Sellevision (27 page)

“W

hat are the chances? I mean, how many people named Rosalind who were living in Brooklyn and married to police officers in the mid 1950s gave their first son up for adoption?” Bebe asked Eliot as they sat on his sofa.

“It’s just incredible,” Eliot said. “I mean, we really should do a talk show.”

Bebe smiled. “I was so terrified, Eliot.” She reached for her glass of wine.

“I knew it couldn’t be true,” Eliot told her.

She took a sip of wine. “You were scared shitless,” she said.

“I knew in my heart that it couldn’t be true, because God couldn’t be that cruel.”

It had only taken a quick call to Bebe’s mother, Rose, to clear the matter up. Her mother told her that she had never searched for the baby she gave up for adoption. She hadn’t phoned Eliot. There was no way Eliot was Bebe’s brother. Bebe was just being crazy. Period.

Bebe wasn’t so sure.

“Does he have a large birthmark shaped like an owl on his chest?” her mother had asked.

“No,” Bebe had said. She even made Eliot lift his shirt so she could look for a scar. But there was nothing but a normal chest.

Of course, the confusion had made a wonderful story for her to talk about on her Sunday Dazzling Diamonelle show. It had also shown her how much she cared for Eliot and how devastating the thought of losing him was to her. It was a relief to know that her relationship was okay. Unlike, it appeared, Peggy Jean’s.

Yesterday Bebe was having lunch with Joyce DeWitt, who was in town for one of her Joyce’s Choice shows. Bebe happened to notice John Smythe sitting at a table with a young girl. They were tucked away at a rear table in the restaurant, but it was impossible not to see them. They were practically going at it, right there on the table.

“What are you thinking?” Eliot asked.

“I was thinking if I ever catch you licking a young girl’s wrist in public, I’ll kill you.”

“What?” Eliot laughed.

“I mean it, I’ll send you right through that dry-cleaning machine of yours.”

Eliot picked up Bebe’s hand and licked her wrist. “There’s only one wrist I want to lick, I promise.” She smiled at him. He studied her face for a moment. “We really do have the same nose, don’t we?”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Bebe said. “I want to take a quick trip over to CVS and pick up some of those strips that you stick on your nose, you know, for your pores. Actually, maybe we could stop at the Gap along the way. I could use . . .”

T

rish slid the post of the gold-finish Diana-Dodi Double Hoop Forever earring through her ear. She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, then nodded her approval. She had twenty-five minutes before going on air, just enough time to have a quick cup of herbal tea. She walked to the hosts’ lounge and said hello to Adele, who was microwaving some popcorn. “Smells good,” Trish said.

“Help me eat it?”

“Can’t,” Trish smiled. “Just brushed my teeth.” She took a bag of Earl Grey out of the box and dropped it into a white Styrofoam cup. “Your Kitchen Creations show was fantastic. Is that lobster ice cream really as good as you said?”

“It honestly is, believe it or not,” Adele said, straightening the eagle feather in her hair.

Trish filled her cup with hot water. “Well, I’d better be running along.”

“Good luck with your show. Love your earrings.”

Trish brought the cup of tea back into her office and sat at her desk. Max was gone, Leigh was gone, and Peggy Jean probably wouldn’t be returning to the show. She smiled. To top it off, the new head of broadcast production, Keith Everheart, was crazy about her. He’d even flirted with her, and she’d flirted back. And why not? With her Price Waterhouse exfiancé no longer calling her in the middle of the night crying, she was a free agent. A free agent whose star was rising.

She picked up the phone and immediately dialed Dallas. “Hi, Daddy,” she said when he answered. “Did you see my Greek Key showcase last night?”

Her father told her that of course he’d seen it, had watched every second of it, and had made Gunther tape it.

Trish applied a quick-drying top coat to her nails. “Well, guess what? I’m on
again
tonight!” She held the phone between her ear and shoulder as she waved her fingers in the air in front of her to dry them. “I
know
, and I thought my hair looked really good, too. Well, make sure you watch tonight, okay Daddy?” She blew across her fingernails. “Love you too, bye,” she said and hung up the phone. Checking her watch, she realized that she had to get over to the stage.

Trish Everheart
, she said in her mind as she walked.
I like the sound of that
.

After Adele’s popcorn finished popping, she brought it back to her office, peeled the bag open, and set it on her desk. Three of the kernels tumbled out of the bag, and she popped these into her mouth. She sat down at her computer to check her E-mail when her phone rang.

“Hello, this is Adele Oswald Crawley,” she said. “Oh, hi Mom, what a great surprise, how are you?” Adele reached into the bag and plucked a kernel out, brought it to her mouth, and then paused. “
What?
” Adele set the kernel on the desk, pressing the telephone against her ear. “Oh my God,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Oh Mom, please tell me this isn’t true, please tell me.”

But it was true.

Her mother had been mistaken. There wasn’t any Native American blood in her at all. None.

Now she’d have to completely redecorate her apartment. The tepee, the birchbark canoe, the feather headdress lampshades—all of it would have to go.

“S

peak to the chair, Peggy Jean. The chair represents Zoe. What do you want to say to the chair?” Alice, the drama therapist, had instructed.

For a moment, Peggy Jean was gripped by fear. But she allowed herself to
feel
the feeling and then move through it, thus enabling her to perform the exercise. She approached the chair. “What did I ever do to you? Were you unhappy with a purchase? You could have sent it back—we have an
unconditional thirty-day guarantee!
”

Then feelings began to pour out of her and she pounded on the padded seat of the banquet chair. “I am
not
a hairy bitch and you have no right to come to my house and terrorize me and my family,” she screamed. “I do not have a hormonal imbalance—
my endocrinologist said everyone has little hairs
.”

When Peggy Jean collapsed on the floor in tears, Debby offered her a tissue, but Alice intervened. “No, don’t, you might interrupt the grieving process.”

After a small break, allowing Peggy Jean the time she needed to
feel
her feelings, Alice said, “I’d like you all to stand in a close circle.”

The patients obliged, creating a tight, safe space.

“Now, Peggy Jean—I’d like you to stand in the center of the circle, close your eyes and fall backward.”

“What?” she cried.

“And
group
, when Peggy Jean falls, I want you to all reach out and catch her; show her that she has support.”

“I don’t think I can,” Peggy Jean whispered.

“I know you can,” empowered the therapist.

And so,
trusting the process
, Peggy Jean closed her eyes and, going against instinct, fear and pride, she allowed herself to fall backward; backward into the outstretched arms of the other patients at the Anne Sexton Center.

Tears welled in Debby’s eyes.

Then a smiling Peggy Jean was raised to her feet, and as she opened her eyes, the whole room applauded. “I hope I wasn’t too heavy, what with all the patty melts and pudding cups I’ve been eating.”

A kind-hearted man who wore a small, reflective codependency awareness ribbon pinned to his hospital smock said, “You weren’t heavy at all, Peggy Jean— the only weight you carry is on your shoulders. I wish I could carry it for you.”

Indeed, the progress Peggy Jean had made was remarkable.

Not only did she raise her hand and speak at each of the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings she attended twice a week, but she had become an active participant in her group-therapy sessions.

“It’s about protecting myself, and it’s about
setting boundaries
, and it’s about . . .” she had trailed off, unsure, trying to think of the correct word. “And it’s about being . . .
angry?
” Pausing long enough to see the therapist smile and nod, she continued. “My stalker violated my self-esteem, and then she violated my home. My security was breached—and I’m very . . . I’m . . . well . . .
I’m just not happy about it
.”

“You’re not
happy
about it? one of the members of the group challenged, a man named Edward who claimed to have three testicles.

Clenching her fists and
owning
her anger, Peggy Jean cried, “I’m
Goddamn
angry!”

As a good Christian woman, Peggy Jean immediately felt she should have said,
darn
angry, or
very
angry, or
really, really
angry. But she had simply spoken what was in her heart. Yet God
created
her heart, hadn’t he? And her heart had said
Goddamn
.

“But you’re a celebrity. You have to get used to those things,” another patient argued.

“Tell
that
to Prince William and Prince Harry,” she snapped. “You tell
that
to Debby Boone.” Peggy Jean calmed herself by concentrating on her breathing;
in for three counts, out for six
.

Somebody else asked, “So what about those ads for milk? You know, where all the stars have milk mustaches? What about them people; they get stalkers and they don’t have to go to the hospital.”

“The reason I had to be hospitalized was because I used alcohol and pills to
stuff my emotions
, instead of going
through
the feelings.” Then she added, “I was asked to do one of those milk ads, as a matter of fact, and I still may.” She placed her hands on her lap, noticing the faint hairs on her arms.

And I am okay with that
.

Peggy Jean would not lock herself in the garage and turn on the ignition like the namesake of the clinic had done. Oh no.
It can’t be wrong when it feels so right. ’Cause you, you light up my life
.

“W

elcome to Sellevision. I’m your host, Bebe Friedman, and this is Dazzling Diamonelle.” The first item Bebe presented was a pair of teardrop two-karat total weight Diamonelle earrings in fourteen-karat white gold. A quarter of the way through her presentation, they sold out. The next item, a seven-and-a-half-inch Diamonelle tennis bracelet, seven-karat total simulated gemstone weight, set in fourteen-karat yellow gold also sold out quickly.

By now, Bebe’s fans knew all about Eliot, much to his horror. Bebe received so much E-mail that she had two assistants to help her answer them. And most of the E-mails wished her good luck with Eliot, telling her how wonderful he was. On air, it seemed she barely talked about the item she was presenting and instead talked about her relationship—yet all of her shows continued to be hugely successful.

On the Teleprompter in front of her, Bebe saw there was a caller with the name Michael. Bebe was presenting a two-karat round Diamonelle solitaire in fourteen-karat yellow gold. “Let’s go to the phones and say hello to Michael from Pennsylvania—hi, Michael, how are you this evening?”

“I’m very well, thank you, Bebe,” Michael said.

Bebe recognized Eliot’s voice. He had used his first name, the name he almost never used.
I’m going to kill you
, she thought. “So, Michael, what made you decide to pick up this ring?” she said, smiling into the camera, pretending not to know him.

“Well, Bebe, the reason I chose this ring is because it’s such a classic engagement ring, and the woman I’m going to present it to is anything
but
classic, so I thought it would be a nice juxtaposition. Oh, and I also liked the fact that it’s a pretty big stone. I was hoping this would up the odds of her saying ‘yes’ when I ask her to marry me.”

For a few seconds, the estimated twenty-four million viewers tuned into Sellevision at that exact moment saw only Bebe Friedman staring blankly out from their television screens, saying absolutely nothing. Then they heard a deafening scream, followed by a laugh, then a gasp, until finally, Bebe broke into tears; tears and laughter colliding.

Inside the control room, her producer turned to the engineer and said, “What the hell is going on?”

“So, Bebe, what do you say?” Eliot asked.

Bebe waved her hands in front of the camera, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh Eliot, I can’t believe you’re doing this, I can’t
believe
. . .”

“Is that a yes?” Eliot said, excitedly, his face inches from his television screen.

Bebe was able to pull herself together enough to say, “
You crazy insane lunatic, yes, yes, I will marry you!
” Then she sniffled, wiped the tears from her eyes, and explained to her viewers, “I’m sorry everybody,
Michael
is Eliot’s first name, that’s my Eliot on the phone. I can’t believe this.. . . Eliot, why did you do this to me on live television? . . . I’m going to kill you . . . I love you,” she said, her words all running together.