Authors: Diane Chamberlain
After signing in with the receptionist, Carmen took a seat on the opposite side of the room from the other women and pretended to lose herself in a magazine. She glanced at the women from time to time, trying to discern why they were there. One was small-breasted, although in any other setting she wouldn’t have noticed. Was that the reason for her visit, or was it the slight knob on the bridge of her nose or the sagging line of her jaw?
God, was she really going to go through with this? She’d always looked at women who resorted to plastic surgery with disdain, thinking that she would graciously accept her own aging. She had been confident that her intelligence and skill would be enough to carry her through.
Yesterday, Tom Forrest, a retired reporter and a man she had long considered her mentor, visited her on the set of
News Nine
. Tom had taken her under his wing many years earlier, when she was a twenty-four-year-old intern at the station. She was too sweet, he’d told her then. Too soft, and entirely too subjective. He’d taught her how to mask her softness with a tough facade, how to keep her emotional distance when a story threatened to pull her too deeply under its spell. She had mastered everything he’d taught her, and then some.
She was surprised to see Tom, surprised by the sober, business-like way he greeted her. He had put on weight since the last time she’d seen him, and his teddy-bear frumpiness now had an unhealthy air to it. He took her out for a cup of coffee, since there was no place at the station where they could talk privately. And it was obvious that privacy was what he wanted.
“I’ve always given it to you straight, Carmen, and I’m not going to mince words with you now,” he said, once they were seated in the restaurant. “I’m not going to tell you my sources, either, so don’t ask.”
“What are you talking about?”
He leaned forward, hands resting flat on the table. “Rumor has it that they were going to can you after the fires were out. No one saw much point to keeping you around.”
She didn’t let the shock register on her face. She studied the shape of his eyes, his graying eyebrows—something he had taught her to do a lifetime ago—to reduce the chance of her crying. Tom Forrest wouldn’t respect her tears.
“It seems they’re changing their minds, though,” he continued. “At least they’re holding off on making a decision.”
“Why?” Her voice was barely audible.
“Because of the bits of info you’re passing on about Jeff Cabrio. They’re waiting to see how that story develops. They want to see what you’ll do with it.” He shook his head. “You’ve been away too long, Carmen. It shows, honey. I think Cabrio’s your only chance.”
Carmen had leaned back in her chair, trying to absorb his words. He had never, in all the years she’d known him, called her ‘honey.’ She must seem very small and powerless to him.
What else could she say about Jeff Cabrio? She had little to offer in the way of facts, but she had always excelled at embellishment. The night before, she’d shown a short film of Jeff and Rick unloading two large vats from a truck and rolling them into the warehouse, and she’d speculated over what possible use they might make of them in their avowed quest for rain.
“Milk the Cabrio story for all its worth, Carmen,” Tom said, as they left the restaurant, but she had already made up her mind to do exactly that.
There were two doctors seeing patients, and so Carmen’s wait wasn’t very long. Lynn Sulley called her into a small office, the gently curving walls again a pale apricot, the carpet thick and deep green. Pictures of beautiful women lined the walls. Carmen wanted to look at them, but kept her eyes on Lynn’s face instead, wondering which of them was older. Lynn Sulley looked no more than thirty-five.
Lynn offered her a warm smile, which Carmen tried to return, but the sensation felt unnatural to her face. She sat down in one of the black leather armchairs, while Lynn sat in the other.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. Perez,” the doctor said. “I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. I’m so happy to see you back on the news.”
“Thank you.” Carmen folded her hands in her lap. “That’s why I’m here, though. When I see myself on TV these days, I’m shocked to see… well, I’m just shocked.” For a terrible moment, she thought she might cry.
Lynn Sulley rescued her. “You’re an extraordinary-looking woman,” she said, her voice calm. “What specifically are you here for?”
“Well, I thought… a face-lift.” She touched her hands to her cheeks. “Just to… lose a few years.”
Lynn sat back in her chair. She was still smiling, but Carmen suddenly read condescension into the curve of her lips. She rested her damp palms flat on her skirt, waiting.
“You’ve had a very difficult few years, haven’t you,” she said.
“Yes. And every one of them shows on my face.”
“Let me go over a little history with you, just to be sure I have it straight from a medical standpoint. You had a couple of miscarriages and then gave birth to a child who suffered some sort of sudden illness, which resulted in severe brain damage. Is that right?”
My God, was this woman going to make her go through it all? Here? Now?
“Dr. Sulley,” she said, striving for coolness in her voice. “I don’t see what that has to do with getting a face-lift. I don’t see why my history should matter more than anyone else’s.”
“It doesn’t. I would want to know these things about any patient I’m considering treating because they factor into how good a candidate you are for plastic surgery.”
She would go someplace else. She could stand up now and walk out of the office while her dignity was still intact. But she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were leaden.
“For example,” Lynn continued, “I know you suffered a major depression after your son’s birth. You were hospitalized for quite a while, right?”
“The injustice,” Carmen leaned forward, “is that you already know my history. Everyone does. The women in the waiting room, who are free to tell you what they choose about the past few years—even
they
know what’s happened to me. Why can’t you let me tell it?”
“Fine,” she said. “Please go ahead.”
Carmen looked down at her hands and felt some alarm to see she was clutching the fabric of her skirt in her fists. “Yes, I gave birth to a sick child, and I had severe postpartum depression that required a period of time in the hospital. Then I was divorced from my husband, and of course that was quite difficult. I took some time off from work to deal with all of that.
Anyone would have had some trouble coping under those circumstances, don’t you agree?”
“Of course. I’m not saying—”
“And now that I’m healthy and back on the job, I’m aware that I’ve aged during… the ordeal. So I want to do something about it.”
“Forgive me.” Lynn Sulley sat forward. “You’re a public figure, and therefore I can’t simply accept what you’re telling me when I know there’s more to it than that. I know you tried to kill yourself, and that you were addicted to pain medication. I know it’s taken you four full years to be able to work again. I’m not saying this to upset you, but to help you see my position here. The addiction would rule out your being able to take any pain killers, and most women find them necessary after facial surgery.”
“I can do without them.”
She shook her head. “I believe this is the wrong time for you to make a decision about this type of surgery. I think your expectations may be too high. And you’ve just gotten back to work. Give yourself six months. You’ll be less fragile then and—”
“I am not fragile.” Carmen stood up. “What do I have to do to make people see that?”
Lynn Sulley stood up too and rested her hand on Carmen’s arm. “You know,” she said, “the first time I ever saw you on TV was after the plane crash back in ‘78. You were there just minutes after the plane went down, and I’ll never forget how cool and calm you were with all that chaos going on around you. I remember saying to myself, ‘That is one strong woman. How can she do it?’ I wondered then if there was any softness in you at all. But there’s a lot in there, isn’t there? It’s buried, but it’s there. And that’s okay. That’s good.”
Carmen withdrew her arm and picked up her purse from the floor. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said.
“Go easy on yourself,” Lynn said. “Give yourself a little more time.”
She wanted a drink, a beer or two, something to numb her, but she hadn’t given in to that urge in four years, and she wouldn’t give in to it today. She forced herself to drive past the 7-Eleven without stopping on her way to the freeway. She could go home, get into bed and pull the covers over her head. That thought terrified her more than the temptation of a drink. She’d done that many times before—escaped into sleep—but not since she’d been well.
Traffic on the freeway was light and gave her time to think. She remembered back to the plane crash. A commercial jet and a small private plane had collided over North Park and dropped onto the houses below in a ball of fire. She had been one of the first reporters at the scene, and she hadn’t been prepared for what she found. No one had. No caring human being could possibly have been prepared for that nightmare. When she’d stepped out of the van, she’d stepped directly on something that cracked beneath her foot. She’d looked down to see the severed hand of a child. And that had been only the beginning. She was surrounded by smoky carnage. Bodies had been torn apart, arms and legs caught in the limbs of trees above her head. Leaning against a nearby house was an airplane seat, the headless torso of a man still strapped securely to it by the seat belt. Already the stench of death was mixing with the smoke in the hot summer air.
The camera was on her in mere seconds, and she focused on it, on her job. She could do that easily back then; Tom Forrest had taught her well. That ability to shut down her feelings long enough to do what needed to be done, no matter how grisly the task, had been her finest skill. It wasn’t until she got home that night that she allowed herself to fall apart, and it was Chris who pieced her back together again, Chris who held cool towels to the back of her neck while she battled nausea on the bathroom floor, Chris who comforted her when she couldn’t sleep, when she woke up with nightmares. It was the knowledge that she would be going home to him after work that got her through those terrible few days.
Shortly before the crash, she had come up with the idea for
San Diego Sunrise
, but she hadn’t been able to convince anyone at
News Nine
that she had the strength and guts it would take to pull off a show like that. Her coverage of the crash erased their doubts, and she was given the go-ahead within days.
News Nine
had been the beneficiary of her foresight and talent. Now, though, they were ready—anxious, it seemed—to get rid of her.
Carmen deliberately missed the exit that would take her out to Sugarbush. Instead she drove down Jacaranda, heading for the block-long “heart” of Valle Rosa. She turned onto Verde and parked across the street from the mayor’s office. Chris’s car was there. She opened her window and sat, keeping her eyes on the small, run-down building, feeling safe from the beer in the market, safe from the seductive lure of her bed and the sleep of a coward. She wouldn’t go into the office. She wasn’t about to let Chris know she still needed him. She wasn’t even ready to admit it to herself.
MIA WAS EDITING A
letter when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver, tucking it between her chin and shoulder. “Mayor’s office.”
“Sunny?”
Stunned, she let the pencil fall from her grasp. “
Glen
.”
“You know, I don’t understand your obstinacy, Sunny. Why won’t you give Laura your home phone number?”
“I don’t have a phone. I don’t want one.”
“You have an address, don’t you? I mean, I can understand not wanting
me
to have it, but she’s your sister, Sunny. She’s all the family you have left. What if there was an emergency? What if she needed you?”
“She’s never needed me. Besides, she has this number. Apparently you do, too.”
He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice had lost its bite. “Are you well?” he asked. “Are you keeping up with your doctor’s visits?”
“I’m fine, and I’m going to get off now.”
“No, Sunny, wait. I called you for a reason. You and I have been invited to be in the Lesser Gallery’s local artisans show next month.”
Mia was silent. It wasn’t like Glen to tease, yet she found it hard to believe the Lesser would want either of them. She couldn’t remember ever seeing their type of work in that show.
“You’ve been struck dumb.” Glen laughed. “I was too, at first. Seems they’re more open to figurative sculpting this year for some reason. So let’s not fight it.”
“But, me? I can understand them taking something of yours, but… “
“Let me tell you. The three committee members came here to my studio last week and they went straight to your stuff along the back wall. They simply gaped at it. To be honest, I was afraid they were going to select you and
not
me.”
She felt a quick, unwanted rush of love for him. It was kind of him to say that, whether it was the truth or not.
“They were blown away by your mother and her yarn. Simply blown away. They kept walking back to it. One of the women came back the next day and took pictures of it to use in the brochure.”
She closed her eyes. It had been so long since she’d seen that sculpture. All her work was still at Glen’s studio. She missed working there, with the sunlight pouring through the skylights. She missed
him
.
“Which of yours did they like best?” she asked.
It was a moment before he answered. “The nude of you.”
“Glen.” She leaned forward on the desk. “Please don’t put that in the show.”
“Who’s going to know it’s you? Your hair was long then, and you’ve got that hat on.” He didn’t mention the most significant difference between her body in the sculpture and her body now, but it was foremost in Mia’s mind, and undoubtedly in his as well.
“
I’ll
know,” she said.
“They loved it, Sunny. I have to put it in. And you, my dear old friend, are going to have to come to San Diego for a few days in July to set up your work.”