Hot Mic!

by Jamie Collins

  The high school junior lumbered into the kitchen half-dressed, with car keys in hand. He started poking around for his other shoe. “Do we have any Pop-Tarts?” he asked, riffling through the cabinets above the sink.

  “Here is your other shoe—I almost wiped out on it. Why don’t you take a banana instead?” Hannah said. “It’s better for you.”

  He grabbed two from the bunch and headed for the door.

  “No books?” Hannah said, assessing the contents of his empty backpack.

  “They’re in the car. I have practice today after school, so I’ll grab dinner at the mall,” he said, checking his phone that had pinged with a text. He then disappeared through the back door. “Peace—out!”

  Hannah didn’t waver. “Don’t text and drive!” she called to the closed door. He was a thunderstorm of sorts. Always running behind, and cared little for rules or tradition. A typical nearly seventeen-year-old.

  She turned her attention to the matter at hand. Olivia was busily stirring up a mess of Cheerios and banana slices on the table from the towering height of her booster chair. Hannah sighed. She still had to start the casserole for the clinic pot luck, then run to the grocery store for more milk with Olivia in tow, who, no doubt would object to being jammed in a car seat when she would rather be enjoying her mid-morning nap on account of the nanny being out sick that morning and causing plans to be altered. Jaden, the backup sitter, would not be available to stay with Olivia while Hannah ran her errands and worked that day in her home office. Instead, Hannah would have to cancel her nine o’clock appointment, and then reschedule her one o’clock session, which she could do from the car, when taking the German Shepherd, Sigmund, to the vet for his flea dip. Peter was planning to attend a medical conference in San Francisco and would be leaving on Saturday. She had forgotten to take his blue suit to the cleaners to be pressed. Now, she would have to find a one-hour dry cleaner at the mall later in the afternoon, somewhere between picking up extra business cards and office supplies for her new mass mailing and getting Olivia and herself to their “Mommy and Me” yoga class by 3:00 p.m. sharp.

  Hannah ran her private practice from the den. It was a converted home office in which clients had to use the front entrance of the house to access, but they did not mind. It gave them the subtle feeling of coming to their sessions to see a “friend” rather than a health care professional. It was simply another means by which Hannah was able to provide highly individualized personal care to her regular clients. Oftentimes she would conduct the therapy sessions with Olivia propped contently in her baby swing, or in her playpen. A pot of tea was always standard at one of Dr. Hannah’s sessions; a bookshelf of self-help materials were available on loan, and always—those magnificent home-baked cookies were prominently showcased on the coffee table for the taking. Hannah never deviated from her tried and true tactics that seemed to work so well for her clients.

  She caught the cordless phone perched on the counter on the first ring, figuring it was Peter, as clients never called on the landline.

  “Hello—”

  “Good morning. Is this is Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The man’s voice was unfamiliar to her.

  “I’m glad I was able to catch you. I’m sure your schedule has you hopping, so I’ll be brief. My name is Buford Jones, Ms. Murphy. I am the station manager of WCLK-AM. How did you like guest-appearing the other day on Kip and Sidney’s show?”

  She snapped a sheet of paper towel from the roll to mop up the mess of apple juice that had just toppled over and made its way to the kitchen floor. Olivia started to fuss, her little bottom lip quivering. Hannah lifted her from the seat and propped her astride her hip. She searched the dishwasher for a new lid for the sippy cup.

  “Yes, I did, Mr. Jones . . . I enjoyed it very much, thank you. It was great fun.”

  “Good, then. I’m glad to hear that. So, what do you think about the wonderful world of broadcasting? Pretty intense, huh?”

  She laughed agreeably, taking his lead. How nice of him to call and thank her personally. She did not think that the segment had gone that entirely well, but he did seem happy. In truth, she had found Kip to be a rude, arrogant snob, and she was glad to have the whole ordeal behind her. As far as Sidney, it was Hannah’s opinion that Sidney simply had no control with the callers. But what did she know?

  “It was a treat, Mr. Jones. I thoroughly enjoyed being grilled. No, seriously, the publicity was great. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing,” she’d fibbed.

  “Oh, that’s great. Well, we think you were terrific. The station got a good amount of positive response to the segment, and that, actually, is what I’m calling about. Might you be free for lunch? I’d like to talk to you about some ideas we’re kicking around about featuring you again on the show. How do you feel about that?”

  “Well, I . . . ” Hannah was stunned. Did he just say what I think he just said? What does he mean by ‘feature you again’?

  She hesitated.

  “I’m sure you’re busy, so I promise, I won’t take more than an hour of your time. How about, say, eleven forty-five at Louigi’s?” Buford said.

  Today? Hannah panicked. Olivia was squirming out of her arms, wanting to be put down and bracing herself for a blood-curdling scream.

  Hannah hurried Jones off with what he most wanted to hear, and what she least wanted to say.

  “Okay, great . . . I’ll see you there. Bye.”

  Olivia hauled off and wailed just as Hannah hung up the receiver, giant tears springing in her eyes as she rubbed her leaky nose. Hannah shook her head and sighed, defeated.

  “You and me both, baby.”

  The restaurant was inconveniently located in the heart of downtown district where it cost her twelve dollars for the privilege of leaving her car keys with a valet, who did nothing more than park her mini van not ten yards from the door at a curb that had meters.

  She was late by at least seven minutes, due to an unforeseen car seat fiasco and two lost binkies on the way to the clinic, where she promised the receptionist, Stacy that she would only be an hour and a half and that, although child care was not in her original job description, twenty bucks said that which didn’t kill you, made you stronger.

  “You’re a peach!” Hannah gushed as she backed out of the front door, throwing kisses and waving to Olivia, whose sticky fingers patted away at Stacy’s new blouse. “There’s a Barney DVD in my laptop.”

  “You owe me, Hannah!” Stacy said, smiling.

  Buford Jones was already seated at a table in front of the restaurant, nursing a glass of ice water. He rose humbly as she rushed the table, gushing apologies. She peeled off her scarf and overcoat, fumbling awkwardly. “I’m late . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “Not at all,” he said. They shook hands and settled in their seats. “Please, call me Buford. None of this, ‘Mr. Jones’ crap, okay?” His smile was warm and inviting.

  She nodded. “Done, but only if you call me Hannah.”

  “Fair enough. Please, order what you’d like. I hear that the Cobb salad is especially good.”

  The waitress took their orders and disappeared. Buford commented on the benefits of beating out the lunch crowd by dining prior to noon, and then got right down to the point.

  “We’re interested in giving you some air time. Perhaps an hour or two on a Saturday—just to see what kind of response we’ll get. You know, sort of test-drive a call-in helpline format. This would be new to our line-up, and we would need to be cautious about how we pitch this to our listeners, but that would be our problem to figure out. All we would need you to do is be who you are. Just be Dr. Hannah.”

  Identical Cobb salads and two iced teas arrived. Hannah tried to remain calm and clear-headed.

  “Are you offering me a job, Buford?”

  “Yes, I am. Right now we’ll contin
ue to present you as a guest on the show and pay your professional fee, of course. You will be the ‘visiting Dr. Hannah.’ You can sit in on the beginning of Larry Schoestzlien’s Early Morning Rising segment that airs from five to nine.”

  “A.M.!” Hannah gasped, stabbing the lettuce wedge with her fork.

  “Hey, Doc., this is show business. It’s not for the faint of heart. Larry’s segment airs right before Kip and Sidney’s show, followed by the mid-morning drive with Courtney Reed. She’s popular with the younger set—the eighteen to twenty-four-year olds.”

  “Now that sounds more like my demographic.”

  Buford grinned like a Cheshire cat, releasing a rolling belly laugh that suggested that he should quit the smokes sometime. “Your demographic, huh? By George, I think we’ve created a monster here!”

  Hannah blushed. Here she was, a simple housewife from Cuyahoga Falls, having lunch with the general manager of a hip radio station, who wanted her to guest host a talk show, dispensing advice! The thought of it all positively floored her.

  “So, what do you say, Hannah? Are you game?”

  “I suppose I could offer my services. And if it goes well?”

  “Then we’ll take a look at doing something a little more permanent. But for right now, I just want you to have fun with it. Take the hour and do what you do best. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Okay, Buford. You got yourself an amateur host,” she said, hardly believing that it was not a dream.

  He grinned.

  Chapter 14

  1972

  The drive to Nashville was the least that Keira could do after all that Hannah had done for her in the two short years that they had been friends, locker-mates, and soul sisters at heart. Graduation had been another bust, but only because Hannah had the flu and wasn’t able to walk down the auditorium aisle, or toss her cap, or anything. This ritual of packing up the car and driving Hannah to her new school at the University was one that Keira was determined to deliver—even if it meant that for the next four years, they would be a seven-and-a-half-hour car ride away. Keira wanted to make Hannah’s send-off as monumental as she could.

  “That’s her,” Robert announced, jumping up from the couch when he heard the horn sound from the driveway. It was early, and he was still in his bathrobe.

  Charlotte padded in her house slippers from the kitchen. “Okay, she’s here! Hannah, come on down. Your friend is here!”

  Keira had pulled onto the driveway and left the ’65 Ford Fairlane running. She got out, leaned against the rusted door, and lit a smoke. Parents weren’t her thing, and she figured that the Courtlands had the right to say their goodbyes in private.

  Charlotte was already in tears when Hannah emerged with the last of her suitcases and a pillow. “I’m ready, I guess.”

  Robert stood up and produced a wad of bills from his housecoat. “Here’s a little foldin’ money for the road, just in case.” Then he sniffed, and enveloped her in a giant bear hug.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” Hannah said, as she gave the room one long glance just to keep it locked in her photographic mind.

  Charlotte stepped forward with a grocery bag full of tin foil-covered plates and warm sodas at the bottom, and handed it to Robert. “Dad will carry this out with your bags.”

  Hannah smiled. She was secretly glad that she had agreed to let Keira drive her. It would be better this way, with a clean goodbye. She would only be five hundred miles away.

  “Okay, well, then you call when you get there, all right? Anything you’ve forgotten, we’ll mail it to you. Be sure to eat and rest enough. You can call anytime. Just reverse the charges.” Charlotte was chatting nervously, loath to let her youngest leave without the proper blessings and assurances.

  “I love you guys,” Hannah said, and then reached to hug them both at the same time. A few hot tears slipped from behind her new spectacles that Charlotte had said made her look scholarly. It was unavoidable. She had the most loving parents any girl could ever hope to have, and the gravity of the moment was taking her by surprise.

  “I will call, I promise. Right when I get there.”

  “What about your friend, Keira?” Robert asked. “Will she be staying with you?”

  “She is planning on driving back tomorrow. She’s a good friend.”

  “Well, you tell her we thank her . . . and to drive carefully.” Charlotte choked on her words, now dabbing her own eyes.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Robert said, reaching for the suitcase.

  In a few minutes the car was loaded and the two girls were ready to go.

  Charlotte blew a kiss from the window, and Robert stood in the driveway, tugging on his robe, watching as the car pulled onto the street.

  Keira beeped the horn twice, and they sputtered off.

  Hannah looked back and watched as her childhood home faded in the distance, making way for the road ahead.

  Chapter 15

  The nurse opened the eyelet curtains, letting in the morning sun, which caused the woman to blink in protest.

  “Are you going to sleep away the day?” she said, bending to give her pillow a squeeze. “Your breakfast is here.” Then, helping the woman with her slippers, the large, kind nurse reached for the eyeglasses on the bureau beside the bed and placed them on the woman’s face.

  “Robert?” the woman said, coming out of the fog of sleep.

  “Robert is on his way. Do you want some oatmeal?”

  The woman’s face looked pensive, and then she gave a little nod. “Sure, I can try it.”

  “I see that you have been working on your color books,” the nurse said, tearing one of the pages from the book. “I am going to hang this one up right here on your wall, okay? How does that sound?”

  The woman said nothing. She lifted the spoon and then stopped, forgetting what came next.

  “I got you, Mrs. Courtland,” the nurse said. “Let me help you with that.”

  Charlotte nodded and smiled. “Sure.”

  Chapter 16

  Cleveland, Ohio

  2003

  The very next week back at the radio station, Hannah was fitted with another set of headphones—a better pair that felt snug and were more lightweight. She was introduced to a skeletal office staff and crew; polite, efficient people who had no idea who she was, but seemed to welcome her on board. It was still dark outside. The program manager, Bill Quarry, took her around the studio for a swift orientation. She would be sitting in on the first hour of Larry Schoetzlien’s show, up until the weather break, for the rest of the week.

  Hannah had met Courtney Reed briefly in the Green Room, where she was busily prepping for her mid-morning show with some yoga and meditation. She was a naturally slim plain-type young woman with a cherub face wearing a flowing gauze skirt. Her long brown hair was twisted like a pretzel into a thick braid that snaked down her back. The Native American woven bracelets on her tan wrists jangled when she moved, and she wore an earth crystal around her neck.

  She and Hannah shook hands.

  “Hi, I’m Courtney. I understand we’re going to be working together. Welcome to WCLK.”

  “Thank you” Hannah smiled. “This is all so exciting. I’ve heard your show and it’s very good. I hope the station’s audience will be responsive to this . . . to me.”

  Courtney nodded, and her earrings made the sound of wind chimes. Hannah later learned that Courtney removed the noisy jewelry when she did her broadcast. This was a cardinal rule—one of many that Hannah would need to learn.

  I’ve heard your bit with Kip and Sydney, hon. Just do what you did then and you’ll be fine. Not too much psychobabble, though. Just honest-to-goodness straight talk. That’s what the people want. Trust me. It works.”

  It worked so well that Hannah was asked to permanently replace the faltering Drew Sheltie’s Into the Night snooze-fest, weekdays fr
om nine p.m. until midnight. Well Being with Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy did so well in just three months time that Buford Jones approved signing her on as a resident host. She fielded everything imaginable, from dispensing divorce and break-up advice to pet loss and grief. The calls just kept coming, and it was Hannah’s job to solve the pending problems in record time—a definite challenge, given the normal parameters of her home-based practice with the standard fifty-minute therapy sessions that she typically navigated in the comfort of her converted den. This was a whole new ballgame. The list of problems were unending, and could barely be understood fully in the span of two minutes or less, let alone solved in the speed-of-lightning thirty-second therapy session allotted for each inquiry. It was more madness than meaning, and Hannah quickly found herself offering sound bites of advice rather than insightful conversation. Consequently, her curt, quip retorts soon defined her persona as the fast-talking, no-nonsense shrink with all the answers.

  The day she received her SAG card it became official. Hannah was a bona fide radio talk show host with a license to counsel listeners from a tiny stool in a booth in a high-rise near Public Square, where decisions would be made, quarrels settled, lives transformed as the tiny middle-aged mom in blue jeans gave her all, night after night, to help listeners with their problems. Hannah gave solid advice, hope, and the message of healing.

  “It starts with how you think about the problem,” she would tell a caller whose insomnia caused her to seek help on the airwaves. “Is what’s keeping you up what’s holding you back?” Hannah would ask. “Let me explain what I mean . . . ”

  Chapter 17

  2003

  The new routine was grueling. Just when the family had finished dinner, Hannah would clean up, help Broderick with his homework, and then get Olivia ready for bed. After that, she would get herself ready to leave for the radio station. The new live-in nanny, Adelita Ortiz, had been hired to keep everything running smoothly with the added workload. She was highly recommended by one of Hannah’s colleague’s at the women’s center. Now, with less members of the Murphy clan around, with the eldest boys living their respective college-driven lives on dual coasts, and Peter working so much overtime at the hospital, Hannah needed the full-time help.