What a Mother Knows

by Leslie Lehr

  “Places, people!” the AD called.

  Nikki stood up from the makeup chair. But she was tall—too tall. Her face was more oval, her eyes too small. And the purple high-tops she wore didn’t have tiny black skulls or her name embroidered on the back.

  Michelle slowed down, then stopped. Desire had clouded her vision. Desperation had filled her heart. But the day they shot the video was now clear in her mind. She had only been crunching numbers for a few minutes before she found her daughter in makeup.

  “Mom. Say something,” Nikki pleaded.

  “Go wash your face!” Michelle pointed toward the restroom at the side of the stage. Stunned, she turned to Sasha. “Pack your kit. You’re out of here!”

  “Relax, it’s just dress-up. Victor said she could be in the video.”

  “Victor wants you gone, too,” Michelle said.

  Sasha looked at Victor, who put up his collar and turned away. She swore and threw her brushes into the makeup chest. Michelle was halfway across the stage when she heard Sasha call after her. “What are you going to do, lock her up till she’s legal?”

  “Michelle?” Victor said gently, his hands on her arm. She peered through the fog of memory at his face. She wanted to punch it. She heard Dean Valentine’s words in her head. Every child is at risk.

  Victor grabbed her good arm. “It’s a re-shoot. I thought you understood.”

  “Oh, I understand, all right,” Michelle said, ripping her arm free. “But when Becca and I were in film school, a documentary meant actual footage of real people. Not actors, you lying piece of shit. Show me what you have so far.”

  When Victor hesitated, Michelle marched over to the monitor. The line producer looked up from signing a purchase order and scratched the gut straining from his windbreaker. An A&R executive with a bolo tie spilled a Rock Star drink on the mixing board. A PA scrambled to sop it up. Even the gaffer, the underarm of his T-shirt ringed in sweat, stopped halfway across the catwalk to peer down at her.

  “Playback,” she said to the man at the mixing board. “That means you, Carlos.”

  He looked up and saw Victor shrug behind her. This was the advantage of Victor’s loyalty, of always hiring the same crew. She knew who they were. And vice versa. Carlos hit Play on the mixing board and pushed up a few levers. A heavy metal version of the Beatles’s “Birthday Song” blasted from the speakers. “They say it’s your birthday. We’re gonna have a good time…” The large monitor lit up with the image of a clapboard spelling out the scene and shot number, then there was a close-up of the actress impersonating her daughter. Michelle curled the fingers of her left hand until the nails cut into the flesh of her palm. She felt nauseous, but she had to watch.

  Victor tried to explain. “We wanted to be as accurate as possible, but we didn’t film Nikki’s entrance, so we had to recreate it. You had Asia send over the cake, remember? When you brought her inside, the band played for her.”

  Michelle studied the actress on the screen. She sulked convincingly, a grungy kid with blotchy skin and disco ball earrings. Then she pretended to recognize the band. Her face blossomed into a smile, just as Nikki’s had.

  When the band broke into the birthday song, she twirled her earring, shy, but happy. At least, that’s how it played on the video monitor—it was a happy birthday. After the girl pulled a gleaming new camera up to her face, Michelle glared at Victor.

  “You were right about one thing. I did fire Sasha, after she painted Nikki and pimped her out. Or was that your idea, Vic? Will you shoot that part? Your producer firing your girlfriend? And where are the purple balloons? And what about Nikki’s grandmother calling about her sheepskin coat? Did you get that? How real are you going to make it?”

  “That depends on you,” Victor said. “We are missing a few things. Like the kiss.”

  Michelle felt goose bumps rise and turned back to the screen. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We’ve done the research, Michelle. People saw them hanging out together a week after the shoot. We need to set it up, establish eye contact between them on set.”

  “Wait a minute. You can’t shoot this without my consent, can you? Or do you think I’m stupid enough to give it to you?”

  “Golden Hour Productions owns the copyright for the video. That was your idea, doll, and a brilliant one.” Victor switched to a new stick of gum, dropping the wrapper.

  “That’s for the final cut of the song—not outtakes of an unpaid extra who happened to be my daughter,” Michelle said, picking up the wrapper. “But I’ll take the compliment. Because we both know that without me you’d be a washed-up alcoholic on the verge of bankruptcy.”

  “God grant me the serenity,” he muttered. “It’s my work that made them famous.”

  “Not according to Rolling Stone,” Michelle said.

  “You agree with that scumbag reporter?” he asked. “You made Roadhouse famous by creating a martyr?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Michelle said, backpedaling. “I haven’t actually read the article. I heard about it from Noah Butler’s girlfriend.”

  Victor’s eyes widened in surprise, then he noticed the crew watching. “Let’s get the boys some souvenirs, shall we?”

  “Let’s get some for Celeste, too,” Michelle said. “You’ve met her, right? The bartender at the Venice Bistro where the band played on Sundays? Or don’t you bother with that kind of research? You know, the factual kind?”

  Victor shoved the box back to Fletch. He leaned his face close. “Noah Butler died in your car, doll. What the hell happened in there?”

  Michelle blinked. She was strapped in the car, trapped by the steering wheel. Her vision clouded until she heard those raindrops thrumming just as they did against the windshield. She heard the tick-tick-tick of a clock and waited for the scream. But there was nothing. Just the prickle of tiny hairs rising on the back of her neck.

  A whooshing noise brought Michelle’s attention back to the soundstage. She looked back beyond the wardrobe rack to the real hair and makeup area where the actress playing Sasha was taking off her hair extensions. She spotted the real stylist working a hair dryer on an older woman in a black suit. When she flipped her brown hair back, it was like looking in the mirror. She was the actress playing Michelle, overwhelmed and under pressure.

  “Are we done here?” Victor asked.

  “No,” Michelle said, pulling her gaze from the actress. She didn’t feel that way anymore. She had been through hell and come out stronger. “We’re just getting started.”

  “You really want to profit from Noah Butler’s death?” Victor asked.

  “That’s more your style, isn’t it? But you have no idea what happened to Noah Butler—you can’t just make it up. I’m the only witness. And one day, I’ll remember and sue your ass. I want a thousand dollars for the Harley—or I’ll call my lawyer and shut you down.”

  The color drained from Victor’s face. “Could you do that?”

  Michelle wasn’t sure, but she pulled out her phone. “Two thousand.”

  ***

  There was a shift in the air as a side door opened and a sea of suits drifted in. Michelle was tall enough to spot a familiar head of red hair bobbing like a Man o’ War in the center. She looked at Victor, who crossed his arms.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is Becca’s project?”

  “Oh, did I leave out that little detail?”

  Michelle stormed across the soundstage until the sea parted for her.

  The two women stared each other down. “I wanted to tell you,” Becca said.

  “Really?” Michelle scoffed. “Because you had plenty of chances. How dare you exploit this for your own interest! No wonder you got a studio deal, you lazy opportunist.”

  “Nothing lazy about it, Chelle. It’s called business.” She looked at Victor, who had just reached them. “Anything I should know?”

  “She’s holding us for ransom.”

  “Oh, phooey,” Becca
said, relaxing. “We’re shutting down for rewrites. And look at you. I see the Wizard hasn’t lost her touch.” She reached in for a hug.

  Michelle backed away. “Don’t you kiss up to me, you traitor!”

  Becca hustled Michelle away from Victor and the rest of the studio executives. “Chelle, you’re taking this the wrong way. I meant it as a tribute to you. As much as I’ve seen of your long road to recovery, I’m still amazed you got out of that car alive. What was left was smashed like an accordion.”

  Michelle remembered how blurry the newspaper photographs looked. “You’ve seen the car?”

  “Haven’t you?” Becca waved two men out of their tall director’s chairs so the women could speak privately.

  “No. But why did you? Was this ever a documentary, like Victor said?”

  “Studio funding for a documentary? No,” Becca said, running her bitten nails through her hair. “Not that much has changed since you left the business. It’s a biopic. We can tell a better story with dramatic license—and believe me, it’s a better story now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tragedy of Noah Butler is practically Shakespearean. He’s already a rock and roll legend being compared to his hero, Jim Morrison.” She helped Michelle up to the canvas seat. Michelle sat, too angry to find the words to respond. “Look, somebody is going to make this movie. You should be glad it’s me.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, stories are subjective. You can be the hero in this. Tires slipping on the slick road, nearly dying trying to save your young star—you’re the one who discovered him, right?”

  Michelle shook her head. “I never wanted to be a hero, Becca, or I’d have gone to save that mess of a movie in Turkey instead of sending you. I wanted to have my baby. Now I just want to find her!”

  “I get it,” Becca said, opening her alligator messenger bag. “Look, there’s something I need to show you.” She pulled out her iPad and tapped the corner until a picture filled the screen. Twin babies covered with bubbles were giggling in a bathtub.

  “You’re expanding into soap commercials? Is that why you hired Victor?”

  Becca laughed. “I’d never exploit them like that.” She slid the image aside to show a closer shot of the girls. One reached for the photographer.

  Michelle was dizzy with confusion. “Yours?”

  Becca nodded. “Remember when I was trying in vitro?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Maybe because I gave up after two rounds. I was so moody from the hormone therapy—let alone broke—that it was starting to affect my work. Then, when I was wrapping a job in Guatemala, opportunity knocked.” Becca rubbed her finger against their sweet faces.

  “What are their names?”

  “That’s the thing,” Becca said, sitting back. “The one biting her rubber duck is Milly.”

  “For your mom?”

  Becca nodded. “She’d have been a wonderful granny.”

  Michelle pointed at the one with the bubble beard. “Who’s this?”

  Becca hesitated. “She goes by Chellie. Short for…Michelle.”

  Michelle burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I started to, in the hospital, but you were so messed up. What was I going to say: I named my baby after you because I didn’t think you’d make it? Oh, Chelle, I missed you before you were even gone.”

  Michelle wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say.” She spotted Victor speaking quietly to the actress playing Nikki. She was in full makeup now, a slutty Goth. Becca was an opportunist, but Michelle had created the opportunity. She should never have brought Nikki to the set.

  “Why did you come, Michelle? Sounded to me like you need some money.”

  Michelle bit her lip.

  Becca stood up and smoothed her leather pants back into her boots. Then she waved Fletch over. “How much cash do we have?”

  “We haven’t paid the caterer yet, or the stage, so…a little over eight thousand dollars.” Becca held her hand out for the whole envelope. Fletch glanced back at Victor before offering a petty cash receipt and a pen to Michelle. “Can you make an X?”

  “I can make more than an X, but I’m not signing a thing.”

  “I am,” Becca said, grabbing the slip from Fletch. She signed it, then took the envelope and waved Fletch away. She put the money in Michelle’s palm and let her hand linger. “I hope you do find Nikki. You deserve a happy ending.”

  She stepped down from the chair, then looked over to the set where the crew awaited direction for the next setup. She nodded at Victor.

  “Thank you, people, that’s a wrap!” he called.

  The crew members looked around, then began breaking down the equipment. The stage went dark. The camera was shuttered, cables were coiled, and wardrobe was packed. “Don’t forget your time cards,” Fletch called. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Michelle put her hand on the armrest to stand up. “After the rewrite?”

  Becca helped her. “After the trial.”

  23

  Four days later, Michelle was studying the postcards filling the wire stand by the Maui Charter Center desk. Similar shots graced every kiosk in Maalaea Harbor and she wasn’t sure which one she’d seen in Dr. Braunstein’s drawer. She was only sure of the words: We chased our pleasures here, dug our treasures there…But can you still recall, the time we cried…Was Nikki having fun here when she wrote that? Or thinking of the funeral where she had last seen Noah’s mother? Michelle spun the rack so hard it wobbled. Nikki was here, or had been, but where?

  Michelle scanned the boat slips, bustling with weekend activity. Suntanned crews were washing down fiberglass boat decks, rigging colorful sails, and fueling engines for today’s excursions. She wished Tyler was here with her, enjoying the soft tropical air. But he was already in school back east, where the spring pollen was brutal.

  Alone, Michelle was all business. Since Nikki’s savings account was empty, surely she needed a job. When she showed Nikki’s picture at personnel offices, Michelle learned that none of the hotels hired underage staff. So here she was, wearing an itchy straw hat and a long-sleeved cover-up, continuing her search outside.

  Michelle joined the sleepy tourists clustered around the sales desk. She’d refused to waste time buying coffee, but now she salivated at the aroma of the Kona blend rising from their cups. A bell clanged and the crowd splintered into groups rushing toward the docks. Michelle turned to see the jumble of excited families on the boardwalk choosing between charters. Pale honeymooners strolled hand in hand to the sparkling white catamaran in the center berth. Michelle envisioned Nikki as one of the clean-cut tour guides in preppy shirts who welcomed the couple on board.

  A jovial Hawaiian man waved a free postcard of the Maui sunset to Michelle from behind the desk. “Aloha, pretty lady! How can we make your holiday more enjoyable? Whale watching? Sunset cruise?”

  She took the postcard to practice her signature for Wes and noted the tour manager’s nametag. “Those do sound appealing, Reuben. I’ll take whichever my daughter chooses, as soon as I find the boat she’s crewing. I forgot the name—probably a snorkel cruise with a stop at Turtle Town.”

  Reuben reached stiffly for his thermos cup of coffee. “We have eight snorkel excursions in Maalaea Harbor.”

  “If I give you her social security number, can you look up her payroll and steer me in the right direction? I know that’s bad to do, but—her name is Nicole Mason.” Michelle flashed her sweetest smile.

  He shook his head. “There’s no one named Mason working for us.” He beckoned the family in matching Hawaiian shirts behind Michelle. “Aloha!”

  Michelle realized her mistake. “Excuse me, could you please try Deveraux?”

  He dropped the smile. “Like I told your Haole friend, that wahine not here.”

  Michelle dropped the act, too. Wahine meant “woman” and Haole meant “someone from the mainland,” but friend? That didn’t tr
anslate. A chill rose up her spine.

  “Pau—all set?” When Michelle didn’t answer, Reuben welcomed a group of men in golf shirts. “Aloha! How can I make your holiday more enjoyable?”

  A camera flashed. Michelle clutched the counter with her good hand and snuck a look behind her. She relaxed at the sight of tourists snapping pictures in every direction. The paparazzi hadn’t followed her, but someone else had. Michelle felt someone’s eyes on her and turned to see a pasty man in dark shades and a creased Maui Hilton T-shirt turn to a map of the islands posted on the parking lot fence. Michelle turned away and perused the postcards again. She picked one up, but her hand shook too much to hold it.

  She ducked a few inches, leaning against the side counter to get her phone from the drawstring bag. “Husband,” she commanded. The phone dialed and Drew picked up. Michelle panicked and clicked it shut. He’d ordered her not to be here. As if he could do that.

  When the phone rang back, she snapped it open and rushed to explain. “I don’t care if you’re angry, Drew. I’m not the only one in Hawaii looking for Nikki. If money is the problem, get over it, because I got a loan from Becca, who, as it turns out, is working on a movie about Roadhouse. And don’t be mad at Becca, because you know someone is bound to make this movie and I’d rather it be a friend, and she shut down production anyway, which means that Victor’s audio engineer is out of work, so he’s available to replace you in New York and you can meet me here in Maui.” There was quiet on the other end as she caught her breath. “Okay?”

  “Not okay,” the man said. “This is your lawyer. Remember me? The one who advised you to stay home?”

  Michelle swore to herself. “Hello, Kenny.”

  “Michelle, this case was hard enough without you sabotaging it. I was calling about Tyler’s letter jacket. I found it in the truck. If I didn’t have so much time invested in this case already, I’d quit right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Kenny. I’ll send you some money.”

  “From the producer of a movie that will be influenced by the case? Not a good idea.”