Miracle Cure

She took a deep breath, willed herself to relax, and then checked her makeup in the mirror. Her face looked somewhat pale, but that was nothing new. Like the limp, she was used to that. Her honey blond hair was swept back from her beautiful, delicate features and large doll-like green eyes. Her mouth was wide, her lips sensual and full to the point where they looked almost swollen. She took off her wire-rimmed spectacles and cleaned the lenses. One of the producers walked over to her.

“Ready, Sara?” he asked.

“Whenever you are,” she said with a weak smile.

“Good. You’re on with Donald in fifteen minutes.”

Sara looked at her costar, Donald Parker. At sixty he was double her age and a billion times more experienced. He had been on NewsFlash since the early years, before the fantastic Nielsen ratings and a market share that no news show had ever seen before or since. Simply put, Donald Parker was a legend in television journalism.

What the hell do I think I’m doing? I’m not ready for something like this.

Sara nervously scanned her material for the millionth time. The words began to blur. Once again she wondered how she had gotten this far so fast. Her mind flashed through her college years, her column in the New York Herald, her work on cable television, her debates on public TV. With each step up the ladder, Sara had questioned her ability to climb any higher. She had been enraged by the jealous chatter of her colleagues, the cruel voices that whispered, “I wish my relatives were famous . . . Who did she sleep with? . . . It’s that damn limp.”

But no, the truth of the matter was much more simple: the public adored her. Even when she got rough or sarcastic with a guest, the audience could not get enough of her. True, her father was the former surgeon general and her husband was a basketball star, and maybe her childhood pain and her physical beauty had also helped her along the way. But Sara remembered what her first boss had told her:

“No one can survive in this business on looks alone. If anything they’re a drawback. People will have a preconceived notion that because you’re a beautiful blonde you can’t be too bright. I know it’s unfair, Sara, but that’s the way it is. You can’t just be as good as the competition—you have to be better. Otherwise they’re going to label you an airhead. You’ll get blown off the stage if you’re not the brightest person out there.”

Sara repeated the words like some battle cry, but her confidence refused to leave the trenches. Her debut tonight featured a report on the financial improprieties of Reverend Ernest Sanders, the televangelist, founder of the Holy Crusade—a big, slippery (read: slimy) fish. In fact, the Reverend Sanders had agreed to appear for a live interview after the report was aired to answer the charges—on the condition, of course, that NewsFlash display his 800 number on the screen. Sara had tried to make her story as evenhanded as possible. She merely stated facts, with a minimum of innuendo and conclusions. But deep inside Sara knew the truth about the Reverend Ernest Sanders. There was just no avoiding it.

The man was pure scum.

The studio bustled with activity. Technicians read meters and adjusted lights. Cameramen swung their lenses into place. The teleprompter was being tested, no more than three words to a line so that the audience at home would not see the anchor’s eyes shifting. Directors, producers, engineers, and gofers scrambled back and forth across a set that looked like a large family room with no ceiling and only one wall, as though some giant had ripped apart the outside so he could peer in. A man Sara did not recognize rushed toward her.

“Here you go,” he said. The man handed her several sheets of paper.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Papers.”

“No, I mean what are they for?”

He shrugged. “To shuffle.”

“Shuffle?”

“Yeah, you know, like when you break for a commercial and the camera pulls away. You shuffle them.”

“I do?”

“Makes you look important,” he assured her before rushing off.

She shook her head. Alas, so much to learn.

Without conscious thought, Sara began to sing quietly. She usually restricted her singing to the shower or the car, preferably accompanied by a very loud radio, but occasionally, when she was nervous, she began to sing in public. Loudly.

When she got to the chorus of “Tattoo Vampire” (“Vampire photo suckin’ the skin”), her voice rose and she started playing the air guitar. Really into it now. Getting down.

A moment later she realized that people were staring at her.

She lowered her hands back to her sides, dropping her well-tuned air guitar into oblivion. The song faded from her lips. She smiled, shrugged. “Uh—sorry.”

The crew returned to work without so much as a second glance. Air guitar gone, Sara tried to think about something both distracting and comforting.

Michael immediately came to mind. She wondered what Michael was doing right now. He was probably jogging home from basketball practice. She pictured all six feet five of him opening the door, a white towel draped around his neck, sweat bleeding through his gray practice jersey. He always wore the craziest shorts—loud orange or yellow or pink Hawaiian ones that came down to his knees, or some whacko-designed jams. Without breaking stride, he would jog past the expensive piano and into the den. He would turn on a little Bach, veer toward the kitchen, pour himself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then drink half of it in one gulp. Then he would collapse into the reclining chair and let the chamber music sweep him away.

Michael.

Another tap on her shoulder. “Telephone call.” The same man who had handed her the sheets of paper handed her a portable telephone.

She took the phone. “Hello?”

“Did you start singing yet?”

She broke into a smile. It was Michael.

“Blue Oyster Cult?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Let me guess.” Michael thought a moment. “ ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’?”

“No, ‘Tattoo Vampire.’ ”

“God, how awful. So what are you up to now?”

Sara closed her eyes. She could feel herself beginning to relax. “Not much. I’m just hanging around the set, waiting to go on.”

“Play any air guitar?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I’m a professional journalist, for God’s sake.”

“Uh-huh. So how nervous are you?”

“I feel pretty calm actually,” she replied.