Ch.9: The CPR Instinct

I didn't think. I didn't weigh the odds. The part of my brain that was 'Mara the Nanny' shut down, and the part that was 'Elena the Nurse' took over.

I flipped Daisy face down along my forearm, her head lower than her chest, supporting her jaw with my hand.

*Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.*

Five sharp back blows between the shoulder blades.

I flipped her over. Checked the mouth. Nothing.

Her color was deepening to a bruised purple. The silence in the room was absolute, save for the frantic *beep-beep-beep* of the monitor screaming that her oxygen saturation was plummeting.

I placed two fingers on her sternum, just below the nipple line.

*Push. Push. Push. Push. Push.*

Five chest thrusts. Fast. Hard.

I flipped her again. Back blows. Harder this time. Enough to bruise.

"Come on," I hissed through gritted teeth. "Come on, Daisy."

It wasn't a blockage. It was swelling. Her airway was closing up from the allergic reaction. The mechanical force wouldn't clear the allergen, but it might stimulate enough airflow to keep her brain from starving until I could get help.

I needed the EpiPen. Where was the medical kit?

I scanned the room, my hands still working automatically on her small body.

The trolley. Bottom shelf. A red plastic case.

I lunged for it, keeping Daisy pinned to my arm. I ripped the latches open.

Bandages. Saline. Gauze.

No EpiPen.

"Damn it!"

I spun around. The monitor read *Sat: 78%*. Critical.

I had to do rescue breaths. I had to force air past the swelling.

I laid her on the changing table, tilting her head back to open the airway as much as possible. I sealed my mouth over her nose and mouth.

I puffed. A gentle, controlled breath.

Her chest rose slightly.

*Thank God.*

I did it again. Puff. Rise.

I pulled back to check for a pulse.

The door to the nursery slammed open.

"What in God's name are you doing?"

Mrs. Higgins stood in the doorway, her face a mask of shock and outrage. She saw me leaning over the baby, saw the chaotic medical kit on the floor.

"She's choking!" I yelled, not stopping. "Call 911! She's having an allergic reaction!"

Higgins didn't move to the phone. She moved toward me.

"Get away from her!" she shrieked. "You're hurting her!"

She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin, trying to pull me away from the table.

"Let go!" I shoved her back with my hip, keeping my hands on Daisy. "She's not breathing! Look at her color!"

Higgins stumbled back, but her eyes weren't on the baby's blue lips. They were on the baby's exposed chest, where my fingers were positioned for compressions.

"You... you're pressing too hard," she stammered.

"I'm keeping her alive!"

Daisy let out a gasp. A ragged, wet intake of air. Then a cough. Then a scream.

It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

The color flooded back into her cheeks, turning the terrifying purple into a flushed, angry red. She was crying. She was breathing.

I slumped against the table, my knees hitting the floor. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close, rocking her.

"It's okay," I sobbed, the adrenaline crashing. "I've got you. I've got you."

The room was silent again, except for Daisy's cries and my own ragged breathing.

Then, a slow clapping sound.

*Clap. Clap. Clap.*

I froze.

I looked up.

Dr. Thorne was standing in the doorway, just behind Mrs. Higgins. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, his hair perfectly tousled, looking like a dark prince roused from slumber.

He wasn't looking at Daisy. He wasn't looking at the spilled medical kit.

He was staring at my hands. Specifically, the way my fingers were still curved in the perfect, textbook position for infant resuscitation.

His eyes were wide, glittering with a terrifying mix of suspicion and discovery.

"Impressive," he said softly. "For a nanny."

He stepped into the room, the clapping stopping, but the intensity of his gaze ratcheting up until I felt like he was dissecting me with his eyes.

He walked right up to me. He reached out and took Daisy from my arms. He didn't check her breathing. He handed her to a stunned Mrs. Higgins without breaking eye contact with me.

"Most nannies panic," he whispered, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. "Most nannies call for help. But you... you assessed the airway. You performed back blows. You administered rescue breaths."

He grabbed my wrist, lifting my hand up to the light. He traced the calluses on my fingertips—the calluses of someone who had spent years handling IV lines and surgical tools.

"Where did you learn to do that, Mara?"

"CPR class," I stammered, my voice sounding thin and unconvincing. "The Red Cross."

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "The Red Cross teaches you to be gentle. You were brutal. You were efficient."

He squeezed my wrist hard enough to grind the bones together.

"You moved like a doctor. Or a nurse."

My blood ran cold. The trap had snapped shut.

He wasn't looking at the baby. He was staring at my hands with the intensity of a predator who just found a flaw in the prey's camouflage.