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“You need a different agent.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.” I head to the kitchen to make much needed coffee.
“You’re not going to do the interview, are you?” she asks.
I fill the pot with water. “Max said I need him, but Max is wrong. I don’t need Trevor, and I don’t need Max, and I don’t need a man to make my life— or this show— great.”
“Preach it, sister! It’s about time.”
* * *
The two weeks leading up to Christmas are frenetically busy. We’re taping shows back to back, and everyone is in overdrive. I’m just counting down the days until December 22, when I begin my nine-day break. It’s my longest vacation of the year, five workdays sandwiched between weekends and holidays.
Friday morning, my last morning before my break, Glenn calls me into his office. When he tells me to close the door, I have an unpleasant déjà vu sensation and flash back to the day last month when Glenn told me the show wanted to make Shelby my co-host.
As I sit down, I cross my legs and wait. He doesn’t waste time.
“They want to introduce Shelby as co-host when we return to live shows the first of the year.”
My lips part, but I make no sound. Instead I squeeze the water bottle I carried in with me, gripping it so hard that my knuckles shine white.
“Because your numbers are up so much, the execs thought it best to add her soon, while you’re pulling in the viewers.” He talks quietly, unemotionally, and the words just keep coming. “We’re going to have you tape a series of teases this afternoon letting viewers know something big is happening on January second.”
I squeeze the bottle until it pops. I jerk at the sound.
My good numbers have worked against me. My increase in viewership did nothing to protect me.
And then it hits me: They made their decision weeks ago. Nothing I could have done could have prevented this.
Glenn shuffles a few papers in front of him. “And there’s one more thing. The network is dividing the awards coverage among the show hosts this year. You will still cover the Academy Awards. Shelby will work the red carpet with you— ”
“We’re sharing the Academy Awards?”
His gaze meets mine and holds. “And she’s hosting our Golden Globe pre-show with Manuel. It hasn’t been decided who will cover the SAG Awards. It might be Manuel, or it might be him with one of you girls.”
One of us girls. Love it.
I stand. “Is that all?”
“Tiana, you’ve done a good job here. We’re all big fans of your work. We think adding Shelby will make your job easier. It’ll give you someone to chitchat with. Enjoy a little banter.”
Chitchat and banter. I smile so hard that my cheeks ache. “Fabulous.”
“This isn’t a demotion— ”
“Of course not. It’s a wonderful opportunity. Right?” I look him in the eye. “ You know, on second thought, I need a break, Glenn. I’m sure Shelby can cover for me in my absence.”
“How long will you be gone?” he asks, clearly stunned.
I’ve never threatened to quit before, nor have I ever asked for time, and as impulsive as the decision is, my gut says it’s also the right one. It’s what I need. I need time to figure out what I want and what I need. For too long I’ve made the show my top priority, but it’s time I become my top priority.
It crosses my mind that this could be the end, too. If I leave, I want to go out on top, and my numbers are strong. My viewers are back. “Four or five weeks.”
“Four or five?” He’s shocked.
My gaze falls to my hands, which are relaxed for the first time in a long time. I nod, exhale.
“So you’ll be back in time for the SAG Awards?” he asks.
I stand. “I’ll let you know.”
Chapter Ten
It rains as I drive home. It rarely rains in L.A., unlike in Seattle, where Marta lives. But it’s coming down now, cool, hard, decisively, and the weather mirrors my emotions.
My moment of calm dissolves in outright panic. What have I done? What in God’s name was I thinking? Leave of absence, now? Just before contracts? Just before awards season?
But I’m not thinking. I’m reacting. No, acting. I’m making a change. Change is good. Change is necessary.
At home, I strap on my iPod and put on a baseball cap and zip a thin L.A. Lakers windbreaker over my jogging bra and shorts and go for a run.
I refuse to cry as I run.
The words— I need a break—came out easily enough, but confronting the reality of what I’ve said and what I need is something else.
I’m terrified. Terrified of failing. Terrified of suffering. Terrified that I’ll fall in love again and I’ll lose him just the way I’ve lost everyone else.
Every time I think I want to give in to tears, I push on faster. I run and run despite the rain. I run, splashing through puddles, sprayed by passing cars. My shorts and ponytail are soaked through. My shoes drip water with every step. I’m so far from the house and I don’t have a dollar to my name or I’d call for a cab and have it take me home.
I finally stop moving. For a long minute I just stand where I am, sweating and shivering at the same time.
I have to go back now. I’ve been running for over an hour. It’ll take just as long to get back, if not longer since it’s going to be all uphill.
If only I had my cell phone and could just call for help. Russian John or Polish John or even Harper. I’m sure she’d come. But I don’t have my phone and I don’t know any numbers by heart. Besides, I’m soaking wet and I can’t climb into someone’s car like this.
I’m alone. I start back for my house and I do what I do when I’m overwhelmed. I stop thinking, stop feeling, and focus on the moment. I focus on just moving, on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s the way to get through a crisis. It’s the way to get through loss. And it might just be the way to get through a breakdown.
One step at a time.
Marta had invited me to join them for Christmas but there’s no way I can get on a plane on Tuesday, December 23. Better to stay home and get my head together so that by the time I arrive for Zach’s baptism, I’ll be good company.
But the 28th is five days from now, and I’m not sure how to fill them until I turn on my computer and see the file with Sveva’s name on it, Sveva being the crusader in Kenya who caught my interest.
I open the file, see my rough notes begun last September. I was once so excited about the possibilities in this story. I can be excited again. I need to find whatever it is that’s missing, because it’s something that’s missing in me.
Wednesday I head to Santa Monica to get breakfast but end up walking on the beach instead.
Hands burrowed in the pocket of my sweatshirt, I walk and walk and let my imagination run, but the tragic thing is, my imagination’s stunted. I can’t seem to see the possibilities I used to, much less a future beyond the Horizon Broadcasting tower and the artificially decorated America Tonight set. I’ve been part of tabloid television so long, I don’t know where I could go or who would have me.
Eventually I leave the beach, cross the street, and head for the little indie coffee shop on the corner. It’s warm inside and the decor is artsy-funky with a bit of faux Christmas greenery thrown in. I order a mocha with whip to go.
When I get back home, my phone is filled with voice messages. I scroll through the text messages and then the voice messages. They’re mostly all from my girlfriends calling to check in on me, wanting to know if I’ll join them for Christmas, wanting to make sure I won’t be alone.
But I will be alone. I’m okay alone, and I flop down onto the bed and toss the phone on the mattress next to me.
At t
he last minute on Christmas Eve, I decide to attend a service at the Downtown Mission.
I love the California missions. The thick, whitewashed adobe walls. The red roof tiles. The towers with the bells. It can be blistering hot outside, but inside the mission it’s always cool and dark and quiet. Some of the church interiors are plain, while others are a glorious riot of red, yellow, and blue color or a palette of elegant, sophisticated golds and blues.
I haven’t been to a service at a mission in a long time, probably not since Keith and I were married at Carmel Mission nearly eight years ago. It was a beautiful service. Mystical.
I’m underdressed when I arrive for the midnight service. I’m also early, yet the church is already nearly full. I find a middle spot in a middle pew and squeeze past people to kneel to say my prayers.
Sitting back on the dark wood bench, I’m almost immediately overcome by emotion. My throat threatens to close and I fight for control. I can’t cry. The familiar Christmas hymns have started. Must not break down until we’re asked to sing something properly heartrending, like “O Holy Night.”
The lights above are dim, and white pillar candles glow on the altar and in the alcoves and before the stained-glass windows. Fragrant pine boughs arch above the windows and through the Advent wreaths.
Emotion rushes through me again, and I squeeze my hands together, nails pressing into skin. Can’t cry. Can’t. But something’s growing wild in me, something I’m not sure I can control.
I miss them all. My family. Keith.
The organist plays, and I concentrate very hard on the altar.
I used to play games after the car accident, pretending I was God and I could save just one of them from the wreckage. Whom would I save? Which one would live?
My sisters, Willow or Acacia? I’d tell myself that it should be one of them. They were young like me. They had as much right to live as I did. But then I’d remember my mom and how she gave the best hugs and kisses and every night told fantastical bedtime stories.
I’d pick Mom.
I want Mom. I want Mom even now. I feel as though I never had enough of her hugs before she died. Never had enough love. It’s a painful thing when you go through life feeling needy for love.
