Easy on the Eyes (25 page)

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 continue 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.

I
t 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.