Four Weddings. Fiona Lowe

      Hell. Regret showered through him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He extended his hands palms upward, a gesture of appeasement. ‘It’s just that every Westerner thinks overseas adoption is the solution.’

      ‘And you don’t agree.’ Her shoulders dropped, relaxing into their normal position. Her face studied him, keen with interest.

      He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. I think we improve things here so they can live in their country of origin.’ His chest tightened. He walked toward the door, suddenly needing to get out of the crowded room, needing to be in the open space of the garden.

      ‘And what if that isn’t in their best interest?’ Bec spoke the moment they were outside.

      A muscle near his eye started to twitch. ‘How can leaving their country be in their best interest?’

      ‘Is institutionalised care in their best interest?’ Her voice tugged at him.

      He folded his arms across his chest. ‘If they can be protected, well fed and schooled, yes.’

      ‘But not loved?’ Her words gently probed.

      ‘The staff here care greatly.’ Defiance clung to his words.

      ‘I don’t doubt that. But if their parents cannot care for them or have rejected them because of a disability, and no one else wants to welcome them into their family, surely that is a reason for overseas adoption?’

      ‘Overseas adoption is not nirvana for any child. It creates a unique set of problems. Problems that can be greater than the ones they face here.’

      ‘I find that hard to believe.’ She raised her chin, her jaw jutting out in a streak of stubbornness.

      ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Frustration screamed inside his chest, desperate for release.

      Her brows shot to her hairline. ‘Oh, right, and you do? You’ve gone all political on me.’ Indignation laced her words. ‘There’s a little boy in there with vacant eyes because he has no stimulation. He’s cut off from participating in the world because he can’t hear. With no access to physio and splints he’ll have no opportunity to walk, either. But you’re telling me he’s better off here, deaf and crippled? Oh, please, give me a break.’

      Exasperation spilled over. ‘He’ll know who he is and how he fits into the world. His life won’t be filled with unanswered questions.’ Blood pounded in his ears. He needed to stop this conversation. ‘It’s hot. I’ll shout you a sugar-cane juice.’

      He started to walk toward the street vendor outside the orphanage gates. ‘Mia da.’ He held up two fingers and handed over the money.

      The vendor pushed sugar-cane stalks through a large mangle, the contents dripping down into a plastic jug. He added lime juice as he poured the sticky liquid into two glasses.

      Bec had already seated herself on a low plastic chair under a large, shady tree. Tom put the glass down in front of her on a small table and sat down.

      ‘Thanks.’ She picked up the glass, sipping the refreshing drink.

      Silence hung between them. They sat watching the usual bustle of cyclos and motorbikes weaving around the pedestrians. Street vendors carried rambutans and dragon fruit in baskets, which hung from long bamboo poles that rested on their shoulders.

      Tom relaxed, letting the noise of the street drive away the disappointment of the day. Soaking up the place of his birth even though he was no closer to finding any answers about his mother.

      Bec drained her glass and put it down on the plastic cloth. She glanced up at him, her face neutral, with no sign of her previous indignation. The lines around her eyes crinkled slightly as she spoke. ‘You’re an overseas adoptee, aren’t you?’

      Her words barrelled into him with the force of a cannon, leaving a trail of emotional destruction in their wake. He’d dodged every question she’d ever asked him about his personal life. He hated the curiosity factor his story generated. But this time her question had hit with pinpoint accuracy and he had no place to hide.

      Bec watched the colour drain from his face, emphasising his high cheekbones and the hint of black stubble around his mouth. Handsome and hurting.

      She forced herself to stay silent and waited for him to speak.

      He took in a deep breath. ‘I was born in Vietnam but I was part of Operation Babylift and was evacuated for overseas adoption at the end of the war.’

      Surprise rocked her. ‘Oh, my God, you’re part of this country’s history, part of Australia’s history.’ She’d read all about the mass evacuation of children as Saigon fell.

      He nodded, his brow creasing in amazement that she knew the story. ‘Thousands of orphans were bundled onto planes and taken out of the country. Most went to the US but about two hundred and fifty of us went to Australia.’

      He sounded like he was reciting from a textbook.

      Factual, completely unemotional.

      Protecting himself. A shaft of pain gripped her heart. ‘How old were you?’ Her voice sounded unusually soft.

      ‘One month. I had a note pinned to me with my date of birth on it. I was pretty sick, malnourished and dehydrated. Mum—my adopted mother—says I was the scrawniest baby she’d ever seen.’ He smiled, his face alight with a memory.

      She looked at the tall, healthy man across the table from her, marvelling at how he’d overcome such a tough start in life. ‘You’ve certainly made up for it. Must have been all that fresh country air in Victoria.’

      ‘That’s me. I’m a walking advertisement for Dad’s dairy products.’ He grinned at her, white teeth flashing against a tanned face.

      A deep, familiar longing spread through her at his smile. She set it aside, concentrating on Tom. ‘Do you know anything about your biological parents?’

      He shook his head. ‘The note said, “Father dead. I love you."’ His voice cracked. ‘There was no name, and the note wasn’t signed.’

      She reached out without thinking, stroking his arm, needing to support him. Feeling his pain. ‘Do you think your dad was a foreign serviceman?’

      He gave a wry grin. ‘With this nose, I think that’s a given. He could have been Australian, American, perhaps French. Who knows? But my birth mother was Vietnamese.’

      ‘You’ve got her expressive eyes.’ The words had slipped out before she knew it.

      He picked up her hands, encasing them in his larger ones. ‘Thank you, that’s the loveliest thing you could have said. I would dearly love to know what she looked like.’ His hands stayed resting over hers.

      Warm.

      Soothing.

      Connecting.

      His heat travelled through her on a river of bliss. She struggled to think. ‘So you came to Vietnam to find your mother?’

      ‘I came to Vietnam to find me.’

      His stark words tore at her heart. The adopted child with a vacant family tree.

      His breath shuddered out on a sigh. ‘I grew up in rural Victoria, the only Eurasian kid within a hundred kilometres. Before I was thirteen I didn’t think much about how I had come to be with my family. I just got on with growing up. I was an Aussie just like my mates. I belonged to the footy club, the cricket club and I helped Dad with the milking.

      ‘There was the occasional comment about my eyes from the school bullies but I had good friends and most of that washed over me. Although I guess I did wonder why I was being singled out. I didn’t feel different but the kids had noticed.’

      ‘And then the hormones kicked in?’ She knew all about that. She vividly remembered starting to question everything