Eternity Skye

by Liz Newman

  “The vagrant is an icon for you.”

  “Yes. The icon of an existence left behind, or the symbol of what is waiting for me in the future. Which do you think?”

  “Is my answer of any consequence to you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then you’re still grasping.”

  Turning to him, Skye folded her hands across her chest. “Dr. Carter, did you by any strange chance spend a great deal of your educational career sitting cross-legged on the top of a mountain with your index fingers touching your thumbs?”

  Dr. Carter chuckled and then he coughed loudly. He picked up a box of tissue. “Pardon me. Allergies.”

  “What are you allergic to?”

  “Dust mites, trees, grass, various airborne particles. Early spring brings the worst of my symptoms.”

  “How long have you suffered from allergies?” Skye stopped at the fish tank and crouched, watching a yellow-and black-striped angelfish glide gracefully through the water. The doctor remained silent. The clearness of the water made her thirsty. “Could I have a glass of water, please?”

  Dr. Carter reached over to the phone on his desk and buzzed his secretary. “Two glasses of water.” He turned back to Skye. His wire-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his thin nose, he looked at her with expectation. His secretary placed the glasses of water on a side table. Dr. Carter sneezed and wiped the corners of his eyes.

  Skye picked up a glass and took a sip. “I like your aquarium,” she remarked. “It wouldn’t be so bad to be a fish. If I were a fish, other people would have the privilege of only looking at me. Who cares whether they love you or not? Everything familiar, everything worth living for, it’s all inside.”

  “We are at the top of the evolutionary chain. Perhaps there is a bit of an aquarium fish in all of us,” Dr. Carter replied.

  “Are you mocking me?” Skye frowned at him.

  “No. Only attempting to reassure you.” A red light on the wall flickered. Dr. Carter closed his notebook. “My next appointment has arrived, and our time is almost up. I’d like to leave you with some practical advice and an exercise to do this week.”

  “Finally, some actual advice. I thought I was paying you to be a good listener.” Skye pulled her cell phone from her handbag as the message light flashed. “Sorry,” she said as she scrolled through her emails. “I suppose you’d call this a compulsive behavior.”

  Dr. Carter chuckled. “The rules are the cell phone stays put away.” Skye slipped her cell phone back in its case and settled gracefully down on the chaise lounge. “As for your investment in solely my listening skills, most patients feel that way at one time or another when they enter the doors of transformation. When it is finished, they pat themselves on the back and truly believe they healed themselves. My response to them is that they did heal themselves, and they should take the credit. How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb? One, but only if the light bulb is willing to change. Close your eyes, Skye.”

  She shut her eyes. A heavy sigh escaped her lips. “Once a day, for at least ten minutes, I’d like you to close your eyes and focus on your inhalation and exhalation. Picture yourself as a fish, but instead of breathing water you are breathing air, aware of the outside world, yet far away, in a place so far removed it cannot touch you. You are swimming, freely and untouched, and your thoughts pass with the current. Tell me what you hear.”

  She remained silent for a minute. Dr. Carter removed an inhaler from his desk and breathed in.

  “Darth Vader,” she giggled. Dr. Carter inhaled a second puff and placed the inhaler back in his desk drawer. “Your pants rustled when you moved. What kind of material is that? Wool blend?”

  “No questions. No wondering what you are hearing or why. Let the current take your thoughts about what you are hearing, thinking, and feeling with it. Try again.” Dr. Carter remained still. Skye took deep breaths. Cars honked outside the window, and water rushed through the pipes inside the walls.

  “Despite the noises, can you find the stillness inside you?”

  Skye took more deep breaths. She opened her eyes. “No,” she said.

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “The Morrow Awards. I don’t have a date. The rustle of your pants reminded me of Denny Moss’ silk shantung pantsuits that she is going hulk out of any day now. Her baby is going to pop and strangle me for hating his mother. The creepy way Alfred Millingham stares at her bubble butt. That idiot Charlie who is a serial pick-up artist, a loser, and an addiction from whom I’m having terrible withdrawal symptoms.”

  He made a triangle with his thumbs and index fingers and placed them under his chin. “My observation of your issues is that the disconnect lies not only within yourself but with those with whom you choose to spend your time. A change of scenery may do you some good. I recommend you perform a bit of housecleaning, so to speak, in your life; and sweep out the negative obsessions which alter your focus. Survey what you have left and then invite in new relationships, based on your level of contentment and not the status people bring, physical beauty, etcetera. We all need to be loved and adored. If some people do not love and adore us, we needn’t spend our time wondering why.

  “As a boy, I grew up with a fish tank in my room. Occasionally, a fish would jump out. I would find it under the rug or a chair, dead. As humans, we have choices that fish obviously do not. If we don’t like where we are, we can jump into another tank. But surroundings, Skye, are only relative to physical comfort. You will always be the type of fish you are, no matter which tank you choose to jump into. I find it best to advise my clients to keep the tank they are already in nice and fresh. Or try another tank out for a while, just for a change of scenery.”

  “Great,” Skye smiled sarcastically. “Off to the pet store. You need anything? A new filter for your nose, perhaps? Allergy season.”

  “Goodbye, Skye. See you next week.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A square light on the phone on Skye’s desk lit up. She threw a blank piece of paper over it, covering the phone as she typed concluding stories for her new show. Skye’s eyes glazed over while staring at her computer and typing intermittently. Her feet were bare, clad only in stockings, under her floor-length Oscar de la Renta evening gown, fashioned from the finest silk and custom made just for her. She blinked a few times to give her dry pupils some moisture, pulled the paper away as the red button flashed from underneath, and glanced at the display on the phone. Alfred’s extension.

  “Skye Evans’s office,” Clarissa answered pleasantly from her cubby outside Skye’s office.

  Skye pressed a button on her phone to speak to Clarissa. “Ring it through,” she commanded. Clarissa’s long fingernails tapped on the phone console, as she placed her phone gently in its cradle. Skye picked up the phone before it even rang. “Hello, Alfred,” she said.

  Clarissa typed a last sentence briskly on her computer, picked up her handbag and jacket, and waved into the window of Skye’s office. Skye waved back. An email popped up in the corner of her screen. Best of luck tonight. Clarissa.

  “Why, hello Skye,” Alfred answered. “Ready for your finest hour?”

  “Almost. Just putting the finishing touches on my make-up.” And the new show you’re going to buy me out of once I win the Morrow Award, or off I will go to another network and TNBC will rapidly descend into the netherworld…

  “Wonderful. I have some pleasant news for you. Let’s all meet in the lobby in ten minutes.” Alfred hung up.

  A Cheshire cat grin broke over Skye’s face as she rubbed the palms of her hands together. As she rubbed a brush full of pressed powder in a circular motion and applied shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick, Alfred’s last sentence echoed in her mind. Let’s all meet in the lobby. All? Who is “all?”

  With a sinking feeling, she suddenly realized she would be sharing Alfred as her date with the bulbous, non-stop complaining Denny Moss. She slipped on a delicate pair of satin pumps embellished with crysta
ls, checked her perfectly smoothed chignon in the mirror, and rubbed a tiny bit of lipstick from her left front tooth. After smoothing down her black evening gown with her cream-colored gloved hands, she grabbed a clutch purse and headed downstairs.

  The elevator doors opened, and before her stood Denny in a set of plain slacks and a collared shirt, and Alfred in his morning work clothes. Alfred strode toward her, his arms open. “My dear Skye, I am so sorry I will be unable to accompany you this evening.”

  “That’s quite all right,” replied Skye, struggling to regain composure. “I suppose I’ll have to resort to Dial-A-Date. Do you have that old number handy, Denny?” She laughed heartily, trying to sound jovial when she couldn’t resist to the urge to be mean in that one instance. Denny and Alfred exchanged glances.

  Alfred took Skye by the arm. “Rest easy, Skye. I would never send you to such an event alone. You remember my friend in Rome. The Signora Cecilia Luciana?”

  “I recall your mentioning her.”

  “It just so happens she has a…friend, who is here in New York. He stopped by to visit this afternoon and I talked him into escorting you to the awards show. Denny is very tired and needs me to take her home. The baby is due in a week or two, and I don’t want to take chances. I must be by her side constantly now. I’ve shared with her my concerns, but she insists on working.

  “Tomorrow morning, you and I shall discuss Around The Clock further, in Conference Room One. Now, about this young man, his name is Sal Olivieri, and I assure you he is every bit a gentleman. He’s a…handyman at Villa Pastiere and, well…I’ll let him fill you in on the rest. The Signora is very particular about the information given out about her…staff.”

  Skye opened her clutch and rifled through it without purpose. She snapped it shut. The loud snap! reverberated through the marble floored lobby, causing the security guards to glance around momentarily. She pursed her lips. “Where shall I meet him?”

  ***

  Moments later, she walked through the revolving doors onto the sidewalk. She nodded at the doorman, who rushed to a waiting limousine. She barely glanced at the chauffeur as she sashayed to the vehicle. The rear cabin door gaped open. Skye peered inside, finding no one. She straightened up and became aware of a man standing next to her on the sidewalk.

  “You look familiar,” she said. “You’re Sal.”

  “Yes, Miss Evans,” he responded. She tried not to notice his melodic Italian accent. He smelled of spices and fresh spring rain and wore an expertly tailored suit. She decided there were a great many things about him she would try not to notice.

  “Are you a chauffeur as well?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you waiting outside the car?”

  “Because you are not sitting down yet,” he sighed.

  “You might be the last gentleman in New York.” She slid into the limousine and patted the area next to her. “Have a seat.”

  “With pleasure.” He slid next to her, and the chauffeur appeared and shut the door.

  Skye took in his profile; a strong Roman nose, deep-set onyx eyes, square jaw. If she picked his features apart she found imperfections; yet, combined, his countenance resembled an exquisite work of art. She fanned herself as she felt her body temperature rise. Quiescent, he leaned forward and pulled a bottle out of crushed ice.

  “Champagne,” Sal said. “That should ‘break the ice,’ as you say in America.”

  “No, thank you,” said Skye. “You go ahead.” Sal placed the bottle back into the ice.

  She leaned up against her window, and the silence hung between them. Sal leaned forward and tinkered with the sound system on a console overhead, and an upbeat jazz melody filled the cabin. A low, seductive song, heavy with the saxophone, replaced the upbeat tune. Sal smashed the button on the radio and turned it off.

  “Down with love, eh?” Skye remarked.

  He laughed heartily and turned his glorious body toward hers. “This is all very uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll take some champagne now, if you’ll join me.”

  “I never let a lady drink alone.” He poured the champagne into fluted crystal glasses. She took a glass by the stem with her gloved hand. They toasted. “And I never talk,” he said, resting his elbow on his knee.

  She blushed and looked down at the cream velour seat. “I’ve met you before.”

  “You looked different.”

  “How? Besides the obvious evening attire.”

  “You had tension on your face. You seemed as unbreakable as marble. Now, you are relaxed enough to smile.”

  “A little 9/11 will do that to you. Or, in my line of work, a lot of 9/11. Makes you break out into insane laughter when someone stumbles over the sidewalk. Happens a lot in New York, so I’m smiling all the time. I’m eating bananas and throwing peels over my shoulder, then turning around for instant gratification. Is it only Alfred to whom I owe this honor of being escorted by you tonight? Did the Signora release you from a short leash?”

  Sal bristled a bit. “This is the kind of night that should be shared with someone who knows what it’s like to spend many nights alone. It is my pleasure to join you.”

  The chauffeur rolled the panel separating the cabins and said, “Mister Olivieri and Miss Evans, I’m sorry to report that we’re stuck in traffic. There’s an accident on Fifth Avenue. I’m going to try and take the side streets, but it may be a while before we arrive at your destination.”

  “Shall we open another bottle?” Skye asked.

  “Perché non?”

  ***

  At the Morrow Awards dinner, waiters in coattails and white gloves served entrees in a grand fashion. Sal devoured his filet mignon with relish, while Skye picked at her sea bass, too nervous to eat. For dessert, the waiters delivered chocolate soufflés, and coffee cups were refilled as the lights dimmed. The emcee greeted the guests from the podium. Her dessert remained untouched. Skye conversed with Sal and the others but then realized that she needed to use the ladies’ room. It was too late to search of the facilities before the ceremony began in earnest. Sebastian LaSalle, a sportscaster who honed his skills under Talon Evans’s tutelage, took the stage and gave a long, booming speech and the guests laughed intermittently at his jokes. Fellow journalist Kristen Hyde crouched down next to Skye.

  “Kristen. Hi.” Skye whispered, crossing her legs tightly.

  “How are you, Skye? I haven’t seen you since I returned from Desert Storm.”

  The two women clutched hands. “Where are you working now?” Skye asked.

  “Out of Chicago,” Kristen whispered back. “I’m married and have two girls. I missed you at my wedding.”

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it.” Skye patted her hand.

  The presentation of awards took an eternity. The elderly presenter of the Lifetime Achievement Award, hobbled up to the podium and unfolded a long list of associates to thank.

  “I’m presenting the Best Headliner Award,” whispered Kristen. “Good luck. I think you’re a sure thing. I watch the nights when you’re on. I heard about the whole Denny Moss situation. What a scandal.”

  Skye shook her head, and Kristen kissed the air by her cheek, not to muss her lipstick. Her hand touched Skye’s shoulder as she sauntered away.

  Skye squirmed in her seat until Sal glanced at her crossways. She rose gracefully,, nodding and greeting. Then, she threw open a door, rushed into the hall, and ran to the ladies’ room. An old Peruvian woman mopped the floor outside the restroom. She waved her hands and pointed toward a flight of stairs. Skye took the stairs two at a time with as much speed as her knees could muster in her tight dress. Some journalists turned the corner and she straightened herself, smiling pleasantly. When they were out of earshot, Skye’s sprinted to the bathroom and slammed the stall door. Sweet relief!

  She ran back up the stairs and into the ballroom, she heard Kristen say her name and applause that followed. Kristen smiled and looked toward the rear door at Skye. The crowd c
lapped louder as they caught a glimpse of her at the entrance. Skye walked quickly and purposely to the podium and held her hands up to quell the applause. She began to speak.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice echoing throughout the ballroom.

  “Skye,” Kristen whispered.

  Skye reached out to take the award. The keeper of the award, a statuesque fashion model type, held the award tightly wrapped in her fists. Ditzy broad, Skye thought. “In case anyone is wondering where I was,” she said, “I sought to make a grand entrance from the powder room downstairs. Surprise grabs the attention of the viewer, and a journalist must use every tool available. The gloves are off, so I suppose you can all see just how much I have fought to win this award.”

  The ballroom became silent “I’d like to thank Edward Morrow for making this award possible…”

  A few people tittered, which renewed her confidence. “Alfred Millingham, the late Gibson Greevey, the great Marcus Kleinstiver—”

  “Skye!” Kristen whispered insistently. Skye leaned toward Kristen.

  “I named the nominees, not the winner. I didn’t get that far yet,” Kristen whispered.

  Skye looked out at the audience. She burst into laughter, and the crowd laughed with her. “I hope you enjoyed my nomination speech,” she said into the microphone. “If I win, I promise my acceptance speech will be much shorter. Excuse me.”

  Sal met her at the bottom of the stairs and took her hand, escorting her back to the table. He shot her a smile, and she smiled back. When they sat down, he took her hand and held it. Kristen finished listing the nominees.

  “And the winner of the award for Best News Headliner is…Michael Alonzo.” The crowd broke into applause, and Michael made his way to the stage, stopping to pat Skye on the shoulder and say a few kind words. Skye downed the rest of her wine and poured herself another glass.

  ***

  In the limousine on the way home, Skye felt embarrassed and forlorn. Sal’s arm put his arm over Skye’s shoulder, but she remained silent. She leaned her head onto his lap as he unpinned her hair and stroked it gently.