by Don Brown
Modeling had been Diane's dream since she was a teenager. She'd thought it would be glamorous -- bright lights, public adulation, photographs on the cover of Glamour and Vogue. But in reality, it was excruciatingly hard work. Monica monitored every bite she and the other girls ate. If she gained even a half pound, lunches and dinners consisted of iceberg lettuce and low-fat yogurt. She spent hours with studio makeup artists, still more hours with the studio hairdresser as he twisted her tresses into extreme -- and sometimes painful-- designs. Then there was her personal trainer who put her through a tortuous daily workout to keep her body toned. And the hours spent under bright, hot lights often left her with a migraine. When she and the others went out on the town, it was only to be seen. Not to be real. Not to enjoy real conversation with real people. Not to laugh and talk about books and world affairs.
She missed that. Her father had brought her up to think for herself, to enjoy stretching her mind with the classics, with art and music, to debate politics and world affairs. His dream, especially after her mother died, was for Diane to go to college, to continue to stretch her mind. To practice law.
But in a fit of rebellion, she'd announced that she planned to follow her dream -- no matter what he said. She was going to New York. Her words had broken his heart. She hadn't cared.
Now Diane looked up at Monica, who frowned as she gestured for Diane to join her on the runway. With a sigh, she took her place beside the artistic coach and struck a ten-point model's pose, pasting on the traditional hollow-cheeked, bored expression. Oh yes, she was almost there. She had almost reached her dream.
Why did she feel so empty?
The music throbbed as she slithered down the runway. Seven liquid steps, then snap to a turn. Seven more, turn again . . .
The studio door burst open, and the office manager, Janice Jeffers, a plain but pleasant woman, stepped into the studio. Her heels clicked and echoed like tap-dancing shoes against the polished hardwood floors as she crossed the room.
"Diane, telephone call!" Janice almost shouted to be heard above the runway music.
Diane halted midstep; Monica signaled the engineer to turn off the strobes and music. "Can't it wait?" She shot Diane a glare, then looked back to Janice. "As you can see, we're just beginning the exercise."
"Sorry, Monica," Janice said. "It's an emergency."
"It better be," Monica snapped, then frowned at Diane. "Make it quick, honey."
Diane hurried down the runway steps and jogged to the door, where Janice put her arm around her. "You can take the call in my office." She led Diane down the long hall.
"Who is it?"
"Your father's aide. He said it was urgent." Janice opened the glass door to her office and gestured toward the telephone on her desk.
Diane lifted the receiver to her ear. "Hello?"
"Diane, this is Lieutenant Commander Wilson."
"What's going on, Mitch?"
He hesitated a moment --though it seemed like an eternity -- before answering. "Your father's in the hospital. I think you should catch the next flight down here."
Her heart pounded. "What happened?"
"Maybe you should wait until you can talk to his doctor."
"I'm not waiting. Tell me now, Mitch!"
Another hesitation. "Diane . . . the admiral has had a stroke. It's serious . . . I'm sorry."
This isn't happening. This is a bad dream.
"Diane?"
"Is he going to make it?" She blinked back the sting of tears.
"The doctor thinks so, but it'll be touch and go for the next few days."
"Where is he?" She sank into the swivel chair by the desk.
"Portsmouth Naval Hospital. He's getting the very best treatment the Navy can provide. Listen, I've arranged for your plane to fly into Oceana Naval Air Station. I'll meet you there in two hours."
They said their good-byes, then Diane dropped her head into her hands.
"Diane?"
She felt Janice's arm ease across her shoulder.
"I'm sorry . . . Your father's aide didn't want me to tell you. He called us thirty minutes ago to discuss transportation arrangements so you didn't have to worry with them yourself. Mr. Rochem beau is in Paris, but I called him on his cell phone. The company jet will fly you to Virginia Beach."
Two hours later, the Femme du Monde Lear jet touched down at the Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach. Diane put on dark sunglasses to conceal her red-rimmed eyes, long since washed free of makeup by her tears. She stepped from the jet into a sunny Tidewater afternoon.
Her father's aide waited, his expression lined with concern. When she reached him, he took her by the arm and guided her to the admiral's staff car. He returned to the plane for her luggage, placed it in the trunk, and slid into the driver's seat.
Before he turned the key in the ignition, she touched his arm. "How bad is it, Mitch?"
The aide hesitated and then let his hand drop to his lap. "He's paralyzed on the left side of his body. He drifts in and out of consciousness. Both times he regained consciousness, he whispered your mother's name." He met her gaze. "And yours."
"My mother was a wonderful woman. I wish you had known her."
"The admiral has often said you're just like her. Strong, smart, resolute."
"I don't feel so strong and resolute right now." She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes, praying for a dose of the same strength she remembered in her mother. Most of all, she prayed for her father. And tried not to think of her regrets.
U.S. Naval Medical Center
620 John Paul Jones Circle
Portsmouth, Virginia
As the car approached the main gate outside the huge Portsmouth Naval Hospital, Diane still fought to control her tears. A few minutes later, her father's aide steered the car into the flag officers' parking spaces near the front entrance of the hospital.
He came around to the passenger side and opened the door. "Your father is the strongest man I know," he said as Diane swung her legs out of the car. "The sound of your voice will give him strength."
Diane and Mitch got off the elevator at the sixth deck. A slim officer in a khaki uniform, wearing the silver eagle of a Navy captain pinned to one collar and the gold oak leaf and silver acorn of the Navy Medical Corps on the other, stepped forward and greeted them. "I'm Captain Ornsbee. Lead physician in charge of your father's treatment."
"Is he going to be okay, Doctor?"
"It's still early. These next few hours will be crucial. We're worried about the possibility of an aneurysm. We're giving him blood thinners and watching him constantly."
"May I see him?"
"Yes. I'll take you. But be prepared. He's had a massive stroke. The left part of his body is paralyzed. He may not recognize you."
"I want to see him."
He gave her a solemn nod and then led her down the corridor, past the nurses' station, to a hospital room on the other side.
She halted mid step, stunned. The proud body that was once Vice Admiral Stephen Colcernian lay in a helpless form attached to wires and tubes. "Oh, Daddy." She swallowed the tears at the back of her throat, willing herself not to cry.
The doctor's voice was low. "Your father may be able to hear you. I know it's hard, but try to stay strong."
"Okay." She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath, and moved closer to take her father's hand. "I love you, Daddy. You'd better not leave me. Not now. Please. You're so strong. You're going to be fine." Please, God. Let him hear me. "I came as soon as I found out. Bob has been great. You'd be so proud of him. He arranged to have a plane take me from New York to Oceana. He's a great admiral's aide, Daddy."
Nothing.
Please, God . . .
"Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Daddy."
Was it her imagination?
"Daddy, can you squeeze it again?"
It was faint, but this time, definite.
Thank you, Lord.
"Daddy, I'm leaving New York, coming home to be clos
e to you. And when we get you up and on your feet, I'll go to UVA so I can come see you on the weekends."
Another squeeze.
She drew in a shaky breath and cleared her throat. "I know how much it means to you to have someone in the family uphold our Navy legacy. I want it too, Daddy, not just for you, but for me. And I was thinking on the plane coming down here. I'm going to go to UVA, and then I'm going to apply for law school. And then I'll apply for a direct commission in the Navy JAG Corps. And I'm going to be the best JAG officer the Navy's ever seen."
This time, it was different. The squeeze was still faint, but twice as strong as the others.
"I won't let you down, Daddy. I promise."
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