Grace

 

At least I have the twenty-three-hour flight home to catch up on the sleep I didn’t get last night.

My body spent all night feeling the tremoring aftershocks of our dinner date. While my mind spun circles around what could have happened to suddenly turn Deacon so cold. Then my heart reminded me that it’s best if I just forget about all of the above.

Ebrahim is parked in front of the lodge at 5 a.m. sharp, just like he said he would be when I called him last night. Between his smile and his chipper demeanor, I forget the sadness of leaving a place that’s felt more like home than California over the past week. Even with the crazy machete flashing madmen and the lack of resources at the hospital. Even though Deacon left last night without a word. Something about this place pulls at me, draws me in. I feel needed, but not in the same way I’m needed at home. I feel like I’m making a difference. At the Gateway, I feel appreciated, valued, and indispensable.

The soft aroma of jasmine and sage fills the cab, jarring me awake the way a fresh cup of coffee normally would. Through the window, I watch as the sun slowly begins to rise, covering the sky with a blanket of warm amber glow. The roads are deserted except for the early morning street sweepers and a few factory workers.

“Do you need to stop by the hospital on the way out, Miss?”

 Do I? I said my goodbyes to the staff yesterday after my shift. But I can’t ignore the pull in the pit of my stomach drawing me back there. Without me, there will be three doctors on call today, with at least two of them going on pulling eighty hours this week alone. The waiting area will be overrun with patients soon. I check the time on my phone. My flight leaves in two hours. If I stop at the hospital, I’ll be tempted to help out. And as much as I know they could use it, my father needs me home. My sister needs me home. Lucas needs me home. I made my choice. This was supposed to be one week. Help people. Show them someone cares. Make a difference. See new things. Then back to normal.

Normal. I don’t even know what that is anymore. 

“No. Just straight to the airport, please.”

 

***  

 

  I’ve been back home almost a week, and already I miss the laid back, modern charm of the Greenleaf Lodge, the warm smile of Ebrahim, and the heat of dark blue eyes burning into mine. I texted Dr. Stephenson the day after I got back to check on the patient Deacon helped to restrain. She let me know they had to send her home because they needed the bed. I wish I’d had more time with her, to help figure out what’s wrong.

I thought about calling the lodge to talk to Deacon. I even dialed the number at least three times over the last few days but never found the courage to hit the green circle. After the way I left, he probably wouldn’t want to talk to me anyway.

 

 My father is a stubborn man. After the third massive heart attack, his cardiologist politely and professionally informed us he wouldn’t survive a fourth. His heart just couldn’t take any more. There was too much damage. We left the hospital with yet another stent in yet another artery, and my father continued to run his company another whole year from the office inside the four walls of his home. I threw a fit, and he reasoned that technically he wasn’t going to work. Leave it to John Matthews to tune out bad news and do what he damn well pleases. He didn’t listen when they told him he had COPD. Stop smoking, they said. He laughed all the way to the cigar bar. Now he lies in bed with a machine on his nightstand to help him breathe when he can’t do it on his own. I worried about him the whole time I was away. And now here I sit, another night in an uncomfortable chair I’ve become all too familiar with, watching him sleep, praying he wakes up.

 

***

 

“So? Tell me all about South Africa,” Karen McCallister squeaks, meeting me at the coffee pot in the cafeteria.

“It’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to experiencing what it’s like to practice in a war zone.” I dump three packets of sugar into the Styrofoam cup then stir. “But it’s also the best I’ve felt in a long time. The people were so grateful for something as simple as a few stitches. No entitlement. Just thankful. The lodge I stayed at was cozy with just enough modern to feel like home. And it felt so good to just… sleep.” The moment I say the words, the guilt falls to the bottom of my stomach like dead weight. I don’t regret a single second of sleep I miss by taking care of my dad. I wouldn’t change a thing about my life. But it was nice to let it all go. Even if it was temporary. I don’t mention Deacon. There’s no need. He’s exactly what I needed him to be. A memory.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

Will I ever go back? Would I ever even have the chance? I can’t expect Deirdre Drazen to support a return trip. And it’s definitely not something I can afford on my own. It was a one-time thing, a learning experience. Something that will stay with me forever.

“It’s something everyone should do. Once.”

What I mean to say is that I would love to go back. I’d book my flight tomorrow if I had the chance. But I have too many obligations to make that decision.

“How’s your sister?”

Speaking of obligations. I haven’t seen Natalie since I’ve been back. I called twice, but she declined both times. As much as it hurts to see a relationship that used to be so close fall apart at the seams, I’d rather have her decline my calls than not be able to call her at all.

“I wouldn’t know. She hasn’t spoken to me since before the night I brought her in.”

Karen reaches across the table for my hand. “I’m so sorry, Grace. You just have to trust that one day she’ll realize you’re only trying to help.”

Deacon’s words come back to me. “Not everyone wants to be helped.”

 But she’s my sister. And whether she wants it or not, I can’t just leave her alone.

 

 

  I tell Karen about the burning woman, and she has the same thoughts I did. Nerve pain, diabetic neuropathy, maybe. But with limited time and resources, she’ll probably never find out for sure.

“I know you want to be here. And this is your home. But it seems like South Africa stole a little piece of your heart while it had you.”

 I think it was more than Cape Town that stole my heart. I take the last sip of my coffee before heading back to NICU. I think about the woman, Deacon’s eyes, and little boys with no shoes. Sheer window panels blowing in the warm night breeze and welcoming courtyards. Ferris wheels on the harbor… and sushi. My stomach flutters as my body remembers my last night there.

“Yeah. I suppose it did.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 Three hours and twenty-three red lights later, I toss my keys onto the table in the foyer and kick off my shoes. “How is he?”

Renee, my dad’s home health nurse, finishes rinsing out her glass, placing it upside down on a dish towel, then rakes her fingers through her long blonde hair. “It’s been a rough day.”

Renee is tough. She’s been with my father for over a year, and she’s seen some bad days. She’s suctioned his mucus and massaged his swollen legs. She didn’t panic the day his lips turned blue, and he forgot where he was. So, for her to say it was rough, means she was probably about five minutes away from speed-dialing the hospital and calling me home. 

 “Thank you, Renee. Go home. Get some rest.”

“I can stay if you need to sleep.”

She’s always worried about me and my sleep. She offers to stay every time. And every time, I send her home. “I’ll be fine. You’ve done more than enough.”

“He’s lucky to have you, ya know. So many of my patients are all alone.”

My whole life, my father sacrificed, he provided, he did whatever it took to take care of me, my sister, and my mom. Taking care of him now is the least I can do to repay him. “I’m the lucky one. But, thank you.”

She pulls her ponytail tight and grabs her bag from the seat of a dining chair. “See you tomorrow.”

“Night.”

“Oh. I almost forgot,” she says, stopping just before she reaches the front door. “A package came for you today. I put it on the kitchen counter.”

A package? I don’t remember ordering anything, and it’s nowhere near my birthday. The large brown envelope is postmarked South Africa. Maybe I forgot something at the lodge?

 I grab a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer, running the sharp edge along the sealed flap on the back side. A frame. With a black and white photo inside. A woman. Her fingers are wrapped in her long dark hair as she pulls it up and tilts her head to one side, revealing the slender curve of her neck. The bottom of her round behind peeks out from a t-shirt and lacy panties, leading to a pair of lean thighs, parted just enough to see the crease in the fabric between them. Sheer curtains wisp across the bottom of the photo as the photographer watches through the eye of his lens as she stands in front of her bed. It’s positively sensual in its simplicity. The way she’s standing, allowing herself to be seen like she knows he’s watching, and she’s waiting for his touch. It’s sexy. It’s seductive. It’s breathtaking.

It’s me.

I’m the woman in the photo.

And Deacon was the man behind the lens.

Is this how he sees me?

Can I be this woman?

I knew he was watching. And I wanted him to touch me. But this, seeing the moment through his eyes. Seeing myself this way. It does something to me. It makes me feel… powerful. All along I thought he made me fragile. The woman in this photo is anything but fragile. She’s confident. She’s sexy. For him. Because of him.

Is Deacon looking at this picture right now? Does he see the same things I do? Feel the same things I feel? 

My core throbs with need at the thought of it. The blood rushes through my body, heating me from the inside out. I remember his touch, his voice, his eyes. And I’d give anything to feel it all again. Just one more time.

That’s a lie. One more time wouldn’t be enough. Just like the night at the restaurant wasn’t enough. I thought I could do it. I thought I’d have a little fun, do something adventurous, then come back home and only think about it when my body needed a release. I thought knowing I’d never see him again would make it easier. But I’m not wired that way. That’s not who I am. I’m not wired not to care. I’m not made to forget. Even though sometimes I wish I could.

 I take another look at the photo then slide it back inside the envelope. I check on my dad then take a hot shower. I don’t think about how Deacon got my address. Or why he wanted me to see the picture. Or what made him take it to begin with. I try not to think about Deacon at all. I can’t. Because he’s an ocean away, and nothing will ever change that.