No Ordinary Life

by Suzanne Redfearn

  We just returned from being off the lot for the past two hours, and we obviously missed something important while we were gone. As we walked through the soundstage to get here, the air was electrified with hushed whispers.

  Molly climbs into Henry’s “torture chair” as she calls it, and Henry looks over her head and says, “Gabby,” then he makes a slashing line across his throat.

  “Gabby’s dead?” I say, swallowing hard.

  “No,” he says, rolling his eyes. “She’s getting the ax. Rumor has it, she’s going to hang herself in the season finale.”

  “Why?”

  “Why is Gabby the character going to hang herself or why is Gabby the person getting the ax?”

  “Gabby the person.”

  “Mitten’s had his fill.”

  “Gabby’s one of Mitten’s girls?”

  “That’s how she got the job.”

  I do the math. “But that can’t be. Gabby would have only been thirteen.”

  Shrug. “Old enough to know what she wanted. There were a thousand girls who tried out for that part.”

  “Maybe she was the most talented.”

  “Please. Mitten chose her. The casting director and Chris picked everyone else, but Mitten insisted on Gabby.”

  “And now Mitten’s writing her off because he’s done with her?”

  “Either that or it’s because of her weight and the drugs. She’s already bottom of the fan chain, so Mitten or the studio execs or Chris decided to get rid of her while the audience still gives a damn if she gets killed off. It’s a good move.”

  “A good move? This is her livelihood.” I don’t particularly like Gabby, but my mom gene is rearing up in protest at the brutal disregard of a sixteen-year-old girl’s welfare, feelings, and future. “If she has a drug problem, they should help her.”

  Shrug. “It’s part of the business. Actors get fired.”

  Henry sprays Molly’s hair, his hand protecting her eyes.

  “Will she move on to another show?” I say.

  “Doubt it.”

  As much as I want to protest, I know he’s right. Gabby’s not cute like Molly or beautiful like Kira. Her personality is bland. She’s a little overweight and has a reputation for doing drugs. Not exactly a winning combination.

  “Maybe she can do something else,” I say.

  “Like what? All she knows how to do is act. Best-case scenario is she moves somewhere outside of Hollywood, changes her name, lives off her trust, and takes up a hobby like painting or Tae Bo.”

  I shake my head. Sixteen and she’s washed up. I look at Molly obliviously playing a game on my phone, her legs bouncing in the chair, and I make a vow not to let that happen to her. Acting is something she does; it’s not who she is. She needs to have something else to fall back on when this ends. She needs to go to school and experience the world outside of Hollywood.

  But how do I give her that when this world is so consuming? We’ve only been doing this four months, and already our old life is a dim memory, the world beyond the set blurred to the point where it barely seems relevant. Yucaipa, Bo, the stables, coffee shops, malls, theaters, gas stations, parks—it’s all still there, but we are no longer a part of it, or rather, we’re at the center of it, all of it whirling around on the periphery. That sounds horribly egocentric, but that’s how it feels, like the set is the sun, the rest of the world reduced to stardust caught in its orbit, ever-present and vast but no longer important to our lives.

  “No one’s supposed to know about the Gabby thing,” Henry says. “So keep it hush-hush.”

  “Does Gabby know?”

  “I doubt it. Usually the actor is the last to know. But it could also all be a crock of bull…bologna. For all we know, the studio’s floating the rumor because a bunch of contracts are up for renegotiation and the producers are looking to strike fear into the actors and their agents.”

  “Message received loud and clear,” I say, my own fear striking like a bullet to the chest. If we lose this, we’ll be right back where we started—me and three kids, with no job and few prospects.

  65

  It’s Tom’s turn, the last shoot of the day before everyone gets a well-earned week off for Thanksgiving.

  “Ready?” I ask, feeling his nerves but also his excitement.

  He nods, gives his trademark crooked smile, and my heart fills. For all the things I’ve done wrong, I did this right. Tom’s the happiest he’s ever been. Here, in this make-believe world, he’s found his place, and for the first time in his life, he’s thriving. The cast and crew are like an extended family, and Miles has become his best friend, something he’s never had before. But mostly it is his purpose that makes him whole. Outside his role, he’s still quiet, reticent to the point of taciturn, but when he’s in character, he’s fearless. Acting isn’t just a hobby or something he does because he has to. When he’s in front of the camera, he comes alive, becoming more than what he is in his own life—bold, confident, daring—a heroic version of himself.

  He turns from me to face the wall, a trick Helen taught him, and I watch as his eyes close and twitch back and forth, the scene playing in his mind as he visualizes it. Then with a deep breath, he turns back and bravely takes his place on the set.

  * * *

  A standing ovation, everyone is on their feet clapping, and I breathe. Tom was brilliant, and I have to bite back my own tears that leaped into my eyes in response to his moving performance.

  Chris claps Tom on the shoulder. “Hell of a job. One take. How about that? You can all thank Tom for starting your vacation early. That was brilliant, fucking brilliant.”

  Everyone breaks into applause again, and Tom’s grin is so wide that I’m certain his cheeks will be stretched out when he stops, and I think this might be one of my proudest moments ever.

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see a text from my mom. Meet us at the clinic on Wilshire, Em’s nose is infected.

  66

  My mom takes Molly and Tom home, and I take Emily out for pancakes at an all-night diner because there’s something about pancakes for dinner that makes everything a little brighter, and we could use a little brightness right now.

  The right side of Emily’s nose is swollen, red, and slick with antibacterial ointment. The doctor assured us the hole would heal and not leave a scar. She needs to take antibiotics for the next two weeks to ensure the infection won’t come back.

  She sits across from me chewing on her pinky nail and staring at the white linoleum table. Silent, I wait her out, not pushing her, afraid to incite an explosion, hoping somehow a little time together will bring us back to solid ground.

  “I can’t even do that right,” she mutters. “A stupid nose piercing, and I can’t even do that.”

  My heart hitches. Emily’s never been the kind of girl who lacks confidence.

  “Em, what’s going on?”

  She looks up at me through her brow, not so much with shame as defeat. Then she shakes her head like I could never understand.

  “Talk to me,” I say. “Give me a chance.”

  For a long moment she says nothing, then finally she lifts her face and looks at me with her pretty green eyes. “You want to help?”

  “Of course. That’s all I want, a chance to help.”

  The server interrupts, arriving with platters of Frisbee-size pancakes two inches high, sweet deliciousness wafting off them. Emily pours the warm maple syrup over hers then hands the small pitcher to me, then both of us take a giant bite and nearly moan with pleasure.

  When my first mouthful is swallowed, I say, “Tell me what I can do.”

  Emily leans back, her eyes steady on mine, her gaze so much like Sean’s I need to check my reaction to be sure I’m not wincing.

  “I want you to set up a meeting with Monique Braxton,” she says. “I want to act.”

  67

  The Thanksgiving hiatus might sound like a vacation, but for Molly and me, it’s more of a weeklong publicity tour th
at kicks off tomorrow on the East Coast with a live interview on Good Morning America, an interview I’m particularly excited about because it means I get to meet my number one celebrity crush, George Stephanopoulos.

  Originally, we were supposed to fly out this morning, but because I needed to follow through on my promise to Emily, I pushed our flight back to the red-eye so I would have time to take Emily to see Monique Braxton this morning.

  We are in the reception area on the same suede couch Molly and I sat on five months ago, the same pretty receptionist sitting at the desk across from us.

  Emily’s not at all nervous. She sits beside me paging through People magazine, while I, on the other hand, am a wreck, both desperately wanting this for Emily and desperately not wanting it at the same time. Mostly what I want is for her not to want this, because it is all wrong for her and it feels very dangerous. Already the crazy world of show business has corrupted her, and she’s only on the perimeter. I can’t imagine what it will do to her if she’s immersed in it. But at the same time, it feels like a horrible betrayal to root against her. She’s so excited, and every mother wants for their kids what they want.

  “Ms. Braxton is ready for you,” the receptionist says, and we follow her down the hall.

  “Faye, good to see you,” Monique Braxton says, coming around her desk and taking my hand in both of hers, and again I’m struck by how tiny she is, the only adult around whom I feel tall. “And you must be Emily.”

  Emily limply shakes Monique Braxton’s hand and says, “So I was thinking maybe movies. The television thing is cool, but it takes up a lot of time, so I’d rather do movies.”

  Blood rushes to my face. “Em, that’s not how it works.”

  She ignores me. “Maybe an action flick like Transformers.”

  “Okay,” Monique Braxton says, “but first things first. Let’s see how you do with a quick read for a commercial.” She picks up two scripts from her desk, hands one to Emily and the other to me. “Faye, would you mind reading Oliver?”

  “Not at all,” I say, entirely comfortable at this point with pretending to be everything from old men to little girls.

  “Emily, your role is that of a teenage daughter who is trying to sweet-talk her dad into buying her her first cell phone. Begin whenever you’re ready.”

  “When I was your age,” I start in a gruff voice, then stop. Emily is supposed to interrupt me.

  “Oh, right,” Emily says. “Now it’s my turn. Okay. When you were my age, dinosaurs still roamed the earth,” she reads with zero intonation. “But just think how much better life would have been for the ancient cavemen if they could have called their daughters to check on them instead of having to leave their warm caves.”

  Monique Braxton interrupts. “Okay, Emily, let’s try it again, but this time do it without the script and say it with personality, like you really are this girl and you really want your dad to get you that cell phone.”

  “When I was your age,” I start again.

  Long, excruciating pause.

  “When you were my age, you were a caveman,” she says. “But get me a cell phone and you won’t need to leave your cave.”

  It takes all my willpower not to cringe.

  Monique Braxton gives a weak smile. “Emily, why don’t you go back to the reception area while I talk to your mom for a minute.”

  “Okay,” Emily says, handing back the script. “But remember, I want to do movies. Molly and Tom work like way too much.”

  When the door closes behind her, I apologize.

  Monique Braxton waves me off. “I can see why she might have the wrong idea that this business is easy to break into. After all, look at Molly and Tom. She is a pretty girl.”

  I nod, hope flashing with the compliment until she quickly dashes it. “Faye, she doesn’t have it.”

  “But maybe if she works at it…”

  “I’m sorry, but no. In good faith, I can’t represent her. It’s not fair to her, and it’s not fair to the casting directors who count on me to send them talent. Like I said, she’s pretty, maybe steer her toward modeling.”

  I close my eyes for an extended blink as I nod.

  “Do you want me to tell her?” Monique Braxton offers.

  “No. She’ll blame me regardless, so I might as well be the one to break it to her.”

  “It’s the worst part of this job,” Monique Braxton says. “Destroying dreams.”

  68

  Molly and I are at the airport, both of us nervous and excited. Neither of us has ever been on an airplane. Molly’s nose is pressed against the glass as she watches the planes taxi and land in the darkness.

  The audition fiasco with Monique Braxton is a hazy memory, like the lingering aftertaste of an early breakfast of garlic bagels, salmon, and red onions. Emily hates me, and she hates Monique Braxton, and as soon as we left Monique Braxton’s office, she called Sean and asked if she could stay with him instead of my mom while Molly and I were in New York. As I predicted, she blames me. She thinks I sabotaged her by telling Monique Braxton I didn’t want her to act. I didn’t sabotage her, but I am relieved.

  Accompanying us on the trip is our publicist, Patrick. Patrick’s okay, a bit annoying but efficient. At the moment, he stands a few feet away pecking on his phone.

  Publicists are sort of like babysitters. They schedule interviews and appearances, make sure you show up to them on time, and make sure all the parties behave themselves.

  Patrick is what my dad would call a glad-hander, one of those guys who slaps backs and throws his head back when he laughs. His face is ruddy and round like a slab of bologna and he talks a lot, which is why he’s a bit irritating. But the thing I like least about him is that, though he’s on our “team,” I trust him about as far as I can throw him, which, considering how beefy he is, isn’t an inch. When he’s around, I feel like it’s half to watch out for us and half to watch us, like the studio is keeping tabs on us, afraid of something, though I’m not certain exactly what that something is.

  As we wait, a few people ask for Molly’s autograph, and she obliges, scrawling a curly “M” that has become her signature, but then a crowd starts to form causing Patrick to grow concerned, and he shuttles us from the waiting area to a private lounge.

  Three minutes before our boarding time, a flight attendant arrives and escorts us onto the plane before the other passengers. We stop at the cockpit to be introduced to the pilots who also ask for Molly’s autograph.

  The plane takes off with Molly and me gripping each other’s hands, my heart in my throat. It feels so unnatural for a giant machine of steel to be flying through the air, and it takes a while for my brain to get used to the idea and to convince my pulse that we are not going to fall out of the sky.

  Molly and I should sleep. We need to be on the set at six for hair and makeup, which won’t allow any time for us to stop at the hotel and rest. But we’re both far too excited to close our eyes.

  In the seat in front of us is a little girl perhaps a year older than Molly, and before you know it, the dad has traded rows, and Molly and the girl are lost in endless games of Crazy Eights and Go Fish.

  I now have Molly’s window seat, and I stare through the tiny pane of glass at the kazillion lights of LA spread out like a Christmas blanket below. An hour later we are floating over rural countryside, the moon reflecting off a patchwork of farms sliced with roads and rivers and spotted with houses and barns.

  There’s so much and so little to see. Living in LA makes you believe the world is a crowded place, but flying across the country makes me realize how empty it actually is. There’s so much land, space, and sky that I feel utterly small, while at the same time, when we fly over a city, I’m struck by how much has been created—both the crammed and the empty resonating overwhelming greatness—man’s and God’s. At certain moments, I’m inspired, and at others, I’m struck with a profound sadness, a sense of irrelevance that leaves me feeling fragile and empty and anxious for the trip to be ove
r so I can feel grounded again.

  An hour before we’re scheduled to land, Molly returns to her seat and falls asleep on my lap, and when the plane stops outside the gate and I wake her, she’s not ready to be woken.

  “Come on, Bug, we’re here. You need to get up.”

  “Don’t want to.”

  “I know, baby, but you’ve got to. We’re in New York.”

  “Don’t want to.”

  Patrick relieves me of my carry-on bag so I can lift Molly in my arms. Her head flops onto my shoulder, and she falls back to sleep. I carry her through the airport to the baggage claim area as dozens of people pursue us with their phones, documenting the momentous occasion of Molly snoring on my shoulder.

  By the time we get in our limo, it’s four in the morning and already I regret my decision not to spend the trip sleeping, my eyes so heavy that I feel them closing as we drive into the city.

  Molly continues to sleep, missing the entire amazing journey. LA has a few tall buildings but nothing like the skyscrapers of New York. My neck hurts, and my head is dizzy from looking up at them.

  We pull up to Times Square Studios at 5:45 and step onto the busy street. It’s not yet dawn, but already the sidewalk is bustling with businesspeople dressed in beautiful wool suits and furs and vendors bundled in parkas and sweatshirts selling pretzels, knishes, hot dogs, and handbags.

  Molly is scheduled as the fourth guest. She gets her hair and makeup done, and we are waiting backstage for her turn when the show cuts to a commercial and George Stephanopoulos walks off the set to greet us.

  The sight of him coming toward us causes my pulse rate to triple. George. Freaking. Stephanopoulos!

  He shakes my hand then turns from my mouth-gaping starstruckedness to Molly.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Molly. I watch your show every week.”

  “My mom watches youwr show awll the time too,” Molly says. “And she has a huge cwrush on you, and befowre she and my dad got a divowrce, she said that, if she wasn’t mawrried to my dad, she’d mawrry you.”