Easy on the Eyes (27 page)

Tour ended, Michael is ready to head back to the operating room, where he’s scheduled to be in surgery this afternoon.

“Can I go, too?” I ask, already digging through my bags for a notebook and pen.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Each surgery to correct a cleft palate takes roughly an hour, and I wish I had one of Howard’s cameras as I stand off to the
side and watch the medical team work together to perform these life-changing procedures.

After three surgeries, Michael leaves the operating room and another doctor prepares to take his place. But Michael isn’t
on a break. He’s just shifting to another role and, still dressed in his green scrubs, heads outside to meet with the children
and parents who have been scheduled for surgery tomorrow.

I listen as Michael talks to nervous parents about the procedure. He’s using a translator. No food or liquid after midnight.
No liquid or food in the morning. The baby will sleep during the surgery and will not feel pain. But food or liquid could
make him sick during the operation.

The translator tells Michael the mother is afraid. She’s afraid her baby will die in surgery, but if he doesn’t have the surgery,
she’s afraid he’ll die anyway.

Michael assures her that her baby will not die and that it is a very short surgery. He will be out of surgery in an hour,
and the moment he goes to the recovery room she can join him.

The mother nods. Wipes her tears. Asks if her baby will have a normal boy face when the surgery is done.

Michael answers yes.

The mother’s tears fall faster.

Five minutes later, the mother goes and the scene is enacted again, and yet again, as he meets with the rest of the parents
who have children scheduled for surgery tomorrow.

When the last of the waiting parents has been seen, Michael rises slowly, stretching, the thin green shirt clinging to his
torso, revealing muscles and damp skin. He’s hot and tired, but you wouldn’t have known by the way he interacted with the
parents and children. I’ve never seen a doctor so patient. He didn’t rush anyone, and he took as much time as necessary to
calm the parents’ fears and answer the questions they had.

Michael turns his head and glances in my direction. “You’re still here.”

“That was incredible.” And then because I can’t help it and I’ve got a case of hero worship at the moment, I blurt, “You’re
incredible. You were wonderful with them. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“Now you’re gushing.”

I blush and I can feel my cheeks go hot. “And you’re back to horrible.”

“But that’s how you like me. Bad.” He winks wickedly, and I shake my head and tuck my notebook and pen beneath my arm and
walk out of the tent.

“Oh, and Ms. America,” he calls after me.

I pause and turn to face him, one eyebrow arched.

“You look beautiful without all that makeup you wear in L.A. I like you natural.”

“Thanks, Doc.” And lifting my nose, I turn around and walk away even as my heart skips a beat.

I’ve got it all wrong, I think, pushing through the tent and stepping into the scorching heat. Michael was never the bad guy.
Michael just might have been Prince Charming.

I check on Howard. He’s still hooked up to an IV, but his color is better and they’ve given him a powerful antidiarrheal drug
to try to calm his body. Still, it could be a few days before he’s up and around.

He apologizes for letting me down, and I tell him that it’s not a problem and then put a look of terror on his face when I
ask if he’ll allow me to use his camera tomorrow so I can film the assessments, preops, and surgeries.

“You want to film?” he asks.

I nod. “It won’t be as good as anything you do, but I’ve used cameras before. Years ago I was a reporter in a one-person band.
I can do it again.”

“But you haven’t had to light or photograph a story in years,” he reminds me unhappily, struggling to sit up.

“Lie down. You’re not strong enough to be sitting up.”

“Maybe I can get up in the morning to film— ”

“You’re not going to do anything tomorrow but get fluids, maybe some food, and plenty of rest.”

He groans as he settles back against his pillow. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“In the morning I’ll familiarize myself with the camera and film my stand-up before the first interview. We can edit it all
later.”

Howard’s not happy, but he reluctantly agrees.

Later that evening, after a simple dinner that reminds me of meals at Epworth, my South African boarding school, Michael invites
me to join him and some of the other volunteer medical staff as they sit around the large dining tent relaxing after a long
day working. The rain comes down, yet no one minds.

Michael’s group is a collection of doctors, nurses, and staffers, and Michael is in his element, kicking back in his shorts
and T-shirt, telling stories, making everyone laugh. Watching him, I get a strange fizz in my insides. A nervous but excited
fizz that makes me feel and hope, and I’m not even sure what I’m feeling or hoping for.

Michael turns and looks at me. Our eyes meet. I get that nervous fluttery feeling again, and my hearts beats a little faster.

I like this Michael. He reminds me more than a little of Keith, casual, rumpled, relaxed. Happy. If I hadn’t seen Michael
in Armani suits in Los Angeles, I wouldn’t have believed this is the same person. As it is, I’m having a difficult time reconciling
this ruggedly handsome, very masculine surgeon with smooth, sophisticated Dr. Hollywood.

His gaze still holds mine and he smiles slowly, lazily, and I smile back. I don’t even know why I’m smiling, but here everything
is different.

I feel different. I feel as if all the superficial bullshit of Hollywood is falling away and the real me can breathe again.
I’m finding myself and remembering what matters.

When the hospital van arrives on its final trip to the community center for the night, I try to slip away quietly from the
group to get a seat in the van. But Michael sees me rise and reaches out to touch my arm as I pass. “Where are you going now?”

“Heading to bed.”

His fingertips brush my forearm and my skin tingles, hot and electric. “Always running away.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s the last van of the night.”

His dark gaze gleams. “Good night, Tiana. Sweet dreams.”

I
feel alarmingly giddy during the ride back to the community center’s guesthouse. Giddy as I wash my face and strip off my
clothes and turn out the light.

Giddy, and hot, and restless.

I shouldn’t be feeling this way, either. I should be smart. Focused. Honest.

Michael’s a playboy. An Irish charmer. The compliments drop easily from his tongue, but does he mean it? Or are they just
lines?

It rains now, and I climb into bed, listening in the darkness to the rain drum on the metal roof above my head. Even with
the fan, it’s oppressively hot.

If only I could just forget Michael. But I can’t, and thinking of him just makes me warmer. I hate that I miss him and I’ve
only just left him.

How funny. I barely know him, yet I already miss him more than I missed Trevor after six months of dating.

There’s something about Michael that connects with me, touches me. But along with the hope is fear, and the fear is growing,
too. Love never lasts. People either die or leave. Just look at Keith. And Shey and John.

No matter how interesting I find him, no matter how appealing he is here, I can’t want Michael. I can’t love him. And I can’t
possibly let myself need him.

Keep it as friends, I tell myself, reaching up to touch the mosquito net cloaking the bed. My fingertips brush the fine net.
He’s safe, and I’m safe, as long as I don’t let him close.

The van comes far too early to pick us up from the center for St. Francis, but I’m ready when it arrives and squeeze into
the back with Howard’s camera equipment and my notebook and pen. It’s only a ten-minute drive and I’m wearing a tomato red
sundress with spaghetti straps, but I’m still sweating by the time we reach the hospital grounds.

Fortunately, coffee and a hot breakfast await. After stacking the equipment in a corner of the tent, I get in line with everyone
else for my eggs, potatoes, sausage, and bacon.

I see Michael at a table across the dining hall, and despite my resolve, my heart does a funny little jump. He’s sitting in
a sea of females.

With my eggs and potatoes, I go sit at a table near Howard’s equipment to keep an eye on it. No one else is at my table, so
I get out my notebook and scribble notes for myself about what I need to do today.

I’m halfway through my breakfast when Michael stops by the table. “Good morning, Ms. America.”

My pulse quickens. “Good morning, Hollywood.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You should have joined me for breakfast.”

“You had quite a bit of company already.”

His eyes spark. “There’s no competition.”

I blush, and I don’t know why I’m blushing. It’s silly that I suddenly feel nervous. “You’re sounding very Irish lately, Dr.
O’Sullivan,” I say crisply to hide my uneasiness.

He sits on the bench across from me. “Hard not to. My mum and dad are both from Galway, on the west coast of Ireland.”

“So you were born in Ireland?”

“La Paz.”

“Bolivia,” I say, making sure I understand.

His smile is crooked. “Travel’s in my blood.”

I’m even more curious now. “Was your father a doctor?”

“No.”

“So why do you do what you do?”

His smile fades and he doesn’t answer immediately, and then he raps the table with his knuckles and stands. “Because I can.”

The camera’s dead. I didn’t think to check the battery last night, and now I scramble to find the plug and a converter and
an available outlet. But just as I’m about to plug in the camera, Tomas, one of Michael’s doctor friends, tells me to stop.
“You’ll fry your camera,” he tells me. “You’re missing a piece of the converter.”

I’m embarrassed but grateful and have to go without filming until I can see Howard and find out where the missing piece is.

Michael is scrubbed in for surgery, and I’m in the corner of the operating room in a mask and robe with my notebook and pen,
to make notes during the operation of questions I have and things I need to research.

In between procedures, Michael steps outside to drink water or talk with his surgical team. I keep my distance as the staff
talks. They’re truly on a mission and sharing something very special together. It’s bonded them, turning a collection of international
medical specialists into a team. They know they’re doing something good, know they’re making a difference, and their satisfaction
is evident in their expressions.

I want what they have. I want to feel what they feel. I want to know I’m doing something good in my life.

The medical team is scrubbing up again, and Jon, Michael’s friend, appears with a black box and plug. “This will work for
your camera,” he says. “And I moved some things around in the operating room. You’ll find a free outlet against the wall by
the door.”

I’m surprised by the unexpected gift and thrilled. Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you!”

Red-faced, Jon leaves and I glance up to find Michael looking at me.

I lift the converter and plug to show him. He smiles and there’s something warm in his eyes, something so good that I feel
his warmth burrow all the way through me and into my heart.

If only he could be the right one… if only I could be brave enough… if only there could be some kind of guarantee that if
I fall in love again, this time everything would work out….

During the next round of surgeries, I stand next to the camera and film with my best professional detachment, which is very
hard to do in these circumstances. These patients are but babies, and Michael’s hands are like those of a giant as he works
inside, restructuring the palate and connective tissue and bone.

This “devil” of a man is gentle with the smallest and weakest.

*    *    *

I spend the afternoon filming the screening process. There must still be several hundred families waiting, and with only a
week left to the mission, less than a fifth will be chosen.

I have the camera rolling throughout the afternoon as women stand patiently in line for their child to be evaluated. The mothers
know only a few will be selected, and they all want one of those coveted spots.

Later, as the screening team of pediatrician, dentist, speech therapist, and nurse examines the candidates, I film an anguished
father begging the doctors to help his son.

Tears spill from the father’s eyes as he motions that his son cannot eat and is starving to death and if we do not help him,
he will die. He will die.

Whispering into the mike, I repeat the father’s desperate words, and I zoom the lens in on the father’s face. It’s difficult
for me to keep my composure as the father’s words are translated for the screening team’s benefit.