Falling for Her Wounded Hero

by Marion Lennox

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t miss things.’

  But at that Millie chimed in with something like glee. ‘Like the top step yesterday? You missed that. You bruised yourself, too, though you wouldn’t let anyone help. And your medical bag.’ Millie was enjoying herself. ‘On Tuesday you left your bag in the surgery and you had to get the taxi to turn around. You’re missing things all the time.’

  ‘I normally leave my bag in my car,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m not used—’

  ‘Exactly,’ Tasha told him. ‘Thank you, Millie. That’s just the point. You’re not used to any of this. Give up, Tom,’ she said, her voice gentling. ‘For once, accept that you’re human like the rest of us. And I will leave if you don’t accept my help.’

  ‘What, go back to England?’

  ‘There are other reasons I need to be in Australia,’ she said, diffidently. ‘Right now the overriding one is you, but I don’t need to be in Cray Point. It’s co-operation or nothing.’

  ‘Or you’ll go where?’

  ‘What I do from now on is none of your business. Do you want my help or not?’

  ‘I... Yes.’ There was nothing else to say.

  And she smiled, a smile that held understanding as well as satisfaction. ‘Excellent,’ she said, and strangely he got the feeling that she understood where he was coming from. ‘Is that a car? Could Margie be here already?’

  She was, and she was in almost complete heart failure. Medical need took over.

  A truce had been reached. Sort of. For a while Tom was able to forget his doubts as he and Tasha fought to stabilise her.

  Finally Margie was loaded onto the medevac chopper and evacuated to Melbourne, her prognosis a whole lot better than when she’d arrived. Tom took himself to his room. Tasha took the spare room and they started working through patients.

  It was a normal day, Tom told himself. Except that Tasha was in the next room and Tasha was bossy and Tasha was...

  Disturbing.

  He’d been out of his comfort zone ever since the accident, floundering with loss of control.

  Tasha’s arrival should have helped, he told himself. So why did he feel even more out of control now than he had before she’d arrived?

  * * *

  Later that afternoon Tasha drove him across to Summer Bay, while he tried not to grit his teeth beside her.

  Tasha didn’t mind his silence. The sun had come out. Tom’s car was a soft top and she’d asked that they take the roof down. Tom had consented with bad grace but the wind from the sea blew her curls out behind her and she felt like the fog of the last eighteen months was lifting a little.

  This really was the most beautiful place. Every curve seemed to open a wilder view of the ocean and the air was so salty she could almost taste it.

  The sea was winter wild. She felt clean and refreshed and ready for anything.

  Another try at pregnancy?

  She thought of the card at the bottom of her suitcase. How much courage would she need to be to go there?

  Too much.

  Focus on what comes next, she told herself, which was getting Tom through rehab. She glanced across at his grumpy face and smiled.

  ‘You look like a kid heading for the dentist.’

  ‘That’s what I feel like,’ he admitted. ‘You know I can do this on my own.’

  ‘I know you can’t.’

  ‘What made you so know-all?’

  ‘A medical degree,’ she said serenely. ‘Same as you. If you were your patient you’d be saying exactly the same.’

  ‘And my patient would have the right to refuse.’

  ‘He would,’ she said equitably. ‘And you’d tell him exactly what he’d be losing in the future by doing so.’ She considered for a little, and then glanced at him again. ‘Tom...would I be right in thinking you’re afraid you might fail? That you won’t recover the power you once had?’

  He didn’t reply. The look on his face said she’d nailed it.

  ‘You’ve come so far,’ she said gently. ‘Rhonda and Hilda told me how much damage there was, and you’ve fought back. You know it’s still early days. You know...’

  ‘I do know.’

  ‘But the world was yours before and now... You’re no longer invincible. But you must have felt like that before. You and Paul and your dad before you. Daring all, and never thinking of the cost.’

  ‘Do you really think—?’

  ‘I know,’ she snapped, and then got herself under control again. ‘Sorry. That’s past anger from watching Paul go off to climb mountains. And knowing your dad was killed test-driving a car at...what speed? And looking at the damage you’ve done surfing in stupid conditions. But you will get better, Tom. Every prognosticator tells me you will, so you might as well just get on with it.’ She steered the beautiful little car around the next curve and took in the stunning vista before her and then she grinned. ‘How often have you been bossed by a woman?’

  There was no answer. She tried to suppress her grin and she kept on driving.

  * * *

  How often had he been bossed by a woman?

  Never?

  He’d been raised by a woman who’d been so in love with his father that she’d never got over it. She’d adored her son but her ambitions for herself had disappeared the day her husband had walked out on her. The house had been a shrine to that short marriage. She’d been loving but weak and Tom had learned early that he could pretty much do what he liked.

  He loved his mum. He loved Cray Point, but even as a child he’d learned to be deathly afraid of the love that consumed his mother. That kind of love meant misery and heartache and he had no intention of going down that road.

  His mother had lost control of her life the moment she’d met his philandering father. To Tom, control was his mantra. He put up with Rhonda and Hilda’s bossiness—he even enjoyed it—but theirs was bossiness at the edges. The big decisions in life were his.

  He was still in control now, he told himself. He didn’t need to accept Tasha’s presence at his physiotherapy session. Would she leave if she didn’t think he was putting a hundred and ten percent into these sessions?

  She may well.

  Right now she looked like she was enjoying the sun on her face, the wind in her hair, but underneath her smile was a determination he’d had no clue about.

  Had losing Paul and then losing her baby caused that determination, or had it already been there?

  ‘Where do you call home?’ he asked, tangentially, and she glanced at him for a moment before turning her attention back to the road.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s just...you went back to England. Is home there?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve never really had a home.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘My mum and dad were with the Australian army but they were based all over the world. They were Special Services, so for half of my childhood I was never allowed to know where they were. When they were killed I was in a boarding school in Sydney but I’d only been there for eighteen months. Before that I’d been in an international school in Egypt. Before that...a list of countries I can hardly remember. After they died I stayed with my aunt in London, but she doesn’t like me. I remind her of my mother and it still makes her cry. You can’t imagine how wearying that is. But I’m her duty so she’s still constantly wondering why I’m not staying with her. I think that’s one of the reasons I joined Médicins Sans Frontières where I met Paul. So, no, I don’t have a home.’

  ‘If Emily had lived?’ It was a hard question but as a doctor he knew that hard questions were too often left unasked.

  ‘I would have made a home,’ she said without missing a beat. ‘That was the plan. To settle and stay. To find a community. To g
ive her a childhood where she could have best friends. And a puppy. She would have loved a puppy.’

  Her voice faltered and then she steadied. He knew that about her too, by now. Whatever life threw at her, she steadied.

  But he could tell the young Tasha had ached for a puppy.

  ‘But that’s the past,’ she told him, moving on with a briskness he guessed she’d cultivated from years of deflecting sympathy. ‘I need to figure a way forward and I will, but one thing at a time. Next step is to get you working at full capacity. Thus your physiotherapy, and here we are.’

  * * *

  She was his support person.

  He’d never imagined he could need such a thing.

  A cute, blonde dynamo came out to greet them. ‘I’m Dr Sally Myers, neuro-physiotherapist, but I’d prefer it if you called me Sally. Can I call you Tom and Tasha?’

  ‘Of course,’ Tasha said. They’d been sitting in the waiting room for ten minutes, with Tom growing more and more impatient while Tasha calmly photographed recipes from housekeeping magazines with her phone. She tucked her phone away as they both rose to greet Sally. ‘Tom can see you on his own if he’d like,’ she told Sally. ‘But would it be more helpful if I came in, too?’

  ‘It always is,’ Sally said frankly. ‘You’ll be needing support, Tom, and if Tasha’s happy to give it...’

  ‘Fine,’ Tom snapped, and both women looked at him, astonished.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just that I’m used to doing things alone.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Sally said, sympathetic but firm. ‘I’m sure Tasha understands and so do I. But if you don’t mind me saying so, you should have been here weeks ago. We have a lot of catching up to do and if Tasha’s prepared to help then your chances of a full recovery are greater. Do you want to look a gift horse in the mouth?’

  And Tom looked at Tasha and she raised her brows in mock enquiry. She was smiling. Laughing?

  Anything less like a horse he’d yet to see.

  She was offering him a faster way to recovery. What was he doing, being a bore?

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he growled.

  ‘So you’d like Tasha to sit in and learn the exercises?’ Sally was making him say it out loud.

  ‘Yes.’

  And then he glanced at Tasha and her eyes were still dancing. She understood, he thought, and then he thought that if he had to share there was no one he’d rather share with.

  She was a loner. She wouldn’t push past his boundaries—maybe she even understood them.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said.

  * * *

  He was learning to stand.

  It sounded simple. Tasha had been with Tom for almost twenty-four hours now and she’d seen him sit and stand scores of times.

  She’d also seen the way he’d favoured his good leg every time.

  Sally had assessed him, prepared his programme, told him bluntly what he risked by not doing it, told him the importance of attending clinic every day and then disappeared to deal with the next recalcitrant client. A more junior physiotherapist took over.

  She proceeded to have Tom sit and stand and walk, sit and stand and walk, sit, stand and walk. Tom was forced to favour his bad leg every time.

  Tasha saw that it hurt. She saw how much of an effort it cost him. She saw the beads of sweat on his forehead and something inside her clenched.

  She hated this, and she was forcing him to do it.

  No. Her presence let him do it. She knew Tom accepted the need for such hard work. His skipping this morning had shown her how hard he’d been trying himself, but he needed this professional approach.

  She was right to have come, even if arriving at Cray Point, being with Tom, being so close to her daughter’s grave, did stir up all sorts of emotions she’d rather not face.

  Emily...

  ‘Let’s end with swimming,’ the physio decreed at last. ‘Did you bring your swimmers?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tasha told her, and Tom swivelled and stared.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sally told me swimming might be involved. Just lucky I made myself useful with the laundry last time I was here. I knew they were in the laundry cupboard. I brought your boardies rather than the budgie smugglers you wear under your wetsuit.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said through gritted teeth. And then... ‘You know, if you were serious you’d swim with me.’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she told him, and grinned and pulled a pair of rainbow-coloured swimmers from her bag. ‘I came here to be a hands-on support person, Tom Blake, and I’m with you all the way.’

  Why not? she thought. She’d learned a whole lot about pain in the last eighteen months and one thing stood out. Sitting thinking about it didn’t help. She needed to be distracted—and how much more could she be distracted than by jumping into the pool with Tom Blake?

  * * *

  And in the end it was fun. Ridiculously fun. The young physio—Liselle—ran him through some basic water exercises, leg, arm and neck, and then produced a stretchy band, which she used to rope his good arm to his body. Then she turned to Tasha.

  ‘We can do this three ways,’ she told them. They were standing chest deep in the warmed pool. ‘I can toss a ball back and forth to Tom, making him use his weak arm, while Tasha watches. That’s pretty boring. Or, Tasha, I can tape your favoured arm and have you and Tom have a competition as to who can catch the most. But what’s most fun is if I play, too. See this neat little net? I get to play goalie. You two work together, both using only your weaker arms. You guys have to stand behind the three-metre line and stay at least two metres apart. The rule is that you need to toss the ball to each other before you aim for goal and it doesn’t matter how many times you do it. You feint to try and get the ball past me. Every time you miss I get a point, but every time you work together and get a goal then it’s a point to the Wobble Team.’

  ‘The Wobble Team,’ Tasha said blankly, and Liselle grinned.

  ‘You’re both wobblers, Tom because of your head injury and Tasha because I’m taping your right arm and you’ll find even that sets you off balance. Game?’

  And Tom and Tasha looked at each other.

  ‘I’m in,’ Tasha said. ‘Wobblers, huh?’

  ‘No one calls me a wobbler and lives to tell the tale,’ Tom growled.

  ‘Prove it, big boy.’ Liselle laughed and tossed him the ball.

  He caught it and grinned with his success. Too easy. But apparently it was.

  ‘I threw it straight and slowly,’ Liselle told him. ‘But something tells me you don’t like being treated with kid gloves, so sharpen up.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, and tossed the ball to Tasha. His arm felt stiff and strange but there was no way he was letting it stop him. ‘Let’s show this lady what wobblers are capable of.’

  And for the first time for six long weeks he had...fun.

  It was fun. Yes, his body still didn’t feel as if it belonged to him. He had two disadvantages—one was that he was forced to use his weak arm and the other was that his movement was restricted because his leg didn’t obey orders the moment he sent it. And Liselle was good. ‘I play water polo,’ she admitted. ‘And, yes, state level.’

  But he had Tasha, and Tasha was amazing.

  She looked amazing. Her costume wasn’t anything to write home about—a simple one-piece—but it was in a myriad of tropical colours. She was trim and lithe and agile, and she ducked and weaved in the water as if water was her second home. She hadn’t tied her curls back. She was soaked the first time he threw an awkward ball to her and she dived for it. She surfaced laughing, her curls spiralling every which way, and she tossed the ball back to him and he was so distracted that he missed.

  He didn’t get that distracted again. Her look of disapp
ointment at his easy miss had him focusing, and she was, too. She was laughing, diving, yelling to him, feigning tosses towards goal, pretending to toss towards the goal and then tossing to him, pretending to toss to him and then tossing straight at the goal.

  For all her laughter she was taking this game very seriously. So did he and at the end of half an hour, when Liselle called time, the score was dead even and even Liselle was looking exhausted.

  ‘I need to find you guys a greater handicap,’ she told them. ‘You work too well together as a team. Tasha, if you keep working Tom like this we’ll have him a hundred percent in no time. Will you come to every session?’

  ‘There may be medical imperatives that stop me coming,’ Tasha told her. ‘But I’ll try. And I do the driving so unless Tom wants to catch a taxi I need to bring him.’

  Did he want to catch a taxi?

  He looked at Tasha, who was swinging herself out of the pool. Water was streaming from her curls, running in rivulets down the smooth surface of her throat and the curve of her breasts. Her legs were perfect—no, make that everything about her was perfect.

  No, he didn’t want a taxi.

  ‘I think we could do this until we get to the stage where it’s Liselle and me against you, and we play until we lose,’ she told him. ‘You reckon we could do that in two months?’

  ‘There’s a challenge,’ Liselle said, grinning. ‘I could bring in the rest of my polo team as reinforcements.’

  And for the first time since the accident Tom suddenly felt normal. These women were smiling at him, daring him, challenging him. And they were expecting him to get back to normal or better.

  ‘You think I can do it?’ he demanded, facing his fears front on.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ Liselle said. ‘Look how far Tasha’s driven you today.’

  ‘It was you,’ Tasha said.

  ‘It was all of us,’ Liselle admitted. ‘But, Tom, with Tasha driving you, there are no limits to what you can do. I know it.’

  * * *

  ‘There are no limits to what you can do.’