by Opal Carew
“Say what?”
“Mom has diagnosed herself with Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a fatal skin condition.”
“What do you mean ‘diagnosed herself’?” Vive spoke as if they were slated for a feature in Debauchery magazine.
“Mom researched her symptoms online.” Lex pulled a few papers out of her gym tote, handing them to Vive to inspect.
“WebDoctorMD and DiseasePedia are not credible.” Vive’s journalistic eye skimmed the papers. “And the symptoms state patients with the disease show a hideous rash triggered by infected facial tissue. If that were true, Birdie’s face would blister.” She passed the documents over to Taddy who read on.
“I saw Birdie a week ago. She looked like her usual rock-star self,” Taddy muttered, convinced Birdie bathed in formaldehyde to maintain her youth. Lex’s mother may’ve been a whacko and frail, but she was still gorgeous.
Taddy dropped the papers on the table. “This journal cites excessive cocaine use as a possible cause.” Birdie’s decade-long partying in the ‘80s with drugs proved enough to swing Taddy’s convictions from “no way in Hell” to “not really.” It couldn’t be possible. “Birdie is a bit of a hypochondriac, though.” And a full-blown loon. Taddy shook her head and sipped her Acai Extreme Energy smoothie. She struggled to demonstrate any sympathy, and her empathy-feeling days for the Easton’s were long past. This has to be bullshit.
“Mom hasn’t been the same since Dad died.” Obvious embarrassment washed Lex’s face.
“No kiddin’.”
“Birdie dove headfirst into the cray-cray pool, breaking her skull wide open eons prior to Eddie killing himself.” Vive snorted and rolled her eyes.
“I know, I know.” Lex’s eyebrows furrowed. “The unauthorized biography on Mom really did her in.”
“Ya think?”
The book, titled Banging Birdie, was penned as a Kitty Kelley−styled tell-all slammer. True to all faults, the 506 pages depicted the Birdie Easton scandals. A legend in her own right, Birdie had become infamous amongst the music community for sleeping with over one thousand men, although Birdie swore she never kept count.
Music magazine deemed the glossy, hardcover, New York Times number-one bestseller contentious and far-fetched. The book gave insights into Birdie’s mothering skills and on Lex’s abusive childhood, as well. The chapter titled “A Modern Rock-N-Roll Rapunzel” detailed weekends locked in the Park Avenue penthouse. Another chapter, “Big Apple’s Sweet Virgin,” narrated Birdie’s OCD over Lex maintaining her virginity.
Those who couldn’t do, taught. And Birdie couldn’t help but be promiscuous. She projected the reverse sexual appetite onto her daughter, possibly in hopes Lex wouldn’t follow in her footsteps with endless cock cravings.
When Lex gained weight, Birdie starved her daughter. That chapter was titled “Alexandra the Great.” Reporters blew the book off as being off-the-charts crazy. Taddy recognized Banging Birdie as one hundred percent accurate.
“Mom’s obsessed with finding something fatally wrong.” Lex stirred her straw in her protein shake. “She wants to die.”
“This is another Birdie scam. If she wants to kick it, she can borrow my pistol from my ‘97 vintage Fendi Baguette anytime she likes.” Taddy remembered, in addition to Birdie being a manic, drug addict, and unfit parent, she thrived on kleptomania. “Maybe I should leave my gun out on the kitchen counter for her to steal.”
Lex’s green eyes filled with tears. She pulled out her cell phone and held a picture up. “I snapped a photo this morning of Mom’s skin. I e-mailed it to Dr. Fassenbender. We’re waiting to see what he thinks.”
No. Stunned, Taddy almost knocked her organic smoothie on the floor. Mrs. Tomato Face stared back at her. Birdie’s cheeks, nose, and forehead suggested Freddy Krueger. “Holy shit.” She inhaled panic through her nose and covered her mouth. Birdie’s face is Hamburger Helper. “Lex, please don’t cry. We’re here for you…and Birdie, too.” Suddenly, Taddy felt horrible for the Fendi joke.
Vive tapped her Cartier. “Let’s walk over to Birdie’s before we go to Bradley Cooper’s premiere. It’s down in Soho. I’ll call us a car and they can pick us up at your mom’s.” She wasn’t convinced, either. Vive apparently wanted to see the disease with her own eyes.
“Sorry, but I’m not up for a party.” Lex crossed her arms. “Mom’s convinced she’s on her deathbed. She’s even managing her own funeral arrangements.”
“Get out of here.” Taddy had heard enough. She’d march over to Birdie’s house before the movie and see what’s what. Bradley Cooper could wait.
“Yup, a nice lot next to Dad at the Calvary Cemetery in Queens. Mom called Lita Ford and Joan Jett and asked if they’d give the eulogies.” Distraught, Lex put the papers back in her tote.
Sick to her stomach, Taddy threw her unfinished meal replacement shake in the trash.
“I’m going to your mother’s house to pay my respects,” Vive said in Lex’s direction then turned her head with a wink in Taddy’s. She was ready for a Birdie shakedown. No one could decipher malarkey better than a gossip columnist, and Vive was the best in her field.
Sure enough, later that night when Taddy arrived with Vive at Birdie’s condo, Helga her housekeeper greeted them with a cold shoulder and said, “Lady Easton is asleep. Lady Easton asks not to be disturbed under any circumstance. Lady Easton is sick.”
“Who the hell is Lady Easton?” Taddy asked.
“Birdie shall ring you tomorrow,” Helga responded and went to slam the door, but Taddy’s foot jetted out. The door swung wide open.
“Helga, we must see Birdie, now!” Taddy pushed her way in and headed for the bedroom. Vive walked behind her and slowed her pace when they came to Birdie’s bedroom. In unison, they poked their heads in to witness a sight worse than what Lex had captured with her camera.
“Poor Birdie,” Vive gasped.
Eyes closed, Birdie was snoring on her back. Her swollen face appeared raw and tender. On the TV screen by her bed played a video.
“What is she watching?” Vive stepped in closer.
“Eh?” Taddy felt as if she’d just been hit with a baseball bat. Instinctively, she reached toward Vive’s hand for balance. Following a quick swallow and deep inhale, she pushed the lump that was coming up in her throat back down. “It’s Lex’s tenth birthday party.”
“This is so sad.” Vive seemed to better understand Birdie’s condition.
On the screen, Birdie and Eddie sang ‘Happy Birthday’ set to a rock-n-roll melody. Taddy noticed herself in the video with her own parents. Countess Irma and Joseph Graf sat at a table clapping along, out of rhythm. She’d forgotten what it looked like to see everyone happy, especially herself. “All Lex wanted that year was for Eddie to be home and spend time with her.”
“Did he?”
“No.” It pained her to think about it. “Eddie only came for the party. It was good press for their family.” Taddy kept her voice low. She noticed in the video how Lex clung to her father, afraid to let him go.
“God, Eddie was such a beautiful man.”
“Such a waste.” It angered Taddy to think about how he’d neglected his family.
“Those are your folks, right?” Vive squinted at the TV then back to Taddy.
“Yup.” Taddy suddenly felt as sick as Birdie. She couldn’t stand looking at her parents.
“I’ve never met them.”
“And for good reason.” Taddy stalked over to the TV and punched the off switch. “Let’s let Birdie sleep.” Before leaving, she pulled the plush covers snug around Birdie.
The next day, Taddy called Birdie and offered to hire a nurse for around-the-clock care. The stubborn woman declined and argued she was ready to see her husband in Heaven. Taddy didn’t know if Birdie was being dramatic or if she should be taken seriously. She put another call in to Dr. Fassenbender.
He disregarded Birdie’s images and disease claims as nothing but a skin irritation.
Resisting the
urge not to get sucked into Easton drama, she figured Birdie would be fine. Maybe it was denial. Maybe it was hope. Either way, she didn’t want to get involved. The only thing to do was wait and see what Birdie did next.
“Screw me, Brayden Brooks,” she chanted, per usual, at seven a.m. mid-week, pre-Christmas, about a week prior to her and Lex’s sunny jaunt to Algarve. Taddy exercised on her elliptical. The private Gilad sessions gave her ass a new tighter, higher, younger shape, although he had yet to fuck her. Gilad held out for Taddy to purchase a twenty-session package. Taddy told him the package that interested her came from his pants and should only take one session, not several. There was no desire to see the same man twenty times for anything, including sex, so Taddy crossed Gilad off her men-to-screw list. Fuck that! She wasn’t about to pay for sex from her Pilates instructor.
She’d hit the 1,000-calories-burned mark while strutting on the exercise equipment. Endorphins flew. The tangy ammonia hint soared from her pores, a sign she could eat whatever carbohydrates she wanted. She’d earned it. Jamming to “Honey Hive Filled Love” sung by Waris Sugar, Taddy sang the lyrics to herself:
I’m pullin’ my Victoria Secrets down
A-ooh baby baby, ooh baby baby
You’re slickin’ your dick up
A-ooh aah aah, A-ooh aah aah
I’m gettin’ my honey hive filled
A-aah mmm, A-aah mmm
Taddy knew women orgasmed while doing intense cardio. They didn’t come like a geyser, but rather with mini-climaxes. Natural to her, she came, too, when endorphins flew. So frequent in fact, she did the elliptical alone, unless with Lex who remained oblivious. When she pushed her body hard enough, closed her eyes, let the song take over, and Brayden Brooks danced in her mind’s eye—she’d come. Pilates with Gilad didn’t compare to that exhilaration, let alone the Brayden Brooks fantasy.
Utilizing the morning’s workout as she did any other—watching her recorded Brayden Brooks games on ESPN in slow-motion—she pretended her beloved NFL athlete trained right by her side as in the song, “Honey Hive Filled Love.”
She hit “play” and “repeat” and “pause” with her remote. Brayden running. That’s it, baby. Brayden tackling. Go, baby. Brayden scoring a touchdown. Oh, yes, baby. She wondered if he’d ejaculate in her mouth. In return, would he gaze intently into her eyes when he came? It was her strongest desire.
When Blake and the executive staff didn’t come in to start their day—perhaps too hung over from the press launch the night prior—she stepped faster. Taddy moved her hips harder, and with no reservations, she slipped her right hand down her Lululemon pants. For a few minutes, she sexed on with Brayden Brooks in her head. Scissoring her legs back and forth, she’d set the endurance level at 10, speed set at 20, pumping at 40, heart rate at 120. She knubbed herself, and for the next fifteen or so seconds, she…
Ooooh, fucking fuck me, Brayden Brooks. Come on. Shove your nice, juicy dick into my Taddy-lic-icous kitty. She envisioned him spreading her legs and lower lips apart with his football-playing hands. Tap my clit, baby. That’s it, honey. Harder, right here. Love it, ah-huh… Images with his mushroom head sliding deep inside filled her mind. You like that tight pink little nub, don’t cha? Oh, you are g–g–g–good. Keep going, get in there. Now…now…now…like that…tap my pussy, baby. She shoved her hand down farther, fingers in deeper, imagining taking Brayden’s cock inside her. With her acrylic nails, she flicked her clitoris. A chill went through her. You wanna come in my mouth, Big Daddy? Come on. She came hard enough to start the day with a smile, no Baden Cosmetics rouge on her cheeks required.
Finished pleasuring herself, she reached for her favorite industry trade journal to get her mind off her vulva’s needs and onto her workday ahead. On page sixty-nine, no less, she found a full-blown advertisement announcing a farewell to a living icon from the music industry.
WTF?
Birdie Easton’s pre-obituary letter. She’d never seen such a thing. Birdie was going through with this. Was this for real? Had Taddy underestimated the illness?
“Kiki!” she screamed from her exercise machine, hoping her Miss Goody Two-shoes had come in early. “Kiki, get in here!”
The pitter-patter from Kiki’s Michael Kors Vail patent leather d’orsay wedges tapped the marble floors. “Coming, Miss Brill.”
“HELPPP.” Motionless atop the exercise equipment, disbelief gripped her core. She held the paper with both hands, moisture between her legs. Brayden’s image paused on the screen with Waris Sugar rapping into her headset.
“What is it?” Kiki asked with a short breath. “What’s going on here?”
She threw the periodical in Kiki’s direction, ripping the earbuds out and wiping her wet body down with a towel. “Did you see this?”
Perplexed, Kiki collected the damp pages from the floor and glared at page sixty-nine, “Oh, my goodness.” Kiki’s usually saucer-sized eyes enlarged to soup bowls. “Poor Birdie.”
“Cancel Portugal!”
Kiki’s hands started shaking.
Taddy climbed off the elliptical and braced Kiki’s narrow shoulders. “Do me a favor.”
“Anything, Miss Brill.”
“Track down an expert on Stevens–Johnson syndrome.” Taddy squeezed Kiki’s shoulders tighter. She hated to say this, for Lex’s sake. “We don’t have much time. I want you to find the best doctor in the world, you hear me?”
Her assistant nodded, sinking in her pumps. “Does Birdie have health insurance?” Kiki asked.
Kiki’s uprightness annoyed Taddy at times. “Lex and Birdie are broke.” She pushed down onto her assistant’s petite body.
“What about Eddie’s estate?” Kiki’s voice echoed confusion, shoulders collapsing.
“Rocker Easton left them with no will.” Her nails dug into Kiki’s skin. She’d never spoken ill about the Easton’s to anyone, in particular a Brill, Inc. employee, but Taddy seethed on. “Everything that legend earned, Eddie intravenously shot into his veins.”
Eddie’s—and Birdie’s—manager, Jasper Records, retained the catalog rights to his songs. An agreement he’d signed off on before his death to pay his debts.
“Ouch! Miss Brill.” Kiki broke from her boss’s embrace, rubbing her apparently sore arms. She inched for the door.
“Book it under my credit card. Lex is like a sister to me. I’ll pay for the medical fees.”
“One hour and I’ll have some answers for you.”
Embarrassed that she’d mauled her assistant, Taddy folded her arms and called her back. “And, Kiki…”
“Yes, Miss Brill?” Kiki stared down at her boss’s nails.
“I didn’t mean that crap about Eddie.” She pulled her damp hair from her face and noticed her hands trembling. “I’m upset is all.”
Her assistant looked into her eyes then stepped forward, maybe to extend a hug.
“Thank you for your assistance. I’ll let you get on with your day.” Taddy didn’t embrace or cuddle her staff, ever, so she shooed her away.
The second Kiki closed the door, Taddy dropped to the floor. I knew I should have taken Birdie to the hospital when this all started. Shit. Taddy was the one in the group who always got everything done. Sitting on the sidelines to watch how this played out wasn’t in her nature. She was pissed at herself for even trying.
If Lex lost her mother and father both within a two-year period, she’d break. Taddy would do whatever was needed for Birdie to get through this. Yes, Birdie breathed crazy, but in the very end, Lex’s mother wasn’t a bad person—at least, not intentionally. A drug addict and a scatterbrain, yes—all influenced by the celebrity Eddie Easton’s doing. She loved her man more than herself or her child. However, on those rare days when Birdie sobered up, she adored Lex and even Taddy at times, in her own way. More than Countess Irma Brillford ever did.
Chapter 4
Mud Mask Wishes with Auntie Muffie
December 23rd
Vancouver, Canada
No
doubt Kiki had tracked down the best medical expert possible. She called New York University’s medical center, which patched her through to the US Department of Health and Human Services. The physician’s assistant referred her to an article published in the American Journal of Health-System Pharmacy, and she contacted the expert quoted at the Mayo Clinic. The clinic then suggested Dr. Rothman in Canada.
Confident they’d get some answers, Taddy secured an appointment the very next day for Birdie, Lex, and her to meet Dr. Rothman at Concord Van General Hospital in Vancouver, Canada. She flew out that night with them for the West Coast.
A mess over Birdie’s diagnosis possibilities, Lex didn’t speak.
Taddy put herself up at a hotel down the street. She gave the troubled mother-daughter duo enough privacy to mourn, but remained available in case the worst proved yet to come. She’d spent bleaker Christmases by herself. This was nothing. Alone in a hotel room watching A Christmas Story on cable wasn’t Hell. If the TV played Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, though, Taddy might feel otherwise.
Covering her body in a Baden Cosmetics moor mud mask, Taddy opened a detox drink she’d agreed to test-market. The Baden Cosmetics beverage can sat on the table, waiting for her feedback. Not yet FDA-approved, the product’s formula was still being tweaked, but she remained brave for client adventures. Taking a sip, Taddy worked on her New Year’s goals for Brill, Inc. Her strategy the following year involved super-sizing her firm for global domination.
She wished Vive had come with them. Vive’s ability to deflect one’s negative thoughts during times such as this with her irreverence would be refreshing at that moment.
Fear and sadness came over Taddy, and she struggled with a rare urge to call her parents. That video in Birdie’s room reminded her of what her parents had looked like, and an image Taddy had tried so hard to forget. This sentiment—to belong to something, to someone—came each Christmas. It was hard not to hear their voices. Irma could capture anyone’s attention with her society gossip and snide jokes. And the interest her father had always shown in what she read and thought about the world around her still kept Taddy on her toes with current events. They were happy memories—few, but ones she elected to keep with her.
