by Abby Stern
I can’t help but smile. “Holiday, I love you but you’re not that famous.”
“Are you calling me D-list?”
“Of course not! You’re just not A-list … yet. I mean the paps aren’t waiting outside of the house to follow you. You happen to frequent the hot spots they lurk in front of. I think we can make a covert trip to the drugstore. The paps are much more likely to be out busting celebrities who are actually buying drugs.” My joke doesn’t resonate and Holiday continues to wallow.
“I can’t be … Ella. Not only is this the first time in my life that I’m doing something that I actually care about, but I love Tristan and I could lose him. If he is the father he might not be ready for this and if he’s not he’ll probably leave me. He’s the first guy I’ve loved in years and I messed it up.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I console. “First off, there’s no baby daddy without an actual baby.” Holiday finally lets out a little squeal that was partially a laugh. “We aren’t even positive that you’re knocked up.”
She scrunches her mouth at me.
“If you ever refer to my possible child’s father as a baby daddy again I will kick you so hard in your ovaries that you will never be able to have children,” Holiday warns. She smiles and follows her joke with more bawling and I know she actually isn’t kidding.
“Just because you’re hungry and your boobs feel extra large doesn’t mean you’re pregnant. You’ve been depriving yourself of refined sugar and simple carbohydrates for years and you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. You were bound to crack someday,” I point out. Holiday grins. “There’s no point in jumping to any conclusions until you take a test. We’re going to CVS to get you one right now.”
“Right now?” She stares at me with a look of sheer terror.
“Yes, right now. The only thing that waiting will do is drive you crazy and a trip to the psych ward will be worse for your career than a potential pregnancy. Because again, you’re not Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star.” Holiday glances down at her lap and I place my hand on top of hers. “Whatever the results are we’re going to figure this out together.”
“Ella, I don’t know if I can. I’m too scared,” she squeals, removing her hand from underneath mine and tucking her hair behind her ears.
“You don’t have to do anything. You just have to sit in the car while I go in and buy the test—so there’s not even a chance of anyone recognizing you.” She begins doing the breath-of-fire technique to try and soothe herself, but her cheeks are red and she looks more flustered. “You need to do this and you need to be there. This is one of those defining moments in your life that all of those speakers in TED Talks always ramble on about.”
Holiday finishes her breathing exercise and preps herself as if we’re leaving the huddle for the final play in the Super Bowl, but before we break she throws her arms around me.
“Thank you, Ella. I don’t know what I’d—”
I interrupt. “Let’s go. Enough stalling.” I wink.
“Let’s take my car,” she suggests.
“Okay, but I’m driving.” Under normal circumstances, Holiday isn’t the best driver. It’s not that she’s a bad driver but that she’s careless and doesn’t pay attention. She’s usually off in her imagination in a fantasy world and doesn’t notice traffic signs, traffic signals, or other traffic. Now that she’s worked herself up into a state of mania, I’m definitely not letting her get behind the wheel and endanger two, possibly three, lives.
* * *
I return to the car and place the bag containing the pregnancy test in the center console. Her eyes linger on it, knowing that this box is more clairvoyant than the numerous psychics and tarot-card readers she’s visited throughout the years. Its contents will determine the trajectory of her future. I’d like to tell her that the hard part is over but I know that her waiting three minutes for her results will be excruciating. We begin the drive home in silence and after five minutes I have to add some levity to this drive of dread.
“I almost wish you would’ve come in. The people-watching at a twenty-four-hour drugstore at this hour was better than spying on celebrities. I’m pretty sure the guy in front of me was buying supplies to dispose of a dead body,” I comment. Holiday continues her silence and I briefly take my eyes off the road to make sure she’s okay. Her eyes are fixated on the bag and I don’t think she’s taken a breath through her mouth in minutes. My eyes return to the road and I need to breathe. I wasn’t anticipating such an intense or late girls’ night but lack of sleep is nothing new and Holiday needs me.
As we’re getting closer to home I finally hear Holiday take a breath and I’m relieved. But then I hear a rustling sound and look over at Holiday again. I turn on the dome light.
“What are you doing?” I shriek. She’s taken the pregnancy test out and quickly inspects the box, like she’s analyzing the nutritional information on a box of cereal, opens it, and pulls a test out. “Holiday!” I shriek. Put that down!
“What’s the big deal? I just wanted to see it,” she explains, still holding both objects in her hands.
“You can’t be so careless, Hol. I know I said the paparazzi aren’t following you but that doesn’t mean at this moment you should act like they aren’t.” I look to her again, to rip the box from her hands, when a bright flash appears, almost blinding me.
“Shit!” I scream. A red-light camera! I’m not paying attention for two seconds, trying to make sure Holiday doesn’t dig herself into a public scandal, and instead I commit a traffic crime. “That’s like a five-hundred-dollar mistake.” I groan.
“I’ll pay for it,” Holiday insists. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Thank you for always trying to protect me.”
I try to shake it off and focus on the task at hand when we get back home.
“How does this work?” she asks. “I pee on the stick and if the smiley face shows up my career is over before it started?”
“No. I went for the high-end digital test. I figured this is one item you don’t go generic with. You pee on the stick, wait three minutes, and either the words pregnant or not pregnant will appear in the window.” She sighs, anxious over the most important 180 seconds of her life. “Now get your skinny ass into the bathroom and pee.”
Holiday complies and I fall to the bed and take a brief moment to close my eyes and finally process my thoughts. What if Holiday is pregnant? I put on a brave face, acting assured and not wanting to add to her anxiety, but she very well could be with child. She’s done so much for me that whatever the result, I will be there for her. My heartbeat speeds up when she exits the bathroom.
“Three minutes,” I tell her as I set the timer on my phone. She lies next to me on the bed as we wait in silence. After what feels like a lifetime we hear the alarm ring. “It’s time. You ready?”
“No.” Her face has gone pale and is cloaked with sheer terror. “I can’t do it,” she cries.
“Yes, you can,” I assure her.
“Will you look for me?”
“Are you sure? This is big. You might want to do it yourself.…”
“No. I can’t. My heart is beating so quickly I feel like it’s about to beat out of my chest.”
“Okay. I’ll look.” I get off the bed and as I enter the bathroom she calls out to me.
“If it’s bad don’t drag it out,” she requests.
I proceed into the bathroom and pick up the test resting on the edge of the sink. “Well?” she bellows from the bedroom. I know that she’s in a state of panic but I don’t know what to tell her. I silently return to the bedroom and extend the test to Holiday. She doesn’t look. “Ella, you’re scaring the crap out of me. What does it say? Pregnant or bloody not pregnant?”
“Both.”
“What do you mean, both?” she snaps.
“I mean it says ‘pregnant’ but the word ‘not’ keeps flickering in and out.” She finally peeks for herself. “The test must be malfunctioning,” I add.
>
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” she snaps, not at me but at the situation.
“There’s another one in the box. Try again,” I tell her. She repeats the process and the second time the wait is filled with more aggravation than suspense. The timer rings and she goes to retrieve her results.
“Bloody hell!” she roars. “So much for your name brand.” She hands me the second test and I see the same results as the first.
“It must’ve been a manufacturing error,” I tell her. Holiday throws herself back on the bed and I can tell she’s about to commence phase two of her meltdown, so I quickly jump in.
“Do you want me to go back to the drugstore and get another test from a different brand?”
“No,” she whimpers. “That was too emotionally exhausting to possibly go through again. I’ll go to the doctor. I’ll get a 100-percent answer that way, whatever the results are.…” She sighs.
“I know we wanted to find out tonight but I think that’s the best solution. You’ll get some much-needed sleep and I’ll call first thing in the morning to get you an emergency appointment.”
“I just want this to be over either way.” She swallows.
“I know. But there’s nothing we can do about it right now. The best thing you can do is calm down and get some rest.”
Holiday crawls under her covers and I wrap her into the sheets like she’s a burrito. “Thank you, Ella,” she whispers. “I might not be able to have champagne right now, but having you is even better.” That is a compliment coming from Holiday Hall.
“You’re welcome, sweetie.” I move toward the door.
“Ella … you can’t tell anyone about any of this. I know you wouldn’t but you know sometimes you just have to say it out loud.” I can’t believe that she’s finally acknowledging what happened. “I’m serious. You cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. Not even Nick. If they pick up the show and I am … he’d be obligated to tell them before we sign the contracts. They could replace me and I could lose my dream.”
“I promise.” We stare at each other, both realizing what is at stake. “Rest up. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Nineteen
Dr. Nazari can’t see Holiday until 11 A.M., so I have time to shower and make myself look like some semblance of a human being before I have to wake Holiday. We go to the same gynecologist, but that’s not unusual. Dr. Nazari is the It OB/GYN. There’s an It everything in Los Angeles. The one thing I have listened to Robin about over the years is that you should always try to see the best doctors when possible and to prioritize your health above all else. If I didn’t, I’d have a collection of designer purses that could rival Holiday’s.… well, not really. She has a lot of bags. Dr. Nazari is as well known for her bedside manner as she is for her supermodel looks and impeccable fashion sense. Every time she enters the exam room her Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress is paired perfectly with matching Louboutin pumps with fresh makeup and not a hair out of place. If you didn’t know better you’d swear she’s just come from a photo shoot instead of a delivery room. She understands women in Los Angeles. We like comfort and she decked out her office to meet her patients’ needs. Her office is nicer than the apartment I lived in with Ethan. Every room has its own flat-screen TV and scented candles. It sounds frivolous but I need amenities when I have to spread my legs without dinner first.
When we arrive at Dr. Nazari’s office Holiday can’t sit still.
“Read a magazine or something,” I suggest. She shuffles through the selection, which are mostly periodicals on parenting but happens to find an old copy of Departures toward the bottom of the stacks.
“Holiday Hall,” the nurse calls out. Holiday didn’t even have a chance to crack the binding.
“Everything will be okay,” I assure her.
“Will you come back with me? You know how much I hate needles.”
I try to lighten the mood.
“At least you weren’t ever tempted by the tramp-stamp fad.” She grins. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”
As we enter, the nurse hands her a sealed plastic cup. “We need a urine sample. Place it inside the window when you’re done, then go to exam room three.”
Holiday nods and goes to the bathroom while I wait for her in the exam room. She enters and the nurse follows, asking her a slew of standard questions. “How often do you drink? How many drinks would you say you have a week? Do you smoke? How many sexual partners have you been with? Have you ever had unprotected sex with any of your sexual partners?”
When the nurse places the tourniquet around her arm Holiday looks like she’s about to puke or pass out. I take her hand in mine.
“Pinch me when it starts to hurt,” I tell her.
“Are you sure?” she asks with her voice shaking already. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’ll be okay.” As soon as the needle punctures her skin she digs her nails into me. I’m holding my pain in so she can get through hers.
“All done,” the nurse tells us what feels like an eternity later. I inspect my hand, limp with pain, and the imprints of Holiday’s nails look like track marks. “We’ll run the test and the doctor will come in to discuss the results.”
I put on the TV and there’s a rerun of The Wendy Williams Show on. I grab a bottle of sparkling water and slink into the office chair, beat and bruised, but grab my phone.
Me: Watching a rerun of Wendy and thinking of you. See you tomorrow for your 28 day test results. I know you’re gonna be in remission. I love you, Mom! xo
There’s a knock on the door.
“How are we doing today, Holiday?” Dr. Nazari asks as she enters the room.
“I don’t know, you tell me,” Holiday answers. She shakes Holiday’s hand and notices me in the corner. “Nice to see you again, Ella.” Dr. Nazari flips through Holiday’s chart and holds a separate piece of paper with her test results. She scans the paper and I’m waiting with as much anticipation as if it were me who might be pregnant. Holiday looks up to the ceiling. Like me, Holiday isn’t big on organized religion. She believes that Karl Lagerfeld is her messiah and his cat, Choupette, is his prophet, but I’m not sure they will be able to help her in these circumstances.
“You are not pregnant.” We both shriek and when it comes to an end I let out a small uncomfortable laugh. I feel lighter and didn’t realize how much sympathy anxiety I was having for Holiday until now that it’s subsided. Not only would the decision of whether or not to have the baby have changed her life in one way or the other, but knowing her, not having the child wouldn’t be an option she would’ve been able to live with. Though having it would’ve created a bit of a PR nightmare. Aside from the hazey paternity circumstances, every pound she gained and man she’s been photographed speaking to in the last three months would’ve been scrutinized by every celebrity media outlet until she gave birth. “Since you’re here, I’d like to go ahead and do your annual exam and we can discuss different birth-control options if you’d like, to try to prevent this situation from happening again.” Normally Holiday wouldn’t sit through a lecture disguised as a discussion given by anyone, but after hearing this news she’d listen to Sir David Attenborough narrate an earthworm’s existence—she’s so relieved she doesn’t care.
* * *
“I’ve never been as terrified as when Dr. Nazari was lecturing me,” Holiday confesses when we’re finally out of there. “It was all STDs this and STIs that and birth control, birth control, birth control!”
“You think she was bad? That’s nothing. She’s like Dr. Seuss compared to Dr. Jacobs’s bedside manner.”
Holiday’s mouth widens at hearing the comparison.
“Do you know how much you scared me?”
“Fuck, darling, I scared myself,” she admits. “I was envisioning I’d have to accessorize all my outfits with a scarlet H.”
“Yeah, way to be a Ho-liday.” At least neither of us has lost our sense of humor. “You know, spending the past hour at the gyno with you spre
ad-eagle wasn’t exactly on my bucket list.”
“Yours, mine, or the Republican party’s,” she quips back. “Get me out of here, I need a dirty martini!”
“No champagne? Are you sure you don’t have pregnancy brain?” I jab.
She places her arm around me and explains.
“Champagne is for celebrations. Martinis are for fucking miracles.” She raises her hands to the sky. “Come on, I’m buying.”
“Somehow, Holiday, things always work out for you.” I giggle.
“They do.” She tries to mask her nerves with her wit but her fear still shows through. “I know there’s going to come a day when they don’t.”
“I love you, Hol, but after this near miss I hope to God I’m not around to see what your emotional state is when that day comes.” And I mean it.
My phone begins buzzing and won’t stop. It’s Robin.
Robin: Mom’s 28 day counts came back!!
Robin: They’ve improved!
Robin: She’s not in remission but Dr. Jacobs is allowing her to come home!!
Twenty
“Surprise!” I yell when my mom and Robin enter her house.
“Ella?! What are you doing here?” my mother asks, flabbergasted.
“More importantly, how did you get in here?” Robin interrogates.
“You gave me a key when you first moved in,” I remind her. “And I’m here to celebrate you being home from the hospital.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” my mother says, embracing me.
“Do you want to stay for dinner tonight?” Robin asks. “Jeff is making lettuce-wrap tacos.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I can’t. I have to work tonight but I wanted to be here to welcome you home.”
“We’ll have dinner together soon,” my mom assures me.
“Actually that’s part of the reason I came by … to ask you if you’re feeling up for that mother-daughter Spago date I owe you?”
“Absolutely!” The glimmer that’s been missing for so long has returned to her eyes. “When are you free to go?”
