Easy on the Eyes

by Jane Porter

  The waitress stops by our table and asks if we’d like anything else. Michael orders another Zambian beer. I’m good with the one I’ve got.

  “She hauled you home with her?” Michael guesses as the waitress walks away.

  “Yes. Talk about culture shock. One day I’m being home-schooled in the Cape and weeks later I’m in a boarding school in the Natal province— ” I break off. “But you know what culture shock is. You went from Bolivia to Los Angeles.”

  “Never had to go to boarding school, though. What was it like?”

  “Awful. I knew my dad had taught at boarding schools, but I hated having to live, eat, sleep at school. There were so many bells and rules and impossible standards for behavior. I celebrated my fifteenth birthday seven weeks after I arrived at Epworth, and it was the strangest, loneliest birthday.”

  “Your grandmother must have come to see you.”

  “She sent a card— ”

  “Just a card?”

  “We were strangers. She’d only just met me, and in her defense, I probably reminded her too much of my mom.”

  I look at Michael then, and his expression is so serious and so concerned that I can’t bear it. I can’t have anyone feel anything for me because it just makes it hurt worse. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me cry.”

  He reaches out across the table, brushes hair from my cheek. “Tell me the story gets better.”

  “I eventually landed in a California boarding school where I met two of my best friends, Marta and Shey. They made it better.”

  “I imagine they’re good people,” he says.

  I nod. “The best.”

  The next song on the jukebox is Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’.” I haven’t heard this one in so long, and I kind of smile.

  Michael stands, extends his hand. “Let’s dance.”

  I look around the restaurant of plain wood tables and metal chairs. A fabric wall hanging is tacked to the wall. It’d be cool if it were tribal art, but it’s an ugly black velvet painting of a horse pawing at the moon. “Here?”

  He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “And now.” And that’s how we end up dancing for the next half hour.

  Journey, Cher, Stevie Nicks, and Elvis Presley. We dance like we’re kids and it’s our senior prom, my arms around his neck, his arms around my lower back, and our feet barely moving.

  The only difference between now and high school is that Michael doesn’t have a boy’s body and I’m very aware as we dance that he’s attracted to me.

  It’s not until we’re in the car driving home that I remember that Howard and I leave for home tomorrow. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten until now, especially as earlier, when I was dressing, it was the only thing on my mind.

  I feel a flicker of panic. What if this is the end of everything? I know Michael’s attracted to me. I know he enjoys my company. He also works just miles from my office. But that doesn’t mean this will continue back home. That doesn’t mean this is anything.

  To be honest, I don’t know what this is. What if I’ve fallen for him and he’s just killing time with me? Isn’t that what he said about Alexis? She was just supposed to be fun, but then things got serious and he doesn’t do serious.

  As if able to read my thoughts, Michael reaches out and touches the back of my head as he drives, his fingers tangling in my windblown curls before sliding to my cheek. He strokes my skin and then drops his hand. “I enjoyed tonight.”

  I shiver at how sensitive he makes me feel. “I did, too.”

  “You made this week special, Tiana. Thank you.”

  I dart him a quick glance. He almost sounds as if he were the one leaving tomorrow. “Is this a good-bye?” I ask, and my voice suddenly trembles.

  “I have a symposium in Cairo tomorrow night. I leave in the morning, and then it’s back to L.A. for me.” He glances at me. “How about you?”

  “Lubwe tomorrow— if the weather’s good— and then on to Livingstone for a day, and then it’s home after that.”

  “So we’re both leaving in the morning.”

  Neither of us continues the conversation, and the silence stretches, engulfing us and the dark night. It’s still hot, and the Renault’s weak head beams barely make out the muddy, bumpy road in front of us. Driving to dinner, I felt so excited and optimistic. Everything had seemed magical. Now I’m just sad. What if this is good-bye?

  I don’t want to think about it. I want to enjoy these last thirty, forty minutes together. Make this everything, I tell myself, make this drive everything you want it to be.

  I focus on the moonlight and the wild dog that runs across the road. I breathe in the smell of the warm humid air and the warmer fragrant earth. I glance at Michael as he drives, and he catches my gaze and smiles crookedly back at me. And just like that, my heart hurts and my stomach does a somersault.

  I’ve fallen for him so hard. I’ve fallen for him in a way I never expected to fall for anyone again.

  We arrive at the community center sooner than I’d like. He turns off the engine. I smile brightly, inject a cheerful note into my voice as I swing open the car door. “Here we are, safe and sound.”

  He’s come around to walk me to the door. “I wouldn’t use safe and sound to describe you,” he answers, taking my hand and assisting me out. “Ever.”

  I take a step around a puddle, and then I’m not sure how it happens or who makes the first move, but suddenly there’s no distance between us, and his hands are in my hair, and I’m lifting my face to his, desperate to be kissed.

  I have wanted him to kiss me since I arrived in Katete, and now I can think of nothing else. As his head dips, his gaze meets mine, and in the yellow light of the center, his blue eyes look stormy like the sea. I lean all the way in, press my lips to his, and feel his warm breath, and his firm skin, and nothing has felt this right in so long.

  We kissed at the lodge in Big Bear, but that was different from this. That was liquor and adrenaline and nerves. This is need and emotion, and as his body presses against mine, his arm around my back holding me to him, I think, This is where I belong. This is where I should always be.

  With his hand tangled in my hair, and I can’t seem to get enough of him or his mouth or tongue. I can’t remember when a man felt like this, can’t remember when a kiss and touch and taste made me want to curl up, hang on, and just give in.

  Home. Kissing him is home.

  I need you.

  He deepens the kiss and the heat flares and I feel so much everywhere. My lips, my body, my heart. I want you.

  No one since Keith has made me feel this way. I don’t even know if Keith made me feel this way. All I know is that I want to wrap my arms around him and hold tight, hold hard, hold forever, if only forever were true. If only forever could be.

  The kiss ends eventually, and Michael lifts his head and looks down at me. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I can see the dark splinters against the blue of his eyes. The creases in his skin. The exhausted shadows beneath his eyes. The grooves at his mouth. The texture of his lips.

  “Come inside,” I whisper. “Come to my room with me.”

  Our eyes lock, and there is a universe there, an entire universe of communication. He cares for me, he wants me, but he’s not where I am. He doesn’t feel what I feel. The warmth in me goes.

  “I can’t,” he says. “Not that I don’t want to— ”

  “Understood. You don’t have to say more.”

  He stands there, watching me run away. “I have feelings for you, very real, very strong feelings—”

  “No. Don’t.” I shake my head, unwilling to let him continue. He told me twice in two days that the women in his life say he’s not there, not present, not communicative. The women in his life leave because he can’t make them a priority. He works too much. He’s too self-absorbed, too busy with his work and patients and career. “Let’s not go there. I don’t want to go there. I didn’t mean to start this in the first place
.”

  He just looks at me, and I close my eyes at the hot, livid stab of pain. The hurt is so sharp and deep, I think he’s cut me. I was so close to falling in love again. So close to feeling safe again.

  I take another step back, careful to avoid the next puddle. “Good-bye, Michael. Have a safe trip.”

  His jaw shifts ever so slightly, and then his dark head inclines and he’s walking back to his car.

  I go inside the guesthouse to my room and shut the door. I lean against the door for what seems like forever. But I don’t cry.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’ve been home a week now and I’m still insanely jet-lagged, eating and sleeping at hours not at all conducive to good work habits.

  In the past I’ve always dealt with jet lag the way I’ve always dealt with everything, by plunging into work. Unfortunately, my work is full of footage of Michael, and it’s excruciating going through hours and hours of Michael working, talking, healing. All I can think of is how hard I fell for him, how much I wanted to be with him. I even invited him back to my room.

  Oh God.

  I spend the rest of the week working with Howard. During the day we’re side by side in the production control room, and then at night I write my introductions and voice-overs and return to the studio in the morning to have one of the show editors help me piece together the final story.

  Glenn, Harper, Libby, and Mark have all stuck their heads into the editing room during the past week to see what we have so far, and they’ve all been impressed.

  Libby, someone I think of as very nonemotional, is teary when the Lusaka hospital piece with Jean is done. “They’re dying from dirty water?” she asks.

  Harper sees footage of Michael, and her eyebrows arch. “He’s hot. Who is he?”

  “Some doctor,” I respond, turning my attention to the chimp story.

  “He looks familiar,” Harper adds, leaning low to get closer to the screen. “Why do I know him?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, and Howard darts me a glance.

  “I think he’s familiar because he’s an L.A. plastic surgeon,” he says, shifting in his chair. “He had a show a couple years ago called— ”

  “Dr. Hollywood!” Harper exclaims triumphantly. “My God, he’s hot. Look at that body! He’s a total fox. He should be in People magazine’s hot bachelor issue— ”

  “Harper.” I give her a look. “If you want his number, I can ask Madison to track it down for you, but otherwise, can we get back to the story?”

  Harper gives me a funny look in return. “You’re crabby.”

  “I’m jet-lagged. I’m fighting a bug. And we’ve got just a few more days to get these stories together before I head to Tucson. Once I’m back from Tucson I have the big meeting with Glenn and the studio heads. Glenn says they’re going to make me a proposal, but I don’t think it’s going to be one I like.”

  Near the middle of the week, Glenn appears in the production room and stands behind us, watching the video monitor wall where we’ve been integrating the videotape, graphics, still frames, and sound. We’re just putting the final touches on Jean’s segment, and Glenn’s been observing for seven minutes without saying anything. The nearly finished story includes pieces of the interview I did with Jean at the PSI office and then touring the hospital in Lusaka with Dr. Paul, Michael’s friend.

  Jean’s story is really about how one person doing just one thing can make a difference. She’s talking about a treated net, and the segment ends with the shot of a child in a Lusaka teaching hospital bed, sitting up and looking at the camera with huge shy eyes and a shyer smile. It was Howard’s idea to use U2’s song “One” in the background as we fade out. “One love, One blood, One life, You’ve got to do what you should….”

  The studio goes quiet when the music ends. Howard and I just sit and wait for Glenn to speak. But Glenn isn’t in a hurry to say anything, and his silence makes me nervous. “Hate it?” I ask.

  “No.” Glenn shakes his head. “It’s heartbreaking and beautiful and hopeful.” He pats each of us once on the shoulder and walks out.

  Howard and I look at each other and smile. The boss approves.

  We’re down to just three days now before my trip to Tucson for the career lifetime award. Howard and I have finished the shows on Darlene and Jean at PSI, which just leaves the Rx Smile footage. And there is so much of it. Seven days, to be precise.

  Seven days of Michael talking, working, comforting. Seven days of Michael and his doctor friends. Seven days of memories.

  Africa changed me.

  I learned so much about myself during my time in Zambia. I learned that I’m still a good writer and reporter. I learned that I still care passionately about people. I learned that I’m strong and yet hopeful. I learned that I have deep convictions.

  I believe we each must try to make a difference, and there’s not just one way to make a difference. Everything counts. Everything adds up, big and small, because our efforts aren’t isolated and we aren’t alone, not ever, not even if we want to be. For better or worse, we’re part of this community called life.

  And in that vein, I concentrate on putting together the Rx Smile segments. I’ve mapped out three different shows, including two episodes that focus on the children before and after their surgery. The final episode of the three looks at the volunteer medical stuff. I’d interviewed the Irish nurses, the Canadian speech therapists, the international doctors and dentists. I have footage of them all working, too, and I weave their stories together, talking to me about why they’re there, sharing their personal history, touching on how they came to be involved. What’s interesting when you add up all the interviews is the one common element— the volunteers are there because it makes them feel good to do good.

  “I’m here for purely selfish reasons. When I contribute, I feel good about me.”

  “Whenever I do something like this, I’m happier for months.”

  “Being on a mission changes you forever.”

  “I like me better when I’m reaching out to others.”

  “Helping these children makes you realize it truly is better to give than to receive.”

  Michael had so many pithy quotes that I struggle with which of his to use, but when I do select one it becomes the quote for the closing shot’s final voice-over. The shot is of a mother leaning over her toddler as he wakes from surgery, and the baby boy is smiling and the mother is smiling, eyes bright with tears of happiness.

  Michael’s words are perfect for this clip: “I do what I do in my private practice so I can come here. I like being a surgeon, I’m proud of my practice, but this, this that we do here, it isn’t work. It’s joy.”

  I have tears in my own eyes as the story ends with Michael’s voice and the mother’s and baby’s smiles.

  He’s right. What they did, that medical team, was joy. And being there, part of it, witnessing it, was my joy.

  Friday morning, I’m sitting with my coffee and my stack of papers at the long counter that runs along the window of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf.

  This is a rare treat for me— out early in the morning with nothing to do but sip my coffee and read the paper. Usually mornings are working mornings, hectic and shadowed with too much to do in too little time; but all our stories are in and done. I leave for Tucson later this afternoon, a day early so I can indulge in some much needed spa treatments at the Ventana Canyon Resort before tomorrow night’s dinner fund-raiser.

  And just look at this beautiful morning. The sky is a pale lucid blue thanks to the Santa Ana winds. Light gold sunshine reflects off the cars passing outside. And here inside the coffee shop I can smell the rich, dark aroma of ground coffee.

  As I look back down at my paper, something in orange catches my attention. I glance to my left and see a little boy in an orange polo shirt with his nanny at a table just to my left behind me. The little boy has spilled his Mango Tango smoothie, and he’s now drinking it off the table with a straw. The nanny is leaning
forward whispering something even as she tries to scrape some of the smoothie back into the plastic bottle, but the boy pushes her off. He wants it all. He’s not going to let it go to waste, and he drags his straw across the wood table, slurping it up.

  It’s both funny and awful. It’s something only a kid would do, and I shudder to think of the germs on the table. I’m sure the boy’s mom wouldn’t approve of her son drinking his smoothie off the table, but mom isn’t here and the nanny has given up and is calmly sipping her coffee and looking the other direction.

  I laugh to myself and return to my paper. I’m still smiling when I hear a shout. I look up. A blue car flies at me through the window. There’s no time to run or scream. Instinctively, I throw up an arm to shield my face.

  I hurt. Everything hurts. I open my eyes. A woman in blue is leaning over me. She’s holding my head and telling me it’s okay, it’s going to be okay, even as another woman stands above me, crying.

  I don’t know why she’s crying. I can’t see. Something dark blurs my right eye and slides down my face. I try to wipe it, but moving my arm sends such hot, sharp pain through me that I gasp at the shock of it.

  “Don’t move,” begs the woman in blue.

  “I can’t see,” I say, looking up at the woman holding my head. “Can you wipe my eye for me?”

  She shakes her head, says something about an ambulance, and then I hear the siren. It’s coming closer, and for some reason the sound comforts me.

  Moments later the paramedics and police are swarming inside, and that’s when it all gets blurry. There are men in black and men in blue and a blond woman in a navy jumpsuit with her hair in a ponytail who’s taking my vitals while others talk to people standing around.

  The woman in the blue shirt moves away, and as she steps back I see a huge stain all over her chest, the blue covered in dark red.