If You Were Here

by Jen Lancaster

  “I was out there only three weeks, and I absolutely see why you had to get out of that town. The things regular people are willing to do to become famous and crap that powerful people pull to stay that way ... it makes me sick, the whole business. How did I want this for so long?”

  The sun is the perfect shade of pink-gold in the sky. Movie people call this the magic hour, and they spend scads of money to film at this time of day. So I guess I learned something valuable, albeit esoteric, while I was in LA.

  “The one bright spot is that Kara was there for me immediately when I called her. She admitted she was initially avoiding me after her outing, but then she got involved in other stuff and lost track of everything, so we’re totally cool now. Maybe even stronger than before, having weathered our first friend fight. She lent me her new car to drive up here this afternoon. Funny story, after she had it out with her parents, she realized her problem is that she needed to grow up. She figured the easiest way to start would be to buy a new car so she didn’t have to rely on her parents when her old one broke down.

  “The car salesman was cute and Indian, they hit it off immediately, and they’ve spent every second together since they met. Kara’s all mad at herself because she says she’s become one of those girls who forgets her friends when she gets a boyfriend. But I think we’re all giving her a pass on that. Plus, her family loves the guy—he’s working at CarMax only while he gets his PhD—and everyone’s happy. Folks love a happy ending.”

  I bite at a cuticle and stare off in the direction of the lake. “I’m glad it worked out for her. As for me? Everything’s a shit show right now. I keep letting studio calls go to voice mail, same with my agents, and the one person I want to talk to isn’t picking up.

  “I need to go home, but I don’t want to. I’m terrified to see the place, because I haven’t a clue what to expect. I’m so scared that if I get there and Mac hasn’t made any effort in getting things together that it’s the symbolic end of us. I feel like that stupid house is a euphemism for our entire marriage right now. I’m desperate to find out where we stand, but I’m afraid to get a definitive answer. What’s that line that Allison Reynolds says in The Breakfast Club? You want to but you can’t and then you do and you wish you hadn’t? That’s how I feel about going home.

  “Why is life so hard to navigate now? It wasn’t always so hard. I got through my teenage years without a lot of problems, in many ways because of your guidance. You taught an entire generation how to deal with every problem we faced—insecurity and first love and bullies and mean girls and pressure. Personally, you helped me figure out how to forge bonds across socioeconomic classes and how to navigate cliques by showing me that, deep down, we were all going through the same stuff. You gave me the confidence to go forth and be my best self.

  “But I’m all grown-up now and you’re gone, and I don’t think I know how to be an adult without your guidance. You didn’t leave a trail of bread crumbs for us to follow. The greatest tragedy is that we lost you before you had a chance to teach my generation what to do next.”

  I stare at the unmarked headstone for a long time. As the light changes, I’m aware that it’s time to do something, but what? I’m not sure.

  I get off the bench and kneel in the grass. “Sir, if you’re out there, if there’s any part of you that still exists—and there has to be, because you left a little piece of yourself with an entire generation—please give me a little nudge. Point me in the right direction. I’m begging you for a sign, one small clue as to how to take the first step in the rest of my life. Please. Something.”

  But nothing happens.

  I wait for it and I wait for it, but nothing happens.

  I am truly on my own.

  And that breaks my heart.

  So I stay where I am, on my knees in the dying light of late afternoon. I need to get up and do something, go somewhere, but I just feel paralyzed.

  I stay there for what feels like hours, bent over with my face in my hands, trying to figure out where to go once I finally muster the strength to stand.

  “... go home.”

  And then I almost jump right out of my skin.

  I stare down at the headstone. Did . . . did John Hughes just say something to me? Is that possible?

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re closing the gates shortly. Visiting hours are over and it’s time to go home.”

  That’s when I realize I’m being addressed by a groundskeeper standing at the edge of the grass, and not a voice from the great beyond.

  But damn it, a sign’s a sign.

  Thank you, sir.

  You’ve still got my back.

  I live only a couple of miles from the cemetery, but the ride home takes forever. When I finally reach my street, Lululemon—I mean, Amanda—is out for a jog, propelling two happy toddlers in the stroller in front of her. When she sees me, I get the briefest flash of a smile and a barely perceptible wave, yet that greeting smacks of what Admiral Dewey must have felt when he returned to New York from the Pacific.

  When I slowly pull down my driveway, I look for anything that might give me a clue as to what’s been happening inside.

  The first thing I notice is that the Dumpster is gone and that someone must have power-washed the area underneath it, because my drive is clean and clear for the first time since Mac ripped down the first sheet of drywall.

  The next thing I notice is the windows, as in, we have actual windows in each and every frame and not just half a dozen strategically placed boards. Plus, my perennials seem healthy and strong, and someone even removed the stump from the tree I executed.

  All of these are positive omens, but I’m not really going to have a grasp on where things stand until I see Mac.

  The front door opens and I run to throw myself into Mac’s arms when I realize that Mac is suddenly taller.

  And burlier.

  And blonder.

  And dressed kind of like the construction guy from the Village People.

  What the . . .?

  “Hey, there, ya must be Mia. Heard ya may be comin’ home today. We’d hoped to be finished, but you’re a little early and we’re still cleanin’ up.”

  Wait. I know that voice. It’s all confident and businesslike and vaguely Canadian.

  “The name’s Mike Holmes. Glad to meet ya.” He holds out a meaty palm and gives my hand a firm shake.

  I’m speechless.

  “Speechless, eh? Let’s give ya a little tour and show ya what we’ve done.” Numbly I walk in the front door, and I’m in such a state of shock that for a moment I don’t even realize my dogs are jumping on me.

  I snap out of it. “Hi, guys, Mummy’s home. Yes! That’s right! Mummy is home!” I let them romp and bark and kiss me for a couple of minutes, because that’s happening whether I want them to or not.

  Greeting the dogs has given me time to collect my thoughts. “So, you’re here. How are you here? And where’s Mac? And are there cameras—is this for a show? I’m sorry; I’m a little lost.”

  “Nope, not filmin’, just helping ya out, doin’ the right thing. I gotta tell ya, this place was a mess when we got here. I can’t believe ya were livin’ like that. We almost thought ya were pullin’ a prank when we got your husband’s call.”

  “Mac called you?”

  “Oh, he’s been callin’ the production office for a while, couple of months at least. We had your house on the list for potential sites to scout, but we’re not filmin’ the new season yet.”

  As Mike talks, I start to look around my house. In the foyer, the hideous black and white tiles have been replaced with wide-plank dark walnut floors, and they go as far as I can see. When I inspect the walls, I don’t see lath and plaster or drywall;167 instead I see smooth, even walls painted a light yellowish green. The ceiling not only exists, but it’s a really clean white, and it’s bordered by four inches of glossy crown molding.

  I don’t understand. “Then . . . how are you here?”

/>   “Funny story. I was on vacation in Miami with the family, and your grandmother tracked us down. She”—he pauses and flinches just the tiniest bit—“convinced us to come up here.”

  That doesn’t make sense. “How’d she even know? No one in my family wanted to tell her, because we didn’t want her to freak out. She’s old and kind of delicate.”

  Mike shrugs. “I guess Mac called her and asked for her help. Turns out it’s a real small world, because her company cleans the condo where we were staying, and let’s just say she can be very, very persuasive. Also, I’m not so sure about the delicate part.” Then he kind of bites his lip and looks off in the distance for a second. “Anyway, are ya ready to see your new kitchen?”

  We pass the library, and I can’t help but notice that all my gorgeous paneling has been repaired and restored, and also that the enormous gilded cross Babcia gave us as a housewarming gift is now mounted over the fireplace.

  You know what? I can live with that.

  Mike shows me all the features of my brand-new kitchen, with the warming drawer and extra refrigerated drawer in the island. The cabinets are a painted cream finish with antiquing in the crevices, with oil-rubbed bronze fixtures and pulls. The counters are a sandcolored granite with cambered edges. Although I’m both shocked and awed, I’m not surprised by how well it all coordinates, because they used all the stuff Vlad and I picked out. The guy might have been a mercenary and possibly a thief, but he was definitely an aesthete.

  “All of the appliances work?” I ask tentatively. “I can have hot or cold food whenever I want?”

  “Of course it works! Our job is to make it right around here!” Mike booms.

  The rest of the house is equally overwhelming, and I ooh and ahh over every closable door and flushable toilet. Holmes and company even put in a fail-safe opening in the panic room, and they got rid of the Jacuzzi.168

  “Is Mac coming home soon?” I ask. All of what I’m seeing is amazing, but what’s really making me happy is the effort Mac made to make it all right. And he called Babcia! That’s what blows me away more than anything. The only possible interpretation of all this is that even though we hit a rough patch, his love for me didn’t waver.

  “Should be here shortly. Said he had to pick up your grandmother from the hotel, and then he said something about a birthday cake and someone named Jake Ryan? It was all supposed to be part of your homecoming celebration, but like I said, you’re a little early. Hope that’s still okay.”

  Mac wanted me to finally have my Thompson Twins “If You Were Here” moment in the new house?

  Yeah, I’d say that’s more than okay.

  “You put Kevin Spacey in movie. He good boy.”

  We’re in the living room and I’m curled up in Mac’s arms and covered in dogs and cats. I’d be hard-pressed to determine which creatures in this house missed me the most.

  Babcia’s sitting across from us on the oversize chaise. She looks like a little kid, because her feet don’t touch the ground. Yet she still manages to be eighty pounds of imperious.

  “Babcia, I don’t have that kind of decision-making power. Plus, I ran away. I’m not even sure I’m allowed to go back.”

  She says nothing in response, instead choosing to fix her gaze on Mac. “Babcia need drink.” Mac sprints to the kitchen to fix Babcia’s cocktail.

  I’ll never quite know the price he paid to get Babcia here and involved, but whatever it is, I’ll do my best to make it up to him for the rest of our lives.

  Our reunion was brief but meaningful.

  I think Mac’s exact words were, “Are we cool now?”

  And yes, we are indeed cool.

  “But you can’t go all distant on me again,” I told him. “I didn’t know what to think, so I thought the worst.”

  “I didn’t want to distract you or ruin the surprise,” he replied. “I wanted to prove to you I could do it.”

  I raised a Botox-free eyebrow at him.

  “Or, technically, that Mike Holmes could do it.”

  “But not knowing what was going on distracted me.”

  “I really am sorry, Mia.”

  “Me, too, Mac.” He pulled me to him and we stood there for a long time, just remembering what it was like to be together.

  “Promise me one thing, though?” I asked when we finally broke apart.

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’ll never buy a forty-five-dollar lightbulb again.”

  He said he wouldn’t ... but I may lock down his workshop just to be sure.

  The doorbell rings and I hop up to answer it. It’s a little late, but Kara and Tracey are dying to see what’s been done to the place, and I need to give Kara back her car.

  Kara arrives first with a gorgeous Indian guy in tow.“This is Leo!”

  We exchange pleasantries, and at no point does Leo stop gazing adoringly at Kara. He’s smitten, and it’s adorable and everything I could wish for my friend.

  Mac serves everyone a cocktail and hands me a Scotch and soda. I take a tentative sip. Not bad. I’ll probably sneak some ginger ale into it when Mac’s not looking, but hey, at least it’s not pink.

  Progress, yes?

  We’re barely past introductions when the bell rings again. It’s Tracey and her date. “Hey, girl!” I give her a big hug, and only after we unclench do I notice the man by her side.

  Although calling him a man may be pushing it.

  “Um, who’s this?” I ask gamely.

  “This is my date, Trevor.”

  Kara and I exchange extraordinarily meaningful glances.

  “Hi,Trevor, welcome! Come on in! Let’s show you around!”

  While Trevor and Tracey get cocktails in the kitchen, Kara and I put our heads together. “Shouldn’t you card him before you serve him liquor?”

  “What is he, fifteen?” I ask in a low tone.

  “I wonder if she had to cut his meat at dinner?” she whispers back.

  “You think his mommy lets him be out so late on a school night?”

  It’s almost like Tracey has bionic hearing—or just knows us really well—and she shouts from the kitchen, “He’s twenty-four, you assholes.”

  I’m not sure what the biggest shock of all today has been—that my house is in order, that my grandmother is here, or that Tracey’s gone straight to Cougar Town, but I swear it feels like my birthday.169

  Once we’re all gathered in the living room, the discussion turns back to my movie again.

  “The bottom line is, I’m not running the show. And even if I were, I don’t want to be out there anymore. I’ve had enough LA to last me the rest of my life,” I tell everyone.

  “Legally, what are your options?” Tracey asks.

  “The rights are sold. Legally I’ve got bubkes. Trust me, I had my entertainment attorney and Ann Marie tear that contract apart, and it’s ironclad. I mean, the studio heads wanted me out there for my artistic vision,170 but they’re not at all obligated to accept my input.”

  “Did you just want to die when the producer paraded Vienna into the room?” Kara queries.

  “Die, kill, something,” I reply.

  “Won’t a subpar film dilute your whole brand?” Trevor asks.

  Kara mouths, He’s adorable, and pantomimes pinching his cheek behind Tracey’s back. I answer, “Yes, and that’s a major concern. But what else can I do?”

  “I can go out and straighten them out,” Mac postures.

  “Much as I’d like you to punch that shitweasel in the neck, that’s not the answer,” I say before I kiss him on the cheek.

  Babcia mumbles something from the depths of her chair.

  “What’s that, Babcia?” I ask.

  “Fight. You movie, you write, you fight. You go back, go over head. Talk to person write you check. Fight.”

  “It’s not that simple, Babcia.”

  She pulls herself up to her full (almost) five feet. “Wrong. Is simple. You fight. You go plane tomorrow. Fight. Win. Kevin Spacey say
greatest trick ever pull, devil world not exist. You make movie. Yes.”

  I glance around the room and everyone seems to be behind Babcia, even if they are a little confused by her mangled Usual Suspects quote.

  “Is it crazy? Do I go back?” I ask the group.

  “What, you need sign? I give sign. Sign say go. Be not stupid girl. Be smart girl. Go.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  Babcia looks over both of her shoulders and leans forward to say something sotto voce, which somehow makes her all the more menacing. “Is deal—you get on plane? Babcia find Vlad. Then he pay.”

  She’s no Mafia don, and yet I’m pretty sure she just made me an offer I can’t refuse. Mac blanches in sympathy for whatever bad, bad thing is about to befall Vlad.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. But first, get Babcia drink.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  JUST VISITING

  “Take me to Persiflage Films, please.”

  This time around, I’m not arriving at the studio in a chauffeurdriven Town Car.

  This time I’m in a regular cab I caught at LAX. I didn’t even pack anything more than an extra pair of underwear and a toothbrush, because I’m not planning on staying. I’m finished in this town.

  Whether that’s literal or figurative, I’m not yet sure.

  The cab drops me off in front of Persiflage, and I’m able to get on the lot because I still have my pass. But instead of heading to the offices, where—at least according to my old itinerary—I’m supposed to be meeting with costume designers,171 I make my way to the office of the studio’s twin presidents, Will and Phil Bernstein.

  I’m not at all sure what my plan is, having chosen to remain in denial the entire flight out here.172 But I’m here, and now I’m basically ready to throw up from anxiety.

  Although my game plan is hazy, my mission is clear. I need to wrest control of this movie out of the hands of that overly veneered jackass. I don’t have to (or want to) be in charge, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least plead my case.