Charlotte would sit and listen for hours on end. It was medicine for her soul.
Hannah was an advocate first for holistic and natural remedies, where they could be substituted for drugs and medication. It had become evident, though, that Charlotte would benefit from the advances available to soothe her anxieties and give her a sense of comfort and security. This, along with a full-time care facility that shared in her and Robert’s vision for the highest of care, was in order. Serenity Lane provided just that. A state-of-the-art facility with a focus on nutrition, physical activity, social engagement, and mentally stimulating pursuits. This was the place. Hannah knew it the first moment she pulled up to the sprawling landscape with its inviting pink and purple lilacs lining the garden paths with their delicate, heart-shaped leaves and pastel blooms. It was more than just a skilled care facility—it was a caring home. And her mother deserved no less.
Hannah stood in the doorway and watched as the frail, bent woman who was once a vibrant and elegant dancer sat still in the rocking chair, facing the window and watching the western sunset. A tiny music box glistened atop an antique bureau, and a bright granny square afghan was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Evenings were the hardest and would bring agitation, disorientation, and confusion. Robert had stepped out for his dinner, but would be back in time to assist Charlotte with hers. Then, he would sit by her bedside as she dozed, at the ready to respond if she called out or needed him. Hannah would take the pre-dinner shift when she could and sit with her mother, never knowing if the time would be spent soothing her fears, or conversing with her like a friendly stranger, chatting about the weather or the bluebells that were sure to bloom sweet and steady with the spring rains.
It was in those moments when Hannah cared not about keeping callers to less than three minutes, the empty nest syndrome that had left two holes where once Ty and Marc had nestled, Olivia’s toddler tantrums, or the stabs of insecurity that threatened to pierce the heart of her failing marriage. In those moments there with Charlotte, sharing tea and placid glances, she was at peace, knowing that it was she who was being cared for by the most important person in the world, not the other way around.
Chapter 19
2004
“Hello. This is The Dr. Hannah Show—and you’re on the air . . .”
It was not long before a cult following ushered Hannah’s show top of ratings, eliciting requests from listeners who wanted more of the good doctor’s potion. The emails and message board comments declared what Buford Jones had predicted—“More Dr. Hannah!”
So, Jones awarded Hannah her own time slot, from four a.m. to seven a.m. each weekday. Here, callers sought counsel, truth, and thirty seconds or more of fame, as their private lives were made public across the airwaves, asking the good doctor to shed some light on their darkest dilemmas.
“I work third shift at the factory, and listen to Dr. Hannah on my breaks. She is an expert on problems I can relate to.”
“She starts my day with a stiff shot of the truth. She pulls no punches!”
“Dr. Hannah, thank you for your sensible advice. You were spot-on about how my husband’s toxic behavior is holding us all hostage. The cycle changes today!”
The callers would gush their sentiments resoundingly. “I love your show! I listen all the time and could use your advice on a little problem I’m having with my live-in lover/wife/landlord/pet snake—.” You name it. They pitched every problem and quandary known to man, woman, child, or beast. The show’s producers had heard it all.
And listen they did, screening thousands of calls, letters, and emails from an anxious and adoring public; listeners looking for old-fashioned sound advice. Some, in search of a kind word, or tongue-lashing, if need be—all for the cost of a single phone call. It was sound therapy on a dime.
It was a long way from the days of crisis center counseling and offering cookie-recipe therapy in her kitchen, or scribbling on a legal pad in her den while a bereaved divorcee lamented the trials of facing life as a single middle-aged mom. The problems were still served up, only now at lightning-fast speed—and in a world that took mental health advice quickly dispensed over the airwaves on their car radios, stereo consoles, and portable devices. The world was changing indeed, but human beings were still basically the same: fearful, damaged, hopeful. And turn to her they did in numbers. Numbers that amounted to profits.
In spring of 2004, Jones signed Hannah on to a two-year contract, putting her three-hour show further into the limelight, offering her Courtney Reed’s chair in the highly coveted mid-day timeslot, causing the listenership numbers to skyrocket. By measure of the sudden increase in sheer volume of callers flooding the phone lines of WCLK, everyone delighted in the obvious triumph of Hannah’s unprecedented bold, take-no-prisoners personality, along with her spot-on sage advice.
And so it was—a talk radio star was born.
Chapter 20
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
2005
It was the fourth Tuesday of the month and only the second time that Peter had been brave enough to walk into the club after chickening out so many times before. He had noticed him working behind the bar the previous time he had slinked into the hazy half-light. They had crossed paths once when he was on the way to use the john. That night, Peter had stopped and leaned against the bar to linger, feeling something very distinctively different as he watched the blond-haired, attractive man wiping out the shot glasses and chatting with the patrons, noticing his name tag that read Anthony. Peter felt it again, only stronger, when he followed him on his way out of the bar into the parking lot right as the club was closing. He did not know what made him do it, but he slipped his business card nonchalantly under the windshield wiper of Anthony’s yellow jeep the next night on his way to the airport to catch a flight back home to his normal life.
Three weeks later, when Anthony called on Peter’s private line at the office, his stomach did flips and he had to excuse himself as having to check on a patient in order to compose himself. The gorgeous boy stammered nervously himself when, a day later, he left a coy message on Peter’s voice mail, asking him to meet him the following Tuesday at an upscale dinner club on the south side of Pittsburgh, renowned in gay circles for its discretionary dark windows. The restaurant was attached to a four-star hotel with satin sheets, an oversize Jacuzzi, and complimentary champagne in-room dinner service for its discreet patrons.
Peter vomited into the commode just minutes after ejaculating into Anthony’s mouth, only to find himself in the weeks that followed, unable to get the young man and the thought of having sex with him, out of his mind.
Peter had returned for months to follow, finding every excuse possible to go to Pennsylvania, as well as reasons not to go. Once at home surrounded by his loving, picture-perfect family and thriving practice, he did not have to look very far.
Still, he maintained a duo life. Under the guise of work or research, he returned to Pittsburgh and to Anthony time and again. Soon, one year turned into two, and two eventually into five.
Chapter 21
New York City, NY
2015
Hannah stared at the cursor blinking on the screen. Then, she surveyed her desk. Every award, every accolade seemed in the half-light to mock her. She closed her eyes and measured her breathing. In the decade that had followed, “Dr. Hannah” had became a household name, and not least of all—party to Americans’ insatiable quick-fix obsession for mental guidance to go, streaming on their car radios, laptops, and smartphones. Unique to the high- profile pop-psychologist was a compelling persona and a quick wit that made her unique, engaging style addictive to listen to. Her banter with the callers was high-spirited, informative, funny, and direct. In the business of radio, each call had to be executed quickly, fitting neatly within the allotted package of precise time restraints. As a result, Dr. Hannah had to deliver her expert gems of advice in a window of no less than three
and a half minutes per call—sometimes less; a constraint that drove her to compromise her bedside manner in order to get rather directly to the point on any given call. And damn the niceties of the “other” talk host geniuses who had time to spare!
Hannah had to identify each problem right out of the gate, often appearing to badger the poor caller with questions and requests for background information in order to set up a viable solution, and sometimes cutting them off mid-sentence to deliver her verdict.
“Dump him! Fess up! Get real!”
“Apologize, or be prepared to revisit this issue.”
“Walk away . . . ”
Hannah quickly began earning the reputation of being a no-nonsense, hard-nosed shrink shorter on the sugar of her previous methods and long on dispensing straightforward, brutally honest advice. The kind of advice that helped listeners to turn their lives around for the better—and continue to grow the ratings in the process.
She had become a seasoned businesswoman. A commodity.
Dr. Hannah was a hit with the sponsors, who clamored to purchase airtime that would have her endorse their products. She touted everything from fitness bikes to age cream. Her word was credible, her advice strong and solid.
She was a symbol of conscience and integrity, vying for truth over folly, and not afraid to chastise her own audience for being too self-serving and narcissistic, saying, “I won’t tell you what you want to hear.” She would besiege a whiny caller weighing the ramifications of choosing between his twenty-seven-year-old secretary and his thirty-year marriage. You made a commitment, which alone leaves you without a choice, does it not? What’s the problem then, Roy? Dump the floozy who’s wrecking your castle! Think with your head—it’s the reason you have one.”
Click.
“Next caller, please. Hello. This is Dr. Hannah . . . Arlene, why don’t you tell me why you have a problem with the fact that your daughter is a lesbian?”
Three hours a day Hannah dispensed advice concerning life’s colorful spectrum from the lovelorn to the lost; the addicted to the conflicted. Dr. Hannah’s shingle swung, covering the gamut of human behavior and dysfunction; solving family squabbles, building bridges, tearing down walls, and always putting forth the underlying belief that the power to heal is within everyone. And that righteousness and goodness reside in every man and woman alive.
Dr. Hannah extolled the power of inner strength, as well as heavenly faith, “I’m just here to help remind you of it. God gave you the tools you need. Take yourself out of the equation.”
This answer satisfied the masses, offering “God” to mean the faith-source or deity most identified by each individual listener.
While Dr. Hannah was known to expound controversially, “The holy bible is the only rule book in life you’ll ever need,” she did manage to pen several best-sellers of her own in the years that followed. These were a series of four self-help paperbacks extolling the benefits of living life high on virtue and personal honor; avoiding the derailing pitfalls of greed and selfishness. These were reminiscent of her maternal approach to preaching morality, and as expected, packed a punch: Moral Fiber, More Moral Fiber, Moral Fiber for Teens, and Band-Aids for the Broken Soul.
Eventually, Dr. Hannah became a frequent keynote speaker at numerous symposiums and charity events that raised money to fund safe houses and women’s advocacy programs nationally. She was a champion for mental health and child welfare outreach programs; supported countless organizations that sought to lend her name to needy and laudable causes. Dr. Hannah was a bleeding heart, and no amount of fame or notoriety would change that. She was a wife and a mother first and foremost, reminding herself unceasingly that the greatest title and honor in her life was that of being a mom—“Dr. Mom” not only to her family but to her adoring listeners, a moniker that was aptly exploited by the broadcasting conglomerate’s marketing team.
Now, at age sixty, however, right then and there, it hit her. She would be facing the prospect of life as a divorced woman herself—the one and only blemish on an otherwise perfect career and virtually flawless life. Over the past several decades, she had raised four perfect children, three of whom were grown and successful in their own right; she had won numerous awards, written books, had a thriving practice, and had gained notoriety anchoring what had become the number-one-rated syndicated radio talk show in the country. But the biggest honor in her life was being grandmother to two beautiful granddaughters. And now, here she was about to send them—the light of her very life— their morning joke. Why, then, did she feel like she was dying inside?
Chapter 22
2005
It was not always purple furs and fancy handbags for Marney Valentine. An adult since the tender age of seventeen, she had been around the block and back by the time she turned twenty-one, when she left her east Brooklyn neighborhood at age ten, to live with an aunt in Greenwich Village who had a bad string of battering boyfriends and a nasty drug addiction. There was never a mother to speak of. Her father, Chad Warinski, was a former musician-turned concert promoter for Manhattan Records, who traveled two hundred days out of the year. Marney was his only daughter, from wife number three. She had six siblings, total—one natural-born brother, and five stepbrothers who lived with various relatives throughout the country. Chad had pawned Marney off on his sister, Rebecca, until she started getting restless around age thirteen.
It was then that Chad would take Marney along with him on band tours, exposing her to the hard-core, uncensored realities of the music business and of life on the concert circuit. The wanton lifestyle was an unfortunate upshot of his profession.
Marney grew up on a tour bus, getting hit on by everything from roadies to rockers. And, not unremarkably, she could sing. She had gargantuan-size talent, and Chad hoped to cash in on it big time, by exploiting her any way that he could.
He forced her on record agents, distribution managers, songwriters, producers, and club owners—anyone who would listen—dressing her provocatively in spandex leotards and too-tight designer jeans. He loaded on the mascara and blush and tried to pass her off as being eighteen when she was barely fifteen.
She hated every minute of it. Mostly, the unwanted stares and advances of every long-haired, coked-out, band freak who promised they could make her a star.
Most of all, she hated Chad for selling her out.
She lost her virginity to a guy named Zip, who wore eye makeup and a nose stud, on a couch in a dressing room, somewhere in Pittsburgh. It doesn’t get more pathetic than that, Marney often thought, whenever she recalled those dark, dark days. Even living with her strung-out Aunt Rebecca in a cockroach-infested studio flat was better than watching life and truck stops go by in the rearview mirror of a production bus. She was not cut out for the lifestyle that ultimately drove her own worthless father to despair and destruction.
So at sixteen, she took one hundred twenty dollars—all she had in crumpled bills—and caught a Greyhound straight back to Brooklyn and to Aunt Rebecca’s, where another hellish slice of life awaited.
Chad Warinski lived a jaded, pathetic existence, immersed in a cesspool of drugs, fast living, and carnal pleasures untold, pining from the sidelines for his day in the spotlight. Ironically, he managed to take his own life before the booze and the barbiturates did him in, hanging himself from a scaffold of can lights before a Stones concert in Madison Square Garden. He was, to his detriment, remembered only for the contribution his suicide had lent to the holdup of the show, delaying the curtain for fifty minutes while authorities removed the body. It was a stunt, which in turn, coined a new buzz phrase in the entertainment sector. From that point on, the term “pulling a Warinski” applied whenever technical or other complications held off the timely start of any show.
Marney miraculously managed to finish high school, pushing herself to work two jobs at one time, while taking night classes at a local community college in order to sa
ve enough money to get out on her own. She found a less cockroach-infested garden apartment, which she shared with an exchange student, a bartender, and a female impersonator, who soon disappeared, unsurprisingly, stiffing them all on the rent. The only consolation being that he/she left behind a fantastic trunk of fabulous clothes that Marney helped herself to. The apartment was located on Manhattan’s east side and had a walled-in view of a concrete courtyard. It was sub-adequate by anyone’s standards, but Marney loved it.
At age twenty, she committed what she deemed to be a cardinal sin. Against her own better judgment, she met and married a musician. He was a rock ’n’ roll flunky who called himself Sir Kenny. Her commitment to the marriage ended before it even began, as suspicion of Kenny’s penchant for infidelity was confirmed when Marney found him bedding her maid of honor five days before the wedding; a practice that he entertained equally enthusiastically during their ill-advised marriage.
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