The lights in the studio are as hot as the wind outside is cold. Oprah appears in a swish pink cashmere sweater and white pants. Crossing her legs casually, she looks out into the audience whose applause is ongoing. She smiles, her diamond earrings twinkle, and the producers signal the show has begun.
“Thank you. Thank you.” Oprah shakes her glossy hair as she stares in disbelief at the admiring crowd before her. Finally, they settle into their seats for the show they have waited months to see.
“Today we have a very special guest…I don’t know why I always say that. Every guest is special.” The crowd hollers, cheers, and eggs her on. Oprah throws up her hands and walks around the couch one time before leaving the sound stage.
“Okay, let’s try this again,” the director says. The audience hears the cameraman cry, “Roll ‘em!” The audience summons its own strength again, cheering and whistling as Oprah reenters the stage.
“Thank you. Thank you.” Oprah’s eyes glisten as if she has never had such a reception before. When the audience calms down to a dull murmur, Oprah begins again.
“Today’s special guest is not only a writer, author, public speaker and master toilet scrubber, she is Supermom to the nth degree. Please help me welcome our guest today, Christine Louise Hohlbaum!” The crowd tries to go wild, but all I hear is polite clapping.
My hands are so sweaty I actually wipe them on the light-absorbing curtains before I enter the stage. My heart is racing faster than Michael Schuhmacher’s Ferrari, and I am certain my life is over. Will I wet my pants? To my horror, I see Oprah and I are wearing the same sweater. I readjust it, pulling it tightly over my buttocks as I enter her mini-seating area. She appears to be looking at the camera cues, not at me, and as I struggle for composure, she almost has to push me into the cushions. Her skin is soft as she lightly takes my hand in a practiced greeting. I try hard not to think about how many celebrities have shaken that hand. As I fold my body to a 90 degree angle, I realize Tom Cruise had recently been sitting exactly where my buttocks is touching now. I begin caressing the couch until Oprah clears her throat.
“So tell us, Christine, how did you become a master housekeeper amidst all the daily demands of being a best-selling author?”
I take a deep breath inward and smile as if I have answered this question a thousand times.
“You know, Oprah, being a best-selling author is easy. But let me tell you, being a mom is not…” I can tell by Oprah’s arched brow that she is intrigued and slightly unsettled by my response.
“They say it is the hardest job in the world…” Oprah pauses thoughtfully.
I sit up a little straighter and continue.
“It is perhaps the reason why I keep writing about my experiences with my children. Kids contain a sense of wonder and magic we adults can only revive for a few moments in a movie theater or at the ballet. Art attempts to recapture the simplicity and beauty of a sunny summer afternoon drinking lemonade on the porch and dodging horseflies in the pool.”
Oprah nods affably. She is getting into it already. My shoulders relax a little bit.
“Is that why you can chosen to write so many stories about being a housewife? Because you’re sad about being a ‘grown-up’?”
A trick question. Waving my hand in the air as if to wipe off the tarnish from the age-old journalistic trap of asking an impossible question, I grin broadly into the audience.
“Everyone of us has a child within. We must learn to unearth that voice and let it speak its words of wisdom. Did you know, Oprah, that we are all born with an innate voice within us? Recently, I had an experience you wouldn’t believe.”
“Ooooo! A secret! I love secrets. And we’ll find out more after the break…”
Oprah tosses back her hair and sips on a glass of water. She chats with a few cameramen and fluffs the pillows about her. She does not look at me. I wonder whether she wants to keep the relationship fresh. The sweat is pouring down my back…The lights flash back on, reasserting their intensity against my brow. I smile weakly into the audience. People are murmuring to each other. Then, I remember what my secret is.
“Go inside, not outside. All the answers are there.” I had heard the voice say. It was eery really. In the middle of a migraine, an experience which physically blinds me, I saw with my inner eye, my internal vision. It was accompanied by a voice so loud and clear I couldn’t ignore it. “Look inside. It is all there…” I closed my eyes and saw light – not the migraine-type light, but something else.
“Stop talking about people,” it whispered.
I open my eyes and see my husband peering over me. I am wearing a floral nightgown. There are sheetmarks on my face.
“Wake up, sleepy head. It’s almost 8 o’clock…”
