Danielle Steel - Changes

“You ought to. You owe yourself something.” But what? All he wanted lately was her.

“Are you excited about your trip, Mel?”

“Yes and no.” She had been to romantic spots alone before. It had its drawbacks.

“Send me a postcard.”

“I will.”

And then, “I'd better let you go. Call me when you get back from your trip. And rest!”

“You need it as much as I do. Probably more.”

“I doubt that.”

She looked at her watch then, wondering where he was. It was nine thirty in the morning in California. “Aren't you in surgery today?”

“No. The last Wednesday of every month we have conferences to bring the whole team up-to-date on new techniques and procedures. We discuss what's being done all over the country, and what we've each tried to accomplish in surgery that month.”

“I wish I'd known. I would have loved to have that on film.” But she had enough without it.

“We start at ten o'clock. And I finished my rounds early.” He sounded boyish too then. “Calling you is a treat I've been promising myself for days.” It was easier to say things like that on the phone, and he was suddenly grateful for the distance between them.

“I'm flattered.” He wanted to tell her that she should be, that he had never called another woman, in that sense, since marrying Anne, but he didn't say it. “I've thought about calling you a few times too, to see how Marie was, but the time difference was always off.”

“That happened to me too. Anyway, I'm glad I called. Have a nice weekend in Bermuda.”

“Thank you. You have a nice one too. I'll call you when I get back.” It was the first time she had promised that in just that way, and she was already looking forward to it. “Our film is looking sensational, by the way.”

He smiled warmly. “I'm glad.” But that wasn't why he had called. “Take care of yourself, Mel.”

“I'll call you next week.” And suddenly she knew that a bond had formed between them that hadn't been there before, and as she left to go to Bloomingdale's, she felt young and excited and carefree.

She tried on two blue bathing suits, a black one, and a red one, but red had never been a good color with her hair, and she bought a rich royal-blue one and the black one. They were a little bit risqué, but she felt exotic today. And as she stood at the counter, smiling to herself, holding her charge card and the two bathing suits, waiting to be helped, she saw a woman in tears rush toward her. “The President's been shot!” She screamed to anyone who would listen. “He's been shot in the chest and the back, and he's dying!” The entire store seemed suddenly shot with an electric current as people shouted the news to each other and began running, as though their frenzied activity would help. But Mel, operating by reflex, dropped the bathing suits on the counter, and ran down three flights of stairs and out the door. She climbed into the first cab she saw, breathlessly gave the studio address, and asked the driver to turn on the radio as they drove. And both she and the cabbie sat frozen in silence as they listened to the news. No one seemed to know yet for certain if the President was alive or not. He had been in Los Angeles for a day, conferring with the governor and assorted civic leaders in L.A. He was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance moments before, critically wounded, as two Secret Servicemen lay dead on the pavement next to where he had stood. Mel's face was pale as she threw a ten-dollar bill into the driver's hands and hurtled through the double doors leading into the network building. Everything was already in total chaos there from the lobby to the newsroom, and as she flew toward the bureau chief's desk, he looked at her with relief.

“Christ, I hoped you'd get here, Mel.”

“I practically ran all the way from Bloomingdale's.” At least she felt like she had, and she would have if she'd had to. She knew that the one place she had to be was here.

“Ί want to put you on with special bulletins right away.” He looked at what she was wearing and she looked fine, but he wouldn't have given a damn if she'd been stark naked. “Get some makeup on. And can you close your jacket a little? The dress is too white for the camera.”

“Sure. What's new now?”

“Nothing yet. He's in surgery, and it looks bad, Mel.”

“Shit.” She ran to her office and where she kept her makeup, and five minutes later she was back, hair combed, face on, jacket buttoned, ready to go on the air. The producer followed her into the studio, and handed her a stack of papers for her to read quickly. She looked at him a moment later, with grim eyes. “It doesn't look good, does it?” The President had been hit in the chest three times, and his spine seemed to have been affected, from the early reports. Even if he lived, he could be paralyzed or worse yet, a complete vegetable. He was in Center City, undergoing surgery right then. And Mel suddenly wondered what Peter Hallam knew about it that the press didn't, but she didn't have time to call before she went on the air.

She went quickly to her desk then, and began ad-libbing soberly into the camera as she went on beneath the hot lights and she delivered the news bulletins as they came on. All normal programming had been stopped to give the public the news as it came, but there wasn't a great deal to say yet. She had to wing it for most of the afternoon, and she didn't get a break for three hours, when she was relieved by one of the other anchors, the man who did the weekend news. They had all been called in, and there was endless discussion and surmising on the air between reports from the West Coast, and moments when they switched to the reporters in L.A., standing in the lobby of Center City, so familiar now to Mel. She wished only that she were there, as she listened to the news. But by six o'clock there was still no news, except that he was still alive and had survived surgery. They would have to play a waiting game, as would the First Lady, who was in the air on her way to L.A. now, and due to arrive at LAX within the hour.

Mel did her usual show at six o'clock, and of course covered almost exclusively the news from L.A. and when she came off the air, the producer was waiting to confer with her.

“Mel.” He looked at her somberly and handed her another sheaf of papers. “I want you out there.” For a moment, she was stunned. “Go home, get your stuff, come back and do the eleven o'clock, and we'll run you out to the airport. They're going to hold a flight for you, and you can start reporting from out there first thing tomorrow morning. By then, God only knows what will have happened.” The man who had shot the President was already in custody, and lengthy profiles of his checkered past were on the air constantly, interspersed with interviews with major surgeons giving their opinions of the President's chances. “Can you do it?” They both knew it was a rhetorical question. She had no choice. This was what they paid her for, and the coverage of national emergencies was part of it. She mentally ran over the list of what she had to do. She knew from experience that Raquel would take care of the girls, and she would see them when she went home between shows to pack.

At home, she found the twins and Raquel in tears in front of the TV, and Jessica was the first to approach her. “What's going to happen, Mom?” Raquel loudly blew her nose.

“We don't know yet.” And then she told them the news. “I have to go to California tonight. Will you guys be okay?” She turned to Raquel, knowing her answer would be yes.

“Of course.” She almost looked insulted.

“I'll be back as soon as all of this is over.”

She kissed them all and left for the network to do the late news, and as soon as she came off the air, she left in the wake of two cops who had been waiting to escort her to their car downstairs. They all listened intently to the radio as they sped to the airport with the sirens shrieking. It was a favor the police occasionally did for the station. They made it to JFK by twelve fifteen and the plane took off ten minutes after she boarded. Several times the stewardesses came to give her bulletins transmitted by the pilots, as they got the news from towers and air controllers as they crossed the country. The President was still alive, but there was no way of telling for how long. It seemed an endless night as they flew to L.A. and Mel finally disembarked in Los Angeles feeling truly exhausted. She was met again by a police escort there, and she decided to go to Center City before going to her hotel and sleeping for a few hours. She would have to go to work at seven o'clock the next morning, and it was already four o'clock in the morning in L.A. But when she reached Center City, there was no further news, and she got to her hotel just before five A.M. She figured that she could sleep for an hour or so before reporting for work. She was just going to have to drink a lot of black coffee, and she requested a wake-up from the hotel operator so she wouldn't oversleep. They had booked her into a hotel where she had never stayed, but it was close to Center City. And suddenly she realized how strange it was that she was back in L.A. again so soon, and wondered if she would have time to see Peter. Maybe when it was all over. Unless, of course, the President died. She might have to fly back simultaneously with Air Force One to attend the funeral in Washington, in which case she would never see him. But she hoped for the President's sake that wouldn't happen. And she desperately wanted to see Peter in the next few days. She wondered if he'd known she was there.