“He's. . .” she began.
“In a coma,” the orderly confirmed. “Ever since he was brought in by the trucker who found him.”
“Is it David?” Greg wanted to know, touching her shoulder.
Val did not answer. Instead, she went to the man’s side, and looked down into his face, illuminated by the stark light above them. She saw that his eyes, barely open, did seem clouded, just like a man's who had been looking into the sun too long. Perhaps even a man who had once given up on life, and then sat quietly in his back yard to gaze up into the brilliant, blinding radiance of a fiery orb that dwarfed the earth and everything on it, including himself. She imagined this man, with nothing left to lose, gazing up fiercely for some kind of answer to what he’d imagined to be oppressive and cruel, or--worse--eternal and heedless. Then, only when he’d surrendered to the pain, had the answer come, in the silence, in the darkness, in the redemption of freedom from illusion.
Val lifted his limp hand to her cheek. “His name is not David,” she whispered, at last.
“No?” said Greg, in disappointed surprise.
“Not John Doe, either,” she added. “He never made a name for himself, so the newspaper didn't care who he was, either.”
She imagined that, next. The reluctant admission of another injured homeless man, like those she’d once read about on page ten or twelve, in a paragraph invariably at the bottom, next to the Obits. Such a vagrant, hit by a train or a truck, with no family or friends, would merit mention only on a slow day. Meanwhile, in the entertainment section, a daily account--with full page color photo spreads--depicted celebrities who flew in private jets over the desert on their way to parties thrown by the manufacturers of the vain products they endorsed. And no one questioned why many of those celebrities needed drugs themselves to sustain their fantasy. No one questioned anything that might disturb the reader’s slumber.
“Will he wake up?” Val asked the orderly, quietly.
The young man rubbed his jaw. “I don’t think they know, ma’am. He’s in stable but serious condition, obviously. You know him?”
Val answered just as Trent entered the room. “I do,” she confessed. “He’s a victim of stolen identity. Of blindness. Of course, true identity is not something you can steal, and the blindness was not his own.”
“What do you mean, ma’am?”
Val turned back to the patient on the bed, as the orderly waited for her to explain. She stared in awe at the bandaged head, and at the partly visible face that seemed at peace, even here. The essence of the man, beyond his looks or condition. How could she explain not seeing--until now--what was there all along?
22
The exclusive report that Greg Lomax initiated was going to be either a career breaker or a career maker for him. Thinking it worth the risk, though, Greg pulled out all the stops. With Morales’ confession soon to be in hand and on video, there was no reason for reluctance or hesitation.
First, dismissing his talking-head anchor Tom Waldren from the report, Lomax rolled up his own sleeves and went live, issuing a statement with Detective Trent standing behind him. Next, a remote feed from outside Kino Hospital was broadcast, showing KTAT co-anchor Janice Whitman talking to Valerie via cell phone inside. Val, refusing to leave David’s side, described both his appearance and the room he was in, with an eye for detail. Finally, Greg fielded a call from the Daily Star, and on the basis of their brief conversation, the man with no name was elevated from the Obit page to the front page. Within hours David shared the lead with international events.
Soon a tide of new calls and emails began to surge in from beyond Tucson. From the Network. By then, of course, David had been moved to the intensive care unit, with the round-the-clock attention of both nurses and doctors. Even Nurse Hagner was personally recruited, at Val’s request.
“No interview for you yet," Val informed Greg by phone at noon the next day. "David's condition is unchanged, but they're doing an MRI, and claim to be hopeful."
"How are you doing?"
"I’m not hopeful anymore,” she confided.
“Val? What do you mean?”
“I’ll let David explain, in his own words,” she said, "when he wakes up."
“Oh." Greg snickered. "You got me there. You’re something else, Valerie.”
“Not really, but that's all right too.”
"Did Trent let you read the rest of David’s journal yet?”
“I have it here. I’ll read it soon. He also gave me a letter from David’s brother-in-law in Kansas. He said it’s where David once sent Picasso, and it solves more of the mystery of his past. I’m not sure if I want to read about that, though.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure David wanted me to know.”
“I can tell you, since we’ve reported it. It’s nothing bad. It’s pretty amazing, in fact.” Greg paused. "Did you know a new star just appeared in the southern sky, Val? A supernova, in the constellation Aquarius. And Val, listen, there's more. You wouldn't believe the calls I'm starting to get. Reporters are ringing from everywhere. Twenty-Twenty, the Today Show. More than a few radio talk show hosts. At this point it wouldn't shock me if the President called."
"What would you tell her?"
"I don't know. Don't you just listen?"
"You may want to tell her you'll have a guest for the White House soon."
"That would be great, but what about you? However this turns out, we think we can parlay it into getting you some great guests of your own, now."
"Who?"
"Who knows? Maybe even A-list people, like--"
"No, I mean who is the we in 'we think?'"
Greg sighed. "I've just been trying to motivate you, so you wouldn't give up, Val. I actually stood up for you with Mrs. Robinson. She didn't realize how valuable you are to me. To the station. She didn't even watch it much, I don't think. She does now, though, believe me. She remembers what I've been telling her all along, too." He paused. "If you want an apology from her or something, I'm not sure I can get you that. The important thing is we've got viewership back, big time, and with guests that'll soon be waiting in the wings to be on your show."
"My show?"
Greg cleared his throat nervously. "Whoever it is you want to interview first, just name it and I'll try to swing it. George Clooney, Brad Pitt? It all might be possible, now. Who knows. Aren't you happy about this, just a little bit?"
"Happy," Val repeated, considering the usual definitions of the word. "Okay, I know someone," she said, when the oft-cited word money came to mind.
"Great. Who?"
"Claire."
"Claire?" Greg sounded confused.
"Yes. Claire Robinson. Even you've heard of her, right? Get her for me. She won't have to stay long, just her usual ten minutes. Then she can go back to the foothills, to her country club friends."
"You're kidding, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not. I'd like her live, on the air. Anything I want to ask, or not ask. No editing."
"Well, that's. . ." Greg huffed at the idea. "You know she'd never agree to that, Val, without knowing what you have in mind."
"Nothing in mind. Anymore. And she will if she expects David's exclusive interview about what he told the kidnapper."
"You know what that is?"
A pause. "Yes, I do."
A longer pause. "I see."
"I'm sure you do, now. But I don't want a show with just one guest, either. I'd like it to be something new. Three guests per episode, pre-recorded at their place of business, or their home. Maybe eight minutes each."
"But that's. . . What could you possibly convey in that time?"
"The truth. There wouldn't be a chance to tell viewers what to think. No time to let subjects summarize themselves into how they'd like to be perceived. There'd just be a glimpse. An essence. A peek."
Greg started to laugh, but was wise enough to stop himself, as curiosity took the place of dismissal. "What would be the point of watching
a show like that, though?"
"To notice things you don't normally see. Like the big picture. The format would force you to pay attention. A single slice of a person's life, like a snapshot or DNA sample. It'd reveal more than listening to that person's story. You'd feel the reality of the moment, and of the person you're watching. Like people you see in passing on the street, and never seemed to notice before. Maybe you'd even see yourself in the mirror in a new way. Without a laugh track, or editorializing on either side. Who knows, we might all see each other, Greg. The connection between us. Or between celebrities and us, because we'd see them for who they are, too. And maybe we wouldn't even need them so much anymore, because we'd be them, ourselves."
"Gees, Val. I don't know. Sounds like you're looking to save the world. To right some wrongs, at least. Which is always futile, in my experience."
"You're right, it is futile. But I don't need to right the wrongs. That's a bottomless pit. My job is to tell the truth, and let the truth right the wrongs. To share that truth by simple word of mouth."
"Been thinking about this a lot, have you?"
"Not at all. It just came to me. Didn't you know creativity doesn't come from thinking? It comes from not thinking. From the space between your thoughts. When you're no longer playing a game."
"Huh?"
"The subconscious."
"Oh."
"Where David lives at the moment."
"Uh huh. Well, you're not gonna say this was David's idea too, are you? Because even if it is original, that would be a bit too much."
"Okay."
"Okay. I'll run it by Claire, then. You've certainly done your research this time around, I can tell her that, at least! Now, just for the record, what would you call such a show, anyway?"
"How about 'Time Out'?"
"Time Out. Humm. And you want to start with a snapshot of Claire herself?"
"We'll make hers last."
"We?"
"You and me."
"Right. Just checking. But tell me, if Claire's not first, Val, then who is?"
"David."
"David's in a coma, haven't you heard?"
"Yes, but the show would be pre-recorded. Just me and an engineer, on location. We can start right away. Everyone is waiting for David, so he would premiere, live, and the others would follow subsequently. On tape, I mean."
Greg chuckled at the depth of her conception. "Why wait, though? You've got the audience now."
"They wouldn't understand, until they hear David."
"You mean if they hear David. If he wakes up."
"He will."
"I see."
"Do you?"
"I'm beginning to."
When Picasso was found at the pound, Val took over guardianship, saving him from euphemistic "sleep." The dog recognized her at once, and soon took to watching over her, while also meeting her curious gaze with a conscious canine awareness of his own. From that instant, in acknowledging Picasso's presence, she knew she would never feel alone again. Even the idea of it seemed to fade into a concept, because she remembered his master and companion, as well.
A week passed, then two, as Val filmed the first segments for Time Out. And then, one night, she found herself at the park again, after visiting David's bedside. It had begun to rain in Tucson, and sitting in her car as the streetlight blurred her vision of the trees and ball field, Valerie watched long streaks of radiance blotch the night sky through the windscreen like cool lava. Picking up David’s journal, she opened it at last, and squinted in the half light.
Once again, then, she began to read.
Have started to pick up trash in the park. They must have thought I was a park employee, at first. Or maybe that I was crazy. Perhaps I’d lost interest in life, seeing friends drop away to become acquaintances, then strangers, until I had nowhere to go and no one to talk to. Maybe they tell themselves that’s when I began collecting scraps of paper, putting them in the trash when there was too much to carry around. Funny, how people think certain jobs are beneath them.
----------
A dog has befriended me. He’s a stray mutt, with no collar. An odd sort, but in good health. I went around the park asking who he might belong to, and one old man noticed him following me around, so he said, “Looks like he belongs to you now, or you to him.” Then he laughed. I laughed too. I actually did, from joy. I’ve posted a sign with my phone number, just in case, but I dearly hope no one calls. We share a secret knowledge of each other, this dog and I. I don’t know how better to say it. It’s a miracle, but I know he’ll be true because he stayed with me today, even when I seemed to neglect him by falling into memories of the past. Such a brave heart in this animal. So alive and inventive. I will call him Picasso, only because the world is his canvas. And because I pray he can teach me to paint without the numbers, too.
----------
The stars are bright tonight, although the supernova has long faded out of sight. When I sit in the yard with Picasso beside me, I can see more stars with my eyes than I once could. But Picasso looks up and wonders what I’m looking at. There’s no moon out, so he doesn’t understand. He licks at my hand whenever I raise the binoculars toward a certain patch of sky. Why am I putting this thing to my eyes? When I lower it again to the ground, I feel an ant on my hand. Maybe there is a smaller creature on the ant, but I can’t see it. I can’t even see the ant. I will let it bite me once more, if it likes. But I will give Picasso a nice bath, all the same.
----------
I waited for you again today, Mother, outside the department store. I remember how you would cross to my car with that gentle smile of yours, always expecting me to be there, and I never let you down, did I? I sat in my car today in the usual spot. I looked at the door where you always came out after work, so long ago. But when the door opened, the woman didn’t look anything like you. So I couldn’t imagine saying the words I never said when you were alive. Maybe you knew I loved you, though, just by my waiting there every day? Will you forgive me, Mom, for not saying it? I wasted so much time arguing with you, and for what? That time is gone. I can never get it back. This is no dress rehearsal. I know that now. I always imagined a different future, but it never happened. It never will. Forgive me. Forgive me. For now I must release you and Melissa now, too, instead of living with this pain. You would want that for me, wouldn’t you? Peace and happiness are things all parents want for their children. So I will say goodbye one last time to Melissa too, and at the gazebo where we were married, with Picasso at my side. I will try, anyway, I promise. What will happen, I’m not sure. Perhaps this tear on my cheek will tear open the fabric of space and time to reach you with the truth that I love you, Mother. I do. What is love? It is like gravity. So hard to understand, or to live without. It is what holds the universe together, and on some level I have yet to see. A quantum reality, invisible, unfailing, mysterious, I believe it can bend all things to penetrate and link them together as one. I hope it can. In the presence of this moment, it is not all we ever truly own?
----------
Found the grave of a little girl today in the cemetery of an old church. She died at age four in 1923. I cried for a long time, but then I stopped, Melissa. I stopped. Because life is a gift.
23
TRANSCRIPTS FROM "TIME OUT,"
KTAT--CHANNEL 7, TUCSON, ARIZONA.
Hosted by Valerie Lott
Produced by Valerie Lott and Greg Lomax
Opening Voiceover:
VO:) Snapshots. Photos. Instants in time, passing instantly. Why do we take so many? Is it to hold onto a moment? To remember and define it? Care must be taken not to make snap judgments, or to resist what is, for there is only one chance to see, and that time is now.
SHOW 2, SEGMENT 1: Mrs. Joyce Collins
LOCATION: Her daughter's bedroom
Camera pans slowly across Sarah's original charcoal drawings on the walls before settling on Mrs. Collins herself.
Valerie Lott:) Sarah was very shy.
VL:) She had a tattoo.
JC, looking down:) Yes, we were very upset about that.
(Camera slowly examines Mrs. Collins' own demure, matronly clothing, focusing at last on her neatly folded hands)
JC:) It's true she never said much about her friends, but it's not like we didn't know what was going on, either.
VL:) What was that?
JC:) Nothing. Nothing at all. We never allowed cigarettes, much less drugs, in this house. She wasn't even allowed to date yet, or to play rock music. Sarah was a good girl. She didn't just go to high school, Ms. Lott, she also went to Sunday school.
VL:) A requirement.
JC:) Do you disapprove?
VL:) Not at all. I'm trying to understand.
JC:) What's to understand? Some creep killed my little girl, just for the kicks, and now the police are too busy to devote the manpower to find out who.
VL:) How would finding out help you?
JC:) There would be some small thread of justice, then. The evil person who did this would pay. And we'd have closure, too.
VL:) Closure. Like the end to a story, you mean?
JC:) What else would I mean?
(The camera pans to Sarah's tidily made bed, and her photo beside it)
VL:) Did Sarah keep a diary, Mrs. Collins?
JC:) I heard the cops found one in her locker at school, yes.
VL:) Did you read it?
JC:) No, I'd never read Sarah's diary.
VL:) Would you like to read it now? Because we can ask them to give it to you.
(Camera zooms to the dark space beneath Sarah's bed, then pans to another closeup, revealing the irritated expression on Mrs. Collins' face)
The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott Page 27
