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The organist plays the first keys. I know this song. Everyone rises to their feet.
The emotion I’ve fought all night returns, surging hot and wild through me. “Silent night, holy night…”
Tears fill my eyes. I would give anything to be a child in my mother’s arms again.
“All is calm…”
I would give anything to have lived with more love and less grief. The grief is huge and unending, and it is always there, in the back of my mind. Death can come at any time. Death can steal everyone we love.
“All is bright…”
I can’t stop the tears. I cling to the back of the pew, my heart on fire.
“Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child…”
God, I know I don’t talk to you often, but help me be not afraid. Help me be strong. Help me face all challenges with courage and calm.
I’m awake even before my alarm goes off and then I realize there is no alarm. There’s no need for an alarm. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to do. I lie in bed for another twenty, thirty minutes, half dozing, and then when the memories come rushing back again, memories of my family and Keith, and every memory is tinged with sadness, I throw back the covers and go to the bathroom.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The mirror reveals just how little I slept. Red, bloodshot eyes. Shadows beneath the eyes and a puffy brow bone. Christ. I really need an eye job now.
My house isn’t very festive. This year I didn’t purchase a tree or even poinsettias. I make a face at the stark interior, and after putting on the coffee, I make quick calls to Marta and Shey to wish them a Merry Christmas, then phone Christie to wish her a Happy Hanukkah, and then turn off the phone and settle onto my couch to watch my collection of Christmas movies.
I start with Miracle on 34th Street and then move on to It’s a Wonderful Life before finishing with White Christmas. And that pretty much takes care of Christmas Day.
Now I just need to figure out what to do with the next few weeks.
On December 27, I board the Alaska Airlines flight to Seattle for Zach’s baptism and spend the first hour of the flight working on my laptop, putting together story ideas I could pitch to other networks if the situation came to that.
I’m in the middle of typing when the man next to me faces me. “I know who you are,” he exclaims. “You’re on that show. Entertainment something or other. You’re her….” He shakes his finger at my face. “Come on. I know your name. T… T… Tiana! Tiana something. Right?”
I save my work. “Yes. Tiana Tomlinson, America Tonight.”
He sits back in his wide leather seat, smug. “I knew I recognized you.”
I smile briefly before turning my attention back to my laptop screen, anxious to use the last hour of the flight as efficiently as I did the first. But my seat mate now seems inclined to talk.
“I’m Bob,” he adds, propping his left elbow on the armrest to lean closer to me.
“Hello, Bob. Nice to meet you.”
“You know, it was the glasses that threw me. You don’t wear glasses on TV.”
“Not that often, no.” I frown at the screen, trying to remember where I was on this story I would just about kill to produce. It’s about Sveva Gallman, a young, slim, blonde warrior of a woman born in Kenya to Italian parents. I had the pleasure of hearing her speak in Baltimore four months ago at the Maryland Women’s Foundation and she dazzled the audience with her intelligence and fire and passion for Africa.
Sveva and I were both there being honored that night for our work. She, for working to preserve Kenya’s cultural heritage. Me, for bringing six years of celebrity news into America’s homes.
I told no one, but I was mortified to share the same stage. Mortified that I don’t make news but present it in tiny cheerful sound bites.
Once I wanted to change the world. Once I thought I could.
But Sveva’s passion touched me, and I felt the first stirring of an idea: a show devoted to extraordinary women, women who do heroic things not because they’re paid to, or because they’re photographed or even thanked, but because they believe they can make a difference. And they do.
I worked on the concept last September for an entire weekend, but then it got put away. And it’s only now, three months later, that I’ve returned to it, although I did put in some time during my Paris flight.
I’d start the show with the segment on Sveva. I’d go to Kenya and interview and film her there. I don’t know that I could get my show producers to sign off on me heading to Africa, but if I funded my own trip, they wouldn’t have a lot of say….
Heck, if I’m no longer employed in a month, they’d definitely have no say.
Not that I necessarily want to just quit my job outright, but I do want an opportunity to do fresh stories, inspiring stories. I believe there’s a place in news for empowering stories, too.
“What are you working on?” Bob asks, peering at my screen.
My fingers hover above the keyboard. I glance at Bob. He’s in his late fifties or early sixties and channeling George Hamilton with the white pin-striped shirt, orange tan, Botox brow, and dark pomade hair. “A human interest story.”
I begin typing again, but he’s still staring at my screen, trying to read what I’m writing, and I stiffen, my mind blanking in protest.
I flex my fingers, reread the last paragraph I’ve written. Unfortunately, Bob sees this as an opportunity to converse some more.
“But don’t you have people who do that for you? Aren’t you just the host?”
Just the host.
My jaw clenches. He’s hit a definite nerve. Once upon a time, I was considered a good writer. Call it what you will— talented journalist, respected reporter— I researched, wrote, and produced my own stories. But that’s been so long ago, I don’t even know what I am anymore. Other than famous.
“I have a journalism degree from Stanford,” I say evenly, gaze glued to the screen. “I spent nine years as a reporter before America Tonight.”
What I don’t say is that joining America Tonight opened me to criticism from my former colleagues. It took me less than sixty days to discover that my new salary and star power cost me dearly. The media demoted me, stripping me of my intellect.
And it’s funny, but Bob’s comment brings the old anger roaring back. I am not merely a host. I am still a journalist, and a good one. I can put together a great story, and I know the right questions to ask in an interview.
Just a host?
Hell, no.
Thank God we land on schedule. Even better, Shey’s already at the airport gate, waiting. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck and wearing oversize sunglasses. I’ve never seen Shey wear sunglasses inside a building, and I’m about to tease her that she’s gone Hollywood on me when I catch a glimpse of her eyes from the side.
Her eyes are pink. She’s been crying. In twenty years, I’ve seen Shey cry only once and that was at Keith’s funeral when she held me as I cried on Keith’s casket. She cried that day. And she’s crying now. What the hell is happening in her world?
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods, but her lips are pressed thin.
My heart knots. I’m scared, scared for her, because this isn’t Shey.
We walk through the Sea-Tac terminal and down the escalators to baggage claim, where we find a driver in a dark suit holding a sign with Shey’s name on it.
It’s not until we’re in the back of the town car, our bags stowed in the trunk, and the driver’s heading for the freeway that Shey finally pulls off her glasses. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “John and I have separated. He moved out last weekend.”
I don’t know what to say. John and Shey were perfect together. I know there have been problems lately, but they were an amazing couple and very much in love. “Why?”
Her thin shoulders shift. “We grew apart.”
“Shey.”
Her lower lip quivers a
nd she bites ruthlessly into it.
I reach out and put my hand on her arm. “This might just be temporary. Things will work out. They always do— ”
“I don’t think so. Not this time.”
I don’t want to hear this. Don’t want to believe this. Shey and John’s relationship is solid. Rock solid. I hold them up as my ideal, and if they can’t do it, who can? “Why not?” I cry, and I sound childish, almost desperate. But I loved them together. I needed them together. I need to believe people can stay together.
