by Jane Porter
Good? Jamie Spears’s baby’s on Prozac? That’s the big tease for Wednesday’s show? “Who wrote the headline?”
“Mark.”
“But Jamie’s baby is two and he’s definitely not on Prozac.”
“Of course he isn’t.” She laughs. “But it’s juicy and people will tune in to hear what’s happening in the Spearses’ household.”
And okay, this is snippy, but is this really the job I’m fighting to save?
Maybe what I need to fight to save is the show itself. Maybe it’s time to take back our programming. Women, our key demographic, must want more. I know I want more.
Although I could conference call in for the nine a.m. production meeting Tuesday morning, I put in an appearance instead. With a four-day holiday weekend looming, I want to make sure everybody remembers that I’m still the host of this show and plan on remaining the host, too.
Upon arriving at the office, I find that the books I ordered on plastic surgery from Amazon are here. I take a couple of the books into the production meeting with me and pitch the idea of doing a series of stories in the New Year on plastic surgery. I tell them I’d like to interview men and women who’ve had work done and see if they’re happy.
I draw the New York Times article from a folder and slide it across the table so everyone in the meeting can see. “This just ran in the Sunday New York Times. Cosmetic surgery is a two-billion-dollar industry and growing. So are people who are spending the money happy with their decision to get work done? Did surgery give them what they want, and need?”
“Tyra Banks just did a show like this last week,” Libby answers. “Most of her guests had disastrous experiences and terrible scarring.”
“But she probably solicited for the horror stories,” Harper points out. “I think Tiana’s wanting a more balanced view.”
She looks at me for confirmation, and I nod. “That’s just it. Are most people happy with their decision? Are they not just physically, but psychologically, satisfied?”
“Is there a celeb angle?” Mark asks bluntly.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I was looking at interviewing ordinary men and women, people like our viewers. In fact, I thought we could use our Web site blog and ask viewers to share with us their experiences.” I glance at Glenn. “But I’m sure we could sprinkle some celebs into the piece. That would be easy, and I think that’s a great idea, Mark.”
Glenn nods. “I like it. Just hammer out the logistics and let me know who will handle the screening, the number of segments you intend to do, and what week you anticipate the stories running.”
I smile, feeling victorious. “Will do.” Finally a story I like, a story that’s appropriate, and a story I vow to make good.
Back in my office, I flip through the plastic surgery books while returning phone calls. I closely study the before-and-after photos of everything from lipo thighs to breast lifts to breast reduction to eyelids and necks and full face-lifts. There are photos and surgeries for everything. Upper arms. Inner thighs. Tummy tucks. Nose jobs. Chin implants. Labiaplasty.
Labiaplasty.
My stomach churns as I read about the procedure—the prep, the recovery, the technique. Normally not squeamish, I find it difficult to look at the before-and-after photos. I can understand doing the surgery if one honestly can’t walk or function, but for beauty’s sake?
Is it something I’d seriously consider?
No.
Marta calls me while I’m typing up my ideas for the feature. I haven’t talked to her in ages, and I sit back in my chair, happy to hear from her. “Happy almost-Thanksgiving. How are you?”
“Great,” she answers, and in the background there’s a loud screech. “That’s Zach,” she explains with a good-natured laugh. “He’s discovered the joy in vocalizing.”
“I can’t wait to see him again.”
“He’s grown so much. He’s a brute.”
“Just like his dad?” I tease, as Marta absolutely adores her husband, Luke, who is a gorgeous specimen of a man at six feet seven, with the coloring of a Celtic warrior.
She laughs appreciatively. Marta with her long, straight dark hair is biker tough on the outside, but on the inside she’s fiercely loyal and almost too tender; her children and husband are her Achilles’ heel.
God, I want this for myself. A baby. A family. People I belong to. People who belong to me.
I used to think I should do what Marta did to conceive Eva and just go to a sperm bank and make a baby. But unlike Marta, I don’t think I could be a single mom. I want a partner— a lover— to be there to raise a child with me.
“We have a new date for the baptism,” Marta says, “but before we confirm it and invite everyone, I wanted to make sure it’d work for you since you’re going to be the godmother.”
I reach for my desk calendar. “What’s the date?”
“The morning of Sunday, December twenty-eighth. We hoped you could come join us for Christmas and then just stay on for the baptism. That is, unless you have something else planned for Christmas…?”
Trevor flashes to mind, but I don’t see us spending Christmas together. I’m not good with holidays, never have been, and I tend to spend them with friends who really know me, friends like Marta, Shey, or Christie. “December twenty-eighth sounds great, and Christmas could work, but let’s leave that loose for now, okay?”
“But December twenty-eighth for the baptism is a go?”
“A definite go.”
“Eva will be so glad to see you. We all miss you. Aunt T is really loved around here, you know.”
I swallow the ache of emotion. “I miss you, too.” And it’s so true. For it’s when I’m with friends who’ve known me forever, since we met at St. Pious when I was sixteen, that I feel the real me emerge. And the real me isn’t glossy and glam, but driven and hungry and sometimes just damn confused.
Life hasn’t been what I thought it’d be. I’ve achieved far more than I ever expected, but it feels like so much less than I wanted.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving, Tia? You do have plans, don’t you?”
For the first time I hear a note of worry in her voice, and it touches me. Marta isn’t touchy-feely, but she sounds almost maternal now. Being a mom has definitely softened her edges. “Christie, my friend in Laguna Beach, has invited me to join her family for dinner. She has three girls and numerous in-laws, so it keeps things lively.”
She hesitates, then adds gently, “I know it’s not an easy day for you.”
For a moment I say nothing, my insides hot and excruciatingly sensitive. When it comes to Thanksgiving, my heart’s perpetually bruised. I got word on Thanksgiving Day that Keith had been killed.
“Seven years, isn’t it?” she adds even more gently.
Marta knows these things. She and Shey were my bridesmaids. Keith and I married on Valentine’s Day. It would have been eight years this coming February. Instead he died three months before our first anniversary.
For a moment I can’t speak. Even now grief is huge. Loss goes so deep. It’s like the ocean, vast and dark and endless. I am here, on the other side, only because Marta and Shey swam me across. “I love you, Ta,” I say huskily. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You don’t have to do without me. I’ll always be here. Shey, too. You’re ours.”
I blink, wishing I could jump on a plane right now and fly up to Seattle for a hug. “Give Eva and Zach a kiss for me, and give my best to Luke.”
“I will. And Tiana, see you soon.”
After hanging up, I bury my face in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the emotion.
I have read every book I could on grief, trying to come to terms with death and dying. People used to tell me that time would heal. Time didn’t heal. Time just made me numb.
I go to the window and look out at the tidy towers and plazas of Century City and the wide boulevards below. I take a deep breath. I hate being thirty-eight and yet feeling like
a child instead of a woman. I hate the fear. I hate the emptiness. I hate the inability to trust.
I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to date only distant, shallow men who don’t challenge me or ask for my love. I don’t want to always be alone.
But if I love again, if I dare to love, I risk not just my heart but my sanity.
I can’t lose anyone again. I can’t go to that dark place again. I’m not that strong a swimmer. I’m tired, and God forgive me, but this time I’d drown.
Thursday morning I don’t have to go to work, as Manuel’s handling the Thanksgiving show, and I close my eyes to sleep for another twenty minutes. The next time I open my eyes it’s an hour later, and I’m groggier than ever. No reason to get up, I think, pulling up the covers. But then, there’s no reason to stay in bed, either.
Sleepily I climb from bed, stagger into my robe, and head to the kitchen to start coffee.
While coffee brews, I turn on the kitchen TV to watch Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. For three years I co-hosted HBC’s parade show and it was always freezing cold, but it was also good for me as it kept my mind off the day. I don’t like having time on my hands on this day.
I was worried when they didn’t ask me to host the show this year. I kept waiting for them to ask, but they didn’t. In the end I phoned Max and had him find out what was going on, and it turned out HBC decided to drop their parade coverage. I was relieved. I know it’s spiteful, but better they drop the coverage than ask Shelby to host.
Dressing for today’s Thanksgiving dinner at Christie’s should be easy. It’s a simple family dinner, but I struggle with what to wear, eventually settling on a brown Michael Kors blouse and pants and a turquoise, coral, and silver necklace; but then I struggle to get motivated to do my hair and makeup. I’m getting sad despite myself. I’m thinking of Keith even though I vowed not to.
I’m feeling brittle as I drive down the canyon toward the freeway entrance. There’s no traffic and the sun is hazy and my eyes burn. Seven years without Keith. Several days without a call from Trevor. Why am I seeing him? Clinging to this long-distance relationship? It doesn’t work, it’ll never work, but God, it’s so much better than being alone.
I hate being alone.
I hate dating even more.
There’s no traffic as I merge onto the freeway. Everyone’s already somewhere preparing to eat turkey. This is the first year in five years I’ve had a proper Thanksgiving as I usually host specials or attend parades around the country.
To keep from thinking, I drive with the stereo blasting, the songs from the CD player on shuffle, and it’s a hodgepodge of Aretha, Coldplay, Snow Patrol, and the original cast album from Rent. It takes only one song, the song “Without You” from Rent, to bring me to my knees.
“Without You.”
I reach out to push skip but can’t make myself. My song. How many times did I play this after Keith died? How many times did I cry trying to understand how life can just go on without him?
I lower my window and let the wind rush through the car. And then the song comes to an end and I hit repeat.
I drive crying. I drive letting the music unbury the grief, letting the music dust off my love.
This album is my Keith album. This is the one that reaches into my chest and rips my heart out. I shouldn’t be playing it today, not now, not on my way for turkey and cranberries. But in a way I’m glad to be here, in this place, in this deep, aching grief where it’s real and honest and true. Where I am real and honest and true. So much in my life isn’t real, or true.
But love and loss are.
And Keith was.
Although Keith would be disgusted that I call Rent my Keith album.
I crack a small, watery smile.
We saw the show together in New York in September, a month before his final trip to Afghanistan. He hated it. I loved it. Loved it.
I was on my feet during the curtain call, applauding like mad, and Keith, my Mr. Nonemotional, looked at me as though I were an alien, which made me laugh, and I have never been so full of emotions as I was that night. I was laughing and crying, singing, clapping, dancing, and I remember thinking, This is what life is. Messy and huge and brutal and beautiful.
Keith died seven weeks later.
I stop at a McDonald’s ten minutes from Christie’s and go inside to repair my makeup. My eyes are still pink despite the new mascara and eyeliner. And looking into my reflection in the McDonald’s ladies’ room, I still see Keith in my eyes.
The bathroom door opens and a little girl runs in. I turn from the mirror and smile. I will only ever show the world my happy face.
I arrive at Christie and Simon’s just after two. One of the garage bays is open and Simon’s red convertible is missing, so I park on the far side of the drive to give him access when he returns.
Their two-story concrete block of a house looks severe from the outside, but the interior frames the spectacular view perfectly. The house sits high above the ocean and every window on the west side overlooks the water, revealing cocoa cliffs, sapphire waves, and the sandy cove below.
Christie opens the door and greets me with a hug, mindful of my bags and platters. “Happy Thanksgiving!” She’s wearing a brown-and-white animal-print tunic with a chunky bead necklace, and her necklace crunches against my collarbone in her quick hug. “How was the drive?”
“Easy. Fast.”
She looks at me closely. “You okay?”
“Yes. Wonderful.”
She’s not entirely convinced, but she doesn’t press. “Let me take some of that,” she offers, reaching for the three ceramic platters and flowers.
I’m happy to share some of my burden, and I follow her into the house, closing the door behind me with my foot. “Where’s Simon?”
“He got called in to the hospital. But we’re hoping he’ll be back by dinner.”
The girls come rushing down the staircase, screaming and feet pounding. “Tiana! Tiana’s here!”
I set down the bags and hug each of them in turn. Christie’s girls, just like Marta’s Eva, always make me feel like a rock star.
“Hey, girls.” Hands on my hips, I grin and take them all in. They’ve grown again, and at eleven, nine, and seven they’re as opposite as opposite can be. Melanie’s a little Simon, brown hair and brown eyes. Melissa’s the spitting image of her mom, blonde hair and blue eyes. And Kari with her red curls, well, she must be the milkman’s daughter. No one knows where her dark red curls came from.
“We’re setting up Disney Princess Monopoly,” Melissa tells me. “Come play!”
“You have to play, Tiana,” Kari adds.
Disney Princess Monopoly. If that doesn’t get the heart pumping, I don’t know what would. “Maybe later?” I say, catching Christie’s smirk. She finds it very funny that I can’t say no to her girls. “But first I need to help your mom in the kitchen. She’s got a lot to do today.”
“But we already counted out your money,” replies Melanie, the youngest.
“And it’ll be boring without you,” Kari, the eleven-year-old, adds. She’s in a phase where everything is now boring and babyish for her.
“I will play,” I promise them, “but first let me put together the appetizers I brought and lend your mom some help in the kitchen.” When the girls protest again, I hold up a hand. “Unless you all want to help your mom in the kitchen instead?”
They scream and run back up the stairs, feet pounding once again, and Christie makes a face and reaches for one of my grocery bags. “Something tells me I’m not raising them right,” she says.
We head to the kitchen with the flowers and groceries. I slip the bottle of white wine into the fridge to chill and start unpacking the bags, placing platters on the counter along with the ingredients for my fruit-and-cheese tray.
“That’s all right,” I console her, unpacking the Tupperware containers with my ingredients for the baked mushroom caps and stuffed Brie. “You’ve got me.”
“Gr
eat. The girl that doesn’t know how to cook.”
“I know how to cook.” I see her expression. “Appetizers.”
She laughs and returns to the preparation of her stuffing. “So what’s the latest at America Tonight? Are they serious about making Shelby a co-anchor?”
I open the package of thawed puff pastry for my baked Brie. “All the big network bosses were there Monday, for one hour.” I exhale and begin unwrapping the wheel of Brie. “The one hour I wasn’t there on Monday.”
“Was Shelby there?”
I look at her, nod grimly. “I’m trying to keep my cool, but it’s hard when it feels like I suddenly have no control.”
“So why all the Shelby fanfare now?”
“I’m skewing older and the bosses are worried that I’ve forever lost the younger audience.”
Christie grimaces. “Which is key.”
I nod again.
“So it really is about age,” she concludes.
“The one thing we can’t fight,” I answer, reaching for a baking sheet.
“I can’t imagine they really want to replace you. You’re so good, Tiana. You’re skilled, talented, professional. Experience does count.” She gives me a hard look. “Would you consider plastic surgery?”
No. But I shrug philosophically, far more philosophically than I feel. “I think I have to.”
But Christie doesn’t buy it for a moment. “You wouldn’t. You don’t even like Botox. You freaked the time they asked you to try collagen in your lips— ”
“It hurt.”
“Face-lifts hurt.”
“I’ve heard, and to be honest, the idea of being cut freaks me. Having my skin cut, stretched, lifted, and restitched? That’s a Freddy Krueger movie.”
“Thank God not everyone’s so squeamish, huh?”
I laugh weakly. But she’s right. I wouldn’t go under the knife, not unless I had no other choice, and I’m not out of options, not by a long shot.
“I’m not against cosmetic surgery, though,” I add, and tell her about the feature I’m researching and all the books with the before-and-after photos. “The after photos look great, but there is still something sad about the body being treated like a lump of clay. I’m not judging those who do it, I’m just saying I don’t understand it.”
