by Jane Porter
I stare at the stain, not understanding, and then as people talk, I realize it’s blood. My blood. I close my eyes, and the voices rush around me. Someone’s asking my name. Someone’s giving my name. Someone’s handing over my purse.
People talk to me, and I think I answer, am not sure I’ve answered, and then they’re sliding a board beneath me, securing me before transferring me onto the gurney. As I’m wheeled toward the ambulance, I remember the little boy in the orange shirt. I hope he’s okay.
The ambulance doors are closing. I need to tell them something. I try to tell them something. I don’t know if anyone is listening. “Call Michael O’Sullivan.” And then, afraid that no one has heard me, I move my right hand and pain shoots through me, stunning me all over again.
I nearly cry then.
The paramedic puts her hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” she says, patting me again.
I know I’m going to be, but still, I want them to call Michael. Michael will know what to do. “Call Dr. O’Sullivan,” I repeat. “He’s my doctor.”
And then I let go, sliding into sleep.
Her beautiful face…
Never the same… Tragic…
The voices whisper, yet I hear bits of the conversation, the odd words reaching me and then floating away just as quickly.
All that glass… just cut too deep…
People move around me, and there’s clinking noises and footsteps and lights, very bright lights, but I feel nothing. I’m numb. Foggy. I try to concentrate to understand what they’re doing and saying, but I can’t and I finally let go, sliding back into the dark.
But then later, I hear voices again. Older, quieter, male. They’re calling him “Doctor,” but it’s not Michael.
I cry then. I cry because he didn’t come. I cry because I have no one and someone is shushing me, comforting me, but I’m not calm. I can’t be calmed. I need my family. I need my people. I need someone who belongs to me.
A hand touches my shoulder and stays there. “Tiana.”
It’s him. He’s here. He came. “Michael.”
“I just heard. I’m getting ready to scrub in. I won’t let anyone touch your face.”
“How bad is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to say until I can get in there and take the glass out and examine the wound properly. But there’s no rush. I’m going to take my time.”
“Will there be a scar?”
“They’ll be taking you into the operating room now, honey. The orthopedic surgeon will fix your arm and I’ll take care of your face. I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t leave you. I promise.”
Something settles over my mouth and nose. The air smells different as it rushes at me. Panic floods me. “Michael!”
“Breathe through your nose, Tiana.”
“Stay with me!”
“Honey, I am. Now just relax and breathe.”
The mask feels weird on my face. I want to adjust it, but I can’t. There’s so much turbulence. The jet keeps lifting and falling. People are screaming. I want to scream, but I can’t. Instead I close my eyes and pray. Don’t let me die, don’t let me die, don’t let me die.
And then as the plane bumps and drops and shakes, the woman next to me turns to look at me. She looks like me but younger, prettier. Dark hair, blue eyes, heart-shaped face.
“Don’t be afraid, honey.”
I look at the woman again. “Mom?”
“Yes, darling?”
My chest squeezes so tight, I can’t breathe. “Mom, is that really you?”
She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. “Of course it is.”
I can feel her fingers and her hand and her skin, and she’s warm. She feels so warm. “What are you doing here, Mom?”
“I came to be with you. You need me.”
The tears are falling. They’re falling so hard and fast that I can’t see. “I do, Mom. I do.”
Her fingers curl around mine, and she gives me the most wonderful smile. “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s fine.”
The plane is still shaking, and it’s making horrible shuddering noises as though it’ll explode any minute. “Are we going to die?”
“No.”
“But I’m scared.”
“This is just turbulence. It’s part of life.”
“I don’t want to die.” I’m squeezing her hand so hard, partly because I’m scared and partly because I’ve missed her so much and I don’t want her to go. “Please take me with you.”
“But you want to live. You want to fly.”
“But I am flying.”
“Yes, you are. And isn’t it amazing? Enjoy it, Tiana. Enjoy every second of it, every bump and every bounce. You fly. You soar. You’re free.”
Mom is still smiling at me, and she looks exactly as I remembered except she glows. She looks so happy and healthy and rested. “You look so beautiful, Mom.”
“And you’re beautiful, sweet pea. Not your face, but your heart. Never forget that. Never forget— ”
“You’re not going, are you?”
“I have to. And you have to fly.”
I cry harder. “I’ve missed you.”
Her smile is radiant and warm and everything I remembered. She looks at me with so much love. She looks at me the way she did when I was just a baby and she’d rock me in her arms, rock me to sleep. “You don’t know how proud I am of you, Tiana. Your father and I couldn’t be prouder.”
“I miss him.”
“Dad loves you. The girls love you. We all love you.”
“I need to see you.”
“You will, one day, and we’ll be waiting for you. We’ll be there when the time comes— ”
“Don’t leave! Mom!”
“I have to go. Just remember, enjoy this, enjoy every moment of it.”
And then she’s gone and I’m still in the jet and it’s still shuddering and shaking and the woman next to me isn’t my mom. I have been crying, though, and I reach up to wipe my eyes and then tighten my seat belt. As the jet drops again, I close my eyes and do what my mother said.
I feel.
I breathe.
I focus on the miracle of being.
Later, I open my eyes and it’s dark; the room is dimly lit and quiet. There are no bright lights or metallic clinks or whispered voices.
My throat hurts when I swallow, and my face feels numb and thick. I try to reach up to my face, but my right arm is strapped down and I have tubes taped to my left. Everything aches.
I try to remember what happened, but nothing’s clear. I was flying. There was an accident. Michael came.
No. I was flying, leaving Michael, and then my mom came.
No. There was an accident, and my mom and Michael both came, but I don’t know what happened then. It’s too confusing. I hurt too much.
I give up and close my eyes and let go of everything to sleep.
Something’s poking me, touching me, and I open my eyes. I’m still in the same room. It’s dim, not dark, and quiet. But this time I’m not alone. Michael’s here, next to my bed, leaning over me and examining what lies beneath the gauze on my face.
He sees that I’m awake, and his expression is strange. It’s all closed up, like a doctor’s face, but not my Michael’s face. I want my Michael’s face. “Don’t look at me like that,” I croak. “Smile.”
He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hello.”
“Thank you for coming.” The words scratch my throat. I’m so thirsty. I look around for water but see vases of flowers instead. A massive marble vase of dark pink roses dwarfs the table at my elbow. I look past the roses, looking for something to drink.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“Then don’t look so miserable,” I say.
He reaches for a water bottle sandwiched between tulips and lilies. The plastic bottle has a long straw in it, and he holds the straw to my lips. I drink, but swallowing still hurts.
; “I feel like a truck ran over me,” I rasp.
“It was a Pontiac, but those are just details.”
I try to smile, and it feels weird. Lopsided. My face is numb near the edge of my lips. “What time is it?”
“Around one. One-thirty.”
“What’s wrong with my mouth?”
“You’ll be numb on that side for a while.”
“How big is the scar?”
“Not bad, and it’ll lighten over time. Later we can always talk about laser resurfacing if need be.”
I reach up blindly, grab his hand, and hold it. Hold it so damn tight. Tight like the pain in my heart. Tight like the fear in my gut. He’s telling me I’ve changed. He’s telling me it’s going to be different, but I don’t know what that means. I don’t know anything other than I need someone right now to do what Michael’s doing. I need to be touched. I need to know I’m not alone.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I’m here.”
“You left.”
“But when you needed me, I came.”
Chapter Eighteen
The flowers keep arriving. They fill my room. Dozens of vases and arrangements, baskets and balloons. The scent is almost overpowering, and the profusion of colors and blooms reminds me of the arrangements that arrived after Keith died.
I tell my day nurse Saturday afternoon to give most of the flowers to patients on the floor who don’t have any flowers in their room. The nurse goes through the cards and tells me again which arrangement is from whom. Most are from industry professionals, and after plucking the cards from the bouquets, she sees that the flowers are dispersed to those who could use some cheer.
I wake up and discover Shey sitting in a chair next to my bed, leafing through a magazine.
“Hey,” I say, blinking and trying to clear the cobwebs from my head.
Shey stands, leans over me, worry etched all over her face. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I try to sit up but can’t get leverage with my right arm in the cast and sling. I fumble around looking for bed controls, without much success. “What are you doing here, Shey?”
“What do you think I’m doing here, goofball?” She sits on the side of the bed next to me. “You were nearly turned into roadkill, and it’s big news. All over the country, every channel, every news program.”
I giggle at the roadkill part, and Shey takes offense. “Honey, this is serious. I’ve seen the footage on TV. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”
I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. “That’s twice now,” I say. “God must have some big plans for me.”
She squeezes my hand back. “Or maybe He’s scared to let you into heaven. Afraid of all the trouble you’ll bring.”
“There is that,” I agree, muffling a laugh because it still hurts to smile too big. My face still doesn’t feel like mine.
Shey’s eyes search my face, and her expression is so full of love and worry. She’s worried about my face.
“So how bad is it?” I ask, my fingers linked with hers. “On a scale of one to ten, how upset am I going to be?”
“You haven’t seen it yet?”
I shake my head.
She swallows hard, wipes her hands on the thighs of her snug faded Levi’s. “You want to see?”
I nod.
“I’ll get you a mirror. I’ve got one in my makeup bag.”
It feels like forever while she crouches next to her suitcase, rummaging around. As Shey looks for her makeup bag, she tells me that Russian John picked her up from the airport and drove her straight to the hospital a few hours ago. “He wouldn’t let me pay,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder. “He was all choked up. Told me to tell you to get better soon.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Marta’s sick that she can’t be here,” she adds, straightening, compact in her hand. “But the doctors won’t let her fly right now, so I promised her I’d have you call. We’re going to do that soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, suddenly nervous as she carries the mirror to the bed. I want to see. I don’t want to see. I want to see. I’m terrified to see.
Oh God, just let me see.
Shey opens the compact and holds it out to me. I take it, lift it, try to see my face, and just get my cheek with the line of bruising and dark threads. The cut is longer than I expected. It goes from the edge of my right eye down over my cheekbone, stopping short just shy of my mouth.
I tilt the mirror this way and that, trying to get perspective, trying to see my entire face. “That’s some scar.”
“What has the doctor said?”
“That it’ll fade with time. And later we can discuss other things like another surgery or resurfacing.” I hesitate, nose wrinkling. “It’s worse than I expected.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be sorry.” I look again, studying the scar and my face, and it’s shocking. Strange. But I’m also glad I’ve seen it. I know the worst now. It’s only going to get better. It’ll heal, shrink, fade. “Thank you.” I give back the mirror.
“What are you thinking?” Shey asks.
What am I thinking?
I’m thinking it’s a pretty big scar for television. I’m thinking it’s a bad time to get hurt, particularly when I’m without an agent and without a contract in just a few weeks.
I look at Shey. Her blue eyes are so sad.
I’m thinking that I’m lucky I’m facing this with Shey here.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I smile up at her. “And I’m glad you know I’ve been through so much worse. I’ve got a broken arm and some cracked ribs and a cut on my face. But I’m not paralyzed, not ill, not dead. You know?”
She bends over, wraps her arms carefully around my shoulders. “I love you.”
Her warmth surrounds me, and I inhale, breathing in her familiar fragrance. She’s worn Calvin Klein for years, and I can’t smell it without thinking of her and sunshine. “I love you, too.”
Shey’s arms are still around me when a knock sounds on the door. The door opens and Max steps into the room. He’s carrying an enormous vase of red roses. “How are you doing, doll?” he asks, closing the door behind him.
“How did he get in?” Shey mutters. “You have a no visitors policy.”
“I don’t know,” I answer back, not at all happy to see him.
“I thought you fired him.”
“I did.”
Max introduces himself to Shey. “Max Orth, vice president, Allied Talent Management.”
“Shey Darcy.” She shakes his hand. “We’ve met before. But it’s been a while.”
I can tell Shey’s not happy to see Max here. I’m curious as to why he’s here. Shey excuses herself so we can talk. “I’m going to grab a cold drink and make some calls. I’ll be back in a half hour.”
Max takes the chair next to my bed. “You gonna be okay, kid?”
I smile crookedly. “Of course.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. Seconds pass, and then more. Finally he takes a deep breath. “You’re going to discover things are different for you now.”
“The scar will fade and with makeup it’ll be barely noticeable.”
He shakes his head. “Doll, I’m worried about you and I have to be honest. This is going to be difficult for viewers to get around.”
“Is that what you think, or is that what the heads at HBC have said?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer directly. “Every time folks turn on the TV they’ll see you’re hurt, and it’ll remind them that bad things can happen. And bad things will happen, and I can pretty much guarantee the studio doesn’t want that. Folks tune in to America Tonight to escape real-life problems.”
Wincing, I drag myself higher in bed with my left arm. God-damn, but I feel as if I’ve been run over by a garbage truck. “You haven’t talked to Glenn. Glenn wouldn’t say that, not about me, not right now.”
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“No, he might not say it, but the studio execs, the moneymen, they’re not going to renew your contract. You’re an expensive talent. Your image is your talent— ”
“Correction, Max. My image supports my talent, but my talent has nothing to do with the outside packaging.”
“I know that, doll. You don’t have to sell me. I’ve been your fan from the beginning. I believed in you then, and I believe in you now, and that’s why I want to help you.”
I’m dumbfounded. Can’t think of a single thing to say.
“We’re going to get through this, and we’re going to make it work to your advantage. There are lots of opportunities out there. It’s just a matter of finding the right one.”
He sounds so warm and enthusiastic that I’m wondering if maybe I’ve misjudged him, if maybe I do want him on my team again, representing me.
Max reads my silence as permission to continue, and does so. “I will get you work. Maybe not on one of the major networks, but there might be some opportunities on cable, especially in production. It’ll be a move behind the cameras instead of in front, but it’ll be work. Work you’re lucky to get.”
“Lucky?” I choke, pouncing on the last word to try to drown out the panic flooding me. Did he really just say I’d be lucky to get work?
“You were already at a crossroads, doll. The studios were nervous about your age. Now this”— he breaks off to point at my face, finger gesturing— “this just compounds the problem.”
I’ve had issues with Max for a while now, and I fired him for a reason, but he’s just done something marvelous for me. He’s thrown down the gauntlet. He’s given me the ultimate challenge, and I vow then and there to prove him wrong.
I am not going away. I will not disappear. And I will not be made invisible just because I’m not perfect.
Gripping the bedrail, I lean forward. “My face might be cut, Max, but my mind’s the same. My personality’s the same. And it’s my mind, my personality— my grit— that makes me Tiana Tomlinson, not my face.” I point to the door. “Thanks for the flowers. Good-bye.”
“This isn’t the time to let pride cloud your judgment,” he says, rising to his feet.
I’m practically trembling with rage. “That’s where you’re wrong, Max. I’m keeping my pride, and my self-respect.”
