I grimace, cradle my cast. “My arm keeps getting in the way.”
Christie arrives with bags of groceries to cook me a welcome-home dinner. She plans to roast the chicken at my house, and she and Shey, who’ve never met before but certainly have heard plenty about each other, peel and quarter and boil the potatoes as they talk and enjoy a glass of wine.
I notice neither offers me a glass of wine. Probably wouldn’t mix with the Vicodin in case I need one tonight. I shift on the living room couch, a little bored, a little uncomfortable. As the smell of roasting chicken wafts from the kitchen, I fidget with the remote control, flip through channels, watching nothing but endless commercials.
I’m lucky, I tell myself. I’m fine. What’s happened is fine. This is life. This is just how the dice go.
I watch a Neutrogena commercial. Beautiful Jennifer Garner washing her face, lifting it to the camera, smiling, her skin as serene and radiant as her smile.
Heat explodes inside my chest. Little spasms of heartbreak.
What if my face doesn’t heal properly?
What if I can’t cover the scar with makeup?
What if I’ll never be loved now?
And isn’t that the real worry: What if I’ll never be loved now?
I close my eyes but see Michael. Opening my eyes, I change the channel. Can’t think like this. Can’t dwell on the negative. Time will tell. Time will reveal all.
* * *
We’re eating Christie’s homemade apple pie, warm and à la mode, when the phone rings. I hope it’s Michael. Christie reaches for my cell phone and hands it to me. It’s Celia.
Celia wants to do a story on me for People. The piece would be a six-page spread at the minimum with photos, possibly even a cover story. They’d do a full photo session here at my house with whatever hair, makeup, and stylists I want.
“Celia,” I interrupt, “it’s Sunday night. Do we have to do this tonight?”
“Yes. Time is of the essence if we’re going to run it in the next issue.”
“I don’t want to be in the next issue.”
“We’re talking a big story, Tia, and some big money, too.” She goes on to assure me that the photographer will capture my new face in the best possible light, but they need to do the pictures soon, before the stitches come out.
“I’m getting a mixed message here,” I tell her. “You say it’s a tasteful piece and the photographer will capture my face in the best light, but you also want to do it now while my face looks the worst? No, thank you.”
I hang up and look at Shey and Christie, who are concentrating on their pie. “She wants to do a story on the accident for People. With my ‘new face’ front and center.”
“Are they going to pay you?” Christie asks calmly, cutting into her flaky crust.
“She mentioned money, but I didn’t ask how much.” I’m repulsed by the thought of exploiting the accident. It disturbs me that I’d be offered money in exchange for revealing my facial injury. I don’t want pity, or sympathy, and I especially don’t want money for something like this. “I won’t be turned into a freak show.”
Tuesday morning Shey has flown back to New York, and Maria, my housekeeper, is working somewhere in the house as I read the newspapers in the living room. I’m reading every free second I can. Don’t want time on my hands. Don’t want to think. I need to have a game plan for the future, but I’m not quite ready to do that.
The doorbell rings. I wait for Maria to come and answer, but she doesn’t. The doorbell rings again.
I drag myself out of the chair and toward the front door. Glancing out the door’s peephole, I see Celia standing there. She’s immaculate. Her beautiful face is exquisitely made up. My chest tightens.
I open the door a crack, look out with my left eye, hiding my right cheek. “Hi.”
“Can I come in?” she asks cheerfully.
“What do you want?” I ask, aware she’s never been to my house before.
“Good to see you, too. Or at least what I can see of you.”
I don’t want to open the door. I don’t want to reveal myself. Don’t want to be vulnerable. Don’t want…
I take a deep breath, stifle the terror at feeling so fragile and mortal, and open the door all the way. “Come in. Please.”
She steps into my house, the heels of her boots clicking on the adobe tiles. “Beautiful house,” she says, looking up at the dark beams and then into the living room at the tall, narrow French doors.
“Thank you.”
“There are the most amazing little houses tucked back in the canyon,” she adds, heading into my living room. She sits in the white-slipcovered chair that faces the seat I just vacated. She crosses one long leg over the other, folds her hands in her lap, and looks at me expectantly. “So. How are you?”
Vain. I’m vain. And scared. And sad. But I don’t say any of this. I smile a small smile, sit down again, and curl my legs under me. “Good. How’s work?”
“Great. Busy.”
“As always.”
And then the conversation dies there. Celia is studying me hard, her gaze examining my face, inspecting it as closely as one would with a magnifying glass. “There’s going to be a scar,” she says at length.
I’m so bruised, so terribly bruised, and her words are a blow to that tender place. “Yes.”
Celia continues to study me intently. Her dark gaze is emotionless. “I phoned Max to get a quote, but he said he no longer represents you.”
“So he didn’t give you a quote?”
“Oh, he did. But it was as your former agent.”
Silence stretches, and then Celia clears her throat. “What are you going to do, Tia? Your contract’s up in days. You have no agent. And that cut is going to take weeks, if not months, to heal.”
“I’ll find something. Maybe in serious news, broadcast news— ”
“There isn’t much room at the top, though, is there? Even Katie’s finding it rough going.”
I shrug, wishing I’d dressed for the day instead of lounging around in my fleecy blue robe. “Why does it have to be at the top? Why can’t I start at the bottom and work my way up?”
“There won’t be money.”
“But there might be opportunity.”
She nods faintly, her sleek dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “Max thinks the only place you can go now is behind the camera. Writing, directing, or producing.”
“That’s Max’s opinion.”
Her lips curve. “You’re still hanging tough.”
“I’m a fighter, Celia. You know that. I’m going to be okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars to you for an exclusive with a four-page photo spread— ” She breaks off, looks me in the eyes. “Or a million to the charity of your choice.”
A million to the charity of my choice?
Immediately, PSI and Rx Smile come to mind. Jean. Meg. The children.
“I’d do the interview,” Celia continues calmly. “You could approve photos and text.”
I want to tell her I’d never sell my story. I want to tell her I’d never let them photograph my face.
But I see the father crying in Katete, telling the doctors that if they didn’t help his son, his son would die.
I see the young mother holding her baby postsurgery, astonished at the beauty of her daughter’s new face.
I see the hospital where the children were dying because they didn’t have clean water.
“Last night America Tonight ran your first segment from your Africa trip. The show ran the teaser about ‘Tiana’s Heart: Inside Zambia with Tiana Tomlinson.’ HBC is going to promote the hell out of your two-week series, but you know not everyone watches America Tonight. You have fierce competition with ET and The Insider. Let’s drive viewers to your story. Let’s get your stories watched.”
Celia holds my gaze, steady, unwavering, as if she were a boxer in the featherweight division. “Do the interview with me, and the story is our cover story for next week’s issue, coinciding with the final week of your Zambia features. Your story not only gets told your way, but it reaches twice as many people. In the article I’ll do a sidebar highlighting the charities you’re featuring on your program. We can give contact numbers, Web sites, information. We can also promote the show itself so more viewers tune in.”