Easy on the Eyes (36 page)

I feel a flutter of nerves in my stomach, and I suck in a breath. I’m so nervous that I’m queasy, but queasy about what? The
event? My future? Michael?

All of the above.

But Michael did say if I ever needed a date, he’d clean up for me….

But if he means that, why hasn’t he ever asked me out? Why doesn’t he call me? Maybe we’re just friends. Or maybe he’s attracted
to me but afraid I’d want a commitment, and that’s one of those things he just can’t do.

The town car turns from Santa Monica Boulevard onto Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills and stops in front of a white-marble-fronted
building.

We’re here.

The decor of Michael’s waiting room is muted cream with accents in pewter and chairs upholstered in cobalt blue. My nerves
just get worse, though. My hands are damp, and the cover of the glossy magazine sticks to my skin, lifting the ink from the
paper.

Restless, anxious, I recross my legs, wondering if it’s a bad idea to invite Michael to go to the reception in Tucson.

Looking up, I take in the massive modern oil painting dominating the wall, and then my gaze moves to the shiny silver sculpture
in the corner. Funny, but this is exactly what I pictured Michael’s office would look like. Tasteful. Elegant. Expensive.

Then the door opens and my name is called. Finally it’s my turn. It’s a short walk back to an equally serene exam room, but
the soothing interior does little to soothe my anxiety. My heart is pounding, and I feel as if I’m going on a date instead
of having a doctor’s appointment.

There’s a knock on the exam room door and then Michael opens it. “Ms. America,” he says, walking in. “How are you today?”

He’s wearing a white coat over dark slacks and a dress shirt. The coat is open, showing the blue shirt and buckle of his black
belt.

“Great,” I answer, pulse jumping. “How are you?”

“Very well.” He grabs a rolling stool and takes a seat on it. “Sleeping okay?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Not too much pain?”

“No, Doctor.”

He grins at me, amused. “Then maybe I should just look at your cheek.”

I sit, hands folded in my lap, breath bottled as he peels off the gauze and scrutinizes the sutured skin. “It looks really
good,” he says as he gently touches the seam. “Very, very good.”

“You’re pleased?” I murmur, trying to focus on his words instead of his hands and the warmth of his skin on mine.

“Yes.” I see the corner of his mouth lift. “I think I can take the stitches out today.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Ready for this?”

“Yes.”

My heart pounds as he uses small, sharp scissors to snip the threads and pluck away broken bits with a pair of tweezers. When
he’s done, he hands me a mirror. The scar is a dark pink, but it’s not nearly as thick as I feared.

“It’ll flatten and fade as it heals,” he adds.

“It looks good,” I say gruffly, suddenly emotional because it’s not as bad as I’d feared.

“And that’s without makeup.”

I can’t tear my gaze from my cheek. It’ll fade. It’ll go. It’s going to be nothing. A lump fills my throat. After the last
week of worry, this is great. Better than great. “There’s no reason I can’t be on TV,” I say. “Or do anything else I want.”

“You’re right.”

I look up, blink against the threat of tears. There’s no way to properly express my gratitude. “Thank you.”

He smiles, blue eyes warm. “You’re welcome. And I know it’s a day early, but Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I’ve been trying hard to ignore what today is. The day before Valentine’s Day. The day of Keith’s and my anniversary. It would
have been our eighth anniversary this year. I’d thought it’d be a nightmarish day. I thought I’d be sad, stricken, but I’m
not.

I’m… happy.

I don’t know if it’s because the scar is less horrifying than I expected, or the fact that I escaped yet another accident
with just this cut, or if it’s the memory of the children in Africa, but I’m actually, surprisingly happy. Despite everything.

I loved Keith, but clearly, I’m ready to move on.

Surprised by the lightness inside of me, I gather my things, flash Michael a smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too.”

And I leave without asking him to go to Tucson with me.

For one, it doesn’t feel appropriate.

For another, I don’t need a date for the event.

I don’t need a date for life.

I’m doing good. I’m feeling great, bumps, bruises, and all.

*    *    *

I spend the weekend reading, researching start-up costs for a new business, and riding my exercise bike. I need to start exercising
again, getting mentally and physically tough. There’s no more invalid lifestyle. By the end of March, I want to be working
again, and to have work again I have to be on my game.

Monday morning, I call Christie and ask her about her initial start-up expenses as well as the experience. If she had to do
it over again, would she do anything differently?

Tuesday morning, Glenn calls. He’d like to meet with me if I have time in the next few days. I know my contract is up March
1. I’ve been on disability leave since the accident. I wonder if this is the meeting where I’m formally let go, told that
my contract won’t be renewed. “Do I need an agent present?” I ask him.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” he admits.

“How about end of the week? Friday at two?” I propose, needing time to find a new agent as well as wanting to put off the
unpleasant as long as possible.

“Shall we meet here?”

“Great,” I agree, but with a sinking heart. A meeting at the office never bodes well. When something’s good, it happens at
a fun restaurant. When something’s bad, it’s in Glenn’s office behind closed doors.

An hour after Glenn’s call, Harper phones to say that she has a copy of the new
People
magazine that will hit the stands tomorrow. She offers to bring me the copy after work so I can be one of the first to see
it. Apparently, she got an advance copy so they could produce the story teases for the show.

“How does it look?” I ask.

“Great. You made the cover and you look beautiful, although the scar is front and center. But you had to expect that.”

“How about the text?”

She knows what I’m asking. “There are lots of really personal things,” she admits.

“Ah.” I was afraid of that. “Well, come on by. It’ll be good to see you, and I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

It’s nearly six when Harper shows up on my doorstep.

“Your stitches are out!” she exclaims as I open the door.

“What do you think?” I turn my right cheek toward her so she can get a good look.

“It’s fantastic. Six months from now with some makeup no one will even know the scar is there.”

“I think so, too.” I smile, wave her in. “Thanks for taking the time to drive it over. Can you stay for a bit? I’d love the
company.”

“Definitely.”

I open a bottle of wine, fill two glasses, and carry them back to the living room, where Harper waits. I hand her the wineglass
and she hands me the issue. And there’s my picture on the front. I’m in the white dress, smiling bravely at the camera while
my scar curves along my cheek. The headline is even more graphic:
TIANA’S TRAGIC ACCIDENT— AND THE DEVASTATING HEARTBREAK SHE’S KEPT SECRET UNTIL NOW
.

“Oh God,” I say beneath my breath, exhaling hard.

“She wrote fairly extensively about the car accident outside Cape Town,” Harper says. “She also came up with some photos.
I don’t know if you gave them to her…?”

“No.” My heart sinks. I start flipping through the magazine.

“Page one hundred and ten,” she says.

I find the page, open the story, and there on the right side of the double-page spread is the photograph of my family: Mom,
Dad, Willow, Acacia, and me. We’re dressed up at some formal event or holiday event, and I don’t even recognize the picture
or the reason we were dressed up and smiling. Maybe it was a school function Dad had. Maybe a holiday party.

I flip to the next page and discover the photo of my mom, the one Celia had surprised me with during the interview. It’s the
photo where Mom’s just been crowned Miss South Africa, and she has big hair, shiny happy eyes, and an endless smile. My stomach
heaves. I close the magazine, press it against my chest, and take a deep breath to slow my crazy pulse.

“In Celia’s defense, the story’s well done,” Harper says. “Strong writing, sympathetic storytelling. Nothing cringe-worthy.”

“That’s a plus.”

“I think you’ll see some positive feedback. And I think you’ll like tonight’s show. You’re wonderful in an interview format.
The public will just fall in love with you all over again.”

I smile. But it’s not the public I want to fall in love with me. It’s Michael. And that’s the one person I don’t know how
to reach. Not that I need to reach him. But if I did…

Michael calls me.

Wednesday night I’m eating macaroni and cheese for dinner— albeit Maria’s mac and cheese, which is the homemade kind, which
means rich and fattening with just a hint of red pepper— in front of the TV, waiting for
America Tonight
to start, when he phones. I wipe off my milky mouth and mute the TV’s sound to take his call. “Hi,” I say, thinking I sound
far too breathless.

“Just saw the new
People
. Cover girl.”

“What do you think?”

“I think they could have waited for you to get your stitches out. Other than that, it’s great. You came across beautifully.
Especially when you were talking about your sisters.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. I was worried about the story. Worried what people would think.”

He hesitates. “I have to admit I was surprised by the photos and interview. It’s not something I thought you’d do.”

Was that a criticism? “They don’t say it in the story, but they bought my photos and story. For a million dollars— ”

“A million dollars?”

“— to go to the charity of my choice.” I take another quick breath. “And I divided it between PSI Zambia and Rx Smile.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I wait, mouth dry, wondering if he heard me, wondering if he’s shocked or upset. And then he
laughs softly. “Good for you, Tiana. Well done.”

Now is the time to invite him to the Tucson reception. Now is the time to ask him to go. But my mouth is so dry and my heart’s
beating too hard and I’m so nervous because I’ve been rejected once and don’t want to be rejected again.

“My God, that’s brilliant. Good for you,” he repeats.

I glow a little, and caught up in the moment, I blurt out an invitation for Tucson. “I have an event on March fourteenth in
Tucson, it’s the lifetime achievement award I was supposed to get February seventh, the day after I was hurt, and they’d like
me to come out so they can present me with the award. I’d say a few words, and I know it’s a long way to go, but if you’re
free I’d love it if you could go with me.” I stop talking abruptly, realizing I was almost rambling.

“March fourteenth?”

“Yes. They’re sending a jet for me. Kind of a fun way to travel.”

“Tiana, I’m already booked that day. There’s a medical conference in Boston and I’m speaking.”

“That’s okay,” I say quickly, tone light. “Thought I’d ask.”

“Glad you did. If things were different, I’d love to go.”

But things aren’t different, and he can’t go. We talk about nothing for a moment and then say good-bye.

Hanging up, I look at my flat-screen TV, and there I am in high-definition, in my white dress, with my shiny dark hair, lush
mascara lashes, big cast, and the stunning bristly scar. I watch me in mute, watch my face as I speak to Celia, answering
her questions. I look not at the scar on my cheek, but at my eyes and my lips, and I see the fire and emotion I’ve spent my
life trying to hide. But the fire and emotion aren’t ugly. The fire and emotion are beautiful.

Hot emotion runs through me now, and I grab a pillow from the couch and press it to my chest. Even without a man, even without
Michael, my heart is beautiful.

T
he response from the
People
story and
America Tonight
segments has been overwhelmingly positive. I’m fielding calls right and left, ranging from interview requests to offers to
make a guest appearance on talk shows. I need an agent, and a good one, but I’m not ready to rush into signing with an agent
just because I’m feeling pressure. I’ll represent myself until I find the right person— and it will be the right person, someone
who respects me, my values, and my goals.

I say yes to an appearance on
The View
to discuss Rx Smile. Yes to an appearance with Ellen DeGeneres to discuss Zambia and the need there. And yes to Kelly and
Regis, who want to chat about life now.

There are requests from magazines and newspapers, including
Redbook
and
O
, and the “Lifestyle” section editor from
USA Today
, and I promise to follow up with each in the next week.

In the meantime, there’s the meeting with Glenn, and I prepare for it the way one would prepare for a boxing match. It’s going
to be tough, it’s going to be painful, but it won’t last forever.