INTRODUCING Todd Daniels, Chicago, IL...
When God closes one door, another one opens. Alexander Graham Bell perhaps knew what he was talking about, and despite who said it, I welcomed a crack in the door.
Maybe my co-worker, Todd Daniels, was that crack. He was a nice guy, good-looking, and church-going. A transplant from Houston, he was a designer’s assistant at Goodman. A day didn’t go by where he didn’t compliment my attire, encourage a smile, or engage me in a production decision.
More than once he invited me to lunch, which I always declined, but Todd was wearing down my resistance as he cornered me the moment I stepped off the elevator.
“Hey, Mackie,” Todd teased. At first, I considered his pet name, a pet peeve. Now I enjoyed hearing the endearment. His habit of invading my space forced me to come in contact with his nameless cologne. At least he smelled good. “Are you hungry?”
My stomach growled; answering before my lips lied. Grinning, I blushed with embarrassment, which made his eyes danced with mischief.
Grabbing my hand, he tugged me toward the lobby. “I’ll take that as a yes. A bunch of us are going around the corner for a quick bite.” He smiled, exhibiting a slightly chipped front tooth.
I squinted and admired his clean-shaven face. Maybe, my mind softly suggested, just maybe it was safe to dive into the dating pool. If nothing else, I could dip my toes in the water. It was time to let my guard down. Todd and I were becoming more than casual co-workers, we were on the road to being good friends.
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, August 1, 2008
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