Hattie Kauffman - Falling Into Place: A Memoir of Overcoming

The woman in front of me was in no shape to be on television. Her face was lifelessher eyes red, swollen, vacant. She met my gaze as if begging to be told what to do, but I had no idea how to help her and felt every bit as lost as she looked. All I could think to do was recite the facts as I knew them. Maybe facts would bring clarity and direction.

You have a shoot this morning. You should take a shower.

My words bounced off her cold image in the mirror. She wasnt listening.

I turned away, but movement felt nearly impossible under the weight of limbs too heavy to lift. My mind felt as though it were slipping in and out of time and I struggled to stay focused on what I was doing. Thirty minutes passed, maybe an hour. I hardly remembered showering, couldnt recall picking out my outfit or applying my camera-ready makeup. Then I was in the middle of the kitchen, staring at everything and nothing in particularthe kitchen belonged to the woman I was yesterday. This morning, the space didnt seem to know me. The instincts born of habit felt foreign and irrelevant.

You should eat breakfast.

But how could I, knowing he was just down the hall?

I tiptoed back past the guest room where he was sleeping and made my way to the master bedroom. Our new bedding looked regal in its gold and burgundy. It was only weeks ago wed walked around Bloomingdales and decided which fabric and pattern we liked. The big sleigh bed itself was also new.

We have a brand-new bed.

Our wedding photo sat upon the dresser. We looked impossibly young. The groom didnt have a single grey hair. I touched the picture, tracing my fingers over our faces, landing finally on our wedding kiss. We had awakened to this photo for seventeen years.

I carried the picture, in its marble frame, back to the kitchen and set it on the counter to face him when he got up. Then I walked out of the house to begin a three-hour drive to Lompoc for my shoot.

I was in no state to be behind the wheel of a car. As I headed up Sunset Boulevard and got onto the 405 Freeway, I was struggling to see through tears. By the time I merged onto Highway 101, crying became weeping. As I passed Ventura, my weeping turned to wailing. Tissues littered the front seat. Whatever had held me together was gone.

By Santa Barbara, I was cried out. I glanced at the clock, in a brief lucid moment, and realized I was an hour ahead of schedule. It hadnt occurred to me to check the time when I was still at the house. I had simply needed to go . I pulled off the highway to regroup, gather myself, and reapply my eye makeup. Maybe I should try again to eat.

A few minutes later I found myself being seated in the hushed, elegant breakfast garden of the Four Seasons Hotel, overlooking the ocean. A waiter set freshly squeezed orange juice before me and asked if Id like a New York Times .

What?

I stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. And then I was angry at his insensitivity. Who reads the New York Times on a day like this? Did I look like I wanted to read a paper?

Right. Im a news correspondent. I read the New York Times every day.

I dumbly shook my head. Not this day.

Gazing at the brilliant blue of the ocean, I didnt notice when food was set before me. When the waiter brought the check, I saw an hour had passed and Id barely touched my plate. I couldnt recall having a single thought during that time. It was as if Id been clubbed on the head, so stunned that my thoughts had vanished.

Am I falling apart? You cant fall apart, Hattie. You never fall apart.

That thin reassurance sent my mind tumbling back in time, searching for proof of this assertion.

Look Directly into the Camera

Focus, I tell myself, facing the huge studio camera.

I am twenty-six years old and about to anchor my first news broadcast. And in Seattle, of all placesthe same city that couldnt break us but came close, the city that was supposed to be a new beginning for Mom and Dad when they left the reservationbut where we seven kids found ourselves, more than once, huddled in a parked car on First Avenue waiting for them to come out of a tavern.