Free Fly Away by Kristin Hannah Page B

with a capital D . It began in the house on Firefly Lane, with Kate, when we were fourteen years old.
     I remember the day as if it were yesterday; it is a story I’ve told in a dozen interviews
     over the years. How Katie and I were in her house, and Margie and Bud were watching
     the news and Margie turned to me and said, “Jean Enerson is changing the world. She’s
     one of the first women to anchor the nightly news.”
    And I said, “I’m going to be a reporter.”
    It had been as natural as breathing, saying that. I wanted to become a woman the whole
     world admired. I did it by paring away every single dream except one: I needed success
     like a fish needed water. Without it, who would I be? Just a girl with no family who
     was easy to leave behind and put aside.
    It is what I have in life—fame and money and success.
    At that, I know. It is time for me to go back to work.
    That’s how I will get through this grief. I will do what I’ve always done. I’ll look strong
     and pretend. I’ll let the adoration of strangers soothe me.
    I go into my walk-in closet and exchange the brightly colored jersey dress for a pair
     of black pants and a blouse. This is when I realize I have gained weight. The pants
     are so tight I can’t get them zipped.
    I frown. How is it that I didn’t notice gaining weight in the last few months? I grab
     a knit skirt and put it on instead, noticing the bulge of my belly and the widening
     of my hips.
    Great . Something else to worry about: weight gain in a high-def world. I grab my purse
     and head out, ignoring the pile of mail the building manager has placed on my kitchen
     counter.
    It is only a handful of blocks to my studio, and usually I have a driver pick me up,
     but today, in honor of the widening of my ass, I decide to walk. It is a gorgeous
     fall day in Seattle, one of those sunshine masterpieces that turn this city into one
     of the prettiest in the country. The tourists have gone home and so the sidewalks
     are quiet, populated by locals who rush to and fro without making eye contact.
    I come to the large, warehouse-type building that houses my production company. Firefly,
     Inc. The space is absurdly expensive, located as it is in Pioneer Square, less than
     a block from the blue shores of Elliott Bay, but what do I care about cost? The show
     I produce makes millions.
    I unlock the door and go inside. The halls are dark and empty, a stark reminder that
     I walked away and never looked back. Shadows collect in corners and hide in hallways.
     As I walk toward the studio, I feel my heartbeat speed up. Sweat breaks out along
     my forehead, itches. My palms turn damp.
    And then I am there, standing at the red curtain that separates backstage from my
     world. I push the curtain aside.
    The last time I was on this stage, I’d told my audience about Katie, how she’d been
     diagnosed with inflammatory breast cancer, and I’d talked about the warning signs,
     and then I signed off. Now I would have to talk about what had happened, explain how
     it felt to sit by my best friend’s bed and hold her hand and tell her it would be
     okay long past the time when that was true. Or how it felt to gather up her pills
     and pour out the last of the water in the pitcher by her empty bed.
    I grab the stanchion beside me. It feels cold and unforgiving in my grip, but it keeps
     me standing.
    I can’t do it. Not yet. I can’t talk about Katie, and if I can’t talk about her, I
     can’t stride back into my old life, onto my stage, and be the Tully Hart of daytime
     TV.
    For the first time in forever, I don’t know who I am. I need a little time to myself,
     so that I can find my balance again.
    *   *   *
    When I step back out onto the street, it is raining. The weather in Seattle is like
     that: quicksilver. I clutch my handbag and lumber up the slick sidewalk, surprised
     to find that I am out of breath when I get to my building.
    There, I come to a stop.
    What now?
    I go up to