Stay Tuned

Chapter 24

“Melissa, what’s your e-mail address? The one here at the station?” Our graphics guy looked up at me expectantly. “For the show,” he prompted impatiently, looking at the clock, then back at me. “I have to load the info into the computer for your opening shot with Rick.”
    
By the time I rattled it off, it dawned on me we had only twenty minutes until airtime. I threw myself into high gear. I snatched up my copy of the script and grabbed my earpiece.
    
Around me, the station sizzled with energy. The scanner crackled with short bursts of police-speak. A new pot of coffee percolated—elixir of the gods to exhausted news people everywhere. I inhaled the roasted bean flavor, but decided my nerves didn’t need the extra caffeine jolt. I was plenty wired, all by myself.
    
“The live shot’s not up yet,” Joe called over from his desk without waiting for a reply. “There’s a problem with the signal because of the wind.”
    
That meant improvise if necessary, something that was less of a hassle the more you did it. No problem. I could handle it.

I glanced at our rundown and flipped through the pages beneath. I had reviewed it all earlier with Rick. Today was the usual barrage of robberies, car accidents, and verbal warfare between members of the city council.

In the midst of it all, my cell phone started to buzz, making tracks for the edge of my desk. I snatched it up before it plummeted to three feet and hit the floor.

“Hello?” My mother’s voice crackled at me.

“Hello, Mother. How are you?”

“Could you get my daughter please? There’ve been people in my room again. I’m sure someone has stolen the message from Frank.”

“Frank? Who’s Frank?”
    
“Frank Sinatra, of course.”
    
I sighed. My mother was back in celebrity author mode. This time it seemed Mr. Sinatra was her artist of choice. Despite her coldness toward my father and me, I really did miss her. The real her—the woman who went to Hollywood parties and mingled with important people, not the one whose memory played tricks on her.
    
It started a few years ago. She’d gotten lost on the way to meeting with a long-time friend. Not to mention her house suffered major water damage after she left the tub faucet running for hours, and Mother landed in the ER with a case of food poisoning.
    
The next week, neighbors found her in the backyard. She had fallen, broken her hip, and cracked three ribs, trying to pick peaches. That was when it struck me the hardest. She couldn’t be left alone.
    
Chris and I moved her to a nursing home several miles away after a doctor confirmed our suspicions. Dementia was slowly and methodically stealing tiny bits of her mind.
    
For Mother, an independent, self-made woman, this was more than difficult to accept. She admitted once, a long time ago, to complete bewilderment when she found out she was pregnant with me. My arrival was a mishap, a mistake, never part of the grand plan. With a flourishing career, at forty years old, a baby was the last thing on her mind.
    
So, as a child, I was left with nannies or my father. I pined for my mother’s attention. When she came back from a trip, if I was lucky, we would go to the theatre or listen to classical music. Instead of playgrounds and parks, we visited museums and galleries. I was expected to be grown-up, even at eight years old. At the time, I didn’t care. I wanted to be with Mother.

Joe’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Melissa Moore, you’re needed in the studio. Melissa.”

“Love you. Bye,” I whispered, hung up, and tossed the cell phone on my desk.

Okay. Deep breath. Get to the studio. Get ready to make a good impression on viewers with the “new me.”
    
Taking the steps two at a time in heels, I reached the studio door with five minutes to spare. A tiny rush of excitement bubbled up in my chest.