free clinics in developing countries only to turn up now in Sydney.
Mysteries aside, Raphael’s life was a far cry from being a jobbing paramedic in one of Sydney’s beach neighborhoods with no chance of climbing up the ladder.
Cut yourself some slack.
She had returned from France only to be told her mother had died while she was flying home. A girl didn’t recover from that sort of loss quickly. And then there were the add-on factors: the shock of discovering her mother had known she was ill when she’d handed Maggie the ticket to Paris, the expectation of her grieving father and brothers that Maggie would step into the role her mother had filled—the role her mother had made her promise she would never, ever take.
Cramming her dream of moving back to France and becoming a surgeon into the back of a cupboard, she had cooked and cleaned and washed an endless stream of socks for her family while they got on with the business of living their lives...
It had taken her years to break out of that role. And she had finally done it. She was living life on her own terms. Sort of. Not really... Four weeks of her year were still dedicated to sock-washing, floor-scrubbing and casserole-making, but it was a step. Who knew? Maybe one day she would be the world’s first ninety-year-old junior surgeon.
She glanced across at Raphael, saw his jaw tight again as they wove their way through the morning traffic. It wasn’t her driving that drew his muscles taut against his lean features. There was something raw in his behavior.
If it was ghosts he was trying to outrun, he looked as though he’d lost the battle. It was as if they had taken up residence without notice, casting shadows over his blue eyes.
If only she could help bring out the bright light she knew could shine from those eyes of his.
A little voice in her head told her she’d never succeed. You don’t have the power to make anyone happy. That can only happen from within.
“So...” Her voice echoed in the silent ambulance as she tried to launch into the work banter she and Steve had always engaged in. “When’s the last time you delivered a baby outside a hospital?”
“Is there not a midwife attending?”
Raphael’s tone didn’t carry alarm, just curiosity. As if he were performing a mental checklist.
“There’s been a call made, but it’s usually luck of the draw as to who gets there first. We’d be fighting rush-hour traffic to get to the Women’s Hospital, so I don’t think we’ll have time to load her up and take her there. They said the birth was imminent when they rang. That the mum is already wanting to bear down.”
Raphael nodded, processing.
She doubted it was the actual delivery of a child that was cinching his brows together.
Maybe...
No guessing. You do not get to guess what has been going on in his life. He will tell you when he is good and ready.
She shot him another quick look, relieved to see that the crease had disappeared from his forehead.
Work would get him on track. It was what pulled her out of the dumps whenever she was down. It was what had finally pushed her up and out of Broken Hill.
That twelve-hour drive to Sydney had felt epically long. Mostly because she had known she’d never wanted to go back and that it would be the first of many round trips. They weren’t as frequent now...
Instead of saying anything in response, Raphael looked out of the window as they whipped past apartment block after apartment block on their way to the Christian housing charity that had put in the call.
Unable to bear the silence, she tried again. “The mother is Congolese, I think. Democratic Republic of Congo. A recent refugee. My Lingala’s pretty shoddy. How’s yours?”
The hint of a smile bloomed, then faded on his lips.
“Was there any more information about the mother? Medically?” he qualified.
“Nope.” Maggie deftly pulled the ambulance over to the roadside. “We’ll just have to ask her ourselves.”
* * *
A few moments later the pair of them, a gurney, and the two birthing kits Maggie had thrown on top were skidding to a halt in front of a group of men standing outside a door in the housing facility’s central courtyard.
“She’s in here.” One of the lay sisters gestured to an open door beyond the wall of men.
Like the Red Sea in the biblical tale, the men parted at the sight of Maggie and Raphael, letting them pass through, a respectful, somber air replacing the feverish buzz of what had no doubt been a will-they-won’t-they-make-it? discussion.
Abandoning the gurney out in the courtyard, Maggie grabbed the birthing kits, but stepped to the side so that Raphael could enter the room first. The distant mood she had sensed in him had entirely evaporated.
Inside, curtains drawn, a crowd of women in long skirts and brightly patterned tops shifted so they could see the beautiful woman on a bed that had either been pulled into the sitting room for the birth or was there because of constant over-crowding. Either way, the woman’s intense groans and her expression showed she was more than ready to push.
She was pushing.
“I’ll do the hygiene drapes if you’re all right to begin the examination,” Maggie told Raphael.
“Good. Bien.”
Out of the corner of her eye she watched as he unzipped one of the kit bags, quickly finding the necessary items to wash and sterilize his hands and arms in the small, adjacent kitchen, re-entering as he snapped on a pair of examination gloves. His movements were quick. Efficient. They spoke of a man who was in his element despite the dimly lit apartment and the crowd of onlookers.
But there didn’t seem to be any warmth emanating from him. And that surprised her. It wasn’t as though he was being mean, but... C’mon! The woman’s about to have a baby. A little bedside manner would be a good thing to use around now!
The women, as if by mutual consent, all pressed back against the wall, necks craning as Raphael made his way to the expectant mother’s side.
“You are happy with an audience?” Raphael asked the woman in his accented English, and the first proper smile to hit his lips all morning made a welcome appearance.
Finally! So it is there. Just hard to tap into.
The expectant mother nodded. “Bien sûr. Voici ma famille.” She groaned through another contraction.
“Ah!” Raphael gently parted her legs and lifted the paper blanket Maggie had put in place across the woman’s lap. “Vous parlez Français? Très bien.” He turned to Maggie. “You are all right to translate on your own?”
Maggie grinned. Trust Raphael to have his first patient in Oz be a fluent French-speaker.
A seamless flow of information zigzagged from the mother to Raphael to Maggie and back again—including the woman’s name, which was Divine.
Maggie smiled when she heard that. What a great name! As if the woman’s mother had predestined her daughter to be beautiful and feminine. Maggie was all right as far as names went, but Daggie—as her own family insisted on calling her—made her feel about as pretty as if she were called Manky Sea Sponge.
“Can you believe it?” Raphael was looking up at her, his brow furrowed in that all-work-no-play look she was still trying to get used to.
“Divine? Yeah.” She offered the mother another smile. “It’s a beautiful name.”
“This is Divine’s fourth pregnancy.”
Ah. That was the vital bit of information he had actually been alluding to. She’d heard. Registered. Moved back to the pretty name. Was he going to be like this all the time?
Three