Chapter Text
'And that's a wrap on another fabulous week!' I beamed into Camera Two, holding my smile as the teleprompter scrolled. 'We hope you all have a wonderful weekend.'
Mark leaned forward in his chair beside me, that magnetic enthusiasm lighting up his face. 'Can you believe it, Bette? Just three weeks until Christmas!'
'Three weeks!' I echoed, widening my eyes in mock surprise, as if we hadn't known this for the entire year. 'Where does the time go?'
'Well, I'll tell you where it's going,' Mark said, pointing at the camera with that signature finger-gun gesture the producers loved. 'Right into our kitchen! Because next week, we're bringing you holiday recipes every single day.'
'That's right!' I clasped my hands together. 'Monday through Friday, we'll have celebrity chefs, comfort food classics, and maybe even a few disasters.' I threw Mark a playful look.
'Hey, my gingerbread house only collapsed once,' he protested with that rehearsed wounded pride.
'Twice,' I corrected, getting my laugh right on cue. 'But who's counting?'
'Not me, apparently.' He turned back to the camera, his smile never wavering. 'Join us Monday morning when we kick things off with Grammy-winning artist...'
'Ah-ah-ah!' I wagged my finger. 'No spoilers, Mark. Let them wonder.'
'You're killing me, Bette.' He shook his head, grinning. 'From all of us here at Wake Up America, have a great weekend, everyone!'
'Stay warm out there!' I added as the theme music swelled.
The red lights on the cameras blinked off, and I felt my smile finally relax into something normal.
I hit the pavement hard, my breath fogging in the frigid December air. Eleven-thirty at night, and the streets of the Upper West Side were nearly empty, just the way I liked it. This was my time. No makeup. A hoodie with the hood up, hair in a messy bun. The only time all day when no one needed me to smile, to nod enthusiastically, to pretend that discussing the merits of various eggnog recipes was the highlight of my existence. God, I loved my job. I really did. But some days…
My feet found their rhythm, and I let my mind drift. Fifteen more shows until Christmas break. Then a glorious week of not being America’s Sweetheart. Nine days of being just Bette, though even that name wasn’t really mine, not originally. My parents had called me Elisabeth. But my older sister was rebellious already when she was an elementary schooler, and “Bette” had stuck. By the time I’d started kindergarten, even my parents had given up on Elisabeth. And soon after, they gave up on everything else too.
Next week’s lineup scrolled through my head. Monday: the politician who was involved in a tax scandal. Tuesday: the celebrity chef who always got handsy after three mimosas. Wednesday...
I shook my head, pushing faster. Not now. This was my escape from all that. The cold bit at my cheeks, it felt good. Mark had suggested earlier that we should sit together and brainstorm on how to pump up the ratings. I’d smiled while internally screaming.
I rounded the corner onto 72nd, lungs burning pleasantly. I still needed to get a Christmas tree. A small one, nothing elaborate. After being surrounded by people all day, every day, I was looking forward to spending the holidays alone. Good wine, expensive cheese, maybe that novel I’d been meaning to read for months. No obligations. No cameras. Just me.
God, I still needed to answer all the fan mail piled up in my dressing room. To attend a movie prem....
I stopped short, my heart lurching. There was someone lying on the sidewalk ahead, crumpled against the base of a streetlight. My first instinct was to cross the street, a New York reflex, stay out of it. But something about the stillness in the body drew me closer.
It was a woman. Around my age, late thirties, early forties. Blonde hair spilling across the pavement, catching the streetlight. A tailored winter dress. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Not even gloves. In this cold, that was madness.
'Hey,' I called out, approaching cautiously. 'Hey, are you okay?'
No response. I crouched down, my runner’s high evaporating instantly. Her skin was pale, lips tinged blue. A bottle of vodka next to her. I could smell the alcohol, but that wasn’t what scared me. She was barely breathing.
'Hey,' I said again. No movement.
Her pulse was there, but faint, fluttering under my fingers like it could quit any second. I dropped on my knees. My hands just knew what to do. Tilt the chin, clear the mouth, watch the chest. She was barely breathing. 'Come on,' I murmured. 'Stay with me.'
I pulled my phone from the pocket of my running jacket and dialed 911. 'Yes, I need an ambulance,' I said, already giving the cross street. 'Female, late-thirties, unresponsive but breathing. Possible alcohol poisoning. She’s freezing.'
The dispatcher responded and told me to stay on the line. I shrugged off my running jacket, draped it over the woman’s body, tucking it close around her shoulders. Her skin felt like ice through the fabric. 'You’re okay,' I said quietly. 'You hear me? You’re okay.'
Nothing. Just the faint rasp of air. I brushed the hair back from her face so it wouldn’t stick to her lips and kept my hand near her mouth to feel each shallow breath. The dispatcher asked for updates. Pulse, breathing, consciousness. I answered automatically, my eyes fixed on the slight rise of her chest.
Finally I heard sirens in the distance.
'You’re gonna be fine.' I said, almost to myself.
Blue lights flashed against the buildings before I heard the brakes. Two EMTs jumped out.
'She’s still breathing,' I said as they reached us. 'Weak pulse. It's been like that a few minutes.'
One of them nodded, already kneeling to take over. 'Good job keeping her airway open.'
I stepped back, my knees stiff from the cold. I watched them move. Oxygen mask, vitals, stretcher. 'Do you know her?' The other asked.
I shook my head. 'I found her like this.'
They lifted her easily. 'She’ll be at St. Luke’s on 113th.' One of them said working on her.
I nodded, but my feet didn’t move. I stood there my fingers shaking harder than they should've from the cold. The ambulance doors slammed shut. For a second, the street went silent, before the siren started wailing.
I could’ve gone home. It was none of my business. I did what I could. Yet, I raised my hand and caught the first cab.
The blast of heat hit me as the doors slid open. Every ER smelled the same at night. Same lights, same cold feeling in my stomach. Too little air, too much noise. I thought I was done with emergency rooms.
A security guard sat behind the glass, half-watching the waiting area, half-watching a muted TV bolted to the wall. I told him who I was looking for. He pointed me toward the reception desk without taking his eyes off the TV.
The nurse behind the counter had dark circles under her eyes and a Santa pin on her scrubs. 'Name?' She asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.
'I don’t actually know hers.'
'No, yours. For the form.'
For a split second I saw the headline. Morning Host Rescues Drunk Stranger in Upper West Side. The woman didn’t need that. Neither did I.
'I can leave my number instead.' I said, scrolling my phone to look like I was checking something. 'In case you need to reach me.'
She was too tired to care. 'Number’s good.'
She typed it in. 'She’s being evaluated now. Her family is informed.'
'Okay. I’ll wait.'
The waiting area was half-full. A man in a construction jacket argued with a nurse about insurance. A little girl coughed wetly against her mother’s shoulder. Somewhere down the hall, an intercom blared Code Blue, followed by the thud of rushed steps.
I picked a chair by the wall and sat, pressing my hands between my knees, trying to keep them from shaking. The image of her pale face wouldn't leave me. Across the room, an orderly wheeled past with a gurney, sheets stained dark where someone had bled through.
Five minutes, I told myself. Ten, maybe. Just until I know she’s stable. Then I’ll go home. Shower. Sleep.
A nurse hurried by carrying an IV bag. A man shouted something from a triage room. The automatic doors opened again. A woman burst through.
For a second something in me misfired. She was striking, even in panic. And that felt wrong. Wrong time, wrong place. Wrong woman to notice anything about.
She was blonde, shoulder-length hair falling in tousled waves, a charcoal Prada coat hanging open over designer jeans and a cashmere pullover. A Bottega Veneta bag clutched in one hand.
But it was her face that made me forget to breathe. Eyes the color of whiskey catching light. Exhaustion etched into every angle, yet somehow it only sharpened her beauty. And right now, fear cut through everything else, reshaping her features into something desperate.
Her eyes swept the waiting room. She moved toward the reception desk like someone who wasn’t used to waiting, but who, in this moment, would do anything, pay anything, just to hear the truth. She had that face of someone bracing for impact. I’d seen it in the mirror at eighteen. Twenty-four. Thirty-one. Thirty-six. Thirty-six. Thirty-six.
'My sister.' She said as it was her turn. 'She was brought in a few minutes ago. Please, someone said she was here.'
The nurse looked up from her screen. 'Name?'
'Tina Kennard, my sister is Emma Kennard.'
Kennard. The name snagged somewhere in the back of my mind, but I couldn't place it.
'Alright.' The nurse’s tone softened. 'They’re doing everything they can. You can wait over there.'
Tina’s hands stayed flat on the counter, like she needed it to stay upright. 'Is she conscious?'
The nurse hesitated. 'I don't know ma'am.'
'Is she alive?'
'You will be updated as soon as they can.'
The color drained from her face. She turned, scanning the room like she couldn't quite focus.
The nurse gestured toward me. 'The woman who found her is right over there.'
The blonde's eyes found mine. I stood up. She closed the distance between us quickly. 'You found my sister.' Her voice cracked on the word sister. 'How? Where? Was she..' She couldn't finish, her hands twisting the strap of her bag.
People were starting to stare. The broadcaster in me registered it automatically. The way heads turned, how conversations dropped to whispers. I placed my hand gently on her elbow and guided her toward a quieter corner, away from the reception desk chaos.
'I found her on the Upper West Side,' I said quietly. '72nd and Amsterdam. She was unconscious. Barely breathing.' I paused, watching her face. 'She was freezing. No coat.' Even saying it out loud felt like failure. As if I could’ve done more, stayed longer, found her sooner.
The blonde closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, they were harder.
'I think she'd been drinking,' I continued, keeping my voice low. 'There was an empty bottle of vodka next to her.'
'Of course she was.' The words came out exhausted. 'God damn it, Emma.' She pressed her fingers to her temples. Then she looked at me again, fear written all over her face. 'What did the EMTs say? Did they tell you anything?'
'Not much. They put her on oxygen, started an IV. Standard procedure. She was still unconscious when they put her in the ambulance.' I hesitated, then added, 'I'm sorry. I wish I had more to tell you.' The horror of waiting. Of not knowing. 'Shall we sit down?'
'I'm too restless to sit.' She was already pacing.
She paced back and forth between the chairs. Every few seconds her gaze shot toward the double doors of the ER, as if she could will them open through sheer force of need. Ten minutes passed. Maybe twenty.
Across the room a janitor mopped the floor. Somewhere down a corridor, a baby started crying. Someone sobbed softly. The sounds of other people's emergencies.
Eventually she stopped pacing. Exhaled hard. Then she sat down in the chair next to me. People always sat near me when they were scared. Something about the tone of my voice maybe, the calm one I’d perfected for television. If only they knew it was just for show.
Her elbows came to rest on her knees, hands steepled in front of her mouth like she was praying. 'What's taking so long?' She whispered to herself.
I'd asked that same question many times before, several years ago in a different hospital that looked exactly like this one. And the answer had always been the same: they're doing everything they can. Which was somehow both comforting and cruel. It meant someone you loved was fighting, and there was absolutely nothing you could do but sit in a plastic chair and wait. It meant the next person through those doors might change your life forever, and you had no control over which direction it would go.
'They're stabilizing her,' I said quietly, not sure if she even wanted an answer or just needed to voice the fear. 'Checking her airway, fluids, warming her up. If she's been drinking that much, they'll probably be monitoring her blood alcohol level, blood sugar, oxygen saturation. They might be running a tox screen, checking for other substances. It takes time.'
Tina's hands trembled against her mouth. 'That sounds like...' She stopped herself, swallowed. 'That sounds serious.' She looked like someone who didn’t get scared easily. Which made this even harder to witness.
'It is,' I said, because there was no point in softening it.
She was quiet for a moment, then turned to look at me directly for the first time since sitting down. 'Tell me everything again. Where exactly did you find her?'
'72nd and Amsterdam. Near the corner, by a streetlight.'
Her eyes widened slightly. 'That's...that's across from my building. Maybe she was trying to get to me. Maybe she was walking there and just...' Her voice fractured. 'Maybe I could've...'
'Don't do this to yourself,' I said. I recognized that spiral, the bargaining, the what-ifs. 'It will eat you alive.'
She nodded, but I could see she didn't believe me.
'Are you two close?' I asked.
'Very.' She said. Then her jaw tightened. 'God, I'm so furious at her. I know I'm supposed to be understanding and supportive and all that stuff they tell you in the meetings, but right now I just want to...' She cut herself off, pressing her palms against her eyes. 'I'm a terrible person.'
'....shake her,' I finished. 'You want to shake her and scream at her for scaring the life out of you.'
She looked at me, shocked, like I'd found the words for her.
'You're not terrible,' I said quietly.
'How do you know all this?'
I swallowed. 'My sister was an addict. Alcohol, cocaine and Xanax. The trifecta.' I said with a stupid, crooked smile.
She observed me with her whiskey eyes. 'How...?' She started but then the door opened.
Every head in the waiting room lifted. A doctor stepped out, scanning the room. 'Kennard?'
Tina was on her feet instantly. 'How is she?'
The doctor exhaled before speaking, which was never a good sign.
'She’s alive. We’ve stabilized her airway and started active rewarming. Her core temperature was dangerously low when she arrived, and her blood alcohol level is… extremely elevated.'
Tina pressed a hand to her mouth.
'She’s still unconscious.' The doctor continued. 'But her vital signs are holding.'
'Why isn’t she waking up?' Tina whispered.
The doctor softened her voice. “With this level of intoxication and hypothermia, the body often shuts down to protect itself. It can take hours before we see any neurological response. We won’t know more until she’s rewarmed and her blood alcohol level drops.'
Tina’s knees wavered. 'Is she going to make it?'
'We’re cautiously optimistic.' The doctor said. 'She’s young and otherwise healthy, that’s in her favor. But she’s not out of danger.'
Tina swallowed hard. 'Can I see her?'
'Not yet. She’s still critical. Once her temperature stabilizes and we get clearer neurological indicators, I’ll come get you.'
The doctor turned to me. 'You were the one who found her?'
'Yes.'
'You likely saved her life. Another thirty minutes in that cold…' She didn’t finish the sentence. Instead she gave a small, grim nod and disappeared back through the double doors.
Tina remained standing, staring at the place where the doctor had been, breath trembling in and out.
Somehow I convinced her it was pointless to keep staring at the same set of double doors, and that the coffee in the cafeteria was at least marginally better than the sludge from the waiting-room machine.
The cafeteria looked like every hospital cafeteria at midnight. Desolate. A row of plastic chairs and tables bolted to the floor. The buffet line dark except for a few flickering heat lamps guarding the last of the soup. Next to it stood a poorly decorated Christmas tree. A single cashier scrolled through her phone behind the counter. I left Tina at a table by the window.
'Two double espressos, please.'
The cashier looked up from her phone and stared at me. For a moment I thought she'd recognized me and the same thing like always would happen. Oh my god, Bette Porter! My mom and I watch your show every morning. I'm your biggest fan. Can I have an autograph? I prepared the polite version of my TV smile, the one that meant yes, it's really me, please don't make this weird.
But then she just turned and placed two cups under the coffee machine without a word.
I let out a breath and made a mental note: without makeup, messy hair and in running clothes, I could be anyone. Invisible, even.
'Eight dollars.'
I swiped my card and returned to the table. I set a cardboard cup in front of Tina before sliding into the chair across from her.
'God, you're an angel,' she said, wrapping both hands around the cup. 'I'm usually not this scattered. I'm just...' She stopped, shook her head. 'I thought she was doing better. She was attending her AA meetings. She'd been sober for a month, or at least that's what she told me.' Her voice went flat. 'I don't know what to believe anymore.'
She stared out the window at the city, her reflection ghostlike in the glass.
'How long has she been struggling?' I asked.
Tina took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the taste but drinking anyway. 'It's hard to pinpoint exactly when it started.' She paused. 'She was the CEO of our family's hotel chain. She couldn't handle it. She started having panic attacks. Couldn't sleep. The drinking started as just... a way to take the edge off after long days. A glass of wine at dinner. Then two. Then a bottle.' She pressed her fingers against her temples. 'By the time I realized how bad it had gotten, she was showing up to investor meetings drunk. Missing flights. Making decisions that cost us millions.'
'What happened?'
She turned to me, her eyes widening, as if just realizing how much she'd shared with a stranger. But she continued anyway. 'The board forced her out.' Tina's voice was bitter. 'And I stepped in. I never wanted to run the company. I was happy being COO, handling operations, staying out of the spotlight. But someone had to do it.'
'That's a lot of pressure.'
'It's fine. I can handle it.' She said it automatically, like she'd convinced herself it was true. 'What I can't handle is watching my sister destroy herself because she thinks she failed.'
'You're doing everything you can,' I said quietly.
'Am I?' She looked at me, and I saw the exhaustion that went bone-deep. 'Because she's lying unconscious in an ICU right now, and I didn't even know she'd started drinking again. I thought...' Her voice broke. 'I don't know what I thought.'
I recognized that guilt. The way it twisted everything, made you doubt yourself, made you think if you'd just been better, smarter, more vigilant, you could have prevented it.
'When my sister was using,' I heard myself say it before I even realized I was speaking. 'I used to wonder why I wasn't enough. Why my love wasn't enough. I kept beating myself up. Trying to do more, to do better. Be more present. Be more angry.' I paused, staring at my coffee. 'None of it mattered. Because it was never about me.'
'That.' She pointed at me. 'That's exactly it. That's what it feels like. I've tried to tell myself that too, that it's not about me. But it feels so fucking personal every single time.'
I nodded, understanding that particular kind of exhaustion.
'My sister tried to rob me once,' I said, and a small chuckle escaped me at the memory. 'I caught her red-handed with her hand in my jewelry box. If it wasn't so tragic, I'd find it hilarious.'
Her lips curved into an almost smile. 'Emma once tried to fire our CFO. From my phone. At two in the morning.' She shook her head. 'To this day he's still pretending he never got that call.'
I actually laughed at that, and after a second, so did she.
We sat in silence for a while, both of us staring at our reflections in the dark window. Outside, the city moved on, cabs racing down empty streets, steam rising from subway grates. Normal life, continuing like nothing was wrong.
She glanced at her watch, then back toward the cafeteria entrance. 'We should probably head back.' She said quietly. 'In case there's news.'
I tossed our empty cups in the trash. She was already moving toward the door, her pace a little faster than before. I followed.
We went back to the waiting area. The hours blurred together in that strange way time does in hospitals; simultaneously crawling and racing, each minute feeling like ten while somehow entire hours disappeared.
We talked about nothing mostly. The best bagels on the Upper West Side, the absurdity of Christmas music in hospital lobbies, how caffeine stopped working after the third cup. At some point we both admitted we'd forgotten what day it was.
I caught myself watching her when she wasn't looking. The way she'd check her phone compulsively even though she knew no news would come that way. How she'd started biting her thumbnail, then catch herself and stop. The fine lines of worry around her eyes. I wondered how beautiful she must be when she was happy and smiling.
When conversation ran out, we just sat. Watching the automatic doors open and close, the night shift nurses trade jokes, the heating vent rattling. Every so often Tina would check the hallway for a doctor, and I'd tell her to give it five more minutes, though I had no idea why five mattered.
By the time the sky outside turned that gray-blue of almost-morning, we had given up on coffee and just waited.
'I'm going crazy.' She said, her voice rough from too many hours and not enough sleep.
'I know.' I kept my eyes on the hallway, watching for white coats.
She rubbed her neck. 'What's taking so long?'
'They're being thorough. That's good.'
'Or it's bad.'
I didn't have an answer for that.
She lowered her hands, looking at me. 'Wait, I don't even know your...' The double doors swung open, cutting her off.
The same doctor stepped out, her hair flattened on one side now, looking even more tired than before. She scanned the waiting room, then walked toward us.
Tina was on her feet instantly. I stood too, my heart hammering.
'Ms. Kennard.' The doctor said, and something in her tone made my stomach drop.
'How is she?' Tina's voice was barely steady.
The doctor gestured for us to sit. We didn't.
'Your sister's temperature and vitals have stabilized.' She began carefully. 'We've successfully rewarmed her, and her blood alcohol level is dropping. Those are positive signs.'
'But?' Tina whispered.
'But she hasn't regained consciousness.' The doctor paused, choosing her words. 'The combination of severe hypothermia and alcohol toxicity caused significant stress to her system. We've made the decision to place her in a medically induced coma to give her body and brain time to recover without additional strain.'
Tina swayed slightly, and I instinctively reached out to steady her elbow.
'What does that mean?' Tina asked. 'Is she...will she wake up?'
'The induced coma is a protective measure.' The doctor explained. 'It allows us to control her recovery. We're keeping her sedated with medication, which means we can bring her out of it when her body is ready.'
'When will that be?'
'It's hard to say. Could be a few days, could be longer. We'll be monitoring her closely. Once we see consistent improvement , we'll begin reducing the sedation.'
Tina's hand came up to cover her mouth. She nodded once, then again, like she was trying to convince herself she'd heard correctly. 'Can I see her?' she asked quietly.
'Yes. She's being settled in the ICU now. I'll have a nurse take you up in a few minutes.' The doctor's expression softened. 'I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, but she's stable. We caught her in time. That's everything.'
'Thank you,' Tina managed.
The doctor nodded and walked away, leaving us standing there in the too-bright waiting room with the slow clock and the Christmas music that suddenly felt obscene.
Tina turned to me, and I watched her face crumble and rebuild itself in the space of a breath. She was trying so hard to hold it together. 'An induced coma.' She whispered. 'She's still...she's unconscious. She's on machines. And I can't...' Her lip quivered.
'Hey.' I touched her arm lightly. 'She's alive. You heard the doctor. They caught her in time.'
'Because of you.' She looked at me, eyes bright with unshed tears. 'If you hadn't found her...'
'But I did.'
Before she could reply, a nurse appeared beside us. 'Ms. Kennard? If you'll come with me, you can see your sister now.'
Tina looked at the nurse, then back at me. Her eyes were wet. She stepped forward and paused, as if doubting whether to hug me or not. Suddenly we were both awkward with the intimacy of the last few hours.
She reached out and gave my hand a quick squeeze. Her fingers were trembling slightly. I squeezed back. I wanted to say something meaningful, something that would capture what this night had meant to me. But the nurse already started walking. 'Come with me.' She said, and Tina let go of my hand to follow her down the corridor.
I watched her go, her shoulders gathering themselves, the Prada coat swinging with each step. She looked like someone who ran empires again, even though she'd been falling apart since midnight.
Then I let myself inhale properly for the first time in hours. My body ached. My knees stiff from too much sitting. My lower back protesting. When she disappeared around the corner I walked outside.
The city was waking up. Saturday morning, early light touching the tops of buildings. People would be getting coffee, walking dogs, starting their weekends. And I needed to go home. Shower. Try to sleep. Forget about who I maybe found on time, who I didn't, and the way a stranger's hand had felt in mine.
I pulled my hoodie tighter and started walking.