by Leslie Lehr
“Wow. Everyone’s doing so well, I’m jealous.” Michelle said. “Might be awkward if you run into her at the commissary, though. She always bugged me to quit working with you and hang up my own shingle as an independent producer. What’s the project?”
“A documentary.” His eyes skimmed her arm, then he called upstairs. “Asia!” He turned to Michelle. “You’re coming up to say hello, right?”
Michelle followed Victor to the stairs. “I already thanked her for the orchids. They’re nicer than the ones I sent your girlfriends.”
“You’re worth more than any girlfriend,” Victor said. “I saw pictures of the accident, you know.” He shuddered. “Glad you made it out.”
Michelle was touched. The railing was on her bad side, so he held her like a prom date and walked her up. “Did you hear about Nikki?”
He nodded. “Awful. Any word?”
Michelle shook her head and caught her breath at the top. “To be honest, I want to borrow a Nikon to see what’s on this memory card.” She pulled it out of her purse. He held the blue disk against his forehead as if trying to read the contents. She laughed. “If you’re old enough to mimic Johnny Carson, you might as well stop dying your hair.”
A young woman in a short black dress and a chopstick poking from her glossy bun popped her head out of the first doorway. She clapped a hand over her ruby lips and widened her eyes beneath a black slash of eyeliner. If it weren’t for the dragon tattoo on her shoulder, Michelle wouldn’t have recognized her old assistant without the combat boots and black nail polish. Asia had obviously taken Michelle’s advice about dressing for the job she wanted. And just as Michelle had suspected, that job was hers.
Michelle brushed off the All About Eve moment as she stepped into her old office. The walls hummed with high-definition monitors, and Asia’s assistant, sleek as a seal, murmured into a headset as he filed completed production binders in a cabinet in the corner. Asia shook hands hello, reaching to Michelle’s left without hesitation. She was a quick study.
“Have a seat?” Asia straightened the printouts on the table under the window and pointed at the executive chair at her desk.
“No thanks,” Michelle said, flattered by the VIP attention. She was nostalgic for the powerful position, but it was clear from all the clipboards hanging across the wall, one for each commercial job in the works, that she’d been nothing more than another body in that chair. “Looks like you’re busier than ever, Victor.”
“What can I say?”
Michelle saw the autographed Roadhouse print from the video shoot on the wall and blinked. Noah had given her that as a gift when his recording deal came through. That’s when he had hugged her so tightly. Here was one thing she’d done that made a difference. She pointed at Victor. “You can say: thank you, Michelle, for talking me into doing that video for my reel.”
When the PA looked up, Michelle explained. “He said pigs would fly before it helped him get a movie.”
The PA chuckled on his way out.
“Thanks, doll. Asia, get this woman a camera. I have a meeting.”
“Don’t you want to have lunch?” Michelle asked. “I’m dying for sushi.”
Victor tossed out his gum and unwrapped a new piece. “This is a ‘meeting’ meeting. Friends of Bill.”
Michelle recognized the code word for AA. “Oh, good for you.”
Asia disappeared into the closet, then emerged with a digital Nikon hanging from a thick shoulder strap. She also had a small Dolce & Gabbana box. She lifted out a pair of glasses with magenta frames. “They arrived after…you left.”
“Thanks for saving them,” Michelle said. She didn’t remember ordering them, but when she put them on, voila! “All the better to see what’s on Nikki’s memory card.”
“Nikki’s?” Victor asked.
“I think so,” Michelle said. “It’s probably just ten shots of her birthday muffin, but I miss her so much, even that would be worth seeing. If you could give me a hand with the disk, I’ll take a peek at the viewfinder and head out.”
“Nonsense,” Victor said, his hand trembling as he inserted the disk into the proper slot. “Asia will screen it on the monitor. Excuse me while I make a phone call. Sushi sounds good. I’ll try to reschedule.”
Michelle watched him go. “He seems shaky. How long has he been sober?” Asia shrugged, and connected a USB cable to the camera.
Fletch, the coordinator from downstairs, rapped on the open door, then loped in, his arms piled high with petty cash envelopes and a thick production binder. “This gets us current, except for the reshoot at Chaplin.” When he set them on the desk, his eyes went to Michelle’s arm.
She looked down to avoid making him uncomfortable. Her glasses made it easy to read the label on the production binder: “Untitled Noah Butler story.” Michelle’s breath caught. Rings of sweat burst through the silk blouse beneath her blazer. “What the hell is that?”
Asia noticed and pushed Fletch out the door. “I thought you knew.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Was there a secret code in the orchids? ‘With Love from Victor,’ my ass. The traitor.”
“It’s a documentary,” Asia explained. “The making of the video, the singer’s tragic end, and the band’s phoenix-like rise from the ashes.”
“You’re exploiting his death, that’s what you’re doing. Victor!” She looked at the Nikon. What if Nikki brought her camera to the set before switching this test disk out for one with a bigger memory? If there were any images of Noah here, Victor would want to put them in the documentary. Michelle was not about to take that chance. She yanked the USB cord from the computer.
“What are you doing?’
“Leaving!” Michelle scooped her arm through the strap and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed her purse and raced out of the office.
“You can’t take the camera!” Asia lunged for it, but Michelle was already scrambling down the stairs. She took another step down, then stumbled. She held tight to the camera, but her right arm automatically braced for the fall. A familiar arrow of pain shot out from her right shoulder. She struck the railing, righted herself, and kept going.
“Are you okay?” Asia called. “What should I tell Victor?”
“Tell him to go to hell.”
***
Michelle ran across the courtyard, panting as she passed the cottage and headed for the parking lot. A few other people were getting into their cars, so she slowed to a walk until she reached the Volvo. Chest heaving, she unlocked the door and climbed in. She couldn’t wait any longer to see what was on the memory card. Maybe it was nothing. But what if it wasn’t?
She pulled the camera from her shoulder and hunched over the viewfinder so that her left arm could reach the control button. Then she pressed it.
The first two frames were completely black. The third and forth showed a ceiling light and a blurry thumb. Michelle breathed a sigh of relief. Nikki didn’t know how to work the camera. Maybe her fears were unfounded.
She clicked to the next frame and found a picture—the color version of the three-shot that Michelle had found in the kitchen with her obituary on the back. She found the zoom button and looked closer. Michelle and Tyler still flanked the birthday girl, but Nikki’s disco ball earrings were sparkling, and the birthday candle on the muffin was purple. Something else was different, as well. The spot on Nikki’s cheek was clearly not ink. It was a tear.
Michelle had to swallow hard to not start crying. She forwarded to the next frame, a close-up of a birthday cake with the name Nicole spelled out in purple. Michelle remembered asking Asia to order it. She clicked to the next blurry image, of Sasha posing by her makeup table in all her blond glory, hair cascading down the back of her hand-knit halter dress. This had to be from the set of the music video.
The fifth blurry image showed the band, young and scruffy, in hand-painted T-shirts. Like the one hanging in Nikki’s closet.
Michelle clicked to the next shot, of Tyler on the
pitcher’s mound. He was frowning, the bill of his blue baseball hat shading his eyes. Michelle smiled, pleased that Nikki had not only come to a game, but appreciated her little brother enough to take this shot.
She clicked to the next frame and tilted her head back to focus on something sparkly, with bits of purple. It reminded Michelle of those cardboard toddler books with macro photos of everyday objects. You had to guess what they were. This was…a scarf. Michelle wished she could remember that day, knitting together at the field. She would give anything to go back.
The next picture showed half of Nikki’s face—as if art and teenage vanity had collided. Michelle leaned closer. There was something different here than in the breakfast picture. It wasn’t just that Nikki’s brown hair was brushed and her cheeks were a pink contrast to the purple scarf at her neck. It was as if the cheekbones of a woman had erupted from the flesh of the child. And there were no tears.
The next image was dark. Michelle sat back, thinking the photos were a dead end, except for a scrapbook. She hid her face as a man got into a car a few spaces down and drove away. Then she clicked again, just in case.
Another image flashed on the small screen: Noah sitting astride a gleaming black motorcycle. Michelle recognized the chrome handlebars and the leather saddlebags immediately—this was the Harley in her garage. Noah’s face looked harder than it had in the photo in the law office conference room. Dark stubble dotted his chin. His blue eyes were piercing, as if he had a plan, and he was looking directly at the lens. At the photographer. At Nikki.
Michelle tried to identify the background, to see where he was, but there was a blurred rim of pink at the corner. Nikki’s finger, no doubt. Michelle clicked the button again.
Two faces appeared close-up, as if captured an arm’s length away. Nikki and Noah, lips locked together in a kiss. Noah’s eyes were closed, as if he was deep inside the moment. Nikki’s brown eyes were open, wide open, and they were dancing. She seemed to be waltzing, in that one-two-three rise before sweeping across the floor in the arms of the one you…
Oh god. Nikki had been in love with Noah Butler.
The world stopped spinning; the parking lot was still. Michelle was slowly aware of her own breathing and the traffic outside. Someone was shouting. She looked up.
Victor approached, waving his arms. He saw her and shouted again, hurrying toward the car.
Michelle dropped the camera in her lap and reached across the steering wheel to crank the engine. She shifted clumsily. She heard banging on the window, but she didn’t look up. She honked long and loud, then put her hand on the wheel. She hit the gas and sped away.
19
Michelle was still shaking forty-five minutes later, when she turned off the freeway into her tree-lined neighborhood. Every speed bump past the elementary school made her cringe with pain from her fall down the stairs. She was driving slowly to minimize the jostling when she saw a sleek black Porsche pull into her driveway.
A huddle of parents pulled their children away from the fallen fence as a tall figure with dark hair cut through the weeds to the front door. It was Victor.
Michelle braked and backed up to pull in Julie’s driveway, which required a flurry of motion with one hand. She slunk down to watch from the rearview mirror. After knocking on the door a few times, Victor walked around the back of the house. Michelle looked in the side mirror and caught sight of a bruise blooming on her cheek. She climbed out of the car, leaned over to slip her arm through the camera strap and grab her purse, then bumped the door shut with her hip before running up to Julie’s porch. She kicked the door. She had never appreciated the tall cypress trees bordering Julie’s yard until now.
Julie opened the door in her work clothes.
“May I come in?” Michelle didn’t wait for an answer. She stepped over the yapping dog and around a headless Barbie into the messy hall.
Julie backed out of the way, then followed Michelle inside the living room to the bay window. “I was just heading to work. Are you okay?”
Michelle peeked outside between the chintz curtains. Victor was leaning against his Porsche, pulling his phone from his pocket. A ringing sound erupted inside Michelle’s purse. She turned to Julie. “My boss wants his camera back.”
Julie took the camera and eyed Michelle’s cheek. “What happened?”
“I fell.”
“That’s what Rihanna said. You need to go to the hospital. You could have a concussion—or worse, after all you’ve been through.”
“Seriously, I tripped on the stairs at my office.”
“Let’s get you some ice.” Julie led Michelle to a shabby chic couch and set the camera by Michelle’s purse. Michelle scooched away from some crayons and relaxed in the comfortable mess. It was so different than her empty living room. Julie returned and moved the camera aside to sit down and apply a mouse-shaped block to Michelle’s cheek. “What’s with the camera?”
“There are pictures of Nikki and Noah on the memory disc.”
“So? I told you she was a fan.”
“Big fan. They’re kissing. As if no one else exists.” She waited for a reaction, but Julie just sighed and repositioned the ice pack. “Did you know?”
“Of course not. It’s just been a long time since anyone has kissed me like that. I was trying to remember how it feels.”
Michelle saw the corner of Nikki’s get well card peeking out from her purse. “I wonder if that’s why she ran away.”
“You mean, because she was angry that you…ruined it?”
“She said she felt awful—and she didn’t want to see me.” She nudged her purse with her foot. “Will you keep the memory card for me, just in case?”
“Just in case what?”
“In case anyone else gets the idea that my own daughter blames me.”
“Doesn’t everyone blame their mother for something?”
“Sure. But aren’t some mothers to blame?” Michelle thought about Elyse, then shook it off and took over the dripping ice pack.
Julie went back to the window. “Still there. He’s cute, your boss. Single?”
“Not worth your time. He’s a player. Not to mention a traitor. He’s waiting for me to come home so he can see the disk. He’s making a documentary about Roadhouse.”
“That’s weird, but what does it have to do with the memory card?”
“Everything! If he includes the shot of Noah Butler kissing my daughter, I’ll be cast as the avenging mother.” She handed the ice pack back to Julie. “Would you let your daughter date a musician?”
“She’s nine.” They heard the old Mustang engine rev up and roar off. Julie peeked between the curtains. “Coast is clear, except for that white van, he’s been parked there all day.”
“You know what I mean. Even if Sophie was sixteen, I bet you’d say no.”
Michelle struggled to pull the memory card out with one hand. “The lawyer from Orrin Motors wants to suggest the accident was my fault, that I didn’t use normal precautions or some such thing. And Noah’s parents could amend their lawsuit anytime to add something or other about intentional harm. I thought I could prove I didn’t have a grudge after we found this skanky bartender from the Venice Bistro who claims she was his girlfriend. She’s the one who gave me the memory card. Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove anything about her. It only proves that Nikki and Noah really did have a relationship.”
Julie returned and put a consoling hand on Michelle’s knee. “That doesn’t mean you were responsible for his death.”
“Then why does it scare me so much?”
“Motherly concern?” Julie guessed.
“I hope that’s all it is.” Michelle offered Julie the disk. “In any case, if you have it, I can honestly say that I don’t.”
“Why can’t you just say there’s nothing on it?” Julie asked.
“We worked together for years. He’ll know if I’m lying.”
“I wish I could help you, Michelle. But, this divorce is taking forever
and I could still lose custody of my kids. I can’t harbor evidence.” She pushed it away.
“You just said it’s not evidence,” Michelle pleaded.
“Saying and doing are two different things. That guy in the van watching your house might be a detective. Seeing him sit there all day reminds me of when Jack was on workers’ comp and the insurance company watched to make sure he was really hurt. Why don’t you send it to your husband?”
Michelle’s eyes flashed. “Drew’s been lying to me.”
“Oh my god. Did he have an affair?”
“No, nothing like Jack. Turns out he never reported Nikki missing. And I understand why he lied, but…” She shrugged.
“I know what you mean,” Julie said. “I don’t even care all that much about Jack screwing around. It’s the lying about it that hurt. Like he thought I was stupid.”
“Exactly,” Michelle said.
“Made me think I was the crazy one. My mother even bought me boobs, thinking if that didn’t keep Jack home, at least it would make me feel better.”
Michelle couldn’t help but look at Julie’s chest. “Did it?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Julie admitted. “Sophie nursed so long I was embarrassed to wear a bathing suit. And now I get really fast service at the dry cleaner.” They laughed together. “My mother isn’t the class act that yours is, but it sure helps to have her on my side.” She looked at the memory card. “What about your mother?”
Michelle shook her head. “She’ll tell Drew, and he’ll want to strap me to the bed so I can recuperate.”
“Is there anyone you do trust?” Julie asked. “How about that cute care manager? You should have her take a look at you, anyway. There is something to be said about recuperating.”
“Lexi? She’s at work. I can’t bear to go back to that hospital. Plus, I’ll have to visit everybody and…” She pushed herself to a stand. “Ow.”
“You really should see a doctor,” Julie said.
Michelle thought for a moment. “You’re right.”
***
Dr. Palmer studied the X-ray film clipped to the light box on the wall of his clinic. Michelle tried to stay calm and focus on the colorful images that so captivated him, but they reminded her of Tyler’s old Lite-Brite. She was tempted to go find the nurse who was printing out pictures from the memory card, but she didn’t want to pass the patients at the weight machine. She was wearing little more than torn ribbons of pantyhose beneath her hospital gown. She shivered, guessing that the air conditioning was set to accommodate the shirt and tie Dr. Palmer wore beneath his lab coat.
