around, and hated myself for it.
“Tell me about the scars,” Elaine said, pointing at the thin white lines etched across my wrists. They were barely visible now, but in the right light you could still see them.
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
“Just punish yourself?”
I shifted in my seat.
“When was the last time you cut yourself?”
It was after a trip to Guatemala with Olivia. “Six years ago.”
“Good,” she said. “That tells me something.”
“What?”
“That you are capable of recovery. You stopped that behavior. You can stop this one.”
By the end of my stay at Hilltop, Elaine and I had agreed that once I returned to the real world, I needed to go to AA meetings, find a sponsor, and do the whole twelve steps to help maintain my sobriety. I also needed to continue my work on the couch.
Back in New York, I had good intentions. I saw a shrink on Fifty-seventh Street and went to beginners’ AA meetings at a church on East Forty-third. But my new psychologist was a jerk, and the meetings, with my hectic schedule, were hard to make on a regular basis. I quit them all after a few months. I was convinced I had a handle on my issues—which I had, for two and a half years and counting—and that I was better off leaving my past where it belonged.
I stood waiting in the lobby of the FirstNews building. Delphine pushed through the rotating door accompanied by a man. She was wearing a charcoal skirt suit that flattered her tall, athletic frame, a navy silk blouse, and no makeup. Her thick, chestnut brown hair was pushed back with a headband and fell in a heavy curtain to just above her collarbone. A gold bracelet with a diamond-studded clasp encircled her strong wrist, and two large diamond stud earrings twinkled at each ear. She saw me standing by the reception desk and walked straight over.
“Cornelia Shaw, it’s been a long time.” Up close, I could see that her hazel eyes were red, and that she wasn’t entirely makeup-free. A thick coat of pigment did its best to conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Delphine, I’m so sorry. I know how you must—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t, really, or I’ll just start up again.”
That’s right, save it for the camera , the producer in me thought.
The man next to her shifted his weight in his shoes. He was mostly bald and short. He also looked familiar. “This is Prentice Maldone,” Delphine said, introducing us.
I shook hands with the head of Maldone Enterprises, a fast-growing conglomerate that owned and operated a string of newspapers and television stations in second-tier cities. I’d read an article on Bloomberg that said Maldone was planning on giving the Tribune Company—which had a similar business model—a run for its money. The article hadn’t named any of Maldone’s acquisition targets, but it was fairly obvious he wasn’t hanging around our lobby to offer his condolences.
“Nice to meet you,” Maldone said. He had a flat Midwestern accent—if I had to guess, I’d say from Iowa or Illinois—and small blue eyes that probably missed nothing. “Are you with the network?” he asked.
“I’m a segment producer for Topical Tonight .”
“Very good,” Maldone said.
Delphine grabbed the gold chain strap of her handbag and looked at me. “How long has it—” her voice trailed off as she worked the math.
“Two years.” We said it at the same time. The last time had been at a birthday party for Olivia at Orsay, a popular Upper East Side restaurant. I’d been sober half a year.
Maldone touched Delphine’s arm lightly. “I’ll see you soon.” Then he nodded goodbye to me and entered one of the elevators on his own.
“Shall we?” I said, cocking my head in the same direction.
She pressed her lips together tightly and nodded.
While Delphine went through makeup and hair, I went in search of Alex to make sure he was prepped for his interview. He wasn’t at his desk, or in the studio. I was about
“Tell me about the scars,” Elaine said, pointing at the thin white lines etched across my wrists. They were barely visible now, but in the right light you could still see them.
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
“Just punish yourself?”
I shifted in my seat.
“When was the last time you cut yourself?”
It was after a trip to Guatemala with Olivia. “Six years ago.”
“Good,” she said. “That tells me something.”
“What?”
“That you are capable of recovery. You stopped that behavior. You can stop this one.”
By the end of my stay at Hilltop, Elaine and I had agreed that once I returned to the real world, I needed to go to AA meetings, find a sponsor, and do the whole twelve steps to help maintain my sobriety. I also needed to continue my work on the couch.
Back in New York, I had good intentions. I saw a shrink on Fifty-seventh Street and went to beginners’ AA meetings at a church on East Forty-third. But my new psychologist was a jerk, and the meetings, with my hectic schedule, were hard to make on a regular basis. I quit them all after a few months. I was convinced I had a handle on my issues—which I had, for two and a half years and counting—and that I was better off leaving my past where it belonged.
I stood waiting in the lobby of the FirstNews building. Delphine pushed through the rotating door accompanied by a man. She was wearing a charcoal skirt suit that flattered her tall, athletic frame, a navy silk blouse, and no makeup. Her thick, chestnut brown hair was pushed back with a headband and fell in a heavy curtain to just above her collarbone. A gold bracelet with a diamond-studded clasp encircled her strong wrist, and two large diamond stud earrings twinkled at each ear. She saw me standing by the reception desk and walked straight over.
“Cornelia Shaw, it’s been a long time.” Up close, I could see that her hazel eyes were red, and that she wasn’t entirely makeup-free. A thick coat of pigment did its best to conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Delphine, I’m so sorry. I know how you must—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t, really, or I’ll just start up again.”
That’s right, save it for the camera , the producer in me thought.
The man next to her shifted his weight in his shoes. He was mostly bald and short. He also looked familiar. “This is Prentice Maldone,” Delphine said, introducing us.
I shook hands with the head of Maldone Enterprises, a fast-growing conglomerate that owned and operated a string of newspapers and television stations in second-tier cities. I’d read an article on Bloomberg that said Maldone was planning on giving the Tribune Company—which had a similar business model—a run for its money. The article hadn’t named any of Maldone’s acquisition targets, but it was fairly obvious he wasn’t hanging around our lobby to offer his condolences.
“Nice to meet you,” Maldone said. He had a flat Midwestern accent—if I had to guess, I’d say from Iowa or Illinois—and small blue eyes that probably missed nothing. “Are you with the network?” he asked.
“I’m a segment producer for Topical Tonight .”
“Very good,” Maldone said.
Delphine grabbed the gold chain strap of her handbag and looked at me. “How long has it—” her voice trailed off as she worked the math.
“Two years.” We said it at the same time. The last time had been at a birthday party for Olivia at Orsay, a popular Upper East Side restaurant. I’d been sober half a year.
Maldone touched Delphine’s arm lightly. “I’ll see you soon.” Then he nodded goodbye to me and entered one of the elevators on his own.
“Shall we?” I said, cocking my head in the same direction.
She pressed her lips together tightly and nodded.
While Delphine went through makeup and hair, I went in search of Alex to make sure he was prepped for his interview. He wasn’t at his desk, or in the studio. I was about
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