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Stay Tuned

Page 22

by Lauren Clark


  I took a deep breath. “And I know you didn’t want…and probably still don’t want any more children.”

  Chris gazed into my eyes. “Melissa, we haven’t talked about this in a really long time. Years and years. We were both new parents. I was spoiled and I’d lost my trust fund. I could barely take care of me, let alone you and Kelly. It was scary.”

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t you try and bring it up again later?” He stopped himself. He knew.

  Because you wouldn’t talk about it. And I gave up.

  “Things are different, Mel. We’re not kids anymore.

  “Don’t remind me.” I rolled my eyes.

  Chris put an arm around me and hugged me close. “So, let’s think about it.”

  Chapter 55

  “Hey, good morning, Drew. It’s Melissa.” I held the phone to my ear, and waited until Drew finished his conversation with someone else.

  I tried to rub the Monday morning sleep out of my eyes. The weekend had simply been draining. My talk with Chris about anchoring and then telling him about Rick and the pregnancy test had worn me out. I was still reeling from his confession about Tyler and quitting his job. Chris and I had so much to work on.

  The rest of the weekend had been consumed with Mother, making sure she was okay, and getting things settled at the nursing home. We had an appointment with her doctor later in the week. It was all going to work out. Somehow.

  And now I had to ask for what I wanted.

  Drew came back on the line. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, could I have a few minutes of your time today?” I asked. “In person?”

  “Just a sec,” Drew snapped. He barked orders to one of the reporters. “Mel, it’s not Alyssa again, is it? Please tell me no.”

  “No, Drew. It’s not her.”

  The static from the scanner crackled in the background.

  “All right, then come in a little early. Hang on.” Drew hummed and typed something on a keyboard. “Say, around noon?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Drew slammed the phone down, already engrossed in another conversation.

  “Ouch!” I said out loud. My ears were still ringing as I came down the stairs. I stopped at the door to Chris’s office and he looked up from the screen of his laptop.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Chris leaned back in his chair.

  “Nothing,” I replied, rubbing at my temples. “I made an appointment to see Drew around noon.”

  “Good. I can’t wait to hear what he says.” Chris gave me a half-smile, then looked back to the computer screen. He tapped his pencil furiously and scanned notes he had jotted on a piece of paper.

  “I just got off an interesting call myself. Macon Financial’s attorneys.” Chris sat back in his chair and swiveled it from side to side. “From the sound of it, they’re not happy. They kept asking if I was going to take ‘legal action’ against Alyssa and if I had I contacted my attorney.”

  “And?”

  Chris shrugged. “I didn’t tell them anything.”

  “Well, what did they say?” I sat down, my full attention on Chris.

  “The guy asked if I was certain I wanted to resign. He alluded my job was being held open in case I changed my mind. And that the ‘situation’ was being corrected, whatever that means.”

  Chris leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Um, there was something asked about my pain and suffering. Did my treatment affect my work? Did I know about Tyler’s involvement with anyone else? Namely, a client in Atlanta? Blah, blah, blah. EEOC laws. What did I know about those? Questions like that.”

  I let my head fall to the side of the wing-tipped chair. “What do you think they want? To make a settlement?”

  “It’s possible.” Chris replied with a tinge of hope. “Wouldn’t that be something? What we could do with that money? I could open my own business, we could travel.”

  In my heart, I wanted to believe him. My head was not so sure.

  “Sure,” I answered, my mind in a million different places. “It would be something.”

  That is, if all you’ve told me about Tyler is all true…

  He started scribbling calculations on a Post-it note.

  “Babe,” I interrupted. I had to say something. It was time that I put a stop to our casual reliance on small yellow squares to communicate everything and anything.

  Chris stopped writing and raised his eyes to meet mine. “Hey.”

  “Promise me, in the future, you’ll just call,” I said. “Or, talk to me in person. Or just be creative. Smoke signals, a message in a bottle?”

  My husband wrinkled his brow. “Come again?”

  “The Post-its.”

  “Ah,” he looked down at the thick pad of yellow squares. “So, don’t use these?”

  “Well, not never,” I smiled. “Just try and talk to me first.”

  “What if,” Chris asked with a sly smile, “I have to leave you a note because you’re on an assignment in South America and your cell phone is dead, e-mail is down, and no one’s at the station? Say the president calls and wants to meet with me. He’s sending Air Force One and I have to tell you where I am.”

  I crossed my arms. “At least use a different color.”

  Chris grinned. “How about pink?”

  Chapter 56

  Thank goodness the news business cranked into hyper-drive on Monday. The beginning of each week usually meant more stories, which in turn, meant more issues to resolve. Bottom line, work chaos meant less time to stress out about my own issues. And this Monday was no different.

  The main copy machine used to print all of the newsroom scripts was broken. A stressed-out repair tech hovered over the guts of the equipment, crumpled paper in one hand, a screwdriver in the other.

  Joe was in the back of the room, complaining to our audio guy that sunspots had ruined the satellite feed from CNN. And to make matters worse, I could hear Drew already arguing with one of the reporters in his office.

  This lecture centered on the importance of using natural sound in video. “What’s the sense of doing a piece on the dangers of drunk driving if you’ve got great crash video, but I can’t hear the impact of the cars smashing into each other?” Drew waved his arms emphatically.

  Rick, legs propped on his desk, eyeballed me as I hung up my suit and set my heels on the floor. Since I was early, I was still in casual mode, wearing a boot-cut pair of Joe’s Jeans, a slim black tee-shirt, and sling-back sandals.

  A paper airplane flew by my head and crashed on the floor as I sat down and flipped through the mail on my desk. A second folded-up jet landed next to my elbow. I promptly sent that one back in Rick’s direction over my shoulder.

  “Welcome to the funny farm,” Rick quipped, his pen circling next to his ear.

  “What’re you doing here so early?” I teased back. “Don’t you need your beauty rest?”

  “If you say so,” he shot back, starting to get up from his seat with a straight face. “I’ll gladly leave all of the work for you today.”

  He began to walk away from his desk.

  “Sit back down, mister,” I commanded. “You did that last week, remember?” I had worried about things being awkward between us, but Rick was doing his best to put me at ease.

  All at once, my phone rang and the newsroom scanner started blaring. I covered my ear with one hand and opened my phone with the other. The caller ID said it was Chris.

  “Hello?” I said, trying hard not to shout.

  “What’s all that noise?” Chris asked.

  “The normal newsroom junk. It’s Monday.” I raised my voice. “Did you find out anything?” Chris’s answer got lost in the squawk of the scanner.

  Attention all units. Structure fire…

  “Hang on,” I said into the phone, hoping Chris heard me. I put my hand over the receiver.

  “Rick, can you find out about that fire and decide whether we need to send someone?”

  Rick grabbed a p
en and notepad to jot down information. I turned around and put the phone back to my ear, then walked into the hallway.

  “You still there?” I asked Chris. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t hear a thing.”

  “Still here,” Chris answered. “What I was trying to tell you was that Macon Financial is trying to cut me a deal. A settlement. They want to resolve before things get sticky and we go to court and splash the story all over. Bad publicity for the company, you know the drill.”

  All too well.

  “So you spoke to an attorney, I take it?” I prompted for information. “What’d he say?”

  “He was pretty upbeat about the figure they quoted. Of course, we’re not going to say that.” Chris ruffled some papers. “Are you ready for this?

  Attention all units… Attention all units…

  “Hang on, Chris. I’ve got to check on this. The scanner won’t quit going off. Just a minute.”

  Seconds later, commotion erupted in the newsroom. When I turned around, Rick stood inches from my nose, breathing hard.

  “Melissa, I think you need to hear this.”

  “Chris, I’ll have to call you back.” I hung up.

  I matched Rick step for step back to the newsroom as he explained, “There’s a structure fire off Coliseum Drive about a mile or so from Macon Northside Hospital. An apartment building, from the sound of it. The dispatcher is calling in all available units in the area. From what I can tell, it started in the kitchen as a grease fire.”

  Drew was waiting by my desk, listening for the latest on the scanner. His face was grim.

  “What’s going on?”

  Drew bit the end of his pen. “We’ve got to get out there. The problem is, we have three reporters today, and they’re all busy. I just sent one on an interview with the governor. Press conference about the Georgia Lottery.”

  “One reporter is at the hospital covering a set of quadruplets born this morning.” Rick checked the run down. “Interviewing the mom and dad—who have three other children.”

  “So where’s Rob Glass? Can we divert him?”

  Both Drew and Rick shook their heads. “It’ll take too long to bring him back. He’s doing a feature piece at Wild Adventures in Valdosta.”

  I glanced around the room and thought quickly. “I’ll do it.” There wasn’t much other choice. It was early in the day, with plenty of time left to put together the six o’clock show. “Can you keep the a.m. producer here until I get back, to watch the phones and fax machine?”

  Without waiting for a reply, I gathered a notepad and pen. I glanced at my reflection in the glass. No mascara, hair could use a comb-through. Oh well. “If you can deal with Melissa Moore sans makeup and fancy outfit, I’m good to go. Who’s available to shoot it?”

  Drew, frustrated, threw up his hands. “Everyone’s gone. What about someone from the advertising department? Aren’t they shooting commercials today?”

  “I’ll go with her,” Rick interrupted. Within seconds, he was at the back of the room and scooping up equipment. “Melissa, grab an extra battery and let’s get out of here.”

  “What’s the address?” I followed Rick down the stairs and out to the news van.

  “Off Coliseum. A few blocks down on Magnolia.” His face was lined with worry. He recited the street number.

  “Rick, oh God! That’s not an apartment building, that’s a nursing home. My mother lives there!”

  Chapter 57

  As we screamed across town, Rick doing eighty in the news van, we rounded corners almost on two wheels. The locket on my necklace from Candace swung from side to side wildly. I grasped hold of it and squeezed as tightly as I could.

  Believe. Believe.

  As we listened to the static from the scanner, the dispatcher confirmed my worst fears. Structure fire…Magnolia Woods. Rear building fully engulfed.

  That was better news. The rear building—which connected to the main residence area through a short hallway—housed the kitchen, dining room, and the beauty shop. The residents’ rooms were in front.

  I bowed my head, and prayed. Please Lord, let Mother and the other people at the nursing home be all right. I know I haven’t been the best daughter, mother, and wife, but if it is Your will, please spare her life. I need to tell her I love her.

  Rick gripped the wheel. “Just hang on, Melissa. We’ll get there.”

  I counted back from one hundred to keep calm. Trees and houses flashed by the window. Sirens wailed a few blocks away. People were standing out in their front yards, craning their necks for a glimpse of what might be causing all the chaos.

  “Tell you what,” Rick said a calm voice. “You just go on and find out about your mother. I can get the video myself until we get a handle on things. You call in and give Drew updates.”

  Rick pulled up, tires screeching. He threw the news van into park, jumped out, and ran to the back to grab equipment.

  “Oh, no!” For a second, I couldn’t move my arms or legs. The scene paralyzed me.

  Even as a new reporter, I had always been awe-struck by the power a fire commanded over a house or building. It defied anything trying to stop it. Today was no exception.

  Red and orange flames leapt high into the air from behind the main building. Smoke billowed in dark gusts through the trees, whose overhanging limbs were charred. At least a half-dozen fire trucks were parked haphazardly around the grounds of the nursing home. Firemen, in shiny yellow suits and black hats, scrambled to unroll miles of water hoses.

  Spray was already shooting from one truck, white froth bursting from the nozzle. Rick, a safe distance away, had the camera already rolling. He was bent over, watching through the viewfinder and talking on his cell phone.

  The fire chief stood at the open door of his SUV, barking orders into a walkie-talkie and directing the action. A few police officers had arrived on the scene and were holding back the gathering crowd of onlookers.

  Finally, I saw what I was looking for. Three ambulances, lights flashing, were parked on the far side of the lawn at least five hundred yards away. I jumped out of the news van, and sprinted in that direction. So many people lived in Magnolia Woods. At least a dozen others worked there on any given shift.

  As I ran, I counted only a handful—maybe ten—elderly people in wheelchairs being attended to by paramedics.

  None were my mother.

  Chapter 58

  I stumbled over a tree branch and caught myself before I hit the ground. Fragments of conversation floated toward me as I made my way closer to the ambulances. Paramedics rushed from resident to resident, checking pulses and taking blood pressure measurements.

  “Needs oxygen…possible smoke inhalation…”

  “…may need to transfer…”

  “Eighty-year-old white male, history of chest pain…”

  A few employees milled around, looking helpless and upset. One sat on the ground, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. I didn’t see Sharice.

  The fire chief paced back and forth in front of me. With a shaking hand, I tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me. I’m Melissa Moore from WSGA. I needed to ask a question, please.”

  He whirled around and his eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Sorry, I don’t have time to do an interview right now.” He stalked away from me.

  I chased after him and caught up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t explain myself.”

  Firemen wheeled out several other residents, all who looked dazed and frightened. I scanned their faces. None of them were Mother.

  “You see,” I started to say, and then choked up. “My mother is a resident here.” I sucked in a ragged breath and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “I don’t know where she is. I’m frightened because she has dementia. She might not know to come out.”

  Disjointed as my story was, the chief seemed to understand.

  “All right. I’ll see what I can find out.” He walked over to the woman who appeared to be in charge of the ladies’ auxiliary and mo
tioned in my direction as he spoke. “This lady from the television station says her mother lives here.”

  The woman in charge looked down at her clipboard. “I have a list of people here. We’ve been checking off names as the residents are brought out. Who’s your mother, darling?”

  “Bailey. Ruth Anne,” I answered quickly, glancing around to make sure I hadn’t missed her. “She’s almost eighty, in a wheelchair,” I stopped, realizing I was describing almost every female resident in the building. “She has dementia.”

  The woman bobbed her head. “Most of the residents are out of the building. A few have been taken to the hospital. But I don’t see your mother’s name.”

  My heart skipped and raced with worst-case scenarios. She’s trapped, screaming in pain, she can’t get out. Without thinking, I began to run full-speed toward the building.

  A huge muscular arm in a fireman’s uniform caught me around the waist and held me back. “Miss, you can’t go in there,” his stern voice said in my ear. When I tried to ignore him and push away, his hand clamped tighter. “We’re doing the best we can. You have to go back.”

  Tears leaked out of my eyes. “But I can’t find my mother.”

  The fireman held me out at arm’s length and steadied me. “Let us do our job. I need to go back in. I’ll see if I can find her. What’s her name?”

  “Ruth Anne Bailey.” I blinked and stared into his eyes, trying to get my composure. “Her nurse is Sharice. She would know where Mother is. Sharice will know.”

  He let go of me and I stepped back several paces.

  Get a hold of yourself, Melissa. You’re in the way.

  A half-dozen firefighters at the pump trucks focused two hoses at the back building. Another group of men shot one stream of water at the place where the hallway connected the two buildings, and another stream at the main part where Mother lived.

  The fire wasn’t giving up. Small gusts of wind helped the blaze inch along the main building, making bits of progress in spite of the efforts to battle it.

 

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