Harriet takes my chart from Desmond.
“I’ve ordered an MRI. The paramedics say she hit the ground pretty hard.” He looks down at me, and again I see that he is judging me, finding me lacking, maybe. A white middle-aged woman in expensive clothes who face-plants for no good reason. “Be well, Ms. Hart.” The smile he gives me is irritatingly kind, and then he leaves.
“Thank God,” I say with a sigh.
“You had a panic attack,” Harriet says when we are alone.
“Says Dr. Granola.”
“You had a panic attack,” Harriet says, more gently this time. She puts down the chart and moves closer to the bed. Her angular face, too sharp to be quite beautiful, has a regal, detached coolness, but her eyes reveal a woman who, in spite of her austere face and buttoned-down demeanor, cares deeply about people.
“You’ve been depressed, I take it?” Harriet asks.
I want to lie, to smile, to laugh. Instead, I nod, humiliated by this weakness. In a way, I would rather have had a heart attack.
“I’m tired,” I say softly. “And I never sleep.”
“I am going to prescribe Xanax for your anxiety,” Harriet says. “We’ll start with point-five milligrams three times a day. And I think a few therapy sessions could really help. If you’re ready to do some work, maybe we can help you feel in more control of your life.”
“The Tully Hart life tour? Thanks, but no, thanks. Why think about what hurts? has always been my motto.”
“I know about depression,” she says, and in her voice I hear a poignant sadness. I think suddenly that Harriet Bloom knows about sorrow and despair and loneliness. “Depression is nothing to be ashamed of, Tully, and it’s nothing to ignore. It can get worse.”
“Worse than today? How is that possible?”
“Oh, it’s possible, believe me.”
I am too exhausted to question her, and honestly, I don’t want to know what she has to say. The pain in my neck is increasing.
Harriet writes two prescriptions and tears off the pages, handing them to me. I look down at them. Xanax for panic attacks, and Ambien for sleeping.
All of my life I have avoided narcotics. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know why. When you grow up watching your mother get high and stumble around and puke, you see the unglamorous side of drugs.
I look up at Harriet. “My mom—”
“I know,” Harriet says. It is one of the truths that come with life in the fishbowl of fame. Everyone knows my sad story. Poor Tully, abandoned and unloved by her hippie/addict mom. “Your mom has an issue with substance abuse. You’re right to be careful, but just follow the prescription.”
“It would be nice to sleep.”
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How long have you been pretending not to be in pain?”
The question hits me hard. “Why do you ask me that?”
“Because, Tully, sometimes the well just fills up with our tears. And water starts to spill over.”
“My best friend died last month.”
“Ah,” Harriet says. Just that. Then she nods and says, “Come see me, Tully. Make an appointment. I can help.”
After she leaves, I sink back into the pillows and sigh. The truth of my circumstance climbs into the bed with me and takes up too much room.
A nice older woman takes me down for an MRI, and then a gorgeous young doctor calls me ma’am and tells me that at my age, falls like mine often cause neck trauma and that the pain will diminish. He writes me a prescription for pain pills and tells me that physical therapy will help.
By the time I am wheeled back into my room, I am beyond tired. I let the nurse tell me about how my show on autistic children saved her cousin’s best friend’s life, and even manage to smile and thank her when the long story finally ends. The nurse gives me Ambien. Afterward, I lie back in bed, closing my eyes.
For the first time in months, I sleep through the night.
Seven
The Xanax helps. On it, I feel less edgy and anxious. By the time Dr. Granola discharges me, I have come up with a plan. No more whining. No more waiting.
At home, I immediately start making phone calls. I have been in the business for decades; surely someone needs a prime-time anchor.
An old friend, Jane Rice, is my first call. “Of course,” she says. “Come in and see me.”
I almost laugh. That’s how relieved I feel. George was wrong. I am not Arsenio Hall. I am Tully Hart.
I prepare for my interview with care. I know how important first impressions are. I get my hair cut and colored.
“Oh, my,” Charles—my longtime hairdresser—says when I climb into his chair. “Someone has been going native.” He wraps the turquoise cape around my neck and gets to work.
On the day of my meeting with Jane, I dress carefully in conservative clothes—a black suit and pale lavender blouse. I have not been in the KING-TV building in years, but I immediately feel comfortable. This is my world. At the reception desk, I am greeted like a heroine and I don’t have to give my name and relief eases the tightness of my shoulders. Behind the receptionists are large photographs of Jean Enerson and Dennis Bounds, the nightly news anchors.
An assistant leads me up the stairs, past several closed doors, to a small office on the second floor, where Jane Rice is standing by the window, obviously waiting for me. “Tully,” she says, striding forward, her hand outstretched.
We shake hands. “Hello, Jane. Thanks for seeing me.”
“Of course. Of course. Sit down.”