by Jane Porter
In front of me, Howard holds the terminal building door and we duck in. An ear-splitting boom of thunder is followed by a fork of silver white lightning. Zambia, a landlocked country, lies just beneath the equator. This is the heart of the tropics. And this is home. Even without my family.
We clear customs close to midnight, and our driver is waiting for us near the rustic baggage claim. He doesn’t attempt to make conversation during the twenty-minute drive to our hotel, a tall, modern-looking building that could be any Inter-Continental Hotel in the world. Turns out it is an Inter-Continental Hotel.
We check into our rooms, same floor just a few doors down from each other. After stripping off the traveling clothes I vow to never, ever wear again, I fall into bed.
I sleep like the dead and am awakened by my alarm at nine. I call Howard’s room to see if he’s up, as we have our first interview at eleven at Darlene’s art gallery in downtown Lusaka.
We agree to meet downstairs in the restaurant within a half hour. I wash my hair and blow it dry, and although it looks appalling, I’m so excited to be here and starting the day that I don’t care.
Our driver’s in the lobby by ten-thirty, and he has us at Darlene’s small gallery office in twenty minutes. Lusaka might be the capital of Zambia, but it’s small and cozy in size compared with Los Angeles.
Darlene is warm and welcoming and absolutely delighted to meet me. “I’ve been a fan of yours for years,” she says, giving me a big Texas squeeze. “Before I moved here permanently, I watched your show every night. How’re you doing? How was the flight?”
Darlene’s incredible. The interview is electric. She’s absolutely passionate about helping Zambian women support themselves and their family with handmade arts, and although she misses her friends and family back home, she’s convinced she’s doing what she’s meant to do. And I think I’ve found my calling, too.
This is what I’m meant to do.
Real stories, real women.
I’m on cloud nine as we arrive at Zambia’s Population Services International office after Darlene’s interview. Richard Harrison, the director of the Zambia office, is out of the country, but his assistant Jean welcomes us warmly. I’ve read all of PSI’s press materials on the flight, and as Howard sets up the camera and hands us both microphones, I ask Jean about PSI’s programs.
“We’re very focused on malaria, reproductive health, child survival, and HIV programs,” she answers, taking a seat in one of two chairs we’ve put together for the interview. “Our objective is promoting products, services, and healthy behavior so that low-income and vulnerable people can lead healthier lives.”
It’s not until we’re ten minutes into the interview that I realize YouthAIDS, the group for which Ashley Judd serves as ambassador, is affiliated with PSI.
When I mention Ashley, Jean’s eyes light up. “She’s been tremendous. She’s a tireless ambassador, and her efforts are bringing needed recognition and funding to YouthAIDS and PSI services.”
“Don’t the statistics ever overwhelm you?” I ask.
She smiles again, yet her expression strikes me as both sad and wise. “They would, if I let them. But I won’t give myself that luxury. Life is very short, and very precious. I feel a responsibility to my community. If I can help make a difference, then that is what I want to do.”
“Where do you find the strength?”
She starts to answer and then stops. Her dark eyes glisten, but she waits to speak. “I look into the faces of children. They hope for so much. They’re so innocent. They do not know all the things we know— ” Her voice breaks and she waits again until she is sure of herself. “If I can help save one of them, then I have done a very good thing.”
I don’t even know that I have tears in my eyes until the camera is off and Howard is reaching for our microphones. I hand him the microphone and blink, and a tear falls.
“Good interview,” he says.
I hug Jean.
Howard and I part ways on our floor outside our rooms. We’re both thinking a nap sounds pretty good, and we make plans to meet for a drink before dinner in the lobby’s lounge. Our pilot, Chance, is scheduled to join us for dinner and talk about our next few days at Victoria Falls.
I’m sound asleep when a door slams and wakes me. Startled, I sit up. It takes me a moment to place where I am. Hotel. Lusaka.
With a glance at the clock, I see I’ve been sleeping for hours. I have only a few minutes before I’m to meet Howard and Chance.
Chance, I repeat silently as I take a quick shower and change into my orange tunic and white slacks. It’s the same outfit I wore to the baby shower at Shutters, only I’ve pulled my hair into a ponytail and am wearing flat sandals.
Howard’s not in the lounge, but I spot Chance right away. He’s leaning on the bar, talking to the bartender. Very blond and very tan, he’s not a pretty boy. With his weathered skin and stocky, muscular build, he reminds me of a South African rugby player.
Chance spots me as I enter the darkened lounge, and he studies me for a moment before pushing off the bar.
“Chance,” he says, meeting me halfway across the lounge. He’s taller than me, but I wouldn’t describe him as big. No, he’s average height. Compact. Strong. With an open face and a friendly smile.
“Tiana Tomlinson,” I answer, shaking his hand. “My cameraman, Howard, should be down soon.”
“I don’t know what kind of pictures you’ll get with this,” he says, gesturing to the windows, which are slick with rain. “Last year was the wettest rainy season in thirty years, and so far this year’s not much better.”
He has a distinctive accent, although it’s neither English nor Afrikaans. “Where were you raised?” I ask him.
“Kenya.”
“Is that where you live now?”
His smile broadens. “They told me you were a reporter.”
A reporter. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called that, and I flush with pleasure. “I’m sorry. I’m always curious about people.”
“No, it’s fine.”
We walk back to the bar where Chance’s beer sits, and he asks me what I’d like to drink. It’s five-thirty here, which means it’s cocktail hour. “White wine,” I answer.
The bartender asks if I have a preference.
“The house white would be fine.”
The house white is a Stellenbosch, from the heart of South Africa’s wine country. The winery is less than ten miles from my home.
I’m again swamped by emotion— love and grief, longing and need. I lost my childhood overnight. Left my native country at sixteen. Reinvented myself as a smart, ambitious American young woman. It wasn’t such a stretch. Dad was American, and I was ambitious. But now my mother’s Africa reaches for me, and I want to fall into it, embrace it, reclaim my past.
They say you can’t go home again. But what if you could?
Over drinks we talk about Kenya and South Africa, Zambia and Botswana. We talk about the rainy season— which is now— and the rise in ecotourism, trying to pass the time until Howard appears.
In midthought, Chance breaks off. “Is that your cameraman there?”
I turn to the doorway and the figure silhouetted against the light. “No.”
But I know him.
I watch Michael O’Sullivan enter the dark lounge as though he were a gunslinger entering a western saloon.
He’s dressed in jeans and a white linen shirt that he hasn’t bothered to tuck in. A lock of black hair falls forward on his brow as he looks around, taking in the lounge seating, and then walks to a group of men gathered around a low table.
One of the men who were seated gets to his feet and vigorously pumps Michael’s hand. It’s a warm welcome, and the group is delighted to see him. They pull up a chair for him and he sits down, shaking hands with everyone as he does so.
“Fancy him, do you?” Chance teases as he leans on the counter to order another beer.
“I know him.” And then as I cont
inue to stare at him, Michael suddenly turns and looks straight at me.
I don’t know what to do now. I can’t exactly pretend I don’t know him or that I haven’t seen him. For God’s sake, I kissed the guy.
So I do the only thing that I can do in this situation. I walk over to say hello.
“Michael.”
He rises and then leans down to kiss my cheek. His hair is still damp, his skin is warm, and I catch a whiff of soap and shaving cream. “So you’ve arrived.”
It’s just a kiss on the cheek, but I go hot all over. “Safe and sound.”
“Good.”
And then he smiles, and I think he’s never looked more attractive. Faded jeans that cling to his quads. Loose white linen shirt that shows off the makings of a tan. Strong hands. Great face. Dammit.
I become aware of the group of men waiting for his attention. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I shouldn’t keep you.”
“No, please, let me introduce you, especially as you’ll be seeing most of them during the next few weeks.” He gestures to the men he’s joined. “Tiana, I’d like to introduce you to my esteemed colleagues and very good friends. Dr. Paul Zarazoga, Dr. Ranjeev Kapoor, Dr. Jon Danovich, Dr. Marques Mukajere, and Dr. Tomas Voskul.”
I shake hands with each. “You’re all with Rx Smile?”
“I’m not,” answers Dr. Zarazoga. He’s the eldest, but his eyes are lively. “I live here. I’m on the staff at University Teaching Hospital.”
“On staff?” Jon, one of the doctors, jeers. “Chief of staff.”
“Years ago we all served Doctors Without Borders in one capacity or another,” Dr. Kapoor explains. “Michael’s the only one still working with Doctors Without Borders, but we still are all committed to providing medical care in Africa. Marques is director of a hospital in Zaire, Jon volunteers in Mozambique, and the rest of us work with various groups like Red Cross, Operation Smile, or UNICEF.”
These men would be an interesting story. They’re from different countries and are different nationalities, but they all want to do something positive, something to help. “So you’ve been friends for years?”
The fair-haired doctor, Tomas Voskul, makes a face. “I’m friends with them,” he says, pointing to three of the doctors, “but not him,” he says, gesturing to Michael. “I don’t like him. He’s not ugly like the rest of us.”
Everyone roars with laughter.
I can’t help smiling, too.
Tomas adds, “We were supposed to be on the bus for the mission site in Katete, but the roads are flooded thanks to the rain.”
“Will the mission be canceled?” I ask, concerned.
“No,” Michael answers. “But it’s frustrating right now. We have folks already in Katete, others stranded in Lilongwe, and then there are those of us here in Lusaka waiting to jump on the express bus— if it would only dry out enough that the bus could run.”
I can’t believe he’s here, and that I’m here, and that any of this is happening. “It’s surreal seeing you here,” I say to Michael. “It’s like I never left home.”
“Were you the one at the PSI office today?” Michael asks. “I heard there was an American TV crew filming there this afternoon.”
I nod.“I interviewed Jean. Do you know her?”
“She’s a lovely lady. How did you get on with her?”
“Great. I really like her. There’s something about her, isn’t there?”
Michael smiles at me, and it’s different from his other smiles. This one’s warmer, gentler.
Dr. Zarazoga offers to get me a chair so I can join them.
“I wish I could,” I say. “But I’m meeting people for dinner and I should get back to them.” I glance at the door, and yes, Howard’s standing there, looking forlorn. “It was nice to meet you. Sounds like I’ll be seeing some of you in Katete?”
I shake hands all around a second time, and then I’m heading to meet Howard. Chance meets us in the doorway, too. He’s brought my glass of wine for me. We chat for a moment. Apparently Howard’s not feeling very well. Chance thinks food might help and recommends the hotel’s restaurant. We leave the lounge for the dining room, and as we walk out, I look back over my shoulder at Michael.
He’s watching me.
I grow warm all over again, and a nervous fizz fills my stomach. I don’t want to like Michael. I have no desire to like Michael. But it’s going to be strange being in Zambia together.
“It rains almost every day here during the wet season,” Chance tells us over dinner, “but we also get dry mornings and afternoons, too. Let’s hope tomorrow will be dryer.”
We sit with coffee and a custard-type dessert. I’d forgotten how much influence the English had in Africa with their puddings and only pick at mine, my thoughts straying to the lounge where I left Michael and his friends. I wonder if they’re still having drinks or if they’ve left by now.
The last time I had a drink with Michael, I ended up kissing him. I still find that embarrassing.
I force my focus back into Howard and Chance’s conversation and discover they’re discussing our flight to Victoria Falls tomorrow. Howard’s looking forward to the trip, but he’s worried about flying in a little plane. “A six-seater, you say?” he repeats.
“I do have a bigger plane,” Chance answers, “but it’s experiencing engine troubles.”
“But the six-seater— ”
“My Cessna Skywagon.”
“Your Cessna. It is safe, isn’t it?” Howard presses, adding yet another teaspoon of sugar to his coffee.
“Haven’t killed anyone yet.”
I check my smile. I don’t think that was the answer Howard was looking for. “Have you crashed before?” I ask.
“Many times. But that’s part of being a bush pilot. Petrol stations are far and few, and control towers nonexistent. To be a good pilot out here, you rely on your control panel, use common sense, and luck.”
“Luck?” Howard echoes, turning green.
Chance turns to me. “Are you a nervous flyer, too?”
“Not as long as we don’t cr— ” I break off as I spot Michael entering the dining room.
Michael heads our way. “We’re braving the rain and going elsewhere for dinner,” he says on reaching our table, “but it crossed my mind you might enjoy meeting Meg, our Zambia mission director, in the morning. It could get you some background for your story and it’d help her forget about the rain for a while.”
“We’re flying out in the morning,” Chance says, leaning back in his chair. “Heading down to Livingstone.”
Michael looks at him, then me. “Thunderstorms are predicted for the morning.”
Chance gives Michael a cool once-over. “I’m aware of the weather.”
Tension crackles at the table, and I quickly handle introductions. “Howard and Chance, this is Michael O’Sullivan, a doctor and friend from Los Angeles. Michael, this is Howard, my cameraman, and Chance, our pilot and guide while we’re here.”
Howard shakes hands with Michael, but Chance doesn’t. Instead Chance’s expression is mocking. “What kind of doctor?”
“Plastic surgeon,” Michael answers evenly.
“You’re here for a safari?”
Michael’s lip curls. “It’s the rainy season.” He pauses ever so slightly. “Although I do understand it’s the new thing in tourism. Cheaper safaris. Come see the bush when it’s in bloom. Are the tourism board’s efforts working?”
“Wouldn’t know. I don’t work for the Zambian government.”
Michael turns back to me. “Here’s Meg’s contact info. If you don’t fly out tomorrow— and I hope you won’t try to fly if the sky isn’t clear— give her a call. She’d love to talk to you.” He gives me a faint smile, nods at the others, and walks out.
Everything feels different after he leaves. Flatter. Grayer. Duller.
I wish he hadn’t gone. I wish he’d pulled up a chair and stayed. I wish we were back in Big Bear and he was kissing me.
/> Chapter Fourteen
It rains all night, and it’s still coming down the next morning. We haven’t yet heard from Chance, but there’s no way we’re going to fly anywhere, not with weather like this. However, Howard and I have packed our bags and checked out of our rooms in the event the weather changes, which is making the wait even harder.
“I’d die if I had to live in Seattle,” Howard says glumly from his position in front of the lobby’s picture window, where he’s watching the rain.
“We need to do something. I think I’ll give Meg a call.”
“Good idea.” Howard brightens immediately. He doesn’t like sitting around any more than I do. The pace at America Tonight is frenetic. It’s hard to grind to a halt here.
Meg ends up coming to us, and I quickly write a set of questions to ask her during the interview.
Meg’s personality makes up for the gloomy weather. She shakes our hands, makes a joke about when it rains, it pours, and I marvel at her ability to stay so calm and sunny when a huge project is on shaky ground.
“It’ll happen,” she says confidently, sitting in one of the chairs. The microphone wire is hidden in her blouse, and she’s ready to go. “It’s just a matter of when.”
“But isn’t it a bit like a movie set?” I ask, getting the signal from Howard that my mike is working. “Every day people sit around is another day of wasted money.”
“We have invested considerable finances and resources,” she admits. “All of the medical professionals here are volunteers. These doctors, nurses, anesthesiologists, and paramedics have used their vacation time, or taken time without pay, to be here, so time is the most precious commodity right now.”
She goes on to explain that the roads are the biggest problem. They’re underwater, and in some places, roads and bridges are completely washed out. “Despite the weather, we already have close to one hundred people lined up at St. Francis Hospital, hoping to be selected. That’s the part that makes me crazy. They’re there and we’re not.”
“Where are they coming from?”
“From all over the Eastern province. St. Francis is a large rural hospital, and they’ve been advertising our mission outreach for the past year.”
