unconventional

Chapter 3

Erika

“That's a wrap," Lonnie, my producer, says as his hand drops, and the red lights fade from the multitude of cameras.

“Ms. Ellis, Ms. Ellis," Lonnie's assistant, Jackie, calls as she rushes past the cameras in my direction.

I can't help but notice how the cameraman on camera three scowls at her as she calls my name.

“Yes, Jackie," I answer as stagehands unclip my microphone, pull wires, and remove a small box from my waist. Sometimes it feels as if I'm bound by a million tethers as I sit appearing carefree, discussing the day's events. If only they weren't delicate wires, but unbreakable bindings.

Stop it, Erika!

These thoughts need to end.

Everything I'd said to Jenn is true. I've worked my ass off for this career, literally and figuratively. It needs to be my main focus. I'm Erika Ellis—news at five-thirty and six on channel fifty-three. That's me, Milwaukee's sweetheart. I look the cameras in the lens and smile as I either recount the gory details of a school bus crash or discuss the Future Farmers of America annual fund drive. I can laugh and joke with my male co-anchors because that is what the audience wants to believe—that we're one big happy family here at channel fifty-three.

Even though I have a degree in broadcasting, I sit behind the glass desk with my legs poised in heels too high to walk in, because the shoes make my calves appear sexier. That's another thing that the people who crunch the numbers say. Our ratings drop every time my heel length goes below four inches. Little do they know that when I'm standing behind a counter, such as the ones in our faux kitchen set, I'm barefooted on a box. No one wants to see Milwaukee's sweetheart fall face first into this week's special recipe. Coming to you from Milwaukee with béarnaise sauce dripping off my nose.

There's more to this job than looking good. It requires constant work. I must know the material, stay current, pronounce every name—even foreign dignitaries'—correctly while smiling in a carefree manner, as if one mistake couldn't get me sent back out to the streets for on-the-scene reporting.

I'm glad there's no pressure.

Keeping the balancing act going with each ball precisely in the air is an exhausting art. I can't help but think about my conversation with Jenn. I'm not ready to face any of it. Though my husband and I aren't lighting up the sheets, there is something comfortable and safe about our marriage. In my earlier analogy, the worn sweatshirt is still comfortable. I need to concentrate on that.

Thankfully, it's Friday and I'm not due back on this set and in front of the cameras until Monday. That doesn't mean I can totally walk away. I have preparation for next week and the never-ending workouts. But for a few days, I can take off the plastic smile and relax.

My husband is always trying to get me to do that. Maybe Jenn is right—that he and I need to talk, but not talking is easier. Not facing the demise of our marriage and instead finding comfort in the predictability is easier. Sometimes when life seems too much, we all need easier.

Besides, you'd think he'd understand the pressure it takes to be me, but he never has. Even this morning while we were running, he kept trying to talk. He knew I had the earbuds in my ears. I didn't have time or the energy to listen to him then. We should probably make some time to talk about each other's desires and concerns. What Jenn said is the same as what our marriage counselor has said. However, that one hour once a week is all I can devote to it. If we can't say it there, then it gets pushed away. She encourages us to be honest with one another.

That's difficult when I'm not sure I'm being honest with myself.

I want more.

I want less.

I want to have control in my life.

I want to give it all up.

I don't know what I want. How can I tell my husband? Why doesn't he know?

I never intended to be dishonest with him. What I'm starting to understand, after nearly five years of marriage, is that honesty isn't only about telling the truth, but also about not withholding the truth. I'm confused, and instead of telling him, I'm letting it eat me from the inside.

“Ms. Ellis," Jackie says, “I just got the call—Tamara is ill."

Shit! My weekend reprieve and any time for my husband and me to talk will need to wait. The reality is that I probably would have avoided it anyway. This just gives me an excuse.

My shoulders straighten. I don't want to stay and do the eleven o'clock news. I want to go home—not to talk, but to wash off the makeup and curl up with my k****e. However, I know that isn't the answer that will advance my career, that will get me out of Milwaukee and into a bigger market. Instead of saying what I want to say, I feign concern. “She is?" And then, I broaden my plastic smile. “I'm sorry to hear that. Does Lonnie need me to stay?"

“Yes. He does. We all do. You'll be helping us all out, Ms. Ellis."

“Not a problem," I say as I notice the cameraman from earlier. His scowl has morphed into something deeper, something closer to anger. I move my gaze away.

Lighten up, Mr. Cross. It isn't like you have to stay, just because I am. The eleven o'clock set has its own crew. Your night is free. I'm the one tied up.

*

Dead on my feet and ready to collapse. That's how I feel as the stage crew untangles me from my wires for the second time today. My feet ache from my shoes though I have only sat while wearing them. Thank God there were no cooking segments at eleven at night. My legs cramp from the way they are perched on the bar beneath my chair, crossed daintily at the ankle.

“Erika," the eleven o'clock co-anchor, Shawn, calls as he is also freed from his microphone and other apparatus. “Thanks for filling in. It's always great to spend time with you. How about I buy you a drink—in gratitude?"

I shake my head. “Thanks, Shawn. I'm beat. I need to get home."

He c***s his head to the side. “Come on, there's a group of us. We always go out Friday night to the little bar down the street. It's tradition. We all need to unwind."

I roll my neck to relieve a few kinks. “Rain check?"

“Well, at least let me or one of the stagehands walk you to your car. The garage is no place for a lady to be alone at this time of night."

“I'm good. I parked close by." I look down at my shoes as I contemplate going back to my dressing room to change. “Of course, I need to do a quick change of these shoes or I won't make it even three feet, much less to the garage. Then I'll be out of here. I hope Tamara is feeling better by Monday."

I really do.

In no time at all, I have my shoes stowed away with various other pairs that stay at the news studio and have my Chuck Taylors laced up. I run my hand over the jeans and top I brought to the station to change into. That was for before, when I thought maybe my husband and I could talk. That didn't happen, and now I don't want to take the time to change clothes. I just want to go home and go to sleep.

As I reach for my purse that's secured in the cabinet near my desk, I see the note:

Don't leave without the red heels.

I swallow as my pulse quickens. Slowly, I turn and look around the room as a chill prickles my skin. No one is supposed to be in my dressing room without me, much less in this cabinet.

Who left the note?

I shake off the uneasy feeling the note gives me, chalk it up to sleepiness, crumple the post-it into a ball, and toss it into the trash bin. Reaching for my purse, I head out.

The hallways clear fast after the late news. There's just a skeleton crew down in the bull pen keeping an eye on the happenings of the world so that the early morning team is up to date. Even the elevator is empty. A short ride down and I'm in the parking garage. I scan the floor where I parked my car. There are considerably fewer cars at nearly midnight than when I arrived in the late afternoon.

I search left and then right.

Where's my car?