One Fine Day You're Gonna Die by Gail Bowen Page B

you’ll regret it,” she says.
    I raise an eyebrow.
    â€œOn-air tension is the lifeblood of talk radio,” I say.
    As she hears Dr. Harris’s words, Nova’s smile is sweet. When we’re on the air, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. Unless Nova chooses to open the talkback for the guest, I’m the only one who can hear her. Tonight she’s decided not to share with Dr. Harris. Nova’s voice on the talkback is amused.
    â€œFYI, Charlie, Dr. Harris tells me that people from an unnamed network are listening to our show tonight. Dr. Harris is on the short list for a call-in show of her own. My guess is she doesn’t want Gabriel Ireland getting through because he might put her off her game.”
    â€œO-kay,” I say.
    â€œThere’s an introduction on your computer screen,” Nova says. She holds up five fingers and counts down. “And you’re on the air.”
    Our theme music, “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band, comes up. When the music fades, it’s my turn. Like everyone in my business, I’ve created a voice that works for my audience. My radio voice is soothing, deep and intimate, but tonight I take it down a few notches and open with the sepulchral tones of the villain in a horror movie.
    â€œGood evening. I’m Charlie Dowhanuik and you are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ It’s October thirty-first, the Day of the Dead, and our topic is—DEATH! How do you see it? A bony guy carrying a scythe rasping out your name, or a heavenly choir robed in white calling you home? Do you fear it? Do you welcome it? What do you think about the way we, as a society, handle death? Where do you stand on funerals— do you want to be torched and scattered to the four winds, or do you want the full meal deal with incense, prayers and all the bells and whistles. Our lines are open. Give me a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email me at charlie d at nation tv dot com.
    â€œI’m joined tonight by Dr. Robin Harris, medical doctor, sociologist and expert in the arts of dying and grieving. Welcome, Dr. Harris.”
    â€œThank you for inviting me, Charlie D.” The warmth and fullness of her voice are extraordinary. The network guys for whom she’s auditioning must be creaming their jeans. She adjusts her notes. “The questions you raise are complex, and as a thanatologist, I believe I can contribute specialized knowledge that will be helpful to your listeners.”
    â€œWe’re in your debt,” I say . “Now tell me, in words that make sense to us all, what exactly does a thanatologist do?”
    â€œIn words that make sense to your audience, I study how people in varying cultures at varying times have dealt with death. I believe there are lessons there that can help people on the most vulnerable days of their lives.”
    â€œAnd those days would be…?”
    â€œThe day when they themselves are about to die or when they learn that someone significant in their life has died.”
    I remember the exact moment when I heard that my golden, glowing Ariel had died. She was twenty-eight years old. When she was thirteen, she made a tablecloth out of midnight blue velvet and appliquéd it with gold and silver satin cut-outs of suns, moons, stars, buds, blossoms, fruits, birds, fish and animals. Ariel’s world encompassed everything, and then she was gone. We used the cloth she sewed to cover the box that held her ashes. Suddenly I can’t speak. Through the glass that separates us, I see Nova’s worried eyes and the quarter smile that she offers when I need encouragement.

CHAPTER THREE
    O n talk radio, dead air is the enemy. Spotting her chance, Doctor Harris leans in to her microphone. People from the unnamed network are listening, assessing how Dr. Harris can handle situations on air. But people for whom I am a lifeline are also listening. I