“May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How long have you been pretending not to be in pain?”
The question hits me hard. “Why do you ask me that?”
“Because, Tully, sometimes the well just fills up with our tears. And water starts
to spill over.”
“My best friend died last month.”
“Ah,” Harriet says. Just that. Then she nods and says, “Come see me, Tully. Make an
appointment. I can help.”
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.
It is past six-thirty when I leave my building. The streets and sidewalks are full
of commuters coming home from work. I blend into the Gore-Tex garbed crowd, ignoring
the rain that spits down on us. I don’t even know where I’m going until I see the
outdoor seating area in front of the Virginia Inn restaurant and bar.
I sidle through the outdoor tables and go inside. The dark interior is exactly what
I need right now. I can disappear in here. I go to the bar and order a dirty martini.
“Tallulah, right?”
I glance sideways. Dr. Granola is beside me. Just my luck to run into a man who has
seen me at my worst. In the gloom, his face looks sharp, maybe a little angry. His
long hair is unbound and falls forward. Cufflike tattoos cover his forearm. “Tully,”
I say. “What are you doing in a place like this?”
“Collecting for the widows and orphans fund.”
It figures.
He laughs. “I’m having a drink, Tully. Same as you. How are you doing?”
I know what he is asking and I don’t like it. I certainly don’t want to talk about
how vulnerable I feel. “Fine. Thanks.”
The bartender hands me my drink. It is all I can do not to pounce on it. “Later, Doc,”
I say, carrying my drink to a small table in the back corner of the bar. I slump onto
the hard seat.
“May I join you?”
I look up. “Would it make an impact if I said no?”
“An impact? Of course.” He sits down in the chair opposite me. “I thought about calling
you,” he says after a long, awkward silence.
“And?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
“Be still my heart.”
Through speakers hidden somewhere in the walls, Norah Jones’s husky, jazzy voice urges
people to
come away with me
.
“Do you date much?”
It surprises me enough that I laugh. Apparently he’s a man who says what is on his
mind. “No. Do you?”
“I’m a single doctor. I get set up more often than a set of bowling pins. You want
me to tell you how it works these days?”
“Blood tests and background checks? Condoms by Rubbermaid?”
He stares at me as if I belong in a display case for Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
“Fine,” I say. “How does the dating game work these days?”
“At our age, we all have stories. They matter more than you’d think. Sharing them
and hearing them is the start of it. The way I see it, there are two ways to go: tell
your story up front and let the chips fall where they may, or stretch them out over
a bunch of dinners. Wine helps in this second tack, especially if one’s story is long
and boring and self-aggrandizing.”
“Why do I think you put me in the last category?”
“Should I?”
I smile, surprising myself. “Maybe.”
“So, here’s my plan. Why don’t you tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine, and
we’ll see if this is a date or if we’re ships passing in the night?”
“It’s not a date. I bought my own drink and I didn’t shave my legs.”
He smiles and leans back in his chair.
There is something about him that intrigues me, a charm I didn’t see the first time.
And really, what better thing do I have to do? “You first.”
“My story is simple. I was born in Maine, in a farmhouse, on land that had been in
my family for generations. Janie Traynor was my neighbor down the road. We fell in
love somewhere around eighth grade, right after she stopped throwing spitballs at
me. For twenty- some years, we did everything together. We went to NYU, got married
in the church in town, and had a beautiful daughter.” His smile starts to fall, but
he hikes it back up and squares his shoulders. “Drunk driver,” he says. “Crossed the
median and hit the car. Janie and Emily died at the scene. That’s when my story veers
west, you might say. Since then, it’s just me. I moved to Seattle, thinking a new
view would help. I’m forty-three, in case you were wondering. You seem like a woman
who wants details.” He leans forward. “Your turn.”
“I’m forty-six—I’ll lead with that, although I don’t like to. Unfortunately, you can
get my entire life story off of Wikipedia, so there’s no point in my lying. I have
a degree in journalism from the UW. I worked my way up the network news ranks and
became famous. I started a successful talk show,
The Girlfriend Hour
. Work has been my life, but … a few months ago, I learned that my best friend had
been diagnosed with breast cancer. I walked away from my career to be with her. Apparently
this is an unforgivable breach and I am now a cautionary tale instead of a shining
star. I have never been married and have no children and my only living relative—my
mother—calls herself Cloud. That pretty much sums her up.”
“You didn’t say anything about love,” he says quietly.
“No. I didn’t.”
“Never?”
“Once,” I say. Then, more softly. “Maybe. It was a lifetime ago.”
“And…”
“I picked my career.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm, what?”
“This is just a first for me, that’s all.”
“A first. How?”
“Your story is sadder than mine.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, as if I am somehow vulnerable. I toss back
the rest of my martini and get to my feet. Whatever he is going to say next, I don’t
want to hear. “Thanks for the dating matrix,” I say. “’Bye, Dr. Granola.”
“Desmond,” I hear him say, but I am already moving away from him, heading for the
door.
At home, I take two Ambien, and crawl into bed.
* * *
I don’t like what I’m hearing. Xanax. Ambien,
Kate says, interrupting my story.
That’s the thing about your best friend. She knows you. Inside and out, down to the
studs, as they say. Even worse, you see your own life through her eyes. It has always
been true: Kate’s is the voice in my head. My Jiminy Cricket.
“Yeah,” I say. “I made a few mistakes. The worst wasn’t the meds, though.”
What was the worst?
I whisper her daughter’s name.
September 3, 2010
8:10
A.M.
Time slowed to a crawl in hospitals. Johnny sat in the uncomfortable chair, tucked
in close to Tully’s bed.
He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and stared down at it. Finally he pulled
up his contact list and called Margie and Bud. They lived in Arizona now, near Margie’s
widowed sister, Georgia.
Margie answered on the third ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Johnny!” she
said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “How good to hear from you.”
“Hey, Margie.”
There was a pause, then: “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Tully. She’s been in a car accident. I don’t have all the details, but she’s
here in Sacred Heart.” He paused. “It’s bad, Margie. She’s in a coma—”
“We’ll be on the next flight out. I’ll send Bud straight to Bainbridge to be with
the boys when they get home from school.”
“Thanks, Margie. Do you know how to reach her mother?”
“No worries. I’ll get ahold of Dorothy. Does Marah know yet?”
He sighed at the very thought of calling his daughter. “Not yet. Honestly, I have
no idea if I’ll be able to get ahold of her. Or if she’ll care.”
“Call her,” Margie said gently.
Johnny said goodbye and disconnected the call. He closed his eyes for a moment, readying
himself. The edge his daughter lived in these days was narrow; a whisper could push
her off.
Beside him, a machine beeped steadily, reminding him with every chirp that it was
keeping Tully alive, breathing for her, giving her a chance.
A chance that Dr. Bevan reported was
not good
.
He didn’t need the doctor’s report to know that. He could see how gray she was, how
broken and fragile.
Reluctantly, he pulled up his contact list again and made another call.
Marah.
Eight
September 3, 2010
10:17
A.M.
The Dark Magick Bookstore in Portland, Oregon, prided itself on an ambience created
by dim lighting, burning incense, and black curtains. Used books were crowded together
on dusty shelves; there were sections devoted to subjects like spiritual healing,
Wiccan practices, pagan rituals, and meditation. There was no doubt to even the most
casual observer that this was a store that wanted to be spooky and spiritual at the
same time. The only problem was shoplifters. In the muddy lighting and smoke-filled
air, it was tough to keep track of the merchandise. Too much of it left in pockets
and backpacks.
Marah Ryan had told her boss this on several occasions, but the woman refused to be
bothered with worldly concerns.
So Marah let it go. It wasn’t as if she really cared, anyway. This was just another
stupid job in a long line of stupid jobs she’d had in the two years since she graduated
from high school. The only good thing about it was that no one hassled her for the
way she looked. Oh, and usually the hours were good. But this week was inventory,
so Marah had had to come in super early, which blew as far as she was concerned, especially
because she just counted items that never sold anyway. Most stores took inventory
after work. Not the Dark Magick. Here, they did inventory in the predawn hours. Why?
Marah had no fricking clue.
Now, as she stood in the Voodoo section, counting and recording black skull candles,
she toyed with the idea of quitting this dead-end job, but the idea of looking for
work again
,
of moving on, depressed her.