SUMMER INTERNSHIP POSITIONS/DEPARTMENT 18 page

"Mrs. Ryan?"

Kate got quickly to her feet. "Hello, Doctor. How did the surgery go?"

"He is most well. There was extensive bleeding in his brain, which we think accounts for the continued swelling. We have now stopped it. Perhaps this will give us reason for new hope, yes? Shall I walk you back to his room?"

It was enough that he was still alive.

"Thank you."

As they passed the nurses' station, he said, "Do you wish me to page your friend, Tallulah? Certainly you don't desire to be alone now."

"I don't want to be alone now, that's true," Kate said. "But Tallulah is no longer welcome here."

"Ah. Well. You must keep believing that he will wake up. I have seen many so-called miracles in my years here. Often, I think faith has its part to play."

"I'm afraid to get my hopes up," she said quietly.

He paused at the closed door of Johnny's room and looked down at her. "I did not say that faith was easy; merely that it was necessary. And you are here, are you not, by his side? This takes its own kind of courage, yes?" He patted her shoulder and left her standing by the door.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, alone in the stark white hospital; in time, though, she went inside and sat down. In a quiet, halting voice, she closed her eyes and talked to him. About what, she couldn't have said. All she knew was that a voice could offer light in a dark place, and light could lead you out.

The next thing she knew, it was morning. Sunlight glowed through the exterior window, illuminating the beige linoleum floor tiles and gray-white walls.

She unfolded from the chair and stood beside the bed, feeling stiff and sore. "Hey, handsome," she murmured, leaning down to kiss Johnny's cheek. The bandages on his eyes had been removed; she could see now how bruised and swollen his left eye was. "No more bleeding in the brain allowed, okay? When you need attention just try the old-fashioned ways, like getting mad or kissing me."

She kept talking until she ran out of things to say. Finally she turned on the television that hung in the corner. It came on with a thunk and a buzz and showed a grainy black and white picture. "The machine you love so much," she said bitterly, reaching down for his hand. Taking his dry, slack fingers in hers, she held on to him. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek and lingered there. Though he smelled of hospitals and disinfectants and medicines, if she tried hard enough, believed strongly enough, she could smell the familiar essence of him. "The TV is on. You're big news."

No response.

Idly she flipped through the channels, looking for something in English.

Tully's face filled the screen.

She was standing in front of the hospital with her microphone held up to her mouth. Captions along the bottom of the screen translated her words: "For days the world has wondered and worried about John Patrick Ryan, the TV news producer who was seriously injured when a bomb exploded near the Al-Rashid Hotel. Although funeral services were held yesterday for the reporter, Arthur Gulder, who was with him, the Ryan family and the German hospital remained unavailable to journalists. And how can we blame them? This is a time of deep personal tragedy for the Ryan family. John—Johnny to his friends—suffered a serious head trauma in the explosion. A complicated medical procedure was performed on him at an army hospital near Baghdad. Specialists tell me that without this life-saving surgery on site, Mr. Ryan would not have survived."

The picture on screen changed. Now Tully was standing beside Johnny's bed. He lay motionless on the white sheets, his head and eyes bandaged. Though the camera lingered on Johnny for only an instant before returning to Tully's face, the image of him was hard to forget.

"Mr. Ryan's prognosis is uncertain. The specialists with whom I spoke said it is a waiting game to see if the swelling in his brain recedes. If it does, he has an excellent chance of survival. If not . . ." Her voice trailed off as she moved around to the end of the bed. There, she looked directly into the camera. "Everything about this case is uncertain right now, except this: This is a story of heroes, both in the war zone and at home. John Ryan wanted to bring this story to the American people, and I know him well enough to say that he knew the risks he was taking and wouldn't have made another choice. And while he was covering the war, his wife, Kathleen, was at home with their one-year-old daughter, believing that what her husband was doing was important. Like any soldier's wife, it was her sacrifice as much as his that made it possible for John Ryan to do his job." The picture cut back to Tully on the hospital steps. "This is Tallulah Hart, reporting from Germany. And may I say, Bryant, that our prayers are certainly with the Ryan family today."

Kate stared at the television long after the segment had ended. "She made us look like heroes," she said to the empty room. "Even me."

She felt a flutter-soft movement against her palm. It was so gentle that at first she almost didn't notice. Frowning, she glanced down.

Johnny slowly opened his eyes.

"Johnny?" she whispered, half afraid that she was making this up, that the stress had finally cracked her. "Can you see me?"

He squeezed her hand. It was barely a squeeze, really; normally it wouldn't even qualify as a touch, but now it made her laugh and cry at the same time.

"Can you see me?" she asked again, leaning close. "Close your eyes once if you can see me."

Slowly, he closed his eyes.

She kissed his cheek, his forehead, his cracked, dry lips. "Do you know where you are?" she finally asked, pulling back, hitting the nurses' button.

She could see the confusion in his eyes and it scared her. "How about me? Do you know who I am?"

He stared up at her, swallowed hard. Slowly, he opened his mouth and said, "My . . . Katie."

"Yes," she said, bursting into tears. "I'm your Katie."

The next seventy-two hours were a whirlwind of meetings, procedures, tests, and medication adjustments. Kate accompanied Johnny to consultations with ophthalmologists, psychiatrists, physical therapists, speech and occupational therapists, and, of course, Dr. Schmidt. Everyone, it seemed, had to sign off on Johnny's recovery before she could move him to a rehabilitation center near home.

"He is lucky to have you," Dr. Schmidt said at the conclusion of their meeting.

Kate smiled. "I'm lucky to have him."

"Yes. Now I suggest you go to the cafeteria and have some lunch. You have lost too much weight this week."

"Really?"

"Certainly. Now go. I will return your husband to his room when the tests are finished."

Kate rose. "Thank you, Dr. Schmidt. For everything."

He made an it's-nothing gesture with his hand. "This is my job."

Smiling, she headed for the door. She was nearly there when he called her name again. She turned. "Yes?"

"There are not many reporters left, but is it acceptable to report on your husband's condition? We would very much like them to leave."

"I'll think about it."

"Excellent."

Kate left his office and went to the elevator at the end of the hall.

The cafeteria was mostly empty on this late Thursday afternoon. There were a few groups of employees gathered around the rectangular tables and a few families ordering food. It was easy to tell which group was which. The employees were laughing and talking while they ate; the patients' families were quiet and still, staring down at their food and looking up at the clock every few minutes.

Kate made her way through the tables to the window. Outside, the sky was a dark, steely gray; any moment it would start to rain or snow.

Even with the distortion of the glass, she could see how tired she looked, how spent.

It was odd, but somehow it was harder to be alone with her relief than with her despair. Then, she'd wanted mostly to sit quietly and blank out her mind and try to imagine the best. Now she wanted to laugh with someone, to smile and raise a glass in celebration and say she'd known all along it would end like this.

No. Not someone.

Tully.

For all of Kate's life, Tully had been the first line of celebration, the party just waiting to happen. Her best friend would toast crossing the street safely if that was what Kate wanted.

Turning away from the window, she went over to the table and sat down.

"You look like you could use a drink."

Kate looked up. Tully stood there, dressed in crisp black jeans and a white boat-necked angora sweater. Although her hair and makeup were perfect, she looked tired. And nervous.

"You're still here?"

"You thought I'd leave you?" Tully tried to smile, but it wasn't the real thing. "I brought you a cup of tea."

Kate stared at the Styrofoam cup in Tully's hand. She knew it was her favorite—Earl Grey—doctored with just the right amount of sugar.

It was the only apology Tully knew how to make for what she'd done. If Kate accepted it, she knew that the episode would have to be forgotten—the betrayal and the slap would have to dissolve into nothing so they could step back onto the track that had connected their lives. No regrets, no grudges. They'd be TullyandKate again, or as close to that as grown women could be.

"The story was good," she said evenly.

Tully's eyes pleaded for forgiveness and understanding, but what she said was, "I'm getting the news nook for next week. It's a replacement gig, but it's a start."

Kate thought, So that's what you sold me out for, but knew she couldn't say it. Instead, she said, "Congratulations."

Tully held out the cup of tea. "Take it, Katie. Please."

Kate looked at her friend for a long time. She wanted the gift of words—I'm sorry—but knew they'd never come. Tully simply wasn't wired that way. Kate had never known exactly how it had happened, Tully's inability to apologize, but she suspected that it had something to do with Cloud. There was some bit of her best friend that had been damaged beyond repair as a child, and this, somehow, was the scar. Finally, she reached for the cup, saying, "Thanks."

Tully grinned and sat down beside her. Before she'd even scooted up to the table, she was talking.

Soon, Tully had Kate laughing. That was the thing about best friends. Like sisters and mothers, they could piss you off and make you cry and break your heart, but in the end, when the chips were down, they were there, making you laugh even in your darkest hours.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

As bad as that year was, Kate knew every moment that it could have been so much worse. The man she brought home from Germany bore only the merest resemblance to her husband in those first few months. His brain was slow in healing, and sometimes he lost patience with himself when a word outran him or an idea couldn't be latched on to. She spent endless hours with him in rehab, both working with him and his physical therapist and waiting in the lobby with Marah.

From the second they got home, Marah seemed to sense that something was wrong with Daddy, and no amount of cuddling could comfort her. More often than not, she woke screaming in the middle of the night and wouldn't fall silent until Kate brought her into bed with them (a practice which made Mom roll her eyes, light a smoke, and say, "You'll be sorry.")

When the holidays came around, Kate decorated extensively, hoping the sight of their treasured collectibles would somehow knit them all together again and make them the family they'd been before.

During the girlfriend hour, while she sipped her glass of wine and told Aunt Georgia and Mom that she was holding up well, she started to cry.

Mom took her hand. "It's okay, honey. Let it out."

But she was afraid to do that. "I'm fine," she said. "It's been a difficult year, that's all."

The doorbell rang.

Aunt Georgia got up. "That's probably Rick and Kelli."

It was Tully. Standing on the porch, wearing a winter-white three-quarter-length cashmere coat and matching pants, she looked drop-dead gorgeous. There were enough presents in her arms for three families. "Don't tell me you started girlfriend hour without me. If you did, you'll have to start it over."

"You said you had to go to Berlin," Kate said, wishing she'd dressed a little better and put on some makeup.

"And miss Christmas? Hardly." She set the presents down beneath the tree and pulled Kate into a hug.

Kate hadn't realized how much she'd missed her friend until right then.

Tully turned the quiet girlfriend hour into a party. At one o'clock, long after they were supposed to have put the turkey in the oven, Mom and Aunt Georgia and Tully were still dancing to ABBA and Elton John, singing at the top of their lungs.

Kate stood by the tree. The room seemed lit from within suddenly. How was it that Tully could be the life of any party so easily? Maybe it was because she didn't do any of the scut work—no cleaning or cooking or laundry for Tully.

Johnny came up to Kate. She noticed that he was barely limping. "Hey, you," he said.

"Hey."

All around them, people were talking and singing. Aunt Georgia was doing "The Time Warp" with Sean, his girlfriend, and Uncle Ralph. Mom and Dad were talking to Tully, who was swaying to the music with Marah in her arms.

Johnny reached down beneath the tree and found a small box, wrapped in silver and gold paper, with Scotch tape showing along the seams and a red foil bow that was too big. He handed it to her.

"You want me to open it now?"

He nodded.

She peeled back the paper, plucked off the bow, and found a blue velvet box inside. Opening it, she gasped. There lay a fine gold necklace and a diamond-encrusted heart-shaped locket. "Johnny . . ."

"I've done some stupid things in my life, Katie, and for most of them I've paid the price. Lately, you've paid the price, too. I know how hard it's been on you, this past year. And I want you to know this: you are the one thing I've done right in this life." He took the necklace out of the box and put it on her. "I've taken a new job at my old station. You won't have to worry about me anymore. You're my heart, Katie Scarlett, and I'll always be here for you. I love you."

Kate's throat tightened with emotion. "I love you, too."

During college, the cherry trees in the Quad had marked the passing of time. Every season came and went on those spindly gray-brown branches. In the eighties, time had been marked by the streetlamps on the cobblestoned street in front of the Public Market. When the first SEASON'S GREETINGS flag fluttered beneath the lamps, she knew another year had gone by.

In the nineties it was Tully's hair. Every morning, while Kate fed and bathed Marah, she watched the morning show on TV. Like clockwork, Tully's hairdos changed twice a year. First there had been the Jane Pauley extra-short bangs, then the Meg Ryan messy look, then the pixie cut that made her look impossibly young, and most recently, she'd chosen the most talked-about cut in the country—the Rachel.

Every time Kate saw a new hairdo, she winced at how fast time was moving. The years weren't just passing, they were flying by. Already it was the last day of August, 1997. In a little more than a week her baby would be starting second grade.

She hated to admit how much she'd been looking forward to this day.

For the past seven years, she'd been the best mother she knew how to be. She'd diligently recorded every milestone in Marah's baby album and took enough photographs to scientifically document a new life-form. More than that, she enjoyed her daughter so much that she sometimes felt lost in the sea of love that surrounded them. She and Johnny had tried for years to conceive another child, but they had not been so blessed. It had been difficult for Kate to handle; in time, though, she'd accepted her small family and poured herself into making every moment perfect. Finally, she'd found something she was passionate about: motherhood.

But as the months turned into years, she'd begun to feel a tiny itch of dissatisfaction. At first she'd kept it bottled inside of her—after all, what did she have to complain about? She loved her life. She spent what spare hours she did have volunteering in the classroom and at Helper House, the local center that provided assistance to women in need. She even took a few art classes.

It wasn't enough, didn't fill the invisible void, but it made her feel productive and useful. And though the people who loved her—Johnny, Tully, and Mom—repeatedly commented that she seemed to be looking for something more, she ignored them all. It was so much easier to focus on the present, on her daughter. There would be plenty of time later on to search for herself.

Now she stood at the living room window, dressed in her flannel pajamas, staring out at the still-dark backyard. Even in the shadows she could see toys strewn about the deck and yard. Barbies. Beanie Babies. A tricycle lying on its side. A pink plastic Corvette was washing back and forth on the incoming tide.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the view and went to the television, turning it on. As soon as Marah woke up, she was going to make her daughter march outside and pick up the toys. A temper tantrum was sure to follow.

The television came on with a thump. A BREAKING NEWS banner ran beneath Bernard Shaw's grave face. Behind him, a montage of Princess Diana photographs reeled off, one after another. "For those of you just tuning in," Bernard said, "the news from France is that Princess Diana is dead . . ."

Kate stared at the screen, not quite comprehending.

The princess. Their princess. Dead?

Beside her, the phone rang. Without looking away from the TV, she answered it. "Hello?"

"You're watching the news?"

"It's true?"

"I'm in London to cover it."

"Oh, my God." Kate stared at the images on the TV—young, shy Diana in her plaid skirt and bomber-type jacket, with her eyes downcast; pregnant Diana, looking hopeful and radiantly happy; elegant Diana, in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder gown, dancing with John Travolta at the White House; laughing Diana, on a ride at Disneyland with her boys; and finally, Diana alone, in a hospital far from home, holding a malnourished black baby.

In those few images were the whole of a woman's life.

"It can be over so fast," Kate said, more to herself than to Tully. She realized a moment too late that Tully had been talking and she'd interrupted her.

"She was just starting to come into her own, too."

Maybe she'd waited too long to try. Kate knew about that, about how frightening it could be to watch your children grow up and your husband go off to work and to wonder what you'd do with the sliver of life that was yours.

Familiar photographs filled the screen: Diana, walking alone at some event, waving to the crowd, then the image changed to the front gates of one of the castles, where flowers were beginning to pile up in remembrance. Life could change so quickly. She'd forgotten that somehow.

"Kate? Are you okay?"

"I think I'll sign up for a writing class at UW," she said slowly. The words felt pulled out of her somehow.

"Really? That's great. You always were a kick-ass writer."

Kate didn't respond. She sank down to the sofa and just stared at the TV, surprised when she began to cry.

Almost immediately, Kate regretted the decision she'd made. Well, that wasn't entirely true. What she actually regretted was that she'd told Tully, who'd told Mom, who'd told Johnny.

"You know, it's a great idea," Johnny said a few nights later as they lay in bed, watching television. "I'll help out with whatever you need me to do."

Kate wanted to give him a laundry list of reasons that it was too burdensome for her schedule. He and Tully made everything sound so easy, as if life were a combo plate you could order and pay for. She knew how wrong they were, how it felt to find that you weren't good enough.

In the end, though, she could lie to herself and make excuses for only so long. When Marah went off to school, waving wildly, Kate was left with the empty hours of her day. Chores and obligations could only fill some of her time.

So, on a hot Indian summer day in mid-September, she dropped Marah off at school, drove onto the midmorning ferry, and merged into the downtown Seattle traffic. At ten-thirty she parked in the visitors' lot at the University of Washington, walked to the Registration Building, and signed up for a single class: Introduction to Fiction Writing.

For the next week, she was a nervous wreck.

"I can't do it," she whined to her husband, feeling sick to her stomach on the day of the first class.

"You can do it. I'll take Marah to school so you won't be stressed about catching the ferry."

"But I am stressed."

He bent down and kissed her, then drew back, smiling. "Get your ass out of bed."

After that, she moved on autopilot—taking a shower, dressing, packing her backpack.

All the way to UW she thought: What am I doing? I'm thirty-seven years old. I can't go back to college.

And then she was in the classroom, the only person in the room who was over thirty—including the teacher.

She wasn't sure when she relaxed, but gradually, her stomachache eased. The more the professor talked about writing, about the gift of storytelling, the more Kate felt she belonged here.

From her place at the news desk, Tully finished her on-air banter with the show's cohosts, then turned her attention to the TelePrompTer, reading the news seamlessly. "Chief Tom Koby of the Denver police conceded today that mistakes were made early in the JonBenét Ramsey investigation. Sources close to the case allege that . . ."

When she was done, she gave the camera her trademark smile and turned the show back over to Bryant and Katie. As she was gathering her script and notes, an assistant producer came and whispered in her ear, "Your agent is on the phone, Tully. He says it's urgent."

"Thanks."

She talked to several members of the cast and crew as she made her way out of the studio and up to her office. There, she closed the door and picked up the phone, punching in line one. "This is Tully. Hi, George."

"There's a car waiting for you out front. I'll meet you at the Plaza in fifteen minutes."

"What's going on?"

"Touch up your makeup and move."

She hung up, told everyone who needed to know that she was leaving for a meeting, and left the building.

At the hotel, a liveried bellman appeared instantly to open the car door for her, saying, "Welcome to the Plaza, Ms. Hart."

"Thank you." She handed him a ten-dollar bill and went into the cream and gold marble lobby.

Her agent, George Davison, was waiting for her, looking elegant in a gray Armani suit. "Are you ready to make your dreams come true?"

"You're finally going to do that, huh?"

He led her down the hallway filled with glass cases that held expensive items for sale from the various gift shops and the sparkling jewelry store, and into the airy, high-ceilinged restaurant.

She saw instantly who they were meeting. In a back corner of the room hidden behind the world-class buffet was the president of CBS.

He stood at her arrival. "Hello, Tallulah, thank you for coming."

She missed a step but not her smile. "Hello." She took the seat across from him, watched George sit between them.

"I won't beat around the bush. As you know, The Today Show is killing our morning show in the ratings."

"Yes."

"At CBS, we think you're a big part of the show's success. I've particularly noticed your interviewing skills. Amy Fisher and Joey Buttafuoco, the survivors of the Oklahoma City bombing. O.J.'s defense team and Lyle Menendez. You were great."

"Thank you."

"We'd like to offer you the cohost spot on our show, beginning with the first show in '98. Our market research indicates that viewers connect with you. They like and trust you. That's exactly what we need to get our ratings back. What do you say?"

Tully felt as if she might float out of her chair. There was no way to contain her joy or make her smile anything other than huge. "I'm stunned. And honored."

What's the offer?" George said.

"One million dollars a year for five years."

"Two million a year," George said.

"Done. What do you say, Tully?"

Tully didn't look at her agent. She didn't have to; they'd been dreaming about an offer like this for years. "I say hell, yes. And can I start tomorrow?"

In writing, Kate found her voice again. She woke every morning at six and went into the office she'd set up in the spare bedroom. There, she worked diligently to craft and recraft her sentences, polishing each paragraph until it revealed all that she was trying to say. At some point in this first hour Johnny came in to kiss her goodbye, and then she was alone again until Marah woke and her real-life day began.

She had so much confidence when she was in that pseudo-office of hers, with her fingers on the computer's keyboard. If only she felt so sure of herself now.

She stood in the front of the classroom, with a green blackboard behind her. In the desk/chair sets in front of her, a dozen or so bored-looking kids slumped in their chairs; more than a few appeared to be sleeping. Beside her, the professor—a young guy with long, shaggy hair, wearing Air Jordans and camouflage pants—waited patiently.

Kate took a deep breath and began to read: "The girl in the small room in the ramshackle house was all alone again. Or she thought she was. In this place where the lights didn't work and the windows were covered in black paper and duct tape, it was hard to tell the truth. Should she take a chance and try to escape? That was the question. The last time she'd tried to run, she'd miscalculated and it had cost her. Unconsciously she rubbed the still-tender area along her jaw . . ."

She lost herself in the words she'd written, in the short story that was hers and hers alone. All too quickly it was over, the last sentence read, and she looked up, expecting to see a new respect in the faces that stared up at her.

No such luck.

"Well," the professor said, coming forward. "That was entertaining. It seems we have a budding genre writer in our midst. Who has a comment?"

For the next twenty minutes, they dissected Kate's story, looking for flaws. She listened carefully, refusing to let herself be stung by the criticisms. Who cared that she'd spent almost four weeks on these six pages? What mattered was that she could improve. She could tighten her story and try to master viewpoint and be more careful with her dialogue. By the end of class, instead of feeling wounded or dejected, she felt empowered, as if a heretofore unseen path had just been revealed. She couldn't wait to get home and try again.

As she packed up her stuff to leave, the professor came over to her, said, "You show real promise, Kate."

"Thank you."

Beaming, she hurried out of the classroom. All the way across campus and through the student parking lot, she imagined new directions for the story, ways to fix it.

So caught up in her imagined world was she that she missed her exit and had to backtrack.

At just past 1:20, she pulled into the parking stall under the cement viaduct and walked across the street to Ivar's Restaurant. Her mother was already seated at a table in the corner. Through the wall of windows, Elliott Bay sparkled in the sunlight. Seagulls wheeled and dropped and dove for french fries thrown by tourists on the pier outside.

"Sorry I'm late," Kate said, sitting down across from her mom, unhooking her fanny pack and letting it rest in her lap. "I hate driving in the city."

"I ordered us both shrimp louies. I know you have to catch the two-ten boat." Mom leaned forward, put her elbows on the table. "Well? Did your professor think your story was better than John Grisham?"

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 595