Daddy's Home. Pamela Bauer
not going to change my mind, Keith,” she told him.
His expression hardened. “Now what kind of attitude is that?”
She took a deep breath in an attempt to control the emotions swirling inside her, but it didn’t help. “It’s the attitude I have, and if you weren’t so worried about how my absence is affecting your ratings you could take a moment to support me rather than try to put me through more stress.” He looked startled by her outburst.
“Maybe you should mention these emotional periods you’re having to your doctor. He could probably recommend some medication—”
“I don’t need any more medication,” she snapped. “What I need is a fiancé who understands what I’ve been through.”
“I’m trying to understand, but you won’t leave this apartment.” He sighed. “Look, would you at least think about allowing the makeup artist to come for a visit? I’m emceeing the celebrity auction for the Children’s Hospital next Saturday and I want you to be with me.”
But only if you can cover your scars. He hadn’t said the words aloud, but she knew what he was thinking. “I can’t go.”
“You won’t even consider it?”
“I don’t have the energy.”
“You might feel differently by Saturday.”
Kristen knew she wouldn’t. Come Saturday, her cheek would still be swollen and bruised. The doctor had said four to six weeks. It had only been three. But she knew that—even if her face had been fine—she wasn’t ready to face the outside world.
“Don’t count on that happening,” she said firmly.
He shook his head. “If you come with me to the door, I’ll get those other two bags of mail for you.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Did he honestly think it was easy for her to hobble around after him? If she used her crutches at all, it would be to beat him over the head, not to walk to the door so that he could hand her a couple bags of mail.
“Forget the damn mail,” she barked at him.
He didn’t say another word but quietly left. Without even kissing her forehead.
Strangely, Kristen was not disappointed.
CHAPTER TWO
“I DON’T THINK this is a good idea.”
“Just do it. Please.” Kristen sat in her usual position on the sofa with her leg propped up on the ottoman. Her best friend, Gayle Shaefer, knelt in front of the VCR, a couple of videocassettes beside her.
Before she inserted one, she asked Kristen, “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better to see someone who’s experienced in dealing with this kind of thing?”
“You think I need therapy?”
“I think talking to someone who understands what happens to a person who’s been in a plane crash is probably a better way to get on with your life rather than looking at a bunch of taped footage,” Gayle said candidly.
Kristen shook her head. “I’m not going to see any more doctors—and that includes psychiatrists, psychologists or whatever. I don’t want to talk about the crash, Gayle.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ve done enough of that with my mother. It’s all she ever wants to talk about when she calls.”
“She’s probably trying to sort through her own feelings. After all, she nearly lost her daughter.”
Kristen knew Gayle was right. The problem was, while talking about it may have been therapy for her mother, Kristen didn’t need any reminders of how close she had come to losing her life in the plane crash.
“I didn’t die. I have a broken leg and—” she gestured to her left cheek “—and a face that’s messed up.”
“And both will heal,” Gayle reassured her in the voice Kristen had come to rely on over the years. “You’ll go back to work and your life will be normal again.”
“Yes, well, if I’m ever getting back to work, I need to look at those tapes. So let’s see what you’ve got.”
Gayle looked as if she wanted to protest, but didn’t. “Okay, if you’re sure you’re ready for this.”
Kristen wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she needed to do something to try to make her life normal again. Ever since the accident, she’d been mired in a quagmire of emotions that were unfamiliar to her. Guilt. Self-pity. Uncertainty.
None of them made any sense. She was alive. She’d survived an ordeal in which others had died. Yes, her face had required plastic surgery, but it would heal. She should’ve been grateful and happy. Yet she wasn’t. She was this pathetic bundle of nerves.
“Let’s do it,” she told Gayle, clenching her hands in her lap.
Gayle pushed the play button. Within seconds, Kristen was shivering as images she remembered all too vividly appeared before her eyes. Gayle didn’t move but stayed in front of the VCR, ready to stop the tape should the experience become too much for her friend.
As the images continued, Kristen wondered whether she should have listened to Gayle. She watched as the camera scanned the crash site, capturing all that could be seen of the broken plane left projecting out of the water.
Kristen lost control when she saw a man’s hat floating on the water. “Oh my G—” Her hand flew to her mouth as she choked back a lump of emotion in her throat. “No wonder everyone said it was a miracle we made it out.” Then she started to weep.
Gayle popped the tape out of the VCR. “That’s enough.” She went over to the sofa and put her hand on Kristen’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you.”
“I’m o-okay,” she choked out on a sob. “R-really. Show me the other one,” she said, sniffling as she reached for a tissue.
“I will not!”
Kristen blew her nose. “Gayle, please. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am and I have to see it. I won’t break down again. I promise. It was just the shock of seeing the plane.”
Gayle didn’t look convinced, but she finally slid the next cassette into the VCR. “Here’s the tape that came from our Hibbing affiliate.”
For Kristen, seeing the crash reported in a matter-of-fact tone by another reporter did not have the same emotional impact as the unedited footage. Although she shuddered once more at the scenes of the shattered airplane, she was able to separate her emotions from the images on the television so that she was no longer reliving the crash. Until her picture appeared on the screen.
It was one of the publicity photos the station used regularly. Next to it was a picture of Tyler Brant—the man who had saved her life. He wore a business suit and tie, his dark hair neatly trimmed, his eyes showing no emotion whatsoever. It was a typical business photo that could have been in the pages of any corporate report. There was no smile on his face.
Kristen watched the entire report, then rewound the tape with the remote until she came to the shot of Tyler Brant. She listened again as the reporter explained that Tyler had been on his way to Hibbing to check out the damage a fire had done to his electronics plant. She freeze-framed the tape.
“There he is. My hero.” She stared at him thoughtfully, trying to connect the austere-looking man in the photograph with the one who had carried her for miles in the cold, refusing to let her perish in the wilderness.
If she were to close her eyes, she thought she might be able to feel his warm breath on her cheek, hear his voice commanding her, “Stay with me, Kristen. Don’t you dare go to sleep. Do you hear me?”
His