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I watched as he spoke, keeping my eyes on his mouth instead of his eyes. So bright blue and piercing, I found it hard to look at them directly.
There was silence for a moment and I realized he wasn't speaking any longer. He smiled indulgently.
"I'm sorry." I grimaced in embarrassment, although something he said about his mother stuck in my mind. "Can you tell me what project you're most proud of?"
He spoke about a pediatric neurosurgery program that brought patients to the US for the most delicate surgeries that couldn't be done as safely in local hospitals. I nodded and listened, my eyes focusing on everything but his eyes.
"Your father died while in Africa several years ago," I said, remembering the story.
"Yes. He died just after you came back from Africa."
"What happened?"
Drake blinked a few times, his eyes becoming distant. He fiddled with the cutlery.
"He was flying into a small base camp where he was going to do some work with a local charity." He glanced down at his hands when he spoke, as if it still hurt. "Even though we were political opposites and didn't always see eye to eye, when he died, it was as if the ground was ripped out from under me." He glanced back up and met my eyes. "Nothing has been able to fill the hole. Nothing. I took over the helm of his foundation because I thought doing his work might heal me in some way. That's how your father and I became friends. He came to the funeral and it was like he adopted me."
I shook my head. "I guess I just never saw my father as someone who would do that."
"What? Act fatherly?"
I nodded. "I mean, he's an authoritarian type – head of the family and all. But not to, you know, step in and act as a father substitute."
"He did. I relied on him to get through it." He looked back up at me and his expression was so earnest. Seeing his raw emotion, hearing it in his voice, something in the way he said it brought out emotions that were just under the surface and I couldn't help myself. My throat choked up a bit.
"I know what it means to lose a parent."
He smiled softly. "Your mother died of cancer a few years ago. The year before you went to Africa. Your father told me."
I nodded and a silence passed between us.
"Well, that's all I have," I said a little reluctantly, suddenly wishing I had more to ask. "I guess I should go. Don't want to keep you from the OR."
We both stood and he extended his hand. I took it and instead of shaking, he lifted my hand to his mouth, his lips soft against my knuckles.
"People have spoken so highly of you," he said, keeping my hand in his. "So has your father. In the past few days, I've read up a bit about you, reread your articles on Mangaize. Still so impressive. I don't know who I was expecting when I thought about meeting you. Someone older. Different. I was so surprised to actually meet you."
I pulled my hand away. "What do you mean?"
"Your writing – it's so visceral. Insightful for someone so young." I didn't know what to say about that and glanced away, stuffing my iPhone into my bag.
"I'm glad we could meet and talk," he said. "I'd like to interview you sometime, talk about Africa."
"I don't really like to talk about Africa."
"Why?"
"It was upsetting."
He nodded as if in understanding. "Your father told me you had problems after you came back. You were there at the height of the famine. It had to be very hard."
Problems… I didn't say more for my throat choked up at the thought. I nodded, glancing away.
For my Honors Degree, I wrote an investigative series on the politics of famine in West Africa. I had the opportunity to go there and volunteer, then report from the scene because of my father's connections in philanthropic and political circles. I was so ambitious back then – so certain of my own mental strength. So determined to succeed and become a foreign correspondent and please my father. In the end, it was too soon after my mother's death. I was still grieving but saw the trip as a chance to move forward.
My project had gravitas. Because of it, I won the Honors prize for my BA in Journalism at Columbia.
I also had a nervous breakdown.
