Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  “I once saw a bridesmaid pop out of her dress during the bouquet toss, but blood on a wedding gown?” a bubbly co-host chuckled. “Sounds like a bad omen.”

  “I know, and everyone keeps talking about the source of the blood,” the host went on. He turned and looked directly at the camera. “We’re not going to air that photo on our show. Frankly, it’s gross.” The picture of Tabitha switched over to a woman in low-rise jeans bending over to pick up a bottle of prescription pills. A turquoise g-string and the cleft of her buttocks peeked over her waistband. “Do you recognize this former child star?” the host continued.

  Skye switched the channel to Teleworld. Denny Moss squeaked into the camera. “This just in. In West Africa, rebels continue to cannibalize the midget tribes. Numerous organizations have been trying to help the tiny people, but to no avail. That and more coming up next, on Around The Clock with Denny Moss.”

  She smiled, a far too jovial grin in the wake of a report of people being eaten.

  “Five seconds left.” The voice of a floor producer spoke faintly in the background. Denny maintained her plastered-on smile and shuffled her papers.

  “In other news tonight, the rebels of West Africa have declared war on neighboring tribes—” The picture cut off and a dog food commercial began. A dog’s snout dug deeply into a bowl of moist meat.

  “Sink your teeth into these meaty chunks. Pure Foods introduces the tastiest dog food ever…” a deep male voice announced. Skye cut off the TV, screaming in agony. She leaped out of bed but was jolted to a halt by her IV.

  The tube separated from the needle; Skye climbed back into bed and called a nurse. As the nurse reaffixed the tube, Skye rifled through the stack of cards once attached to the flower bouquets that adorned her room. More cards from her mother, Alfred, Kleinstiver, Blaine, and many others decorated the shelves. She stopped at the card from Tabitha and Jonas, tracing her fingers over the delicately engraved writing. Get well soon. With Love, T and J.

  “Such big arrangements. Such gorgeous flowers,” gushed the nurse. “A lot of people must really care about you. Of course they do. You do so much good in the world.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “She ruined everything,” Tabitha barked at Jonas as they walked along the white sand on St. Barts. “Why couldn’t she wear a maxi pad or something?”

  “She has a medical condition. It could have been worse,” Jonas said.

  “How?”

  “She could have shit.” Jonas laughed.

  “Shat,” Tabitha said. “And you call yourself a writer.”

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “A damn good one. Maybe an Academy Award winning writer.”

  “The gods find nothing funnier than dreams spoken aloud,” Tabitha said.

  “Come here.” He held her in a gentle embrace. She leaned her head on his shoulder and listened to the calming sounds of the tides. They walked down the private stretch of beach.

  Tabitha moaned. “Guests stared at the back of my wrinkled dress. At least Nadine jumped in and fixed it. The whole thing was embarrassing. I knew I should’ve asked Nadine to be my maid of honor.”

  Jonas stared out at the blue topaz waters. “Tazim Belle got sick from the food. Although it’s kind of funny to hear about a major movie star stricken with diarrhea. Oh,” he chuckled.

  “Remember my dad’s toast? ‘My son’s name should have been Leningrad Rikel Laurenti, but for my wife here. My ex-wife, who stole him from me when he was a boy.’ We should have eloped. How is Skye?”

  “She’ll live. We’ve got a great clipping to commemorate the moment, from the Cypress Columns.” Tabitha sat down on the beach and brushed the sand from her hands. Staff members rushed forward with an umbrella and beach chairs. Tabitha and Jonas settled down onto the beach chairs, requesting the staff to position the umbrella so that Tabitha’s stark white skin was protected from the tropical sun.

  “Something to drink, Mr. and Mrs. Laurenti?” a waiter inquired.

  “A mojito,” Tabitha replied.

  “I’ll take a sparkling water with lime,” Jonas said.

  “You’re not going to join me in a cocktail?” asked Tabitha, tipping the brim of her black straw hat and giving a crooked but rakish smile. They both turned and gazed out onto the ocean, the warmth of the island air soaking into their bodies.

  Jonas glanced at his watch. “I’ve got an important call to make,” Jonas replied. “Excuse me.” He pressed several buttons on his Blackberry cell phone. “Hi Chaz,” he said into the phone. “Let’s go over the arbitration specs in the production contract. Deborah, can you conference Neil in? Thanks.”

  He stuck his earpiece in and walked down the beach, his hands in his pockets as he spoke.

  Tabitha flipped onto her back and pinched herself on various body parts. A fat roll here, some loose skin there. The pounds magically piled on after they became engaged, but Jonas always said he loved her body. In the last year, she chided herself often for her growing physique. Shaking her head, she leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to sleep. Thoughts kept running through her head, from the fearful visions that she would someday be stout and frumpy like her mother to the lyrics of a hip hop song played at her wedding that embarrassed her. Lady Marmalade.

  “Why would a band play that at a wedding?” she mused to herself. “But when he turns on the streets, memories need more. More! Indeed. How tacky.” Her cousin’s voice popped up in her head as he shook hands with Jonas at the wedding. Remember now that you’re married, and you get the urge to fool around, buddy. It’s okay if you have to pay.

  Jonas ignored him as Tabitha died a thousand deaths hearing a member of her family make such a tasteless comment.

  She rubbed her temples to ward off her negative thoughts,.. She closed her eyes. Behind them, the svelte wedding singer’s voice blared, tapping a tambourine into her palm and singing, Kitchy kitchy ya ya ta ta!

  Sitting up, she fixed her sunglasses on top of her head and rummaged through a tote bag. Her fingers curled around a bottle of Percocet. She took two and let the pills dissolve into her body. Her body floated in the air, somewhere above the shallow water. The thoughts assaulted her mind. Jonas’ mother’s face appeared before her, grimacing as the wedding singer sang, More, more, mo-o-o-re! She rummaged through the bag again and pressed down hard on the childproof lid of a prescription bottle. Her fingers felt as if they applied the same pressure as a lump of gelatin. She whimpered. Something inside of her threatened to break and a sob escaped her lips.

  “May I help you, Mrs. Laurenti?” offered a server. She handed him the bottle and he opened it with ease.

  “Thanks,” she nodded. He smiled and walked away, and she watched his retreating back until he disappeared into the resort. She shook out two pills and popped them in her mouth, shaking out one more and downing them with her mojito. She leaned back and rested her head, closing her eyes. Her hand, holding the mojito glass, flailed in the air for a minute or two until the glass softly plopped! onto the powdery sands on its side, the ice melting the instant it touched the beach.

  Jonas threw himself down on the teak beach lounge and put his hands behind his head.

  “Get ready to be happy. Poppa made a sweet deal on the next big thing!” He raised a finger and a server appeared. “Bottle of champagne for me and my beautiful wife. Best that you’ve got. Tabitha? Tabitha?”

  “She ruined it,” Tabitha muttered. “She ruins everything.”

  “We’re married. We’re rich. And you’re beautiful. Nothing can ruin that.” The server reappeared with a fine bottle of champagne and two chilled glasses. “To us. Tabitha?”

  “Right, right.” Tabitha sat up, her eyes swimming. “To us.” She took a long, deep swig. “Back to sleep,” she said, as she rolled onto her side.

  “What about the good news?” Jonas said.

  “Tell me later,” Tabitha mumbled.

  “All right. Buying the beach house here was a good move. Let’s rent out Westchester and mo
ve to Connecticut. Get a big, sprawling estate with some horses. Tabitha?”

  Tabitha lay open-mouthed, unconscious. Oblivious, Jonas stared out at the waves crashing on the shore, and a lone yacht that sailed off in the distance between the cliffs. He removed his cell phone from his pocket and typed away.

  ***

  Skye rode an escalator down into the bowels of the Upper West Side subway station on Eighth Avenue. The crowds jostled each other; teenage kids dressed in hoodies and backpacks rocked their heads to the sounds coming out of their headphones, tourist families peered at the maps on the brick walls, and a multitude of business people chatted on their cell phones while clutching paper cups of coffee. Skye’s train whizzed away into the tunnel as she forced herself to be calm and breathe. She would catch the next one. She stood in line behind a short man who shifted his weight from side to side so often she wondered if he needed to use the restroom.

  “No comment! No comment! No comment!” The bum who preferred to house himself at this station yelled from his corner.

  “Excuse me,” Skye turned and faced a man in a business suit. “Could you save my place in line?” He nodded, and Skye approached the vagrant, her hands reaching into her jacket pocket.

  The bum ranted on, stopping to take a few breaths. His face blotched, his nose was swollen and bulged. A scraggly beard hung from his chin, and the moustache growing under his nose was filled with lint. Underneath the grime and overgrowth, cheekbones as thick and strong as a Cherokee Indian’s rose prominently on his face, and a chin that rivaled any masked hero’s jutted from his full, chapped lips.

  He stared at her periwinkle blue pumps and belched. His eyes traveled from her feet to her head, and his eyes rested on hers. He unwrapped a food item out of tinfoil that looked like a half-eaten burrito and took a bite.

  Skye dropped a handful of bills into his tin cup. He laughed heartily, removing the bills and pretending to eat them. She turned to walk away as he laughed a long, loud belly laugh. Heads turned to look for the sudden commotion in the subway station. Even the teenage kid with blaring headphones peered around to find the clamor.

  “No comment!” the bum shouted. “No comment! No comment! No comment!”

  A half an hour later, Skye smoothed down her hair and marched through the doors of Teleworld Network Broadcasting Corporation. The elevator crept up to the thirty-eighth floor, making several stops along the way as people in suits exited. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach as she walked by Edie and Kleinstiver’s offices, their desks cleared, and their name plates removed. She arrived at the end of the hall and walked straight into her corner office. Though she’d been gone for less than three weeks, the room seemed foreign and empty to her.

  She played her messages. “Greetings,” stated Alfred in a general message for all employees, left the day after the takeover.

  “By now you are all aware of the partnership we have made with Bainfeld and Biddle Media Corporation. You will begin to see some changes at Teleworld, most of which you will be pleased with. I ask you to bear with me while we are in this period of transition. Rest assured, I will continue to strategically modify and adjust our established programming and see that my final wishes are set in motion before I hand over the reins and begin the next phase of my life. Make it a great day at Teleworld and continue to work with the pride and devotion that has made this company great.”

  Clarissa brought in her mail. “Welcome back, Skye,” she greeted. “I think you’ll be very happy to see this letter.”

  “Thanks, Clarissa,” said Skye. She unfolded it and read the text. She scanned the words again, making sure the letter was properly addressed.

  “The Edward Morrow Award,” she read aloud. “Congratulations on your nomination for The Edward Morrow Award, the most prestigious award in broadcast journalism.”

  Clarissa smiled. “I knew you would be nominated. There’s no one who deserves it more.”

  “Clarissa! This is more than another award. This is…leverage. I’ve got to win this award. It means life and death. Get me a meeting with Alfred. Please.” Clarissa left her office and Skye closed the door behind her. She grabbed a heavy binder, opened it, and screamed into the thick pages. Throwing herself on the floor, she lay on her back and pounded the carpet with her pumps and fists. She reached her hands up above her and gave a silent scream of joy. She jumped to her feet and danced, flailing around wildly. A sharp pinch of pain shot through her abdomen and she winced, applying pressure with her hand. A loud knock sounded at the door. Skye straightened the buttons of her shirt, smoothing down her skirt and tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. She opened the door and there in the hallway stood Denny Moss.

  “Oh, hi, Skye,” said Denny, looking over Skye’s shoulder. “I left some notes in here.”

  “Here?” Skye’s eyes widened. “In my office?”

  “The view’s so much better.” Denny maneuvered around her toward the desk and picked up a pile of papers. She stared at the nomination letter on Skye’s desk and squealed. “The Edward Morrow Award! Is this just for you or for the entire show?”

  “Just me,” Skye said, gritting her teeth.

  “Wow.” Denny sat down in Skye’s office chair. The chair groaned under her. “Since you’re here, can you help me with this report on impoverished children in Kentucky? I can’t word it without sounding biased.”

  “Sure.” Resigned, Skye stood over her.

  Denny looked down at the papers, then up at Skye. Hurriedly, she stepped out of Skye’s chair and pulled another one toward the edge of the desk.

  “See this section here?” Skye crossed out an entire page. “Objectively spoken, the introduction should give only the facts of the report. Save any feeling or elocution for the conclusion and be ready to give the report without such details if time does not allow.”

  Denny headed for the door.

  “I’m so hungry. Baby needs to eat.” Denny patted her expanding belly. “Just put it on my desk when you’re done, would you, honey? Thanks. Oh, I do have good news for you. Alfred and I are leaving on our babymoon this weekend. So you’ll have the show all to yourself for a week. I don’t know how you work five fourteen-hour days out of the week but if that’s what you want to do, you’re more than welcome. Alfred said you get carte blanche when it comes to how you run the show for next week.”

  “He said that? Really?”

  “Uh-huh. Whatever you want.” Denny lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think he just wants you to leave him alone for a little while. He’s really, happy about the baby and the money he made from the acquisition. He says you can hire a whole new crew if it pleases you. So long as you don’t bother him. Well, ta ta!”

  Skye stretched the skin on her forehead with her hands before forcing them to lie still on her desk. Breeding ground for wrinkles, wrinkles. Regardless of the mode or measures used to achieve them, how can Denny Moss have found someone to love her? How can anyone find integrity and value in her?

  Clarissa walked in, giving Denny’s retreating back a look laden with knives. “Skye. Alfred’s secretary swears he has no openings until April. After the awards ceremony.”

  “Convenient,” Skye said. “And tricky, tricky, tricky. How bad have the ratings tanked?”

  “We’re down about two million viewers since you’ve been gone. I think for the rest it’s like watching a train wreck. One of Denny’s reports made it on a comedy show, by the way. The clip was ridiculous, to say the least. When it ended, I called my doctor and asked for Zoloft.” She frowned. “Why?”

  Skye tapped her fingers on her lips and stared out of the window at the Empire State Building. “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she whispered. “Clarissa. We’re going to be stuck here late for many a night. You up for it?”

  “Absolutely,” Clarissa responded.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  ***

  Skye met Blaine for an evening walk in Central Park. The smell of popcorn wafted from a hot dog vendor’s
cart. Children milled around a lady dressed as a clown and clutching dozens of balloons by string. The light breeze carried the crispness of spring in its gentle, occasional breath through the fluttering blossoms of oak and dogwood trees.

  “That’s great news, Skye,” said Blaine. “Glad to hear things are looking up.”

  “Just when I thought they couldn’t get any worse. I guess life is funny like that,” Skye said. “I should’ve asked you to be my date for the wedding.”

  “I would’ve gone if I wasn’t in trial. Takes more than a little blood to scare me away. And I’m not even a doctor. What happened to you there anyway?”

  “Isn’t that an awful thing to be…infamous for? Bleeding at a wedding. A hundred years ago that would be unmentionable. Now I’m celebrity rag fodder,” Skye said.

  “Well, that clears up that question,” Blaine laughed.

  “Ugh. Pun intended.” Skye tried to recover. They laughed. She went into a short explanation of her condition. The disclosure ended, the silence broken only by the occasional footfalls of a jogger or a distant car horn. Skye hooked her arm through Blaine’s.

  “I need a date for the Morrow Awards.”

  As she waited patiently for his answer, she glimpsed a tall, sandy-haired man from a distance, sitting on a bench and holding a dog’s leash. A shapely woman jogged by him and smiled at the dog, and then at the man holding the dog’s leash and petting it. The man smiled, a crooked tight-lipped smile, and Skye recognized him as Charlie.

  Charlie picked up a stick and threw it, and the dog chased after it in pursuit. “Well, look at that. Two dumb dogs,” Skye mumbled. The dog’s owner appeared out of nowhere, calling its name, and the dog bounded over to its true owner.

  “What was that, Skye?” Blaine asked. He stared down at the ground and stuffed his other hands in his pockets.

  Skye shook her head as she watched Charlie run after the voluptuous woman, jogging backward as he talked to her. The woman smiled and kept in pace with him, until his knee buckled from under him and he collapsed onto the ground. The woman crouched down next to him and they smiled and chatted. She helped him to his feet and they turned and headed toward a café across the street. He limped until he got to the door of the café, where his walking returned to normal. He opened the door for the woman, looking back toward the park and seeing Skye staring at him.