paced around the reception area, looking at the health advice posters without reading any of them. Perhaps Claire wasn't here, he thought. If they were overcrowded they might have sent her somewhere else. It would be annoying if he had to drive back to the city. He should have checked his phone as soon as the plane landed. It was still in his bag in the car. He considered going to get it but before he could decide which corridor to take, a woman came out of the lift and approached him.
He had expected a nurse but she was not in uniform. She was plump and grey-haired, carrying papers. She wore a skirt suit and an identity badge that he didn't bother to peer at. She said, "You are Monsieur...?"
"Moreau. I'm here to see my sister, Claire Moreau."
She led him into a small room to one side of the reception area. There were three chairs: she took one and motioned him to another, but he didn't sit down.
She explained that she was a social worker attached to the hospital. She looked down at the papers in her hand. "Are you Jules Moreau? Do you have some identification?"
He was surprised but remembered reading that security had been tightened on maternity wards in France after the abduction of a baby a few years ago. He reached into his jacket pocket for the driving license that had been there since he picked up the car.
She glanced at the name and photo and passed it back. Then she looked up at him. Her face had taken on an expression of impersonal concern that he knew meant bad news. His heart began to thump.
"I am sorry to tell you, Monsieur Moreau, there were problems with the birth." Her words were formal but her tone was gentle. "The baby was in difficulties in the womb and an emergency Caesarean section was necessary. These operations are more or less routine but there is a small risk with every surgical procedure. We don't know exactly what happened— there will be an investigation— it may be that she had an unsuspected heart defect. She didn't survive. I'm very sorry."
The baby hadn't survived? That was sad, he thought. Claire would be upset and he could understand they wanted him to know before he saw her, but why couldn't he have been told on the way up there? Bureaucracy, no doubt. There would be some form he had to sign. He was annoyed, impatient to get to Claire.
The stupid woman was still talking and he hadn't heard a word. He interrupted her. "I would like to see my sister, please."
"Of course. In fact, I need to ask you to identify her. She gave your name as her nearest relative. But wouldn't you like
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