No Ordinary Life

by Suzanne Redfearn

  Robotically I go through the evening routine, giving the kids their baths, reading their lines to them, tucking them into bed. I am pulling the covers up around Tom when he asks, “Who’s Ethan?”

  “No one you need to worry about,” I reassure him.

  He looks unconvinced, and I know at some point I will need to explain why the press has descended on our home and is shouting questions about someone named Ethan. But at the moment, I am at a loss as to exactly what to say, the truth too gruesome for an eight-year-old to handle. The truth too gruesome for a thirty-two-year-old to handle. Ethan is that guy who used to wave to us on the corner, the guy with the sweet smile who would do a fist pump if he saw us. Well, he’s dead now because he became infatuated with your sister and decided he couldn’t live without her, so he threatened to kill the president to prove his love, and when the police found out, they tried to arrest him, and he got scared, so he stepped onto the ledge of a building and threatened to kill himself, and I could have saved him by letting him see Molly, but I didn’t and so he died.

  “Mom, you okay?”

  “Yeah, baby, I’m fine.” I kiss him on the head then go to the living room to lie down with Molly. I crawl in beside her and smooth her hair from her face, her forehead damp from the heat radiating from her small body. Outside, on the street, the press still prowls. I hear their voices and occasional laughter, vultures circling, waiting for us to emerge so they can pick our bones.

  As time ticks by, the charred emptiness that consumes me begins to glow, an ember burning and growing hotter until it rages like an inferno. He’s dead, but I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this. Sorrow to anger, disbelief to outrage. Unable to lie still another minute, I throw back the covers and begin to pace. Molly’s blue elephant, won for her by Sean when she was a toddler, lies on the table beside the door. Emily’s cleats sit on the floor below it where she dropped them after her last game. Remnants of who we were before Ethan, before the show, before my life was taken from me. Graciela is wrong. I did not sell my daughter. I will not sell my daughter. This is not a better life. I am not like her. She and I, we are not the same.

  Wandering silently through the dimness, I scan the relics, and by the time I peek in on Tom, asleep in the room Emily used to sleep in, my skin is on fire. And when I see the rainbow-colored bag sitting open on Emily’s desk, the bright blue “Sugar-Free” banner above the Life Savers logo, my lips curl into a smile that holds no joy. As Helen says, there’s more than one way to skin a dragon.

  93

  This morning, in order for our limo to get through the studio gates, the Fox security force needed to form a brigade to keep the media at bay. As we drove through the swarm, Molly and Tom stared out the tinted windows, confused over what had changed between yesterday and today.

  I am immune to the media frenzy, completely inoculated to their prying, needy greed. Let them say what they want, let the public think what they want. I no longer care. My only concern is getting out. My single goal is to put this behind us and find a way back to normalcy.

  Griff and Sean have both called incessantly since the story broke. I have ignored both of them. This is my problem and mine alone. I love one, hate the other, and trust neither of them.

  I drop Molly at base camp, drop Tom at studio school, and continue on to the staging area.

  “Good morning, Beth,” I say with a smile.

  The woman squints at me with her beady eyes. “Where’s Molly?”

  “With Henry.”

  She grunts then returns to her cell phone, punching in the schedule for the day. Despite my hate for the woman, she is incredibly good at what she does. Beth is the woman behind the man—the one who makes Chris Cantor look amazing.

  “Beth,” Chris bellows, “let’s get this going.”

  She springs off her stool and into action, and so do I.

  Beth’s choice of candy is Werther’s caramels, and she goes through them like Tic Tacs. Lucky for me they make a sugar-free version known to cause explosive gas and diarrhea. The satchel Beth carries from set to set sits open on the table.

  Out with the old and in with the new. I pull out the half-full bag of candy from the satchel, empty half the bag I brought with me into it, then place the new bag where the old bag had been. The exchange takes less than a minute.

  I turn with the confiscated candies in my hand and freeze. Kira stands a few feet away, watching me from the shadows. Her eyes move to the Werther’s bag, and her head tilts in curiosity.

  “How long have you been standing there?” I ask, my heart ricocheting in my chest.

  “Long enough.”

  I eye her warily as she sips her Starbucks, thoughts of tabloid headlines and lawsuits flashing through my mind.

  “You do a nice little kitten routine,” she says, her lips curling. “Playing with the big cats now. Better retract those claws before someone else notices.”

  “You’re not going to tell?” I stammer.

  “And ruin all the fun? Why would I do that?” Her wicked smile widens, and she pivots and walks away.

  My heart thumping crazily, I run to the craft services station, dump the evidence, then hurry to the set to watch the show.

  94

  Where the hell is Beth?” Chris barks, and it’s all I can do to suppress a smile, my vengeance caramel-sweet.

  “She’s in the restroom,” someone says.

  “Again? Fuck.”

  I offer to check on her.

  “Thanks, Faye. Good to have you back.”

  Kira smiles at me, her grin making me feel both ashamed and a little proud.

  I rush to the restroom where Beth has spent most of the last two hours. “Beth,” I say sweetly through the partition of the bathroom stall.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Chris needs the schedule.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “He needs it now.”

  “Fine. Fuck.” She holds her phone beneath the door, and I nearly cheer with how easy that was. “Password is lights,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Fuck.”

  Fuck you too! I think as I skip away, my thumbs moving lightning fast over the tiny keyboard.

  The first text is to Mitten. Please go to the sound lab for voice over edits. I nearly press send then remember the text is coming from Beth and backspace to delete the “please.”

  The second text is to Gabby. Sound lab now.

  I camp in the storage closet across the hall from the sound lab with the door cracked open. Gabby arrives first, followed a few minutes later by Mitten.

  I count to a hundred then text Cancel to both of them.

  If they leave right away, my plan failed. If they leave after ten minutes, there’s a good chance it worked.

  Gabby races out somewhere in the middle, after about five minutes, her face upset as she hurries away. A minute later Mitten shuffles out, his eyes on the ground, a frown on his face.

  When a safe amount of time has passed, I race into the sound lab and straight into the vocal booth. The lens of the camera is directed through the glass into the editing booth, the green light on. I turn off the camera, eject the disc as I saw Griff do, then run from the room and back to the set, erasing the texts I sent from Beth’s phone as I go.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Beth snaps. “Give me my damn phone.”

  I hand the phone back to her. “Sorry, Tom needed me,” I lie.

  “Goddamn it, Beth, where the hell is the present for this scene?” Chris yells, his patience used up.

  Beth turns to look for the prop, her expression flustered, then she runs from the set and back toward the restroom.

  “Fuck!” Chris yells. “Somebody get me the damn present.”

  95

  Shocked.

  I stare at my mom’s laptop, my heart thumping wildly as I watch the video for the second time.

  Crap. Crap, crap, c
rap!

  My plan is in shambles, or it should be, but it’s not. It’s actually entirely intact, making what I’m seeing that much more horrible.

  Six minutes, one second shy—five minutes and fifty-nine seconds. The image isn’t perfect, Gabby is off-center as she waits in the editing booth by herself, then Mitten arrives. Mitten says a few words to which Gabby shrugs. Silence while they wait together, then both look at their cell phones as the Cancel message comes through.

  Mitten turns to leave, but Gabby says something to make him stay. Her gestures become animated as she talks. She is angry. I watch as Mitten nods, his face screwed up in what looks like sympathy. Gabby swallows, her shoulders fold forward, and her expression drops from anger to hurt. Mitten touches her shoulder to console her, then, his mouth still moving, she lurches at him and presses her lips against his. He stumbles back, his eyes wide, his head shaking as he protests her advance. Gabby isn’t listening. She starts to lift her shirt. Mitten steps forward and puts his hand on her arm to stop her, then he raises his left hand to show her his simple gold wedding band.

  I read his lips. I’m married.

  I read hers. I need this job.

  His head shakes as he says, I’m sorry.

  She runs from the room, and a minute later, with a deep sigh, Mitten follows.

  I press the pause button and stare at the empty room on the screen. The truth. It’s not what I expected, but it’s damning just the same. I rewind to the spot where Gabby kissed him and pause. It’s impossible to know in that second that he is protesting her advance. I forward the frame of Gabby lifting her shirt while Mitten touches her arm. The rolls of Gabby’s stomach over her jeans are visible beneath her hideous bright pink bra, and I’m not sure which the media would exploit more, Gabby’s grotesqueness or Mitten’s.

  Griff was right. Mitten’s not a predator. He’s the opposite, a pious man trying to do right by these young girls.

  I look at Molly asleep on the sleeper bed, her thumb in her mouth, then at the photo of Emily on the mantel.

  The truth is in my hands, but I’m not sure what to do with it. Pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I sit unmoving for a long moment.

  Mommy, what’s suicide? Molly asked during our lunch break as I unwrapped her turkey sandwich. Tom looked at me, curious as well.

  It’s nothing, baby. Eat your lunch.

  Taking a deep breath, I straighten in my chair, wiggle the mouse to rewake the computer, then screen capture the two damning frames from the video and save them to a thumb drive. I put the hoodoo in an envelope and address it to Star Gazer then walk from the condo toward the mailbox down the street. As I walk, an old nursery rhyme plays in my head: Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock…

  My hand trembles as I open the drop slot.

  Sliding doors, a stoplight turning red, an unexpected detour that causes the world to pivot in a way you didn’t expect. This is not like that. This is the opposite. This is like pulling a lever that will change the course of a train, steering it toward a cliff that will kill everyone on board.

  The steel flap clunks closed, the smallest thud of metal against metal. I stare at the closed slot then at the envelope still in my hand.

  The clock struck one, the mouse ran down, hickory, dickory, dock.

  Putting the envelope in the pocket of my jacket, I shuffle back toward the condo, my eyes studying the cracks in the sidewalk. As I walk, I pray I did not just make the biggest mistake of my life, that by not pulling the lever, I didn’t just spare everyone else while sending our own train hurtling toward that very same cliff.

  96

  We are on the holiday break, and I am in heaven. This morning, Christmas morning, I woke up in Griff’s arms. The kids spent Christmas Eve with Sean and Emily. Mack dropped them off an hour ago, just in time for lunch.

  I am in Griff’s amazing kitchen cooking an amazing feast for my amazing man and my amazing family, while the aforementioned amazing man is in the living room putting the training wheels on Molly’s new bike. After it is assembled, he is going to take the kids on the trails behind his house in search of wildflowers.

  My mom stands beside me, sipping wine and keeping me company, and Bo and Jeremy are both on their way and will be here by dinnertime. Heaven. Peaceful and blissful and perfect.

  We’ve been off from work for nearly a week, and this vacation actually feels like a vacation. Because of the Ethan incident and the media storm surrounding it, Molly no longer gives interviews or makes appearances. Even Chris agrees that she needs to be buffered from the insanity.

  The only downside is that Emily is not with us. I sent the gift I bought for her—a new soccer bag, cleats, and an autographed Mia Hamm jersey—with Tom and Molly last night, but the kids brought it back unopened. I will keep it in hopes that, at some point, she will change her mind.

  Pulling the turkey from the oven, I inhale its wonderful smell, baste it, then slide it back in the oven. Giggles erupt from the living room, Molly cracking up over something Griff said. Tom pipes in, making a wiseass remark that causes Griff to belly laugh like Santa Claus.

  A small glimpse of what my life might be like if we continue on as we are. Heaven. Perfect blissful heaven.

  97

  It’s been four weeks since I chose to do nothing, and every day I thank my lucky stars that I did not drop that envelope into that mailbox. As if Christmas never ended, our life has settled into an exquisite rhythm that is almost normal. Molly, Tom, and I work hard during the week, spend our evenings with Griff, either at his house or at the condo, and on the weekends, Molly and Tom go to Sean’s, giving Griff and me some alone time.

  There’s talk of Molly being nominated for an Emmy. An Emmy! The thought fills me with incredible pride. She would be the youngest actress ever to be nominated for the honor. Tom is also doing amazing and is now the third most popular character on the show, right behind Molly and Jeremy. Kira did not take the bump well. Caleb didn’t care. Each week, Tom’s part grows, and with it, his confidence.

  We are, aside from the Emily factor, happy—really, really happy.

  Especially me. It’s almost ridiculous how happy I am. It sounds cliché, but in the English language, there’s only one worn out, overused way to say it: I am in love, and I am incredibly grateful I didn’t ruin it.

  Though Griff and I have only been together a couple of months, already we are thinking of a future together, which is the main reason I’ve stayed living with my mom. Though I can now afford a home of my own, a fact that is utterly astonishing, I have not begun looking for a house because I’m not sure if I should be looking for a home for just us, for a home for an “us” that includes Griff, or not looking at all because we will be moving into Griff’s house and will become an “us” there.

  These wonderful, distracting thoughts swirl constantly in my brain, making it difficult to focus on anything else. Like, at the moment, I am supposed to be reviewing Tom’s homework because he has his state tests on Monday, but instead of reading over his math worksheets, I sit at the table sipping a glass of wine and daydreaming about getting married in Griff’s backyard, Bo walking me down the aisle, Helen being my reluctant, stunning maid of honor.

  The dream is so wonderful that when the phone rings, I ignore it, reaching to hit the off button so I can silence it. Then I see the caller ID and my heart lurches.

  “Em?”

  Tears tremble through her tiny voice, driving instant panic into my heart. “Mom?”

  “Baby? What’s the matter?”

  “Will you come get me?”

  I’m already pulling my shoes on. “Of course, baby. Where are you?”

  “I don’t know,” she sniffles.

  “Okay, baby, deep breath, look around you. Tell me what you see.”

  98

  The thirty minutes it takes me to get to her are the longest of my life, my heart racing at such a frantic rate that it nearly collapses when I finally spot her sitting on the curb in front
of a club called The Vault, loud music thundering from its walls.

  She wears the sparkly dress and stilettos from the premiere, her eyes streaked with makeup, her lips bruised. Gingerly she climbs into the car, and a wave of nausea washes over me with the realization that more than her lips were violated.

  “Baby?” I say.

  “Please go,” she rasps, not looking at me, her body curling into itself as she leans her head against the glass.

  I drive away, her silent tears and trembling body wrecking me, the putrid smell of alcohol and vomit filling the car.

  “You’re going to be okay. I’m just going to find a place to pull over so I can call the police.”

  “NO!” she screams.

  “Baby, we have to.”

  Her mortified sobs and hysterics trump my civic duty and I drive on. “Okay, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ll take you home.”

  “Not Grandma’s,” she croaks. “I don’t…please…Molly can’t see me…don’t take me…” Her voice is swallowed by her shame.

  “Where’s your dad?” I manage, my own voice a hair trigger away from breakdown.

  “Out with his girlfriend.”

  I feel the pulse of blood throbbing behind my eyes, a seizure of anger so strong that it’s difficult to see straight.

  “Just take me home,” she mumbles.

  “So you do want to go home?”

  “Dad’s house,” she clarifies.