Sweet Forgiveness (26 page)

When the show ends and I step down to the audience level for the after-show chitchat, the majority of the guests rise from their seats and file out of the studio, without so much as a quick wave or smile.

“What'd y'all think of Dr. Jones?” I ask, my voice unnaturally cheerful.

From the center aisle, a woman turns to me. Something about her is familiar. Yes, I've seen her before. But where?

She's nearly to the exit when she shouts down at me. “You've lost us, Hannah Farr. The only reason I came today is because I'd already purchased tickets. You are such a disappointment.”

My hand flies to my throat and I struggle for air. I watch as she shakes her head, then turns around and walks out the door.

I remember her now. She was the same woman who took my hand that night at Broussard's with Michael and Abby. “
I'm a huge fan, Hannah
,” the woman had said, gripping my arm. “
Every morning you make me smile
.”

I missed my chance. I should have asked the surgeon how to get rid of my new tattoo—the one depicting a woman with two faces.

F
or the rest of the day I try to convince myself that this Hannah Revolt will blow over. Against my better judgment, I listen to Priscille and Stuart and don't reply to any of the nasty posts or e-mails. At midnight Thursday, I stop checking the Twitter feed. The abuse is just too much.

I'm hightailing it to my dressing room after Friday's lackluster show when my phone chimes. A text from Priscille.
Meeting in conference room, now.

My heart sinks. This cannot be good.

The stark room wakes when I turn on the overhead lights. This space that usually sizzles with shared energy and ideas feels ominous today, as if I'm stepping into an interrogation room, waiting for a burly officer to arrive and entrap me. I take a seat and scroll through my iPhone. Finally I hear Priscille's footsteps clipping down the hallway. I sit up. Where are the sounds of Stuart's steps? He's always included in our meetings. Another wave of dread slams into me.

“Thanks for coming, Hannah.” Priscille gives me a terse smile, then closes the door and sits down beside me. She has no notebook, no laptop—not even her ubiquitous coffee mug.

I clutch my shaking hands and force a smile. “No problem. How are you? The show was terrific this morning, don't you thi—”

“I have bad news,” she says, cutting me off.

My stomach drops. This scandal isn't going to blow over. I'm in trouble. Big trouble.

“I am so sorry, Priscille. I'll apologize to my audience. I can do a better job of explaining what happened. I was young at the time. If they—”

She holds her hand up and closes her eyes. I feel the prickle of tears and blink madly. “Please. Please just give me a break.”

“We had an emergency board meeting at six a.m. I tried to make a case to keep you, but in the end, even I had to agree. You need to go.”

I stare at her, my vision fuzzy and unfocused.

“I talked them into calling it an ‘indefinite leave.' It'll make it easier when you apply for new positions. Being fired is tough to explain.”

The knife twists. “No. Please!” I clutch her arms. “After all these years. One mistake . . .”

“That's not the way we see it. You were the face, the voice, of Louisiana women. Your reputation was impeccable. We all admired your affiliation with Into the Light. You did countless shows on sexual abuse, pedophilia, rape, incest. But this, quote, one mistake, as you call it, negates everything.

“And the worst part is, you set yourself up for this, Hannah. You made such a show of highlighting your goodness, calling out the despicable man, the mother who abandoned you. Had you not been so damn self-righteous, talking of your grace and willingness to forgive, I'm confident you'd be more popular today than ever.”

“No, that was Claudia. She's the one who said I was abandoned. It was Claudia who talked of the despicable man and my grace and forgiveness. She set me up!” I rise and point to the television monitor. “Get the tape of the show with Fiona. See for yourself!”

If looks could talk, Priscille's would say,
Oh, dear girl, your pathetic tale rings of desperation
.

I plop back down on the chair and hide my face. Claudia masterminded this entire event. How did she do this? If I didn't detest her, I'd revere her.

“Regardless,” Priscille says, “your reversal smacks of hypocrisy. And hypocrisy, my dear, is something people cannot forgive. Claudia has agreed to take your spot until we find a replacement.”

I struggle to breathe. Of course she has. Somewhere in the depths of my fog and despair, a thought rises to the surface. Maybe this is it. Maybe I'm finally getting the humiliation and smack-down that I deserve—my payback.

Priscille talks about severance pay and a COBRA for continuing medical insurance, but nothing registers. My mind is reeling. I've never been fired from a job—not even that summer job at Popeyes Chicken, when I mixed up the diet and regular sodas. But now, at age thirty-four, I've been canned, terminated, given the boot. I've gone from local celebrity to unemployed disgrace.

I double over in my chair and grab my head. I feel Priscille's hand on my back. “You'll be fine,” she tells me. Then I hear her chair scoot back.

I suck in one jerky, spastic breath. Then another. “Wh-when is my last show?”

I hear the squeak of the door opening.

“It was today,” Priscille says, and closes the door.

I slam shut my office door and throw myself on the sofa. I ignore the tap on my door and don't bother looking up when I hear someone's footsteps approach.

“Hey, you,” Jade says, her soft voice butter on my burn. She rubs circles on my back.

I finally sit up. “I'm on leave. Indefinitely. Basically, I've been fired.”

“You're going to be okay,” she tells me. “You can finally spend some time with your mama. Become a connoisseur of Michigan merlot.”

I can't even smile. “What am I going to tell Michael?”

“You're going to trust yourself,” she says, her eyes boring into mine. “For the first time ever, you're going to do what you think is best. Not what your dad wanted. Not what's best for your man's career. You're going to do what's best for Hannah Farr.”

I scratch my cheek. “Yeah, because the last time I trusted myself it worked out so well.”

It takes only twenty minutes to pack my office. Jade helps me gather just those things that matter; the rest they can pitch. I pull a half dozen awards from the wall. Jade wraps paper towels around framed pictures of Michael and me, along with the photo of my father. I remove a handful of items from my desk, and gather my personal files. Jade fastens the box with a ribbon of masking tape. Mission accomplished. No more tears, no sentimental keepsakes. That is, until I try saying good-bye to Jade.

We stare at each other, speechless, and then she opens her arms to me. I step inside and drop my head on her shoulder.

“I'm going to miss seeing this face every morning,” she says.

“Promise me we'll stay friends.”

She pats my back and whispers, “Forever and a day.”

“I'm done. Nobody in this business will ever hire me.”

“Don't be silly,” she tells me. “You're Hannah Farr.”

I step back and dab my eyes on my shirtsleeve. “The hypocrite who ruined her mother's life.” I grab a tissue and blow my nose. “The thing is, Jade, I deserve this. I feel like this blow might finally even the score.”

“That's why you did it, didn't you?”

I wonder if it's true. Like Dorothy, did I feel a need for a public flogging? No, I'm too private for that. I only know that this grievance was far too big to be exonerated by a Forgiveness Stone.

I glance at the makeup chair. “It'll be a whole lot easier getting Claudia ready for my show—her show.”

“Yup. It'll be a cinch making her face beautiful. But it'll be a bitch trying to hide those dark spots on her heart.” She gives me a fierce hug and whispers, “I've got some wasp repellant I can't wait for her to smell.” She smiles and hands me the cardboard box. “I'll check on you later,” she says, and blows me a kiss. “Stay in trouble.”

I amble down the hall toward the elevator, praying nobody sees me. I punch the down button and bounce the box on my hip like a fussy toddler.
Please, just get me out of here
.

The elevator doors open and I descend to the lobby. I'm nearly to the double glass doors when I hear one of the five television monitors mounted on the lobby wall. It's tuned to
WNO News
, as usual. I pass it. Then stop. Then backtrack.

On the screen, I watch Michael work his way up the steps of City Hall. He's back from Baton Rouge. He's wearing my favorite gray suit and the powder-blue tie I bought him at Rubensteins. Carmen Matthews, a WNO reporter, thrusts a microphone in his face. I notice the telltale crease in his forehead, and the back of my neck prickles.

“We've been good friends for over a year now,” he says. “She's a very decent person.”

My heart beats double-time. Are they talking about me? Am I the
good friend
, the
decent person
he's referring to?

“So you know about her past, that she'd falsely accused a man of rape?”

I gasp.

Michael scowls. “I don't believe legal charges were ever filed.”

“But she did slander a man. He lost his job because of her. Were you aware of this?”

I stare at the screen.
C'mon, Michael, tell her. Work your magic. Your words can change everything. Tell her—and the city of New Orleans—that I've struggled with this for years now, that against your better judgment I insisted on coming clean—even though I'm not certain I was wrong! For God's sake, tell them I'm not a monster, that I was just a kid.

He looks straight at the reporter. “I knew she'd had a falling-out with her mother. But no, I had no idea she'd made up this false allegation.”

Liar. You damn liar. It wasn't a false allegation! It was
my
truth, and you know it's been haunting me.