Easy on the Eyes (31 page)

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.

I stare at the stain, not understanding, and then as people talk, I realize it’s blood. My blood. I close my eyes, and the
voices rush around me. Someone’s asking my name. Someone’s giving my name. Someone’s handing over my purse.

People talk to me, and I think I answer, am not sure I’ve answered, and then they’re sliding a board beneath me, securing
me before transferring me onto the gurney. As I’m wheeled toward the ambulance, I remember the little boy in the orange shirt.
I hope he’s okay.

The ambulance doors are closing. I need to tell them something. I try to tell them something. I don’t know if anyone is listening.
“Call Michael O’Sullivan.” And then, afraid that no one has heard me, I move my right hand and pain shoots through me, stunning
me all over again.

I nearly cry then.

The paramedic puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” she says, patting me again.

I know I’m going to be, but still, I want them to call Michael. Michael will know what to do. “Call Dr. O’Sullivan,” I repeat.
“He’s my doctor.”

And then I let go, sliding into sleep.

Her beautiful face…

Never the same… Tragic…

The voices whisper, yet I hear bits of the conversation, the odd words reaching me and then floating away just as quickly.

All that glass… just cut too deep…

People move around me, and there’s clinking noises and footsteps and lights, very bright lights, but I feel nothing. I’m numb.
Foggy. I try to concentrate to understand what they’re doing and saying, but I can’t and I finally let go, sliding back into
the dark.

But then later, I hear voices again. Older, quieter, male. They’re calling him “Doctor,” but it’s not Michael.

I cry then. I cry because he didn’t come. I cry because I have no one and someone is shushing me, comforting me, but I’m not
calm. I can’t be calmed. I need my family. I need my people. I need someone who belongs to me.

A hand touches my shoulder and stays there. “Tiana.”

It’s him. He’s here. He came. “Michael.”

“I just heard. I’m getting ready to scrub in. I won’t let anyone touch your face.”

“How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to say until I can get in there and take the glass out and examine the wound properly. But there’s
no rush. I’m going to take my time.”

“Will there be a scar?”

“They’ll be taking you into the operating room now, honey. The orthopedic surgeon will fix your arm and I’ll take care of
your face. I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

Something settles over my mouth and nose. The air smells different as it rushes at me. Panic floods me. “Michael!”

“Breathe through your nose, Tiana.”

“Stay with me!”

“Honey, I am. Now just relax and breathe.”

The mask feels weird on my face. I want to adjust it, but I can’t. There’s so much turbulence. The jet keeps lifting and falling.
People are screaming. I want to scream, but I can’t. Instead I close my eyes and pray.
Don’t let me die, don’t let me die, don’t let me die.

And then as the plane bumps and drops and shakes, the woman next to me turns to look at me. She looks like me but younger,
prettier. Dark hair, blue eyes, heart-shaped face.

“Don’t be afraid, honey.”

I look at the woman again. “Mom?”

“Yes, darling?”

My chest squeezes so tight, I can’t breathe. “Mom, is that really you?”

She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. “Of course it is.”

I can feel her fingers and her hand and her skin, and she’s warm. She feels so warm. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

“I came to be with you. You need me.”

The tears are falling. They’re falling so hard and fast that I can’t see. “I do, Mom. I do.”

Her fingers curl around mine, and she gives me the most wonderful smile. “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s fine.”

The plane is still shaking, and it’s making horrible shuddering noises as though it’ll explode any minute. “Are we going to
die?”

“No.”

“But I’m scared.”

“This is just turbulence. It’s part of life.”

“I don’t want to die.” I’m squeezing her hand so hard, partly because I’m scared and partly because I’ve missed her so much
and I don’t want her to go. “Please take me with you.”

“But you want to live. You want to fly.”

“But I am flying.”

“Yes, you are. And isn’t it amazing? Enjoy it, Tiana. Enjoy every second of it, every bump and every bounce. You fly. You
soar. You’re free.”

Mom is still smiling at me, and she looks exactly as I remembered except she glows. She looks so happy and healthy and rested.
“You look so beautiful, Mom.”

“And you’re beautiful, sweet pea. Not your face, but your heart. Never forget that. Never forget— ”

“You’re not going, are you?”

“I have to. And you have to fly.”

I cry harder. “I’ve missed you.”

Her smile is radiant and warm and everything I remembered. She looks at me with so much love. She looks at me the way she
did when I was just a baby and she’d rock me in her arms, rock me to sleep. “You don’t know how proud I am of you, Tiana.
Your father and I couldn’t be prouder.”

“I miss him.”

“Dad loves you. The girls love you. We all love you.”

“I need to see you.”

“You will, one day, and we’ll be waiting for you. We’ll be there when the time comes— ”

“Don’t leave! Mom!”

“I have to go. Just remember, enjoy this, enjoy every moment of it.”

And then she’s gone and I’m still in the jet and it’s still shuddering and shaking and the woman next to me isn’t my mom.
I have been crying, though, and I reach up to wipe my eyes and then tighten my seat belt. As the jet drops again, I close
my eyes and do what my mother said.

I feel.

I breathe.

I focus on the miracle of being.

Later, I open my eyes and it’s dark; the room is dimly lit and quiet. There are no bright lights or metallic clinks or whispered
voices.

My throat hurts when I swallow, and my face feels numb and thick. I try to reach up to my face, but my right arm is strapped
down and I have tubes taped to my left. Everything aches.

I try to remember what happened, but nothing’s clear. I was flying. There was an accident. Michael came.

No. I was flying, leaving Michael, and then my mom came.

No. There was an accident, and my mom and Michael both came, but I don’t know what happened then. It’s too confusing. I hurt
too much.

I give up and close my eyes and let go of everything to sleep.

Something’s poking me, touching me, and I open my eyes. I’m still in the same room. It’s dim, not dark, and quiet. But this
time I’m not alone. Michael’s here, next to my bed, leaning over me and examining what lies beneath the gauze on my face.

He sees that I’m awake, and his expression is strange. It’s all closed up, like a doctor’s face, but not my Michael’s face.
I want my Michael’s face. “Don’t look at me like that,” I croak. “Smile.”

He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hello.”

“Thank you for coming.” The words scratch my throat. I’m so thirsty. I look around for water but see vases of flowers instead.
A massive marble vase of dark pink roses dwarfs the table at my elbow. I look past the roses, looking for something to drink.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“Then don’t look so miserable,” I say.

He reaches for a water bottle sandwiched between tulips and lilies. The plastic bottle has a long straw in it, and he holds
the straw to my lips. I drink, but swallowing still hurts.

“I feel like a truck ran over me,” I rasp.

“It was a Pontiac, but those are just details.”

I try to smile, and it feels weird. Lopsided. My face is numb near the edge of my lips. “What time is it?”

“Around one. One-thirty.”

“What’s wrong with my mouth?”

“You’ll be numb on that side for a while.”

“How big is the scar?”

“Not bad, and it’ll lighten over time. Later we can always talk about laser resurfacing if need be.”

I reach up blindly, grab his hand, and hold it. Hold it so damn tight. Tight like the pain in my heart. Tight like the fear
in my gut. He’s telling me I’ve changed. He’s telling me it’s going to be different, but I don’t know what that means. I don’t
know anything other than I need someone right now to do what Michael’s doing. I need to be touched. I need to know I’m not
alone.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“I’m here.”

“You left.”

“But when you needed me, I came.”