Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [31]
—I took a blow to the back of my head and received . . .
I have a quick whispered consultation with Mark.
—Twenty-two stitches, I say.
—Why have you hired bodyguards? another photographer asks, nodding to Mark and Lloyd.
Lloyd pushes his way toward the mic. —We’re family friends and we’re only too happy to lend our support.
—Lloyd, you’ve fought in the GSA, you’ve trained some of America’s finest. Has Lyn asked your advice about Uber?
—I’m afraid I’m better at discussing swords and tridents.
—Lyn, how did you get injured?
This from a tall male reporter with chopped blond hair.
—People were cheering wildly for Tommy at the stadium, I say. —I think a bottle flew out of someone’s hands in the excitement.
—Do you think it’s possible that someone aimed it at your head intentionally?
I look up at the house again. Thad is pacing back and forth in front of his bedroom window now. He waves. I wave back. He motions frantically for me to come into the house.
—Glad fans everywhere have shown enormous respect for my family and thought Tommy G. fought heroically. Their loyalty is helping my family through this loss. It is, however, a rough sport. People do get killed. Though I should add that Caesar’s Inc. works very hard to ensure maximum safety to those who attend the competitions.
Mark whispers in my ear, —You’re good.
—Have you met with Uber? another reporter asks.
—No. Not yet.
—So you plan to?
—There are no plans at this time, I say.
—Do you dream of becoming a Glad wife?
Up in the house, Thad pleads with me to come inside. Cameramen and photographers push their equipment as close as possible now, closer. The soggy summer air presses in. And I realize that I’m right there, at the end of a perfect media moment. All I have to do is come up with something that rings with warmth, something that conveys hope to a million girls about the life of the GSA wife. Then I’ll be out of here, released into our home, into Allison’s mind, my brother’s predictions. But there’s something about this particular question. I think of the number of times Allison has been asked about any plans to become a Glad wife again. And suddenly my mind is thrown into reverse and I just toss off an answer, the first thing that comes to mind.
—Sometimes I dream of becoming a gladiator.
Questions fly now, boy. Lloyd whips into action, his arm around my waist, and with Mark at my other side, they draw me toward the house. CAMERA LIGHTS SHINE through my eyeballs all the way to the back of my head, and I bet the T formed by the stitches lights up. Reporters push in tighter and Lloyd and Mark elbow toward the front door. I let the questions dissolve into the air like so much insect repellent.
When we finally get into the foyer with its buckets and buckets of condolence flowers, I look at Allison and try to get some air. I have seen her through the loss of six husbands (I’d include my biological father but I have no memories there) and both of her parents’ deaths, but I have never seen her look this bereft. She presses me to her bosom and kisses my cheek and asks me to turn around so she can see the stitches. She reminds me that hair grows back. She tells me she’s sorry.
Exchanging kisses with Lloyd and Mark, Allison invites them into the kitchen to eat the sandwiches mounded on silver platters, the casseroles and salads, all from the neighbors. The plasma screens are on in the living room so she can see three news stations at once. There’s no doubt that she knows what I’ve said to the press. But she won’t take this up with me, not yet, not in front of them.
CHAPTER
11
I enter Thad’s room slowly because sometimes he stands inches from the door, eager to catch your energy before you get in the room, and a couple of times he’s been bruised across the forehead or nose this way until we figured out his patterns. But this time he’s crowded under his train table, the Lionel system in full roar, tiny milk cans loading onto a platform, people trying to get to Pasadena or Toronto or someplace in