by Chanta Rand
His newfound outlook on life emboldened him. He decided he was ready to talk to Alexa. He owed her an explanation. And he wanted her to know that he’d been miserable without her. The day he finally worked up the nerve to call her, his call went straight to voicemail. When he tried to reach her the hospital, he was repeatedly told she was not in. That didn’t stop him from calling every day. He figured he would catch her at some point.
Eventually, one of the nurses got tired of him. “Dr. Kennedy is on an extended leave of absence,” she told him.
“Do you know when she will return?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Did she leave a number where she can be reached?” Tristan asked.
“No, she did not.”
He hung up the phone. Maybe he should try to call Viola. No, he’d involved her the last time he was desperate to see Alexa. She probably hated his guts now. Alexa had obviously moved on with her life. She didn’t want to be found. For now, he would respect her decision. After all, he was the one who had rejected her in the first place.
Instead of letting it get him down, he focused on rebuilding his life. Weeks later, Lynette invited him to appear as a motivational speaker to youths who’d been the victims of violence. He was hesitant at first. He didn’t think anyone would care about his life. But when he openly discussed the details of his attack and how he made it through his depression, the response was overwhelmingly positive. He saw first-hand how important it was to share his story with others. Not only was he making a difference, he was healing himself in the process.
“The teenagers really respect you,” Lynette told him. “You’re a role model they can relate to. You should think about doing this on a full-time basis.”
Tristan had never considered himself a role model. He had a devilish past – like ninety-nine percent of professional athletes. He didn’t think his way of coping with life was any better than the next person’s. The fans adored him regardless of what he did. But it was his football persona they were in love with. These kids were interested in hearing what Tristan Rexford the man had to say.
Through his interactions with others, he soon recognized that very few people could afford to go to counseling. If they didn’t have a job to pay for it or they didn’t have health insurance, they were just out of luck. When given a choice between putting food on the table or paying to have their problems analyzed, there really was no question for most folks. He realized there was a huge percentage of the population who were who were flying solo, dealing with their complex issues on their own. That didn’t work. He knew, because he’d tried it with no success. That’s when an idea occurred to him. After conducting thorough research, he called his family and close friends together one Sunday afternoon to make his announcement.
“What’s this all about?” his mother asked.
Tristan addressed the group. “It was almost two months ago that all of you sat me down and told me what a jackass I’d become.” He pointed to his interior decorator, who sat perfectly poised in hot pink leather pants. “Well, everyone except you, Coco.”
“I always miss all the fun,” Coco pouted.
“Don’t feel left out,” Nick advised him. “It wasn’t a pretty picture.”
“By the way, that wasn’t the first time we called him a jackass,” Debra said.
“And it won’t be the last,” Nick added.
“Ahem,” Tristan cleared his throat. As usual, his siblings were giving him a hard time. “As I was saying, you guys forced me to go to counseling, which turned out to be the best thing for me. Through counseling, I’ve met a lot of people who’ve suffered greatly. I’ve also seen the power of therapy and I know how it can change lives. There’s nothing more comforting than being around people who feel like you and who’ve been through what you’re going through. My work as a motivational speaker helped me to realize that I’m in a position to aid others. I have the finances and the connections to do it. So, without further ado, I’m proud to announce that I’m creating a foundation to help victims of violent crimes.”
His mother clapped like a spectator at the opera. “Oh, Tristan, that’s wonderful!”
Before he could finish, his father threw a fistful of questions at him. “How much will this foundation cost? Who will run it? How will you determine who needs help? What about football? Will this interfere with your career?”
“Whoa! One question at a time please, Pops.” Tristan took a deep breath. “The foundation is going to be a non-profit organization designed to help victims of violence deal with their physical and mental injuries. It will provide financially disadvantaged victims with funds for medical services and it will also offer options for counseling. I can get government funding to subsidize the costs. And this will not interfere with my career,” he promised. “Since I have very few endorsements now, that leaves me more time for the foundation. It’ll be a big project, but we can do it.”
“We?” Nick asked, his eyes growing wide as saucers.
Tristan laughed at his reaction. “Yeah, we. By the way,” he added, “Buckwheat called and he wants his eyes back.”
Nick brushed him off. “Your brain called and it wants to know if you’ve had a lobotomy recently. In fact, we all want to know. Tristan, there is no way we can run a foundation. We don’t have any experience in that area.”
Debra joined Nick’s cause. “I never thought I’d hear myself utter these foul words, but I’m going to have to agree with Nick,” she said. “Maybe you should just donate money to an existing organization. You’d still be helping people.”
Instead of getting frustrated, Tristan turned on the charm. If there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was never to give up. Group therapy had helped him discover how to channel his anger into something more productive. “Listen to me,” he said. “This is very do-able. I’ve been researching it and I believe in myself. But I need everyone’s help to make it a success.”
He turned to each person as he called their name. “Nick, I need your organizational skills to help set up the business plan. Ma, I need your writing skills to help apply for the grant money. Deb, I’ll need your nursing skills, since we’ll have an onsite clinic. Tyrek, I’ll need you to make celebrity appearances and help me get the Predators involved. And Coco,” he turned to his decorator, “I need you to help decorate the offices. I’ve already purchased the perfect space. Can you get a discount on office furniture?”
Coco looked horrified, as though someone had told him chiffon was no longer in style. “Mr. Rexie, I am an interior decorator of the finest caliber,” he declared. “I don’t do discounts.”
Debra interjected. “My shift is 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. If I’m busy helping you, when am I supposed to sleep?”
“Son, I think your plan may be a little over-ambitious,” his father suggested. “Shouldn’t you leave this to the professionals?”
“People, people, people,” Tristan shook his head sadly. “Where is the sacrifice? Where is your sense of commitment to something greater than yourselves? This is for a good cause. There are people out there suffering and all you can ask is what’s in it for you?” The silence that followed would have impressed even the stuffiest librarian. Everyone was avoiding eye contact with him.
Finally, Nick spoke. “What’s the name of your foundation?” he asked.
Tristan answered proudly. “I’m calling it the Tristan Rexford Recovery Center for Financially Disadvantaged Victims.”
Nick nodded thoughtfully. “Very interesting. Okay, I’ll join on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You change the name. It sucks worse than Stitches.”
Chapter Sixteen
Alexa flipped the page on the wall calendar hanging in her bungalow. It was hard to believe she’d been in Brazil for five months. Any initial reservations she’d had about coming here had quickly evaporated after the first week. She had truly enjoyed her time at the clinic. All of the staff members were knowledgeable and easy-going. She cou
ldn’t have asked for a better team. Here, there were no any over-inflated egos, no clashes of personalities, and no jealous behaviors. She’d grown closest to Max and Gary, but she also got along very well with the other doctors.
She was going to miss everyone when she left. She’d made a lot of friends, and she’d learned some passable Portuguese, too. She’d learned to communicate very well with the patients who came to the clinic. They were all good-natured and pleasant to deal with. Despite standing in long lines each day, everyone always remained calm. Surprisingly, there was no cutting in line, no fighting, and no disagreements. The people understood the value of free medical care and even though they didn’t have to pay, they still showed their appreciation. For some, it was a matter of pride. So they gave what they could, including live chickens, goats, jewelry, and food. Alexa had to laugh when one old lady offered a gold tooth as payment.
She would miss the food, too. She’d sampled everything she could at every opportunity. Her favorite dishes were feijoada - a stew comprised of black turtle beans, pork trimmings, and smoked sausage; caruru - a recipe that included okra and dried shrimp; and cuscuz branco - a dessert similar to rice pudding, made with tapioca, coconut milk and sugar. She loved the bold, spicy flavors of the cuisine, and it showed in her figure. So far, she’d packed on twelve pounds. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care about her appearance. The humidity made it impossible for her makeup to last for more than thirty minutes. And the constant rain ensured that she would never have a good hair day, so she simply put her hair into a ponytail every morning. It was one less thing she had to be bothered with. Yes, Brazil had definitely made her fat and happy!
When she wasn’t at the clinic, she spent her spare time fishing. Gary had taught the group the art of trapping, harpooning, and using a bow and arrow to catch fish. Each week, they boarded a small motorboat and traveled along the river, about forty miles from the clinic. She’d quickly learned how to throw netting to catch her favorite fish, pirarucu and tambaqui. Gary had also been her personal protector, watching out for her well-being. But it wasn’t wild animals he was worried about. It was the kind that walked upright. “When I sleep,” he told her, “I keep one eye shut and the other eye on Dr. Silva. I don’t trust that man as far as I can throw him.”
After their initial confrontation, Dr. Silva had taken an usual interest in her. His manner was overly friendly, he listened attentively to everything she said, and he brought her gifts on a frequent basis. Nothing so serious as emeralds, but a steady supply of little things like candy, fruits, flowers, and Brazilian coffee. The group had been worried that he would revert back to his old self, but so far, he’d shown no such propensity to do so. Honestly, she would have preferred dealing with his predictable and rigid work personality instead of the Don Juan that had emerged within the past few months.
He took every opportunity to engage in some type of physical contact with her. Whether that included brushing against her when he walked by her in the examination room or pulling some imaginary piece of lint from her hair. Lately, he’d gotten into the habit of touching her hand any time she handed him something. At least twice a day, she had to remind him that he was invading her personal space. Some days, it was comical. Others days, it irritated the hell out of her. “Try to keep a distance of at least twenty-four inches at all times,” she advised him. Max had warned her that Brazilians were very comfortable touching each other. In their culture, it was normal. In the States, Dr. Silva – or Miguel as he kept insisting she call him – would have been charged with sexual harassment. But as the wanna-be Casanova had told her so many times before, this was not the United States.
Despite his unwanted advances toward her, Alexa’s work ethic had not changed from day one. She arrived at the clinic before him each day, she remained professional, and she worked her butt off. But one Friday afternoon, she realized she was not Superwoman. The clinic had an unusually large number of patients, and all the doctors were working diligently to see to each one. She’d grown used to the demanding schedule, but suddenly, while talking with a patient, she became dizzy. She closed her eyes momentarily – or so she thought. When she opened them again, she was in her own bed, surrounded by her friends in white coats. A cold towel had been placed on her forehead.
She was confused. “What happened?” she asked.
“You fainted,” Gary told her.
“What?” She gained full awareness. “Are you sure?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m a doctor. I think I know when a woman faints.”
“I can’t believe this,” she said, sitting up.
“Don’t worry,” Max told her. “It happens to all of us at one time or another.”
“Not me!” Alexa protested. “I’ve never fainted before.”
“Let me take a look at you,” Dr. Silva insisted. “Move back, everyone.”
“I’ll be fine,” Alexa insisted. She tried to rise from the bed.
“Please sit still,” Dr. Silva ordered. “I just want to make sure you are okay.”
“I’m telling you, I am.”
“Maybe it was something you ate,” Gary suggested.
“Or you could be pregnant,” Max joked.
I haven’t had sex in almost six months. Now, that really would be the Immaculate Conception!
“I’ll take care of her,” Dr. Silva addressed the others. “The patients need you.”
Alexa caught Gary’s nervous look. “He’s right,” she admitted.
Reluctantly, the other doctors filed out of the room, leaving their boss to make a quick examination of Alexa. Dr. Silva began testing her reflexes by gently thumping her knees. “You have been working very hard,” he observed. “Perhaps a little too hard.” His dark eyes penetrated hers. “What are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing. This is how I always work. Even back home.”
“Mmm hmm,” he murmured, peering into her eyes. He studied them for long moments before finally speaking. “I can detect no abnormalities,” he announced. “You’ve got good reflexes, a strong heartbeat, and beautiful eyes.”
“Is that a medical diagnosis or your personal opinion?” Alexa snapped.
He gave her a hurt look, like she’d just slapped him on the hand. “I only meant that your pupils are clear and your corneas are healthy and white. There is no yellowing, which could indicate problems with your liver or some other internal infection.”
“Oh.” She looked at the floor. “Sorry.”
“However,” he pressed on. “It is also my personal opinion that your eyes are beautiful.”
She shot him an exasperated look. “Don’t you ever give up?”
“Never,” he assured her. “Tenacity is my trademark.”
“Oh really? Then maybe you should get the nickname cabeçudo.”
He ignored her remark. “You need to get more rest,” he advised. “You are working yourself to exhaustion.”
“I’m getting plenty of rest already.”
“Then maybe it was the heat that made you faint.”
“I’m from Texas,” she reminded him. “I assure you, I can handle the heat.”
He captured her eyes with an erotic gaze. “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say.”
She hadn’t meant it like that. But he had. In response, he leaned forward and kissed her fully on the mouth. She was unprepared for him, but she didn’t fight it. His kiss was gentle and persuasive, coaxing her to open up and allow him entrance. His lips were full and soft, applying just the right amount of pressure. As she probed the silky interior of his mouth, she felt the texture of his tongue as it wrapped around hers. His mouth tasted sweet, like fresh mangoes.
He pulled her into his embrace, and she waited for the rush of passion, the surge of heat to shoot through her body.
Nothing.
He was a good kisser, but that was where the compliments ended. There was no spark between them. No magic. No chemistry. Something was missing. You know what it is. He’s not Tristan. She ab
ruptly pulled away from him. “Perhaps I do need some rest,” she said.
“Okay,” he accepted her excuse. “But do me a favor,” he asked before walking out. “Next time you land with your feet in the air, make sure it’s in my bed, not yours.”
She smiled. She was beginning to appreciate the fact that she only had one more month left here. She didn’t think she was ready for any more of Dr. Silva’s attention. How ironic. The man she really wanted didn’t want her, and the man she had no feelings for was pursuing her as if his life depended on it. Dr. Silva had turned out to be nice guy after all, but he didn’t light her fire. Nobody lit her fire like Tristan; his kisses had left her breathless.
She lay back down and curled into a ball. When would she stop comparing other men to him? When would she stop missing him? She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t think about him, but little by little, he kept creeping into her subconscious, invading her thoughts like a foreign army and infiltrating her defenses. It wasn’t fair. Tristan had moved on with his life and she was still stuck in Lonely Heart Lane.
* * *
On their last night in Caapiranga, the group was invited to dinner at the home of Dr. Silva’s sister, Lydia. Since he was a bachelor and she was a widow, she took it upon herself to take care of him and make home-cooked meals for him every Sunday. Eight years his senior, she was a pretty, older woman with a smattering of tiny freckles, long black hair, and a heart-shaped face.