Weather Girl(46)

Still, I can’t help thinking of all the years she refused treatment. Every time Alex and I worried about her, only for her to wake up the next day, pretending nothing was wrong. This hospital is an extreme—she’s only here because her brain took her to the darkest of places. Because she was afraid, and she didn’t know what else to do.

My adult life would be different, I’m sure of it, if she’d gotten help sooner. There are too many what-ifs down that road, and yet I can’t seem to redirect myself.

She tells us about the hospital’s recreational activities, the doctors, the group therapy, leaving out the more personal details. “The food is actually amazing here,” she says.

What I want to know is why this time is different. Why she changed her mind about medication, or if she’s only taking it so they’ll discharge her. If she’ll fall back on her old habits once she goes home.

And she can’t stop staring at my sling. “They’re going to let you on camera with that?” she asks.

“I sure hope so, given it’s my job.”

“It doesn’t reflect poorly on the station?”

“Why would it do that? It doesn’t affect my ability to forecast the weather.”

Dial it back, Alex’s expression says. She’s trying. Give her a chance.

“We’re all really glad you’re here.” Alex touches her arm, ever the peacemaker. “We want to support you however we can.”

She gives him a tight smile, and I try my best not to read into it. I’ve never known what’s going through my mother’s head—I can’t imagine that changing now.

Eventually, the conversation moves to my breakup, just as I feared it would.

“We weren’t right for each other,” I say with a shrug, because I can’t bear to tell her the real reason. “It just took us a while to realize it.”

I’m fully prepared for her to say something shitty, even though she doesn’t know the details. You were too much. He couldn’t handle it.

Instead, she reaches across the table and places a hand on mine, her skin weathered and dotted with freckles. “I’m sorry,” she says, and if I close my eyes, I can pretend she’s apologizing for so much more.





15




FORECAST:

Rough seas ahead, both literal and metaphorical

“DID YOU HEAR about the meteorologist who broke her arms and legs?” one of the camera guys calls to me as I position myself in front of the green screen. “She had to wear four casts.”

“That’s hilarious, Glenn. Top-notch humor.” I wince as morning producer Deandra Fuller helps me adjust my mic over one of my five-of-the-same-dresses in navy today. Zipping it up was hell. “Are you sure this is going to be okay?”

“Absolutely,” Deandra says. “Remember when Gia broke her wrist playing rec volleyball last year? She showed that video of people helping her get made up in the dressing room that everyone loved. And hey, maybe you can make a joke about it when you’re on the air. You know, make the viewers feel less awkward about it by showing that you don’t feel awkward about it.”

What that turns out to be is this: “A lot of snow in the mountains this week, which is good news for skiers and snowboarders,” I say, lifting my left arm. “Though I won’t be doing any of that for a while!”

I can barely keep my eyes open during the show. It’s gotten easier to sleep upright, but I’m going to have to take a break before Russell and I launch the next phase of our plan tonight. I’m a pro power-napper, but I tossed and turned between the hours of eleven and two, and when I forced myself out of bed at two fifteen, my head was pounding and my stomach was unhappy with me. Once again, I regret not buying that dog pillow from Instagram.

It’s not just lack of sleep, though. I recognize the signs of my depression creeping in, probably a mix of my injury and my mom and, as always, my brain chemistry. The littlest things make me overly emotional, like the feel-good story that wrapped up our morning show about a golden retriever who traversed three states to catch up with her family when they went on vacation. The thought of sweet Beatrice missing her people so desperately that she couldn’t bear to be separated from them for a few days . . . damn it, I might be on the verge of tearing up again. I’ll be okay—I’ll just have to work harder to force the smiles on and off camera.

Force them enough, and they start to feel real.

I’m on my way to my desk when a conversation stops me in my tracks.

“He’s been different lately,” investigative reporter Kyla Sutherland says to Meg Nishimura in the hall between the studio and the newsroom. “I saw him go into her office this morning. I thought it was going to be another one of those signs, but he left a latte on her desk.”

“Oat milk?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe they finally called a truce.”

“Or banged out all the tension.”

The two of them laugh, and despite the layer of mental fog, I let this knowledge buoy me as I head into the newsroom.

Unfortunately, it’s short-lived. I’m trying to update our social media with my forecasts, but there’s something wrong with my internet. I disconnect and reconnect. Restart my computer. Nothing. And Torrance is in the weather center now, working on her own forecasts. I know from experience that it’s a solitary task for her.