It’s odd, but when nothing is the same, everything is the same. When you don’t know anyone, you feel like you know everyone. And when everyone thinks they know you, no one knows you.
I pull out my phone and listen to Angelo’s message. He’s dropping by in an hour. I scroll through the names on my contacts, a Who’s Who of famous faces. There was a time, not too long ago, where I would have been amazed at my list. Amazed that I, college dropout from New Jersey, would have the Rich and Famous only a click away.
Looking at the names now, there’s only one that stands out.
Only one I was thinking about on the flight. Only one I wanted to call.
But I was flying away from her, not towards her.
I hop in the shower, change clothes, and step outside, enjoying the setting sun against the backdrop of L.A. The lights that begin to shimmer as the city comes alive at night. I roll up the bottom of my pants and dip my feet in my pool, ignoring the mid-century, sculpted lounge chairs which span around the water like rays of an overpriced sun. I don’t even like mid-century modern furniture, but whoever I hired, someone Angelo recommended, said they were “just perfect” for me. Someone who had never met me, convinced that these weird, wiggly shapes would be the perfect thing for me.
My lawn is mowed. My mail is stacked. My pool sparkles. My windows are clean. The house, the team of people who keep everything running, exists flawlessly without me. I could be here or not be here. I could live here or never return. And everything would stay the same. Everything would sparkle, remain tidy, look perfect.
I take out my phone and snap a photo of the skyline, the glow of the setting sun pink and orange against the twinkle of early evening lights. My fingers hesitate over the send button, but I press it anyway. A quick photo, a witty text, to Jane.
She said she wanted space. She said she needed time. I don’t want to pressure her, but I can’t resist.
That feeling again, low and dark in my stomach, a warning that I have made a mistake, that I shouldn’t be here, in this flawless house with its professionally decorated furniture, transparent walls, perfect views, spit-shined car in the multi-car garage. It has everything I have ever wanted.
I look around, and know that the one thing I do want, the one thing I need, is missing.
32
Jane
On the drive home, Amalfi snores in the back. Christine drops me off, sweet and supportive as always. I thank her for her silence, her respect, her thoughtfulness, and she winks in response.
The joy of friendships, I think as I walk into my house, is being surrounded by people who know you, who support you, and who see you just as you are.
Kate offers tough love, Penelope wise advice. Jessica gives analysis, breaking down the “power frameworks,” as she calls them, responsible for our unhappiness. Dory gives hugs and kisses and wonderful treats from her cafe. Christine, in her quiet, supportive way, offers peace, space, the knowledge that she is there. Even Dawn, Kate’s friend, has made a space for herself with all of us, coming through with her gentle humor.
Even as my heart twinges over David’s absence, it is full with love for the wonderful women in my life.
The sun is setting and I decide to take a walk. I tell myself I’m just going for a stroll, but before I know it, I end up on David’s road. In fairness, I had promised him I’d bring his mail to his porch, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to visit his house since he left.
I open his mailbox, bringing the few envelopes with me as I walk the half mile up his winding driveway. Autumn evenings are slightly cooler and I enjoy the breeze on my skin. I climb the steps of his front porch and slide the envelopes through the slit of his front door.
There’s something charming about a millionaire who hasn’t bothered with extensive security. I don’t know if he even has a security system. Perhaps he should, to be honest, because even around here, someone might break in. I’m not sure if anyone knows he’s left. If they did, I worry some kids would think it funny to trespass on the famous person’s lawn.
Like I’m doing, I say to myself, as I realize I am peering in through the glass of the front door.
Like I did, I say again, which is how I met him in the first place.
I step back from the deck. I’m tempted to sit on his top step. To enjoy the quiet of his remote home, but I’m worried I’ll get caught. The thought of him coming home early, of him surprising me, and telling me I’m a fool, there’s nothing to worry about, let’s just be together…
It’s thrilling.
It’s wonderful.
It’s…not going to happen. Not necessarily.
Relationships take work. At least that’s what all the magazines tell me. If we want to be together, we have to work at it.
I sigh and climb down his porch steps, beginning my walk back home. The sun is setting and I hear crickets and sparrows and other evening creatures begin to stir.
We need to decide if we want to work at it. Only then, do we figure out how, all the details that come with our differences in life style.
But first, I need to figure out if I’m willing to work at it, to let my guards down.
I turn briefly, seeing the outline of his house against the fading light.
As I turn towards home, I hear my mother’s voice in my mind, women like us, and I know where I need to go.
33
David
Angelo is drumming his fingers against my tabletop. Eyes on me. Facing me.
I don’t know what he’s staring at. I’m just sitting across from him. Beer in hand.
The house is silent. Well, apart from his fingers.
“No Nobu?” he says finally, watching my every move, and I feel like I’m being tested.
“We went last night. I’m happy to go again, if you want.” I smile. It’s fake and forced but it’s not like I’ve never had to fake and force a smile before. I’m an actor for God’s sake. It’s half of what I do.
He nods, still studying me.
“How’s the script?”
I pause, beer bottle against my lips, and nod, swallowing slowly. “I didn’t finish it.”
His eyebrows go up this time, looking like he got the answer he wanted.
“But I like it,” I add in a hurry. “It’s got potential.”
Mentally, I rack my brain until I remember the brown envelope he mailed to Midnight last month, the bulk of pages inside. It’s somewhere on my kitchen counter, my other kitchen counter, back East. I don’t think I’ve even opened it.
“Really? So you’re interested?”
We’re looking at each other, unmoving, like two opponents in a poker match.
Before I can open my mouth, he leans forward, breaking the silence. “David, let’s cut the shit. What’s going on?”
Again, I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, he continues, “Because I don’t think you’ve read the script. I don’t think you’ve even opened it. If you had, I would have gotten an earful.”
I put my beer down on the table. “Ok. I haven’t read it. And I haven’t opened it. In fact, I don’t think I’ve even opened the envelope it came in. It’s still in my house.”
Angelo looks around.
“My other house,” I add. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a sequel,” he says, after a swig of his beer.
“To what?”
“Saviors of Space.”
Before I can stop myself, I shrug, my frustration apparent.
“I knew that would be your response.”
“Then why did you send it to me?”
“To see what the hell was going on with you? I figured, if you were where you said you were, mentally, you’d call me and shout. If you were panicking about your career, you’d call me and we’d negotiate salary. But you didn’t do either. You didn’t even mention it. I’ve been with you for over 15 years David. When have you ever just ignored a script I sent you?”
I shrug.
“For the record,” he tak
es another sip of beer, “it’s not a bad sequel. Films in Tokyo. You’d be done in two months.”
“How much?” I ask, swirling the last of my beer around the bottom of the glass.
“For a single film? I think we can get twenty for the picture, and 2.5 from the back end.”
I nod. It’s a good contract. More than I’ve ever made for a single film, except for the last two. Not bad for a sequel.
“You interested?”
I shake my head.
“Jesus, David-”
“When is it enough, Ange?” I use the nickname I gave him years ago, before I was a household name, before he represented several household names. Back when we were kids, both broke and ambitious, moving out to L.A. to make a name for ourselves, to prove ourselves, the way so many thousands of people do, year after year.
And we are two who made it.
Made it all the way to the top.
But when you’re at the top, you have a different perspective. When you finally get the view you always wanted, you realize it’s a very different sort of view.
I repeat my question. “When is it enough?”
Angelo looks at me. Tilts his head to one side. His beer is empty, but I don’t offer him a second one.
“Before I answer that,” he pauses, glances at his empty bottle, then back up at me, “you gotta remember the industry you’re in. The business you’re in. It’s not forgiving. There are no take-backs. There are no do-overs. You’re in as long as you’re in, and when you’re out, you’re out.”
“Didn’t someone tell us that, at a party?” I smile at him, remembering back years ago, when we were invited to some big Hollywood party, with huge names and famous faces, the two of us dressed in the only nice shirts we had, both scared as shit.
He nods. “I never forgot it. You were talking with old school actors, and I was talking with old school producers and agents. And one of them said to me, ‘The secret to success is making sure your clients know they can never go back.’”
I finish my beer and look around the house. It’s huge, clean, full of that weird, low-riding furniture everyone is so crazy about right now. I’ve never really liked it, but it has served its purpose.
“Now, if you understand that, if you really understand that, then…” He smiles, something I so rarely see him do. Maybe when we were younger, when we shared a car, and he drove me to auditions and I drove him to meetings and we both pretended we had drivers. Maybe when interviews were still interesting, and attention was exciting. Back then, I think, he smiled.
But it’s been a long time.
Angelo stands, reaches for his jacket, and walks his beer to my sink, tossing it in the recycling bin underneath.
I follow him as he walks to the door.
He opens it, hand on the handle, and looks down, as if confused.
“Truth?” He turns to me.
I nod.
A smile again, so rare. A bit sadder, this one, from the ones I remember when we were kids with dreams, no jobs, and one shitty car between the two of us.
“Enough is enough when you say it is, Dave. You’re the only one who knows, and you’re the one who decides.”
I shut the door behind him, the sound of his million-dollar engine roaring in my ears as he pulls out of the driveway and speeds down the freeway.
I pull out my phone. I need to book a flight.
34
Jane
The air is cooler the farther north I drive. The infrastructure of coastal Maine fades away, and I pass into farmland. Long rolling hills, thick wooded acreage, old houses, red barns, cows and sheep and horses.
I remember my childhood, growing up around places like this. Dirt roads. Tilted mailboxes. Local stores. Friendly neighbors who know your name, but didn’t understand why you would ever want to leave. Why you felt there was more out there.
It’s been a while since I drove up here, all the way up, past the lakes and the sky slopes and the tourist condos and the weekend retreats.
Past the end of the highway, where the local roads become the only roads, and the gas stations remind you to fill up because the next one won’t be for another 80 miles.
Past the farm houses and the farmland, all the way north, closer to Canada than most of America. Signs become bi-lingual. French and English.
I take a right at the four way stop, the stop sign so faded it would be easy to blow right past it if you didn’t know to look for it. I take another right farther down, past the local store with the gas pumps that no longer work. And a left at the old oak tree, the large one we used to climb as kids.
I drive slowly, mindful of potholes in the dirt road, washout from the rain. My car rocks sideways as I make my way up and down the narrow road, towards a place few people know about and fewer people go. When I reach it, I pull over.
I don’t bring flowers. She never liked flowers. I don’t bring a wreath or a photo or a candle. Nothing like that. I bring myself, tucking my keys into my pocket.
And when I reach her gravestone, I sit.
“Hi, Mom,” I smile, reaching a hand out, pressing it to the cold stone. Her name, etched in a flowery font she would have hated, stares back at me. Her date of birth and date of death printed underneath it.
It’s been a few years. A few years since she died, and a few years since I’ve come back here, all the way up here.
When I got the job in Midnight, I said I’d visit every year. On her birthday, perhaps, or the anniversary of her death. But, something always came up, something always prevented me. Maybe I did that on purpose. Making sure I had an excuse.
The birds are quiet around me, and only the air in the trees makes noise, a gentle chatter as the leaves and branches brush against one another.
“I was thinking of you this morning, thinking of all the things you taught me.” I pull my hand back from the tombstone and pluck at the denim of my jeans.
“Right from wrong. Being strong. Being independent. Standing on my own two feet.” I smile as I speak aloud, knowing no one will hear me. No one comes up here.
“Never be dependent on others. Never let yourself be taken advantage of by others.” I smile as my eyes fill, the etching of her name blurs in my vision.
“Be proud of my accomplishments. Make sure I get the credit.” The tear is cool as it runs down my cheek, followed by another and another.
“And make something of myself. Make something I can be proud of.” The words are hard to get out. My throat is tight and the words are choked.
I pause, pulling a tissue from my pocket and wiping my nose.
“You always talked about women like us, women who need to make something of themselves because they weren’t born with much, and they couldn’t trust anyone to take care of them, so we have to take care of ourselves.”
I blow my nose.
“It’s not bad advice, Mom. It’s pretty good.”
I pluck at the grass growing next to me.
“And you were a good parent, pushing me to do better, to study harder, to go further. You pushed me to go after what I wanted, and I did. And I got it. And there’s no way I would have gotten what I did, if you hadn’t taught me to struggle and to fight and to make myself into the person I always wanted to be.”
I pluck a blade of grass and stare at it between my fingers.
“But you made one mistake,” I smile, using my sleeve to wipe my eyes. “When you said women like us, you meant women who were less than, who were missing out on the things we should have. You thought women like you and me were inferior in some way, unloved and unlovable.”
I lean forward and press both hands deep into the soil in front of me, trying to reach down through the earth to hold her hand, so many feet beneath me.
“But that’s never been the case. It can’t be,” I smile again, fresh tears rolling down my cheeks. “Because I always loved you, and you always loved me. So women like us are loved. We are lovable. We have to be, because we love each other.”
The gr
ass is soft beneath my fingers. The sun is warm on my face. Somewhere in the woods around me, I hear a bird singing.
“Women like us are worthy Mom. We’re strong, and tough, and deserving. That doesn’t guarantee anything. That doesn’t guarantee that we get what we want, but it guarantees we deserve a chance.”
I stand, wiping my hands on my legs, feeling the breeze on my face. I lean forward, pressing a kiss to the tombstone.
“Thank you for giving me this chance, Mom. I’m going to take it.”
35
David
I call her from the airport and she doesn’t answer. I text her when I get to my house, and she doesn’t respond.
I drive to her house, pulling up in front of the little bungalow, running up the stairs and pounding on the door, the sound of my fist against the doorframe only slightly louder than the sound of my heart in my chest.
A movement inside, an outline of a body, and I reach for the handle.
It opens before I can twist it and I am about the pull the woman in my arms when I realize…
It’s not Jane.
A pair of blue eyes blink back at me.
They’re not Jane’s.
Over her shoulder, I hear another woman’s voice, also not Jane’s, asking something about lighting a barbecue.
“Hello.” Eyes stare back at me. Wild red hair frames the face. The voice is chilly.
“Jessica?” I ask. The one with the book deliveries.
She nods.
“Who is it?” The voice behind her asks. A different voice I think.
Jessica steps aside and I step in, stumble really.
Jane Air Page 20
