“I’ll be there in ten.”
He was there in eight.
It was unlike the last few months, where Sam and I had treaded gingerly around each other, giving the other space, never taking for granted that we would be together for a particular night, much less for a particular lifetime. Now, the fact that he had disappeared on me six months ago didn’t matter.
When Sam arrived, it was just us again. No questions. Nothing to figure out. Just Sam and me stripped to the core. Of us. Which had always been good.
Under the halo of my doorway, he held me while I sobbed. We moved into my dark living room. He sat on my favorite yellow chair and pulled me into his lap, tucking my head into the bend of his neck, stroking my hair. I breathed him in-the scent of home after a long trip away-and I waited for the calm and the order that Sam would bring.
But calm and order never arrived.
At 5:00 a.m., my cell phone rang. Somehow I’d managed to sleep by holding tight around Sam’s stomach, my head on his chest.
At the sound of the phone, I murmured, tuned back into where I was. I could tell from Sam’s breathing that he wasn’t sleeping, that he hadn’t slept, that he had been pretending to sleep for the last few hours. For me.
I lifted my head off his chest and looked at the phone, which was on top of my dresser.
Sam pulled me back. “Go to sleep.”
“What if it’s something about Jane?”
He said nothing, and I swung my eyes to meet his. He grimaced.
Sam curled himself around me, creating a nest. “Get some sleep, get some sleep,” he murmured.
But the phone wouldn’t stop. My house phone started next. I finally lifted the receiver off the nightstand.
“Izzy?” I heard a woman’s sharp bark.
“C.J.?” The voice of Jane’s ex-producer was unmistakable.
“What time are you getting in this morning?”
I sat up in bed. “What do you mean? Where?”
“To Trial TV,” she said, exasperated. “What time will you be here?”
“Uh…” I hadn’t even thought about work. To me, Trial TV had been all about Jane, and my new job had been erased somewhere in the horror of last night. But of course, the network would go on. It couldn’t stop for Jane’s death. She wouldn’t want it to.
“I guess seven o’clock,” I said. “That’s when I’m supposed to show up.”
“I need you here now.”
“C.J., you know about Jane, right?”
“Yes.” Her voice went somber. “Yes,” she said again. “And I heard you found her. That must have been hideous. I’m so sorry, Izzy.”
It was the first time I’d heard empathy, compassion or anything like it from C. J. Lyons. “Thanks. I’m sorry for you, too. I know you guys were close.”
“Yes. This is gut-wrenching.”
“I know.” I thought for a second. “C.J., I’m confused why you’re calling me. You don’t even work at Trial TV.”
“I do now. As of one this morning. And, like I said, I need you in here. Now.”
29
A mid a somber newsroom, C.J. was snarling orders and gesturing with a clipboard when I got there. She had short black hair and dark-rimmed eyeglasses that were pushed up on the top of her head. She was dressed, as she often was, in jeans, a fitted black jacket and no-nonsense shoes. Interns scurried away from her, scribbling notes. Reporters appeared shell-shocked, but they nodded and scattered to cover the stories C.J. was assigning.
She smiled a little when she saw me. “Izzy.”
She raised the one arm without the clipboard and gave me a fast embrace with a couple of quick pats on the back. Not the best hug I’d ever gotten, but the only one I’d ever received from C.J.
“Can you believe this?” Her eyes were full of agony. I could tell she hadn’t slept, either.
I shook my head. I felt like sobbing again. My eyes darted around the newsroom, and I saw people whispering, pointing. I would always be known as the woman who found Jane Augustine dead.
“Oh, girl,” C.J. said, spotting the tears in my eyes. “We’re all a mess.”
“I know. I’m sorry. And you knew her for so much longer than I did. How are you?”
I saw tears glisten in C.J.’s dark eyes. “I can’t talk about it. I feel like I’ll never be able to talk about it.”
I nodded. “I spent hours with the police yesterday, and it was just…it was just terrible reliving it.”
“C.J.!” someone yelled “You want a live shot on the Rivera story?”
She turned around and hollered back at them. Somehow it was a relief to have someone taking charge, doing their job, acting for even a second as if this was just another day at Trial TV.
“Here’s the deal,” she said when she turned back to me. “I got a call last night from Ari Adler. Tommy Daley quit after he heard about Jane.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. He said that Jane was the only reason he had come onto the network, and without her he didn’t want to be here. So Trial TV lost two of its most important people in one night.”
“Jesus.”
“I know. The network has only been running for a day, and it’s falling apart at the seams. Ari asked me to come on and keep things moving.”
“I’m glad. This network was everything to Jane.” I thought of Jane this weekend, after she’d found the noose in her house. She wouldn’t even call the police because it would have meant bad press for Trial TV. She wanted to do everything she could to make the network a success.
“I’m here to do whatever I can to help,” C.J. said. “We’re running some taped segments now, but we go live again at seven o’clock.” She peered into my eyes. “Can you keep working?”
I glanced over C.J.’s head to the anchor desk. I could see Jane there yesterday, beaming her self-assured smile into the camera, looking pleased and proud and full of life, a new professional life with Trial TV.
“Yeah,” I said, but I think there was a waver in my voice. I couldn’t stop the warring images of the Jane of yesterday, bursting and alive, and the Jane of last night, the life bled away from her. The two visions battered themselves back and forth in my mind, as if competing for my last memory of her, the way I would remember her.
“Don’t fall apart now, Izzy.” C.J. grabbed my shoulder and leaned nearer to me. Her brown eyes were bottomless, and yet they seemed all knowing. It seemed as if she could see inside me. “We’re all falling apart inside, but we’re going to hold it together for Jane, okay?”
I nodded, trying desperately to stick with the image of Jane behind the news desk. But my mind kept snagging on that scarf. The scarf that had choked the life from her.
“Izzy.” C.J.’s voice was like a snap. “Are you listening to me?”
I blinked furiously. “Yes. Yes, I’m listening. Tell me what you need.”
Her hand on my shoulder tightened. “Ari and I have talked and we want you to do something for us. For Jane.”
“Okay.”
“We’re not going to be able to find a replacement anchor right away,” C.J. said. “Everyone in town who might work is under contract. And you know how hard it is to break those contracts.” She looked pointedly at me.
I laughed a little. I used to write the contracts for many of the newscasters in town, and I always included solid non-compete clauses and astronomical buyouts, which made it all but impossible for a broadcaster to move quickly from one station to another.
C.J. smiled a little, too. “Thanks to lawyers like you, it’s going to take a while before we can get someone on the morning desk. We could have the afternoon people step in, but we don’t think it will look good to have newscasters working around the clock, especially since we expect to get even more people tuning in once they’ve heard Jane is gone, which is why we need you to step up your game.”
I threw my hair back and nodded. I was glad that I’d managed to do my makeup and put on the stylish black suit that I’d bought for Forester’s funeral
. “Of course.” I looked around for Ted, my cameraman from the day prior. How long ago that seemed. “Just tell me where you want me to go.”
C.J. paused. Was she worried that I would fall apart?
“I’m fine,” I said. “I did okay yesterday at the courthouse.”
“I saw it. You did more than okay. Which is why Ari and I want you there.”
“Back at the courthouse?”
“No. There.”
I noticed then that C.J. was pointing. At the anchor desk.
30
“L et’s go over it again,” C.J. said. “What’s the key to working the prompter?”
“Focus behind it. Look past the words into the iris of the camera, so it doesn’t look like you’re reading.”
“What camera do you look at?”
“The one with the red light. When a new light goes on, I glance down at the script before looking up at the new camera.”
“Right. What about the talk-backs today?”
“Try to keep the guests on point. Remember that Senator Hinton will go on forever. Listen for the producer to tell me when to cut him off.”
“Great. Opening line?”
“Good morning and welcome to Trial TV. I’m Isabel McNeil.”
I had tried to tell C.J. that I wasn’t an anchor; I was barely a reporter. But C.J. was relentless. I’d finally caved when she told me that Trial TV wasn’t going on the air without me. Did I want to let Jane down?
I didn’t. And now here I was fifteen minutes before my first broadcast. And with that realization, it started-a blush that crept up my body, a heat that overtook me.
C.J. pulled back and scrutinized me. “Are you perspiring?”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?”
“Son of a motherless goat,” I said, my working replacement phrase for son of a bitch.
“What does that mean?”
“I have this little problem. It hasn’t happened in a long time.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Um, flop sweating?”
The muscles in her jaw went rigid. “Flop sweating? What does that even mean?”
I told her about how occasionally, when I got acutely nervous, usually at the beginning of a trial or some other public speaking, I experienced extreme perspiration. This little problem of mine was unbelievably embarrassing, as if someone had dropped burning embers into my gut and then thrown gasoline on them. And then a truck full of lumber. The waterworks in my body would pour, and my face would get as red as the fire inside me.
“How long?” C.J. barked.
“I don’t know. I guess it started in high school. Maybe it’s a hormonal thing.”
“I mean how long does it last?”
“An hour or so.” The more I thought about it, the more I sweated.
“Goddamn it, we don’t have an hour! Marissa!”
The makeup artist who had already spent half an hour touching up my face came running out of the dressing room.
“Powder her!” C.J. ordered.
Marissa made a face. “Geez,” she said. “That’s going to be tough to cover. We should wait until the sweating stops.”
“Powder her!” C.J. said again. “And I mean good. I want her spackled.”
Marissa stuffed tissue around my collar, pulled a huge powder pad out of her apron and went at me. But I could tell it wasn’t working.
“Izzy, stop it!” C.J. said.
“I can’t.”
“So if you know this is a problem, what’s the solution?”
“I’ve tried a bunch of things.”
Once, at the beginning of a trial, I ripped out my shoulder pads and tucked them under my arm. Another time I used the liner notes from a Missy Elliot album I stole off Q’s desk. My greatest fear had been that this would happen at my wedding. But since I wasn’t getting married anytime soon, I’d stopped thinking about it.
Suddenly I remembered something. “Benadryl!” I yelped. “Does someone have Benadryl?”
C.J. spun around and faced the newsroom. “Who has Benadryl?” she thundered.
Through swipes of the huge powder pad, I could see some people shrug. Faith Lowe, the avant-garde producer I’d met my first day, began to dig in her purse. She held up a triumphant fist. “I’ve got some.” She ran up to C.J. and gave it to her.
C.J. tore the backing from the foil packaging. “Why didn’t you bring this out before, Faith?” she asked in an irritated tone.
“Because you didn’t ask for it before.” Faith turned and stomped away.
“Thanks,” I called to Faith’s back, but she was weaving her way through the newsroom.
C.J. pulled two tablets out of the foil. “Does this work?”
“I don’t know,” I said, reaching for them. “A doctor once told me to try it.”
C.J. pulled the tablets back toward her. “This stuff makes you tired. Like really tired.”
I pointed at my pink, burning face. “Do you prefer this?”
“Get her a Red Bull!” she yelled over her shoulder, then put the tablets in my hand. “Take the things. Now!”
I popped the pills. The makeup artist handed me a can of Red Bull.
For the next ten minutes, Marissa kept spackling, while everyone gathered in the newsroom to watch me. I felt like sweating livestock at a county fair.
“Just keep reading your script,” C.J. said. “Get ready to go on-air.”
But the sweating wouldn’t stop. I was dripping onto my script. “I can’t put any more makeup on her,” Marissa said.
“Yes, you can,” C.J. said.
More blotting with tissues; more swats with a makeup brush and the powder pad.
“Three minutes to air!” someone yelled.
I looked at C.J. with terrified eyes. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can. That Benadryl will start to work any minute. And remember, you’re doing this for Jane.”
I closed my eyes. I tried to picture Jane at the anchor desk yesterday, working her magic. But I kept seeing Jane dead last night; Jane rolled out of her house on a gurney.
“One minute to air!” the guy yelled. “Quiet on the set!”
“Izzy,” I heard C.J. say.
I opened my eyes. She was peering at my face, and she looked oddly relieved.
“It’s working,” she said.
She was right. I could feel the heat and the red drain away.
C.J. watched me for another thirty seconds. “Powder once more!” she yelled over her shoulder at Marissa.
This time, the powder felt like cool dust.
Marissa backed away, then C.J., who was nodding at me, staring me in the eyes. “You’re all right,” she mouthed.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
I closed my eyes again. I didn’t try to think of Jane. Instead, I thought of Forester. How he had encouraged me, how he had always told me I could do anything.
“Three, two…”
I opened my eyes. “Good morning and welcome to Trial TV. I’m Isabel McNeil.”
As I spoke, looking into the yawning square lens of the camera, a tranquil, almost eerie composure settled over me. Maybe it was the Benadryl. Maybe it was because this was one last thing I could do for Jane. Whatever it was, I could feel my mouth move, I could hear the words coming out, but it was as if someone else were speaking.
I sank into a hole of detachment that opened in my mind. I thought of all the times I had seen Jane do this, and it was almost as if I was channeling her. Like Jane, when the lead story was over and a red light flashed on a different camera, I glanced down at my script and then turned my body to face it. Like Jane, I read the next story and the next with confidence. Like Jane, I smiled slightly when we went to a commercial.
And when that first segment was over, I finally looked around the room, and I saw people nodding. Ted, the cameraman, gave me a thumbs-up. So did Faith and Ricky, the photographer who had driven the news van.
C.J. rushed up to me. “You’ve got some kinks
, but you’re good.”
“I am?” I blinked. I felt in a slight stupor from the Benadryl, but I was also buzzing with an energy I had never known before.
“Really good,” C.J. said. She rattled off a litany of criticisms and suggestions.
I blinked. How did Jane do this and make it look so effortless?
“Ready?” C.J. asked.
“No.”
“Good, because we’re back to you in five…four…three…”
31
T here was no funeral for Jane, or at least not one open to the public. Instead, her parents, who lived outside of Grand Rapids, Michigan, were holding a private burial there over the weekend. Meanwhile, Zac had a hastily arranged afternoon memorial on Tuesday at the restaurant in the Park Hyatt where she and I had been Friday night; it had always been one of Jane’s favorite places.
It seemed early for a memorial service. Didn’t such things usually take place a few days after the death? Or maybe that was only when there was a body to be dealt with for the service. I wondered if Jane’s parents would have an open casket. I hoped not. Jane should only be remembered for the vivacious, vibrant woman she was.
Spring was still in the air on that Tuesday afternoon, with green buds sprouting from the otherwise bare trees and a fresh scent blowing off the lake. But it was chilly, and so the outside bar, where I’d had drinks with Jane just days before, where she’d asked me to join Trial TV, was closed. Inside, the bar had polished, dark wood and chic furniture. The tall windows overlooked Chicago Avenue, and on the far end, Michigan Avenue and the old Water Tower.
The place was packed. I glanced around and for a second I thought I knew everyone, but realized many were anchors and reporters I’d seen on the news for years. I waved to the few I did know from working at Pickett Enterprises. I saw C.J. standing near the end of the bar with a producer and assignment editor from Jane’s old station. They all appeared distraught. Everybody did.
Q appeared next to me. “Hi,” he said simply, somberly.
“Thanks for being here.”
Sam had offered to come with me, but I wanted to attend the memorial with someone who knew Jane. Q, as my assistant, had worked with her for years, and he had loved her.
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