“How long?” C.J. barked.

“I don’t know. I guess it started in high school. Maybe it’s a hormonal thing.”

“I mean how long does it last?”

“An hour or so.” The more I thought about it, the more I sweated.

“Goddamn it, we don’t have an hour! Marissa!”

The makeup artist who had already spent half an hour touching up my face came running out of the dressing room.

“Powder her!” C.J. ordered.

Marissa made a face. “Geez,” she said. “That’s going to be tough to cover. We should wait until the sweating stops.”

“Powder her!” C.J. said again. “And I mean good. I want her spackled.”

Marissa stuffed tissue around my collar, pulled a huge powder pad out of her apron and went at me. But I could tell it wasn’t working.

“Izzy, stop it!” C.J. said.

“I can’t.”

“So if you know this is a problem, what’s the solution?”

“I’ve tried a bunch of things.”

Once, at the beginning of a trial, I ripped out my shoulder pads and tucked them under my arm. Another time I used the liner notes from a Missy Elliot album I stole off Q’s desk. My greatest fear had been that this would happen at my wedding. But since I wasn’t getting married anytime soon, I’d stopped thinking about it.

Suddenly I remembered something. “Benadryl!” I yelped. “Does someone have Benadryl?”

C.J. spun around and faced the newsroom. “Who has Benadryl?” she thundered.

Through swipes of the huge powder pad, I could see some people shrug. Faith Lowe, the avant-garde producer I’d met my first day, began to dig in her purse. She held up a triumphant fist. “I’ve got some.” She ran up to C.J. and gave it to her.

C.J. tore the backing from the foil packaging. “Why didn’t you bring this out before, Faith?” she asked in an irritated tone.

“Because you didn’t ask for it before.” Faith turned and stomped away.

“Thanks,” I called to Faith’s back, but she was weaving her way through the newsroom.

C.J. pulled two tablets out of the foil. “Does this work?”

“I don’t know,” I said, reaching for them. “A doctor once told me to try it.”

C.J. pulled the tablets back toward her. “This stuff makes you tired. Like really tired.”

I pointed at my pink, burning face. “Do you prefer this?”

“Get her a Red Bull!” she yelled over her shoulder, then put the tablets in my hand. “Take the things. Now!”

I popped the pills. The makeup artist handed me a can of Red Bull.

For the next ten minutes, Marissa kept spackling, while everyone gathered in the newsroom to watch me. I felt like sweating livestock at a county fair.

“Just keep reading your script,” C.J. said. “Get ready to go on-air.”

But the sweating wouldn’t stop. I was dripping onto my script. “I can’t put any more makeup on her,” Marissa said.

“Yes, you can,” C.J. said.

More blotting with tissues; more swats with a makeup brush and the powder pad.

“Three minutes to air!” someone yelled.

I looked at C.J. with terrified eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. That Benadryl will start to work any minute. And remember, you’re doing this for Jane.”

I closed my eyes. I tried to picture Jane at the anchor desk yesterday, working her magic. But I kept seeing Jane dead last night; Jane rolled out of her house on a gurney.

“One minute to air!” the guy yelled. “Quiet on the set!”

“Izzy,” I heard C.J. say.

I opened my eyes. She was peering at my face, and she looked oddly relieved.

“It’s working,” she said.

She was right. I could feel the heat and the red drain away.

C.J. watched me for another thirty seconds. “Powder once more!” she yelled over her shoulder at Marissa.

This time, the powder felt like cool dust.

Marissa backed away, then C.J., who was nodding at me, staring me in the eyes. “You’re all right,” she mouthed.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

I closed my eyes again. I didn’t try to think of Jane. Instead, I thought of Forester. How he had encouraged me, how he had always told me I could do anything.

“Three, two…”

I opened my eyes. “Good morning and welcome to Trial TV. I’m Isabel McNeil.”

As I spoke, looking into the yawning square lens of the camera, a tranquil, almost eerie composure settled over me. Maybe it was the Benadryl. Maybe it was because this was one last thing I could do for Jane. Whatever it was, I could feel my mouth move, I could hear the words coming out, but it was as if someone else were speaking.

I sank into a hole of detachment that opened in my mind. I thought of all the times I had seen Jane do this, and it was almost as if I was channeling her. Like Jane, when the lead story was over and a red light flashed on a different camera, I glanced down at my script and then turned my body to face it. Like Jane, I read the next story and the next with confidence. Like Jane, I smiled slightly when we went to a commercial.

And when that first segment was over, I finally looked around the room, and I saw people nodding. Ted, the cameraman, gave me a thumbs-up. So did Faith and Ricky, the photographer who had driven the news van.

C.J. rushed up to me. “You’ve got some kinks, but you’re good.”

“I am?” I blinked. I felt in a slight stupor from the Benadryl, but I was also buzzing with an energy I had never known before.

“Really good,” C.J. said. She rattled off a litany of criticisms and suggestions.

I blinked. How did Jane do this and make it look so effortless?

“Ready?” C.J. asked.

“No.”

“Good, because we’re back to you in five…four…three…”

31

T here was no funeral for Jane, or at least not one open to the public. Instead, her parents, who lived outside of Grand Rapids, Michigan, were holding a private burial there over the weekend. Meanwhile, Zac had a hastily arranged afternoon memorial on Tuesday at the restaurant in the Park Hyatt where she and I had been Friday night; it had always been one of Jane’s favorite places.

It seemed early for a memorial service. Didn’t such things usually take place a few days after the death? Or maybe that was only when there was a body to be dealt with for the service. I wondered if Jane’s parents would have an open casket. I hoped not. Jane should only be remembered for the vivacious, vibrant woman she was.

Spring was still in the air on that Tuesday afternoon, with green buds sprouting from the otherwise bare trees and a fresh scent blowing off the lake. But it was chilly, and so the outside bar, where I’d had drinks with Jane just days before, where she’d asked me to join Trial TV, was closed. Inside, the bar had polished, dark wood and chic furniture. The tall windows overlooked Chicago Avenue, and on the far end, Michigan Avenue and the old Water Tower.

The place was packed. I glanced around and for a second I thought I knew everyone, but realized many were anchors and reporters I’d seen on the news for years. I waved to the few I did know from working at Pickett Enterprises. I saw C.J. standing near the end of the bar with a producer and assignment editor from Jane’s old station. They all appeared distraught. Everybody did.

Q appeared next to me. “Hi,” he said simply, somberly.

“Thanks for being here.”

Sam had offered to come with me, but I wanted to attend the memorial with someone who knew Jane. Q, as my assistant, had worked with her for years, and he had loved her.

Q peered at my face. “TV makeup?”

“Yeah.” I told him about anchoring the morning show. And the flop sweat attack. As a result, they’d powdered me in a massive way again that day.

“Wow.” Q peered at me some more. “It’s going to take an industrial squeegee to get that off.”

“And a blowtorch.”

Neither of us laughed.

“I can’t believe this.” Q adjusted his black tie, which he wore with a gray-and-black houndstooth jacket. His new boyfriend had lots of cash, and since they’d gotten together, Q had become a true fashionista. “You okay?”