Easy on the Eyes

“If we were in an American hospital— ”

“But we’re not,” I finish fiercely, and my anger isn’t at him, but at the injustice of it all.

There has to be a way we can change things, improve things. There has to be a way to save the little boy, the only son of a weeping father, a father who has already lost his wife to childbirth.

“There has to be something I can do to help him.”

“Tiana, he’s a very sick little boy.”

I fight to keep my voice calm. “Let me help him.”

“We’re not equipped to help all the ill children. We’re limited by our mission, limited to doing what we can do— ”

“Help me help him.” I put my hand on his arm, and his skin is firm and warm. I can feel the muscle in his forearm. “Michael, you can find out what he needs. You’re a doctor. You give me a list of medicines or treatment he needs, and I’ll pay for it.”

Michael covers my hand with his. “And what of the other hundred children who aren’t chosen? Will you save them, too?”

I blink and tears fall. “Yes.”

“It’s impossible to save everyone. That’s the first lesson they teach you in medical school.”

“Then I’ll help as many as I can.”

His fingers press against mine. His voice drops. “You have a good heart.”

“I have money— ”

“Tiana.”

“I want to help.” I take a breath. “I need to help.”

“You are by being here. You’re telling the story that needs to be told.”

I shake my head. “Children will die before the story even airs.”

For a moment his expression turns bleak, and then it’s gone. “They’re dying as we speak.”

I pull my hand away and avert my head to hide my rush of emotion. I hate what he said. I hate that he’s right.

“Come…” Michael puts a hand out to me. “Let’s get dinner. It’s something we can do right now.”

Michael keeps me close during dinner. It’s an effort to eat the little I put on my plate. I’m exhausted. Flattened. And my mind is spinning trying to find solutions, trying to figure out how I can help the father’s only son.

“It’s hard to see so much suffering,” Michael says to me quietly as he stacks our trays together. “And you, despite all your TV gloss and polish, are extremely sensitive.”

My eyes burn, my chest burns. “I could not lose my child. I could not.” And these people do. And they will. And it breaks my heart.

He’s silent, studying my face. “I will have a look at the boy’s file. I will look into the reasons he wasn’t selected and see if there is anything I can do.”

“You’ll do that?” My voice catches.

“I promise.”

I blink, sniff, but the tears fall anyway. “Thank you.”

“Who would have thought little Ms. America had such a tender heart?” And then he puts his arm around me and holds me against him as I cry. And I cry. I cry for the mothers who lose their babies and I cry for the babies who lose their mothers and I cry for the losses I experienced too early, before I was ready to be whole and complete and able to stand on my own two feet.

As I cry against Michael’s chest, I think I need those two feet now. It’s time to be as big and tough and successful on the inside as I am on the outside. Fame doesn’t mean anything. But confidence and strength do.

After my embarrassing crying jag, I want to return to my room at the community center, but Michael insists I stay and play games. So here I am, at a table in the dining tent, playing Yahtzee. In fact, the tent echoes with the sounds of cups slamming and dice rolling and shouts of laughter. Turns out Yahtzee is a tradition among Michael and his friends. They drink orange Fanta and play a mean game of Yahtzee. At least Michael plays a mean game.

“He’s cheating,” I say grumpily as he gets four fours and howls with delight.

“Get used to it,” Tomas tells me with a long face. “He’s very good at winning.”

“Which is a good thing when you consider he’s a terrible loser,” Jon adds.

They laugh, and shaking my head, I glance up at Michael. He’s looking right back at me, and what I see in his eyes makes me go warm even as my heart turns over.

He likes me.

Michael slides the plastic cup of dice toward me, and his fingers brush mine. “My parents were peace workers, Tiana. We didn’t have a lot of money, and life in Bolivia was often hard, but compared to the pressure of life in Los Angeles, those years in South America seem like paradise now.”

I inhale, breathless all over again.

I understand.

I understand that living in Los Angeles means never being good enough. No matter how young, how fit, how tan, how beautiful, there will always be someone younger, fitter, tanner, more beautiful. There will always be another young woman appearing on the scene, threatening to take everything away I’ve earned.

There’s nothing wrong with how I am. I’m not the problem. The message is the problem, the message that we’re not good enough or pretty enough or fit enough or smart enough. It’s the message Madison Avenue has been selling us, and it’s a message Hollywood packages and pushes with every bone-thin Botoxed actress they stick in our face.

It’s a message I’ve perpetuated, too. But no more.

And last, I finally understand that Michael likes me.

Maybe a lot.

Today, with Howard finally behind the camera, we’re staying out of the surgery room and focusing on preop and recovery. We’ve been told by Meg that it’s the most emotional moment for parents. In preop, the fathers are usually stoic, but the mothers alternate between hope and terror. If preop is fear, recovery is pure joy.

Not just elated that their child has survived the operation, these parents are seeing their child for the first time with a whole face.

There is such wonder in their eyes as they reach for their children. The upper lip has been stitched closed and the palate has been restored. It’s a miracle for the whole family.

After one particularly extensive surgery, Michael appears in the recovery room to check on the nine-month-old girl. The little girl’s mother is practically a child herself, and she’s overcome as she examines her baby’s beautiful face.

Michael gives the sobbing mother a hug.

My chest grows tight. He’s good. He’s gifted. He’s passionate. He’s determined. He’s the kind of man I always wanted, the kind of man who makes my heart beat harder, faster. Why didn’t I ever see who he was? When I looked at him before, what was I looking at?

It’s been years since I really loved, years since I let myself be loved. Can I do this again? Do I know how to do this again? Can I go for it without screwing it all up?

Midafternoon there’s always a half-hour break for tea. Everyone spills into the dining tent for tea and coffee, rusks and slices of milk tart. It’s a very South African tea and one I remember from my eight months in Natal.

Today I pass on the tea and head outside for a walk, needing the exercise to try to burn off some of my tension.

Despite the heat, I walk briskly, ignoring the perspiration beading my skin. I walk and walk, making circles around the brick hospital with its one-hundred-bed capacity.

&nb

sp; I’ve just completed my third circle around the hospital when I hear, “How am I expected to sleep with you thundering about like a herd of elephants?”

I glance toward the shade provided by the lone hospital tree and see Michael stretched out on the ground, his arms folded behind his head.

I walk toward him, my nose wrinkling when I see him lying on an area that’s more red dirt than grass. “Aren’t you afraid of being eaten by ants?”

“I don’t taste that good. They leave me alone.” His smile is lazy. “I’ve been watching you march around the hospital. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I love this. I hate this.” My hands go to my hips. “I’m elated and emotional and excited and overwhelmed— “ I break off, laugh unsteadily. “I’m so glad you challenged me to come here, to be here. I’m just so grateful.”

He pats the straggly grass next to him. “It does give one perspective, doesn’t it?”

I nod and sit cautiously. As I settle onto the ground, I get a look at Michael: The shadows beneath his eyes are even darker today. “You’re not sleeping, are you.”

“I don’t tend to sleep well on the missions. There’s so much to do and so little time in which to get it all done.”

“Yet you’re always so nice to everyone.”

“You don’t know the real me. I’m no saint. Just ask Alexis. She’ll tell you.”

“Did you cheat on her?”

“No.” He laughs, gives me an odd look. “I didn’t give her the attention she deserved. I don’t try hard enough, don’t listen enough, don’t make her needs a priority.”

“Is that true?”

He thinks, nods. “Probably.”

“Did you go to counseling or try to work on the problems?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We weren’t ever supposed to get serious. It was just supposed to be fun. But of course it got serious, and… well, I’m an asshole.”