chin from a sharp center part. Her skin is ghostly white, and the dark frames of her glasses focus the intelligent look in her pale blue eyes. She’s wearing a black pin-striped suit that looks handmade and large square diamonds in her ears.
“Hi, Emma, thanks for agreeing to do the show,” she says in her modulated broadcaster voice. Her cadence is perfectly timed for reading a script off a teleprompter. “Carrie filled you in on the subjects we’ll be covering?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable. We’ll begin in about five minutes.”
Making myself comfortable seems out of the question, but I sit down in the armchair she points to anyway. I smooth out the wrinkles in my pants while a guy in his early twenties with a mod haircut slips a tiny microphone under my sweater. It happens so quickly I barely have time to be embarrassed, though I’m pretty sure he caught an eyeful of . . . well, not much, really.
Cathy Keeler sits across from me with a nonchalance born of years of experience. She flips through a set of index cards, muttering to herself. I take several sips from the water glass sitting on a small table next to me, surveying the sea of faces watching us. The most common expression is one of disappointment. I guess a lot of people thought they were getting Christmas giveaways today.
The cameramen turn on their lights. I blink slowly in their glare as another guy in a headset darts toward Cathy and takes her notes. She squares her shoulders as a voice yells, “Quiet on set,” and the familiar, slightly bombastic theme music for In Progress fills the room. When it stops, Cathy looks into the camera over my left shoulder.
“Good evening. Tonight I’ll be talking to Emma Tupper. For those of you not yet familiar with her story . . .”
She continues for several minutes, outlining the facts. When she’s done, she asks me some easy questions about how it feels to be home, and what I’m going to do now. I stick to the script I worked on earlier: It’s amazing to be home; I’m going back to work in the new year, can’t wait. I feel like Nuke LaLoosh in Bull Durham following Crash Davis’s instructions when he gets to the Show. I’m lucky to be here; it’s such an amazing opportunity.
Cathy smiles and nods, and leads me along smoothly until I’ve just about relaxed.
My mistake.
“Ms. Tupper, I have to say, your story doesn’t really add up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, why would the tour company leave you in the middle of nowhere?”
“I was sick.”
“Shouldn’t they have taken you to a hospital?”
“We were days away from one.”
She raises her right eyebrow. “So they left you in a remote village instead?”
Why is that tone familiar? Oh, right. She sounds like me when I’m in the middle of cross-examining someone.
My throat goes dry. I take a sip of water as she waits for my answer. I put the glass down and measure out my words carefully. “When I got sick, we were in the middle of a wildlife preserve. It took us two days to drive there, and the ‘road’ was just a dirt track full of bumps and ruts and mud. Every second on it was excruciating, like someone was trying to jackhammer my body into a thousand pieces. I was kind of out of it, but I’m pretty sure I begged them to leave me by the side of the road. Instead, they took me to a village where they knew there were NGO workers who had good medical supplies. And that’s where they left me.”
“Why didn’t the tour company come back to get you?”
“You’d have to ask them that.”
Great. Now I sound like someone I’ve been cross-examining. Defensive. Like I have something to hide. Like I might start to cry any second.
“And you really couldn’t get a message home for six whole months?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“I . . . I’m confused, Ms. Keeler. You seem to be implying that I’m making this whole thing up. Why would I do that?”
She makes a
“Hi, Emma, thanks for agreeing to do the show,” she says in her modulated broadcaster voice. Her cadence is perfectly timed for reading a script off a teleprompter. “Carrie filled you in on the subjects we’ll be covering?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable. We’ll begin in about five minutes.”
Making myself comfortable seems out of the question, but I sit down in the armchair she points to anyway. I smooth out the wrinkles in my pants while a guy in his early twenties with a mod haircut slips a tiny microphone under my sweater. It happens so quickly I barely have time to be embarrassed, though I’m pretty sure he caught an eyeful of . . . well, not much, really.
Cathy Keeler sits across from me with a nonchalance born of years of experience. She flips through a set of index cards, muttering to herself. I take several sips from the water glass sitting on a small table next to me, surveying the sea of faces watching us. The most common expression is one of disappointment. I guess a lot of people thought they were getting Christmas giveaways today.
The cameramen turn on their lights. I blink slowly in their glare as another guy in a headset darts toward Cathy and takes her notes. She squares her shoulders as a voice yells, “Quiet on set,” and the familiar, slightly bombastic theme music for In Progress fills the room. When it stops, Cathy looks into the camera over my left shoulder.
“Good evening. Tonight I’ll be talking to Emma Tupper. For those of you not yet familiar with her story . . .”
She continues for several minutes, outlining the facts. When she’s done, she asks me some easy questions about how it feels to be home, and what I’m going to do now. I stick to the script I worked on earlier: It’s amazing to be home; I’m going back to work in the new year, can’t wait. I feel like Nuke LaLoosh in Bull Durham following Crash Davis’s instructions when he gets to the Show. I’m lucky to be here; it’s such an amazing opportunity.
Cathy smiles and nods, and leads me along smoothly until I’ve just about relaxed.
My mistake.
“Ms. Tupper, I have to say, your story doesn’t really add up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, why would the tour company leave you in the middle of nowhere?”
“I was sick.”
“Shouldn’t they have taken you to a hospital?”
“We were days away from one.”
She raises her right eyebrow. “So they left you in a remote village instead?”
Why is that tone familiar? Oh, right. She sounds like me when I’m in the middle of cross-examining someone.
My throat goes dry. I take a sip of water as she waits for my answer. I put the glass down and measure out my words carefully. “When I got sick, we were in the middle of a wildlife preserve. It took us two days to drive there, and the ‘road’ was just a dirt track full of bumps and ruts and mud. Every second on it was excruciating, like someone was trying to jackhammer my body into a thousand pieces. I was kind of out of it, but I’m pretty sure I begged them to leave me by the side of the road. Instead, they took me to a village where they knew there were NGO workers who had good medical supplies. And that’s where they left me.”
“Why didn’t the tour company come back to get you?”
“You’d have to ask them that.”
Great. Now I sound like someone I’ve been cross-examining. Defensive. Like I have something to hide. Like I might start to cry any second.
“And you really couldn’t get a message home for six whole months?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“I . . . I’m confused, Ms. Keeler. You seem to be implying that I’m making this whole thing up. Why would I do that?”
She makes a
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