by Jane Porter
The organist plays the first keys. I know this song. Everyone rises to their feet.
The emotion I’ve fought all night returns, surging hot and wild through me. “Silent night, holy night…”
Tears fill my eyes. I would give anything to be a child in my mother’s arms again.
“All is calm…”
I would give anything to have lived with more love and less grief. The grief is huge and unending, and it is always there, in the back of my mind. Death can come at any time. Death can steal everyone we love.
“All is bright…”
I can’t stop the tears. I cling to the back of the pew, my heart on fire.
“Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child…”
God, I know I don’t talk to you often, but help me be not afraid. Help me be strong. Help me face all challenges with courage and calm.
I’m awake even before my alarm goes off and then I realize there is no alarm. There’s no need for an alarm. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to do. I lie in bed for another twenty, thirty minutes, half dozing, and then when the memories come rushing back again, memories of my family and Keith, and every memory is tinged with sadness, I throw back the covers and go to the bathroom.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The mirror reveals just how little I slept. Red, bloodshot eyes. Shadows beneath the eyes and a puffy brow bone. Christ. I really need an eye job now.
My house isn’t very festive. This year I didn’t purchase a tree or even poinsettias. I make a face at the stark interior, and after putting on the coffee, I make quick calls to Marta and Shey to wish them a Merry Christmas, then phone Christie to wish her a Happy Hanukkah, and then turn off the phone and settle onto my couch to watch my collection of Christmas movies.
I start with Miracle on 34th Street and then move on to It’s a Wonderful Life before finishing with White Christmas. And that pretty much takes care of Christmas Day.
Now I just need to figure out what to do with the next few weeks.
On December 27, I board the Alaska Airlines flight to Seattle for Zach’s baptism and spend the first hour of the flight working on my laptop, putting together story ideas I could pitch to other networks if the situation came to that.
I’m in the middle of typing when the man next to me faces me. “I know who you are,” he exclaims. “You’re on that show. Entertainment something or other. You’re her….” He shakes his finger at my face. “Come on. I know your name. T… T… Tiana! Tiana something. Right?”
I save my work. “Yes. Tiana Tomlinson, America Tonight.”
He sits back in his wide leather seat, smug. “I knew I recognized you.”
I smile briefly before turning my attention back to my laptop screen, anxious to use the last hour of the flight as efficiently as I did the first. But my seat mate now seems inclined to talk.
“I’m Bob,” he adds, propping his left elbow on the armrest to lean closer to me.
“Hello, Bob. Nice to meet you.”
“You know, it was the glasses that threw me. You don’t wear glasses on TV.”
“Not that often, no.” I frown at the screen, trying to remember where I was on this story I would just about kill to produce. It’s about Sveva Gallman, a young, slim, blonde warrior of a woman born in Kenya to Italian parents. I had the pleasure of hearing her speak in Baltimore four months ago at the Maryland Women’s Foundation and she dazzled the audience with her intelligence and fire and passion for Africa.
Sveva and I were both there being honored that night for our work. She, for working to preserve Kenya’s cultural heritage. Me, for bringing six years of celebrity news into America’s homes.
I told no one, but I was mortified to share the same stage. Mortified that I don’t make news but present it in tiny cheerful sound bites.
Once I wanted to change the world. Once I thought I could.
But Sveva’s passion touched me, and I felt the first stirring of an idea: a show devoted to extraordinary women, women who do heroic things not because they’re paid to, or because they’re photographed or even thanked, but because they believe they can make a difference. And they do.
I worked on the concept last September for an entire weekend, but then it got put away. And it’s only now, three months later, that I’ve returned to it, although I did put in some time during my Paris flight.
I’d start the show with the segment on Sveva. I’d go to Kenya and interview and film her there. I don’t know that I could get my show producers to sign off on me heading to Africa, but if I funded my own trip, they wouldn’t have a lot of say….
Heck, if I’m no longer employed in a month, they’d definitely have no say.
Not that I necessarily want to just quit my job outright, but I do want an opportunity to do fresh stories, inspiring stories. I believe there’s a place in news for empowering stories, too.
“What are you working on?” Bob asks, peering at my screen.
My fingers hover above the keyboard. I glance at Bob. He’s in his late fifties or early sixties and channeling George Hamilton with the white pin-striped shirt, orange tan, Botox brow, and dark pomade hair. “A human interest story.”
I begin typing again, but he’s still staring at my screen, trying to read what I’m writing, and I stiffen, my mind blanking in protest.
I flex my fingers, reread the last paragraph I’ve written. Unfortunately, Bob sees this as an opportunity to converse some more.
“But don’t you have people who do that for you? Aren’t you just the host?”
Just the host.
My jaw clenches. He’s hit a definite nerve. Once upon a time, I was considered a good writer. Call it what you will— talented journalist, respected reporter— I researched, wrote, and produced my own stories. But that’s been so long ago, I don’t even know what I am anymore. Other than famous.
“I have a journalism degree from Stanford,” I say evenly, gaze glued to the screen. “I spent nine years as a reporter before America Tonight.”
What I don’t say is that joining America Tonight opened me to criticism from my former colleagues. It took me less than sixty days to discover that my new salary and star power cost me dearly. The media demoted me, stripping me of my intellect.
And it’s funny, but Bob’s comment brings the old anger roaring back. I am not merely a host. I am still a journalist, and a good one. I can put together a great story, and I know the right questions to ask in an interview.
Just a host?
Hell, no.
Thank God we land on schedule. Even better, Shey’s already at the airport gate, waiting. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck and wearing oversize sunglasses. I’ve never seen Shey wear sunglasses inside a building, and I’m about to tease her that she’s gone Hollywood on me when I catch a glimpse of her eyes from the side.
Her eyes are pink. She’s been crying. In twenty years, I’ve seen Shey cry only once and that was at Keith’s funeral when she held me as I cried on Keith’s casket. She cried that day. And she’s crying now. What the hell is happening in her world?
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods, but her lips are pressed thin.
My heart knots. I’m scared, scared for her, because this isn’t Shey.
We walk through the Sea-Tac terminal and down the escalators to baggage claim, where we find a driver in a dark suit holding a sign with Shey’s name on it.
It’s not until we’re in the back of the town car, our bags stowed in the trunk, and the driver’s heading for the freeway that Shey finally pulls off her glasses. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “John and I have separated. He moved out last weekend.”
I don’t know what to say. John and Shey were perfect together. I know there have been problems lately, but they were an amazing couple and very much in love. “Why?”
Her thin shoulders shift. “We grew apart.”
“Shey.”
Her lower lip quivers a
nd she bites ruthlessly into it.
I reach out and put my hand on her arm. “This might just be temporary. Things will work out. They always do— ”
“I don’t think so. Not this time.”
I don’t want to hear this. Don’t want to believe this. Shey and John’s relationship is solid. Rock solid. I hold them up as my ideal, and if they can’t do it, who can? “Why not?” I cry, and I sound childish, almost desperate. But I loved them together. I needed them together. I need to believe people can stay together.
She doesn’t speak. Tears film her eyes. Blindly she reaches up to wipe the tears before they fall.
My fingers squeeze her forearm. “Shey, you can’t quit! Don’t give up— ”
“It’s not me, though. I don’t want this.” She’s struggling to catch the tears before they fall but failing miserably. “John’s the one who changed— ”
“No.”
“He loves the boys. He says he loves me. But he’s not in love with me anymore.”
“Is he seeing someone else?”
It takes her a long time to answer. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Yes, you can. This is me. Tits. Your best friend in the whole world,” I say fiercely even as tears fill my eyes.
“It’s just so impossible… so painful.”
I wait, blinking tears.
“Tiana, it’s… it’s… Oh God— ” She breaks off, gulps a breath. “It’s another man. A designer. John thinks… he thinks…” She swallows hard. Her voice drops so low that I have to strain to hear her. “He thinks he might be… gay…”
“Gay?”
She looks at me, her expression haunted. “He wants to tell the boys, and I’m terrified. Coop’s already struggling. He’s already self-conscious about his height and how thin he is. Bo’s dealing with depression. This will devastate all of them.”
How could it not?
I’m beyond dumbfounded, and we lapse into silence. I’m grateful for the silence, struggling to process everything. This isn’t the world as I know it. It’s not the world as I want to know it. I can’t even imagine Shey’s pain. She’s such a traditional girl. So small town and wholesome values. Her parents were married for fifty-three years. There’s never been a divorce in her family. She never looked at another man after she met John.
If Shey’s rock-solid marriage has come to this, what hope is there?
What relationship lasts?
Ten minutes from Marta and Luke’s new Medina waterfront house, Shey puts in some eyedrops and applies fresh makeup.
By the time we arrive she’s smiling, and she keeps up the cheerful smile as Marta opens the door and welcomes us with fierce hugs.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Marta as Luke enters the hall with Zach in his arms.
Marta pats her stomach, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Good. Better now that I’ve hit the second trimester.”
She does look good, and clichéd as it might be, she has that glow.
Eva arrives a minute later and lets out a scream as she throws herself at me and then Shey. A couple of years ago, Eva practically shaved her head in a fit of frustration, but her thick dark hair, the same shade as Marta’s, has grown and now hangs below her shoulders. She’s a sixth grader now and still lanky thin, but she’s so sparkly and full of life that I don’t know any girl more beautiful or wonderful.
We head to the living room, and we don’t move for hours. Luke has Chinese takeout delivered, and we sit on the floor of their living room eating and talking while baby Zach sits in his swing rocking back and forth.
I must admit, I’m smitten with Zach. He’s a big, bouncing boy with wide blue eyes and soft apricot cheeks. His hair has a touch of red in it, and as he gurgles and waves his baby fists, you can see his dad in him.
This is what I want, I think, entranced by Zach’s gurgles and coos. Family, home, baby. With a man I love. A man who loves me for me, the real me, not the one everyone sees on TV.
Marta sees me watching Zach. “You can take him out of the swing, if you want. He’d probably love a chance to grab your hair.”
I don’t need a second invitation. After stopping the swing, I undo the strap in front of Zach, unhook the harness, and lift him into my arms. He’s heavier than he looks, and his forehead puckers as he gazes into my face. I bounce him a little. His expression clears. He likes that. I bring him closer against me, my arms snug underneath his padded diaper bottom. The top of his head grazes my cheek. He’s warm and smells of baby powder. “Aren’t you gorgeous, Zach Flynn?” I whisper in his ear.
He coos. He’s so firm in my arms. So sweet.
My heart turns over.
And then I look at Shey. She’s curled up on the couch, talking earnestly to Eva, and my heart turns over again.
This is so life. This is how it is. Up and down and rough and smooth and good and bad. It’s wonderful and terrible and forever unpredictable. And I don’t mind unpredictable as long as it doesn’t hurt my friends. But right now it is hurting Shey, and it doesn’t seem fair that just when Marta gets her dream, Shey’s world falls apart.
Late that night, I lie sleepless in my guest room bed. I’m sharing a room with Shey, but Shey’s finally, thankfully, asleep.
I’m worried about Shey. She barely ate, and even though she kept smiling all evening, I could see the confusion and shock in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. She reminds me of me after I got the call that Keith had been killed. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Keith had to come back. He said he’d be back. He promised.
And John adores Shey. He has since they met on the Vogue photo shoot, and that was what? Fifteen years ago?
I know affairs happen. Mistakes get made. But this… this… how could he now love a man instead? It doesn’t make sense. People don’t change like that.
Do they?
And what happens to Shey and the boys now that John wants to try something new?
The baptism Saturday morning at Sacred Heart in Clyde Hill is beautiful. It’s a big modern church with large modern stained-glass windows and a soaring ceiling. Zach squawks when he’s dipped into the baptismal pool and then howls when his head is touched.
That afternoon, once we’ve returned from brunch I log on to my computer to check my e-mail and discover a message from Peter Froehlich, a German member of the foreign press. He’s e-mailing to ask if I’d be interested in attending the Globes dinner and awards ceremony with him on January 11.
Peter’s a lovely man in his fifties and very kind. We met at a Golden Globes pre–awards show dinner my first year hosting America Tonight and hit it off and have been friends ever since.
I’m not sure I should say yes, though, not after I’ve taken a hiatus from America Tonight, but before I can answer, I get a call from Max. He’s just returned from a Swiss ski trip and discovered that I took a leave of absence from America Tonight.
“Have you lost your mind?” he roars. “Are you mad?”
Eva is sprawled on the bed next to me, and I bend down, kiss the top of her head, and head out of the bedroom and out the front door, where I can talk without anyone hearing us. It’s raining, a steady gray cold drizzle, and I bundle my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t think I needed permission to take a break for a couple weeks.”
“You have to know this is the worst time possible to take an extended vacation. Contract negotiations are just beginning. The award show season is about to descend. This is when you need to be present and visible!”
“I’m not sure I want to return to the show.” I sit on the front step and stretch my sweater over my knees. “I’m using this time to consider my options.”
“What options?”
“I think, Max,” I say carefully, “that is your job.”
“You have a great gig going, doll. People would kill to be in your shoes.”
“Maybe I’m ready for a new challenge.”
“Like what? Where would you go?�
��
“I don’t know. That’s the whole point of this exercise.”
“I’m going to call Glenn first thing on Monday and I’m going to tell him it’s hormones, a perimenopausal thing, and that you’ll be back to work start of the New Year— ”
“No.”
“Are you listening, doll? You hearing anything I’m saying?”
“Yes, every word, and I think I’ve heard enough. This isn’t working.”
“What?”
“This isn’t working. I think we’ve come to a fork in the road and I’m ready to head in a different direction. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but— ”
“You’re firing me?”
“— I no longer need you to represent me.”
He’s finally speechless. Good. About time I shut him up. “But I thank you, Max, and I’m glad we had these years to work together.”
He finds his voice. “You can’t fire me! I got you that job, I made you Tiana Tomlinson— ”
“No, Max, you didn’t make me. It’s my work. My talent. I made me who I am. I’ll follow up with a formal letter, but I think this is it for us. Good-bye.” And resolutely, I hang up the phone.
A moment later I appear in the enormous living room, cheeks flushed, emotions high. Marta’s nursing Zach, and Shey is sitting next to her on the couch. They both look up at me. “I just fired Max,” I say brightly.
Shey’s grim expression eases, and she looks happier than I’ve seen her in the last two days. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She jumps up and gives me a high five. Our palms smack so loud that Zach pops off Marta’s nipple and looks around with interest.
“I hated him,” Shey says. “He was a jerk.”
“I know.” I glance at Marta, who is trying to get Zach to latch back on, but he’s smiling a milky smile at me. I suddenly laugh with relief. With hope. Things are looking up. Which reminds me: I need to e-mail Peter back. I think I’m going to go to the Golden Globes after all.
Back in Los Angeles, my stylist, Shannon, comes over the first week of January to show me several gowns that would be good options for the Globes. One is a pretty strapless orange pleated gown, rather Grecian and very soft and flowing, and the other is a bold corseted gown the color of spilled red wine. The deep red gown’s beaded bodice is intricately designed, tightly fitted, with two hidden zippers and dozens of little hooks. The neckline plunges low, and the skirt is smooth to the top of the hips and then turns full. A hint of fine black tulle peeps from the gown’s hem.
