“Good,” Mrs. Bishop says in a sour tone as she lets me in. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”
“What’s going on?” I ask Fran when I spy her curled in a corner of the couch, with a throw pulled up over her.
“Nothing.” She makes a weak smile.
“I’m going to wash up,” I say as I head for the bathroom. I know how important it is to keep germs away from Fran right now. Her immunity is down and I’ve just been around a bunch of people. I scrub up, almost as if I’m going to perform surgery, then go back out and sit in the chair across from her.
“How was church?” she asks.
“Pretty good.” I give her a nutshell version, which she seems to appreciate. I can hear her mom doing something in the kitchen so I lower my voice and ask her why her mom’s in a snit today.
She rolls her eyes. “Does there need to be a reason?”
I chuckle. “Maybe not.”
“She wants me to check into the hospital today.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Maybe she’s tired of taking care of me.”
“That’s not true!” Mrs. Bishop snaps as she comes into the living room. “I have a perfectly good reason for wanting her to go in today.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Because I want the best possible outcome for Fran.” She frowns. “And I think it will improve her chance of success to go in twenty-four hours before her transplant.”
I look at Fran. “Is that true?”
“My doctor said it was up to me.”
“Up to you and your caregiver,” her mother adds.
“And you’d feel better if Fran went to the hospital today,” I say for clarification. “I can understand that.” I point to Fran. “So what are your reasons for not going in until tomorrow?”
She holds up a finger. “One — I can rest better at home.” Another finger. “Two—I’m not exposed to as many germs.”
I nod. “That’s a good one.”
“And three—it’s my life.”
Her mom storms off now, slamming the guest room door behind her.
“That makes sense to me,” I tell Fran.
She sighs. “Thanks. It’s reassuring to know you don’t think I’m crazy.”
“Your mom doesn’t think you’re crazy,” I say. “I think she’s just worried about you.”
She nods wearily. “I know. But she has a rough way of showing it.”
I change the subject by telling her about our New York trip.
“You’re kidding.” Her brow creases. “You’re doing a show about Rhiannon and Paige is okay with that? What about the Eliza factor?”
“I think Paige might have a plan.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I made her assure me that it wasn’t illegal, immoral, or dangerous.”
Fran laughs. “Well, if it’s good, be sure someone gets it on film.”
“Speaking of reality TV, there’s going to be a new show.” I tell her about Celebrity Blind Date.
“That sounds like a fun show.” She sighs. “I miss work.”
“Well, this transplant is going to be a success,” I say with manufactured confidence. “And then you’ll be back to work in no time.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’ve got everyone on our church prayer chain praying for you, Fran.”
“I appreciate that.”
She looks tired, and I’m worried I’m wearing her out. “Maybe you should get some rest.” “Yeah, probably.”
“Would you rest better in your room?” She barely smiles then nods. So I help her up and walk her to her room, putting a glass of water by her bed. “I’ll be at the hospital tomorrow,” I promise. “While you’re getting the transplant, I’ll be praying.”
“Appreciate it,” she says weakly.
I squeeze her hand. “Rest well.”
She closes her eyes and I watch for a minute, thinking how frail she looks, like she’s literally balancing between this world and the next … and I wonder if she’s really ready for it. So I push myself beyond my comfort zone and pray aloud for her. Instead of only focusing on her physical health, I pray for her spiritual health too. I ask God to solidify his relationship with her. “Help Fran hold onto your hand,” I pray, “and to know and believe that you are able to hold onto her no matter what comes her way. Connect her to you, Lord, so tightly that nothing can shake her loose.” Then I say amen, and the corners of her lips curl up ever so slightly, and I leave.
Mrs. Bishop is doing her pacing thing again. I decide to make an attempt to smooth things over with this often cantankerous woman. “I understand how worried you must be about Fran,” I begin.
She nods, her chin quivering. “I am.”
“I’m sure it’s hard on you. I remember how helpless I felt when I was taking care of her, like so much was riding on it. You know?”
“Yes!” she says eagerly. “That’s just how I feel. I’m afraid I’m doing something wrong—and that she—she won’t make it—and it will be my fault.”
“You have to know that’s not true. I mean, it’s not like you’re God.”
She’s wringing her hands. “But I have to wonder —why does God allow her to suffer like this? Children are supposed to outlive their parents. I never imagined I might end up burying my own daughter.”
“She’s going to make it,” I say quietly.
“How can you be so sure?”
I hold up my hands. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a feeling. But I’m praying. A lot of people are praying … I’m trying to have faith.”
She nods. “Faith comes more easily to some people.”
“The Bible says faith is a gift from God. He’ll give it to anyone who asks.”
She presses her lips together, as if she’s stewing on this.
“I think the best way to help Fran right now is to keep things very calm and peaceful around here. She needs rest. And stress is very draining. In fact, I think it’s toxic — for both of you.”
Mrs. Bishop has tears in her eyes now. “I’m just not good in this kind of situation. I’ve never been a patient woman, and I like to speak my mind.”
“You’re a strong person,” I tell her. “But I think you need to use your strength to build Fran up—not tear her down. Instead of focusing on the negative, focus on the positive. What can it hurt?”
She pulls a tissue out of her pocket, wiping her nose, and nods. “I know you’re right. That’s what Fran’s father used to say … before he passed.”
“I think you’re going to be fine.” I smile. “But feel free to call me if you need help. I’ll be at my mom’s house this afternoon, and I’ll keep my cell on. The number’s by the phone in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” She sniffs. “And I’m sorry for being so cranky with you, Erin. I think in some ways I’ve been jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“You seem like such a natural at caregiving, and yet you’re so young … and here I am, Fran’s own mother, and I’m bumbling around like a big-mouthed idiot.”
“It’s probably because you’re so worried about her. I don’t know how I’d feel if I were you … if I had a child who was ill like this.”
“I’m so afraid for her. It feels as if it’s eating me alive sometimes.”
“I wish you could do what I do.”
“What?” Her eyes are desperate, like a drowning person reaching for a life preserver. “Tell me!”
“I try to give my worries and fears to God.” I sigh, knowing how often I fail. “It’s not that I’m always successful at it. But I keep trying, because I know that when I trust God with all that stuff, it takes the load off me and I can relax a little. Plus I’m a nicer person to be around. But, believe me, I’m still learning to do this too. I blow it all the time.”
She has a thoughtful look, as if she’s trying to absorb this, then nods. “That’s what I’ll try to do too.”
“Good.” I pat her on the back. “I’ll see y
ou at the hospital tomorrow.”
“I swear, I will really try to do better,” she promises as I’m leaving. As I go, I pray she does.
Today is the first time that Mom and Jon have had Paige and me over for a meal. I can tell as soon as I’m in the house that Mom is a little nervous, like she wants everything to be picture perfect. I know how my mom is about meals — a perfectionist. It’s like she always wants her table to look like a scene from a food magazine. I know it’s pointless to attempt to convince her it doesn’t matter, that a lunch should be about the people and not the food, or that it’s okay if something is burnt or underdone.
“Smells good in here,” I say when I come into the kitchen.
“Thanks. It’s a new recipe.” She chuckles as I give her a sideways hug. “You’re not supposed to experiment with company. But you girls are family, so I guess it’s okay.”
“It looks interesting,” I say while I survey the ingredients spread over the island. “What are you making?”
“Moroccan,” she says as she chops something green. “Jon’s been wanting me to try it.” She points to an oddly shaped pot on the stove. “That’s a tangine,” she explains. “Kind of like a Moroccan slow cooker. We’re having chicken tangine.” She lists the ingredients, which are mostly spices.
“Exotic.” I sneak a carrot. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Not really.” She tosses the green stuff onto the carrots then wipes her hands. “Everything is pretty much ready to go; it’s just a matter of time.” She nods to the fridge. “Why don’t you get yourself something to drink and join Paige and Jon out by the pool? I’ll be along in a minute.”
I grab some orange soda water and go out to where Jon and Paige are lounging in the shade. Fortunately the weather has finally cooled down. “Hey,” I say as I pull up a lounger and stretch out. “What a day.”
“Uh-huh …” Paige sighs contentedly.
“Paige was just telling me about her plans for New York.” Jon chuckles. “Wish I could go too.”
“What plans?” I ask.
“You know … for Eliza.” Paige gives me a sly look. “You mean you have a specific plan?”
“Not exactly specific,” she admits. “Just some sweet revenge.”
“You know what they say,” Jon tells me. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
“What are you talking bout?” Mom asks as she joins us.
“Paige’s plan to get even,” Jon tells her.
“Even with whom?” Mom sits down at the end of Jon’s lounger.
“Eliza Wilton,” I tell her. “Who else?” “What do you mean?” Mom turns to Paige. “You’re not going to pull some crazy stunt in New York, are you?” Paige makes her innocent face. “Paige?” Mom looks concerned.
“What?” Paige frowns. “You’re not suggesting I go to New York and treat Eliza like nothing happened, are you?” “Actually, I am.”
“Oh, Mom!” Paige makes a disgusted moan. “Don’t go Goody Two-shoes on me now.”
“I’m not going Goody Two-shoes,” Mom protests. “I’m simply speaking as your director. You’re a professional. You can’t go to New York to seek revenge against Eliza Wilton.”
“Why not?” Paige demands. “She’s asked for it.”
“For one thing, you don’t even know what happened in the Bahamas. According to Dylan, it was—”
“Eliza bragged about it to me,” Paige shoots back. “Right in the lobby of our hotel.”
“She bragged that Dylan spent the night,” Mom corrects. “And Dylan hasn’t denied spending the night. The question is whether or not he actually cheated on you. And I don’t think you know the answer to that yet.”
Paige folds her arms in front of her, wearing the same pouty face she used to make as a child when she didn’t get her way.
“But think about it, Brynn,” Jon says gently. “At the very least, Eliza tried to give Paige a bad impression about her fiancée. What kind of a girl does something like that?”
“A girl like Eliza Wilton,” I say. “She is the most spoiled princess I’ve ever met.”
“She seemed like a nice enough person to me,” Mom says.
Paige’s eyes flash. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Eliza conducted herself like a perfect lady on Britain’s Got Style.” Mom nods to Paige. “Meanwhile, Paige let the show down that day.” She turns to Jon. “I didn’t tell you she didn’t make it because she was in her hotel room nursing a hangover.”
Jon gives a mock tsk-tsk as he playfully shakes his finger at Paige.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Paige says defensively. “I felt perfectly horrible about the whole thing. And Erin did fine without me.”
“You don’t really know Eliza,” I tell Mom. “She can be really nasty and mean. We’ve seen it. She’s extremely competitive and will do almost anything to get her own way.”
“And does that make it acceptable for Paige to go to New York—in the guise of doing your TV show—in order to wreak revenge on her?”
“That’s not why we’re going to New York,” Paige protests. “We really are doing a show. And I can’t help it that we’ll cross paths with Eliza. After all, she is partnered with Rhiannon.”
“Yes, I know you’ll cross Eliza’s path, Paige. But that doesn’t mean you have to engage in some kind of ridiculous catfight.”
Paige holds her head up. “I have no intention of engaging in a catfight, Mother.”
“That’s a relief.” Mom looks at me. “I just want my girls to take the high road. You don’t need to reduce yourselves to someone else’s low standards.”
“Are you saying that as our director or as our mother?” I ask.
Mom looks slightly stumped. “Both, I suppose.”
I glance at Jon, and he looks a bit uncomfortable. “I know it’s not really my business,” he says gently, “but you might have to remove your mother hat while you’re working for their show, Brynn.”
“That’s right,” Paige says quickly. “If you make us act like perfect little ladies and our show turns into a total snooze, Helen will not be happy.”
“Even Fran said she hopes we have cameras running when Paige confronts Eliza.”
“Really?” Paige looks surprised.
“Of course, we don’t have to use the footage, but we should film it just in case it’s show-worthy. And in case you and Dylan really do break up, it might be good to show the reason why before the tabloids run amok with it.”
“Run amok?” Paige giggles.
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, I can see I’m in the minority here.” Mom stands and puts her hands on her hips. “Maybe you girls would like someone else to produce and direct your show in New York.”
“No, Mom,” I insist. “That’s not it at all.”
Paige doesn’t say anything.
“It’s just that we need to understand each other,” I explain quickly. “We have to be on the same page before we go to New York.”
“I’ll be curious to hear Helen’s view on this,” Mom responds as she heads back into the house.
“I know Helen’s view,” Paige says after Mom’s gone. “And it has to do with the bottom line.”
Not surprisingly, our Moroccan lunch is a relatively quiet and polite meal. We all try to smooth things over, but it’s obvious Mom’s feelings are hurt. And as I’m driving home, I think it must be difficult being a mom. Maybe it’s especially hard for moms of daughters. It’s like they identify with us too closely—they think what we do is a personal reflection on them. And yet we’re just trying to be ourselves and live our own lives. I wonder if Mollie will go through this sort of thing with Fern some day — which is very weird to think about.
Chapter
7
Monday morning’s meeting in Helen’s office feels like we’re picking up right where we left off yesterday. “I’m not sure I understand you, Brynn,” Helen says to my mom. “Are you saying that you don’t want to direct the
show?”
Mom is frustrated and I feel sorry for her. “I’m saying I can’t encourage my daughters to act like mean middle-school girls for the whole world to see —no matter how much the ratings would love it.”
“And you think that’s what I’m suggesting?” Helen looks offended.
“I think you’re both saying the same thing,” I interject. “But in different ways.” Now all eyes are on me and I know I need to explain. “It’s the same as always,” I say to Helen. “You want Paige and me to mind our manners —as well as to be ourselves and get a good show. Right?”
Helen nods. “Right.”
“That’s what I want too,” Mom says a bit meekly. “Except that you want to control us,” Paige points out. “No … not really.”
“Look, Brynn.” Helen adjusts her glasses. “This is not Channel Five News. Your job is not to control anything. Your job is to keep things rolling, keep people doing what they’re hired to do, and to just let things happen. The best reality TV directors know how to step back.” She peers at Mom. “Do you know how to step back?”
Mom frowns. “I’ll admit that’s not easy when we’re talking about my own daughters.”
“We’re your daughters,” Paige says, “but you don’t own us.”
“I never said I did.”
“But that’s what it feels like when you talk like that.”
“Well, I’m sorry.” Mom folds her arms.
“And, see …” Paige stands and holds out her hands. “This is exactly what I’ve always been afraid of. I mean, if Mom directs, it could turn into a mother-daughter power struggle.”
“That’s not what we want.” Helen rocks a pen between her fingers with a stumped expression.
The room has become so quiet, you can feel it.
“I guess I should step down then,” Mom says sadly.
“Maybe so …” Helen sets the pen on her desk. “I suppose I should’ve considered this possibility before. It just seemed so handy, and rather sweet—a mother and her daughters doing a show together. But maybe it’s unrealistic.” She laughs uneasily. “Or maybe it’s just an entirely different reality show.”
Ciao Page 5
