by Ava Finch
RayAnne is disappointed, having worked hard gathering both women’s stories. But not everything pans out, and she needs to learn to roll with such setbacks. So, no guest yet—but Cassi and others are working on it. She can either tend Penelope or pace, so she takes Dot’s advice and stays busy. Besides, there’s nothing to be done—she can hardly prepare for a last-minute replacement when she doesn’t know who it might be, or when they might come. Could be today, could be tomorrow . . .
A ghostly form appears as a reflection on the windscreen. RayAnne spins. Cassi.
“What. What is that look for?”
For a moment the girl just stands with a pained smile.
RayAnne sets down the wax. “Spit it.”
Cassi points through the trees to the parking area. “You saw that bus-thing?”
“Uh-huh.” A few minutes earlier, a luxury touring van with loaded luggage racks had pulled into Location. RayAnne assumed it was the shuttle of sponsors due from Minneapolis for the wrap party. “Great, so, they’re like five hours early?”
“Well, that’s just it. They’re not the sponsors.”
“Not them? Well then who?”
“You better come with me, Ray.”
Yam, lavender, and patchouli. She can smell her before even rounding the end of the van.
Bernadette spins. “RayAnne!”
“Mother?”
RayAnne is caught off balance, too dumbstruck to raise her arms. Bernadette catches her midsway in the embrace of a boxer stilling his training bag. Over her mother’s shoulder, she sees the troop of her mother’s Blood-Tide Questers milling, pointing, frilling their bejeweled fingers in little waves. Toodles.
“And you’ve brought all your . . .”
“My girls, yes! Isn’t this fantastic? We’re just on our way to our retreat up at Sacajawea, you know, the sweat-lodge spa? And I realized how close we were, so I thought, why not stop by? See you in action? Get the tour!”
Her mother’s group could be extras in a film, dressed as they are in doe skin, moccasins, and ponchos, as if “indigenous” had been it during fashion week. Two have ill-advised beaded headbands binding their gray pageboys. One gives her the how hand motion from bad Westerns, and RayAnne’s focus shifts from the offending palm to the face just behind it: Jeanette Faring.
It’s quite enough having Big Rick loitering around Location—she’s only putting up with him because it all ends soon and everyone goes home, or, in his case, goes somewhere. But both parents on top of the crisis of the canceled guest? Not to mention the sponsors.
It all simply, suddenly exceeds RayAnne’s reserves. She cannot risk Bernadette getting a whiff of Big Rick, or vice versa, yet cannot fathom how such a collision can be prevented. Panic dampens her underarms. It’s possible none of the staff or crew have seen the bus yet—it’s lunchtime; those not in the catering tent are busy thumping laptops and iPhones, scrambling to replace Rebecca Standish.
Her mother’s sudden appearance leaves RayAnne mouthing empty air like a trout, completely lost for words. Bernadette must take her Ojibwa wannabes and retreat from Location as quickly as they materialized. As if reading her mind, Cassi attempts to herd several back to the bus, but a number seem to have quested off on various paths.
Just as she takes a breath to implore her mother to leave, RayAnne sees the Grouper bounding down the path. RayAnne grabs Bernadette’s caftan sleeve and yanks her behind the trunk of a large cedar. “Mom, listen, I’m really sorry, but this just isn’t a good—”
The Grouper, swift as a deer, suddenly appears on the path only yards away. Her nasal trill cuts RayAnne off. “I thought that was you!”
RayAnne drops her mother’s sleeve, unable to form any coherent explanation as to why Location should suddenly be overrun not only with both of her parents, but a menopausal tribe of elders.
Bernadette leans from behind the tree. “Amy? Amy Harris!”
“I was right! Oh. My. God. Bernadette! I haven’t seen you since Burning Man!”
RayAnne looks confoundedly from one to the other. “You know each other?”
Amy smile-scowls at RayAnne while giving her mother a squeeze. “RayAnne, you never mentioned Bernadette Mills is your mother!”
“Well, no. I wouldn’t have . . .” RayAnne blinks upward to a low scudding cloud as if it might offer some explanation for the turn her day is taking. Her mother and Amy commence catching up, yammering, hugging.
Cassi, halfway to the van, turns and drops the fringed elbows of two of the mavens to watch a moment before calling to RayAnne, “Should I take them on a tour?”
RayAnne closes her eyes. “Yes.”
A diversion might at least keep them out of the way until the next thing that will invariably go wrong.
But there is no waiting. A chortle of a particular baritone booms from the path leading to the catering tent. Lunch is over. Bernadette’s ears prick up, and she swivels her head like an owl without moving her shoulders. Her eyes grow round at RayAnne and her normally soothing tone of voice climbs to a raptor’s pitch. “That cannot be who I think it is.”
“Actually.” RayAnne feels the burning buzz on her lip that usually forewarns the eruption of a cold sore. “It is.” In addition, the talons of a headache have begun squeezing the base of her skull. It’s not even noon. Both parents are here, she has no guest, and Location is about to be inundated with show sponsors and the higher-ups in NPT, the people who will decide if Fishing is worth the risk.
Backing away, she fights the urge to run. “I’ll be. In my trailer. Going to. Lie down.”
Of course she can’t lie still. She paces Tiffany end to end, the length of which is exactly—surprise—thirteen strides. When someone opens the door unannounced, she freezes.
Cassi sticks her head in. “Ray?”
“Are they gone? Tell me they’re gone. You got my text? Did you find anything for my lip? Was there any trouble?”
“Yes. And yes.” Cassi hands over a tube of Carmex, saying, “As far as trouble? Your parents only saw each other long enough to fling some nasty looks. In other news, we’re on for three o’clock. Amy’s found a guest to replace Nose Job.”
“Thank God.” RayAnne turns to the mirror and dabs at the glowing bump on her lip. “At least something’s going right. Who is it?”
“Hang on to your bobbers.”
“Who . . .” RayAnne catches Cassi’s eye in the mirror and pivots. “Who is the guest?”
“Bernadette Mills. New-age aging coach to the menopausal rich.”
RayAnne is aboard Penelope and far out on the water when the expected van from the station arrives loaded with sponsors. Everyone on Location is to be at peak performance, ready to answer questions, make nice with those who have come to inspect the operation, and meet the people behind the scenes, check out the bang they’re getting for their bucks. The Wallets—Big Rick’s name for sponsors—are expecting a catered petting zoo with an open bar. She aims her binoculars through the windscreen, zeroing in on the steep slope where paths zag down the hill. Staffers are leading sponsors on a tour to the dock, the beach, the picnic area. Bernadette’s ten little Indians crawl the place like it’s an ant farm. Up on the plateau, she can make out a party rental van and a delivery truck. Some workers string lights under a large temporary canopy while others bang together a small stage for the band. One guy tries unsuccessfully to poke tiki torches into the stony ground leading to the parking lot, his obscenities carrying across the water.
RayAnne’s been given a pass for the moment—she needs to prepare for her impromptu guest, after all. Out on the lake in Penelope, she stares at the water while gingerly tapping the growing bump on her lip. The boat rocks in the wake of fishermen zipping around from one bass hole to the next. She thinks idly of the song “Mad Dogs and Englishmen.” No fish worth its scales would bite in the noonday sun. Abstractly, RayAnne feels lik
e pounding these fishermen for their stupidity and for disturbing her concentration.
But as Bernadette says, there’s no man more hopeful than one holding his pole.
She can’t stay out here much longer—as tempted as she is to fire up Penelope and defect to Canada, she’s going to have to go back, buck up, and interview her mother.
Interview my mother.
Gran will know what to do. RayAnne speed-dials, but Gran isn’t answering—probably out watching the sweaty cadets jogging in packs, or has her Vitamix set to epic and can’t hear the phone.
When RayAnne was young and things went badly and she’d fall headlong into one of her yellow funks, Gran would pull her close, insisting, “Tell Gran all about it,” then patiently listen to RayAnne’s whimpers and petty grievances as if they were the most important and vexing problems facing the world. RayAnne cannot recall what sort of dramas she’d have played out at age six, or ten, or seventeen—but Gran’s response was always the same, patting the place on the couch next to her, coaxing, “Tell.” Then she would stroke the nape of RayAnne’s neck and smooth her hair while RayAnne gnashed and gnarled and eventually talked herself out, exhausted. She’d finally roll her head back across the pleats of Gran’s skirt to blink up at the woman who made it all better by saying practically nothing.
When the answering machine kicks in, she leaves a message: “Okay, Gran. It’s only me. We’ll talk later?” After hanging up she repeats, “Okay,” as if things are.
RayAnne turns the ignition, and Penelope rumbles to life. RayAnne spins the wheel in the direction of the shore. She manages a quiet docking, and with the stealth of a Human Being, takes the lesser paths and shortcuts to her trailer. Once inside, she shouts into a bunched-up beach towel for two minutes, then does her best to compose herself. They tape in an hour; once that one single, final interview is in the can, the season will officially wrap, and Location will break down and pack up like a traveling carnival. There’s a twelve-week hiatus before it all starts up again, at least the planning stages—that’s months. Were Gran here, she’d be assuring RayAnne like she would before a dentist appointment. You just get through this one next thing, then celebrate it being over. We’ll have ice cream!
Icing the carbuncle on her lip, she can only hope Darren down in makeup can work some sort of magic. She covers it as best she can with concealer, then changes into the same outfit worn the day before while interviewing the twins, because as far as the camera is concerned, it’s still yesterday.
If only.
She tucks Cassi’s notecards into a cargo pocket and steps out, inhaling the piney air and reminding herself to breathe. Halfway down the hill at the fork, she takes the steeper, more dangerous path.
TEN
RayAnne can see her mother walking along on the path below, still wearing her paper makeup bib and following Amy to the dock. They are on the trail that eventually shortcuts through the picnic area. From her high vantage point, RayAnne can also see the picnic tables where Big Rick is holding court with three of Bernadette’s “girls,” his arm casually slung over the shoulder of one. Their giggles waft up the hill, sounding more like teens than card-carrying members of AARP. On the table next to them is an open bottle of wine and an empty one, tipped on its side.
When Bernadette and Amy emerge from the path to cross the clearing, Big Rick grins widely, dispatches wine into two fresh Dixie cups, and holds them aloft at their approach. RayAnne presses her foot to the ground as if it’s a brake that might stop time moving forward.
His greeting is expansive. “Ah, two more beauties come to join in our little bacchanalia!”
Amy practically skips forward. Bernadette blinks like she’s just stepped indoors from bright sunlight, taking in Big Rick’s unbuttoned shirt, the amount of wine left in the standing bottle, and the now-giddy trio of women who have strayed from her troop.
Big Rick booms, “C’mon, have a drink with me and the squaws here.”
RayAnne covers her mouth, praying her father will shut his.
Bernadette faces Big Rick. “Richard. You might get that mouth checked; it appears to be leaking.”
“Oh, right. I guess that wasn’t very P-frickin’-C of me. Sorry.” He cocks his head and offers, more formally, “’Dette, please join me and your meno-pals here for a glass of cheer. Whaddya say?”
She looks to the women, tipsy and grinning, then back to Big Rick. “Don’t you have a new model at home? Or has her freshness date expired?”
“Ah, the ex officio is irate!”
“Please. I doubt you even know what that means. Listen, Richard,” Bernadette tears off the makeup bib and crumples it. “You can go ahead and ruin this for me, but if you screw this up for RayAnne . . .”
“My, my, Miss Inner Quietude is sounding pretty hostile there, Bernie-dette.”
Bernadette’s voice is loud enough to travel, not just up the slope, but to everyone milling on the paths and the crew on the dock waiting for them. “Why don’t you just leave RayAnne be, leave us all be?”
He’s no longer grinning. “And why don’t you go get your ears candled, or your chakras rotated, or whatever the woo-woo hell you do.”
“Richard, so help me—”
“So help me what? So help me, Gandhi?”
The women abandon the picnic table one by one, no longer charmed, giving Bernadette apologetic looks for their temporary treason. Bernadette’s clenched fists fall from her hips. “You know what, Richard? You can just . . .” Words rarely fail Bernadette, but they do now. “Just kiss my ass.”
As she starts walking, Big Rick calls after her.
“Yeah? Maybe I should—might do you some good!”
When particularly nervous, RayAnne tries to imagine addressing viewers one at a time and so speaks as she would to a single person. She thinks about how she might engage some busy executive, distract her enough that she sets aside her papers to shift closer to the television, or entertain the mother of young children who is nabbing an hour to watch Fishing. Or get the attention of a college girl, tempt her to look up from her ramen at the sound of the theme music and give her chin a wipe. RayAnne speaks with an implied conspiracy because she knows busy women watching television have stolen the time to do so. When she says hello and winks at the beginning of every show, the takeaway is: Forget the twenty things vying for your attention—for the next fifty minutes, it’s just us. RayAnne has an abstract awareness of her audience, but as easily as she can imagine them as individuals, she can compact them like a zip file to stash neatly in the outline of Cassi, because Cassi always stands behind camera two for each taping, her silhouette the focus of RayAnne’s intentions—her drishti, in Bernadette-speak. When RayAnne hears “Roll!” she imagines dozens of women whooshing into Cassi like a colony of bats to a cave. She’d never realized how much she relied on that visual device until she notices the second pontoon puttering from its moorage, and Cassi’s not in it. She’s been left on the dock and is taking off her life vest.
“Whoa, Cassi! You’re missing your boat.”
“I got kicked off to make room for the guys from Laguna and Cast-Away.”
“No!” RayAnne swivels and shades her eyes. Indeed, the pontoon is loaded with sponsors. In Cassi’s usual place sits Hal, flanked by a rep from Mermaid Pilsner and the CEO of Jailbait. The other boat has even more, too far out on the lake to make out. She waves and whistles to the pontoon to no avail.
“No . . .” she moans. Everyone else is bent to their tasks, oblivious to her plight. The gaffer is gaffing; the sound guy is clipping a wireless mic onto Bernadette. Darren is checking continuity by comparing RayAnne’s clothes and hair to iPhone shots of the previous day’s shoot.
“Don’t worry, Ray,” Cassi says, handing over RayAnne’s earpiece. “I’ll be right here. Got my monitor all plugged in, see?” Frowning, RayAnne screws in the earbud. Cassi presses the live button and says, “Chec
k, check,” sounding gritty and tinny in RayAnne’s ear. People are waiting for her to get in the boat.
“Go,” Cassi says, directly into the mouthpiece. “Go, go, go.”
“Weren’t Kira and Kit just amazing? The twins are a true inspiration, especially for those of us that think we have challenges.” The camera zooms out to show the boat rocking and RayAnne sitting across from Bernadette, who sways a little like a Weeble on the bench seat, her face flushed nearly to the shade of Penelope. RayAnne hopes she’s not still fuming from her run-in with Big Rick.
“Our second guest”—RayAnne must maneuver each word past the sore on her lip, now raised like a lump of broiled cheese—“is life-passages doula Bernadette Mills.” She stutters on dette. “Thousands of you follow her blog Blood Tides, and over the years many have participated in her ritual Meno-Trek pilgrimages to spiritual destinations. One of our own staff has even been questing with Bernadette in the Nevada desert.”
Not sure which direction to turn, she pivots to camera two, which is wrong, so she’s signaled to turn back and does so, haltingly. “My own journey with Bernadette began over thirty years ago.” Resisting the impulse to tongue the cracking pancake makeup covering the cold sore, RayAnne mumbles, “Bernadette Mills is my m-mother.”
The ensuing pause is far too long.
Not once before has she had to rely on notes on camera, but as for what to say to her own mother, she’s at a loss. She awkwardly holds a number of index cards with questions Cassi has come up with. It doesn’t help that she’s stayed intentionally out of the loop of Bernadette’s career, remaining diligently neutral for fear of giving into her snarky side and scoffing at her mother’s new-agey-ness; what she and Ky refer to as her optimistyness.
Bernadette’s smile is pasted, as she waits for some cue or a question, casting uneasy glances far across the rough water to the dock, to land.
