Chapters

Chapter 1

Copyright 2010 Debbie Mihal

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her studio, Teal Green looked for her truth, even though she knew it was distorted by  . . . well, everything she’d ever experienced. A sharp pain pierced through her temple then was gone. Sighing, she distracted herself by studying the backs of her hands. Not the palms, which was her habit, but the backs, where her leathery but soft skin revealed a few freckles over the thick, gnarly veins. Strong and heavy with short, flat nails, her hands were like clean farmer’s hands. She turned them over to see the densely lined palms and thick pads at the ends of her fingers. Well used, they appeared competent, assured. They were the reason, perhaps, she’d become famous.Though none of the inquiries about her story over the last two years had started with her hands.

Until that Russell Stamens called.

He eventually told her he wanted to make a documentary about the veterans, but his first comment had been about her hands. His curiosity caught her off guard, stirred her heart somehow, and she’d reluctantly agreed to meet him. Damn him, she thought now. Sound logic told her to cancel. He may have seemed different, but she knew better than to allow herself to be courted by the media.

But was he courting her or her story? She shook her head, unaware of her inability to differentiate her attraction from his, sensing only his charisma that was founded on nothing but a conversation.

Although her hazel eyes hadn’t yet allowed their hint of youthful mischief to be dragged down by sagging jowls and receding gums, Teal Green hadn’t laughed or been excited about anything outside her practice in a very long time. Happiness felt like a sore, unused muscle and to even consider that this Stamens’ intentions might be true to his word felt like self betrayal. The possibility of hope generated by the concepts behind the documentary caused her great trepidation. A loner, she had no friends, had refused to talk to the press, and never bothered to keep up with the latest cyber posting trends. Her desire to withdraw from the world, to be an expert in her field and nothing else, to somehow inspire others while barely making a ripple herself, created only a vague template that allowed so-called poetic license to mold her into whatever deity or monster the media chose to create. In short, who Teal Green was didn’t matter. The name had become legend and everything that had gone into defining that name had become moot. If not dead, then as good as. And that was why she flatly refused all the offers for interviews and  authorized versions of her life.

Until this Russell Stamens called.

She recalled his voice, as smooth as rich coffee with cream, and how it reverberated in her chest like low thunder promising rain in a drought. Closing her eyes now, she could still feel it in her body. He’d told her he’d been intrigued by the stories about the power in her hands and wanted to know more about that, even though he was actually researching the ongoing crimes against the vets. That’s what he’d called their lack of medical benefits, the broken promises, the bounced paychecks, their participation in inhumane clinical trials, the extortion into endless tours of duty: crimes. She’d liked that he didn’t coat it and said it with no fear. People were still intimidated these days to criticize, even though there was a new administration in the White House. She admired Stamens for being candid. She hadn’t realized she missed the exhilarating  power of forthrightness, despite that his words could put her back in jail.

He’s just charming, she thought, her chest becoming tight against the possibility of his capitalizing on her life. She didn’t trust charming. With a shudder, Teal snapped the sheets and pad off the extra-wide massage table and stuffed them with rage into the sack that held the rest of her days’ linens. It was wrong that she said yes to this man, and it was especially wrong that she let him seduce her like that, with a strong voice and admiration. She’d let that happen before and knew better. Damn.

Tomorrow, she’d be flying to Los Angeles to meet him. Unclear as to the real purpose of their meeting, she’d asked for his reassurance many times that the topic was the vets and not her. As if she could trust his answer. The truth was, she didn’t. And why should she? Yet she’d agreed to go anyway. Until this moment, she’d hidden her angst behind her work. But now, with only a load of linens to distract her, worries pounded through her mind in incessant waves of self loathing. Forgetting the peace she’d felt two weeks before when she’d meditated on her decision to go, foremost on her mind was her disgust at her stupidity for breaking her own promise to stay out of the public eye.

Copyright 2010 Debbie Mihal