“You goin’ out?” called Hillary Schinn’s dad. Fred Schinn was a retired stonemason, a man with cottony white hair, a red face, and rough hands. And he was diabetic. He was lying on the couch in the living room of his Richfield home, cup of coffee resting on his stomach, his swollen legs propped up on a pillow.
Hillary was standing by the entrance to the kitchen, looking at herself in a full-length mirror that was hung on the back of the door. “Yeah,” she said, standing sideways and pressing a hand to her stomach. She’d been on a diet for the past three weeks, ever since she found out that Joanna Kasimir was coming to town, but she hadn’t lost more than two pounds. It was depressing beyond belief. Her boyfriend always said she looked great, but guys lied to get laid. It was a simple fact. She was a good thirty pounds over the number on the weight chart at her doctor’s office, and that meant she was a frumpy butterball, one who still lived with her dad. How pathetic was that?
During her twenties, Hillary simply assumed that by the time she was thirty, she’d have kids, a great job, a reasonably handsome husband, a home, a yard, and a fat bank account—not a fat body. Nothing had worked out the way she’d planned. She’d gone to the U of M,
got her degree in journalism, but the year she graduated the job market was in the toilet. Maybe she didn’t always interview well. She was often immobilized by a bad case of nerves—just like right now. Her hands were clammy and her stomach was in knots.
To get by, Hillary had worked various dead-end jobs over the years—Burger King, the Nicollet Car Wash, the Town Talk Cleaners, and Blockbuster video. She’d finally taken a position at a local hospital. For the past two years she’d been selling flowers and balloons to the families of the sick and dying. It was too depressing for words, which only made it seem even more important that she find a job as a freelance journalist. All she needed was one measly break. If things worked out as she hoped, Joanna Kasimir would be that break.
“Where you goin’?” asked her dad, flipping channels on the TV.
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Don’t pressure me, okay? I feel like my brain is about to explode.”
He sighed loudly. “Always so dramatic. You got that from your mom. Hey, will you make me a sandwich before you go? My legs are really bad today.”
The deal was that Hillary could live at home free of charge as long as she helped her dad with the upkeep of the house and also did the cooking and grocery shopping. Sure, her dad was ill, but he also used his illness as an excuse to get out of doing his part. “Can’t you make yourself a peanut butter sandwich or something?”
“That’s what I had for dinner last night—and the night before.”
“Well, I’m crazed, can’t you see that? I can’t deal with anything else.” She charged up the stairs to her room. She saw now that the dress she’d picked was all wrong. She needed a more professional look. Her closet was crammed with clothes—all the way from size ten up to size sixteen. She was a fourteen at the moment. And that thought made her remember the dark blue suit she’d bought last fall for a funeral.
“Here,” she whispered, pulling it free. She shimmied out of the dress, dug through a drawer until she found a white silk blouse that wasn’t too wrinkled, then slipped it on. Next came the pants. They were a little tight, which was just about the last straw, but she was
able to get them zipped. The suit coat fit her perfectly. This, finally, was the right image. Professional but approachable. Friendly. Young. Hungry but definitely not desperate.
On the way to the airport, Hillary experienced everything from dry mouth to vertigo to shakes to nausea. She was a mess—both exhilarated and scared to death. She’d never met a celebrity before. Every off-ramp she passed was an opportunity to turn back, but she refused to look at them. She had to keep going. The alternative was just too horrible to contemplate.
Hillary had been lucky, which was another reason she thought this meeting with Joanna Kasimir was meant to be. She knew a guy—Noel Dearborn—who was an intern at the Allen Grimby Repertory Theater. He’d been itching to date her forever. She kept putting him off but never totally shut him down. The day he overheard the top brass at the theater talking about Joanna’s plane coming in on September 24, three-ten P.M. at Flying Cloud, he called Hillary and told her the news. That was three weeks ago. Noel knew that Joanna Kasimir was Hillary’s film idol. Hillary talked about her all the time. Hillary asked him once if he thought she looked like Joanna Kasimir. He said yeah, definitely. Which just confirmed what she’d already believed.
Forty-five minutes after she’d left her dad’s house, Hillary parked her white Toyota Tercel next to a gray minivan. She’d never been to Flying Cloud airport before. The MapQuest directions had confused her, but amazingly, she’d made good time. So good, in fact, that she had almost an hour to wait until the plane landed. In an effort to get her mind off her anxiety, she decided to make a mental list of the things she wanted to say.
Except, instead of concentrating on the task at hand, Hillary was immediately overwhelmed by all the negative voices in her head—the ones that told her she was a failure; a rotten writer. A liar. A sham. She had no business thinking she could be a professional journalist. She was just setting herself up for a fall. Joanna Kasimir wouldn’t give her the time of day because she’d see Hillary for the fraud she really was. The smart thing to do would be to leave right now, not waste everyone’s time. But if she did leave, if this didn’t work out, Hillary
wasn’t sure what she’d have left. If her life didn’t change, she was beginning to think it wasn’t worth living.
Leaning her forehead against the steering wheel, Hillary felt the weight of her own negativity squeeze the air out of her lungs. She’d been so upbeat, so thrilled when she’d first learned Joanna would be coming. She and Joanna were kindred spirits. They’d both suffered and survived. They were destined to be not just friends but sisters of the heart. Confidantes. Family. Joanna would take Hillary’s hand in hers and smile that wonderful smile. “Sure,” she’d say. “I’ll give you an exclusive interview.” And then she’d promise that they’d get together soon.
It had to work out that way. It just had to.