by Jane Porter
“I’m very lucky. God clearly has a plan since He’s keeping me around.”
“You’ve been through a tragic accident before, haven’t you?”
I blink, caught off guard. I didn’t expect my past to be introduced, and I’ve never publicly discussed the car accident that took my family. I glance at Harper, who is clueless, and then at Howard behind the camera and then back to Celia. “When I was fourteen, yes.”
“Four people died in that accident.”
I flinch. “My entire family.” Celia says nothing, and the silence stretches. Uncomfortable, I add huskily, “Both my parents and sisters died. I was the only one not wearing my seat belt and was somehow thrown free.”
“You’ve been an orphan since you were fourteen.”
I look at Celia, my expression pleading. Why is she bringing this up here and now? She’d promised not to martyr me. She’d promised to protect me. “Yes.”
“Where did this happen?”
“On the Cape in South Africa. We were coming back from a day at the beach.”
“Your mother was South African?”
“That’s right. My father was American and my mother was South African.” My eyes burn and I struggle to keep the edges of my lips lifted so the tears won’t fall.
Celia is efficient if nothing else. “She wasn’t just a South African, Tiana, she was a former Miss South Africa. Took second at Miss World. We have a picture of her.” And she lifts a photo from her lap. It’s my mom at nineteen, wearing the tiara. The camera zooms in.
My lip quivers. I’m fighting like hell to keep my composure.
“You’re the spitting image of her,” Celia says. “It’s uncanny.”
And then the camera’s on me again right as I grind my teeth to keep tears from forming. I’m clenching my jaw so hard that pain shoots through my forehead.
“What was it like having Miss South Africa as your mother?” Celia persists. “And which of your sisters would have gone the pageant route? Willow, your eldest sister, who was undeniably beautiful— ”
“Time out,” I choke, struggling to my feet and unhooking the microphone. “I need a moment.”
I stumble off the stage and out into the hallway, one hand to my brow to press back the pain.
I’m livid. Revolted. Betrayed. I had a deal with Celia, and this wasn’t the deal. This is a dig through a heartbreaking past. What is she going to do now? Bring up Keith? Show the photo from his funeral? What kind of dog-and-pony show is this?
Harper appears in the hallway. “You okay?”
I keep walking. “Yeah.”
She leans against the wall, watching me. “You didn’t see the questions coming?”
“Not about my family, no. I didn’t think anybody knew.”
“I didn’t know.”
“No one knew. And no one’s known for good reason. How did she find out?”
“I don’t know.”
I stop and look at her. “I don’t want to use any of my family’s accident on the show. It’s personal— ”
“It’s powerful.”
“But it’s not for everybody to know. It’s my life. It’s my family.”
“But this is what people want to know, Tiana. This is what we do. It’s what we’re all about. Letting people know that no one is immune from pain or suffering, that beauty and fame isn’t the end-all, but just another complication.”
“I just don’t want Willow and Acacia to be turned into a footnote. They were more than a footnote. They were real and they had dreams and they died too young, died before any of their dreams came true.”
“Then maybe it’s time you talked about them. Made them real to others. Maybe your grief doesn’t have to just be your grief. We all lose people we love. Perhaps by sharing your losses, you’ll help others know they can cope with loss, too.”
I swallow, nod, wipe away the moisture clinging to my lashes.
“So what do you want me to tell Celia?” she asks.
“Tell her I’ll be there in a moment to finish the interview.”
And when I return, the makeup artist touches up my makeup and then I’m back in my chair. Taking a deep breath, I begin: I talk about Willow and how she was so beautiful that people routinely approached her, wanting to represent her, offering modeling contracts. But she wasn’t interested in modeling. She loved the violin, and her dream was to be a member of the Cape Town Symphony. I talk about Acacia and how she was still just a little girl when she died, but she was strong, brave, braver than the rest of us, and she wanted to be a vet when she grew up. She was always nursing injured birds and mice and baby monkeys, and she didn’t know the meaning of fear. I talk about being the middle sister of such extraordinary siblings and how lucky I was to be part of a family that encouraged our individuality.
“So how do I cope with my hurt face?” I ask, managing a smile, although unshed tears shimmer in my eyes. “It’s nothing. And it certainly won’t stop me from achieving what I want to achieve, and being who I want to be.”
“And what is that, Tiana?”
“Fulfilled.”
The taped interview was the hardest part of the day. The photos at my house are easy. I get to wear the pretty red Indian top and my jeans for the photographs, so that’s a high point. I love the exotic blouse and dangly silver earrings and smile as I pose in the living room curled up with a book, in the kitchen slicing fruit, and in the garden gathering lavender.
After the photographer gets the shots he needs, everyone leaves and I’m trying to figure out what to do next when the phone rings.
“May I speak with Tiana Tomlinson?” the female voice asks.
“This is Tiana.”
“Tiana, I’m Betsy Richmond with the Tucson Arts Guild. Is this a bad time?”
“No. Not at all.” The Tucson Arts Guild is the group that was honoring me with my lifetime achievement award, and they were among the first to send flowers. “What can I do for you?”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I say, and I mean it. I’m good. I feel strong and fierce and alive.
“Recovering?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve all been very worried about you.”
“Well, I’m healing and am getting out and about more and more.”
“That’s wonderful, and that also leads to the reason I’m calling. The guild is still very interested in recognizing your outstanding contributions to television arts and sciences, and we are hoping to have the opportunity to formally present you with your award.”
Surprised, I don’t say anything.
“You have inspired many in our industry, and it would mean a great deal to have you join us for a reception,” she continues. “As you know, we held the actual dinner last week— it was impossible to cancel the event at the last moment— but we’d like to schedule a cocktail reception to present you with the award, and to minimize the stresses of traveling, one of our members would send his jet for you. He felt traveling by private plane would be far less exhausting and intrusive. The date we’re considering is Saturday, March fourteenth, a month from now. Are you by chance available on the fourteenth?”
I have absolutely nothing on my calendar. It’s never been so wide open. “Would I speak?”
“If you’re willing to say a few words, we’d be delighted to have you speak. We’re all fans— ”
“I’d love to come.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful!” She lets out a cheer. “Fantastic. I’ll send you an e-mail confirming details, but I’m speaking for everyone when I say I’m delighted you’re able to join us. Thank you.”
Off the phone I do a little spin, and prisms and sparkles splash on the wall, the sunlight bouncing off the silver embroidery of my blouse.
I have something on my calendar. I have an event scheduled. I’m going to speak again.
My life’s not over. My life’s just beginning.
I feel a welling up of excitem
ent, the kind of excitement I used to feel when I was just starting out in the business and everything was new. Everything is new again. I get to shape a new path for myself, carve out a new niche for me. Maybe I’ll pursue broadcast news. Or maybe I’ll start my own production company, writing and directing documentaries. Or freelance for the various cable networks producing specials and programs relevant to women.
I can do anything.
I am free to be anything.
There’s nothing and no one holding me back, because this time around I’m not holding me back. There’s no image to maintain, no role to fill.
I should get an agent, though. I’ll ask around— Harper and Christie might have suggestions— and this time the agent will work for me.
I smile, stretch out my arms, and take a huge breath. Relief washes through me. Relief and a new sense of adventure, something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
I’m not falling asleep. I’ve been lying in the dark for nearly an hour trying to relax, but my mind races and I keep getting ideas and I sort through those, and then just as I think I can fall asleep, another idea comes and I’m wound up all over again.
I don’t want to work for anyone. I want to work for myself. I want to call the shots. But I don’t know if that makes financial sense.
But I have savings. Other than my house, I have no debt. I bought my car for cash two years ago with my end-of-year bonus. My savings could support me for a year—
Stop.
Go to sleep, I tell myself, exhausted by the frenzied pace of my thoughts. In two days you see Michael about getting the stitches out.
Michael.
And there I go again. Thoughts spinning helplessly, hopelessly, out of control.
Two days later, with my right arm still useless, Polish John drives me to my appointment at Michael’s office. My heart’s beating a mile a minute, too. I’m scared and yet excited. I think about inviting Michael to attend the Tucson Arts Guild reception with me. The event is undoubtedly formal, if not black tie, which would mean fancy dress. Hair. Makeup. The whole shebang. A date would be great. We’d have the jet. It could be romantic….
I feel a flutter of nerves in my stomach, and I suck in a breath. I’m so nervous that I’m queasy, but queasy about what? The event? My future? Michael?
All of the above.
But Michael did say if I ever needed a date, he’d clean up for me….
But if he means that, why hasn’t he ever asked me out? Why doesn’t he call me? Maybe we’re just friends. Or maybe he’s attracted to me but afraid I’d want a commitment, and that’s one of those things he just can’t do.
The town car turns from Santa Monica Boulevard onto Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills and stops in front of a white-marble-fronted building.
We’re here.
The decor of Michael’s waiting room is muted cream with accents in pewter and chairs upholstered in cobalt blue. My nerves just get worse, though. My hands are damp, and the cover of the glossy magazine sticks to my skin, lifting the ink from the paper.
Restless, anxious, I recross my legs, wondering if it’s a bad idea to invite Michael to go to the reception in Tucson.
Looking up, I take in the massive modern oil painting dominating the wall, and then my gaze moves to the shiny silver sculpture in the corner. Funny, but this is exactly what I pictured Michael’s office would look like. Tasteful. Elegant. Expensive.
Then the door opens and my name is called. Finally it’s my turn. It’s a short walk back to an equally serene exam room, but the soothing interior does little to soothe my anxiety. My heart is pounding, and I feel as if I’m going on a date instead of having a doctor’s appointment.
There’s a knock on the exam room door and then Michael opens it. “Ms. America,” he says, walking in. “How are you today?”
He’s wearing a white coat over dark slacks and a dress shirt. The coat is open, showing the blue shirt and buckle of his black belt.
“Great,” I answer, pulse jumping. “How are you?”
“Very well.” He grabs a rolling stool and takes a seat on it. “Sleeping okay?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Not too much pain?”
“No, Doctor.”
He grins at me, amused. “Then maybe I should just look at your cheek.”
I sit, hands folded in my lap, breath bottled as he peels off the gauze and scrutinizes the sutured skin. “It looks really good,” he says as he gently touches the seam. “Very, very good.”
“You’re pleased?” I murmur, trying to focus on his words instead of his hands and the warmth of his skin on mine.
“Yes.” I see the corner of his mouth lift. “I think I can take the stitches out today.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Ready for this?”
“Yes.”
My heart pounds as he uses small, sharp scissors to snip the threads and pluck away broken bits with a pair of tweezers. When he’s done, he hands me a mirror. The scar is a dark pink, but it’s not nearly as thick as I feared.
“It’ll flatten and fade as it heals,” he adds.
“It looks good,” I say gruffly, suddenly emotional because it’s not as bad as I’d feared.
“And that’s without makeup.”
I can’t tear my gaze from my cheek. It’ll fade. It’ll go. It’s going to be nothing. A lump fills my throat. After the last week of worry, this is great. Better than great. “There’s no reason I can’t be on TV,” I say. “Or do anything else I want.”
“You’re right.”
I look up, blink against the threat of tears. There’s no way to properly express my gratitude. “Thank you.”
He smiles, blue eyes warm. “You’re welcome. And I know it’s a day early, but Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I’ve been trying hard to ignore what today is. The day before Valentine’s Day. The day of Keith’s and my anniversary. It would have been our eighth anniversary this year. I’d thought it’d be a nightmarish day. I thought I’d be sad, stricken, but I’m not.
I’m… happy.
I don’t know if it’s because the scar is less horrifying than I expected, or the fact that I escaped yet another accident with just this cut, or if it’s the memory of the children in Africa, but I’m actually, surprisingly happy. Despite everything.
I loved Keith, but clearly, I’m ready to move on.
Surprised by the lightness inside of me, I gather my things, flash Michael a smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too.”
And I leave without asking him to go to Tucson with me.
For one, it doesn’t feel appropriate.
For another, I don’t need a date for the event.
I don’t need a date for life.
I’m doing good. I’m feeling great, bumps, bruises, and all.
* * *
I spend the weekend reading, researching start-up costs for a new business, and riding my exercise bike. I need to start exercising again, getting mentally and physically tough. There’s no more invalid lifestyle. By the end of March, I want to be working again, and to have work again I have to be on my game.
Monday morning, I call Christie and ask her about her initial start-up expenses as well as the experience. If she had to do it over again, would she do anything differently?
Tuesday morning, Glenn calls. He’d like to meet with me if I have time in the next few days. I know my contract is up March 1. I’ve been on disability leave since the accident. I wonder if this is the meeting where I’m formally let go, told that my contract won’t be renewed. “Do I need an agent present?” I ask him.
“It wouldn’t hurt,” he admits.
“How about end of the week? Friday at two?” I propose, needing time to find a new agent as well as wanting to put off the unpleasant as long as possible.
“Shall we meet here?”
“Great,” I agree, but with a sinking heart. A meeting at the office never bodes well. When something’s good, it happens at a fun restaura
nt. When something’s bad, it’s in Glenn’s office behind closed doors.
An hour after Glenn’s call, Harper phones to say that she has a copy of the new People magazine that will hit the stands tomorrow. She offers to bring me the copy after work so I can be one of the first to see it. Apparently, she got an advance copy so they could produce the story teases for the show.
“How does it look?” I ask.
“Great. You made the cover and you look beautiful, although the scar is front and center. But you had to expect that.”
“How about the text?”
She knows what I’m asking. “There are lots of really personal things,” she admits.
“Ah.” I was afraid of that. “Well, come on by. It’ll be good to see you, and I’ll open a bottle of wine.”
It’s nearly six when Harper shows up on my doorstep.
“Your stitches are out!” she exclaims as I open the door.
“What do you think?” I turn my right cheek toward her so she can get a good look.
“It’s fantastic. Six months from now with some makeup no one will even know the scar is there.”
“I think so, too.” I smile, wave her in. “Thanks for taking the time to drive it over. Can you stay for a bit? I’d love the company.”
“Definitely.”
I open a bottle of wine, fill two glasses, and carry them back to the living room, where Harper waits. I hand her the wineglass and she hands me the issue. And there’s my picture on the front. I’m in the white dress, smiling bravely at the camera while my scar curves along my cheek. The headline is even more graphic: TIANA’S TRAGIC ACCIDENT— AND THE DEVASTATING HEARTBREAK SHE’S KEPT SECRET UNTIL NOW.
“Oh God,” I say beneath my breath, exhaling hard.
“She wrote fairly extensively about the car accident outside Cape Town,” Harper says. “She also came up with some photos. I don’t know if you gave them to her…?”
“No.” My heart sinks. I start flipping through the magazine.
“Page one hundred and ten,” she says.
I find the page, open the story, and there on the right side of the double-page spread is the photograph of my family: Mom, Dad, Willow, Acacia, and me. We’re dressed up at some formal event or holiday event, and I don’t even recognize the picture or the reason we were dressed up and smiling. Maybe it was a school function Dad had. Maybe a holiday party.
