by Pam Richter
While Franklin was speaking Heather was suddenly transfixed by the sound of a gigantic crash. Behind him she saw an enormous wave hit the beach. The biggest she had ever seen on this side of the island. She had only seconds before it would crash through the tunnel and hurtle her in the air.
Heather scissored her legs, pushed with her arms, and leaped out of the pool, practically on top of Franklin, who, prissy himself of getting wet, backed up hurriedly.
Never at a moments loss for a great picture, Franklin ran quickly around the pool and stood ready for the display. He got more than he had bargained for. Heather turned around on the other side of the pool. When the water came flying out of the blow hole he took shots of Heather jumping up. Her arms were spread high over her head, her legs apart. She looked like a sprite orchestrating the translucent plume of water, which showed her clearly on the other side of the hole from him, with the beautiful bay behind her. Her face, full of glee, reminded him of the sequence in Fantasia when Mickey Mouse starts using the Sorcerer's magic, which quickly gets out of hand.
Franklin was on automatic filming and there was a shot of Heather on the edge of the pool inside the waterfall that came down from the gigantic waterspout afterward. She was drenched and laughing. Then she turned and ran. That sequence won him a prestigious photography award.
The soon to be famous sequence of photos did not display Heather slipping on the wet rocks as she ran, or the fact that she fell and hit her head on a sharp rock.
CHAPTER 6
When Michelle got back from lunch she sighed with relief when her boss took Nakamura to a meeting. It wasn't that she didn't like him exactly, but he was like an octopus; lots of questioning tentacles seemed to be searching her brain very delicately for personal things she preferred to keep secret and in the past. He didn't come right out and ask what caused her panic attack earlier that day, but she could tell he had been leading up to it. He had the impeccable manners of the Japanese and would never directly inquire, but it had made her uncomfortable and nervous. Now she could finally get some real work done.
As she was ironing out a leasing dispute on a conference call, Susan, the front desk receptionist, walked into her office carrying a large vase with at least three dozen yellow roses.
Michelle, startled, mouthed, "For me?" pointing at herself.
Susan nodded and grinned. She put the vase on Michelle's desk, turning it until the card attached was in front of her. Then Susan walked around the desk and waited expectantly for Michelle to open the card, leaning over her shoulder, practically breathing down her neck.
The conference call went on for a few more minutes and finally Michelle hung up and tore the card open. "Shit, my eyes aren't that yellow."
"Very romantic. Omar. You must be hiding things from us, Shelly."
"I just met him. We had a misunderstanding last night."
"We must talk. Later," Susan said significantly, tossing her hair back and walking with exaggerated hip movement out of the office.
Michelle laughed and read the card again, "Flowers to match your eyes. Omar."
It was kind of sappy and kind of romantic and made her spirits lift extraordinarily.
The feeling didn't last long. A chain of disasters started developing almost immediately. A woman slipped in one of the building's bathrooms and fell. She claimed that the floor was wet and slippery and she threatened to sue Heroshi Corporation for millions. She said she was in excruciating pain, dizzy, had double vision, and would probably have to wear a cervical collar for months.
Then, a accident almost killed one of Heroshi's construction workers. Saw-dust in the air clogged a fire alarm, setting it off. The worker was on top of a ladder and fell when the siren went off, blasting directly into his ear. He landed on some construction materials, severing his femoral artery. He almost bled to death before the ambulance arrived.
A malfunctioning landscaping sprinkler was overlooked and caused a flood in the parking garage in one of the buildings. Several cars were under water.
A major tenant reneged on his contract and told Michelle he was bankrupt. Heroshi would lose tens of thousands on that one.
Air conditioners went down. Security systems went berserk. Elevators malfunctioned. There was a bank robbery in one of their buildings.
And tenants besieged the phones with complaints.
Through it all, the only comfort Michelle had was that Nakamura had plugged another phone into her office and was taking the heat with her. He held the phone in one hand, his cell phone in the other, taking two calls at a time. He paced back and forth in front of her desk. Both were on the phone for hours without a break. Nakamura paced and tended to throw his arms around dramatically when he spoke, in very un-Japanese style; Michelle sat perfectly still and calmly talked on the phone, scarcely moving an inch. Neither could leave the office as they were besieged all afternoon.
Michelle was thankful Nakamura was there. When she had to write the weekly report to Japan and describe, in ruinous financial terms, the ramifications of the last two disastrous days, no one would have believed her. Least of all Nakamura.
"I can't believe this," Nakamura murmured finally, when they had almost everything under control. "I've never seen the like."
"It's not typical," Michelle said seriously, wearily hanging up the phone and rubbing her head. A tenant had been screaming in her ear.
"Not typical!" he said. "Right. That's an understatement."
"Not at all. Typical I mean," Michelle said.
"A construction worker almost dies. A bank robbery, for God's sake. Another flood. A bankruptcy. Someone suing us for millions. Every system in each of the buildings goes down, and the property manager says...not typical?" He looked very stern for a second and Michelle thought he was furious, perhaps blaming her. Then he burst into explosive laughter. He had a nice big mouth and his freckles stood out dramatically when he laughed. He was almost having hysterics, bent over and laughing, trying desperately not to, and not succeeding. She thought he looked about twelve years old.
Michelle stared at him for a moment and couldn't help chuckling herself. It had been such an unprecedented day that she realized, once she started laughing, that humor was the best release from all the stress. Until she couldn't stop.
They tried not to look at each other because that only made it worse.
Michelle's boss, Tom Mitsuto, walked into her office wringing his hands with anxiety about his inadequacy to explain all of the sudden management problems to the company's powerful controller. He saw his property manager and the controller having an attack of giggles and stiffly turned on his heel and walked out.
That made the events seem even more silly. After Tom left, with his comical look of incomprehension, they couldn't stop laughing. The more Michelle tried to stop the harder it became. She couldn't even glance at Nakamura cracking up because it would start her in again.
Finally exhausted, Michelle put her head in her arms on the desk. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply and bit her lips hard and controlled herself. Then she wiped away the laugh tears, wondering if mascara was streaked on her cheeks, suddenly chagrined at her unprofessional demeanor.
Nakamura gained control at about the same time and seemed to sense her discomfort. "It wasn't funny at all. I just couldn't help it. The way Tom looked at us."
Michelle breathed in deeply and avoided looking at him, knowing they would both begin laughing again just thinking about Tom Mitsuto's astonished face and hasty retreat. Displays of emotion perturbed her boss greatly.
"I know," Michelle said. "Tom will never understand."
"I started the hysterics," Nakamura said, seriously and rather formally. "I'll try to explain American humor to him. And you handled everything beautifully. Truly, smooth as glass under all that pressure. I had planned to ask if you would consider a more advanced position at a later time. But now seems appropriate, since you so obviously need an assistant here. Really, several assistants. Because I do too. I want you to thi
nk about working in Japan. With me."
Michelle was so astonished she couldn't answer suitably. She knew suddenly that she would love to work with Nakamura and felt a moment of ecstatic elation. This offer was what she had been working toward all her life. But living in Japan was a daunting thought. The offer suddenly explained Nakamura's questions about her personal life earlier, during their luncheon.
"I understand you may have ties here and might not want to leave," Nakamura said. He briefly glanced at the gigantic display of yellow roses. Michelle had moved them to the credenza behind her when all hell started breaking loose. The flowers had almost covered her entire desk.
"And Hawaii is a gorgeous place to work," Nakamura went on, "but I do think it would be a wonderful opportunity for you. Assistant Controller of Heroshi."
"I'll think about it seriously," Michelle began when her phone beeped twice. Susan used that signal when the call was urgent or personal. "Excuse me."
Nakamura turned away so Michelle could have some privacy. He had watched the property manager handle unbelievable chaos all afternoon. She had stayed perfectly calm during each crisis and had handled everything with objectivity and fairness. His estimation of her abilities had gone up as he had watched her, and although she had been the most promising of all the managers to promote, from his perspective in Japan, he was now sure that she would be the best candidate. The fact that she was gorgeous had nothing to do with his decision.
"What!" Michelle was shouting into the phone. "No! Oh God, are you sure? I'll be right there."
Nakamura spun around and looked at her in surprise. The property manager had turned white as a sheet, just like this morning, and she was yelling. She was so agitated that she had pulled her hair out of its bun and was ripping through it with her fingers, hair pins flying all over the desk and floor. She slammed down the receiver with a crash and shoved papers hurriedly into untidy piles.
"I've got to go," Michelle said, again almost shouting. "Can you stay for the police?"
"Yes," Nakamura said, fearing another, even worse, business disaster. "What happened?"
"My best friend had an accident. She's in the hospital."
"Go, go. I'll take care of the police."
Michelle started out of the office at a run, then turned around, ran back to her desk, picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder.
She started out again, stopped, turned around and ran to Nakamura, grabbing him by both arms. She squeezed hard for a moment. "Thanks. I really appreciate it." Then she took off at a run.
"Wow," Nakamura said. He sank down in her chair to await the policeman who would give an update on the bank robbery. An image of Michelle's face stayed in his mind. Disheveled hair flying, yellow eyes round and very wide, staring into his eyes. He could still feel the imprint of her fingers on his arms. A very strong woman.
When Michelle reached Hawaii General Hospital she found that Heather had asked for her when she regained consciousness, hours ago. The nursing staff at the hospital had not been able to get through to Michelle because all the phone lines had been tied up. The nurses had been too busy to stay on hold and listen to Muzak.
Michelle had barely avoided several automobile accidents, disobeying all the speed laws while driving to the hospital. Then she had run down endless corridors at the hospital to find Heather's room. She had hit visiting hours dead on, so there were many people lost like she was, wandering the corridors, most bearing fruit baskets, balloons or flowers, magazines and boxes of candy. Michelle felt like she was in the thrall of a bad dream, haunting hospital halls after the disastrous day at the office, searching in vain for her best friend.
Most of the hospital doors were partially open and Michelle saw patients who were deathly ill with needles and tubes sticking from numerous bodily areas. Most seemed wasted away and old, white haired and shriveled.
Heather looked like a fragile doll lying in the hospital bed. She had a bandage on one side of her head and was sipping water from a large glass with a gigantic plastic straw, which looked like a thick segmented worm. She smiled immediately when she saw Michelle, then winced and touched her head where the bandage was.
Michelle walked in tentatively. "Hi."
"Hi, Shell. Shut the door. They insist on keeping the damn thing open, so just anyone can look in."
"I noticed. Awful lack of privacy here," Michelle said. She walked to the bed and dragged a chair next to Heather and sat down. "How're you feeling?"
"Pretty good, now," Heather said. "I said you would take me home, but they insist I stay here tonight."
"God, I was so worried. They couldn't get through to me this afternoon, or I would have been here sooner."
Heather gave a small smile. "Good thing you weren't. Seems concussions make you throw up a lot. Nausea and dizziness are evidently normal. I spent the morning heaving away. It was horrible." She gave a wan smile at the memory. "A nurse had to stay with me. She had tiny plastic basins, shaped like kidney beans, so they don't miss anything under your chin. I ate a lot this morning and just kept filling the suckers up."
Michelle smiled, but she was worried. Heather had dark circles under her eyes and she looked exhausted and drained of all energy, as though the hospital's white colors had filched out all her endurance and healthy exuberance. Heather was a small person, but she never seemed tiny. She usually filled up a room with her energy and fun. The hospital had leached her personal vital qualities.
"How'd you get here?" Michelle asked.
"Franklin called an ambulance. Well, he didn't do it himself. When I fell he started yelling for help, but no one was around. So he left me on the rocks, covered with his shirt, and ran down the beach to the life guard station. He had to run about a half mile. You'd think it was a marathon, the way he described it. A life guard called the ambulance."
Michelle knew Franklin, and said, "I can't imagine Franklin running. In the sand." He was about the most unathletic person she had ever met.
"I know. Must have looked like a stork with his long skinny legs. He was complaining about sand in his shoes. Evidently he ruined them. And he has this horrible sunburn, because he covered me with his shirt."
"Are they feeding you? You look so exhausted."
"They're mad, but I refused to eat. I can't take any chances with my stomach. I simply will not go through that puking business again. And they won't give me any drugs to sleep because of the concussion. Afraid I won't wake up, I guess. Usually they give you fantastic stuff and you can just sleep till you have to go home. But every time I do go to sleep, or even start drifting off, they wake me up and shine lights in my eyes. You don't suppose you could spirit me away?"
Heather suddenly looked slightly animated. "I can walk. My clothes are in the closet. I could just dress and leave and no one would know for a while."
The idea of leaving against doctor's orders made Heather almost look like her old self.
"I just can't," Michelle said, shaking her head. What if there was some emergency. She would be totally helpless.
"But it sounds fun."
Michelle nodded. "I'll stay until they make me leave." She was worried about all the talking Heather was doing, fearing it might exhaust her more, so Michelle began a monologue, telling Heather all about Nakamura and her own awful day. The panic attack that morning. Omar's flowers. She ended with the offer to work in Japan as Assistant Controller of Heroshi.
"Whew, fantastic. Take it."
"I know. He almost knocked me over."
"Go for it," Heather said. "Unless you really couldn't work with that Nakamura character."
"No. I like him. I didn't much, until he started laughing about all the disasters. Then I knew he was really different."
"I knew it the moment you told me about the panic attack. He got you out of what could have been a very unpleasant situation with your boss. So he has to be a great guy."
"I guess."
"I've seen you in the middle of them. Remember the party when you started p
anicking when some drunken fool grabbed your arm and was insisting you dance with him?"
"Don't remind me. I was so embarrassed."
"Or when that creepy Kirby tried to make out with you when we went to the Luau on Molikai. The one that turned into an orgy."
"God, yes. What a fiasco," Michelle said, laughing at the memory which, painful at the time, was now funny.
"You had good cause, both those times."
"That's what scares me," Michelle said, serious again. "I didn't have any reason to go into a panic this morning. It just happened."
"It doesn't just happen," Heather said with great emphasis. "Nakamura saw it right away. They're totally overworking you. You take all the complaints, liaise for the construction and new tenants. You do all the financial reports and the leasing in six whole buildings. Hire all the maintenance companies. You have hundreds of people working for you. It's too much for one person. And you wonder why you're having a little psychosomatic problem?"
"A little problem!" Michelle said. "It's totally ruined my social life. And now it's happened at work!"
"You desperately need to get laid," Heather said, quite seriously, but there was a smile lurking beneath.
Michelle started laughing. "Right." Evidently Heather's brain hadn't suffered concussive trauma.
"It's therapeutic. Relaxing and good for whatever ails you."
They both immediately stopped laughing when a doctor slammed into the room, throwing the door against the wall. He shooed Michelle into a corner with a flip of his hand and read a voluminous chart officiously. Evidently the chart was Heather's because it had her name on the front. Michelle wondered how he accumulated all that information.
The doctor sat down in the chair Michelle had vacated, not saying a word. Michelle decided he must have a God complex and enjoyed an audience of one, he was acting so officious and important.
He started by shining a small flashlight into Heather's face, first into one eye and then the other, looking for disproportionate sizes in her pupils, the telltale sign that there was severe concussion. He had her do various physical tests. Touching one finger to another with her arms spread out and eyes closed. Then he took a packet of pills, tore it open, put two in Heather's palm and handed her the glass of water.
