Visiting hours in her ward were short, so after about ten minutes my parents came out and said Lulu wanted to see me before her time was up.
Walking in and seeing her swaddled in hospital bedding, her skin porcelain white and her eyes hollow and vacant made me want to burst into tears. But I knew I had to be strong. For her sake and my own.
“I was so worried about you,” I said, stroking her forehead. “If I had lost you …” I found I couldn’t form the words I wanted to say. But she knew, of course.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m such a loser, huh?” Her mouth quirked up in a weak, self-deprecating grin. “You’re not a loser,” I replied, fiercely. “Drug addiction is a disease. Just like diabetes. You had a relapse. But you can beat this thing, I know you can.” Actually, I didn’t know any such thing, but I wasn’t about to let her in on that.
“I’m glad you think so,” she replied with a snort. “I, myself, am not so sure.” She gestured to her body with her good arm. “Look at me, lying here, sick as a dog, and I’m totally jonesing for more drugs. Even though I’m positive if I were to do them, they’d kill me. Pathetic, huh?”
Waves of nausea swept through me as I tried to imagine what she was going through. It seemed completely unfathomable to me that someone could become so addicted to something they’d rather die than go without. But it happened every day. And I was no longer blind enough to think someone like my sister could be an exception to the statistics. Being a white, middle-class, all-American girl didn’t give you any sort of immunity to this kind of thing. At this moment, Lulu was as bad off as any street crack whore.
But she had one advantage. Her family. Me. And I was bound and determined to help her through her recovery in any way I could. No more being pissed off about responsibility. No more thinking it was “not my job” to parent her. Whatever she needed, I would be there for her. That’s what you did for people you loved. “I don’t even know how this all got so out of control,” Lulu continued. “I mean, at first it was just a joint or two at parties. Then some Ritalin to keep me awake and focused at school after being out all night. Then Drummer introduced me to meth and it was so awesome at first. You feel like you’re flying—like you’re queen of the world and none of your problems matter anymore. Which was just what I needed at the time. You know, with all the family shit going on. But then the come-downs got so horrible, I needed more and more drugs just to feel normal. And then … well …” She shrugged. “You know the rest. I’m an addict, plain and simple.”
“But you’ll get better,” I assured her, feeling like I was offering her empty promises. “One day at a time, right?” Isn’t that what they said in rehab? It sounded stupid coming from my mouth.
Lulu nodded. “I’d been doing good, you know. At Shady Oaks? I’d even stopped feeling sick from detoxing. Then that stupid guard offered to let me out and …” She trailed off. “Some of the things I’ve done, Maddy. It’s so embarrassing. When I saw Mom, I could barely look her in the eye.”
“You don’t have to apologize for the past,” I said firmly. “Just get well. That’s all we ask.” I petted her head. “I’m going to try,” Lulu said, nodding and then wincing from the pain of doing so.
A manly-looking nurse with a mustache that desperately needed bleaching picked that moment to enter the hospital room. She checked Lulu’s IV and fluffed her pillows before turning to me. “Visiting hours are over,” she coldly informed me.
I nodded, grasping my sister’s hand a last time and stroking it with my fingers. I leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I won’t give up on you,” I whispered. “I love you, Lulu.”
“I love you, too, Maddy,” She whispered back, tears streaming down her face. “And I won’t let you down.”
*
I still couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.
Clutching the videotape in one trembling hand, I strode down the hallway, heading for what in the TV news world, we called Receive. The place where my story could broadcast to the world. Well, at least the world of San Diego. Receive was the gateway to the air-waves and its guardians had no idea what they were about to let loose.
In just minutes, my five-year career at News 9 would be over forever. Heck, they’d probably blacklist me from ever setting foot in a TV station again. My dream of working at Newsline would never come true. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t want to work in a business that was as corrupt as I’d recently determined it to be.
The truth was more important. My sister and the others like her were more important.
My heart slammed against my rib cage as I pushed open the door to Receive. The coordinator gave me a stressed smile before going back to organizing the videotapes for the night’s broadcast. I smiled back, knowing from her look that no one had time to check to see what was on the tape I delivered.
I took a deep breath. This was it.
“This is for you, Lulu,” I whispered to myself, then handed the coordinator the tape.
“Here’s tonight’s feature story,” I informed her. “Cosmetics That Kill.”
I held my breath as she took the tape and examined the label. Please don’t check, please don’t check.
“Great.” She smiled, filing the tape in its appropriate slot for the five o’clock news. “Thanks, Maddy.”
It was done.
*
After leaving Receive, I raced down the hall to Richard’s office, as fast as my flip-flops could carry me. Forgetting to knock, I burst into the office. He was sitting watching the newscast and looked up when I entered.
“Madeline?” he asked, looking bit worried at my brash entrance. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no,” I assured him, trying to catch my breath. “I just stopped by to chat.”
“Can it wait? I’m watching the newscast right now.”
Which is exactly what I need to stop you from doing, I thought as I deliberately walked in front of the TV. T minus two minutes. How was I going to pull this off?
He leaned to the side, trying to see the television. “Madeline, could you move over to the—”
“So, Richard. I was thinking. Since we barely know each other, and now as fellow managers we’ll be working together on a daily basis, I thought it’d be best if we could chat for a bit.”
Richard stared at me like I was a crazy person. “Now?” he asked.
“Sure, why not? So, first off, I need to inform you that my name’s actually Maddy, not Madeline. No one’s called me Madeline since birth. So if you don’t mind, now that we’re colleagues and all, can you please call me Maddy from here on out?”
I could hear the broadcast behind me. “And now tonight on ‘Terrance Tells All’ … Could those cosmetics you keep in your cabinet actually kill you? Terrance has our News Nine exclusive …”
This was it!
I grabbed the remote off Richard’s desk and pressed mute.
“Hey,” he protested. “I was watching—”
“Oh well, you’ve already seen this segment. Cosmetics That Kill?” I willed my voice to remain casual, even though my heart was beating like mad. “I showed you the story earlier, remember?”
“Yes,” Richard admitted, looking seriously pissed. “But I like to see how it looks on air.”
“So, anyway, as I was saying, let’s get to know each other,” I said, ignoring his request and not dropping the remote. “What are your likes and dislikes? Hobbies? What do you do on weekends? I myself am a big fan of eighties music and movies. Did you ever see Pretty in Pink?”
“Maddy, I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Richard said in a tight voice. “But if you don’t give me back the remote control right this second and get out of my office, I’m calling security.”
Oh-kay. Time to make my exit. The piece still had a couple minutes to play, but I had an idea.
“Sure, no problem. Sorry.” I handed him the remote, while wrapping my toe around the phone cord on the floor. “I guess I’ll come back when it’s a better time.?
??
“What the—?” Richard said with a gasp.
“Records show that the land is owned by this man, Rocky Rodriguez of Pacific Coast Cars,” Terrance was saying over the airways.
Richard stared at me, his face quite literally turning purple. “What the hell have you done, Madeline?” he demanded. He grabbed the receiver to his phone and punched in three numbers. Probably dialing Receive to have them pull the tape. Couldn’t have that.
“Okay, I’ll just—” I yanked my foot, still wrapped around the phone cord, as hard as I could, forcing it out of its socket.
“Hello?” Richard cried, not realizing I’d disconnected him. He looked like Grimace from McDonald’s at this point, and I hoped he didn’t have any heart problems. “Hello!?”
I quickly exited the office and ran upstairs to Cubicle Land. Just had to grab my purse and I was out of there, mission accomplished. I knew that there was no way Richard could reach another phone before the end of the piece. The drug tunnel story had aired on News 9 and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
My illustrious career in TV news, on the other hand, had warbled its swan song. It was sad in some ways. But I knew I’d done the right thing. This wasn’t about me. This was about Lulu and the thousands of others like her. I’d gone into TV news to make a difference. Now I felt I actually had.
It was only a week after Lulu’s overdose, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. After three days of hospital recovery, she’d been admitted into another rehab—this one maximum security—for further treatment. Doctors said she was extremely lucky. We all were. They warned us about her tough road ahead. But I had faith in her recovery. This time, unlike when first admitted, she wanted to quit. I knew desire wasn’t always enough, but it was a good start.
I had taken the week off from work to deal with Lulu’s affairs and be with my family, so I hadn’t seen Jamie since the night of the overdose. The night he’d told me Jen was pregnant. He’d phoned me though, every day, leaving messages, begging me to return his calls. But I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone. Every time I thought of him, I could only envision Jen, growing huge with his child inside her belly. It was too much to deal with. As much as I loved him, I couldn’t get past her pregnancy. I wanted desperately to move on with my life.
My cell phone rang. Jodi.
“I’m watching the news,” she screamed through the receiver. “And I can’t believe what I just saw. How did you get them to go along with it?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted, walking down the stairwell to the front desk. I needed to make a quick exit. “There was a tape label malfunction.”
“But Maddy, Richard will fire you….”
“Oh, I’m sure the paperwork’s already been started,” I agreed, pushing open the door and heading outside. “If Richard isn’t in the hospital facing cardiac arrest.”
“They’ll blacklist you from TV. No one will hire you.”
“Then I’ll find a job in another field.” I reached my car and rummaged for my key while balancing the cell phone against my ear.
“But—”
“Listen, Jodi,” I said soothingly. She was taking this harder than I was. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. It was something I had to do. And I feel I made the right choice. The story got told, that’s the important thing. What matters is people are now aware of the drug tunnel’s existence. It’ll be shut down. The borders will become stronger and it’ll be harder for drugs to be smuggled into the US. That’s the bottom line. That’s all that matters.”
“Wow,” Jodi said softly. “That’s so brave and noble of you. And here I had accused you of selling out by accepting the executive producer position. I’m sorry, Maddy. I was wrong.”
“You weren’t.” I shook my head. “At the time I would have ditched the story for the chance to get ahead. But then after what happened with my sister … Well, I started to see things in a new light.”
“I think that’s great, what you did. You are truly a credit to the profession of journalism.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, blushing. I got into my car and turned the key in the ignition.
“So what will you do now?” she asked, concerned. “You know, Jodi?” I said with a small grin. “For the first time in my life, I have absolutely no idea.” And also for the first time, I was okay with that.
Chapter Twenty
FROM: “Richard Clarkson”
TO: “Madeline Madison”
Re: (NO SUBJECT)
Madeline,
PLEASE COME TO MY OFFICE … IMMEDIATELY!
Richard
News Director, News 9
So I was fired. No big surprise there. The next morning, as I packed my things into one of those big cardboard boxes companies always had on hand for such occasions, I felt oddly sad. Even though News 9 had time and again thumbed their nose at journalism and didn’t give a rat’s ass about all my years of service, it still felt like my home in a way. My family. I’d miss all the people—the photographers, producers, reporters, and editors, who worked so hard and put out such an amazing product for so little reward. They were the ones who gave me hope for the future. Perhaps when the old regime retired, when the underlings were given the keys to the kingdom, they could step in and make a difference.
Or not. Most likely not. But it was nice to pretend. As I packed, I harbored this insane secret hope that Jamie would waltz back into Cubicle Land, pick me up into his strong arms and carry me away to some fantasy place. Instead, an intern informed me that he had called in sick. Probably went up to LA to visit Jen. Even though it hurt to think it, for the baby’s sake, I hoped he’d get back with her. Kids needed their fathers. Look what happened to Lulu when ours went AWOL for even a month.
I closed the box—five years of memories packed into a cardboard square—and allowed the guard to escort me from the building. (I was evidently too dangerous to be left alone for even a moment, heh, heh, heh!)
I placed the box in the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. The radio blared to life.
“And in other news, immigration officials nabbed two men they say were involved in a major drug-smuggling ring, operating from a secret underground tunnel in San Diego. Rocky Rodriguez, owner of Pacific Coast Cars and Felix Lopez, the son of convicted Mexican drug lord Roberto Lopez, will be arraigned this morning in federal court. News nine anchor Terrance Toller broke the story two days ago in a startling exclusive ‘Terrance Tells All’ piece that’s sure to win him an Emmy or two.”
I clicked off the radio. The story was everywhere. And Terrance got all the credit. That was one bummer about being behind the scenes. The general public had no idea that all Terrance did was read a script. So he not only got to keep his job, he got all the credit. He’d even been interviewed on Newsline and shockingly never once said he owed it all to his ace producer Maddy Madison.
I shook my head. This wasn’t about me getting praise or promotion. It was about all the drugs the DEA had seized. Felix Lopez and Rocky Rodriguez going to jail. (Oh, what was News 9 to do without their advertising revenue?) It was about Immigration imploding the tunnel with dynamite. There’d even been reports on how the news story had probably saved the US from a major terrorism threat. Homeland Security had reportedly called super anchor Terrance and thanked him personally.
Bottom line? I’d made the difference I wanted to make. I’d saved lives. Like my sister’s. And countless other Americans. That was all that mattered.
But still, at the same time, it sucked the big one. I should have been fielding calls from the networks. Instead, I’d been scouring the Internet for TV stations hiring field producers. Problem was, my job was so specialized and the field was completely overcrowded, it’d probably take months—even years—to find a job like I’d had. After all, who would want some dumb local news hack who made a career of ridiculous “Products That Kill” stories and ended her last job by getting fired?
Answer: No one.
r /> I had to face facts. There were certain things in life
I’d never have:
1) A job at Newsline
2) Jamie Hayes as a husband
3) A genuine non-counterfeit Kate Spade purse (Like with alcoholic beverages, you couldn’t buy one with food stamps, which is what I’d be relegated to if I didn’t get a job soon.)
My cell phone rang. I hesitated to answer the “private” number. Now unemployed, I didn’t want to rack up minutes on a wrong number. But after the third ring, curiosity got the better of me. I pulled over to the side of the road to answer, practicing my best cell phone safety. After all, no job meant no health insurance.
“Hello?”
“Yes, is Madeline Madison there, please?” a woman asked.
Oh great. It was a telemarketer call. That was worse than a wrong number and used up way more minutes. “Sorry, I don’t think you want to talk to me,” I told the woman. “I’m unemployed. I can’t buy whatever it is you’re selling.”
The voice on the other end chuckled. “I’m not selling anything.”
“Well then, I don’t want to take your survey. And I already know who I’m voting for. And …” What else was it that telemarketers always wanted? “… and the Visa payment is in the mail.” I crossed my fingers on the last one.
“I’m very happy to hear that,” the voice said, sounding even more amused. “It sounds like you’ve got it all under control. But about that unemployment thing …”
“Ah-ha! And I don’t need to make money from home!” She thought she could sneak that one by me. Yeah, right. I knew she wasn’t a legitimate employer type because since I’d only been officially fired less than an hour, I hadn’t applied anywhere yet.