American Babe

by Babe Walker

  “Please call me Babe. Barbara is a name that was given to me at birth as a sick joke. My dad is a monster for naming me Barbara. Perrier will be fine. And some down pillows if it’s not too much to ask.”

  “This is a hospital, darling. Not the Ritz.”

  “Ew . . . Thank God it’s not the Ritz. The Ritz is fucking sick.”

  “Well we don’t have anything other than apple juice or fruit punch in a can, and the pillow you have under your head at the moment is the only kind of pillow we use.”

  I made a face that was 50 percent smiling and 50 percent sad face. Whatever. It made sense in my head at the time. I was high, get off me.

  “Is my doctor available to chat?”

  “Yes. Dr. Chen will be in with you in a moment.”

  “Dr. Chen sounds like he’s hot.”

  “She is.”

  “Even better. Send her in.”

  When I sat up a bit and reached for my phone on the bedside table, I realized that my rib was incredibly sore. Side note: When I was younger I fantasized about having a couple of ribs removed to create a slimmer waist contour, but my dad wouldn’t let me do it, and then a friend of mine’s mom did it the next year and died, which obviously changed my view on the procedure. But it did occur to me in this moment that maybe my rib had been broken in such a way that it would achieve the aesthetic I’d always hoped for, even if it was just on one side.

  So I just tried my best to get comfortable in a seated position. The room was nice, for a hospital, I guess. (It actually reminded me of a W Hotel room from 2005 that I once stayed in in Westwood when I was having my dad’s house smudged of spirits and ghosts after a bad breakup with my high school boyfriend.) Someone had sent me a huge bouquet of flowers, but it was on the other side of the room so I couldn’t tell who they were from. But they were hydrangeas, so it was probably from my dad and his fiancée, Lizbeth. She’s obsessed with hydrangeas, and I told her that I loved them, too, a few years ago when I was buttering her up to convince my dad not buy this house in Cabo from George Clooney. It’s just not that cute to buy a house from someone more famous than yourself.

  I also noticed a huge box of chocolates on the bedside table and assumed they were from my best friend, Genevieve. If you’ve ever been to LA, you’ve seen her dancing or sleeping on a banquette at the Chateau. She’s always been there for me, since I met her as a kid, but she’d also probably orchestrate my assassination if she was jealous enough about a new bag or a recent lay with a guy she liked. That slut thinks of everything.

  “Miss Walker?”

  I looked up to see a really hot doctor-man standing before me.

  “Are you Dr. Chen?” I asked. These drugs were really doing a number on my vision.

  “Nope. I’m Dr. James Hunt. I’m the attending on duty. How are you feeling today?”

  His energy was exactly Robert’s; it was bewildering.

  “Do you know Robert?”

  “Not sure I do. Who is that?”

  “Robert. My ex. He’s a doctor, for sports.”

  “Don’t know him, unfortunately, but how are you feeling right now?”

  “He’s really a great guy. I think I miss him right now, which is weird because I was the one who ended things. It was just boring, you know?”

  “Are you feeling woozy?”

  “I’m feeling fine. Robert used to say ‘woozy’ all the time. So weird. Anyway, I wanted to get engaged and he wasn’t asking and then finally he wanted to go pick out a ring with me, but he should just know what ring I want, so then I was just annoyed at that point so I was like completely over it and then I moved out.”

  “I think you should get some more rest, Barbara.”

  “Babe. I’m fine, though.”

  “Okay, good. How is your abdomen feeling? You had a pretty bad break on your twelfth rib. You really should not be using a squirrel suit within the Los Angeles city limits. It’s very dangerous, and I’m pretty sure illegal.”

  “Oh, so you’re a doctor and a lawyer?”

  “I’ll have Dr. Chen check back in on you in an hour or so. Good luck with your boyfriend.”

  As the doctor-man left, I saw an email from Donna pop up on my phone. Donna Valeo is my real mom, my bio-mom. She left me with my dad when I was born, only to run away and become a supermodel. Her identity was kept from me “in my best interests,” but then in a weird twist of fate, I ended up rooming with her wife, Gina, at rehab a few years back—Donna came to visit Gina, everyone put the pieces together, and the truth was out.

  From: DONNA (d.valeo7979@gmail.com)

  To: Babe Walker (babe@babewalker.com)

  Subject: Question

  * * *

  Babe,

  Sorry this is so last minute but my father (who is your grandfather) is having his 80th bday in Maryland this Saturday. I’m gonna take the train down from NYC tomorrow. Can you meet me? Would be nice to introduce you to your family. You can stay with me at my sister Veronica’s house with us and her kids Cara and Knox, or get a hotel if that’s too much.

  Anyway let me know if you can make it. Didn’t decide I was going until 5 minutes ago.

  Love,

  Donna

  I mean. I didn’t even know who she was until I was twenty-five and since then we have literally hung out four times. So the chance of me going to fucking Maryland to be with her and her strange suburban family were negative-1,000 percent.

  Maybe I did need more sleep because I was starting to feel extremely uncomfortable. My ribs were vvvv sore, but I was also wearing a hospital gown made of sandpaper and strings and I hadn’t washed my hair in about forty-eight hours. SOOOOO, I had a choice: either get my fucking shit together, which would mean showering and having a vintage Lanvin nightgown messengered to the hospital so I could feel comfortable, or I could just take another five Vicodin and pass out for a second full day. Unfortunately, neither of those things was going to happen because, as I finished that thought, my dad and Lizbeth walked into my hospital room. They had thoughtfully grabbed my huge Goyard tote and filled it with my laptop, iPad, and all of the magazines that must have been sitting on the desk in my room.

  A little info on my dad/Liz/me/us: When I decided that I was bored and annoyed in my relationship with Robert, I moved back into my dad’s guesthouse. My father, who is an attorney to the A-list celebrities of the world, has always been a serious workaholic. But this past year, he has kind of scaled it back about 10 to 20 percent. He is spending more time and traveling a lot with Lizbeth, who is also a workaholic. She created this kind of chic yet kind of basic fitness-lifestyle brand and has been really successful, and as much as I don’t love that she is only eleven years older than me, she is genuinely one of the nicest people in the world. She honestly does not need to be as nice as she is. It’s almost rude of her. But alas, they really love each other and she makes my dad happy, and he’s working less, and they don’t seem to care that I’m twenty-seven and still living at the house, without a job. So it’s whatever.

  “There she is,” my dad said in his version of a quiet voice, which is a normal-volume voice for everyone else. “How are you feeling, love?”

  “Hi, Dad. I’m fine.”

  “So? Dear? What in the bloody fuck of all fucks were you thinking jumping off a mountain?”

  “Dad, please don’t ask me why this happened. This obviously happened because God hates me.”

  “Oh, stop that. Do you want me to see if there’s a case against the flight suit manufacturers?”

  “No, Dad. It’s fine. I don’t have the energy for a lawsuit right now, nor do I feel like investing the time it’ll take to research and purchase an entire set of court looks. Just leave it alone.”

  “So happy to see you awake,” Lizbeth chimed in. “We came to visit you when we first got the call, but you were asleep by the time we got to the hospital. I cut you those hydrangeas from the cutting garden.”

  “Thanks, guys. Really sweet of you, really. But I’m fine. You know me. I
can get through anything. Luckily I don’t have any work or personal obligations at this point in my life, so this injury won’t really cause any problems for anyone but me.”

  My dad seemed satisfied with that answer but he may have been trying to move things along, because he gave a little smile and then pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket.

  “I’ve got to take this, ladies. Excuse me.”

  “He’s in the middle of a big case?” I said.

  “Yeah. Michael Jackson estate. Still.”

  “Cute.”

  “So . . .” Lizbeth looked nervous, which made me feel nervous because she is never nervous.

  “So?”

  “Are you okay, Babe?”

  “What do you mean? I’m in the hospital. I’m as good as one can be considering I just sustained massive internal injuries due to a high-impact aerial accident while accomplishing a major life goal.”

  “I know, but are you okay?”

  “I’m still not sure I understand the question.”

  But I totally understood the question. I was fully aware of what Lizbeth’s vibe was in this moment. She wanted to get real with me. This is what she does for a living. She gets people to talk about themselves and improve upon who they are. But I was not about to have this conversation right now.

  “Babe, you know, this is what I do for a living. I help people find their true path and help them realize their dreams. You have so much potential.”

  Here we fucking go. I’m just going to listen. I’m not going to say a goddamn word until she is completely done.

  “We’re not that different, you and me. I too was pretty lost when I was your age.”

  Of course you were lost. You lived in actual Wisconsin, Lizbeth. And we are not that alike because you are fucking my dad.

  “I was jumping from job to job, relationship to relationship. I had no passions.”

  Okay, first of all, I couldn’t be more passionate. I am passionate about last fall’s collection from The Row, passionate about not having kids until I’m thirty-five, passionate about making the lives of my friends more fun and making the lives of my frenemies more uncomfortable.

  “You tried to work at your dad’s law firm, which lasted a week. You started a fashion line that folded. You worked at Vogue for a minute, you even wrote two books that were successful, but you never even seemed that passionate about being a writer.”

  This bitch.

  “Like, Babe, what is your motivating force? What is your true passion? What makes you happy? You left Robert in the midst of what seemed like a very healthy relationship. Why? What is driving you to make those kind of choices?”

  This person genuinely does not get who I am.

  “I genuinely don’t understand who you are. Like, you are one of the most confusing individuals. You’re beautiful, extremely intelligent, driven when you want to be, effective in getting what you want.”

  Now you’re starting to make some sense, Liz.

  “But somehow the most misguided human being I’ve ever met. What is your mantra? What do you want out of life?”

  OMG, ask me one more question that doesn’t have a real answer, and I’ll lose it.

  “I just don’t want you to avoid the question of how you got to this place, mentally. What do you need to feel secure in your life? What does Babe need to be truly happy?”

  Never speak again.

  “I know this may feel like a lot to deal with right now, with you being in a hospital, but sometimes these rock-bottom moments are the only way to shift your journey toward a healthier path. To find a new mantra. I believe in you.”

  I sat there in silence for a solid minute trying to craft a scathing response. This was a challenge because truthfully, it was impossible to miss the fact that she was speaking from the heart and actually trying to help.

  “It’s funny that you bring all this up now,” I said. “I’m kind of like ten steps ahead of you on this one. I’ve been thinking the same exact thing for a while now and I really actually do know what the fuck I’m doing with my life, coincidentally. I’ve just accepted an invitation from my real mother to go visit our extended family in scenic Maryland, for my maternal grandfather’s eightieth birthday celebration. Been feeling like I need to reconnect with my roots slash past in order to figure out where I’m going in the future. You know?”

  “Yes. I do. That’s amazing, Babe. Good for you.”

  Lizbeth seemed genuinely impressed with my answer.

  “Yeah. It is really good for me. I’m truly looking forward to it. I’ve heard Maryland has really chic . . . um . . . crustaceans.”

  FUCK ME.

  THREE

  Why Would I Be Your Babysitter?

  “I’m going to the airport. Terminal Seven. United,” I said to the Uber driver as I hopped into her black SUV a couple days later.

  “Sure,” she said, smiling back at me.

  I love a lady driver. I normally ask them about cabbies’ rights and about women in that workplace, in the city, safety issues, etc. I’ll really go in sometimes. But not today. Today I was in a somber mood.

  “I’m gonna close my eyes now and meditate until we get there, so please don’t ask me anything or make any loud noises with your mouth or turn the car sharply. I so appreciate it. Thank you so much, you’re the best. Thank you.”

  “Sure,” she said again, in the same tone but without the smile.

  I was mad.

  And sad.

  And bad.

  And glad.

  Just kidding, I wasn’t glad, or bad, really, I just got caught up with the rhyming.

  But seriously, I refused to sit there anymore and handle the dramatics. My family was acting like a soap opera. Like, what is everyone’s damage? Because I just don’t get it. I feel like I’m so super chill and really, really try to inspire an atmosphere of chillness around me, yet my family is always on level ten when they don’t even need to be. No one died, right? Right? Right, Lizbeth? I’m not some fucking murderer or degenerate running willy-nilly through Los Angeles. I’m not hopeless. I don’t need direction, okay? I Googled “Maryland,” and once I saw that it was definitely a continental United State, I booked a direct flight. I haven’t flown internationally since the Malaysian flight disappeared—I refuse to go out like that.

  I was going to be with my real family, a simple group of simple people who would probably be so confused by every thread my of being that they’d have no choice but to accept me for what I am: not simple. And I was genuinely excited to meet these normals, so I’m not using “simple” as an insult. There was no prejudging going on. I left LA with an open mind. In fact, a heavy pour of simplicity is what I needed in my life.

  We got to the airport annoyingly quickly, which probably meant that I needed more meditation than I got. I hate when I can’t get enough in. Meditation is actually horrible, don’t do it, or do, I don’t know, meditate on it and then decide. But I was there: LAX. I was on my cute way to cute Maryland, and this was happening. The flight was bumpy, but I will say the flight attendants in first on a United flight to Maryland are way more put together than you’d imagine. The tallest and modeliest of them was doing a brown YSL lip with her aubergine hair top-knotted to absolute death.

  When I slurred (1.5 Xanax and a glass of gin), “You’re too chic for this,” she looked blankly at me, then smiled and exited the scene. Don’t blame her for being caught off guard, it was challenging because it was true.

  The airport smelled weird and dealing with the woman at the rental car place was tough. I’m sincerely sorry for anyone that’s ever had to rent a car.

  I made it to the address in Donna’s email at around 7:30 p.m., and it was getting dark. I’d forgotten about the east coast being depressing with its short days. I slowly cracked the Chevrolet Malibu’s window and peered out. The house was on a street with other houses that looked the same as each other, a variation on chimney placement or door color here or there. It felt simple. And . . . safe.
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br />   I grabbed my royal blue Anya Hindmarch maxi tote (chic, holds everything, AND features a large, perforated smiley face across one side: a symbol that I had arrived in peace) in one hand and my rolling Goyard carry-on in the other and clomped my way up the path toward the front door. DING DONG DING DONG rang the doorbell. “They need to change that sound,” I whispered softly.

  The door swung open, and I was greeted by a male child.

  “Come on in!” he said as if I were the camera crew for his Cribs episode. I stepped back, trying to process the excessive and, mind you, blind hospitality, and noticed something . . .

  “I’m sorry, male child, but are you wearing the Dior Fusion sneaker in navy with black sequin appliqués right now?”

  “I’m not clear, is that a rhetorical question? You’re looking at them,” he stated, truly confused, as if to ask if I was partially blind and needed help identifying the shoe.

  “Wait,” I uttered.

  “Wait what?”

  “Wait, like, who are you?”

  “What do you mean, who am I? I live here.”

  “Are you me?”

  “No . . .” he said with a tilt of his head. He looked concerned now. “Who are you?” he asked. “You’re not the babysitter tonight? Danielle or whatever?”

  “What? Does it look like that word could be my name? And why would I be your babysitter? That’s a LOLZ.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Are we fighting?” I asked His Highness.

  “She’s obviously not the babysitter. She has a suitcase,” said a girl walking up behind him, wiping her hands with a dishrag. Oh, there’s no help here. She was cute in the face for a teenage girl, but her entire outfit was a size small for her build, which was not bad, in a SoulCycle way. “How can we help you?”

  “I’m Babe Walker.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up. He knew that name.

  “No fucking way,” the girl said.

  “Yes fucking way. Do you guys know who I am?”

  “You’re Donna’s daughter,” said the boy, whose freckly face was now wrapped in a huge smile. “Babe Walker.”