Stay Tuned (5 page)

Joe swiveled in his chair, bouncing one knee up and down, while Drew shifted from side to side behind me. They were like teenagers at their first prom, gangly and awkward.

“Would you two quit it? You’re making me nervous, Drew, and I’m not the one in front of the camera,” I chided, taking a small bite of a stale Honey-Bun. “No more vacations for you, if you’re going to come back more keyed up than you left.”

Drew eyeballed me. “Well, ‘Mother Hen,’ I hear you’re adding babysitting anchors to your list of duties here at WSGA.”

“Ha. Ha. You know I was just trying to help—” I covered up half my face with my notebook, and shot an inquisitive look at Joe. He shrugged.

“Didn’t hear it from him.” Drew cut in. “Alyssa was whining about it in the break room. So, no more champagne for Tim after-hours at the station.” He smirked. “Unless we’ve got a web-cam going and I get to supervise.”

The two fist-bumped and smirked like teenagers at a high school football game.

 
“Gosh, great, Drew. That sounds fabulous,” I crinkled up the Honey-Bun wrapper and tossed it at him.

 
He dodged it and laughed. Still smiling, Drew leaned in to the mic and nodded at Joe. “Alyssa, you two ready to go?”

On set, Alyssa surveyed Dr. Freeman, who nodded. “We are.”

The plan was for Alyssa to take the questions I’d selected from viewers and delicately rephrase them so as not to offend or reveal identities. She had a stack to choose from. Alyssa did better sticking to a script, and didn’t ad-lib often, but Drew wanted to give this a shot.

“Let’s get ’er done,” Drew pretended to chomp on an imaginary cigar.

Alyssa straightened and gave a final glance to the mirror she kept Velcroed under her seat. She checked her toothpaste-white smile one last time, twisted both earrings, and pursed her plumped-up lips. If Dr. Freeman noticed, she was too polite to give any indication that Alyssa was overly self-absorbed. I gave a fleeting thought to inviting a psychiatrist on the show, but the urge to analyze Alyssa’s childhood might be too overwhelming. Or bizarre.

As scripted, Alyssa introduced the concept of the show and ran through the ground rules.

We were ready.

“Dr. Jennifer Freeman, welcome,” Alyssa said and glanced at her notes. “It’s great to have you here with us today. Our viewers have sent in lots of questions!”

“I’m glad to be here,” Dr. Freeman smiled.

“We’re focusing today, of course, on women’s issues. Many of our WSGA viewers have asked about the importance of yearly mammograms. What’s the current recommendation?” Alyssa asked.

“It depends greatly on a number of factors, including a woman’s age and family history of breast cancer,” Dr. Freeman replied, turning toward the camera like a pro. She went on to explain the risks and benefits of mammography—without a series of clichés or lots of doctor-speak.

I
loved
this woman.

Alyssa leaned forward. She brushed off an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt and glanced at her script. “The next question comes from…Lois…Sneedlemeister, in Warner Robins.”

This caught Drew’s attention. He started to ask, but I held up a hand and I began flipping through my stack. There was no Lois Sneedle-anything, to my recollection. Nope, nothing. I shrugged and looked back at him.

“Fine,” he rubbed his chin. “Maybe Alyssa came up with something on her own. Let her go with it.”

Bad idea.

“And so, Dr. Freeman, what would you say to Lois, who wrote in with a dilemma about these dozen or so itchy, red patches in her private area?”

Drew, who had just taken a swig of coffee, spit out his mouthful in a spray across the room. I choked. Joe shook his head and chortled out loud.

Dr. Freeman, the good sport that she was, took it all in stride, recommending that Lois see her gynecologist for STD testing.

Alyssa wrinkled her forehead, offered a blank look, and gripped her script a bit tighter. “STD? Perhaps you can explain STDs to our viewers.”

“Sexually Transmitted Diseases, like Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Hepatitis, Herpes—”

With every STD Dr. Freeman added, Alyssa became a shade paler.

“Houston, we have a problem,” I quipped in a whisper. As I was about to offer a gentle reminder to stay on topic into Alyssa’s earpiece, Drew interrupted.

“No. No, no, no. Cut the mics,” Drew yelled. “Wait a damn minute.” Everything came to a screeching halt. Joe pushed back from the board. Drew stormed out of the room and onto the set. By the time he arrived, Drew had composed himself.

He patted Alyssa on the shoulder and whispered in her ear. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.
Stick to the script
, he mouthed.

Ever the gentleman to outsiders, Drew thanked Dr. Freeman for her patience and explained that the show would be edited for commercial breaks. One of the camera guys ran and fetched Dr. Freeman a glass of water.

Drew reappeared and motioned for Joe to resume recording.

Alyssa tossed her hair and began with a viewer’s inquiry about supplements for women with calcium deficiency. Easy peasy.

After Dr. Freeman answered, Alyssa leaned in again and lowered her voice an octave. “Very interesting and helpful. Now, I’m sure there are viewers out there who are wondering about supplements for these STDs you mentioned earlier?”

Dr. Freeman’s jaw dropped. I almost screamed. Drew was out of the room before I could stand up. This time, he asked for a word with Alyssa off-set. Joe and the crew dissolved into howling laughter, tears streaming down their craggy faces.

Drew barreled back into the small room. “Jesus Christ, my blood pressure. She’s going to kill me. How difficult is it to follow directions?” No one breathed. Joe crossed his eyes and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling.

“If she veers off-topic again, Melissa,” Drew warned and dabbed his face with a crumpled tissue. “I want you to—”

He never had a chance to finish.

Alyssa smiled into the camera. “Welcome back. Our next question is from a viewer, Penny Abernathy, in Dublin. Dr. Freeman, Penny asks if there’s any truth to the old wives’ tale that a woman can go blind from giving oral sex.”

“Shit! Dammit! That’s it,” Drew threw his hands up in the air. “I can’t take it. Get someone else, anyone, to finish this mess.

I scrambled to page Tim Donaldson to the set.

“Christ! Elmo from
Sesame Street
could do a better job. Oral sex, pornography, pole dancing, what’s next?” Drew yanked off his tie. “Alien babies?”

As the beams from my headlights filled the garage, I breathed a sigh of relief. The work issues, Alyssa, everything could be handled tomorrow. I was home with Chris. My spirits lifted instantly at the thought of seeing him.

As I walked into the house, I noticed a glow of light from the downstairs office.

Chris was probably working with papers stacked high, cell phone off, and his pencil behind his ear. We could have a late-night drink, catch up, snuggle. Hey, we could even fool around. Now
that
would get his attention.

I snuck down the stairs and peeked into the room.

Empty. Hmm. I flicked the lights off.

Back up on the main floor, I checked the living room, the kitchen. Then, I heard him. Snoring.

My heart sank for a moment, but my optimism surged back when I decided on plan B.
Make some noise.
Maybe he’ll wake up and want to talk. I opened drawers, talked to myself, unloaded bags, rustled papers. For kicks, I flipped on the overhead light.

Chris grunted and rolled over.

“Honey,” I said gently and kissed his cheek. “I’m here. I missed you.” He rubbed at his chin and kept his eyes shut. “Want to mess around?”

My hand hovered inches from his shoulder until the steady blink of a tiny light on his cell phone made me pause.

Hmm. I could just check to see who called. Just in case. What if there was an emergency? He’d want me to wake him up…

I picked up the phone and flipped it over.

Chris stirred again. He turned his head, his face like a baby’s, peaceful and innocent. The sight of him sleeping so soundly, not a care in the world, made me stop in my tracks.

What was I doing?
It was probably work, or a golf buddy, or Kelly.

I was definitely overreacting.

No. No. No. I shut off the television and turned out the light. Neurotic wife syndrome and the anticipated stress of work tomorrow were making
me
paranoid. I was going to sleep before I hurt anyone.

Namely myself.

The rest of the week flew by without major incident.

After a ‘come to Jesus meeting,’ Alyssa was on her best behavior. Drew relaxed back into his groove. Best of all, the
Ask Anything
tapings were going smoothly, now that Tim was handling the interviews. All we had to do was get through Friday.

When I got up Friday morning, my own sanity batteries sufficiently recharged, I found one yellow Post-it note patiently waiting for me in the center of the granite countertop in the kitchen.

Funny thing was, there used to be sentences—or at least phrases—on those little sticky-backed squares, followed by, “Love always, Chris,” or, “I miss you,” and, “Can’t wait to see you tonight.”

This morning’s communication consisted of three neatly printed words, right next to a dish of half-eaten egg whites and a glass of tomato juice.

“Can’t do lunch.”

I stared at the letters, trying not to get upset. We’d made the plans, had reservations at that cute new bistro. A mini-date. We needed to spend some time together…doing…something. I ran my fingers through my hair and tugged on the ends, thinking.

So much for that. My promise to be patient and understanding “no matter what” sounded a bit foolish right now. Could he not rearrange an appointment? Was it life or death? Didn’t I deserve more than a Post-it note cancellation?

It was starting to become very apparent—no, obvious—that Chris didn’t think so. And I wondered if anything would change. Like, if we won the lottery, Chris got a big raise, or after a dozen of his high-paying clients signed contracts for ten years, would we ever spend time together again?

I wasn’t so sure.

The Post-it caught my eye again. Now, there was no telling when Chris would be home.

I could call his assistant. Or his cell phone. I could leave him a voicemail.

Or I could leave the house and grab coffee with Candace. Call my daughter and get the update on life at Berkeley. Had she fallen in love with any new boys this week? Gone to the beach with friends? Learned to surf?

Maybe I should head out to the gym or go to work early. I’d get twice as much accomplished. Anything rather than moping around here like a lost puppy.

I laid another Post-it inches from Chris’s. In larger block letters than his, I printed one word. “Fine.”

I stood back and looked at it with satisfaction. There.

I felt better already.

Most Fridays, producers all over America scrambled for news. We brainstormed and dreamed up spin-offs on health care reform, global warming, and the latest identity theft schemes. Some producers I knew actually prayed for natural disasters (without loss of life). Personally, I preferred to let Mother Nature handle things. It was better that way.

The National Weather Service, however, couldn’t have predicted Friday’s crisis.

The now-infamous “event,” captured live on WSGA’s ten o’clock show, was hands-down, the biggest of the year. Ask anyone. They’d agree.

That night, for one hundred and fifty thousand loyal and unsuspecting WSGA viewers, the fist-to-face connection commanded shock and awe.

For me, the directors, cameramen, and everyone who slogged it out behind the scenes, the TKO was long overdue. Payoff, you might say, for the chaos that erupted most evenings, minutes before airtime.

Elbows on the counter, I chewed the corner of my newly manicured thumbnail, and chided myself. Everything was fine. Like every show before this one, I had gone through the scripts line by line, put the stories in order, timed out segments to the last second.

Sometimes, putting together a newscast was like solving a complicated puzzle. Tonight, though, everything had fallen into place. A big meth bust, a dramatic water rescue, and school budget woes rounded out the A-block.

Joe cued Alyssa and Tim.

Both anchors read their parts, taking turns, with just the right amount of concern. Alyssa pouted and preened her way through each story. Tim was the perfect balance, serious and broad-shouldered, with a jaw chiseled like a sculptor’s creation.

So far, so good.

The first commercials ran without a hitch, I noted with satisfaction. Then, the third spot ran twice in a row, putting us thirty seconds over our budgeted news time.

The Carpet King owners, who paid for the advertisement, would be thrilled, of course. Free publicity. The new kid, however, would probably catch hell for the goof-up.

I scanned the rundown for something to cut. “We’ll trim weather.”

Joe nodded his agreement, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Ten seconds.” he cued the anchors. It was time to go back on-air.

The mistake hadn’t been missed in the studio. Even though their mics were off, it was easy to see Alyssa and Tim were miffed at something. Likely, it was the commercial snafu.

Alyssa narrowed her eyes and jerked a finger at the television next to the anchor desk. Tim shook his head. Alyssa, her mouth moving, pointed again, this time with more emphasis.

“Five seconds, people. Let’s get
through this
.” At the sound of Joe’s sharp reminder, Alyssa and Tim resumed their happy demeanors.

Joe glanced in my direction, pointed to his headphones, raised an eyebrow, then rolled the health and fitness segments. I half-watched the video, now curious what Joe had heard.

“What?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Some lover’s spat over that commercial.” Joe pulled his headphones back, then stroked his wiry beard. “It seems the Carpet King girl has been seeing Tim in her spare time.”

I wasn’t surprised in the least.

“Can’t resist the ladies, that Tim. Drives Alyssa crazy,” Joe added with a shake of his head. “I heard she chased him with a baseball bat, but got his car instead.”

Not what I wanted to hear.

“Tim hasn’t fixed the windshield yet.” Joe chuckled. “Probably shouldn’t bother with the mood she’s in tonight.”

I winced. Alyssa and Tim needed to get through another ten minutes.

Sure enough, after a few humorous sports bloopers, the pair resumed their playful banter.

I exhaled my worries.
We made it!
Alyssa and Tim had pulled it together. Brilliant job.

Until the Carpet King commercial ran a third time.

Before I could blink, Alyssa’s face faded to ash gray and then flushed scarlet. She stared at the monitor, eyes narrowed into slits, while Tim tugged at his collar with one finger, intently focused on a speck of dust on the anchor desk. Alyssa pursed her collagen-injected lips and jutted her chin.

I’d seen that look before. It wasn’t a good sign. Like the space shuttle countdown gone terribly wrong. T-minus ten, nine, eight…

“She’s gonna blow!” Joe whispered and leaned into his mic, throwing me an apprehensive glance. He pushed one of a million black buttons. “Twenty seconds,” he warned. Only Tim responded with a nervous nod.

The tiny hairs on my arm stood at attention. I swallowed hard and prayed for something, anything. My mind raced with possible options. Divine intervention? A lightning strike? A power surge? Anything to knock out the signal in our entire viewing area.

Then it happened.

We were back on air. Mics open, video cued, we waited. Alyssa, now purple-faced, slammed both hands down on the desk. Tim, poised to read from the teleprompter, jumped at the sound. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

As if in slow motion, Alyssa stood up and raised one perfectly creased arm of her ivory linen suit. She molded her shell-pink manicured fingers into a fist. Tim turned and reared back in horror at the look of pure menace on Alyssa’s face.

She cold-cocked him. Blood spurted from Tim’s nose. He fell back like Humpty Dumpty.

We went to commercial.