Stay Tuned

by Lauren Clark

  Despite the economic downturn, he’d managed to keep clients and, more importantly, his job. In a recent shake-up, one of the senior VPs retired, his boss had moved up, and Chris was now in the running for a big promotion.

  Knowing that Macon Financial put a huge emphasis on philanthropy, Chris divulged that his parents had bequeathed a substantial part of their fortune to the local medical center. His boss jumped at the opportunity to marry the corporate philosophy with a huge public relations event.

  This morning, the project was unveiled at a press conference. I’d arranged for WSGA to cover the event, but my shift didn’t start for a few hours. I was there for Chris.

  When I’d arrived, a throng of people had assembled. Among the sea of heads, programs waved like miniature flags, providing brief respite from the breeze that had all but disappeared.

  Chris’s assistant, Elijah Banks, shifted in his seat by the podium. He leaned close to Chris’s shoulder and cupped a hand over his mouth, his dark eyes shifting nervously over the crowd. Reporters from the newspaper, public radio station, and WSGA were standing by.

  Sitting from my angle, I could read Elijah’s lips. “Time to get started?”

  Chris didn’t respond. He glanced in my direction. I met his gaze and fretted for him. He had to wait. He wasn’t about to blow off an opportunity for coverage, even if it was my rival station that was late. He had his career to think about. This included helping Macon Financial look benevolent, caring, and generous.

  The CBS Survivor show motto came to mind. Outwit. Outlast. Outplay. That was Chris, though he wouldn’t, for any amount of money, spend weeks on a desert island building tribal alliances and eating bugs.

  I grinned at the thought. Back when I was a busy college student, no time for a serious boyfriend, his persistence and charm had won me over. Chris simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d asked me out, what, a dozen times? Two dozen? I’d lost count by the time I said, ‘yes’ to dinner.

  A familiar clack and rumble announced the WXTA truck’s arrival. At the sound, Elijah turned his head. A burst of chatter rippled through the audience. Chris lifted his eyes and focused on the road leading up to the hospital. The news vehicle moved steadily up the pavement. I glanced at my watch. Chris was now ten minutes behind schedule.

  The truck rolled to a stop. A pixie of a girl jumped out, dressed in red, microphone and notebook in hand. A tall, skinny man in a tee-shirt and jeans hoisted a camera onto his shoulder.

  The breathless reporter, close to tears, apologized profusely to Chris. I was close enough to hear every word. “There was an accident, we had to take a detour. I’m really sorry.”

  Chris stood up and gave the reporter his best, most understanding smile. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” he said with a nod. “Everyone’s ready.”

  The girl clipped her microphone on the podium and stepped away, visibly relieved.

  “Good afternoon,” Chris’s voice boomed across the Macon Medical Center campus. “Thank you all for coming. And your patience.”

  Applause rippled through the mass of people before him.

  Chris smiled. “My parents would have been thrilled to see you all here today. It was their dream to see this portion of the Medical Center come to fruition.” He paused, careful to let his eyes fall briefly on each of the hospital’s board members. “Several years ago, my father succumbed to cancer after a long and valiant battle. He traveled hours for oncology treatment. He died away from home.”

  I glanced around. Faces were awash with concern.

  “Great strides have been made in oncology treatment since my father passed away. These tools are now here at the Medical Center, thanks to my parents’ gift and a matching grant from Macon Financial.”

  Thunderous applause this time. When the noise died to a reasonable level, Chris continued. “What we have here today is nothing short of monumental. State-of-the-art cancer treatment in your own hometown. I give you Macon’s new Premiere Oncology Center.”

  Chris nodded toward the shiny new building. Board members had assembled alongside the oncologists, Macon Financial’s CEO, and the city’s mayor. With a quick slice of scissors, the thick blue ribbon held across the entryway fluttered apart and fell to the ground.

  Chris stepped down from the podium to mingle and shake hands. There would be an open house and a reception later.

  I couldn’t imagine how my husband was holding up. His parents had made this incredible donation. They’d sprinkled other charities with smaller gifts. The SPCA, Make-A-Wish Foundation, and Smile Train. All worthy. All deserving.

  But Chris, their only son, wasn’t named as a beneficiary.

  He’d been left out of the will entirely.

  And my husband refused to discuss it.

  Chapter 4

  The bright light streaming through my window obliterated any last chance of peaceful sleep I intended to get. I rolled over and rubbed at my eyes. I didn’t even have to look at Chris’s side of the bed. I knew he’d been up for hours.

  He didn’t need Visine or extra rest. Even on a Saturday.

  On strict routine, short blond hair mysteriously in place, Chris bounded out of bed every day at exactly the same time, read the Wall Street Journal cover-to-cover, ate a breakfast bar and motored out the door to exercise or hit the links. Rain or shine. Hell or high water.

  He was dedicated. Committed to golf, current events, and his job at Macon Financial. On his exhaustive to-do list, Chris penciled me in precisely twice a month for date nights. One evening was dinner at a little Italian place. Once a month, we did Sunday brunch downtown.

  While I loved the time to connect with Chris, in private, I admitted our strict routine could use some serious jazzing up.

  “Get real,” my best friend, Candace, chided me. She was a Dr. Phil devotee, always quoting his show or one of his books. “Dr. Phil says that in order to have a healthy marriage, you have to ‘own’ your own relationship, focus on friendship, and accept the risk of vulnerability.”

  Candace suggested a surprise trip to Vegas or a weekend in the mountains. She brought over stacks of travel magazines, brochures, and photos from her latest adventures as enticement.

  “Sure, maybe,” I’d always say and smile, flipping through the glossy pages.

  In truth, I didn’t want to hurt Chris’s feelings. He thrived on schedule and didn’t like surprises or change. Having our daughter leave was a big enough adjustment.

  I forced myself out of bed, stretched, opened the window, and let the sunshine pour in. Bathed in warmth and the heady scent of honeysuckle, I gazed out at a cute, young couple pushing their stroller up the street. Heads together, arms intertwined, they laughed and pointed at a chipmunk racing across the yard, chasing a fluttering bird. The couple’s pink-cheeked baby slept, swathed in lilac blankets, oblivious to the chirping and chattering around her.

  The sight made me remember the months and days waiting for Kelly to arrive.

  At first, I’d thought my pregnancy wasn’t the best timing. I wanted to explore Europe and produce documentaries; I had dreams of hosting my own travel show.

  Pregnancy wouldn’t sideline my career, I’d decided. While interning at a news station in Atlanta, a bout of blurred vision concerned me, but I didn’t let on. I ignored my swollen feet and killer headaches. Until, one day, my blood pressure decided to skyrocket.

  We’re talking numbers off the chart, according to a nurse who stabbed an IV into my arm several times. After stern looks and substantial tummy prodding by the obstetrician on call, the words “preeclampsia,” “permanent damage,” and “growth retardation,” stuck shards of fear into my heart. I was handed an ultimatum: Stop working or lose the baby.

  I quit.

  Four and a half months of bed rest later, instead of stories and deadlines, I juggled a colicky infant, a busy husband, an oversized house, and not enough sleep. Meet Cinderella—no royal ball, no slippers, and no prince. My fairy godmother had taken a permanent vacation.


  But, I had a choice and decided on the ‘glass half-full’ approach. After the pregnancy scare, I needed to be grateful.

  Eventually, I was content to stay home. I stopped thinking about deadlines, breaking news, and sound bites. My travel books gathered dust. I became an expert diaper-changer, spit-up-cleaner, and nursery-rhyme-singer. Our daily activities included play dates, naptime, and Sesame Street . I spent hours hovering over her crib watching Kelly breathe in and out.

  Now, my daughter was a college freshman thousands of miles from home.

  Wow, how I missed her. I was counting the days until summer break. Kelly would be home for two months and I couldn’t wait.

  With a sigh, I stepped away from the window, back to my own life.

  Downstairs, in the kitchen, settled in his usual chair, Chris held a curtain of newspaper in front of his face. I kissed him on the top of his head and ruffled his hair. “Hi, handsome.”

  “Hey there, sweetheart,” Chris answered with a quick smile and turned the page. I refilled his coffee and bustled around the kitchen. A half-eaten cereal bar sat on his plate.

  Crisp bacon, scrambled eggs, and a biscuit with real butter called my name—a breakfast designed to provoke disapproval from my health-conscious husband. I poked at my protesting belly and opened the fridge. Nothing.

  I grabbed a mug and poured some coffee, pulled the toaster from under the counter. I plugged it in and went in search of a whole-grain loaf.

  “It seemed to go really well yesterday. At the press conference. I think you did a great job, talking about your parents. It must have been difficult.”

  “Thanks.” He didn’t make eye contact. “It was fine. I’m glad the project’s finished.”

  That was Chris’s standard answer when it came to discussing his parents. Fine. Noncommittal and change the subject.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” As if the collared polo shirt, starched khaki pants, and golf shoes weren’t a dead giveaway.

  A tiny corner of the Wall Street Journal curled toward him. “We’re supposed to play a round or two at the Riverside Country Club. Huge client.”

  “Right, you’re meeting…” I paused. “What’s the new person’s name? Taylor?”

  “Tyler.” Chris frowned for a moment, staring intently at an article, then nodded. “Some of the other guys from the office will be there, too, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Not at all,” I took a sip of coffee and swallowed. Tyler was a new employee, some hotshot the company stole from another firm. Both Chris and Tyler were up for the promotion.

  “You know my job depends on going to stuff like this.”

  “I know,” I replied. “I hope it goes well.”

  “Me, too.” Chris snapped the newspaper back into place. He was already distracted, his mind past the 18 th hole, onto lunch, and the timing of his strategic pitch for their business.

  The bread bag crinkled as I reached in for two slices. Into the toaster slots they went. I pulled down gently on the lever, trying not to interrupt his train of thought.

  The Telegraph sat on the corner of the counter. I stretched and caught the edge of the bag. The clear wrap made a soft zipper sound as I pulled it off. WSGA and the Scripps Howard award had made the front page. I scanned the article. There was my name, right at the bottom.

  “Honey, I meant to tell you about this,” I started to hand the newspaper over the table.

  From the expression on Chris’s face, I wasn’t sure he heard me. He was staring behind me. “Is something burning?” he asked.

  Now that he mentioned it, a smoky smell was coming from somewhere. I looked above his head in time to see a gray wisp drift up from the toaster.

  “Oh no!” I jumped up from my chair and ran outside with the toaster, setting it in the farthest corner of the patio to let it cool. I waved the odor away with my hand as I walked back inside.

  “Close one,” Chris chuckled and stood up. He reached over and flicked the switch on the ceiling fan.

  The breeze caught the edges of the paper, flapping them up and down.

  “We’re both going to smell like burnt toast,” Chris kissed me on the cheek and ducked out the door. His cell phone started buzzing.

  “Honey, I didn’t get to tell you—”

  It was too late. Cell phone pressed to his ear, half-standing, Chris murmured a few words and snapped it shut. His face darkened. “I’ve got to run. What were you saying?”

  “It’s nothing urgent. Go ahead.” I could tell him about the award later.

  Chris held up his cell. “Everyone’s there early. They’re waiting for me at the clubhouse. And remember I’ve got that banquet with the board of directors in Atlanta tomorrow night.”

  Atlanta? I must have looked distraught.

  Chris rubbed his temple. “I thought I left you a Post-it…”

  “Nope.” I shook my head.

  “Sorry, babe.” He frowned and walked back over. “My mind’s all over the place. Things will be better once they make a decision about the promotion.”

  I pressed my lips together. Chris and I always used to talk about weekends away, traveling abroad, visiting exotic places. But next month turned into next year, and then never.

  We saw each other so little, we communicated through a series of Post-its. On the fridge, on the bedside table, the bathroom mirror. I developed a rather comical almost-jealousy of the little yellow squares. Our Post-it notes spent more time together than we did.

  He gave me a slow, sweet kiss and stroked my hair. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I watched him drive off and went back inside.

  My burnt toast was waiting.

  Chapter 5

  While I was de-fogging the downstairs, one of the WSGA reporters called my cell. My phone number was tacked up in ten locations throughout the newsroom for weekend emergencies.

  “Hey Melissa.” It was Rob Glass, one of our go-getters. He’d just started at the station, was fresh out of college, and seemed like a hard worker.

  “What’s up?” I asked and opened a few more windows.

  “We’re shooting a piece today on the Macon Firefighters. You know, the memorial service for the guy who was killed after that plant explosion?”

  “Right, yes.” So tragic. This man had saved ten lives, suffered serious burns, and smoke inhalation. After two weeks in the ICU, he died. These were such difficult stories to report. Fallen heroes and their families.

  “I need the VO from the explosion to use in my package, and I can’t find the footage,” Rob coughed. “I’m sorry to have to ask. Everyone else is busy.”

  “No problem. Find the date of the explosion and look up the story in the run-down. The video is listed by number. Call me back if you can’t find it.”

  “Thanks,” Rob sounded relieved.

  “Anytime.”

  My brain contained a genetic anomaly—a gift from my mother—an encyclopedia of news facts, neatly filed in virtual drawers, just waiting to be accessed. I knew, in detail, why factories started leaking toxic gas in Belarus, how many people died in Hotel Rwanda, and exactly, to the minute, what time Flight 97 hit the Pentagon on September 11 th .

  I could name the members of Congress, by state, and political affiliation. I effortlessly memorized school budgets, city council agendas, and election results.

  My cell phone started blinking with a new voicemail. Candace had called during the toast debacle. It was as if she had a sixth sense. She knew she should save me from holing up in the empty house all weekend. I listened as I pulled off my smoky tee-shirt and yoga pants and tossed the clothes into my laundry basket.

  Her cheerful voice floated into the room. “Hey, it’s me. Can you swing by the salon around ten? Huge news. Can’t wait to tell you!” She squealed with excitement and hung up.

  I closed my eyes tight and smiled at her message. Now I really had a reason to find something to wear and get out of the house. I padded into the walk-in closet a
nd surveyed my choices. Back in August, Kelly had deemed my wardrobe choices less than acceptable.

  She had been looking for an Abercrombie hoodie I borrowed eons ago. It ended up getting lost in the piles of shirts, pants, and shoes I had accumulated over the past two decades.

  “Mom!” she scolded and held up a pair of worn-out Levis. “These are so eighties.”

  “Oh,” I replied, trying not to seem hurt.

  A moment later, she shrieked and displayed a striped silk blouse and deep garnet jacket from Talbot’s, circa 1991. “You can’t keep these.”

  “I need them,” I insisted.

  Kelly rolled her eyes. “Bor-ing.”

  She found her hoodie, and by the day’s end, had helped bag up half my closet for Goodwill. It felt good, like shedding fifty pounds of dead weight, but my remaining options were sparse and uninspiring.

  I thumbed through the array of navy, black, and gray outfits I’d refused to give away.

  Nope. I slid one hanger to the right. No again. I slid another hanger. Definitely no.

  Kelly was right.

  Not that I’d thought about it before, but Kelly had never criticized her father’s wardrobe. My head swiveled to his side of the closet. Maybe she didn’t have a reason.

  Chris’s clothes were immaculate. A dozen Brooks Brothers suits hung on wooden hangers, spaced two fingers apart. Starched Ralph Lauren shirts in every color were flanked by twenty Tommy Hilfiger ties, each one splashy but not over the top. There were khakis in shades of tan and brown, with golf shirts to match. His shoes shined so much I could see my reflection in them.

  Conscious of being face-to-face with clients every day, Chris made an effort to always look professional and put together.

  What was stopping me? Looming credit card debt? I couldn’t justify that—we didn’t have any. Kelly’s college fund crossed my mind, but she had a partial scholarship. Time was always an excuse, but I had lots of it now.

  Okay. I’d try what was hanging in the closet and grab a few accessories. With a sharp tug, I snatched at the first jacket on the rack, slid it on, and surveyed myself in the mirror.