by Karen Swan
‘But she was four. She was saveable. I had saved her! And then I—’
‘Ta, if a blade fell from the scalpel, then the equipment was faulty.’ His voice was steady. Logical.
She blinked back at him, feeling a rush of self-hatred. ‘Or the surgeon was in a rush and tired and thinking about what dress she was going to wear that night. I should have double-checked, Ror.’
‘No. I won’t let you talk like that. You have to accept that you cannot save everyone. It’s just not possible and you’ll go mad trying to hold yourself to that account. We are not superhumans. We do our best and then let it go. That’s all we can do.’
Tara stared into the darkness, finding no comfort in the words. She couldn’t just settle for ‘doing her best’. As far as she was concerned, surgeons had to be held to higher account. The stakes were too high for them to be slack or relaxed about what they did. ‘What if they take my licence?’ she whispered.
‘That won’t happen.’
‘It might. They could decide I was negligent. That I should have double-checked before I closed her back up.’
‘Ta, you are their show pony. Their flagship consultant. That’s not going to happen.’
Tara blinked in the darkness, feeling a sudden vibration in her bones at his words. ‘. . . What do you mean, show pony?’
There was a pause. ‘I mean that you’re the youngest ever consultant they’ve had in ICU. They believe in you. They wouldn’t let you go over something like this.’
She fell quiet, reading the subtext: no, he had meant that she was a Tremain. That was why she’d got so far, so fast, in her career. She’d always wondered if, deep down, he resented her greater success. Now she knew. He believed what she’d got, she’d got by favours, influence, prestige. She felt a profound loneliness whistle through her like a cold wind. ‘I can’t lose my career. It’s all I have.’ Her words were barely a whisper now.
‘No. You’ve got me.’
She stared into the dark room, into the void.
It was all she had.
Chapter Thirteen
She came to, in chunks of sensory processing: first she heard the rhythmic crash of the waves, then occasional voices passing by the huts, a distant shout. Opening one eye, through the gauzy haze of a tented mosquito net, she saw sunlight slanting through the cracks, striping the room. It was morning, then? She’d actually slept?
She sighed and reached for her phone. 11.09.
Eleven? She felt a wave of relief that she had slept through the night; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long, or so deeply. It made her feel strangely . . . well.
She stretched, feeling her muscles engage, sliding her legs across the sheet, looking for Rory . . .
She turned her head. The bed was empty.
She looked towards the bathroom: the door was ajar, no sounds coming from within. She pushed herself onto her elbows, leaning back with a general feeling of befuddlement. Sleep was still a shroud upon her and she let her gaze absorb – properly this time – the little red hut, her home for the next week. One of Rory’s shirts was hanging from a hook, his bag zipped up and standing on its end on the floor. A towel dangled over the bathroom door. He would be swimming, she knew.
With a sudden desire to join him, to start her day – her holiday! – by plunging herself into the Pacific, she threw the sheets back and got up, catching sight of her own outline sketchily drawn by sweatmarks through the night. The humidity was oppressive, making the air feel almost solid, and her skin was clammy. She walked naked through to the bathroom, catching sight of herself passing by the mirror. Had she lost weight? She stopped to examine herself more closely. Never as skinny as Holly, she was nonetheless a slim build, albeit soft and unathletic – her hours never left time for the gym, much less the energy. But now the nub of her shoulders looked polished and shiny, the upper curve of her hipbone pressing lightly against the skin as though trying to break through. Her face was definitely thinner, a newly sharp angle of her cheekbone throwing a shadow over the hollow of her cheek. But her eyes were puffy and almost slitted as sleep lay settled upon her still, like a little storm cloud. She sighed at her reflection, as she so often did. Usually she had bags from too little sleep but now it was puffiness from too much. Her face appeared to be a finely tuned instrument that had to be held in balance.
She still had her headache – obviously – but it was a dim, glowing pain this morning, rather than the usual full-wattage glare. The power of sleep, she supposed.
And to eat – that was the next wellness challenge to conquer. When had she last had a decent meal? She tried to think back, but everything felt woolly and indistinct. Too much travel, too many time zones.
She would eat first, then swim. If that didn’t clear her headache, nothing would.
She found an olive bikini in her bag, twisted her dark hair into a rough bun and stepped into a pair of denim cutoffs. She opened the door and blinked. It always took a moment to register that the sight before her was actually real – the charcoal black sand, cerulean sea, green macaws sitting in the palm trees, the sun-bleached striped hammocks slung between slanted trees. If it looked like a stock screensaver image, it was because in fact it was her screensaver image. If she was having a bad shift or a rough day, it always gave her a lift to be reassured that this place was real, to know that she could actually come here and escape. Like now.
She could see a couple of surfers sitting on their boards on the water. They appeared more interested in chatting than catching waves, legs astride as they bobbed on the surface. No sign of Rory though, that she could see. The doors to the other huts were closed and although she was tempted to knock, she didn’t. Everyone needed to recover from the journey.
She stepped onto the sand, feeling it crush between her toes as she began to walk slowly along the beach. The sunlight was dazzling, the sky unremittingly clear, and she kept to the shade, the sand already too hot for bare feet at this time of day. She watched the surfers bob, not a care between them. This wasn’t the main surfing beach; that was a little further down the shore, two bays away. Here, the cove was too small to really travel any distance, but some of the locals liked to come here for an easy ride before or after work and she liked that it was quieter.
Jed’s beach shack was only a couple of hundred metres away and she found him unpacking crates of rum and beer as she walked up. He had his back to her, a triangular sweat patch on the t-shirt between his shoulder blades as he worked, but she knew he’d seen her. The coloured huts were in eyeline from here and she knew he surreptitiously ‘kept an eye’ on them. Always had, always would.
‘Morning, Jed.’ She placed her forearms on the bar. It was just old gangplanks nailed together, but they had long ago been worn marble-smooth by generations of people doing exactly the same.
He turned, his eyes meeting hers with a smile. ‘Morning, T-t. Sleep well?’
T-t. One of her childhood nicknames, rarely used these days. His voice had a skip to it, as though both a joke and a song lay curled within its folds.
‘Like a log,’ she smiled, perching on the bar stool. ‘I didn’t realize how tired I was.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded deeply. ‘The others said you’ve been working hard.’
‘Are they still asleep?’ She twisted on the seat, looking back to the water. The surfers were on their tummies and paddling out to deeper waters now.
‘No. Miles and Zac and Rory have gone on a bike ride. The others are on a walk to the big beach. Little Jimmy was keen to see the surfers doing their thing.’
She turned back again with a pout. ‘They’re all up? Oh, I wish they’d woken me! I’d have liked to have gone with them too.’
He chuckled. ‘Oh, they tried. A few times. You were fast off, they said.’
She sighed. ‘Oh dear. I guess I was pretty tired.’ She closed her eyes, feeling the ocean breeze ruffle the baby hairs that escaped her bun, tickling her neck. It was good to be out of clothes, to feel the wind an
d the sun on her skin.
‘And hungry now too?’
As if on cue, her tummy grumbled. ‘Funny you should mention that . . .’ She leaned in closer on the counter. ‘What have you got by way of scoff?’
‘Scoff.’ He repeated the word as though trying it out for size, softening her vowels so that the word became different but the same. Scaff. ‘I can do you some Gallo Pinto.’
She smiled gratefully, knowing perfectly well he would. Gallo Pinto – beans and rice, with plantains and egg – was to the Costa Ricans what eggs and bacon were to the English. Jed and his father had been cooking it for her since she was little; it was instant comfort in a bowl. ‘Great,’ she sighed, feeling cared for, her needs already met. She was well rested, she was warm . . . This was going to be a good day. She could feel it.
‘You want some coconut water?’ He held up a coconut questioningly.
‘Oh my God, yes.’
Reaching down to below the counter, he pulled out a machete and with one practised swipe, took off the top. It was still as exciting as when she’d been a kid. He stuck a straw in it and handed it to her, watching as she drank.
‘Oh. My. God,’ she said as she came up for air. ‘That is literally better than saline.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Saline?’
‘What we doctors use for a rapid recovery.’
‘Ah.’ He chuckled as he walked off towards the kitchen area at the far end of the bar and began slicing up some plantains.
‘So, tell me your news,’ she said to his back, finding comfort just in watching his familiar routines. ‘What’s been going on over here?’
There was a short pause as he put a pan on the heat. ‘Well, they gone built the new school at last,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Finally!’
‘Yeah. Only took eight years in the end.’
Only eight? He wasn’t joking, and she felt a shot of anger. How many children had grown up here without a formal education in the meantime? Her father had given the money in a lump sum years ago, so it wasn’t funding that had been the issue. It wasn’t even that corruption was rife; she just knew that when it came to the Indigenas – the native people – their needs were at the very bottom of a long governmental to-do list.
‘And ol’ Sam finally perished.’
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry. Was it his heart?’ She quickly calculated that he must have been in his late eighties by now. He had been on statins for years. She was the one who had diagnosed his symptoms on her last trip out here, when she was a first-year in med school. The summer before she’d met Alex.
‘Yes. He died happy though, Bertha said.’
Bertha was a kindly, larger-than-life figure in town, who sat on her stool making baskets by day and was the town prostitute by night. She had to be in her mid-sixties. ‘Well, that’s . . . nice to think he . . . had a smile on his face.’
Jed laughed, his muscular arm stirring the rice and beans as the plantains sizzled and softly charred. ‘He had that all right,’ he chuckled.
She watched him move, so loose-limbed and easy in his bones. He looked like there wasn’t a knot of tension in his entire body.
‘And how about you? What’s happening in your life?’ she asked, as he cracked two eggs and spilled them into a clearing in the pan, leaning back as the fat began to spit.
He didn’t look back. ‘I’ve got four little ones now. They’re six, five, two and eight months.’
‘Wow, Jed! I didn’t know! . . . Your wife must be very busy.’ And Tara had thought she was tired!
He gave an easy shrug. ‘They’re good kids.’
‘How could they not be? What’s your wife’s name?’ She had heard he had married several years back but she’d not heard about their growing family. Or perhaps she had just never asked. She had covered her ears and averted her eyes so that she never had to think about or remember Alex Carter, who had made this place his home now too.
‘Sarita.’
‘That’s so pretty. I’d love to meet her while I’m here.’
He glanced back with a smile. ‘You will.’
‘And is your dad around?’
‘No. He’s up at the Lodge.’
The Lodge was the large plantation-style house her father had built high up in the hills, several hours from here – or so she was told. She herself had never visited it; it had been built during her self-imposed exile, but she had seen the plans and photographs, heard it lauded over family dinners . . . The official handing-over ceremony of the park, back to the Costa Rican people, was going to happen on Friday in the nearest town to the Lodge, and a small fiesta had been planned.
‘He’s getting the last bits ready for the launch,’ Jed continued.
‘Ah yes, of course. The launch.’ She rolled her eyes, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass as the spectre of coming face to face with her past ran an icy chill down her spine. ‘How could I have forgotten about that?’ she muttered.
Jed chuckled and shook his head, prodding the eggs with a spatula and watching as they whitened before his eyes. ‘Now that I don’t know.’
The plan was for her and Miles and their group to fly up there on Thursday evening in time for the handover on Friday, and do their duty hobnobbing with the government bigwigs; there would be press and much pressing of the flesh for the Tremain family members. For Miles that was the worst of it, but she had a far more dreadful fate to contemplate – Alex Carter would be on that stage, by her father’s side, and for those few hours there would be no avoiding him. But there was no question of ducking out. This wasn’t just their father’s project, it was his legacy, and for his sake, they had to be there. Besides, she wouldn’t need to speak to Alex. Miles, Holly and (unwittingly) Rory were going to be her defensive wall, she had privately decided, and once the ceremonies were over, their happy group could then spend the rest of the weekend relaxing at the Lodge before they flew home on the Monday. It was far from ideal, but it would be absolutely fine.
She watched as he spooned several large dollops of chilled rice and beans into the pan to warm it through and mix with the egg. He gave the pan a final shake, then slid the contents into a shallow yellow-painted ceramic bowl.
So quick, so good.
He set it down before her and the aroma hit her like a slap. She closed her eyes, feeling her mouth instantly water. ‘Oh my God,’ she moaned. ‘That smells so good. I’m absolutely starving. I’ve not had a proper meal in days.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘Work.’
His eyebrows raised to a single point. ‘T-t, if you haven’t got time to eat, then you’re working too hard.’
‘Yeah, probably,’ she said, taking the fork he was holding out for her and beginning to eat. And once she began . . . she felt a sort of desperation wash through her, as though she couldn’t get the food into her body fast enough. She hadn’t realized how much she had neglected herself. It felt so normal back home to – literally – run on empty. No sleep, no food.
He watched in bemused silence as she chased the last grain of rice around the bowl, pushing it onto the fork with her finger, before finally setting down her cutlery and sitting back with a satisfied smile. His gaze went from her face to the licked-clean bowl to her face again. ‘Seriously. Maybe don’t work so hard?’ he repeated, an eyebrow arched.
She laughed and nodded, looking back with affection at that kind face with quietly wise brown eyes and a mouth that knew when to stay shut. It had always been easy talking to Jed. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you, T-t. Why did you stay away so long? Surely they give doctors holidays back in England?’
‘Yeah, they do,’ she sighed, looking away and desperately not wanting to bring up Alex’s name. She had never brought him out here, so unless Miles had blabbed, Jed wouldn’t know about her relationship history with the conservation project’s big boss. What was his title – technical director? Something like that. To bring it all up now, to try to expla
in how devastating his betrayal had been . . . How could she explain that Alex’s presence here had contaminated this place for her? That her place of childhood refuge had become inextricably linked with the man who had destroyed her life? ‘Time just . . . slips past, I guess, when you’re not looking. I’ve been pretty focused on my career.’
Jed nodded. ‘So, the boyfriend . . .’ He picked up a crate of glasses and one by one, began pulling them out and stacking them on the shelves.
‘Rory.’
‘Yes. Rory.’
His guarded tone reminded her of their run-in last night. ‘He’s a good man,’ she said reassuringly. ‘A doctor too.’
Jed nodded, not making eye contact. ‘You been together long?’
‘About a year?’ She didn’t know why she said it as a question. Jed wouldn’t know how long it had been. She ought to know, she just wasn’t big on marking dates. Her hand went to the gold locket at her neck – his gift to her for their first anniversary together. ‘Just over.’
‘It must be serious, then.’
‘I guess. We’re both . . . settled, very happy together. It works well, us both being doctors. He’s a good man.’
‘Yeah, you said that.’ He winked, teasing her lightly. ‘You thinking marriage? Babies?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Definitely not. My focus is my career for the moment.’
Jed glanced at her, but said nothing. But she knew what lay in that silence; he knew she was thirty years old; he assumed her biological clock was ticking . . .
‘You want a coffee?’
She smiled. She had always loved the way he said it. Kaffee. ‘I’d love one, thank you. You always look after me so well.’
‘Somebody got to look after the doctor doing all the looking after.’
‘Ha!’
She turned in her seat to watch the surfers catching the waves now, their shouts carrying to her ear as they carved over the water’s surface in meandering arcs, like musical notes on a manuscript.