by Jane Porter
I grimace, cradle my cast. “My arm keeps getting in the way.”
Christie arrives with bags of groceries to cook me a welcome-home dinner. She plans to roast the chicken at my house, and she and Shey, who’ve never met before but certainly have heard plenty about each other, peel and quarter and boil the potatoes as they talk and enjoy a glass of wine.
I notice neither offers me a glass of wine. Probably wouldn’t mix with the Vicodin in case I need one tonight. I shift on the living room couch, a little bored, a little uncomfortable. As the smell of roasting chicken wafts from the kitchen, I fidget with the remote control, flip through channels, watching nothing but endless commercials.
I’m lucky, I tell myself. I’m fine. What’s happened is fine. This is life. This is just how the dice go.
I watch a Neutrogena commercial. Beautiful Jennifer Garner washing her face, lifting it to the camera, smiling, her skin as serene and radiant as her smile.
Heat explodes inside my chest. Little spasms of heartbreak.
What if my face doesn’t heal properly?
What if I can’t cover the scar with makeup?
What if I’ll never be loved now?
And isn’t that the real worry: What if I’ll never be loved now?
I close my eyes but see Michael. Opening my eyes, I change the channel. Can’t think like this. Can’t dwell on the negative. Time will tell. Time will reveal all.
* * *
We’re eating Christie’s homemade apple pie, warm and à la mode, when the phone rings. I hope it’s Michael. Christie reaches for my cell phone and hands it to me. It’s Celia.
Celia wants to do a story on me for People. The piece would be a six-page spread at the minimum with photos, possibly even a cover story. They’d do a full photo session here at my house with whatever hair, makeup, and stylists I want.
“Celia,” I interrupt, “it’s Sunday night. Do we have to do this tonight?”
“Yes. Time is of the essence if we’re going to run it in the next issue.”
“I don’t want to be in the next issue.”
“We’re talking a big story, Tia, and some big money, too.” She goes on to assure me that the photographer will capture my new face in the best possible light, but they need to do the pictures soon, before the stitches come out.
“I’m getting a mixed message here,” I tell her. “You say it’s a tasteful piece and the photographer will capture my face in the best light, but you also want to do it now while my face looks the worst? No, thank you.”
I hang up and look at Shey and Christie, who are concentrating on their pie. “She wants to do a story on the accident for People. With my ‘new face’ front and center.”
“Are they going to pay you?” Christie asks calmly, cutting into her flaky crust.
“She mentioned money, but I didn’t ask how much.” I’m repulsed by the thought of exploiting the accident. It disturbs me that I’d be offered money in exchange for revealing my facial injury. I don’t want pity, or sympathy, and I especially don’t want money for something like this. “I won’t be turned into a freak show.”
Tuesday morning Shey has flown back to New York, and Maria, my housekeeper, is working somewhere in the house as I read the newspapers in the living room. I’m reading every free second I can. Don’t want time on my hands. Don’t want to think. I need to have a game plan for the future, but I’m not quite ready to do that.
The doorbell rings. I wait for Maria to come and answer, but she doesn’t. The doorbell rings again.
I drag myself out of the chair and toward the front door. Glancing out the door’s peephole, I see Celia standing there. She’s immaculate. Her beautiful face is exquisitely made up. My chest tightens.
I open the door a crack, look out with my left eye, hiding my right cheek. “Hi.”
“Can I come in?” she asks cheerfully.
“What do you want?” I ask, aware she’s never been to my house before.
“Good to see you, too. Or at least what I can see of you.”
I don’t want to open the door. I don’t want to reveal myself. Don’t want to be vulnerable. Don’t want…
I take a deep breath, stifle the terror at feeling so fragile and mortal, and open the door all the way. “Come in. Please.”
She steps into my house, the heels of her boots clicking on the adobe tiles. “Beautiful house,” she says, looking up at the dark beams and then into the living room at the tall, narrow French doors.
“Thank you.”
“There are the most amazing little houses tucked back in the canyon,” she adds, heading into my living room. She sits in the white-slipcovered chair that faces the seat I just vacated. She crosses one long leg over the other, folds her hands in her lap, and looks at me expectantly. “So. How are you?”
Vain. I’m vain. And scared. And sad. But I don’t say any of this. I smile a small smile, sit down again, and curl my legs under me. “Good. How’s work?”
“Great. Busy.”
“As always.”
And then the conversation dies there. Celia is studying me hard, her gaze examining my face, inspecting it as closely as one would with a magnifying glass. “There’s going to be a scar,” she says at length.
I’m so bruised, so terribly bruised, and her words are a blow to that tender place. “Yes.”
Celia continues to study me intently. Her dark gaze is emotionless. “I phoned Max to get a quote, but he said he no longer represents you.”
“So he didn’t give you a quote?”
“Oh, he did. But it was as your former agent.”
Silence stretches, and then Celia clears her throat. “What are you going to do, Tia? Your contract’s up in days. You have no agent. And that cut is going to take weeks, if not months, to heal.”
“I’ll find something. Maybe in serious news, broadcast news— ”
“There isn’t much room at the top, though, is there? Even Katie’s finding it rough going.”
I shrug, wishing I’d dressed for the day instead of lounging around in my fleecy blue robe. “Why does it have to be at the top? Why can’t I start at the bottom and work my way up?”
“There won’t be money.”
“But there might be opportunity.”
She nods faintly, her sleek dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “Max thinks the only place you can go now is behind the camera. Writing, directing, or producing.”
“That’s Max’s opinion.”
Her lips curve. “You’re still hanging tough.”
“I’m a fighter, Celia. You know that. I’m going to be okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars to you for an exclusive with a four-page photo spread— ” She breaks off, looks me in the eyes. “Or a million to the charity of your choice.”
A million to the charity of my choice?
Immediately, PSI and Rx Smile come to mind. Jean. Meg. The children.
“I’d do the interview,” Celia continues calmly. “You could approve photos and text.”
I want to tell her I’d never sell my story. I want to tell her I’d never let them photograph my face.
But I see the father crying in Katete, telling the doctors that if they didn’t help his son, his son would die.
I see the young mother holding her baby postsurgery, astonished at the beauty of her daughter’s new face.
I see the hospital where the children were dying because they didn’t have clean water.
“Last night America Tonight ran your first segment from your Africa trip. The show ran the teaser about ‘Tiana’s Heart: Inside Zambia with Tiana Tomlinson.’ HBC is going to promote the hell out of your two-week series, but you know not everyone watches America Tonight. You have fierce competition with ET and The Insider. Let’s drive viewers to your story. Let’s get your stories watched.”
Celia holds my gaze, steady, unwavering, as if she were a boxer in the featherweight division. “Do the interview with me, and the story is our cove
r story for next week’s issue, coinciding with the final week of your Zambia features. Your story not only gets told your way, but it reaches twice as many people. In the article I’ll do a sidebar highlighting the charities you’re featuring on your program. We can give contact numbers, Web sites, information. We can also promote the show itself so more viewers tune in.”
She leans forward. “A million dollars, Tiana. A million dollars could change a lot of lives.”
One million dollars would mean two hundred thousand surgeries. Two hundred thousand lives changed. All because an old lady lost control of her pale blue Pontiac.
Two hundred thousand children desperate to eat, drink, swallow, breathe.
Two hundred thousand mothers and fathers aching to have their child live.
If I suck it up and toughen up and let myself be seen as I am for who I am. Not Tiana the celebrity, but Tiana the real person. “Just for my story and photos?”
“They’d run pictures from the day of the accident, and they’d want one with you without makeup showing the scars”— she sees my expression— “but it’d be tasteful.”
It’s a lot to think about. There’s no way I can make a decision this second. This could be either a great thing or a travesty. “I need some time to think about this. I’d love to be able to do something huge for Rx Smile, but I’m not sure this is it….” My voice drifts off, and I look past Celia, out the door at the hazy Los Angeles afternoon. It’s been hot, and the smog hangs low and gray over the city.
“I’ve been promised full editorial control, Tiana, which means I’d do my damnedest to protect you.” She reaches out, touches my arm. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”
“It can’t be a pity party, Celia.”
“We won’t martyr you, I promise.”
“Then why are you about to cry?”
Celia shakes her head. “This is just shitty. The whole thing is shitty. I’m so sorry it’s happened— ”
“You’re martyring me now. Stop it.”
“Okay.” She smiles a lopsided smile. “Will you think about the offer? I’ve got to give an answer to the editor in chief tomorrow. I’d love your answer to be yes.”
“I’ll think about it tonight. Call me in the morning.”
After she goes, I curl back up in the chair and mull over her offer. A million dollars to my charity of choice. I just have to sit down and tell the story of the accident and answer whatever questions Celia asks. No biggie.
But it is a biggie. I’m not just proud, I’m private. I don’t want everyone knowing my intimate thoughts and emotions. It’s scary.
I go to my bedroom, lean across the dresser, and look at my face in the bureau mirror. This morning after washing my face and cleaning the wound, I didn’t reapply the gauze bandage, and the livid purple scar with the black bristle threads screams at me.
What scar is this?
Whose face is this?
Gingerly I touch the skin, still raised, still tender. I study my face that isn’t my face. I’m still not used to it.
And as I trace the scar, I remember how my mother used to kiss our bumps and bruises, light kisses to help with the pain and healing.
Life happens. Bad things happen. But in life there’s always more good than bad. Always.
Chapter Twenty
I wake up and my first thought is that Celia will be calling soon. My second thought is Michael. I miss him. I miss his wit and warmth and humor. I miss his intelligence and that slightly mocking, very sexy smile that makes his eyes glint.
Three days until I see him. Three days until I can maybe get the stitches out. Please God, let my face heal properly.
Please God, let everything work out.
Please God, help me get back on TV.
And then as I’m cradling my morning cup of coffee, I hear a voice inside me say, Why don’t you get yourself back on television?
I start to drink and then stop.
Well, why don’t I? What am I waiting for? An invitation?
I’m Tiana Tomlinson. I don’t need an invitation, I just need a story. And I have a story. I’m the story. I’ve always been the story.
Sunshine pours through the kitchen window, glazing the counters, making me blink.
Getting me back on TV is important, as is picking up the threads of my career. Producers and agents aren’t going to decide if I work or where I work; I’m going to decide. I’m in charge. It’s my life, my career.
I call Harper and tell her I have an opportunity to be interviewed by People, and I propose that we approach People magazine and suggest we have America Tonight tape the interview. Harper could work with Celia to produce a segment that would run on America Tonight in conjunction with the People release and the Rx Smile stories.
Harper totally embraces the idea. She promises to get in contact with Celia ASAP to see if they can’t work out a deal. “This would be huge,” she says to me, “a cover article in People with exclusive interview clips on America Tonight. I love it. You’re brilliant. I’ll let you know what happens.”
By the end of the day, and with financial details not disclosed to me, People and Horizon Broadcasting work out a deal. We’re going to do the interview tomorrow in one of the empty soundstages at the HBC tower. Harper will be on set acting as producer with our lighting and sound guys and Howard as the cameraman. I’m glad it’ll be Howard, too. We developed a close working relationship in Zambia, and I’ll feel comfortable with him zooming in.
Celia is providing wardrobe along with the hairstylist and makeup artist. After the interview, we’ll do photos back at my house with the People photographer. Howard’s going to tag along with his camera there, too.
I’m awake early, and as always it’s a struggle to take my bath without getting my cast wet. I wash my face carefully, too, using a wet washcloth to clean what I can. At this point, having use of only one arm, and my left arm at that, is far more problematic than my face.
Russian John picks me up and helps me into the car, treating me with kid gloves.
Since the interview isn’t being done on the America Tonight studio stages, I step off on a different floor today. Harper is there and waiting, though. So is Madison. “I had to see you,” she says, giving me a hug and yet being cautious not to hurt me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great. How are you?”
“Good. Working with Shelby a lot, but she’s okay. Not you, of course.”
We chat about work for a minute or so, and then she says she has to go, that everyone thinks she’s on a Starbucks run.
I smile. Some things never change.
After Madison goes, Harper and I have a chance to talk while we wait for Celia and her crew to show up. Harper confides that she’s interviewing elsewhere, that America Tonight just isn’t the best fit for her. She prefers a different news format, but she’s enjoyed having the opportunity to work on America Tonight.
“If you find something else, please be sure to let me know where you go. I’ll want to stay in touch with you,” I tell her.
“I’m keeping ears and eyes open for both of us. I’m hoping I’ll have the chance to work with you again. I know there’s a lot of interesting things we could do together.”
Celia arrives with her team, and then it’s just busy. I’m in the hair and makeup chair and then meeting with their woman handling wardrobe. She’s brought an off-white Calvin Klein jacket and skirt, a scoop-neck navy velvet top and oyster silk slacks, and a slim St. John suit in a nubby teal knit. The only problem is that I can’t get my cast inside any of the shirts or jackets.
No one thought of that. Harper and Celia confer. Harper promises to go raid America Tonight’s wardrobe and see what she can come up with.
She’s back in ten minutes, arms full of clothes. A black beaded halter top, a white sleeveless cotton dress, a red one-sleeve vintage Indian top with silver embroidery, a short strapless pink satin dress. I put my foot down on the pink satin dress. Not going to wear pink. That’s Shelby’s color.
But I like the red Indian top, especially if I can wear it with my slim dark denim jeans. Celia thinks we should go with the white dress, and that’s what we go with in the end.
They have a simple gold necklace to wear and diamonds in my ears. With my hair blown out and my eyes made up and the bandage peeled off my cheek, I look like me, only vulnerable. I’m uncomfortable with my vulnerability written all over my face, but this is what I have to overcome. I have to connect with the audience anyway. I have to get them to see past my wound to my lips and eyes and voice.
Harper has provided Celia with some questions of her own, questions designed to tie in to my Africa trip. I thought we’d end with those questions, but Celia decides to start with them.
“Tell me about Zambia,” Celia says, beginning the interview.
Just hearing the word Zambia does something to me, and my expression relaxes. “Amazing. Incredible. Life-changing. Going to Zambia to film Rx Smile was the best thing I’ve ever done.”
As the interview kicks off, I’m aware of Howard behind the camera and Celia across from me and Harper with her clipboard and the sound and lighting men standing around. But as the questions continue, everything but Zambia fades away, especially when Celia asks me about my heartbreaking hospital tour in Lusaka, where babies were dying from diarrhea and dirty water.
“It blew me away,” I answer, my voice dropping. “Wards filled with dying toddlers because children don’t have access to clean water. And it’s all preventable. That’s what hurt so much.”
The questions go from personal to professional, then return to very personal with the morning of my accident. “What were you doing the morning you were hurt?”
“Enjoying a rare free morning before catching an afternoon flight to Tucson,” I answer.
“You didn’t see the car coming through the window?”
“No. I was looking away, watching a little boy and being distracted. I don’t think I even knew it was a car coming through the window until later. I just saw this blur of silver and blue and then the sound of breaking glass.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Witnesses said the impact sent you flying.”
