CHAPTER 20

Turning Down Oprah

Obviously, the accident had been difficult for my friend to deal with. It was tough for all of us. The other girls were always reminded and their lives changed, too. Mine had radically changed, but so much good was coming from it all that I was getting carried along by the momentum. I thought, eventually, she would simply figure it all out in her head and find peace. But with so many people trying to interject and get her story, and all the horrible comments that she couldn’t help but read, it just became unbearable for her. She was terrified of the online bullying that would likely occur if they found her out. It had been bad enough without her name out there.

I remember sitting at home one afternoon in January and receiving an e-mail from a producer for Oprah Winfrey. I was so excited. I was a little mystified, too. Oprah Winfrey? I mean, I knew my story was interesting to people, but I was surprised it was that interesting. I’d watched Oprah almost every day. She was my idol. I knew this was something I needed to share with my friend, so I gave her a call. I thought that good news for me would make her feel good, too, that she’d see these really cool things happening for me and be relieved in a way. But I also knew the attention on my story made her nervous.

“Oprah wants to talk to me!” I said.

“That’s cool,” she said. I could tell she was a little anxious. “Are they going to want to talk about me?” she asked sheepishly.

“Of course not. Oprah would never ask that.” I thought Oprah wanted to hear about my love story and have Chris and me appear on the show together. “Don’t even give it a thought. I can’t imagine that’s what they want, but it doesn’t matter because even if they do, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. So don’t worry about it.”

I finally did speak to a producer and my heart just sank. A few people had wanted the story, but I had been clear that I wasn’t going to say anything about my friend. Oprah was really the last outlet I thought would ask because that information had been more of a quest of the tabloids and gossip magazines up to this point.

“We’re doing a show on forgiveness. . . . ” That was all I needed to hear. I explained to her that I don’t look at it like something I need to forgive. If someone had hurt me intentionally, then forgiveness would be in order. But there was no ill intent. I would have had to have been angry in order to forgive, and I wasn’t. There was no blame, so nothing to forgive. I didn’t even consider asking my friend to participate. The thought never even occurred to me.

I said, “I can’t do that to her. She can’t talk about it. She doesn’t talk to anyone about what happened. It hurts too much.”

It turned out the producer wanted us both to come on the show. She told me it would happen only if I brought my friend along. I think she was stunned we’d turn down Oprah—that anyone would turn down Oprah. She called back twice, asking me to appear with my friend, trying to convince me, pressing harder each time. Twice more I said no. I offered to come alone, but they weren’t interested. I explained that my friend was having serious anxiety attacks and that it would be too much for me even to ask her.

A lot of people have asked me and the other girls there that night why we were so protective. Seriously? Releasing her identity would have been equivalent to releasing the hounds, so to speak. We would have been an accessory to her pain. What human being would do that to another person? I know her better than anyone, I think. I know it would break her if I didn’t continue to protect her and hide her identity. If people hadn’t been so evil and mean with comments and seeking out her name, we might never have needed to work so hard to shield her. We might have been able to go on Oprah and discuss our friendship. It was unfortunately made apparent early on that we had to step in and form our protective pact; people were suggesting online some seriously inhumane things. We couldn’t stand for that.

The Oprah folks acted like an appearance on the show would help her heal, but I felt they didn’t have our best interests at heart. It would have ruined all of us, and we all knew that. What if her name was out there and people could message her directly, before she’d had a chance to heal? We knew the risk was too great. That’s what bothered me the most about Oprah’s people. How could someone who had no idea who I was or who she was try to convince me this was good for us? Believe me, it was Oprah, and I was starry-eyed. But not stupid. I was offended that they tried to coax me like I was an idiot. I felt disillusioned. I idolized Oprah. I grew up watching her. I thought Oprah would do the same thing for her friend, too. I thought Oprah would have been proud of how I was taking a stand for a friend’s life and well-being. I think had she actually known that, she herself would have understood. She is famous for being a tremendous friend. I was being a pillar of strength at my weakest moment to help someone in a worse predicament. I knew Oprah would have appreciated that act. At least, I hope.

I wound up having the same conversation over and over with my friend with great frequency after that. It appeared to hit her hardest right then. I remember my words, on the phone or if she’d come to visit. It was always the same.

“You don’t deserve to feel anything from this,” I’d explain.

I’d say, “I’ve pushed you in the pool so many times; you’ve pushed me in. It’s just this one time I got hurt. It doesn’t make me better, and it doesn’t make you a bad person that this happened this time. We’ve messed around near the water before.”

She would call when she was anxious, but the calls started to dwindle a bit. She would feel better when we hung up, that I could tell, but it seemed it would all creep back in overnight and she’d wake up the next day stressed again. She never told me she was going to kill herself, but it became a growing fear of mine as the media barrage escalated and the risk of her name getting out grew. I felt like it would be a very long road to her finding happiness, if that even happened. I felt like I’d lose my control of the situation if her name got out there. I don’t think I would have been able to pull her back from the damage that would have done.

I knew she was trying to stay busy with her work. She had a great job, and all of us were there for her. I comforted her the most, I thought, because when she could see I was okay, then she felt okay. “I’m at peace. You should be, too.” I told her again and again, “Don’t waste your money paying to talk to someone you don’t know.” It seemed like it was the right thing. A therapist would cost so much money, and even though she had insurance and had toyed with the idea, I thought I could help her more, that I’d get the words right, that I’d comfort her because it had happened to us, not a stranger. I worried that once-a-week sessions wouldn’t be enough, and that she’d maybe shift away from talking to me. I didn’t want to manage the situation in a control-freak kind of way, but I wanted to offer some sort of control for her. I knew it would take her so long to develop trust with a stranger but that we already had deep trust between us. Even as I told her I could be her support again and again, maybe at that point she should have spoken to someone. Maybe it was too much for her and I wasn’t equipped. She fell into such a blue place. Maybe a therapist could have helped her. That was one regret I did have as months went by and she didn’t appear to feel better.