Easy on the Eyes (33 page)

Tears suddenly fill my eyes. I put a hand to my mouth, covering my lips as if afraid of what they might say. Love, love, love.
Love him. Want him. Need him. It’s crazy how intense it is, crazy that I could feel this way again. Finally.

“I don’t think he’s oblivious to you,” she says now. “Not at all.”

“But there’s a big difference between animal attraction and love and marriage and babies. And God help me, Shey, that’s what
I want. I want all the things I stopped believing in. I want the happy ending I gave up on.”

“Who’s to say it can’t happen?” she answers briskly. “Now do you need to go to the restroom or was that just an excuse to
get on your feet?”

Later that afternoon, Shey heads to my house to get things ready for me to come home. While she’s gone I nap, and when I wake,
I struggle to get up again, determined to make it on my own to the restroom.

I do, dragging my IV with one hand while trying to manage the door with the same hand. And in that hazy yellow light of the
narrow hospital bathroom, I get a good look at me. My hair’s dirty and lank. My face is swollen, stitched, and bruised.

I reach up and touch the right side of my face, buried beneath stitches and thick gauze. My face will never be the same. Will
that be okay?

Will I let this accident keep me from what I want and who I am?

No.

I refuse to let this accident change me. I refuse to let it change a thing.

Leaving the bathroom, I scoot my IV back toward my bed. The nurse sticks her head around the door to check on me. “You should
be asking for help,” she admonishes me.

“I’m fine,” I answer crossly, and then I smile because I realize I mean it. I am fine. I’m going to get better. I’m going
to be great.

I’m dreaming, replaying the accident over and over in my head. If only I hadn’t been watching that little boy drink his smoothie
off the table. If only I’d been looking out the window and seen the old woman behind the wheel of her old Pontiac.

If only…

I wake. It’s dark and my eyes feel heavy. Why am I waking? What time is it?

And then I realize why I’m awake. I hurt. The pain’s penetrated my sleep. I didn’t take any pain meds earlier and now I’m
suffering for it.

I shift carefully, trying not to put pressure on the ribs or arm as I reach for the call button to summon the night nurse,
but I jar myself anyway and cringe with pain.

“Need something?”

The voice comes from the dark, close to my bed, and I startle. It’s Michael.

“How long have you been here?” I ask hoarsely.

“Not long. Just arrived. I’m sorry I woke you.”

I can’t see him, but I can feel him, large and silent and very strong. “You didn’t. The pain woke me. I hurt.”

“Where?”

“My arm. My ribs. But mostly my arm.”

He steps outside the door, retrieves my chart, and after turning on the light by my bed, he flips through it, reading all
the notations. “You didn’t take any pain medicine before bed.”

“I’m trying to cut back.”

“You’re not taking much, and pain management is an important part of recovery.” He leans over my bed to examine my face, his
hands gentle as he tilts my jaw higher to see the wound from different angles. “This looks good.”

His touch is firm. His skin is warm. “Yeah?”

“I’m very pleased.”

“And I’m very grateful. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes, I do. You said you’d never touch my face— ”

He laughs softly. “I wondered if you’d remember that.”

“I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.”

He smiles, yet the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “In your discharge packet you’ll find instructions on how to take care of
the wound. If you see anything that doesn’t look right, call me right away.”

I won’t see him again, then, for days. Maybe a week or more. My heart falls, hard, so hard. My arm throbs. My eyes burn.

Michael rings for the night nurse, tells her I need Vicodin. I don’t protest. Right now I’d take anything to make the pain
go away. And I’m not talking about my arm.

As we wait for the nurse, I study Michael’s face. He looks tired. It must have been a long day. “You’re not sleeping, are
you.”

He smiles crookedly, his skin still tanned from the trip to Zambia. “Not a lot, no.”

“Why not?”

His shoulders shift. “I always seem to have too much on my mind.”

Now is the time to tell him that he and I need to talk. Now is the time to ask about Katete and our dinner and our kiss. Now
is the time to find out just what happened between us. But I can’t ask any of the questions I’m dying to know. He’s tired.
And I’m scared.

I’m scared to find out that I was just a dalliance, an escape, a game.

I’m scared to learn that he’s already seeing someone else, someone new.

I’m scared to compare myself with the flawless women he creates, those women of perfect body and face.

Thankfully, the nurse arrives with two pills in a little white paper cup. She hands the cup to me, and I knock back the pills
and chase them with water. “Is there anything else you need?” she asks me.

“No, thank you. I’ll sleep better now.”

“Well, just ring if you can’t.” She nods at me and smiles prettily at Michael before leaving.

Of course she’d smile prettily at him. Michael is ruggedly handsome, a brilliant surgeon, and successful beyond belief. He’s
the ultimate package. He could have any woman at any time.

My eyes sting, but I won’t cry.

Michael gazes down at me for an endless moment, his dark blue gaze shuttered, his jaw hard, and then the edge of his mouth
lifts. “You call if you need anything.”

I nod.

“I’ll see you on the thirteenth— ”

“Are you serious?”

His eyes crinkle. “I’ll check the wound, and depending on how it looks, I’ll either remove the stitches or we’ll go another
couple days.”

“Okay.”

“Any questions? Concerns?”

Are we ever going to figure this thing out, whatever this is between us?

I shake my head.

For a split second, I think he’s going to lean over and kiss me good-bye. I hold my breath, hoping. But then he steps away.
“Good night, Tiana,” he says, his voice deep, husky. “Sweet dreams.”

It’s the good night he’d say to me in Katete. Sweet dreams. My throat’s raw. My heart aches. I smile to hold back the tears.
“Good night, Michael.”

T
he nurse steps into my hospital room. “I know you’re getting ready to be discharged, Miss Tomlinson,” she says briskly, “but
you have a visitor.”

I’ve been sitting in the wheelchair by the window, savoring the Los Angeles sunshine as I wait to be wheeled down to the elevator
where Russian John is waiting. Shey’s taking care of my discharge papers and insurance forms so that I can go.

“Do you know who?” I ask the nurse, smoothing the hem of my chocolate velour sweat jacket over the waistband of the matching
sweatpants, an outfit Shey brought from the house for me to wear home. I have one arm in the jacket and the other arm in a
sling outside. It’s not the most stylish look, but it works.

“She says she’s your friend. She has her child with her.”

It can’t be Marta, I think, and Christie’s already been here, but I nod agreement.

It’s Shelby who walks in, and she’s holding a little boy.

“Are we interrupting?” she asks uncertainly. “They told me you’re just about to go home.”

“It could be a long wait, so come in.”

Shelby steps closer to the wheelchair. She’s still tawny blonde and tan, but in person she’s small and very thin. TV always
makes us look so much bigger and more impressive than we really are.

“I don’t think you’ve ever met my son,” she says carefully, even as she gives me her wide TV smile. “His name is Jason, but
we call him Jay-Jay.”

I look at the child in her arms. He’s slim and dark blond and has her olive skin. He’s a beautiful boy. “I didn’t know you
were a mom.”

She flushes. “I thought it best for the career to keep it quiet. Working mothers don’t get promoted as much. But I wanted
to come see you, and I usually drop him at day care on the way to work. Hope it’s okay.”

“It’s fine. And it’s good of you to come. Thank you for the flowers you sent a few days ago. They were beautiful.”

Jay-Jay stares at my face with its freshly applied gauze and tape bandage. “What happened to you?” he asks bluntly.

I suddenly think of the little boy drinking his juice off the table the day of the accident and I hope against hope he’s okay.
“A car hit me.”

“Were you playing in the street?”

I’d laugh if it wouldn’t hurt. “No. I was sitting inside a restaurant.”

“How did the car get inside?” he persists, and Shelby tries to shush him.

I don’t mind the questions, though. It’s almost a relief to talk. “Went through the window.”

“Why?”

“Because the door was too small,” I say, trying to smile, but it’s next to impossible. I am somewhere in the middle of heaven
and hell, and I guess it’s called earth. And it’s called life. It’s just so intense. So wild and impossible and hurtful and
beautiful.

Jay-Jay’s narrowed eyes suddenly widen and his brow clears. He snickers into his hand. “The door was too small,” he repeats,
giggling as only a four-year-old boy could.

My heart is tumbling somewhere inside me, tumbling free, and I don’t even know I’m crying until Shelby leans down and puts
her arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tiana,” she’s saying, “I’m sorry you were hurt. I just wanted you to know how sorry
we are— ”

“Thank you.”

She lifts her head, and the tip of her nose is pink. Her eyes are wet. “We’re all so sorry.”

“How is everything at the studio?” I ask, trying to regain my composure. “Everyone doing well?”

“Yes. It’s hectic. Sweeps month. And tomorrow night we air the first of your Africa stories. We’ve been running the teases
all weekend.” She gives me a watery smile. “I’ve seen them, and they’re wonderful. You did a great job.”

“Thank you.”

“Madison sends her love. Harper, too.”

I wonder if Madison works for Shelby now. That causes a stab of pain and I’m tempted to ask if Shelby’s taken over my office
again, but I know that answer. I’ve been replaced. But isn’t that the way the system works? We’re all commodities, eventually
replaced by the newest model.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” I say as Jay-Jay shifts restlessly on Shelby’s hip. “And keep me in the loop. Let me know what
happens.”

“Don’t worry— ”

“You don’t worry.”

“It’s okay,” we both say at the same time.

She smiles tentatively, nervously, and is gone.

I sit there after she goes, and my head swims. It really is Shelby’s show now, isn’t it?

The thought hurts. I hurt. I long for the Vicodin I took last night. Long for a painless escape. But such a thing doesn’t
exist. The only way to get through this is by going through it. Simplistic but true.

And I will get through this, I tell myself, reaching up to touch the gauze bandage on my cheek. I’ll prove them wrong. Max,
Glenn, Shelby, all of them. I’m not done working. I’m going to have a great career. There are plenty of opportunities in television
out there.

And maybe I’ll have to start at the bottom. Maybe there won’t be a lot of money. Maybe there won’t be a lot of prestige.

That’s fine.

I don’t mind hard work. I’m up for a new challenge. In fact, I live for a challenge.

A member of the nursing staff takes me down in the elevator to the hospital lobby, where Shey waits. As the elevator doors
open, Shey moves toward me. “It’s a zoo out there,” she mutters. “Photographers everywhere.” She pulls off her baseball cap
and plunks it on my head, pulling the brim down low.

People shout my name as the nurse’s aide rolls me toward the car. Russian John is there, acting like a first-class bodyguard,
straight-arming overzealous photographers who push too close. The back door is open, and I transfer into the back of the limousine
quickly, too quickly, jarring my arm in the process and letting out a yelp of pain.

Shey climbs in next to me. “You okay, sugar?”

I grimace, cradle my cast. “My arm keeps getting in the way.”

Christie arrives with bags of groceries to cook me a welcome-home dinner. She plans to roast the chicken at my house, and
she and Shey, who’ve never met before but certainly have heard plenty about each other, peel and quarter and boil the potatoes
as they talk and enjoy a glass of wine.

I notice neither offers me a glass of wine. Probably wouldn’t mix with the Vicodin in case I need one tonight. I shift on
the living room couch, a little bored, a little uncomfortable. As the smell of roasting chicken wafts from the kitchen, I
fidget with the remote control, flip through channels, watching nothing but endless commercials.

I’m lucky, I tell myself. I’m fine. What’s happened is fine. This is life. This is just how the dice go.

I watch a Neutrogena commercial. Beautiful Jennifer Garner washing her face, lifting it to the camera, smiling, her skin as
serene and radiant as her smile.