Four Weddings

Sweat beaded into droplets and rolled down her stomach. How she wished she could be in shorts and a vest top with a breeze against her skin. But it wasn’t an option.

She glanced around and waved to Tom, who was walking toward her, holding some cool drinks in one hand and balancing some sweet sticky rice pyramids in the other, the distinctive banana leaf wrapping green against his palm.

He always brought her over a snack and insisted she take a break. He did it in his quiet, laid-back, no-fuss way. She often wondered if this was an innate part of him or something he’d learned from practical farming parents. Country hospitality personified.

A blend of unease and longing shimmered through her. She could get used to this sort of caring. She treasured it each and every time it happened.

And she hated it that she did. Depending on someone makes you weak. She would never again open herself up to being that vulnerable.

Tom smiled as he handed over the afternoon snacks. ‘You’ve been spraying your clothes with permethrin, right?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Tom. And I have been sleeping under my permethrin-impregnated mosquito net.’ That wasn’t strictly true but she wasn’t about to tell him the real story.

Each night she lay underneath the mosquito net attempting sleep. But whenever she closed her eyes, images of Tom would waft through her mind—Tom playing soccer, his athletic frame nimbly kicking the ball, Tom racing her to the beach, his long stride easily carving up the distance, Tom’s hands gently encircling her waist, his body’s length against her own, and his lips grazing hers with the most tender touch she’d ever known.

She shook away the image, swinging her hair off the back of her neck. ‘I’ve also stopped using my perfume and discarded my show-no-dirt navy for this pale green colour.’ She grimaced at the streaks of dirt already evident.

‘Want to go home, city girl?’ He grinned again, his banter dancing around her.

She laughed. ‘No, but one night soaking in a tub filled with bubbles would be utter bliss.’

His twinkling eyes darkened for a moment before a spark of desire flared in their depths.

A wave of heat exploded deep down inside her, streaking through her like a rocket-fuelled missile. What had she not been thinking? What had possessed her to talk about bubble baths with him? She’d learned years ago to dress non-sexually and not to draw attention to herself as a woman.

That way she couldn’t be hurt. But here she was, hurling an image of herself naked out between them, breaking every rule.

He cleared his throat. ‘How many children do you have left to see?’ His husky words hung between them.

‘I don’t know. Enough.’ She busied herself with her equipment, not risking looking at him, scared she might again see desire in his eyes.

Scared because she wanted to see desire again in his eyes.

Just plain scared.

He stood silently, deep in thought. Watching her. Finally, he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to go. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

His thoughtfulness prickled against her fear like a burr caught in a sock. ‘Thanks for the rice and the water but, really, you didn’t need to bother.’ The moment the words had left her mouth she wanted to snatch them back. She’d just taken away her thanks and turned them into a criticism.

He shrugged and spoke quietly. ‘I realise you’ve had to look after yourself for a long time, Bec, and that’s made you very independent. But part of being on a team is looking out for other team members. You might think about letting someone take a moment to do that for you every now and then.’

He walked away, his shoulders stiff.

Guilt poured through her. In her struggle to stay immune from this gorgeous man she’d just stomped on his feelings and hurt a person who’d always treated her with respect.

* * *

Tom wanted to chop wood. Wanted to swing the axe high over his head and bring it slamming down into the timber, sending splinters flying. He needed to feel the release of tension, feel it drain out of him and into the axe.

He’d lived at the woodpile during his adolescence. There was nothing more satisfying than splitting wood when that hot ball of fury sat firmly in your chest.

But he had patients to see.

He clenched and unclenched his hands. Bec Monahan was the most provoking, the most maddening, most independent, most … His brain fumed, clutching for more descriptors.

Most sexy woman you have ever met.

Visions of her in a bubble bath resurfaced in his mind. He blasted it away on a wave of outrage. What the hell was he thinking, picturing Bec naked?

She was gorgeous but she deserved someone who could give her his complete attention. Right now he couldn’t do that. He had to sort out who he was before he could get involved with any woman.

Not that she wanted him anyway.

Since she’d told him about her father she’d seemed more relaxed around him. The flinching thing had faded, thank goodness. He hated feeling like an ogre just because he was male. And yet she still had this wall around her, keeping more out than she let in.

This woman gave of herself every moment of her day but if he tried to give some of that care back to her, she refused it every time.

What the hell was wrong with her? Couldn’t a bloke be a friend?

Her father threw her down the stairs.

He closed his eyes and drew in a long, slow, deep breath. He had no idea what it was like to live in fear but Bec had lived with it for sixteen years. Ironically, he’d fled a war as a baby and she had lived through a domestic war.

But she’d moved on from that and had made herself a fulfilling life.

A life on her own.

Alone.

His anger died. She’d been so busy surviving she hadn’t learned the wonder of friendship.

Teach her how to let people in. Show her friendship.

The crazy thought ricocheted through his head. Could he?

‘Tom! Hin! Code one.’ Bec’s voice carried across the compound from where she stood by the door of a house waving frantically.

Since the cholera outbreak they had instigated a series of codes to signal each other. Code one meant medical emergency. He grabbed the emergency kit from the four-wheel-drive and ran back to her.

A toddler, about eighteen months old, lay in an oval bamboo basket in the dark hut. Her mother knelt next to her, her face taut with fear.

Bec rubbed the tiny girl’s sternum. ‘I can’t rouse her. She’s unconscious. No head injury evident and her skin is burning up.’ Her worried face glanced up at him. ‘And I can’t find Hin.’

Tom recognised the mother. He’d seen this child a couple of months earlier. In Vietnamese he asked the woman, ‘Did she take all the medicine in the bottle?’ He hoped his accent was on the correct vowels of the Vietnamese words.

The mother wrung her hands and dropped her eyes.

Tom caught sight of the family temple with the bottle of Artemisinin placed firmly in the centre, flanked by other offerings of flowers, food and incense.

Exasperation slammed into hurt. Why didn’t they listen to his advice? He wasn’t just some foreigner charging in. He was Vietnamese, too. He was on their side.

Just treat the child. He gently inserted the aural thermometer into the little girl’s ear. ‘Bec, she’s got a temp of forty-two Celsius. Set up a drip.’

Bec nodded. ‘Saline?’

‘No, glucose. It’s malaria and she’s going to need sugar. Severe malaria causes a precipitous fall in blood sugar, inducing a coma.’

He gently opened the eyelids of his patient, shining a penlight into her eyes. ‘Cerebral malaria can mimic a head injury or meningitis, but I diagnosed malaria on this child a while ago with a finger-prick test.’

‘It’s hard to treat it when the malaria in South-East Asia is extremely resistant to drugs.’ Bec threw him an understanding look.

‘I prescribed ACT. It works well, it just has to be taken.’ He inclined his head as his anger blasted out the words.

Bec caught site of the bottle, frowning as comprehension dawned.

Hin rushed in. ‘What’s happening?’

Bec spoke first. ‘Cerebral malaria. Can you go and get the ice? I need to cool her down fast. Bring towels as well.’

Hin nodded and turned, running out of the hut.

Tom put his finger on the sole of the child’s foot, pushing his nail into the skin to try and rouse her to the stimulus. ‘Hell, that’s a zero on the Blantyre coma scale.’

‘No response to painful stimulus and she’s not even crying. She’s critical.’ Bec pushed a torch into the mother’s hand and moved the light beam onto the child’s arm. ‘Hold it here, please.’

The English words meant nothing to the mother but Bec’s active demonstration said it all.

Bec swabbed the arm and handed Tom a tiny cannula. ‘She needs to be in intensive care.’

Tom guided the needle into the flaccid arm, concentrating on not going right through the vein. ‘We’ll get her there but first let’s get some fluid and antipyretics into her to bring the fever down.’

She bit her lip and taped the drip in place, putting a backboard on the tiny arm.

Tom’s heart contracted. He wanted to tell Bec that the child would be all right but he couldn’t provide that guarantee. All he had were facts and stats. ‘Toddlers succumb to malaria because they’ve just been weaned. They lose their mother’s antibodies before they can develop some resistance of their own.’

Bec stroked the child’s head. ‘Come on, little one, hang in there.’ With a flick of her head she turned to him, the worry in her eyes replaced by her practical go-get-'em attitude. ‘Obviously you won’t have Mannitol in that emergency kit to reduce the swelling of the brain, so what’s your next step? I know you have more up your sleeve than sugar and paracetamol.’ Her encouraging smile carried total belief in his skills.

Her compliment rallied his dented spirit. He smiled at her, longing to tell her how much her faith in his ability as a doctor really helped. ‘Quinine is still the drug of choice and we’ll push that after we’ve brought her fever down. I don’t want her fitting if I can help it.’

Hin rushed back into the hut, clutching the portable cooler and towels. Bec quickly rolled the ice into the towels to make small ice packs, which she placed around the little girl, wedging them between the child and the basket.

Tom titrated the paracetamol into the IV. ‘Hin, explain to the mother that her daughter has malaria and she must go to Danang hospital.’

Hin’s voice relayed the message.

A howl of distress sounded from the mother, her face taut with grief.

‘She says Danang is too far and they have no money to pay the hospital.’

‘Tell her I’ll pay.’ Bec wrapped her arms around the woman’s shoulders, comforting and supporting her.

Hin looked straight at Tom, seeking clarification.

He nodded. ‘Tell her the bills will be paid no matter what.’ Money might not be enough to save the child. Sighing, he did another set of observations.

No change.

This little girl was in a deep coma. The malaria might have paralysed her, damaged her hearing and her sight. ‘We need to get this little girl to Danang as soon as possible. Put the back seats down in the four-wheel-drive. It’s just turned into an ambulance.’

‘Does Danang have the facilities to cope with such a sick child?’ Bec’s wide-eyed, anxious face, stared at him.

‘Yes, if we can get her there alive.’ The words came out flat. He’d come to Vietnam to find himself, truly connect with his country of birth. But how the hell could he do that if they refused to accept him as one of them?

And how could he give back if they refused his treatment?

The ever-present seeds of displacement suddenly sent up shoots of doubt. Strong, green and pervasive, they entwined around his heart and soul.

You don’t belong anywhere.

He scooped the child into his arms, refusing to listen to the words that haunted him every day.

* * *

Tom meticulously laid pieces of driftwood on top of each other in the fire pit he’d dug in the sand.

‘Did you belong to the Scouts?’ Bec’s laughing voice washed over him.

He looked up from his kneeling position to see her smiling down at him, the slight breeze whipping her soft hair around her face. Whipping the shapeless cotton trousers and jacket onto her body, outlining pert breasts and round hips. His blood stirred.

He cleared his throat. ‘I was in the Scouts for awhile, but it was Dad who taught me how to make a fire.’ He lit a match, watching the small yellow and blue flame curl around the paper and catch the kindling.

He’d spent the day at the hospital. Miraculously he’d managed to keep little Kim alive on the long, slow journey to Danang. He’d reluctantly handed her over to the care of the physicians at the hospital but had stayed around until she’d shown definite signs of improvement.

Bec had virtually pushed him out the door at five o’clock. On the way home she’d completely floored him when she’d asked him to show her China Beach. It was the first social thing she’d initiated since he’d met her. She usually disappeared into her room at the end of a working day mumbling excuses ranging from washing her hair through to writing letters to Rotary Clubs.

She’d even offered to shout him dinner at a hawker’s stall. But on an impulse he didn’t want to examine very closely, he’d found himself insisting that he’d cook dinner for her at the beach. They’d stopped at a market and bought fish, coriander, chilli, beer and rice. Everything he needed for a China Beach barbecue.

‘Can I help with anything?’ Bec hovered.

He noticed she didn’t do ‘just sitting’ very well. ‘No, I’ve got it sorted. We’ll just let the fire burn down to embers and I’ll cook the fish. Right now all we have to do is sit.’ He grinned at her disconcerted look.

The sun, a blazing orange ball, slid silently closer to the mountains that curved around the coast, its last rays turning the South China Sea from blue to a fiery red. Spreading out the picnic rug, he sat down next to her, slightly closer than she normally sat next to him. He waited for her to move away.

A slight tremor raced across her shoulders but she smiled brightly and stayed put. ‘I love sitting on a beach and seeing the sun set. I spent a lot of time on Cottesloe beach in Perth. It became a refuge for me.’ Her matter-of-fact voice belied all she’d been through.

It took all of his self-control not to put his arm around her shoulder and hug her close. ‘I reckon my mum must have come from the coast. I’ve always hankered to have the sting of salt in my nostrils. When I’m in the south I always make sure I come to the beach. I always feel at peace here.’

‘I guess the farm was a long way from the coast.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears as she looked at him.

‘No, the farm’s only a half-hour drive from the sea. Dad used to take me fishing at Corner Inlet and I was never more content than when I was sitting in that tinnie boat with a fishing rod in my hand.’ A wistful memory stirred inside him.

‘Makes you think about nature versus nurture, doesn’t it?’ Her relaxed face glowed with the rays of the setting sun. ‘You grew up close to the ocean and your adopted dad was a keen fisherman. We could hypothesise that your love of the sea comes from companionable times sitting in a boat with your dad.’

Resentment swirled in his gut as her comment snagged against his ideas about his biological mother. ‘You could hypothesise that.’ He opened the food bag and pulled out two bottles of beer, jerking the seals off with more force than necessary.

People had no idea what it was like to know nothing about their family. ‘You grew up with the mannerisms of your parents and grandparents, knowing who they came from. I bet someone in your extended family wrinkles their nose like you do.’

She accepted the proffered beer with a nod of thanks. ‘Sure, but did I see my mother do that and copy her, or is it embedded in my DNA?’

‘Twin studies would say it’s in your DNA.’ His words shot back hard, fast and uncompromising.

Surprise streaked across her face. ‘No, twin studies would say that under certain environmental conditions genetic traits may come to the fore … or not. If you had lived inland then you wouldn’t have had the opportunity to fall in love with the sea, and you probably wouldn’t have missed it.’

She spoke softly, understanding on her face. ‘I think you need to believe your mother came from this area so you can hang your hat on something, try and place yourself in a particular part of Vietnam, so you feel that you belong.’

Fear tore through him. How the hell had she worked that out? ‘Yeah, well, belonging is just a fantasy. A little girl nearly died of malaria because I don’t belong.’

Disbelief and confusion played across her face. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

All his anguish of the day rushed back, installing itself inside his cavities of doubt. ‘If I’d grown up here, Kim’s mother would have listened to me, administered the ACT, and Kim would have recovered without developing cerebral oedema.’ His fingers, taut with tension, gripped the beer bottle.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘We’re talking about people who have limited education. Ask Hin. I bet he wasn’t surprised that they used the medication as an offering. Especially when they believe that all things good come from their favoured deity.’

He bristled at her words. ‘But at least I would have understood that might happen and I could have done something to prevent it.’

‘Really?’ She raised her brows, her eyes full of questioning doubt. ‘I don’t think Hin has much understanding of how to stop it and he’s university educated.’

‘But I would have been a doctor fluent in the language, accepted by the community, someone to look up to. They would have listened to me.’

She held his gaze, seeing into his soul. ‘If you’d grown up here, you might not have even finished primary school, let alone become a doctor.’

Her quiet words slugged him, ripping into traitorous, questioning thoughts he’d hidden away deep inside himself. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to revisit those thoughts. He stood up. ‘I would always have been a doctor.’

Tom’s words, laced with determination but mingling with pain, evaporated into the evening air. Bec swallowed a sigh. He truly believed he’d been ripped away from his country of birth and therefore was a lesser person in the eyes of the Vietnamese.

How could an intelligent man get it so very wrong? He did amazing work here. He needed to talk to local doctors and hear their frustrations about lack of patient compliance. Had he conveniently forgotten his Australian patients and their lack of compliance? She was sure the stories from home would match the Vietnamese stories. Lack of compliance crossed cultural borders.

He strode over to the fire and grabbed the shovel. With a side-to-side action he spread out the coals ready to accommodate the fish he’d wrapped in banana leaves. His shirt moved fluidly across his shoulders.

An image of her hands exploring taut, rippling muscles bombarded her, a pool of yearning welling up deep within her. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. This unwanted physical attraction was getting harder and harder to control.

Throwing her head back, she gazed up into the night sky at the bright pinpricks of the early rising stars. The beach was blissfully quiet, all the hawkers having retreated for their own evening meal. Bright blue and red fishing boats were heading out to sea for the night, their lights glittering in the reflections of their wakes.

She stood up and walked down to the water, leaving Tom to have the space he obviously wanted. She stepped into a small wave, welcoming the warm water as it rolled across her feet. It may be seven o’clock at night but when the difference between the maximum and minimum temperature was only five degrees Celsius, any time was hot. She stared out into the night and thought about all the things she’d experienced in such a short time. She thought of Minh, whom she’d visited again earlier in the day, and the joy she’d experienced when he’d smiled at her. She’d been doing some stimulation work with him and the other babies. How on earth was she was ever going to settle on one project idea?

‘Dinner.’ Tom’s voice brought her back to the present and she jogged up the beach. They sat crossed-legged, eating the steamed fish and rice with their fingers.

She threw her banana leaf into the fire. ‘That was absolutely sensational. The flavours of coriander and chilli go together so well.’ She licked a few grains of rice from the corner of her mouth.

Tom’s eyes followed the movement. ‘All we need is the moon and it would be perfect.’ His voice, deeper than usual vibrated around her as he lay back on the rug, resting on his elbows.

Glorious rivers of liquid heat wound through her. Tom and moonlight. The idea appealed and appalled simultaneously, making her dizzy.

She wriggled her toes in the sand. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. I love cooking a barbecue.’

Now would be a good time to apologise for being so snaky at the village.

She turned and lay on her side, facing him. ‘No, I don’t mean for dinner.’ She could feel his heat caressing her skin, creating minitornadoes of sensation thudding through her. Muddling her thoughts. ‘Well, yes, of course, I do mean thanks for dinner but not just dinner.’

Flustered, her words jumbled and tumbled over each other. ‘I mean, thanks for everything. I foisted myself on you and over these last few weeks you’ve looked out for me. Like you said, it’s what people do and I haven’t been very good at being part of the team.’

She tugged at some burrs caught on the rug. ‘I’m really sorry I snapped at you yesterday. I appreciate all you do. I guess I’m just not used to people taking the time to check up on me. So, thanks.’

He gave her arm a quick squeeze. ‘It’s no biggie.’

His brief touch made her ache for more. ‘No, really it is. Most men I know are completely selfish.’ The moment she’d spoken the words, regret heaved through her.

His smile morphed into a quizzical expression demanding more information ‘Really? As a species, we’re not all bad. Perhaps you need to get out more and meet the less selfish ones.’

‘Nah, staying in is a lot easier.’ She kept her tone light and sat up, facing back out to sea. ‘Relationships only end in tears.’

‘Someone break your heart, Bec?’ She heard his soft words from behind her.

She thought of those dark few months in a tiny apartment in Perth when all her childhood dreams of a handsome prince changing her life had vaporised. ‘He tried to break my heart and me. But I got wise and left with some bruises and my heart battered but not broken. Determined but intact.’

A shudder ran the length of his body and he was quiet for a moment. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve got contacts, you know, I could have him taken out. I’ve done it for other girls.’ His humour wrapped her up in supporting comfort.

She laughed. ‘You’re just the sort of friend a girl needs.’

‘I’ve got lots of friends who are women.’ His voice suddenly became serious as he sat up next to her, imitating her position of knees drawn up to chin.

‘Just friends, not girlfriends?’

He shrugged. ‘Girlfriends are high maintenance. I don’t have time for that right now. They want to settle down and I can’t do that yet.’

‘Ah, the typical Generation X male, the commitment-phobe.’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’ A tick appeared in his jaw in complete contrast to his bantering tone.

She didn’t believe his words.

He leaned in, his shoulders playfully bumping hers. ‘I make a good friend, Bec. Trust me. Let me show you the joys of friendship and redeem the image of men.’