by Leslie Lehr
Before she could complain, the phone changed hands and another man’s voice boomed across the country. “Hi, Michelle, how the hell are you?”
“Great,” Michelle said. And for the first time in a long time, it almost felt true.
“Here’s Sasha,” Travis said. There was chatter as he handed the phone off.
“Sasha!” Michelle forgot everything for the split second she heard her friend’s voice say hello. Even if Sasha was mostly a work friend, production crews spent so many hours together they felt like family. And she missed the social whirl. “Don’t be mad, but someone else did my hair. Thanks for your card, by the way.”
“It’s the least I could do,” Sasha said.
Michelle smiled and went to the window. The workmen were leaving, joking with each other in Spanish. It was good to have friends. “I miss you! Are you still knitting?”
“Yes,” Sasha said. “But everyone I know has a scarf now, so I’ve moved on to blankets.”
Michelle laughed. “I’m jealous. My doctor said to hang up my needles for good.”
“You could crochet—that only takes one hand.”
“So I’ve heard. Can you teach me?” Michelle asked.
“Are you coming to New York?”
“Not if I can help it. I hate cold weather. I’m thinking about Hawaii, though.”
“Hawaii?” Sasha asked.
The phone rustled as Drew got back on the line. “What’s this about Hawaii?”
“That was so rude, Drew! At least tell Sasha I said good-bye.” She heard him mumble something, but she didn’t care what it was. She was impatient, bursting with the news. Finally, she heard his breath on the line. “Drew, she was there!”
“Who?” Drew’s voice echoed.
She looked at the phone as if he was crazy—or drunk, if they’d just wrapped. His voice did have a slight slur. If only she could see his face, she would know for sure. “Who do you think?”
“No way. Kenny says the car company has detectives looking for her. Professionals.”
“Exactly—she’s just a job to them. Anyway, it’s a place to start.”
“How do you know she was there?” Drew shushed people in the background, then a door shut three thousand miles away and all was quiet. He was about to grill her. “Michelle?”
She remembered her promise to Cathy. Shoot. She needed to come up with something fast. Think, think, think. She saw Nikki’s self-portrait on top of the stack of photos printed from the memory card. “Mother’s intuition?”
She bristled at the sound of his laugh. Even if it wasn’t true this time, she believed in that sense of knowing, as sure as the leaden weight of her heart. When Tyler passed by with his laptop, she had a better idea. “It was posted on the band website.”
“There’ve been sightings as far as China, honey. But she doesn’t have a passport. And no one has claimed the reward.”
“There’s a reward?” Michelle asked.
“From one of the lawyers who wants her to testify. You didn’t see it posted on the website?”
“Tyler’s hogging the computer.” That part was true, anyway.
“Are you in bed?” Drew asked.
“Yes,” she said, leaning back on the bedspread. “I’m lying down. I understand if you have work, but why punish Tyler? He can be my chaperone.”
“He’s already missed a week of school,” Drew said. “If you’re weak enough to need a chaperone, you shouldn’t be going at all.”
“I was kidding about that—I need my family. You included. We’ll do that snorkel trip to Turtle Town. Remember how much fun that was?”
Drew was quiet for a moment. She heard someone call his name, but he didn’t answer. “I’m working, remember? And what about your physical therapy? I thought that was a big deal.”
“Not as big as this.”
“How are you going to pay for it?”
Michelle sat up. The floor was pockmarked with dirt from the landscaping that had stuck to her pumps. She’d thought the landscaping meant he had a new source of money, but apparently he’d simply gone further in debt. But soon the house would look perfect again. Even her mother would be impressed. Her mother! “I’ll exchange the plane ticket my mother sent.”
“Send Tyler home.”
“What do you mean, send him home? This is his home.”
“He needs to get back Saturday to study for midterms. If his grades drop, he’ll lose his scholarship.”
“He won’t need one if he stays here and goes to public school. I can apologize to the dean.”
“For what? No, don’t tell me. It’s not going to happen. I won’t let him be dragged into this mess again and have to deal with all the paparazzi.”
Finally, something that made sense, Michelle thought. Drew was protecting their son. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
“Other things were more important.” He swallowed noisily, a slug of beer. “You almost died, Michelle. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Actually, Wes—Dr. Palmer—said activity would be good for me.”
“He didn’t mean Hawaii,” Drew said. “Take a few walks around the block. We’ll see you during spring break.”
“Stop telling me what to do! I have to find Nikki. I have to tell her I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Drew asked.
Michelle felt a familiar catch in her throat. “For whatever made her run away.”
“You can’t change what happened, Michelle. And finding her won’t make you a better mother.”
“Go to hell.”
“Too late,” Drew said softly. “Already there.”
Michelle hung up. She looked out the window at the moonlight. The yard was barren of grass.
A few minutes later, Tyler leaned in. “Mom? I tried to walk Bella, but some clown took a picture.”
“That’s it. Put her out back and get your toothbrush.” Michelle shoved open the closet and found the suitcase from the hospital. She put the photos in first, then clothes for an overnight stay. When she opened the drawer of her vanity table, she saw the ticket from Elyse. She had meant to mail it back, but like Drew said, “Other things were more important.” She needed her glasses from her purse to read it, so she pinned it under her arm and rolled the suitcase down the hall. Tyler was locking the back door.
“Can you read this?” Michelle gave him the ticket.
“What part? The flight number or the nonrefundable-nontransferable part?”
Michelle snatched the useless ticket back and shoved it in the drawer of the hall table. One last-minute round-trip flight to Maui seemed doable, but two would cost a fortune. She looked at the family portrait hanging above it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You have to go back to school.” She blinked back tears and put up her arm for a hug. Her right arm tried to follow. Fire shot through it, but that was far less painful than the burn in her chest. Tyler hugged her back, engulfing her with warmth. “Why didn’t you tell me you have to leave?”
“I dunno,” Tyler said. “Everything is so complicated now. I hate it.”
Michelle nodded. Things were as far beyond Tyler’s control as they were hers. They went back to the kitchen to put the last groceries away. The orchid on the dinette was down to one blossom. She pinched a dead petal from the dirt. She decided to enjoy every moment—and to make sure he did, too. She could take him on the roller coaster at the Santa Monica Pier and to see the Van Goghs at the Getty Museum. Maybe he’d like the vintage stores on Melrose Avenue where Nikki shopped at his age.
“Is there anything special you’d like to do?”
“Sort of. The fan site says Roadhouse is filming in Hollywood tomorrow.”
“Then, by all means, let’s stop by,” Michelle said. Victor had mentioned Henson Studios, the stage Michelle booked for the original video. He could beg for the memory card all he wanted—she didn’t have it. And she certainly wouldn’t tell him about the photos. But she needed mon
ey, so she could sell him the T-shirt for authenticity. It wasn’t worth enough for a ticket to Hawaii, but she could sure spoil Tyler for a day or two.
“Can I invite Cody?”
Michelle nodded, hiding her disappointment at having to share him. When she pulled the keys from her purse, a scrap of paper came out with them. It was the bottom half of the photo she left for Dr. Braunstein: Noah’s legs astride the Harley. That had to be worth more than a ruined T-shirt.
“Did you say Cody has a truck?”
“A pickup,” Tyler said, pulling her suitcase through the kitchen.
“Perfect,” Michelle said. “Let’s go find that hotel with free Wi-Fi.”
Tyler opened the door to the garage, and Michelle leaned in to turn on the light. The Harley was parked beyond the Volvo against the wall.
“Can we get the breakfast buffet?” Tyler asked.
Michelle smiled. “All you can eat.”
22
Cody’s pickup truck rattled as they waited for the traffic on La Brea Avenue to thin out across from Jim Henson Studios. “Now!” Michelle called. He turned left between a city bus and a taco truck, then squealed to a stop in the driveway at the gate blocking the small lot. Michelle had worked on her first commercials after film school in these brick bungalows built by Charlie Chaplin. Later, she rented the stages for Victor’s shoots. Fortunately, the guard watching telenovellas in the booth was a holdover from those busy years. Michelle waved from the open window. “Salvatore, long time no see! How’s your grandson doing at Berkeley?”
“Graduates in June,” he said, eyes flickering with recognition. “How’s your girl?”
“Working on her application now, I hope,” Michelle said. She leaned back to reveal the boys, who were distracted by the statue of Kermit the Frog dressed as The Little Tramp. “This is my son, Tyler—he has a few years yet. He and his friend are helping me load in a picture vehicle. We’re on stage four, right? Golden Hour?”
“Three,” Salvatore said. He looked at the bulky tarp tied to the flatbed, jotted the license number on his clipboard, and stuck a pass inside the windshield. When the gate rose, he waved them past.
The chauffeur of the limo idling by the ramp looked up from his Daily Racing Form as Cody pulled into the empty space between a camera truck and a cube van. Once parked, the boys climbed out. Michelle pulled down the mirror and brandished her red lipstick like a sword as she prepped for battle. When Tyler opened the door, she sheathed her lipstick, shook out her glossy hair, and climbed down to the cobblestones. Cody untied the motorcycle from the flatbed.
“Remind Cody that this is top secret: no bragging to Natalie, no blogging online, and especially no telling his parents.”
“Don’t worry. His dad would ground him for skipping school and Cathy wouldn’t want him chilling in Hollywood. She’s even more strict than you are.”
Michelle ignored the irony and pointed to the red light glowing by the stage door. “After you open the door for me, wait for the light to go out. Then roll the bike in. You can get snacks at the craft service table, but remember it’s called that because it serves the craftspeople, so don’t be greedy. The crew works long hours. They might look lazy, but everyone has a specific job to do at exactly the right moment. Stay out of their way. Got it?”
The boys nodded, eyes so bright with anticipation that Michelle feared they might wet their pants. When was the last time she’d taken Tyler to the set? Maybe never. Then she spotted Victor’s Porsche and remembered why. “If you smell anything funny in there, ignore it.”
Michelle heard the hum escaping from beneath the door and smoothed her black linen dress. She felt more comfortable than she had for a long time, as if she was back in her element, at work. Whoever said home was a safe haven had it backward.
Tyler lugged the door open just enough for Michelle to slip through. Before, when she was in charge of payroll, Victor’s crew had looked forward to her arrival and parted like the Red Sea. Today, when the door clanked behind her, not one of the thirty people inside looked up. She peered through the haze from smoke machines as the drummer pounded out the last beat.
The barrel-sized Klieg lights clicked off, then the fluorescent house lights flickered on overhead, leaving the small stage in shadow. As the roadies unplugged the amplifiers, Michelle tiptoed past a man checking the lens of a handheld camera mounted inside a boxy image stabilizer. She picked up her heels to stay clear of the burly man coiling cable like a snake.
A clutch of executives in dark suits clapped one another on the back as they waited for playback on the video monitors. The engineer was busy matching digital time code above a mixing board that resembled spaceship control—editing shots together right there. Michelle looked away from the butt crack of the camera grip locking down the 35 mm film camera, the old kind with film reels shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. A scruffy guy with rolls of duct tape hanging from his belt sprayed the pebbly metal with Fantastic, which meant the camera was only a prop. When the dreadlock-haired drummer ran past in his hand-screened Roadhouse T-shirt, Michelle had a sinking feeling of déjà vu.
She spied the boys rolling the tarp-covered bike inside and parking it next to a forest of silver C-stands. They headed to a table laden with the same bucket of Red Vines and tiny bottles of Perrier she’d ordered for the original shoot. Michelle shook it off, chiding herself for being so sensitive. This was a documentary about the band, after all. She was bound to be reminded of that day. She wanted to be reminded, in fact. She needed to remember. Those missing weeks began right here.
Michelle felt a tug on her blazer and was immediately trapped by arms attached to a chest as hard as a brick wall. Her nose twitched at the scent of cinnamon. “Victor!”
He pulled her to the side of the stage and spoke quietly, as if they were still recording. “What a nice surprise. Asia didn’t mention you’d be stopping by today.”
She pulled away. “I didn’t tell her.”
“Ah. Sorry to hear about your nasty fall. I ran out to help.”
“Did you? I must have been distracted.”
He nodded. “Then I stopped by to check on you.”
“How thoughtful,” Michelle said. “I did get your messages. I brought you a present.” She led him to the Harley and pulled off the tarp.
“Why would I want an old Roadster?”
Michelle faltered, noticing the cracked saddlebags for the first time. “Because it belonged to Noah Butler?”
“So sell it to Planet Hollywood, or the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
“Thought I’d give you first shot,” Michelle said. “For the documentary. It’s been in my garage since…Well, for some time now.”
Victor nodded. “Do you need money?”
“Of course not. I mean, couldn’t hurt, but that’s not why I’m here.”
Victor looked around before pulling out his money clip. “You should go before anyone recognizes you, doll. Your picture is on a dartboard in the band’s dressing room. I’ll call you later about your daughter’s memory card.”
“I wish I had a memory card,” Michelle joked. “But there’s nothing good on hers.”
“You never know what might be helpful,” he said, pressing two hundred dollars into her palm. That wouldn’t even get her a red-eye flight to Honolulu. She looked up and saw the boys poking licorice in Perrier bottles like straws.
“Is that Tyler? He must have grown a foot since the last time I saw him.”
Michelle nodded as a prop guy with clothespins on his belt set down a sheet cake that had melted under the lights. The craft service gal yanked out a birthday candle and gave it to Tyler before picking up a knife. Tyler loved cake, but when he turned and held the candle up to show Michelle, he was as pale as the icing.
Michelle dug in her purse for the extra inhaler she brought along. “That’s him all right, maybe having an asthma attack.” She hurried toward Tyler and nearly collided with a dark-haired musician deep in conversation with a slick silver-haired m
an with dual phone headsets. “Pardon me,” she said, rushing past.
Tyler held out a piece of cake.
“No thanks, honey. Is the smoke bothering you?”
He shook his head and raised the cake into her line of sight. Across the white icing, purple letters spelled out Nicole. Confused, Michelle looked up at Victor, who had caught up to her side.
“How are you, kid? Look, buttercream, your mom’s favorite.” He reached out for a swipe of icing just as Tyler shook his head to disagree. He lost hold of the slice. It fell, smashing on the cement floor. Cody joined them, offering his slice as a replacement. On the top, frosted birthday balloons surrounded the number sixteen.
Michelle froze. Victor’s voice was garbled on his walkie-talkie as the buzz in the room rose. A pimpled production assistant ran over to clean up. Michelle didn’t move to make room. She didn’t care if anyone slipped and fell and got injured. She didn’t care about looking good or playing nice. Tyler was staring past her at the musician she had just bumped into, so she turned and took a closer look. He had blue eyes and long lashes, cheekbones slicing shadows across his pale skin. A dead ringer for Noah.
Michelle turned to question Victor, but her shoe slipped on the icing. He caught her just as a commotion rose in the makeup area.
They looked over to see the back of a petite blond with hair trailing to the hem of her knit halter dress. She was laughing with someone as she picked up a black La Knitterie Parisienne bag and jammed two pink knitting needles inside. Behind her, a girl was giggling in the makeup chair.
“Nikki?” Michelle whispered. Her heart pounded so hard it was painful. She rushed toward her daughter, marveling at her beautiful girl. She hadn’t aged a day: still lanky and coltish, with dark brown eyes. Michelle took in the Goth costume, the hair gelled into submission between spray-on streaks and the black scrap of a Roadhouse T-shirt pinned together over her pale skin. A rip down from the collar exposed a hint of cleavage faked with a red push-up bra. Black eyeliner made her eyes pop and her lips were that same bloody shade of red she’d worn in the video. Michelle pulled away from Victor and ran toward her.
