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She realized why most people were reluctant to examine the truth of their lives. It was an uncomfortable experience.
What had she done?
She’d chosen her life, designed her life, and now she didn’t like the way it was looking.
In that moment Gayle had an epiphany—and not a good one.
What if she’d chosen the wrong design? What if all the choices she’d made had been wrong? What if all these techniques she’d recommended to people through her books were wrong, too?
She needed to stop publication.
She needed to tell her publisher she wanted to rethink the book. How could she promote Brave New You when she was lying on the floor shivering like a wounded animal?
She opened her mouth and tried to croak out some words.
“She’s moving. She’s conscious! Gayle—Gayle, can you hear me?”
Yes, she could hear him. She was unloved—not deaf.
She forced her eyes open and saw a uniformed EMT and behind him Cole, looking worried. There was the cameraman, and also Rochelle, scribbling frantically. Making the most of an opportunity, Gayle thought. Taking the advice she’d been given and redesigning her life.
And that was when she had her second epiphany. Who said you could only design your life once? People remodeled houses all the time, didn’t they? Just because you’d lived with white walls for decades didn’t mean you couldn’t suddenly paint them green.
If she didn’t like the way her life looked, then it was up to her to fix it.
And, although she didn’t regret her actions, exactly, she did regret the outcome of those actions.
Maybe she could have done more.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to rebuild what had been knocked down.
But she had to be the one to make the first move.
“My daughter.” Her lips formed the words. “Call...my daughter.”
She saw Cole’s face pale. “She’s conscious, but she has a serious head injury. She’s confused. She has amnesia.”
The EMT frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“Because GM doesn’t have a daughter.”
Gayle thought about the baby they’d put into her arms. The way it had felt to be entirely responsible for the well-being of a tiny, helpless infant, knowing what lay ahead. How hard life could be. If it hadn’t been for the child, she might have given up, but motherhood had driven her on. How could she give up when she had her daughter to protect? She’d wanted to swaddle her in steel and surround her with an electric fence to keep the bad at bay.
“Gayle, do you know what day it is?”
Yes, she knew what day it was. It was the day she’d started questioning everything she’d believed was right. The day she’d realized that regret could hurt more than a bruised head and crushed ribs. How could she have got everything so wrong?
She tried again. “Call my eldest daughter.”
What if she died before she had a chance to fix things?
“Eldest...?” Cole looked nervous. “She doesn’t have one daughter, let alone more. Ms. Mitchell—Gayle—how many fingers am I holding up? Can you tell me?”
Right at that moment she wanted to hold up her own finger. Her middle one.
“Call my daughter.”
“She isn’t confused. Gayle Mitchell has two daughters,” Rochelle said. “I did a deep dive into her background before the interview. My research suggests they’re estranged.”
