From the Beginning (13 page)

Didn’t mean he had to focus on what had been instead of what was.

Shaking his head to clear it, he shoved the emotion, the baggage, down where it belonged. And got started doing what he did best.

He worked for about an hour and a half editing the story, piecing bits of film together for the cleanest look and the biggest emotional payoff. He knew the feeling he was going for, knew the stories—the people—he wanted to use to best illustrate what was going on over there, but still, there was so much footage to go through. So much pain to document. So many incredible sound bytes that it was much harder to narrow them down than usual.

When Mark Douglas, his cameraman and friend, walked in, Simon was deep in the middle of footage of Tarek, a fourteen-year-old boy he had met in Afghanistan. The kid was blind in one eye, scarred on the left side of his face from being shot when he was eleven and not receiving the proper medical care. Like so many of the Afghan children, he was orphaned, having lost both his parents to violence in the past eleven years.

“I remember that kid,” Mark said, tapping the screen. “He was a fighter.”

Simon nodded, not bothering to look up until he’d inserted the interview piece he wanted into the beginning of his documentary. When he finally got it right, he turned to Mark with his first genuine smile of the day.

“Glad to see you made it back in one piece,” he told the other man.

“I thought that was my line. You’re the one who had to fly in and out of Somalia. How’d that go, anyway?”

Simon thought of Amanda, strung out and exhausted, and of the fight they’d had that afternoon. But all he said was, “It went good. Everything’s fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” Mark clapped him on the back to emphasize his point. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Freaked out. I mean, you’re always so cool, no matter what’s going on. It’s one of the reasons the others are jealous that I get to go into the field with you.”

Simon shook his head. “I watch this station every day. The other field reporters are just as good as I am.”

Mark shook his head. “Some of them are, some of them aren’t. But none of them is as good at keeping their head when things go to shit around them. You always manage to detach from what’s happening, to stand aside from it and figure out what to do, no matter how chaotic or screwed up things get. Which, as someone who has benefited from that on more than one occasion, I appreciate.”

Simon wasn’t sure how to respond to that—wasn’t sure his supposed detachment was a compliment. The uncertainty must have shown on his face because Mark clapped him on the back again and said, “I mean, that’s a good thing. It’s an awesome trait to have when you’re a reporter.”

Yeah, but maybe not such an awesome one to have as a human being. Simon almost said as much, but bit his tongue at the last minute. It wasn’t Mark’s fault Simon was such an utter bastard. Wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own.

As if sensing that he’d gone too far, Mark cleared his throat and nodded at the screen. “Can I see what you’ve done?”

“Sure.” Simon cued the footage and it started at the beginning. He had only about twenty-eight minutes of the forty-seven-minute documentary laid down, and about five of those weren’t yet set in stone. But as he watched the scenes play out in front of him, he couldn’t help nodding. Already the voice-over parts were weaving themselves together in his head. His crew had done a good job.

He glanced at Mark, intending to congratulate him, but saw that his cameraman had tears in his eyes as he watched the screen. Of course, Mark caught him looking and flushed a little. He was obviously embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did Simon. The stuff they were watching was tough, some of it almost impossible to imagine despite the fact that they had been there.

That was the whole point of the special, to bring the reality of life over there into people’s living rooms. To touch them, to make them think. To help them understand.

He should be proud of what he’d done, proud of what they’d all done. He could see that Mark was. And Simon supposed that he was, as well. But that satisfaction was cushioned by the detachment he always felt, by the buffer he kept between himself and the people he reported on.

If he was honest, he would admit that it was the same buffer he’d kept between himself and Amanda all these years. The same buffer he’d kept between himself and Gabby, though she was his daughter and he had loved her very much. He hadn’t allowed himself to show that love, at least not in the way that other fathers did.

Oh, he’d brought her things from all over the world, had taken her to amusement parks and movies and even on vacation to Hawaii, though she’d been too young to appreciate the beauty of the island. But he’d never been very demonstrative, never been one to hug her unless she hugged him first and expected it in return. Never been one to think about her when he was away from her.

Not like Amanda, who had let so much of her life revolve around their little girl. When Gabby was a baby, Amanda had turned her whole life around to stay in the States and work until Gabby was a year old and able to go with her to Jamaica and Mexico and Haiti.

And when Gabby had gotten sick, Amanda had turned into a tiger mom. She’d rushed their daughter back to the States, called in every favor she could from the best oncologists in the country, all in an effort to make Gabby well. She’d put her whole career, her whole life, on hold for their daughter.

Unlike him. Simon had rushed in with toys and sympathy, but had never managed to stick around for the hard stuff. For the aftermath of the chemo appointments, the bone-marrow transplant that didn’t take, the last weeks and days as Gabby faded quietly away.

It had hurt him when his daughter had died. But he hadn’t let it devastate him or even slow him down. He hadn’t allowed his heart to break. Not the way Amanda’s had.

God, he really was an utter failure as a human being, so concerned with being in control that he never really let himself feel.

With that knowledge in the forefront of his mind, Simon worked long into the night, long after Mark had taken off to be with his own wife and daughter.

As he loaded more footage, he had to stop several times when images of those last few months with Gabby kept slipping into his mind. He’d never let himself dwell on them at the time, or take them out and examine them after she had died.

Images of her wasting away to nothing, unable to eat because of the chemo-induced nausea.

Gabby crying from the pain. Sitting on her mother’s lap, holding on to her for all she was worth as Amanda did everything she could to keep the nightmares—and the Grim Reaper—at bay.

Picture after picture after picture came to him as he tried to bury himself once again in work. The images weren’t all sad, and maybe that was worse, because seeing her healthy and happy was somehow even harder.

Hours passed as he tried to work, battling back the emotions he’d suppressed for so long. When he couldn’t take it anymore, when he thought he might actually go insane if he stayed in that editing room for one more second, he burst out into the main studio to find the offices all but abandoned. Only the skeleton crew that worked overnight was left.

He traversed the building quickly, striding onto the sidewalk just as dawn burst across the sky in a multihued spectacle. He paused for a moment, stared at the red-orange-and-purple-streaked sky, and very nearly broke down for the first time in his adult life.

Deliberately turning away from the dazzling beauty of the sunrise, he walked in the opposite direction. Not really caring where he was going, just wanting to be somewhere else. Wanting to be
someone
else, if only for a little while.

He walked for well over an hour, wandering the streets as Atlanta slowly came to life.

The narrow boulevards of downtown began to fill with cars and people. Traffic in and out of the skyscrapers that lined the sidewalks increased exponentially. Lights came on in restaurants and he found himself stopping at a coffee shop on the same block as the Loews, buying two huge cups of coffee and a couple of muffins.

Then, unsure of his reception but knowing there was nowhere else he’d rather be, he headed up the street to the hotel. To Amanda.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AMANDA CRAWLED OUT OF BED at the first knock, stumbling to the door on unsteady legs. She was exhausted, after having spent another sleepless night in her too-plush bed, trying to avoid her failures as a mother and a doctor.

She hesitated with her hand on the lock, unsure if she really wanted to open the door. She knew who was on the other side—who else would it be?—and she did
not
want to deal with Simon right now. Not if it meant they were going to fight. She was tired and more than a little shaky. Certainly not up to holding her own with him, at least not right now.

But she also couldn’t leave him out in the hall. He wouldn’t give up and it was still early enough that people in the neighboring rooms would be annoyed. Besides, she didn’t want a repeat of yesterday, anyway. Finally, she turned the knob, prepared to tell him to get lost.

But the second she caught sight of him, the words clogged her throat. For the first time since he’d shown up in Somalia, he looked as tired and worn-down as she felt. And when he held up a cup of coffee and a pastry bag, she saw a hint of vulnerability in his eyes that he didn’t try to hide.

It was that look, more than anything else, that had her pushing the door wide and stepping aside so that he could come in. She thought about going into the bathroom and slipping on one of the hotel robes to cover the shorts and tank top she normally slept in, but in the end decided it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already seen everything she had, more times than she could possibly count.

“I think I got it right,” Simon said as he handed the coffee to her. “Lots of milk and one packet of sugar?”

She nodded. “That’s perfect. Thanks.” She took a sip and again felt that curious warmth deep inside of her. For a moment, she wondered if it was the coffee or Simon, then let the thought go. It didn’t matter, because the only thing in the room coming close to her mouth today was the coffee.

Whatever had happened between them the day before had been an aberration and she was so
not
going to repeat her mistake. Not now and not ever.

Silence reigned for long minutes as they simply stood at opposite ends of the room and quietly sipped their coffee. Tension stretched taut between them and she had a difficult time keeping herself from doing something she
never
did—nervously chattering to fill up the disquiet. Mindless chitchat was so not her bag, but the tension was making her long for a distraction. Any distraction.

Simon must have felt the same because he broke first. Holding up the bag, he mumbled, “I brought muffins.”

“Oh.” Her uneasy stomach almost revolted at the thought of the rich pastry. “Well, thank you.”

“Chocolate and blueberry. I mean, one of each, not together. I didn’t know what you wanted. I mean—”

He seemed to forcibly stop himself, and as she stared into dazed green eyes, Amanda realized he was as shocked by his inane outburst as she was. Simon was a lot of things, but a rambler was not one of them, and there was something oddly endearing about watching him bumble around. Maybe because it meant he was even more nervous than she was.

Concern bloomed inside of her, along with a hint of affection that made her head hurt all over again. She tried to nip both emotions in the bud, not wanting to feel anything for him after the debacle of yesterday afternoon. But it was nearly impossible. Not when she suddenly remembered all of his good points and the warm feelings she’d once had for him. Feelings that she’d thought had been totally eclipsed by what he’d done eighteen months before. Now, however, she wasn’t so sure, and while that uncertainty made her very nervous, she also felt more compassion toward Simon than she had in a long time.