“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean, I don’t know. He said something about needing to record her voice.”
“Molly, stay with your dad,” I say as I race toward the sound lab, a room tucked away at the back of the soundstage that is used for recording voice-overs and mixing sound effects.
I hear Sean attempting to follow with Molly, but I lose him by cutting through two of the sets then doubling back so he’s heading the opposite direction of where I’m going.
The red light above the sound lab’s door signals “In session.” I ignore it and storm in.
Emily and Mitten are in the soundproof vocal booth, a space with foam walls, a stool, and a microphone. Emily has on a pair of headphones, and Mitten is adjusting a camera so it’s directed toward her.
“Stop,” I say as I throw open the door from the recording bay to the booth.
Both turn to look at me.
“Emily, go,” I say.
She stares but doesn’t move.
“Now!”
“I’m in the middle of my audition,” she says.
“No, you’re not. This is not an audition, and you are not going to get the part of Caleb’s girlfriend.”
“Why not? Molly and Tom are doing it.”
“That’s because they have talent,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Her eyes squint, full of fury and hate.
“I’m sorry, Em,” I say.
She pulls off the headphones and flees.
I turn to Mitten. “Stay away from her. Go near her again, and so help me, I’ll call a press conference and announce to the world what a sick bastard you are.”
His beady eyes narrow, his pale lips puckering. “If you are referring to the vile rumors about me, there’s nothing you can say that has not already been said. I auditioned your daughter as a favor to Chris and called her back again because I didn’t want to callously dismiss her as you just did. You’re right, she has no talent. My hope was to give her the opportunity to discover that for herself.”
My eyes narrow in distrust, and he returns my glare.
“Just stay away from her,” I say. “I mean it. The press doesn’t know about Gabby. Go near Emily again, and I’ll tell them exactly why you insisted Gabby get the part.”
His face pinches. “It’s probably not the best idea to threaten someone who can destroy you.”
“Destroy me? As in write Molly and Tom off the show? Please, if only I should be so lucky. That’s all I want. As a matter of fact, I’ll make a deal with you: write us off this show and I promise to never speak your name to anyone ever.”
His mouth curls into a toothless grin. “Tell me, Faye, who do you think is more important, you or me?”
“You,” I acknowledge. “But as important as you are, Molly’s got you trumped.”
“We don’t need you to keep her.”
82
I am in Griff’s bed in his home.
He does not hate me or blame me for his anonymity being obliterated, which causes me to hate myself and blame myself intensely for the damage I’ve done to his life. The media is having a field day with his reappearance, and now, like us, he can no longer go anywhere without his presence making news and a horde of reporters slinging questions at him.
He says it’s worth it, that I’m worth it, but it does little to lessen my guilt, and I can’t help but wonder if he was right, if kissing me was a bad idea indeed, and if he wouldn’t have been better off steering clear altogether.
He caresses my shoulder, and I roll toward him to rest my hand on his cheek. My mom offered to watch the kids, so I sent Molly and Tom home in the limo. Like Cinderella, I need to leave by midnight and mutate back into the person I really am, the mother of two child stars who both need to be on the set at dawn. But at the moment, I’m a childless princess lying in the bed of my handsome prince.
“Favorite movie?” I ask.
“Sleepless in Seattle,” he says without a blink.
“Nice try.”
“Works on most girls.”
He kisses my nose then readjusts himself so he is on his back, my head on his shoulder. “Let’s see, favorite movie? When I was a kid, it was Jaws, but now I think I’d have to say Forrest Gump. I watched it again a couple nights ago. It’s my go-to movie. It’s just so damn hopeful in light of so much crap, and Forrest has to be the most brilliant character of all time, not the sharpest tool in the shed but the most chivalrous and romantic character ever.”
And I know I’m done for. Forrest Gump is my go-to movie as well, though I never rewatch it. It’s too sacred for that. I simply remember it. Forrest asking Jenny to marry him. I’m not a smart man, but I know what love is. And even when Jenny doesn’t love him back, he continues to love her because that’s exactly the point. He knows what love is. Thinking about Forrest and his mom and Jenny and Lieutenant Dan and Bubba lights up my heart every time.
I kiss him, and he kisses me back, then we’re going at it again, like refugees starved for food, frantic and hungry, limbs bumping and getting tangled. This is how it’s been between us, moments of tenderness and moments of panic, both of us terrified that what we have isn’t real or that, for some reason, time is running out and it’s going to disappear.
After, when we’re done and lying beside each other breathless, both of us slightly self-conscious of our clawing, frantic performance, I say, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that was insane, and that I need to start going to the gym or running if you’re going to be so demanding.”
“Ha ha,” I say. “But really, tell me your thoughts.”
“My thoughts are that I want to recover my breath and do that again.”
“That’s your desire not your thoughts.”
“I’m a man. The two are pretty much the same.”
I smile but refuse to let him off so easy. “Just a peek at what’s turning inside that brain of yours, please. Today was rough, and I want to know what you think about it.”
It’s only a flicker but a realignment of his thoughts just the same as he alters the truth, and I feel a chill of betrayal ice my spine. He feels it too and doesn’t allow me to pull away, which I am trying to do, my hands braced against his chest as he holds firm.
“Stop,” he says. “It’s just not my place.”
“Your place?” I ask, confused but only for a second. He thinks I’m asking his opinion about my life, when I was actually asking his opinion about his own.
“This business with Emily is between you and Sean.”
I purposely didn’t tell Griff about my conversations with Chris or Mitten. He loves me, but he also loves the show and his crew, and it would upset him to hear I tried to quit. Besides, there’s no point. Chris made it clear we’re stuck, and Mitten made it clear that I have no power over him. But it was silly for me to think Griff wouldn’t have heard about Sean chasing me through the set as I searched for Emily.
“But you have an opinion?” I say, while wishing I’d never asked him to tell me what he was thinking and that we could go back to postcoital, conversation-less cuddling.
“My dad used to say there are two kinds of people,” he starts, and already I know I’m going to be lumped into the wrong group. I try to kiss him to shut him up, but he rolls away and looks at the ceiling, his arm behind his head. “Those who lead their lives and those whose lives lead them.” I jerk away from him and stand abruptly as he props himself up on his elbow. “You asked,” he says.
“Shut up.” I pull my shirt over my head. It’s inside out, but I don’t care. What is it with these people? My mom, Griff? I’m doing the best I can. I’m working my ass off and raising three kids while dealing with a manipulative, asshole ex-husband who, by law, has the right to half parent the aforementioned kids and who has turned my daughter against me while at the same time endangering her. So excuse me if I’m not in total control of t
he situation.
I pull on my jeans and shove my panties in the pocket.
“Faye, stop,” he says. “Come back and lie down. I’m just saying…”
“I know exactly what you’re saying,” I snap. “You’re saying I’m a fuck-up who married the wrong guy because she stupidly got pregnant when she was nineteen and has been fucking up ever since. And you’re right, look at me now, sleeping with you. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up pregnant again. I seem to have a knack for that, not planning for condoms to break. Don’t worry, I’ll text you in a few months and let you know if you’re going to be a daddy.”
I storm off, but after three steps I need to turn back because I left my keys on the table. I pivot, spinning right into his arms, which are reaching for me. I wriggle to free myself, but it’s a halfhearted effort.
He whispers into my hair. “I’m sorry.” And the thing is, I know he is, but I also know as I relent and allow him to lead me back to the bed that he believes what he said and that he’s right—there are people who lead their lives and those who are yanked around like a yo-yo.
Today I tried to take control. I talked to Chris and tried to quit. I stormed in on Mitten and threatened him if he went near Emily. But as usual, rather than making things better, I feel like I only made them worse.
83
I stare at the papers in my hand. I’ve been staring at them for a full day now, since they were given to me last night as Molly, Tom, and I walked to the elevator after our day at the studio. The emergency change of custody order gives me twenty-four hours to refute the evidence Sean presented to the court proving I am a danger to my kids. The evidence includes:
A sworn affidavit from Elizabeth Glenn, the social worker from Yucaipa, attesting to my negligent behavior both in sending my children to the car unattended during our first meeting and in not getting Tom the therapy he needed for his disability, despite multiple counseling sessions in which I was advised to do so.
Two sworn affidavits from two street vendors from the Third Street Promenade testifying that I left Molly unattended on the promenade and subsequently lost her.
A sworn affidavit from the nurse at Methodist Hospital testifying that the gash on Molly’s arm was inconsistent with the explanation I gave of her cutting her arm on a slide, and that the injury was more consistent with that of a knife wound.
A sworn affidavit from Beth that I allowed Molly to do a river scene without warning her that Molly couldn’t swim, a scene in which Molly subsequently almost drowned, my lack of concern showing blatant disregard for Molly’s welfare.
A sworn affidavit from the security director at the Park Plaza Hotel attesting to me slapping Emily across the face.
Video footage of me slapping Molly at JFK airport.
A written letter to the judge from Emily:
Dear Judge,
Please help us. My mom is not a good mom. She is mean and she doesn’t care about us. All she cares about is my sister being famous. She leaves my little sister who is only four alone a lot and also leaves my brother who is eight alone. She also hits us when she gets angry. I have already left to live with my dad, but I am worried about my brother and sister. It would be better if we were all together and my dad was taking care us. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Emily Martin
I called my lawyer immediately, but with so little time, there was nothing she could do. The problem with trying to refute the evidence is that there’s nothing to refute. It is all either the truth, a version of the truth, or a lie I can’t disprove. So today I sit on the couch staring at the letter from Emily as a social worker and my mom pack up the kids’ things so they can move in with Sean.
In a month, there will be a hearing to determine whether the order should be extended beyond the temporary period. I have until then to figure out how to turn this around or to beg forgiveness, leniency, and mercy from the court and pray I don’t lose them forever. My lawyer is hopeful that by then we will have a counterargument and evidence to discredit the testimony against me.
I stare at Emily’s letter so hard that the ink blurs. Is it possible to love and hate your child at the same time? My hurt is so deep that I feel like my organs are turning black. Sean put her up to it, but still, the writing is hers. She wrote those horrible, wounding words.
My mind is having a hard time processing what is happening, my life unraveling so quickly that it makes no sense. How did Sean know about Ms. Glenn? Or the hospital? The answer comes in disconnected waves. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. Someone told him. No one could have told him. I was the only one who knew about both. More than one person told him. He has been planning this. That’s not like Sean. Sean doesn’t plan things. Mitten’s words come back to me. It’s probably not the best idea to threaten someone who can destroy you. We don’t need you to keep her.
My palm presses against my chest to push back the pain. Life needs an undo, a magic button that can turn back time so I can fix this, a rewind switch to return me to the moment before I threatened Mitten, or further back, to the moment on the promenade when Molly was singing and dancing with Leroy.
84
The kids are gone. I’ve had a week to get used to the idea, but the shock has still not worn off. I am numb except for the pulsing ache beneath my rib cage, each breath agonizing as though the air is made of shards of glass.
My mom hovers, afraid of what I might do—collapse from despair or act out and do something crazy like kidnap the kids and flee. She’s right to worry, my thoughts vacillate between the two.
I wait for the complete breakdown, to lose it and go insane. It seems the least I can do. I lost them, misplaced them, didn’t pay close enough attention, and now they’re gone. But despite my synapses exploding with everything I’ve done to cause this, cruelly my brain remains intact, completely, horribly aware of what has happened, and it is only my heart that is cleaved in two.
Griff calls constantly and has tried to visit. I refuse to talk to him or see him. I cannot face him. He was right. There are those who lead their lives, and those whose lives lead them, and I am the latter, my life snatched away without even a fight.
I do not rant or rave, my emotions strangely quiet, a deadness, as if a winter chill has sent my feelings into hibernation. Perhaps for self-preservation, knowing that to allow them out would incite a storm, a tornado of madness that once released won’t be contained.
It is an eerie calm as I sit day after day unmoving on the couch, my feet curled beneath me, the television blinking. A small itch buzzes in my brain like there’s something to be done, perhaps someone I should call or somewhere I should go—a vibration of disbelief, the pulsating refusal to accept the truth, that there is nothing for me to do.
The shadows shift, and I watch them grow long on the carpet. My stomach rumbles. There are apples in the bowl on the coffee table in front of me, put there so the kids would be reminded of the healthy snack, the stone bowl keeping them cool. I make no move to take one, though they are large Rome apples—expensive apples—the kind I’ve become accustomed to buying.
Such stillness. Quiet I craved a week ago, now it chokes me, the emptiness pressurized like a pneumatic chamber until I feel like I might implode…or perhaps the opposite, burst from my skin into a fireball of destruction running naked through the streets, murdering anything in my path until I get to my kids, which of course I would never do. I am a coward. It has been proven again and again that I would never do anything so bold.
If I sit here long enough, I wonder if I will turn to stone like the bowl. The thought comforts me—cold, impenetrable stone.
85
When there’s a knock at the door, I ignore it. There’s no one I want to see.
“Helen, thank you for coming,” my mom says behind me, causing my head to spin around so fast that I’m in danger of whiplash. Kiss-kiss, the two women greet like French royalty.
I smooth my disheveled hair, wipe the crusts of sleep from my eyes, shove the sweats I’ve
been sleeping in for the past week beneath the couch, and push to my feet.
“Helen? What are you doing here?”
As always she looks radiant—her skin, hair, clothes so flawless that everything around her looks duller and more dilapidated.
“I heard you were wallowing in your wounds,” she says, almost causing me to smile. The woman is really too much when it comes to mixing clichés.
“Yes,” my mom says, “she certainly is. I’ll leave you two to work it out.”
My mom grabs her purse and leaves us as Helen glides across the room to sit down on the couch, ankles crossed, hands folded on her lap. “Well, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
I look at the clock on the television. It’s ten thirty in the morning. “All I have is wine or vodka.”
She frowns. “I meant coffee.”
I shuffle to the kitchen and manage to start a pot, my hands shaking from the sudden burst of activity after a week of barely moving.
While the coffee brews, I search the fridge and pantry for something to eat and find a half-empty bag of Oreo cookies that nearly causes a meltdown. I steady myself against the counter, rein in the thoughts of Molly licking off the creamy centers, and carry the bag to the coffee table. I set it in front of Helen, hoping she’ll eat the rest of the reminder and purge it from the condo.
She takes a cookie and nibbles the edges like a bird, and I return to the kitchen to retrieve her coffee.
When I sit down beside her, she says, “Chris will be calling this afternoon, and you need to be prepared.”
I blink several times. “Chris? Why?”
“Because Molly and Tom have more power than you think, and Chris was a fool to think he could just shove you out the way he did with that birdbrain Rhonda.”
“Chris did this?” I say. “No, he didn’t. It was Mitten.”
“Mitten? Oh, darling, you really don’t have a clue, do you? Mitten’s harmless. He’s a writer. He writes stories and pokes his head out once in a while to act important, and the producers tolerate his eccentricities because without him there would be no show, but he has no real power.”
No Ordinary Life Page 29
