by Lacy Camey
I opened the door and there stood Steve, tall, strong as ever. Today he sported a red painted on T-shirt. In all honesty though, I really couldn’t call it a shirt because the tightness resembled more of a swimsuit. I couldn’t help but to laugh at his ridiculous vanity—or was it he was simply trying to warn people not to bother him because he was strong?
“Where’s Vinny?” I asked.
“He’s trying to connect with his daughter on the internet. It’s her first day of kindergarten.”
My jaw dropped and that was just it. Seriously? As if I were a pregnant woman and I couldn’t help it, I just started crying. He looked at me petrified.
“Oh, my goodness. I just feel so horrible. I mean, really? She’s missing her dad take her to school on her first day of kindergarten?” Guess this could be called projecting, where I was mourning my lost childhood since my own mother didn’t see me off to school. She just saw my picture. Maybe that was the reason for my heavy tears. I didn’t know, but I couldn’t help it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Logan slowly walking to the Hacienda quarters, otherwise known as the kitchen. Steve made eye contact with him but looked back at me.
“I hope he gets to talk to her. I really, really do.” I felt the tears pour down my cheeks and my throat close up tight.
“I’m sure he will,” he said as he cleared his throat.
“Sorry for the tears,” I said, embarrassed. “Those things get to me for some reason.”
“You’re a woman,” he said flatly.
Trying to compose myself, trying to ignore the comment of, “you’re a woman,” I continued to feel horrible. I hated the fact that he was missing his child’s first day of school because he had to supervise me. A grown woman of twenty-three years old. That wasn’t even my wish! Had I been a normal woman, born into a regular family, this wouldn’t be happening to me! I tried to shake the pity party and stay positive, but my frustration was beginning to show. These were the type of things no one would ever understand looking at my life from the outside.
I made my way back to our bunk and quietly dropped off my toiletry bag so I could head to the kitchen. Steve was right beside me, macho as ever. The sound of an almost finished coffee maker made me breathe in deeply. I felt a sense of comfort and sighed. “Coffee.”
As I sniffled and wiped away my remaining tears, Logan walked into the kitchen dressed in a baseball cap, shorts, and a T-shirt. A real T-shirt, as in cotton, loose, breathable. I couldn’t help but look at Steve’s tight shirt again and I felt myself smile.
“Crying already? Never a good sign.”
“I, uh, am not crying. Just allergies is all.” I sniffled a little more and cleared my throat. “What a beautiful day it is. The jungle definitely looks a lot more alluring during the day time,” I said. As soon as the words came out, I wished they didn’t. Did that sound too judgy? Alluring? Ugh.
He held up a small brown bag.
“This is real Venezuelan coffee, grown right here.” I was just about to say how nice that was before he continued on with, “Will that appease your taste buds?”
“Will that appease my taste buds?”
“Well, my boss of the entire organization phoned me—whom I’ve never even spoken with—and said to make special care for—” He opened a cabinet door, revealing Coffee-mate mini creamers.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I mean, I guess since you’re Governor Banks’ daughter who is running for President, he wanted to make a good impression, right? Or was it a prerequisite that you requested for special coffee creamers?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. He reached and handed me a few.
“I mean, because the price of these creamers,
why . . . kids could practically have fresh school supplies or toys or something. Anything. But what do I know? I’m just plain ole’ me.”
I glared at him. The McGrump had returned.
“For your information,” I began as he opened the coffee creamer and poured one in a coffee cup for me, then turned away with a mug in his own hand sans any creamer.
“I do like creamers, but did not request them.”
“Well, then, by all means. Let’s not let them go to waste,” he said as he walked out the door.
What was that all about?
I looked at Steve, who sat void of expression at the table as if to say, “Don’t involve me.”
“Creamer?” I muttered, shrugging my shoulders.
“Uh . . . sure.”
He immediately stood up and poured a cup of coffee and sat back down.
I drank my first sip, letting the warmth brighten my mood. For a few seconds, the quiet of the morning was actually peaceful.
“So, are you going to have any free time while you are here? I mean, do you really have to be with me every waking second of my day? No offense, I’m just asking.”
He sipped his coffee. “Father’s orders.”
A man in scrubs walked in, who had to be no doubt one of the doctors. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me, then continued on to the coffee maker.
“You Banks?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Doctor Richards. Ah, I hear there are special creamers now since our special guest has arrived.”
Before I could say anything further he cut to the chase.
“Let me guess. Daddy took away your Porsche so to get back in his good graces you came to Venezuela to prove you have substance instead of spending all of his money at Louis Vuitton? I saw your luggage yesterday.”
Before I could defend myself and say that not all the luggage was mine or explain the trunks filled with generous donations, it was too late. His opinion was already formed. He opened a pantry and took out a plastic pitcher and started filling it up with the water from a filtered water gallon.
“Oh, this here is plastic. Probably exudes tons of toxins. And yes, this is filtered water, so you shouldn’t vomit or get diarrhea from this coffee. This is all very suitable for you?”
I folded my arms and shook my head.
“Look, I do not know where you all are getting your information from or who you think—”
“Google. News. Internet. We don’t live under a rock here in Venezuela. The C.E.O. of the entire organization phoned me and said to make special care for—”
“He called you, too? You know, I don’t need special care. And to answer your million accusations, I’m here on my own accord to make a difference.”
“Didn’t sound so last night in the ladies bathroom.”
“Because I’m terrified of animals and bugs? Are you even serious? That’s ridiculous. A woman can’t scream?” I was ready to let him have it.
He grabbed a banana and walked out of the kitchen. “See you in the clinic.”
As if on a tag team, Logan walked back through the kitchen for another cup of coffee. I sat frozen in my chair. What battering was next? He scrunched his nose.
“You know, perfume and getting all dolled up is fine for picking up a doctor, but it’s not going to work from keeping you from malaria. Bugs dig the smell. Enjoy your coffee,” he laughed to himself.
My jaw dropped. I put my forehead into my hands. This was not the way to start my first morning.
I looked down at my feet, my pink Puma sneakers. Yes, so what they were pink, but they were sneakers! It wasn’t like I was wearing designer heels, or boots. I was wearing scrubs. Okay, aqua scrubs, but can’t a woman be a woman? It once felt nice to not worry about who was snapping my picture and what tabloid magazine I would end up being in. But here I sat once again, feeling self-conscious, facing more judgment.
So what I had minimal make up on, and my hair and—and then I stopped myself. This was ridiculous.
My whole life I had to be someone that I was expected to be, and I was judged. People hated me because I had money or people loved me because I had money. But not ever me. When was I going to learn this and start being me?
But I was a strong woman
and always had been. I learned from my father about resilience. People always were talking about him, throwing the worst of jabs. But he just kept at it. I had to, too.
I rested my chin on my hand. The world around me disappeared.
“You gonna let a few harsh words keep you down? If I know anything about your family, you can’t keep the Banks down for long,” Steve said.
“Hi ya there,” another man in scrubs said, appearing in the doorway and interrupting my thoughts.
“Hi,” I smiled weakly. Was he going to be mean as well? I was waiting for it.
“Just what the doctor ordered. I’m Doctor Kingston. You must be our relief nurse,” he said, as he knew right where to go for the mugs, sugar, and found the special cabinet of coffee creamers.
“Did you find everything okay? Thank God for creamers. Sure glad you’re here. We get special creamers.” He held one up and shook it vigorously as an intense smile was plastered across his face.
“I . . . managed. I’m Chloe.” I was waiting for his jab. Any second now.
“They start cooking in an hour in here. We’re the early birds. If you’re hungry, I can show you were they keep the goodies left over.”
My stomach grumbled and I realized I was desperate for food.
Reading my face, he left and returned with a blueberry muffin.
“Thank you so much.” I reached for it but stopped once he said, “Do you want that heated?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Steve roll his eyes. “Uh, sure,” I said. I couldn’t resist a warm pastry. Something I hardly ever got to eat it felt like.
It was nice to eat a pastry for breakfast if I wanted to and not have someone having a hay day in the press about my eating habits, something I had to constantly be aware of since my mother constantly made me aware of my curvy shape. Mother reminded me as if it were the calling of her life of the image our family portrayed to outside society.
“For Heaven’s sake,” she’d say to me. “If you must eat those fat filled, calorie ridden pastries, do it inside our home and not when you’re having coffee or tea with your friends.”
She had the figure of Victoria Beckham—as did most of her society women friends—which is why I felt she was so critical of my size six figure. It was absolutely ridiculous. Of course, most of them–including my own mother—had liposuction or simply ate a diet consisting of ice and iceberg lettuce. What type of life is that?
“Heard about that debate last night. Your dad was great.”
“Oh, so you know my dad, I guess. And you heard it?”
“Of course. Everyone does. We may be in a jungle but we don’t live under a rock here.”
I took a sip of my coffee and placed it down, picturing the children I’d help who wouldn’t know who my dad was. Couldn’t I just get there now? Clearly there was no escaping.
“Yeah, so his stance on balancing the budget is just—”
“Chloe! There you are. You scared us to death.” Norah saved the day. She entered the kitchen dressed in cut-off jean shorts and a loose turquoise T-shirt, hair pulled back in a long ponytail displaying her silk curls that somehow survived the flight here and the seven hour sleep on our cots.
Maycee wore—what was she thinking—absolutely all white. White short shorts, white tank top with a large gold chain necklace covering her entire chest area in shiny metallic pink flower charms. A matching pink flower hair piece the size of Texas was hanging on the right side of her perfectly styled hair, rivaling any head piece women wear in England. She was fit for tea with Kate Middleton. I couldn’t help but shake my head and laugh. I guess they would be handing out aprons to them later for assisting with the cooking.
“Yeah, we thought you ran away,” Maycee teased.
Was she teasing? Why would I run away? I wasn’t a baby. I was going to see this through.
“Oh, no. Just running to coffee.” I pointed to the coffee maker. “They even have creamers on hand. Very thoughtful, don’t you think?”
Dr. Kingston opened a cabinet displaying the vast array of creamers. “I’m Doctor Kingston.” He presented his hand to Norah and Maycee.
“This is perfect!” Norah said as she quickly shook his hand, not giving him any time of her day. “Where are the mugs?” she asked.
Maycee shook his hand and gazed intensely in his eyes as if she were trying to see his true intentions. She often bragged of the fact that she could read people’s thoughts. I never believed her. Norah, at times, did.
Before I could direct, he opened a cabinet and grabbed two mugs for them. I caught him checking Maycee and Norah out in the corner of my eye. Norah didn’t notice because she was way in love with her hottie BF, and Maycee, well, she was a little self-absorbed at times, hanging out in her own mind. Contemplating, calculating, formulating, which was no doubt why she was very successful at writing and her new venture of branding herself.
“So, why would I run away?” I decided to ask.
“Oh because you’ve practically been—” Maycee began.
Norah slapped her sister’s arm, cutting her off. “Clearly my sister needs her morning coffee.”
This was not the Maycee I was accustomed to. At their Hampton home all summer, Maycee was a little bit more lip locked and less opinionated. I guess because she was a little preoccupied with that jerk she almost married. But lately, she had just been letting her words fly. Maybe her writer’s block of three years has been lifted, but it didn’t mean she needed to lift her filter off her already bossy, outspoken mouth.
“Because you’ve practically been, you know, sheltered a little, is all I’m saying.”
“Oh, and like you haven’t?” I asked, shaking my head. “Sweetie, I’ve seen your room. You’re accustomed to mattresses that are worth a couple of K’s.”
“So what? Father’s a doctor. He knows what’s best for the human body and what our back needs in regards to support. I’ve been hiking in Costa Rica.” She lifted her chin, challenging. I glanced at Dr. Kingston. I wondered if this act of hers was an attempt to steal the attention back to her. She could have the attention. All of it! Please!
“Gotta jet. See you at the clinic, Banks,” Dr. Kingston said as he left.
Oblivious of his departure, I continued my mini-argument with Maycee. “Well, I’ve been to Africa.”
“Yeah, on a safari.”
“Oh my gosh, I safari’d after I helped at a clinic with my mother,” I corrected.
Maycee drank her first sip of coffee.
“You’re mother helped?” Norah asked.
“She cut the ribbon. Sadly. But I helped.”
“All I’m saying is last night you sounded scared out of your wits,” Maycee said.
“Where am I going to run to? Down to the nearest village where there are voodoo people who want to skin me alive? And someone sounded terr-i-fied around three this morning because someone decided to finally tinkle.”
“So, I checked my schedule, and the paper said to be here at seven am to start preparing the food with the other women,” Norah interrupted us.
Maycee and Norah sat down with me as Norah looked at her sister with eyes that read something like, “Cut it out. Now.”
“I wasn’t trying to say you can’t handle this or don’t want to be here. You just sounded incredibly scared last night. That’s all,” Maycee admitted. So she did have a soft spot.
We all jumped at the squeal of three children running in pure delight screaming, “Brother Logan! Brother Logan! It’s my turn, it’s my turn.”
We saw Logan standing in the courtyard wearing sunglasses and a hat, a cute kid on his shoulders and singing, “Zachaeus was a wee little man and a wee little man was he.”
Then the children joined him. “He climbed up on the sycamore tree for the Lord he wanted to see.”
“Aw, look how adorable that is,” Norah said.
“Oh, some things look adorable from afar, but that’s Logan. And I’m telling you, he’s a jerk. He practically bid malaria on me today
.”
“What?” Norah asked, confused.
Josephina entered into the kitchen with three women holding giant fabric bags of what appeared to be food.
“Buenas Dias, angels! Oh, I see you find the coffee! I sorry not here sooner. We bring much fresh food,” Josephina greeted cheerfully.
I immediately stood up. “Goodness! Do you need any help?”
Steve sat, oblivious to what was going on as if he drifted off to boredom-land. But with my sudden standing from the table, he snapped back into reality and stood up himself, offering his help. Standing next to Josephina and her helpers, he was like a giant.
