After she leaves, I sink back into the pillows and sigh. The truth of my circumstance climbs into the bed with me and takes up too much room.
A nice older woman takes me down for an MRI, and then a gorgeous young doctor calls me ma’am and tells me that at my age, falls like mine often cause neck trauma and that the pain will diminish. He writes me a prescription for pain pills and tells me that physical therapy will help.
By the time I am wheeled back into my room, I am beyond tired. I let the nurse tell me about how my show on autistic children saved her cousin’s best friend’s life, and even manage to smile and thank her when the long story finally ends. The nurse gives me Ambien. Afterward, I lie back in bed, closing my eyes.
For the first time in months, I sleep through the night.
Seven
The Xanax helps. On it, I feel less edgy and anxious. By the time Dr. Granola discharges me, I have come up with a plan. No more whining. No more waiting.
At home, I immediately start making phone calls. I have been in the business for decades; surely someone needs a prime-time anchor.
An old friend, Jane Rice, is my first call. “Of course,” she says. “Come in and see me. ”
I almost laugh. That’s how relieved I feel. George was wrong. I am not Arsenio Hall. I am Tully Hart.
I prepare for my interview with care. I know how important first impressions are. I get my hair cut and colored.
“Oh, my,” Charles—my longtime hairdresser—says when I climb into his chair. “Someone has been going native. ” He wraps the turquoise cape around my neck and gets to work.
On the day of my meeting with Jane, I dress carefully in conservative clothes—a black suit and pale lavender blouse. I have not been in the KING-TV building in years, but I immediately feel comfortable. This is my world. At the reception desk, I am greeted like a heroine and I don’t have to give my name and relief eases the tightness of my shoulders. Behind the receptionists are large photographs of Jean Enerson and Dennis Bounds, the nightly news anchors.
An assistant leads me up the stairs, past several closed doors, to a small office on the second floor, where Jane Rice is standing by the window, obviously waiting for me. “Tully,” she says, striding forward, her hand outstretched.
We shake hands. “Hello, Jane. Thanks for seeing me. ”
“Of course. Of course. Sit down. ”
I take the seat she has indicated.
She sits behind her desk and scoots in close, looking at me.
And I know. Just like that. “You can’t hire me. ” It isn’t even a question, not the way I say it. I may have been a talk show host for the last few years, but I am still a journalist. I read people well. That’s one of my skills.
She sighs heavily. “I tried. I guess you really burned some bridges. ”
“Nothing?” I say quietly, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my desperation. “How about a reporting job, not on camera? I’m no stranger to hard work. ”
“I’m sorry, Tully. ”
“Why did you agree to see me?”
“You were a hero to me,” she says. “I used to dream of being like you. ”
Were a hero.
Suddenly I feel old. I get to my feet. “Thank you, Jane,” I say quietly as I leave her office.
A Xanax calms me down. I know I shouldn’t take it—not an extra one—but I need it.
* * *
At home, I ignore my mounting panic and get to work. I sit down at my desk and start making calls to everyone I know in the business, especially anyone for whom I have ever done a favor.
By six o’clock, I am exhausted and defeated. I have called all my contacts in the top ten markets and on the major cable channels, and my agent. No one has an offer for me. I don’t get it: six months ago I was on top of the world. How can I have fallen so far so fast?
My condo suddenly feels smaller than a shoe box and I am starting to hyperventilate again. I dress in whatever I can find—jeans that are too tight and a tunic-length sweater that hides my strained waistband.