No Ordinary Life

by Suzanne Redfearn

  The media frenzy over the incident at the airport has died down and been replaced by an equally disturbing outpouring of support, our social media sites and fan mail blowing up with an outcry of anger, sympathy, and dismay over either the injustice of the accusations or in advocacy of corporal punishment for children. In the past week, so many stuffed animals, flowers, and gifts have been sent to Monique Braxton’s office that we could open our own store. Molly knows about none of this—the letters and goods dispensed to either the trash or the Salvation Army, without Molly being the wiser. The intimacy of it all is very disturbing, so many people who have never met us weighing in with an opinion about our life, as if they have a say.

  And of course, the new attention has rustled the “creepers,” adding several unsettling letters and gifts to Molly’s stalker file with the police.

  “Bug, we need to read the script,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  I smooth her hair and look out the window. We are stopped at a red light, and in the lane beside us is a bright blue BMW convertible. My eyes fix on the three girls in the backseat with their made-up faces, crop tops, and diamond belly button rings.

  Emily is going to be one of them. The thought pops in my head before I can stop it.

  The car squeals away, and the girl on the right stands on the backseat and lifts her shirt to flash the truck beside them. The driver honks in appreciation, and the girl falls back against her friends, the three of them cracking up as if that was the funniest thing in the world.

  * * *

  The day is going about as bad as I expected, everyone irritated with Molly because she doesn’t know her part. The scene, which should have been done in an hour, has already taken twice that, and she still hasn’t gotten it right.

  Chris calls cut again then marches across the set to lean in close to her. “Two-Bits, did you not memorize your lines?”

  Molly looks at the ground, her shoulders slumped, then she loses it, tears running down her cheeks as she stammers and searches for an explanation, nothing coming out but a grief-stricken sob.

  “She’s tired,” I say. “This week was…”

  He waves me off and bends down, his hands on his knees. “Okay, Two-Bits, calm down. Take a deep breath.” He looks over his shoulder to the crew. “Break for fifteen.”

  The crew scampers off, Griff leading the way, literally racing off the set without even a glance at me. This morning has been hell, not just for us but for him—his revealed identity as an ex-superstar wreaking havoc on his life.

  After getting pummeled by Sean, he left my mom’s condo to find a swarm of press lying in wait beside his truck, his freshly swollen eye adding fuel to the feeding frenzy and inciting all sorts of new speculation on the juicy soap opera of our lives that is unfolding in the news for the whole world to see.

  Then this morning, he arrived to a hostile crew, his guys pissed off by what they see as a betrayal. Us versus them, crew versus cast, the camps as divided as union versus nonunion. You’re one or the other; you can’t be both. They thought he was one of them, when in fact, he’s an imposter who belongs to the enemy camp.

  To top it off, Chris was awful to him when he showed up this morning for the first scene. Well, well, look who’s joining us. Griffin fucking Wade, gracing us with his legendary presence after making us all look like idiots for not having a fucking clue that Griffin fucking Wade was our director of photography.

  Heat crept up Griff’s face, but he said nothing, just took his usual place to wait for the shoot to begin, and his expression has remained blank since, making it hard for me to breathe, a tanker of guilt rolling over my chest and parking there.

  “Okay, Two-Bits, let’s learn this,” Chris says, taking Molly by the hand and leading her to his director’s chair. “Beth, I need a Red Bull.”

  Beth scurries off, and I watch with appreciation as Chris patiently goes over the scene with Molly line by line.

  Beth returns a minute later and holds out the can to Chris.

  “It’s not for me,” Chris says. “It’s for Molly.”

  I leap from my seat and snatch it away. “Thanks, but that’s okay. We don’t drink energy drinks.”

  “You said she was tired,” Chris says.

  “Yeah. She’s tired because she’s not feeling well.”

  “And this will pep her up.”

  “I’m not drugging my kid.”

  “It’s not a drug. It’s caffeine.”

  “She’s tired, Chris. She needs rest, not caffeine.”

  He frowns at me. “Fine.” Then he turns back to Molly. “Okay, Two-Bits, you’ve got it now?”

  Molly nods and starts to walk back onto the set, but Chris grabs her arm before she takes her first step and spins her to look at him, his eyes locking on hers. “Two-Bits, this can’t happen again.”

  Molly bites her lip to hold off another downpour and nods.

  * * *

  We finally got through the scene and are now eating lunch in our limo with Helen. She picks at her undressed salad—hold the croutons, hold the cheese, hold the calories and taste. Staying immaculately starved is grueling work.

  Molly and Tom are in the front seat with Mack eating Happy Meals from McDonald’s as he teaches them how to play poker. Every once in a while we hear giggles and yelps of excitement through the glass.

  “It’s just so much pressure,” I say. “Molly’s not going to be perfect every day. You should have heard Chris this morning. He was so harsh, and his opinion means so much to her. With everything that’s going on with Sean, I just wish he would be a little more understanding, like he actually cares instead of pretending he does.”

  “Chris does care,” she says. “Don’t confuse what happened on the set this morning with not caring. He was seriously upset about what happened at the airport. Did you know he fired the whole publicity company, not just Ham-Face?”

  My stomach knots with more guilt. What happened wasn’t Patrick’s fault. Zero tolerance is exactly my point. Chris might care, but he expects too much.

  Helen continues, “I’ve known Chris a long time. He’s a good guy. Outside the show, a very good guy. But it’s tough. He’s responsible for keeping The Foster Band on top, and that requires a bit of brutality. His hubris versus his humanity, it’s a constant struggle for him. But make no mistake, he cares. He lives, eats, and breathes this show. Sometimes his temper blows and he doesn’t use kid gloves, but he does it because he cares, not just about the show but about us. He does it so we will all still have jobs to wake up to in the morning.”

  My phone buzzes. Though we’ve already logged six hours, we’re needed at the music studio for a recording session that will probably last the entire afternoon.

  79

  It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t like I dropped Molly at the music studio then walked back to the soundstage thinking this was what I was going to do. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I found myself knocking on Chris’s door.

  Now I’m in front of him, my heart pounding as I take the seat across from him.

  Stay calm and explain the situation rationally. There’s no need for emotion.

  “Chris, we’re done,” I blurt. “Molly…me…we can’t take it anymore. My family is falling apart. My older daughter, Emily…”

  “Whoa,” he says, holding up his hand. “Calm down. Start again.”

  I take a deep breath, fold my hands in my lap to quell the shake, chew the inside of my cheek until the panic passes, and when I’m in control say, “Chris, we can’t do this anymore.”

  He smiles, and relief washes over me. Helen was right. Chris isn’t a bad guy, and I remember the first time I stood in this office on our first day when Molly and I were late and lost and he showed us to the wardrobe room.

  “That’s better,” he says. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

  I explain as best I can about how overwhelming everything has become, how difficult this week was, how unhappy we are and that I just want t
o go back to being a normal family, and how I want Molly to have a normal childhood without so much pressure. I tell him about Emily deciding to live with Sean and how little time I’ve been able to spend with her.

  When I finish, he rocks back in his chair and sighs. “I understand,” he says. “Being a stage mom is tough. It can be extremely demanding and sometimes overwhelming, and you’re right, it takes its toll. And you have both Molly and Tom to deal with, plus Emily at home. I can see where it could get to be too much.”

  I nod, so glad he understands.

  “Sean and I talked about it,” he continues, bristling the hair on my neck. “He was concerned you were reaching your breaking point.”

  “I’m not breaking,” I squeal. “I’m telling you we don’t want to do this anymore, that it’s too much for Molly. She’s not having a normal childhood.”

  “No, she’s having a childhood most girls dream about. I admit the New York trip should have been handled better. Damn incompetence, that fool leaving you alone. It makes me furious every time I think about it. Does that idiot have a clue how fucking dangerous that was? Maybe a bodyguard.”

  “I don’t want a bodyguard! That’s exactly what I don’t want. More separation between us and the real world. What I want is to go back to being normal.”

  Chris blinks several times in confusion as if I’m speaking a foreign language, so I clarify. “We quit.”

  He laughs. “Faye, I like you. As a matter of fact, for a time I really liked you, and you know how I feel about Molly, but you realize that’s not how this works, right? You can’t just quit. That’s cute though, very cute.”

  Heat floods into my cheeks. “I’m not being cute. I’m being serious. We’re done. Write us off the show.”

  He shakes his head. “First of all, it’s not up to me. Second, even if it was, I wouldn’t do that because Molly’s the greatest thing that’s happened to the show since it started. And third, like I said, I like you, so I want to stop you from doing something you’ll regret. Your daughter is a commodity, at the moment, a hot commodity. There’s no telling how long that will last, but at the moment, it’s a gold mine.”

  “She’s not an it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Molly is an it. Gap has invested in her as well as Mattel and Hershey’s. Fox, RCA Records. This is bigger than you and me. It’s not about Molly the person but Molly the brand, a brand worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “She’s a kid,” I roar. “My kid, and everyone seems to be forgetting that. She’s my kid, and I decide what she does and what she doesn’t do.”

  The smile drops from his face, and he shakes his head. “Faye, she is your kid, and you do make the decisions, but your choices are more limited than you seem to understand. One, you can buck up, get back to work, and reap the rewards, or two, you can continue to go postal, and someone else will step in to take over managing Molly’s career, and they will reap the rewards.”

  “I’m not going postal,” I scream like a lunatic. “I’m trying to save my family!”

  “Then I suggest you choose option one,” he answers calmly. Then he stands, walks around me, and opens the door, showing me the way out.

  80

  I walk from Chris’s office back to the music studio and sit on the bench outside the building, my thoughts muddled in confusion over how things got this out of control.

  The sun breaks through the thick cover of clouds, and I lift my face to soak up its warmth, looking up through the branches of the oaks that line the courtyard. The trees remind me of the apricot trees in Yucaipa, dark skeletons barren of leaves and fruit, but if you look closely, you can find a small bud, a sprig of green, the promise of spring.

  I think of Molly playing with the little girl on the airplane, nothing special, two girls lost in a game of cards, yet it was miraculous. For months, Molly hasn’t had a friend, hasn’t held hands, run, skipped, or jumped with a kid her age.

  Childhood is a fleeting blink, a momentary bridge of time that shapes who you are and your life to come. It’s incredibly precious and brief, and you can’t get it back. Chris is right. Girls dream of what Molly has but only because they don’t really understand it. Ever since we hopped on this crazy ride, it’s as if time has sped up, and I’m suddenly horribly aware of the passage of it. Next month Molly will be five, and the month after that, Tom turns nine. Warp speed, Emily leaping right past her youth altogether.

  In the distance, a hawk circles, gaming its prey, perhaps a mouse or a squirrel. I watch, my compassion split between the hunger of the bird and the fate of its next meal. There’s something beautiful in the simplicity of it, hunt or starve. My life used to be simple like that, difficult but simple. I worked hard to care for my family. We didn’t have a lot of money, but we got by. I took pride in holding it all together and making it work, as much pride as I take now in managing Molly and Tom, perhaps more because the challenge was wholly mine and I was more in control.

  My ambitions have always been modest. When asked by my third grade teacher what I wanted to be when I grew up, I proudly answered a wife and mother. The snickers that followed taught me not to be so honest again, but those humble aspirations never changed. Is it so shameful to make a life out of caring for those you love?

  This wasn’t what I signed up for, or maybe it was, but I didn’t know what I was signing up for at the time. Ignorance is my defense…and greed. I admit that I saw dollar signs, a chance to be more than just a worker bee struggling at the bottom. And yes, fame. Who doesn’t want to be famous? On some level, all of us thirst for acknowledgment, affirmation that we are special in some way—talented, good, worthy. And the power that comes with it. People revering you, wanting to do things to please you. Power to make a difference as well. Our appearance able to raise tens of thousands of dollars for a needy cause. The ability to sway opinion, knowing that if I dress Molly in a particular shirt or if Tom carries a particular book, they will become instant bestsellers. There’s a headiness in being so important.

  But also a price. We earn money, but we also generate it, so much of it that it is a vital source of income for hundreds, even thousands. So we are expected to work to maximize our output, our lives filled with obligations and demands too much for one person to meet.

  Molly’s life is no longer her own, and as a result, none of the rest of us have lives either, our world reduced to managing and maintaining her celebrity. Like a parasite, her fame consumes us, invading and devouring everything beyond it.

  This is my fault, but I did not see it coming; the glitter and glamour blinded me. In some ways, it still does. Though I’m reluctant to admit it, part of me is relieved we are being forced to stay. Chris’s refusal to let us quit lets me off the hook, takes the responsibility out of my hands, and spares me from making a decision I would need to defend to the world and that I might regret.

  And I would, in some ways, undoubtedly regret it. Tom is thriving. It’s easy to forget about Tom, to not include him in the equation. He doesn’t demand attention the way Molly and Emily do. But the truth is, this world suits him, and he is doing better than he’s ever done before. Here, in the land of make-believe, he has found his place, his purpose, and his voice.

  As have I. The past is not so distant that I have forgotten how difficult my life was before all this. I was husbandless, jobless, and penniless, my prospects dismal. Now I exist in a world where I am important, where my ego is fed daily, where money rolls in like the waves, and where I am in love.

  Yes, Molly and Emily are in trouble, but in a sense, Tom and I have been spared.

  Our contract is for three seasons. We’ve made it through half of one, which leaves two and a half to go. I shudder at the math, unable to imagine what six times what we’ve already been through will do to us—to Molly and Emily.

  The clouds close rank, sending shadows across the trees, and I watch as the hawk dives then rises back into the sky with something in its beak, its hunger staved off for another day. And m
y sympathy is undeniably for its prey, its life over simply because, when it woke today, it chose the wrong path.

  Jeremy comes out of the studio with Molly on his back. She bounces up and down and shouts, “Giddy up, gawllop.”

  Jeremy does as she asks, rearing up then skipping across the sidewalk to dump her at my feet.

  “Good howrsey,” Molly says, patting his head as Jeremy bows to her, then he scampers off to play with people his own age.

  Taking Molly by the hand, I lead her to the limo, watching as my feet move in and out of the glimpses of sunlight. We reach the parking lot, and I lift my head, and that’s when I see it, parked a row from our waiting limo, red as a candy apple, its black convertible top up.

  I whirl around and pull Molly back toward the soundstage.

  “Mom, whewre we going?” Molly says, scrambling to keep up.

  “Your dad is here,” I say, my panic mounting. “Your dad and Emily.”

  “Why awre we wrunning?”

  We’re running because I’m praying that I’m not too late.

  81

  Where is she?” I scream at Sean when I find him behind the living room set engaged in conversation with the woman who plays the social worker. Since Sean decided to settle in LA, he’s been working a rotating circuit of women, so I’m thinking Regina of Albuquerque is now out of the picture.

  He swivels to look at me. “Hey, Bugabaloo,” he says to Molly, patting his leg for her to hop on board, which she happily does. His eyes narrow as he looks at me, but his face remains a composed mask of coolness for his audience.

  “Where’s Em?” I ask.

  “Mitten called her back for a second audition,” he says triumphantly.