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“I’m very lucky. God clearly has a plan since He’s keeping me around.”
“You’ve been through a tragic accident before, haven’t you?”
I blink, caught off guard. I didn’t expect my past to be introduced, and I’ve never publicly discussed the car accident that took my family. I glance at Harper, who is clueless, and then at Howard behind the camera and then back to Celia. “When I was fourteen, yes.”
“Four people died in that accident.”
I flinch. “My entire family.” Celia says nothing, and the silence stretches. Uncomfortable, I add huskily, “Both my parents and sisters died. I was the only one not wearing my seat belt and was somehow thrown free.”
“You’ve been an orphan since you were fourteen.”
I look at Celia, my expression pleading. Why is she bringing this up here and now? She’d promised not to martyr me. She’d promised to protect me. “Yes.”
“Where did this happen?”
“On the Cape in South Africa. We were coming back from a day at the beach.”
“Your mother was South African?”
“That’s right. My father was American and my mother was South African.” My eyes burn and I struggle to keep the edges of my lips lifted so the tears won’t fall.
Celia is efficient if nothing else. “She wasn’t just a South African, Tiana, she was a former Miss South Africa. Took second at Miss World. We have a picture of her.” And she lifts a photo from her lap. It’s my mom at nineteen, wearing the tiara. The camera zooms in.
My lip quivers. I’m fighting like hell to keep my composure.
“You’re the spitting image of her,” Celia says. “It’s uncanny.”
And then the camera’s on me again right as I grind my teeth to keep tears from forming. I’m clenching my jaw so hard that pain shoots through my forehead.
“What was it like having Miss South Africa as your mother?” Celia persists. “And which of your sisters would have gone the pageant route? Willow, your eldest sister, who was undeniably beautiful— ”
“Time out,” I choke, struggling to my feet and unhooking the microphone. “I need a moment.”
I stumble off the stage and out into the hallway, one hand to my brow to press back the pain.
I’m livid. Revolted. Betrayed. I had a deal with Celia, and this wasn’t the deal. This is a dig through a heartbreaking past. What is she going to do now? Bring up Keith? Show the photo from his funeral? What kind of dog-and-pony show is this?
Harper appears in the hallway. “You okay?”
I keep walking. “Yeah.”
She leans against the wall, watching me. “You didn’t see the questions coming?”
“Not about my family, no. I didn’t think anybody knew.”
“I didn’t know.”
“No one knew. And no one’s known for good reason. How did she find out?”
“I don’t know.”
I stop and look at her. “I don’t want to use any of my family’s accident on the show. It’s personal— ”
“It’s powerful.”
“But it’s not for everybody to know. It’s my life. It’s my family.”
“But this is what people want to know, Tiana. This is what we do. It’s what we’re all about. Letting people know that no one is immune from pain or suffering, that beauty and fame isn’t the end-all, but just another complication.”
“I just don’t want Willow and Acacia to be turned into a footnote. They were more than a footnote. They were real and they had dreams and they died too young, died before any of their dreams came true.”
“Then maybe it’s time you talked about them. Made them real to others. Maybe your grief doesn’t have to just be your grief. We all lose people we love. Perhaps by sharing your losses, you’ll help others know they can cope with loss, too.”
I swallow, nod, wipe away the moisture clinging to my lashes.
“So what do you want me to tell Celia?” she asks.
“Tell her I’ll be there in a moment to finish the interview.”
And when I return, the makeup artist touches up my makeup and then I’m back in my chair. Taking a deep breath, I begin: I talk about Willow and how she was so beautiful that people routinely approached her, wanting to represent her, offering modeling contracts. But she wasn’t interested in modeling. She loved the violin, and her dream was to be a member of the Cape Town Symphony. I talk about Acacia and how she was still just a little girl when she died, but she was strong, brave, braver than the rest of us, and she wanted to be a vet when she grew up. She was always nursing injured birds and mice and baby monkeys, and she didn’t know the meaning of fear. I talk about being the middle sister of such extraordinary siblings and how lucky I was to be part of a family that encouraged our individuality.
“So how do I cope with my hurt face?” I ask, managing a smile, although unshed tears shimmer in my eyes. “It’s nothing. And it certainly won’t stop me from achieving what I want to achieve, and being who I want to be.”
“And what is that, Tiana?”
“Fulfilled.”
The taped interview was the hardest part of the day. The photos at my house are easy. I get to wear the pretty red Indian top and my jeans for the photographs, so that’s a high point. I love the exotic blouse and dangly silver earrings and smile as I pose in the living room curled up with a book, in the kitchen slicing fruit, and in the garden gathering lavender.
After the photographer gets the shots he needs, everyone leaves and I’m trying to figure out what to do next when the phone rings.
“May I speak with Tiana Tomlinson?” the female voice asks.
“This is Tiana.”
“Tiana, I’m Betsy Richmond with the Tucson Arts Guild. Is this a bad time?”
“No. Not at all.” The Tucson Arts Guild is the group that was honoring me with my lifetime achievement award, and they were among the first to send flowers. “What can I do for you?”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I say, and I mean it. I’m good. I feel strong and fierce and alive.
“Recovering?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve all been very worried about you.”
“Well, I’m healing and am getting out and about more and more.”
“That’s wonderful, and that also leads to the reason I’m calling. The guild is still very interested in recognizing your outstanding contributions to television arts and sciences, and we are hoping to have the opportunity to formally present you with your award.”
Surprised, I don’t say anything.
“You have inspired many in our industry, and it would mean a great deal to have you join us for a reception,” she continues. “As you know, we held the actual dinner last week— it was impossible to cancel the event at the last moment— but we’d like to schedule a cocktail reception to present you with the award, and to minimize the stresses of traveling, one of our members would send his jet for you. He felt traveling by private plane would be far less exhausting and intrusive. The date we’re considering is Saturday, March fourteenth, a month from now. Are you by chance available on the fourteenth?”
I have absolutely nothing on my calendar. It’s never been so wide open. “Would I speak?”
“If you’re willing to say a few words, we’d be delighted to have you speak. We’re all fans— ”
“I’d love to come.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful!” She lets out a cheer. “Fantastic. I’ll send you an e-mail confirming details, but I’m speaking for everyone when I say I’m delighted you’re able to join us. Thank you.”
Off the phone I do a little spin, and prisms and sparkles splash on the wall, the sunlight bouncing off the silver embroidery of my blouse.
I have something on my calendar. I have an event scheduled. I’m going to speak again.
My life’s not over. My life’s just beginning.
I feel a welling up of excitem
ent, the kind of excitement I used to feel when I was just starting out in the business and everything was new. Everything is new again. I get to shape a new path for myself, carve out a new niche for me. Maybe I’ll pursue broadcast news. Or maybe I’ll start my own production company, writing and directing documentaries. Or freelance for the various cable networks producing specials and programs relevant to women.
I can do anything.
I am free to be anything.
There’s nothing and no one holding me back, because this time around I’m not holding me back. There’s no image to maintain, no role to fill.
