Ritz fought against that floating feeling. She knew that if she allowed herself to just go with the flow, it would be over. She knew that she would not, could not, return once she surrendered to that peaceful, tempting white light. If she followed her mother and left the place of limbo, she would be “officially dead.” All that would be left of her would be a fancy funeral— which she would be in no condition to appreci-ate— and after the hoopla died down maybe every now and then there would be a few lines about her in David Hinck-ley's “Radio Dial” column in the Daily News. And her name wouldn't be in boldface type in that column.
The News did not boldface the names of dead people.
There was a part of her that wanted to give up, a part that wanted to just let go. What did she have waiting for her back there? She didn't have a man. There was a career that was booming, but it took all her energy to keep it hot, and that career did not make her happy, though she tried to convince herself that it did. She felt so bad for herself.
Ritz tried to process everything her mother had said to her and it added up to one thing: She was a bad person. She had no friends except for Tracee, and Tracee had changed so much. She wondered who Tracee really was now.
Despite the temptations of that bright light, Ritz had a burning desire to come back. She wanted to live. She had things she needed to take care of. At the top of her list was revenge. Ritz wanted to get whoever shot her. She wanted to live so she could get them. They say that living well is the best revenge. No, revenge is the best revenge.
The Sicilians have a saying: “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Ritz once heard somebody on The Sopranos say that. At the time, she didn't know what those words meant. But now she did.
It would all come later. Let the dish get cold. Right now, she had something else to do.
She reached deep inside herself to that place in her heart that made her special, the place that made her strong, the place that was Ritgina “Ritz” Harper.
Live. Live. Live. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
She felt a tingly sensation that seemed to be a mile down south. Then she realized: Those were her toes. She wiggled them.
Then she felt another tingly sensation— coming from her left and from her right.
They were her arms. She could feel them. Then she felt her hands coming back.
Could she give someone the finger?
She tried, and she could feel the middle finger of her right hand rising.
Yes!
Then she could feel that she was on her back and that all kinds of things were stuck in her body. They hurt. She could hear an air conditioner humming. She could feel a harsh light on her eyelids. She could make out faint voices; she couldn't understand what they were saying, but the voices were getting clearer and clearer. Her left butt cheek itched. She ran her tongue along her teeth. They were still there.
Ritz tried to talk, but there were tubes stuck in her mouth.
“Thank you, Mama. I love you, Mama.” That's what she was trying to say.
“Doctor, come quick! I think Ritz Harper is coming out of her coma!” said the nurse who was on duty.
Paul Grevious was at the nurses' station. He had just checked on his most famous patient and was going to finish his rounds. There was a lot of attention around this case, and Dr. Grevious was taking his time to make sure he didn't make a single mistake. This case could make his career. He was a solid neurosurgeon, but he wanted to be known as the best.
This case had already brought him the first press conference he had ever done. That was the night after Ritz Harper was identified. He didn't have much to report other than that she was in critical condition and in a coma.
There would be many more press conferences if she held on, and lived, and was able to discuss her “progress” with a tabloid press that would pant like a puppy dog after his every word.
And if he played his cards right, Dr. Grevious figured, there might even be a book deal in the mix somewhere. He was going to make sure that Ritz Harper got the best care possible, and he was also going to make sure that everyone knew who provided that care.
When his beeper went off, Dr. Grevious raced to Ritz's room. Lights! Camera! Action!
Ritz's eyes were fluttering. The pace on the heart monitor was quickening. She seemed to be moving her lips. Finally, she opened her eyes.
“Welcome back, stranger,” Dr. Grevious said, smiling. He took out his light and checked her pupils. There was still some swelling around her eyes, so he was very gentle. Ritz tried to talk, but it was painful. It felt like she had swallowed a bunch of chopped glass. The tube they had shoved down her throat to feed her had made her throat raw. Her eyes hurt. Her head was pounding. She couldn't take a deep breath without feeling a stabbing pain. The grimace that was etched across her face told the story.
“Nurse, get Ms. Harper some morphine, stat!” Dr. Grevious said. He smiled at Ritz. “The worst part is over, Ms. Harper. We're going to focus now on getting you back on your feet.”
Ritz opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry and she felt pain all around the sockets. Her head pounded, as if the entire cast from Drumline were practicing in her head: Rat-a-tat-tat! Her chest hurt, her knees hurt, her side hurt. She was a bundle of pain.
Tears streaked down the sides of her face, creating another kind of hot pain that started from somewhere inside. The great Ritz Harper, the “Queen of All Media,” was flat on her back and helpless. Ritz prided herself on her independence. Since her mother died, she had lived as if she could rely on no one but herself.
At the tender age of ten, Ritz decided she was going to take care of herself. She appreciated her aunt and uncle for raising her, giving her a home, and loving her, but Ritz never relied on them. She always had odd jobs as a kid. She sold flowers in the neighborhood, flowers she plucked from her aunt's garden. She did chores for a fee. Ritz wasn't afraid of work. And she saved every penny. She was not miserly, but she was afraid— afraid of being alone and helpless. While outsiders didn't understand the method to her madness, Ritz knew exactly what she was doing when she would pay cash for her car and try to pay off her home as quickly as possible. Financial advisors told her that what she was doing was stupid, that you spend other people's money, that loans are your friends. To Ritz, a loan was a dependency on somebody else, and that didn't work for her. If something happened, they could come and take her car or take her home and she would be left with nothing. She wanted to own her stuff— outright. She didn't want anyone to be able to take anything from her— not even her life. She fought hard every day to live, because she wanted whoever had the audacity to try and take her life to feel her wrath.
To Ritz, life was all about power and control. She wanted the power and she wanted the control. Power and control were her twin babies, and she would give those babies to no one— not for one minute, not for one second.
And now she was laid up in a hospital bed, completely powerless with zero control. She couldn't even take herself to the bathroom. Her most humiliating experience was the day she soiled her sheets and two orderlies had to come in and literally lift her from her bed while the nurse cleaned the bed, changed her sheets, and washed her.
Ritz was screaming inside. She was Ritz Fucking Harper, not some damn invalid who had to have her ass wiped by someone. But at the moment, she was an invalid who had to have her ass wiped for her.
Some of the nurses were surly. Ritz was given the deluxe star treatment, complete with a private room and other amenities that were found more at the Ritz-Carlton than in a hospital. But the staff was still the hospital staff. Ritz had four nurses who worked eight-hour shifts. Two of them were nice, but two acted like they did not want to be there. They treated her like they hated her. One was so rude that, if Ritz had any strength whatsoever, she would have slapped her.
But she could barely move, let alone haul off and slap someone. She was completely at everyone's mercy. Her biggest nightmare was what happened to the Uma Thurman character in Kill Bill when she was in a coma and one of the hospital workers charged a fee for men to have their way with her while she was unconscious. Ritz didn't even want to think about what could have happened to her while she was in a coma and totally helpless.
Ritz hadn't processed yet that she was under constant watch and guard. She hadn't even thought about the killer possibly trying again. Her only thought was getting back. She wanted to get back on top as quickly as possible.
In a way, she was in her element in the hospital. Hospitals were for folks who were in pain, and Ritz had spent almost her whole life in pain. So, in the hospital, Ritz felt very much at home.