Lorna Michaels - The Truth About Elyssa

“Thank God,” she breathed and looked up.

A man stood over her. He was tall and broad-shouldered. In the rainy darkness she could just make out his features—fleshy lips, a slightly crooked nose and beetle brows. But no matter what he looked like, he was the most welcome sight she’d ever beheld. “Help,” she whispered.

“No dice, lady.”

Shocked, Elyssa stared at him. Behind him, up the embankment, she saw a black Chevy.

“You…you’re the one who followed us—”

“Right. And now—” He smiled slowly, chillingly. “Lights out, love.”

His booted foot shot out, connected with her cheek. She fell, tumbling over and over, down and down.

The last thing she heard was an earsplitting boom. The last thing she saw was a bright ball of fire as Randy’s car exploded.

“Elyssa, open your eyes.”

She wanted to, but her lids were so heavy. And they hurt. Her whole face hurt.

“Try, please.” Her cousin Cassie’s voice, thick with tears.

I’m trying, she thought and lifted her lids. “Cassie,” she murmured. Her voice sounded shaky, weak.

“You’re awake. Thank God.”

Elyssa blinked, focused. She was in a bed. A hospital bed. Cassie stood beside it, crying. “Your parents just left. I’ll call them.” She sniffled, then tried to smile. “It’s been so long. I was afraid—”

“H-how…long?” Elyssa whispered.

Cassie wiped her eyes. “You’ve been in a coma for fourteen days.”

Two weeks. Coma. Hospital. “Did I have an accident?”

Cassie nodded. “With Randy.”

“Randy.” Saying his name brought unbearable pain. “He gave me a ride.” That was all she could remember. She saw herself getting into Randy’s car, then…nothing. “Wh-what happened?”

“It was raining. Your car must have skidded. It went off the road in Eagle Creek Park.”

“I…we both got hurt?”

Cassie took Elyssa’s hand. “Your collarbone was broken. You had a concussion and…and some cuts and bruises.”

Three days passed before her family gently broke the news of Randy’s death.

They waited another week before they told her about her face.

Sixteen Months Later

Elyssa Jarmon was doing what she did best—making kids laugh. Decked out in her Lulu the Clown outfit, she entertained a group of youngsters in the cancer unit of St. Michael’s Hospital.

“Watch closely now.” She held out a slender china vase. “Empty. Anyway, it looks empty. Someone want to check?”

Hands shot up. Elyssa zeroed in on one youngster. Arms stick thin, head bald, he had the look of a concentration camp inmate. He’d clearly been absorbed in her performance but he hadn’t clapped or smiled, just stared with huge brown eyes in a pale, drawn face. She thought she’d seen his fingers twitch when she asked for a volunteer. “You,” she said skipping over to him. “What’s your name?”

“Trace.” The word barely reached her.

“Help me, would you, Trace?” She held out the vase.

The youngster peered inside. “Empty,” he whispered.

“Let’s fill it.” She waved her hand, and instantly a flower emerged, then another. Children squealed, applauded. Trace’s eyes widened, and a ghost of a smile appeared.

“Did you put those flowers there?” Elyssa asked with exaggerated suspicion.

Trace shook his head solemnly.

“Aw, I bet you did. Do it again. Come on, wave your hand.”

Slowly the youngster’s hand moved back and forth.

“Nope,” Elyssa said, feigning disappointment, “nothing hap— No, wait. Here…it…comes.”

An even bigger flower sprang into view, and to her surprise Trace grinned. Then he chuckled. The sound was creaky, as if he’d forgotten how, but he managed a laugh nevertheless. Elyssa patted his shoulder, danced back to the center of the room and brought the show to a close.

She waved to the kids as nurses began pushing wheelchairs out of the room, then as she turned to gather her equipment, she swiped a hand over one white cheek. This place was hot. She would stop at the rest room, shed her heavy costume and scrub off her makeup. And when she got home, the first thing she’d do was jump into a cool shower.

She folded a polka-dot scarf, laid it on top of a set of giant playing cards and closed her case. She was about to lift it onto her luggage cart when a deep voice behind her said, “Let me help you with that.”

Startled, Elyssa turned and met the eyes of a tall, broad-shouldered man. She’d noticed him during her show, lounging against the wall and watching her with a half smile on his face. Before she had a chance to answer him, he bent over and hoisted her case onto the cart, then secured the straps.

Elyssa saw a stethoscope protruding from the pocket of his pale-blue lab coat. So he was a doctor.

His hair was light brown. No, it was more gold than brown. In fact, she thought as he straightened and turned to face her, everything about him was golden. Amber flecks in a pair of arresting brown eyes, a patch of golden chest hair visible above the opened button of the white shirt beneath his lab coat, more fine, pale hairs on the backs of his hands. Who was he? In the two weeks she’d been entertaining here, she hadn’t run into him.

“Thanks for your help, Dr. ah…”

“Cameron. Brett Cameron.”

She recognized the name immediately. “You’re the head of pediatric oncology.”

“And you’re Lulu the Clown,” he said, grinning at her.

She answered his smile with her own. “Sometimes known as Elyssa Jarmon.”

“I’d like to talk to you if you have a minute.”

“Sure.”

He pushed the cart into the hall. Before they’d gone far, a nurse hurried up to claim his attention. While Elyssa waited, she studied him again.

Her impression of him as “golden” was apt; she’d heard him referred to as the golden boy of pediatric cancer. Through her access to the hospital grapevine, she knew he was the protégé of Dr. Clark Madigan, the hospital’s chief of staff, under whom he’d trained at Sloan-Kettering. Dr. Brett Cameron was only thirty-four, but he’d already established a national reputation for treating young cancer victims, introducing new chemotherapy regimes and devising innovative techniques for minimizing pain. Elyssa noticed his relaxed yet authoritative manner with the nurse, the way he ruffled the hair of a youngster who walked past him, and decided she approved.

Two years ago she would have been agog at the opportunity to talk to him, perhaps have a chance to interview him on the evening news. But those days—those heady days—of life in the fast lane of television news were behind her.

Instead she wondered why he wanted to meet with her. She hoped he wasn’t planning to discontinue her shows. Her proposal to entertain had been approved only on a trial basis.

She mentally marshaled the reasons for continuing. She was doing the children some good. They enjoyed her shows, joined in and asked for more. She’d even had a phone call from a parent who said her child hadn’t stopped talking about Lulu.

And God knows, Elyssa thought, the shows were good for her, too. If Dr. Cameron wanted her out, he would have a fight on his hands. Circumstances had forced her to give up her career in TV news, but she hadn’t lost the guts and determination that had made her a success.

The nurse turned and hurried away, and Brett ushered Elyssa down the hall past a door with Pediatric Oncology and his name on it. He opened another door, this one unmarked, and led her through a maze of narrow corridors into his office.

A typical physician’s office—she’d seen enough of them recently to know—with medical journals on the bookshelf, framed certificates on the walls and a semilimp ivy plant on a small table. But she noticed a few touches she appreciated—a child’s table with drawing paper and crayons, picture books and a yellow beanbag chair in the corner with a rack of books for older children beside it.