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“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I’m here.”
“You left.”
“But when you needed me, I came.”
Chapter Eighteen
The flowers keep arriving. They fill my room. Dozens of vases and arrangements, baskets and balloons. The scent is almost overpowering, and the profusion of colors and blooms reminds me of the arrangements that arrived after Keith died.
I tell my day nurse Saturday afternoon to give most of the flowers to patients on the floor who don’t have any flowers in their room. The nurse goes through the cards and tells me again which arrangement is from whom. Most are from industry professionals, and after plucking the cards from the bouquets, she sees that the flowers are dispersed to those who could use some cheer.
I wake up and discover Shey sitting in a chair next to my bed, leafing through a magazine.
“Hey,” I say, blinking and trying to clear the cobwebs from my head.
Shey stands, leans over me, worry etched all over her face. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I try to sit up but can’t get leverage with my right arm in the cast and sling. I fumble around looking for bed controls, without much success. “What are you doing here, Shey?”
“What do you think I’m doing here, goofball?” She sits on the side of the bed next to me. “You were nearly turned into roadkill, and it’s big news. All over the country, every channel, every news program.”
I giggle at the roadkill part, and Shey takes offense. “Honey, this is serious. I’ve seen the footage on TV. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”
I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. “That’s twice now,” I say. “God must have some big plans for me.”
She squeezes my hand back. “Or maybe He’s scared to let you into heaven. Afraid of all the trouble you’ll bring.”
“There is that,” I agree, muffling a laugh because it still hurts to smile too big. My face still doesn’t feel like mine.
Shey’s eyes search my face, and her expression is so full of love and worry. She’s worried about my face.
“So how bad is it?” I ask, my fingers linked with hers. “On a scale of one to ten, how upset am I going to be?”
“You haven’t seen it yet?”
I shake my head.
She swallows hard, wipes her hands on the thighs of her snug faded Levi’s. “You want to see?”
I nod.
“I’ll get you a mirror. I’ve got one in my makeup bag.”
It feels like forever while she crouches next to her suitcase, rummaging around. As Shey looks for her makeup bag, she tells me that Russian John picked her up from the airport and drove her straight to the hospital a few hours ago. “He wouldn’t let me pay,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder. “He was all choked up. Told me to tell you to get better soon.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Marta’s sick that she can’t be here,” she adds, straightening, compact in her hand. “But the doctors won’t let her fly right now, so I promised her I’d have you call. We’re going to do that soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree, suddenly nervous as she carries the mirror to the bed. I want to see. I don’t want to see. I want to see. I’m terrified to see.
Oh God, just let me see.
Shey opens the compact and holds it out to me. I take it, lift it, try to see my face, and just get my cheek with the line of bruising and dark threads. The cut is longer than I expected. It goes from the edge of my right eye down over my cheekbone, stopping short just shy of my mouth.
I tilt the mirror this way and that, trying to get perspective, trying to see my entire face. “That’s some scar.”
“What has the doctor said?”
“That it’ll fade with time. And later we can discuss other things like another surgery or resurfacing.” I hesitate, nose wrinkling. “It’s worse than I expected.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be sorry.” I look again, studying the scar and my face, and it’s shocking. Strange. But I’m also glad I’ve seen it. I know the worst now. It’s only going to get better. It’ll heal, shrink, fade. “Thank you.” I give back the mirror.
“What are you thinking?” Shey asks.
What am I thinking?
I’m thinking it’s a pretty big scar for television. I’m thinking it’s a bad time to get hurt, particularly when I’m without an agent and without a contract in just a few weeks.
I look at Shey. Her blue eyes are so sad.
I’m thinking that I’m lucky I’m facing this with Shey here.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I smile up at her. “And I’m glad you know I’ve been through so much worse. I’ve got a broken arm and some cracked ribs and a cut on my face. But I’m not paralyzed, not ill, not dead. You know?”
She bends over, wraps her arms carefully around my shoulders. “I love you.”
Her warmth surrounds me, and I inhale, breathing in her familiar fragrance. She’s worn Calvin Klein for years, and I can’t smell it without thinking of her and sunshine. “I love you, too.”
Shey’s arms are still around me when a knock sounds on the door. The door opens and Max steps into the room. He’s carrying an enormous vase of red roses. “How are you doing, doll?” he asks, closing the door behind him.
“How did he get in?” Shey mutters. “You have a no visitors policy.”
“I don’t know,” I answer back, not at all happy to see him.
“I thought you fired him.”
“I did.”
Max introduces himself to Shey. “Max Orth, vice president, Allied Talent Management.”
“Shey Darcy.” She shakes his hand. “We’ve met before. But it’s been a while.”
I can tell Shey’s not happy to see Max here. I’m curious as to why he’s here. Shey excuses herself so we can talk. “I’m going to grab a cold drink and make some calls. I’ll be back in a half hour.”
Max takes the chair next to my bed. “You gonna be okay, kid?”
I smile crookedly. “Of course.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while. Seconds pass, and then more. Finally he takes a deep breath. “You’re going to discover things are different for you now.”
“The scar will fade and with makeup it’ll be barely noticeable.”
He shakes his head. “Doll, I’m worried about you and I have to be honest. This is going to be difficult for viewers to get around.”
“Is that what you think, or is that what the heads at HBC have said?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer directly. “Every time folks turn on the TV they’ll see you’re hurt, and it’ll remind them that bad things can happen. And bad things will happen, and I can pretty much guarantee the studio doesn’t want that. Folks tune in to America Tonight to escape real-life problems.”
Wincing, I drag myself higher in bed with my left arm. God-damn, but I feel as if I’ve been run over by a garbage truck. “You haven’t talked to Glenn. Glenn wouldn’t say that, not about me, not right now.”
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“No, he might not say it, but the studio execs, the moneymen, they’re not going to renew your contract. You’re an expensive talent. Your image is your talent— ”
“Correction, Max. My image supports my talent, but my talent has nothing to do with the outside packaging.”
“I know that, doll. You don’t have to sell me. I’ve been your fan from the beginning. I believed in you then, and I believe in you now, and that’s why I want to help you.”
I’m dumbfounded. Can’t think of a single thing to say.
“We’re going to get through this, and we’re going to make it work to your advantage. There are lots of opportunities out there. It’s just a matter of finding the right one.”
He sounds so warm and enthusiastic that I’m wondering if maybe I’ve misjudged him, if maybe I do want him on my team again, representing me.
Max reads my silence as permission to continue, and does so. “I will get you work. Maybe not on one of the major networks, but there might be some opportunities on cable, especially in production. It’ll be a move behind the cameras instead of in front, but it’ll be work. Work you’re lucky to get.”
“Lucky?” I choke, pouncing on the last word to try to drown out the panic flooding me. Did he really just say I’d be lucky to get work?
“You were already at a crossroads, doll. The studios were nervous about your age. Now this”— he breaks off to point at my face, finger gesturing— “this just compounds the problem.”
I’ve had issues with Max for a while now, and I fired him for a reason, but he’s just done something marvelous for me. He’s thrown down the gauntlet. He’s given me the ultimate challenge, and I vow then and there to prove him wrong.
I am not going away. I will not disappear. And I will not be made invisible just because I’m not perfect.
Gripping the bedrail, I lean forward. “My face might be cut, Max, but my mind’s the same. My personality’s the same. And it’s my mind, my personality— my grit— that makes me Tiana Tomlinson, not my face.” I point to the door. “Thanks for the flowers. Good-bye.”
“This isn’t the time to let pride cloud your judgment,” he says, rising to his feet.
I’m practically trembling with rage. “That’s where you’re wrong, Max. I’m keeping my pride, and my self-respect.”
