by Bill Myers
“In Sarina’s limo.” She had to laugh too.
“See, it’s already happening, sis. Just remember us little people when you reach the top.”
Becka noticed they were pulling into the parking lot of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. She asked, “Did Julie tell you what happened last night?”
“Yeah, but she didn’t have to. I already saw it on TV.”
Becka’s heart lurched. “What do you mean . . . on TV? You mean you read about it in the paper.”
“Both actually. It’s a really big story, Becka.”
She bit her bottom lip. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“You still there?” Scott asked.
“Yeah, but — ” Becka cleared her throat. “Listen, I’ve got to run. We just pulled up to the front doors. Pray for me, okay?”
“That’s why I’m calling,” Scott said. “You got two phone messages. Mom just called to tell me she’s praying for you. She tried to reach you on the cell earlier, but it must have been off.”
Becka’s heart sank. She really would like to have heard her mother’s voice again. Especially this morning. “Rats. I’ll just see her when she gets into town. Who else called?”
“Ryan. He lost your cell number, wouldn’t you know it, so he called the house. He misses you and is praying for you,” Scott said. With a touch of sarcasm he added, “Isn’t that sweet?”
Becka’s face flushed. “As a matter of fact, yes. He’s such a doll.”
“Can I quote you?”
Becka’s eyes narrowed. “If you do, you’re taking your life in your hands, buster.”
“Oh, and guess what?” Scott said.
“What? Hurry, I got to go.”
“Got an email from Z today.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He said to ask Sarina about the mission field.”
Her forehead knotted. “What does he mean by that?”
“Beats me,” Scott said. “That’s Z for you.”
“Yeah, always mysterious. Well, I better go now. Bye, bro,” Becka said, hanging up.
As the chauffeur came around to open her door, she noticed Demi standing at the curb.
And she didn’t look happy.
12
Right this way,” Demi said, blasting through the front door with enough force to almost bowl over the bellhop.
Becka scrambled to catch up.
“Thanks for coming,” Demi said over her shoulder with about as much warmth as an ice cube.
They walked so fast through the lobby toward the Ritz Café, Becka hardly had time to let the posh surroundings sink in. She did notice a handsome man playing a pearl white piano. The sound of classical music filled the air. The piano, with its lid up, was positioned in front of a commanding view of the rose garden.
An enormous crystal chandelier dangled overhead. That was hard to miss. And her feet — she noticed how they sank into the most cushiony, well-padded carpet she’d ever stepped on. This was definitely out of her league, not to mention way outside her comfort zone.
Becka had spent most of her life on the mission field and had never set foot in a hotel this elegant. She was already self-conscious wearing Julie’s clothes; as nice as they were, she felt underdressed. The turbulence in her stomach wasn’t helping matters either. She felt as if she had swallowed a squirrel.
Demi, still several feet in front, reached the café first. A second later, Becka breezed up alongside her.
“Table for two, ma’am?” said the hostess.
“We’re already situated in the private dining room, thank you anyway,” Demi said.
“Then you know your way,” the hostess said with a broad smile and a wave of her hand.
Demi marched in, dodged several busboys, and snaked her way to a door on the far wall marked PRIVATE DINING ROOM. With a tug, she opened and then held the door for Becka.
Becka quickened her pace and stepped through the opening. “Thanks,” she said, trying to be pleasant in spite of the growing sense of unease she felt with every second. Interacting with Demi was like talking to a tornado.
Demi blew past Becka and approached the table in the corner where Sarina was seated. Demi dropped into her chair and, with her forefinger, pointed to the seat opposite Sarina. “Have a seat,” Demi said, sounding like a drill sergeant.
“Thanks.” Becka pulled the chair out and offered Sarina a weak smile as she sat down. “Um . . . good morning,” she said, but the squirrel in her stomach had made its way into Becka’s neck, causing her throat to choke off the words.
They were the only three people in the room. Cereal, juice, a pile of fresh-cut fruit, and a plate of assorted muffins were arranged between them. Sarina and Demi were drinking coffee, black.
Sarina, she noticed, had her hair pulled up into a clip. She wore blue jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket. Although the room wasn’t particularly well lit, a pair of oversized sunglasses, like those provided by an eye doctor after dilating a patient’s eyes, covered half of Sarina’s face. Her cheeks appeared red and puffy. She wore little or no makeup and sat with her back to the window.
Becka detected a slight tremble in Sarina’s hand as she brought a cigarette to her lips. She took a long, slow drag and exhaled a steady stream of smoke in Becka’s direction.
Becka folded her hands in her lap. Now what?
After what felt like an eternity, Sarina took another drag and said, “I hope you’re happy with yourself.” She blew the smoke out the side of her mouth.
“Pardon me?” Becka raised an eyebrow.
“I guess you know you’ve just about ruined my career,” she said with a wave of the cigarette. “The vultures in the press are circling. They can’t wait to pick apart my flesh.”
Becka couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I . . . I — ”
“It’s true,” Demi said, preoccupied with her Palm handheld. She glanced over the top edge of her glasses. Demi’s phone rang. “Yes?” she said curtly and then listened for a second. “No . . . no . . . good gracious, no . . . Sorry. Not a chance.” With a snap, she closed the flip phone.
Sarina looked toward the ceiling.
Demi said, “That was the publicity department. They’ve received requests from Good Morning America, The View, and Regis — not to mention that all the major papers are looking for a comment. You see, Becka, they all want a piece of Sarina.”
Becka managed to swallow. “All because of last night?”
Demi spoke. “As you can tell, we have a situation here.”
Although Becka felt bad, she knew it really wasn’t her fault. She figured she’d try to lighten things up. “At least it’s not, like, the Jerry Springer Show calling,” she said with a forced smile.
“They already did.” Demi spat out the words.
Becka felt like crawling under the table.
“Obviously, you don’t get it, do you?” Demi said, still looking over the top of her glasses. “Sarina Fox is an international phenomenon. She’s the hottest thing going on television. She’s worth millions. And last night she was upstaged by . . . by a kid. No offense, mind you.”
Becka’s head hurt. Her neck ached. The room started to spin. She wanted to cry. It wasn’t as if she had planned to wreck anybody’s career. She didn’t write the article that sparked the whole controversy. This is so unfair, she thought. What am I supposed to do now?
“Just tell me this, young lady. What did you think you were doing last night?” Demi said.
“I . . . I was saving a friend’s life.”
“By the looks of it, you were trying to make a name for yourself at the expense of Sarina.”
Becka shook her head. “No way. Besides, what was I supposed to do?”
“That’s obvious,” Demi said with a sneer. “You should have left well enough alone — ”
“And let Laura die?” Becka could no longer hold back her feelings. She started to choke up. “You’re being unfair. Both of you. And, frankly, I happen to think Laura’s life is wa
y more important than your career, Sarina — no offense, mind you. ” Becka stood to leave.
Sarina removed her sunglasses. She took a drag and then snuffed out the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Hold on, hold on. I can see this isn’t going anywhere. Have a seat . . . please.”
Becka hesitated. What was the point? Why hang around and get blasted? Becka looked at Sarina’s dark, hollow eyes and saw something. But what? Sadness? Regret? Anxiety? Fear? Somewhere inside, Becka felt the gentle nudging of the Holy Spirit. Be patient. This isn’t about your feelings, Becka. It’s about Sarina’s life. She sat down.
Sarina said, “Thank you.” She reached inside her purse for a fresh cigarette. “There are a couple of things I need to know . . . about last night.”
Demi shot Sarina a look of warning.
Sarina waved her off. “I trust her, Demi.”
Demi pulled off her glasses and tapped her teeth with the end of one earpiece. “You’re making me nervous, Sarina.”
“Not to worry. I can see it in her eyes. She’s trustworthy.”
Becka was unsure whether or not to believe her. Maybe this was part of a trap to get her to say something they could use against her. She took a deep breath. This was going to be harder than she expected. And although Becka had lost her appetite the moment she arrived, she wanted something to do with her hands. “May I?” she said, pointing to the muffins.
“Heavens, yes,” Sarina said. She lit her cigarette. “Before I go on, I need you to promise me one thing.”
Becka took a muffin, placed it on her plate, and looked at Sarina.
“Promise me that nothing we discuss leaves this room,” Sarina said, tapping a finger on the table.
Becka nodded. “Sure thing.”
“I’m serious. Not a soul.”
“I understand.”
Sarina held the cigarette in front of her mouth as she spoke. “For starters, I am not a witch. I don’t really believe all of this Wicca stuff.”
Becka’s ears burned at that piece of information. “Excuse me?”
Sarina tilted her head. “That’s right. It’s just a part I play. I’m an actress, right?”
Becka couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “No offense, but how can you live with yourself?”
“Welcome to Hollywood,” Sarina said, brushing away a strand of black hair from her face. “That’s the way it is in show business.” She took a hard, long drag and then blew the smoke through her nose like a fire-breathing dragon.
“But . . . what about the book? What about the spell at dinner? What about — ”
“Just smoke and mirrors.” Sarina waved her cigarette in the air. “It’s all part of the act.”
13
What’s wrong?” Sarina said, peering at Becka through a cloud of smoke.
Becka, still trying to process Sarina’s revelation, reached for her glass of orange juice. She paused, holding the glass in midair. “Sorry . . . I guess I’m kind of in shock.”
“What’s the big deal? I’m an actress. I happen to play the part of a Wiccan,” Sarina said, tapping the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray. “I could play Bozo the Clown. What difference does it make whether or not I’m really a clown?”
Becka considered this. “For starters, you don’t have the nose for it,” she said with a nervous laugh.
Sarina cracked a half smile.
“Besides, Bozo isn’t messing around with the spirit world,” Becka said as she sat back against her chair. “People who watch The Hex don’t know whether or not you actually believe in it. With time they could easily start to think it’s all true.”
“Go on.”
“Well, take Laura,” Becka continued. “She said it herself . . . she got into Wicca because of what she saw on the show.”
Sarina bristled. “Don’t try and pin her decision on me.”
Becka flushed. “You’re right. She made a choice, so that’s on her. All I’m saying is that it’s not a game. You can’t just play around with this stuff. At least that’s what God says in the Bible.”
Sarina puffed away for a long minute.
Demi’s phone rang again. She got up and walked to the corner of the room to answer it.
“I need you to explain something,” Sarina said after another minute.
“Sure. At least, I’ll try.” Becka sipped her juice.
“What I don’t get is,” Sarina said, “last night I invoked a spell, a spell which, mind you, I didn’t really mean.”
Becka nodded.
“But after that woman — what’s her name?”
“Stacey . . . Stacey Young.”
“Right. After Stacey got possessed, no matter what I said I wasn’t able to undo it,” Sarina said. “Seems it should work both ways, right?”
“Not really,” Becka said, shifting in her seat. “At least, according to the Bible, only Christians have authority to cast out demons. And only in the name of Jesus.”
Sarina didn’t appear completely convinced.
“Okay,” Becka said. “I’m not an expert, but demons in the spirit world are always looking for an invitation to break through to our world. When you and Laura cast the spell, you guys just happened to open the door.”
Sarina tilted her head. “Let’s say for the sake of argument I buy that. Then why couldn’t we just send them back?”
Becka remembered an example her dad used back in Brazil. “It’s sort of like toothpaste. You or I can squeeze the tube and the paste comes out. But only the manufacturer can put it back in.”
Demi returned to the table. “That was the producer from Oprah. What did I miss?”
“We’re talking about toothpaste,” Sarina said with a touch of sarcasm.
Becka blushed. “Okay, so it’s not the best example.”
Sarina waved her on. “I’m just messing with you. Go on.”
Becka swallowed. “Well, it’s like the demons are the toothpaste. Once we release them, only God’s Spirit has the power to put them where they belong.”
Demi cut in. “I hate to do this, but Sarina’s got to catch a plane in a hour.”
“I do?” Sarina said, genuinely surprised.
“I agreed to do Oprah, Sarina.”
Sarina started to protest. “Wait a second — ”
“No. Listen to me, darling,” Demi said, putting a hand on Sarina’s arm. “I’ve thought of a way to spin this story. Trust me. We’ll end up smelling like roses — and selling a ton of your books. Get serious. We’re talking Oprah here. And if we don’t come out and address the situation, I promise this story won’t go away anytime soon.”
Sarina took a long drag and then snuffed out the cigarette. “She’s the boss.” She put on her sunglasses, grabbed her purse, and started to rise.
Becka’s heart pounded. She was forgetting something. But what? Yes. That’s it. Scott had said Z wanted Becka to ask a question. But what was the question? She strained to remember.
Demi signed the bill for breakfast with a scribble. She tossed her Palm into her purse, slung the bag over a shoulder, and then stood.
Becka didn’t move. “Um, Sarina?”
Sarina paused and checked her watch. “What’s up?”
“I know this is gonna sound crazy, but do you know a guy by the name of Z?”
Sarina went pale. She lowered herself back into her chair. “I . . . I haven’t heard that name in years. You know Z?”
Becka nodded. “Sort of. Anyway, for some reason he wanted me to ask you about the mission field. Does that make any sense?”
Sarina removed her sunglasses. Her eyes narrowed. She focused intently on Becka’s face. Slowly, she nodded. “In a way it does. My dad was a missionary most of my life. I guess you might say I was raised in a Christian home.”
Becka hoped she didn’t look too stunned. “Really?”
A faraway look clouded Sarina’s eyes. “About nine, maybe ten years ago, my dad and Z had to rock climb their way to reach a tribe in the jungle with medical supplies.”
She swallowed. “On the way back, my dad fell about thirty feet. His harnessing, or whatever, broke loose. Z carried him on his back several miles.”
Becka noticed even Demi seemed mesmerized by the story.
“I never knew this, Sarina,” Demi said.
“Yeah, well, Dad died several days later from internal bleeding,” Sarina said, looking away.
Demi circled behind Sarina and placed her hands on Sarina’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry. Really I am.”
When Sarina looked up, tears watered the edges of her eyes. “I was so hurt and mad. That’s when . . . ,” she said, wiping at the tears with the napkin. “That’s when I stopped believing in God. I just didn’t understand how God, if he was really loving, would take my dad. But what would you know about something like that, Becka?”
They stared at each other for several seconds.
Becka fought back tears of her own. “Actually, Sarina, I know plenty.”
“How’s that?”
“My dad died on the mission field too.” Even as she spoke the words, Becka couldn’t help the flow of tears that started to stain her cheeks. “He died last year. And believe me, I’ve had those same thoughts about God.”
Sarina’s gaze softened. “I’m . . . sorry, Becka. I had no idea we had that in common.”
“Yeah, but . . . there’s one big difference between us.”
Sarina waited.
“I’m still placing my faith in Jesus.”
Sarina’s eyebrows narrowed. “I don’t get it. Why?”
“Where else can I go if not to God?” Becka said, dabbing at her tears. “And the way I see it, Sarina, God is reaching out to you. Maybe that’s why he brought us together.”
Sarina shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I could be way off here,” Becka said. “Maybe he’s giving you another chance to come home, you know?”
Neither spoke for a minute.
For her part, Becka was dying to ask Sarina a million questions about Z. What was his real name? What did he look like? How did they meet? Where did they meet? Who did he work for? How old was he? And most importantly, did she still know how to get in touch with him?
Demi broke the silence. She spoke softly. “Sarina, we really need to get a move on.”
