Amanda Wakes Up

by Alisyn Camerota

  Chapter 25

  Hard Out

  3:20 A.M. The sky was pitch black, as usual, but somehow it felt darker when I left for work twenty minutes earlier than usual. I’d spent most of the night sad and anxious, tossing from side to side, thinking about Charlie. At 2:30, I gave up. It wouldn’t hurt to get out of bed, get my mind off our fight, and get a jump on the research and articles I hadn’t had the energy to read over the weekend.

  When I keyed into my office, I saw a FedEx box sitting in the middle of my desk, that hadn’t been there when I’d left on Thursday. The label was marked for Saturday delivery. It took me a couple of seconds of looking at the return address to connect who Joyce Keller was. Opening it, I found a note resting atop tissue paper.

  Dear Amanda,

  Thank you for coming to check on us. The nurses told us you stopped by. We’re fine, just some cuts and bruises. I guess it comes with the territory. Hope you’ll come back up sometime and see how real Granite Staters behave. Until then, we want you to have these for your outdoor assignments.

  Sincerely,

  Joyce and Tom

  I reached through the tissue paper and felt something fuzzy, then pulled out two mittens, clearly handmade, striped in garish yellow and brown yarn. Never in a million years would I wear them, but I found myself pressing them against my heart and holding them there.

  I picked up my phone to call Charlie and tell him about the gift and how nice Joyce was to think of my cold hands instead of her bruised back. But then I remembered, I couldn’t share the story because he wouldn’t see it that way. So I stood still in the middle of the room, wondering what to do. I walked to my chair, dropped down into it, turned on my computer, and took out a notepad. Dear Charlie, I wrote, then stopped. I’m sorry, I wrote, then stopped and crossed it out. Sorry for what? I put down the pen and stared straight ahead for a couple of minutes, trying to figure out how I felt and how to write it. But nothing came. I pushed aside the notepad and clicked open my email, and at the sight of the first message my heart jumped. I smiled and exhaled. Oh, thank God, a message from Charlie.

  TO: Amanda

  FROM: Charlie

  RE: Urgent

  Look at this. A student sent it to me. It’s anonymous. Scary. You’ve gotta get the hell out of there.

  C

  A link to a viral video was not what I was hoping for. Still, I clicked on it, then jerked back in my chair as discordant notes droned out from the speakers and cartoonish red blood dripped down the screen. A headless torso popped up, growing bigger as it moved closer. An ominous automated voice filled the speakers: “We are watching you, Amanda Gallo. Beware. Your support for gun lovers and antiabortion extremists will come back to haunt you. Stop worshipping at the altar of Victor Fluke. We will not sleep until you are silenced.” The video stopped there and cut to black. A shiver ran across my shoulder blades, and I jumped up to look out the window into the dark night. Down on the street sixteen floors below, I could make out a lone shadowy figure standing in the middle of the block. What was he doing down there? Was he waiting for me? My God, Amanda, get a grip. He’s probably just trying to hail a taxi. Plus, FAIR News has guards like Stanley . . . who was sleeping when I walked in. I turned back to the screen, afraid to touch one of the keys for fear of the ghoulish image popping back up and blaring back at me again. With shaky hands, I picked up the phone and dialed.

  I could hear Charlie fumbling with the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me! Who do you think it is?”

  “Oh, sorry, you’re coming up as ‘Unknown.’ What time is it? What’s up?”

  “I just saw that terrifying video you sent.”

  “Yeah, scary stuff.”

  “No kidding.” I stood up and peered out the window into the dark again, but the guy was gone.

  “If this doesn’t give you a reason to run screaming out of that building, I don’t know what will.” Charlie’s voice was losing its sleep layer and gathering steam.

  “Who are these people that think I support Victor Fluke and that I love guns, or whatever the fuck they said?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Charlie said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I shouted. “He’s a guest on the show! It doesn’t mean I support him!”

  “Here’s the thing, Amanda,” he said, “live by the sword, die by the sword. If you didn’t work there, none of this would be happening. But this is the world you choose to work in.”

  “Charlie, this is scary. I was hoping you could lend some support right now.”

  There was only breathing on the other end, until he said, “Yeah, I’ve been trying, but I guess I don’t know how to do that, Amanda. I can’t tell you how to sort this out, and it seems like you don’t really want me to. I’ve told you how I feel, but that’s not what you want to hear.” He paused, then said, “I need to focus on my work, too. Midterms are around the corner. I think we should take a break for a bit while we figure out our careers. Just get a little space.”

  His words hung in the receiver.

  “But what about after things calm down?” I asked, because I had a horrible feeling he meant permanently.

  “I don’t know, Amanda. Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I didn’t want to hang up, so I just listened until I heard the click on his end, then I put my head down on my desk and kept it there until my tears made a small puddle on the wood. I tried to banish the memory of our first date from my head. We’d gone hiking, and he’d put his arm around me for the first time, and from our 4,000-foot vantage point, it felt like together we could take on the world. Charlie and I had been together for two years, and now in the space of a few months our relationship had fallen apart. In fact, I couldn’t call it a relationship anymore. My boyfriend and I were in a “spaceship.”

  A swoosh sound surprised me and for a second I thought it was an email from Charlie wanting a redo. But it wasn’t. It was an intraoffice email. From RLahr.

  RLahr: Checking on you. Saw the onslaught over the weekend. Think you can cross Rachel Maddow off the Xmas card list!

  AGallo: Did you see that creepy headless video?

  RLahr: What video?

  AGallo: Some freaky video threatening me for my Fluke coverage.

  RLahr: Send me the link. FWIW, I thought you crushed it out there. Did you see Fluke’s tweet?

  AGallo: No. What now?

  RLahr: He loves you again.

  AGallo: That’s all I need.

  RLahr: He said you’re a “great journalist.”

  AGallo: Coming from Edward R. Murrow, that’s a real compliment.

  RLahr: Me or him?

  AGallo: Him. You’re Ron Burgundy.

  RLahr: Hey! I resemble that remark. What’s the plan for today? Need me to back you up on the rally stuff?

  AGallo: I hope it’s over. I don’t have a plan beyond waiting for BNN to get the housekeeper to talk.

  RLahr: Quick! Get those pajamas ready!

  At that, I actually laughed out loud. After drowning in depth, Rob’s shallowness felt like a salve. I grabbed a napkin from my drawer and blew my nose, then used my ring fingers to wipe my tears, delicately, like Jess had trained me to do when putting on concealer. Conceal the tears. Slather on the news face. Man, maybe TV is soulless. There was a sudden knock and I jumped. Rob pushed open the door.

  “Oh, you scared me!” I said, putting my hand over my heart.

  “You okay?” he asked, seeing my face. “What happened?”

  “Oh, uh, nothing. Just that creepy video message scared me a little.”

  “I just watched it. That’s scary shit. I bet we could get security to trace who posted it.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “I’ll
find out. I’ll email them the link. But hey, in the meantime, I figured you could use a bodyguard to take you downstairs,” he said, holding out his arm, “cause is there anything more manly than a guy in a lilac shirt heading to the makeup chair?”

  Chapter 26

  Suzy Berenson

  “Hello?” I answered my office phone tentatively, wondering why the PR department was calling. God, I hope I didn’t screw something up on the air. It had been almost a week since my reporting at the Fluke rally was criticized and I’d tried to be as careful as possible about every word out of my mouth, so as not to inspire another Rachel Maddow segment or set off another social media tsunami. I became intensely neutral, avoiding declarative statements, thereby making Wake Up, USA! deadly dull. Rob tried to draw me out of my stiffness by cracking jokes and asking me direct questions, but I was afraid to cross the Fluke haters, who continued to send nasty tweets, or piss off the Fluke followers, who might stop watching. “A month away from Election Night and we’re on a ratings roll. Keep it up!” Benji told us via Fatima. “Keep the Success train rolling!”

  “Amanda, this is Susan in PR,” the woman on the phone said. “Benji wanted me to check your availability to appear at his charity fund-raiser tomorrow night. As I’m sure you know, Benji gives a lot of money to cancer research, and this is his annual gala. Unfortunately, he’s out of town this week and won’t be able to make it, but he’d like you to attend.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said.

  “Also, Katie Couric was supposed to be the emcee for the night, but she just dropped out. Benji is asking if there is any way you would consider emceeing. He knows it’s last minute, but he’s in a bind. I’ve looked over the duties and they sound fairly straightforward, just prompter reading and schmoozing. You’d be giving Julie Andrews a Lifetime Achievement Award. Oh, and you’d be sitting with the prince and princess of San Marino. I’ve emailed you a link to last year’s gala so you can check it out.”

  I clicked on the link and saw Katie Couric and Robin Roberts and Meredith Vieira, along with famous actors and musicians, all smiling in their black-tie finery. And look who the emcee was last year! Suzy Berenson! Oh, my God, I’d truly be following in her footsteps!

  “Benji asked for you specifically . . . unless you’re not available.”

  “I’m available! It looks wonderful.”

  “Very good. We’ll arrange a car for you.”

  “But, um, it looks very fancy. I’m not sure I have anything to wear on short notice . . .”

  “I suggest you call Meg. I’m sure she can find you something.”

  • • •

  “Look at this one!” Meg’s assistant gushed the next afternoon, as she petted a beautiful black frock with long fluffy feathers around its hem.

  “That’s my favorite,” the other assistant swooned.

  Surveying the rack of jeweled gowns, freshly delivered from the designers’ showrooms, I lifted the feathered one and stared at it. “Wouldn’t I look like a fancy ostrich in this? Maybe I should do a more basic ball gown.”

  “Hush,” Meg silenced me with her hand. “Take off your clothes.”

  Meg’s go-to command. I could only imagine how it worked on her husband.

  Together, the three worked like fairies, fluttering around me, tugging, zipping, and cinching me into the feathered dress, and when they were done, Meg declared, “Voila.”

  I spun around to face the full-length mirror. I didn’t look like Big Bird—I looked like a starlet about to accept an Oscar. I picked up the lint brush from Meg’s desk and spoke into it. “I’d like to thank members of the Academy.”

  “It doesn’t get more fabulous,” Meg said, her reflection marveling at me in the mirror. She folded her arms in satisfaction. “That’s the one.”

  “What about shoes?” I asked and awaited Meg’s admonishment that I should have dealt with this before three P.M. on the day of the gala. Meg and the girls simultaneously looked down at my brown clogs and frowned.

  “You’ll need something strappy,” Meg said, pointing to my feet, “and you get rid of those monstrosities.”

  “What about jewelry?” I asked. Jesus, I thought, hearing myself, I am really ill prepared for these events.

  “I’m sure you have something glittery,” Meg concluded.

  “Not exactly,” I said, taking a mental inventory of the hodgepodge of tangled costume jewelry in a box on my dresser.

  “Now step out of this gown. We’ll pack it up and have it delivered to your apartment. And remember, take pictures!” Meg pushed me toward the door and out of her office. I looked at my wrist to check the time and realized my watch had stopped. Bad timing, literally. I grabbed my coat and raced across Fifth Avenue, through traffic, and swung open the door to a Diamond District jewelry shop, breathless.

  “Is the watch guy upstairs?” I asked of a bald man behind a glass case.

  “Yeah, he’s right up . . . hey, wait a minute!” the old jeweler said, standing up. “You’re not that girl I see on the news, are you?” he asked, studying my face. “Amanda Gallo, right?”

  I was about to blow past him when something sparkled inside his case, catching my eye, and I stopped to admire the rows of rings and bracelets shining through the glass. “Wow, you’re good,” I said, wagging my finger at him but not looking up, unable to take my eyes off the incandescent jewels beneath his face. “Very observant.”

  “I watch you all the time. You’re my favorite. I don’t watch anything but FAIR News!”

  “Thank you. How nice to hear,” I said distractedly, placing my hand on top of the glass case, which was warm and begging to be stroked.

  “You need a watch battery?”

  “Well, yes, I do,” I said, snapping back to reality and my race against time. “I’m getting ready to host a very fancy gala. The prince and princess of San Marino will be there,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact as I registered the man’s age—in his seventies—and his apparent willingness to help. “I’ll be presenting Julie Andrews with a Lifetime Achievement Award.”

  His eyes widened. “Dame Julie Andrews? She’s my girl.” He smiled and cupped his hands to his chin like a boy with a crush. “Hey, I have an idea!”

  “Oh?” I said, raising my eyebrows.

  “Let me show you some of my jewelry. Maybe you could wear some tonight! I design it all here myself. All made in the U.S.A.!”

  “Go U.S.A.!” I said.

  “Here, take a look at this.” He reached into the case and pulled out a diamond necklace with carats to make Elizabeth Taylor blush. “This would be perfect on you.” He let me run my finger along it as he bent down into the case again, this time to extract a huge diamond-encrusted flower ring with a glimmering yellow stone shining in the middle.

  “My God, that’s stunning,” I whispered.

  “It’s a Canary,” he said.

  I turned the ring over, pretending to study its setting but scanning its price, handwritten in small black numbers: $38,000.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly afford—” I stopped to slip it on my finger.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “Take it! I’ll let you borrow anything you like here. I know you’re good for it. I know where to find you!” He winked and gave me a warm smile. “How about these beauts?” He pulled out a pair of long, teardrop earrings, each dripping with a dozen little diamonds. I flipped to their price tag: $22,000.

  “And of course, you’ll need a new watch! How about this one?” he asked, holding up a platinum model with a gleaming diamond face. “I won’t take no for an answer,” he said. “Let me pack these up for you.” He reached for a small silk purse and placed the watch in it, then laid the earrings gingerly on top. I curled my hand around the flower ring, hoping he wouldn’t pry it away.

  “Wear the ring home,” he said. “All I ask is that you keep them safe and send me some picture
s.” He placed the stuffed purse in my left palm, then took my right hand in his, the ring shining upward. “It’s like it was made for you.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “It’s Harold. They call me Heshie. Think of me tonight and tell Julie Andrews Heshie says hello.”

  • • •

  I stepped out of the town car into a street lined with limos and an impossibly glamorous crowd milling on the sidewalk: women in mermaid-shaped sequined gowns, their shoulders draped in pashminas to guard against the brisk October night. A red carpet had been rolled down the stone steps and along the sidewalk. I stood behind a long-legged woman in sheer black hose and offered a silent note of gratitude to Meg and the feathered dress. Clutching the frayed silver satin purse I’d had since college graduation, I made my way into the throng, and for a moment I felt the pang of Charlie’s absence, though I had a hard time picturing him in this crowd.

  “Amanda! Over here!” A tall, pretty brunette in a little black dress called to me from the edge of the rope line, waving a walkie-talkie in her hand. “Yes, I’ve got Amanda Gallo here,” she said, speaking into the device, then to me. “We need to take some pre-event photos with you and the prince and princess. I’m sure you know this, but you must refer to the prince as His Serene Highness . . .”

  “Um, no,” I said, “actually, I didn’t know that.”

  “And you may call the princess ‘Her Serene Highness,’ or, if you’d prefer, ‘princess,’ which, of course, is pronounced ‘prin-chi-PAY-sa’ in Italian.”

  “I like that. Prin-chi-PAY-sa,” I repeated.

  “Okay, step this way. I’ll bring you directly to the VIP section.”

  We scooted through the crowd, up the red-carpeted stairs, through the doors of a grand ballroom, and smack into the backs of two dozen photographers pressed up against a red velvet rope that cordoned off the VIP section from the rest of the gala. Four intimidatingly broad men in black suits and ties, speaking into their sleeves, flanked the area.

  “Yes, right away,” my handler chirped into her walkie-talkie. “I need to leave you here for your photos while I locate Julie Andrews.”