Easy on the Eyes (35 page)

Since the interview isn’t being done on the
America Tonight
studio stages, I step off on a different floor today. Harper is there and waiting, though. So is Madison. “I had to see you,”
she says, giving me a hug and yet being cautious not to hurt me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great. How are you?”

“Good. Working with Shelby a lot, but she’s okay. Not you, of course.”

We chat about work for a minute or so, and then she says she has to go, that everyone thinks she’s on a Starbucks run.

I smile. Some things never change.

After Madison goes, Harper and I have a chance to talk while we wait for Celia and her crew to show up. Harper confides that
she’s interviewing elsewhere, that
America Tonight
just isn’t the best fit for her. She prefers a different news format, but she’s enjoyed having the opportunity to work on
America Tonight
.

“If you find something else, please be sure to let me know where you go. I’ll want to stay in touch with you,” I tell her.

“I’m keeping ears and eyes open for both of us. I’m hoping I’ll have the chance to work with you again. I know there’s a lot
of interesting things we could do together.”

Celia arrives with her team, and then it’s just busy. I’m in the hair and makeup chair and then meeting with their woman handling
wardrobe. She’s brought an off-white Calvin Klein jacket and skirt, a scoop-neck navy velvet top and oyster silk slacks, and
a slim St. John suit in a nubby teal knit. The only problem is that I can’t get my cast inside any of the shirts or jackets.

No one thought of that. Harper and Celia confer. Harper promises to go raid
America Tonight
’s wardrobe and see what she can come up with.

She’s back in ten minutes, arms full of clothes. A black beaded halter top, a white sleeveless cotton dress, a red one-sleeve
vintage Indian top with silver embroidery, a short strapless pink satin dress. I put my foot down on the pink satin dress.
Not going to wear pink. That’s Shelby’s color. But I like the red Indian top, especially if I can wear it with my slim dark
denim jeans. Celia thinks we should go with the white dress, and that’s what we go with in the end.

They have a simple gold necklace to wear and diamonds in my ears. With my hair blown out and my eyes made up and the bandage
peeled off my cheek, I look like me, only vulnerable. I’m uncomfortable with my vulnerability written all over my face, but
this is what I have to overcome. I have to connect with the audience anyway. I have to get them to see past my wound to my
lips and eyes and voice.

Harper has provided Celia with some questions of her own, questions designed to tie in to my Africa trip. I thought we’d end
with those questions, but Celia decides to start with them.

“Tell me about Zambia,” Celia says, beginning the interview.

Just hearing the word
Zambia
does something to me, and my expression relaxes. “Amazing. Incredible. Life-changing. Going to Zambia to film Rx Smile was
the best thing I’ve ever done.”

As the interview kicks off, I’m aware of Howard behind the camera and Celia across from me and Harper with her clipboard and
the sound and lighting men standing around. But as the questions continue, everything but Zambia fades away, especially when
Celia asks me about my heartbreaking hospital tour in Lusaka, where babies were dying from diarrhea and dirty water.

“It blew me away,” I answer, my voice dropping. “Wards filled with dying toddlers because children don’t have access to clean
water. And it’s all preventable. That’s what hurt so much.”

The questions go from personal to professional, then return to very personal with the morning of my accident. “What were you
doing the morning you were hurt?”

“Enjoying a rare free morning before catching an afternoon flight to Tucson,” I answer.

“You didn’t see the car coming through the window?”

“No. I was looking away, watching a little boy and being distracted. I don’t think I even knew it was a car coming through
the window until later. I just saw this blur of silver and blue and then the sound of breaking glass.”

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Witnesses said the impact sent you flying.”

“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 excitement, 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.

I should get an agent, though. I’ll ask around— Harper and Christie might have suggestions— and this time the agent will work
for me.

I smile, stretch out my arms, and take a huge breath. Relief washes through me. Relief and a new sense of adventure, something
I haven’t felt in a very long time.

I’m not falling asleep. I’ve been lying in the dark for nearly an hour trying to relax, but my mind races and I keep getting
ideas and I sort through those, and then just as I think I can fall asleep, another idea comes and I’m wound up all over again.

I don’t want to work for anyone. I want to work for myself. I want to call the shots. But I don’t know if that makes financial
sense.

But I have savings. Other than my house, I have no debt. I bought my car for cash two years ago with my end-of-year bonus.
My savings could support me for a year—

Stop.

Go to sleep, I tell myself, exhausted by the frenzied pace of my thoughts. In two days you see Michael about getting the stitches
out.

Michael.

And there I go again. Thoughts spinning helplessly, hopelessly, out of control.

Two days later, with my right arm still useless, Polish John drives me to my appointment at Michael’s office. My heart’s beating
a mile a minute, too. I’m scared and yet excited. I think about inviting Michael to attend the Tucson Arts Guild reception
with me. The event is undoubtedly formal, if not black tie, which would mean fancy dress. Hair. Makeup. The whole shebang.
A date would be great. We’d have the jet. It could be romantic….