Introducing Nick Dixon (in love with the wrong woman) ...
Once inside the vestibule, the doors to the sanctuary were propped open for an easy entrance. I crossed over the threshold, mesmerized. The already beautiful sanctuary was transformed into a majestic playhouse, and the new setting seemed to spill into the hall as if the splendor couldn’t be contained.
The lighting gave the illusion that the pews had shrunk. Nick bumped into me as I walked admiring the changes. The transformation had the Mackenzie touch.
“You don't need any interpretation. Everybody knows the story of Christ's birth,” he said, suggesting in another section where we were three rows from the makeshift stage. I agreed, shook off my coat and followed. I knelt to pray then sat and rested my coat and Bible beside me. Stretching my legs I had just thanked an usher for a program of the night’s performance when Nick tapped me on my arm.
“You know I’m in love with her,” Nick said, his expression serious.
“Who?”
I followed the direction of his star-gazed eyes—Valerie.
I was about to say good luck, but thought better of it. Then I reconsidered. The brother needed to know what he was getting into. “She’s a piece of work.”
Nick blew out a deep breath. “Don’t I know it, but God knows it, too. She doesn’t know that the man she’s searching for is right in front of her. I’m waiting, watching, and praying for God to not only speak to her, but give Val the mind to hear what God has in store for her.” He grinned and nudged me. “You and Mackenzie can’t be the only happy couple in church.”
I wished Nick’s confession was an answer to my prayers and could possibly deliver Valerie’s tormented soul. The lights dimmed to my relief. I didn’t want to talk or think about Valerie until it was necessary. For the next hour, I lip-read some of the songs. When those around me put their hands together, I mimicked them. When their bodies shook with laughter, I laughed, knowing I had clearly missed the amusement.
2007 Mr. Romance Finalist Fred Williams
PROLOGUE
On Thanksgiving Day, November 27th at nine-thirty in the morning, I fell in love. It was swift and irrevocable. Common sense was hopeless. Without warning or fanfare, I had succumbed to Mackenzie Norton’s allure. Love is such a strange emotion—never enough time to savor all the sweet moments. It’s hindsight now that I’ve lost her.
Sometimes the memories taunt me, other times they provide comfort. When my eyes close, Mackenzie appears. Her brown eyes twinkled, causing a sexy glow to spread across her face. Her hypnotic trance released strong vibes that were undeniable. She was such a puzzle, allowing me the pleasure of seeing her pieces fit. Inside the church walls, she was sober. With me, her mischievous antics would issue challenges.
Mackenzie. The way she commanded her body possessed my senses. Thank you, God, for my eyes to see. With deliberate movements, Mackenzie’s hands beckoned to me, sprinkling magic along the way. Long slender arms danced with the grace of a swan.
For initial five-seconds I laid eyes on her, I had dismissed her until she demanded my attention without her trying. I quickly withdrew my opinion that she wasn’t a head-turner. A gentle spirit tempered her powerful personality.
Yes, Mackenzie’s magnetism was undeniable. She became my teacher, and I a willing student. I chuckle at the memories. At first, we could’ve spoken, but we enjoyed the silent communication.
Mackenzie had the most enchanting smile. Ah! Did I mention her lips? They were my worst distraction and her best assets—shapely and full in a natural pout. They moved like a musician manipulating his instruments. Have I mentioned she was feisty and committed to her convictions?
Glistening skin reminded me of wet brown sugar—my attraction. A head of messy curls was her crowning glory. On any other woman, the look would’ve been scary. Mackenzie made it stylish as it cuddled her oval face.
Whoever dared utter that stupid saying, men aren’t perfect? Well, they hadn’t seen a woman named Mackenzie. The compact five-feet-four-inch woman was perfect.
During our quiet time, we didn’t blink twice as we mouthed our promises to each other. We honored each word with sincerity and care, vowing not to break one. It happened anyway. Mackenzie was to blame, or maybe it was I.
One evening we indulged in quietness. Watching the sunset at a nearly deserted playground, I spoke aloud a wish as I nudged Mackenzie on a swing. “I miss dancing. More than anything I wish we could dance the night away.”
Mackenzie dug her heels into the ground, halting the swing. Turning around, she finger-kissed the sadness, disappointment, and pain out of my eyes. “I promise, Noel, one day we’ll dance.”
I didn’t hear her, but I knew she whispered because she always touched me when she did. Now our chance will never come. I hate broken promises. At least God is dependable with His promises.
It had nothing to do with me being one of twenty-eight million Americans classified as oral deaf, Deaf, or hearing-impaired. Sixteen years earlier, doctors delivered the tragic news to my parents, family, and friends. I had loss hearing. They were in shock. My mother cried. My dad temporarily withdrew, lacking the skills to communicate with me. My youngest brother, Caleb, thought I had become a robot, but my older brother, Pierce, embraced my new world and me. His compassion helped to guide the Richardsons to a place of mental and physical recovery.
Therefore after all the ENT doctors’ testing, surgery, and the audiologists’ retesting were done, I was labeled as “late deafened adult” that meant I wasn’t part of the “Deaf culture” who fought to remain Deaf until they died. Hierarchy existed within the Deaf culture. So the final song I heard was Donna Summer’s Last Dance. I guess it truly was my rhythmic groove.
Well, the pity party is officially over. I’ve moved on. For me, like many others, external influences were the culprit for my deafness, not genetic flaws or pregnancy complications. I’m lucky; no, I’m blessed to be alive, unlike Keith Morrow. His parents couldn’t cope with losing their only child in a freak explosion near a fireworks plant.
Anyway, I appreciate interpreters, and grew accustomed to them signing at events, but it was Mackenzie’s contagious enthusiasm that sucked me into a storm, whirling me into the eye of the hurricane. Never had I witnessed an interpreter wrapped up in so much pleasure and total involvement in communicating what was happening around me.
Not only did I see and feel; Mackenzie made me believe I could hear the choir’s rendition of My Life Is in Your Hands, a Kirk Franklin original after my deafness. Somehow, my mind played tricks on me as I listened to the instruments.
My heart jumped at thunderous rumble inflicted by Mackenzie’s imaginary wooden stick, pounding invisible drums and tapping fictitious cymbals. With confidence, her fingers stroked pretend piano keys.
Her expression, most humorous, depicted the altos’ deep voices and the sopranos’ melodious high pitches. Who knew that when I stepped into the God’s Grace Apostolic Church, I would enter utopia? Suddenly, I felt like praising God for what I had—my eyes to gaze, hands to enjoy her soft skin, and a heart that throbbed faster when she was close. At that moment, for some unexplained reason, I thanked God that I was deaf. Can you believe that?
Thanking God for allowing the worst event to happen in my life to make me the happiest. How else would I’ve met a woman whose love was fierce and unconditional? Then months after our meeting, I, Noel Richardson, lost Mackenzie Norton.
Friday, May 30, 2008
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