Easy on the Eyes (34 page)

Heat explodes inside my chest. Little spasms of heartbreak.

What if my face doesn’t heal properly?

What if I can’t cover the scar with makeup?

What if I’ll never be loved now?

And isn’t that the real worry: What if I’ll never be loved now?

I close my eyes but see Michael. Opening my eyes, I change the channel. Can’t think like this. Can’t dwell on the negative.
Time will tell. Time will reveal all.

*    *    *

We’re eating Christie’s homemade apple pie, warm and à la mode, when the phone rings. I hope it’s Michael. Christie reaches
for my cell phone and hands it to me. It’s Celia.

Celia wants to do a story on me for
People
. The piece would be a six-page spread at the minimum with photos, possibly even a cover story. They’d do a full photo session
here at my house with whatever hair, makeup, and stylists I want.

“Celia,” I interrupt, “it’s Sunday night. Do we have to do this tonight?”

“Yes. Time is of the essence if we’re going to run it in the next issue.”

“I don’t want to be in the next issue.”

“We’re talking a big story, Tia, and some big money, too.” She goes on to assure me that the photographer will capture my
new face in the best possible light, but they need to do the pictures soon, before the stitches come out.

“I’m getting a mixed message here,” I tell her. “You say it’s a tasteful piece and the photographer will capture my face in
the best light, but you also want to do it now while my face looks the worst? No, thank you.”

I hang up and look at Shey and Christie, who are concentrating on their pie. “She wants to do a story on the accident for
People
. With my ‘new face’ front and center.”

“Are they going to pay you?” Christie asks calmly, cutting into her flaky crust.

“She mentioned money, but I didn’t ask how much.” I’m repulsed by the thought of exploiting the accident. It disturbs me that
I’d be offered money in exchange for revealing my facial injury. I don’t want pity, or sympathy, and I especially don’t want
money for something like this. “I won’t be turned into a freak show.”

Tuesday morning Shey has flown back to New York, and Maria, my housekeeper, is working somewhere in the house as I read the
newspapers in the living room. I’m reading every free second I can. Don’t want time on my hands. Don’t want to think. I need
to have a game plan for the future, but I’m not quite ready to do that.

The doorbell rings. I wait for Maria to come and answer, but she doesn’t. The doorbell rings again.

I drag myself out of the chair and toward the front door. Glancing out the door’s peephole, I see Celia standing there. She’s
immaculate. Her beautiful face is exquisitely made up. My chest tightens.

I open the door a crack, look out with my left eye, hiding my right cheek. “Hi.”

“Can I come in?” she asks cheerfully.

“What do you want?” I ask, aware she’s never been to my house before.

“Good to see you, too. Or at least what I can see of you.”

I don’t want to open the door. I don’t want to reveal myself. Don’t want to be vulnerable. Don’t want…

I take a deep breath, stifle the terror at feeling so fragile and mortal, and open the door all the way. “Come in. Please.”

She steps into my house, the heels of her boots clicking on the adobe tiles. “Beautiful house,” she says, looking up at the
dark beams and then into the living room at the tall, narrow French doors.

“Thank you.”

“There are the most amazing little houses tucked back in the canyon,” she adds, heading into my living room. She sits in the
white-slipcovered chair that faces the seat I just vacated. She crosses one long leg over the other, folds her hands in her
lap, and looks at me expectantly. “So. How are you?”

Vain. I’m vain. And scared. And sad. But I don’t say any of this. I smile a small smile, sit down again, and curl my legs
under me. “Good. How’s work?”

“Great. Busy.”

“As always.”

And then the conversation dies there. Celia is studying me hard, her gaze examining my face, inspecting it as closely as one
would with a magnifying glass. “There’s going to be a scar,” she says at length.

I’m so bruised, so terribly bruised, and her words are a blow to that tender place. “Yes.”

Celia continues to study me intently. Her dark gaze is emotionless. “I phoned Max to get a quote, but he said he no longer
represents you.”

“So he didn’t give you a quote?”

“Oh, he did. But it was as your former agent.”

Silence stretches, and then Celia clears her throat. “What are you going to do, Tia? Your contract’s up in days. You have
no agent. And that cut is going to take weeks, if not months, to heal.”

“I’ll find something. Maybe in serious news, broadcast news— ”

“There isn’t much room at the top, though, is there? Even Katie’s finding it rough going.”

I shrug, wishing I’d dressed for the day instead of lounging around in my fleecy blue robe. “Why does it have to be at the
top? Why can’t I start at the bottom and work my way up?”

“There won’t be money.”

“But there might be opportunity.”

She nods faintly, her sleek dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “Max thinks the only place you can go now is behind the
camera. Writing, directing, or producing.”

“That’s Max’s opinion.”

Her lips curve. “You’re still hanging tough.”

“I’m a fighter, Celia. You know that. I’m going to be okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars to you for an exclusive with a four-page photo spread— ” She breaks off, looks me in the eyes.
“Or a million to the charity of your choice.”

A million to the charity of my choice?

Immediately, PSI and Rx Smile come to mind. Jean. Meg. The children.

“I’d do the interview,” Celia continues calmly. “You could approve photos and text.”

I want to tell her I’d never sell my story. I want to tell her I’d never let them photograph my face.

But I see the father crying in Katete, telling the doctors that if they didn’t help his son, his son would die.

I see the young mother holding her baby postsurgery, astonished at the beauty of her daughter’s new face.

I see the hospital where the children were dying because they didn’t have clean water.

“Last night
America Tonight
ran your first segment from your Africa trip. The show ran the teaser about ‘Tiana’s Heart: Inside Zambia with Tiana Tomlinson.’
HBC is going to promote the hell out of your two-week series, but you know not everyone watches
America Tonight
. You have fierce competition with
ET
and
The Insider
. Let’s drive viewers to your story. Let’s get your stories watched.”

Celia holds my gaze, steady, unwavering, as if she were a boxer in the featherweight division. “Do the interview with me,
and the story is our cover story for next week’s issue, coinciding with the final week of your Zambia features. Your story
not only gets told your way, but it reaches twice as many people. In the article I’ll do a sidebar highlighting the charities
you’re featuring on your program. We can give contact numbers, Web sites, information. We can also promote the show itself
so more viewers tune in.”

She leans forward. “A million dollars, Tiana. A million dollars could change a lot of lives.”

One million dollars would mean two hundred thousand surgeries. Two hundred thousand lives changed. All because an old lady
lost control of her pale blue Pontiac.

Two hundred thousand children desperate to eat, drink, swallow, breathe.

Two hundred thousand mothers and fathers aching to have their child live.

If I suck it up and toughen up and let myself be seen as I am for who I am. Not Tiana the celebrity, but Tiana the real person.
“Just for my story and photos?”

“They’d run pictures from the day of the accident, and they’d want one with you without makeup showing the scars”— she sees
my expression— “but it’d be tasteful.”

It’s a lot to think about. There’s no way I can make a decision this second. This could be either a great thing or a travesty.
“I need some time to think about this. I’d love to be able to do something huge for Rx Smile, but I’m not sure this is it….”
My voice drifts off, and I look past Celia, out the door at the hazy Los Angeles afternoon. It’s been hot, and the smog hangs
low and gray over the city.

“I’ve been promised full editorial control, Tiana, which means I’d do my damnedest to protect you.” She reaches out, touches
my arm. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

“It can’t be a pity party, Celia.”

“We won’t martyr you, I promise.”

“Then why are you about to cry?”

Celia shakes her head. “This is just shitty. The whole thing is shitty. I’m so sorry it’s happened— ”

“You’re martyring me now. Stop it.”

“Okay.” She smiles a lopsided smile. “Will you think about the offer? I’ve got to give an answer to the editor in chief tomorrow.
I’d love your answer to be yes.”

“I’ll think about it tonight. Call me in the morning.”

After she goes, I curl back up in the chair and mull over her offer. A million dollars to my charity of choice. I just have
to sit down and tell the story of the accident and answer whatever questions Celia asks. No biggie.

But it is a biggie. I’m not just proud, I’m private. I don’t want everyone knowing my intimate thoughts and emotions. It’s
scary.

I go to my bedroom, lean across the dresser, and look at my face in the bureau mirror. This morning after washing my face
and cleaning the wound, I didn’t reapply the gauze bandage, and the livid purple scar with the black bristle threads screams
at me.

What scar is this?

Whose face is this?

Gingerly I touch the skin, still raised, still tender. I study my face that isn’t my face. I’m still not used to it.

And as I trace the scar, I remember how my mother used to kiss our bumps and bruises, light kisses to help with the pain and
healing.

Life happens. Bad things happen. But in life there’s always more good than bad. Always.

I
wake up and my first thought is that Celia will be calling soon. My second thought is Michael. I
miss
him. I miss his wit and warmth and humor. I miss his intelligence and that slightly mocking, very sexy smile that makes his
eyes glint.

Three days until I see him. Three days until I can maybe get the stitches out. Please God, let my face heal properly.

Please God, let everything work out.

Please God, help me get back on TV.

And then as I’m cradling my morning cup of coffee, I hear a voice inside me say,
Why don’t you get yourself back on television?

I start to drink and then stop.

Well, why don’t I? What am I waiting for? An invitation?

I’m Tiana Tomlinson. I don’t need an invitation, I just need a story. And I have a story. I’m the story. I’ve always been
the story.

Sunshine pours through the kitchen window, glazing the counters, making me blink.

Getting me back on TV is important, as is picking up the threads of my career. Producers and agents aren’t going to decide
if I work or where I work; I’m going to decide. I’m in charge. It’s my life, my career.

I call Harper and tell her I have an opportunity to be interviewed by
People,
and I propose that we approach
People
magazine and suggest we have
America Tonight
tape the interview. Harper could work with Celia to produce a segment that would run on
America Tonight
in conjunction with the
People
release and the Rx Smile stories.

Harper totally embraces the idea. She promises to get in contact with Celia ASAP to see if they can’t work out a deal. “This
would be huge,” she says to me, “a cover article in
People
with exclusive interview clips on
America Tonight
. I love it. You’re brilliant. I’ll let you know what happens.”

By the end of the day, and with financial details not disclosed to me,
People
and Horizon Broadcasting work out a deal. We’re going to do the interview tomorrow in one of the empty soundstages at the
HBC tower. Harper will be on set acting as producer with our lighting and sound guys and Howard as the cameraman. I’m glad
it’ll be Howard, too. We developed a close working relationship in Zambia, and I’ll feel comfortable with him zooming in.

Celia is providing wardrobe along with the hairstylist and makeup artist. After the interview, we’ll do photos back at my
house with the
Peopl
e photographer. Howard’s going to tag along with his camera there, too.

I’m awake early, and as always it’s a struggle to take my bath without getting my cast wet. I wash my face carefully, too,
using a wet washcloth to clean what I can. At this point, having use of only one arm, and my left arm at that, is far more
problematic than my face.

Russian John picks me up and helps me into the car, treating me with kid gloves.