by Wendy Wax
The car took them to the Carlyle, where they checked Emma and Zoe out of their suite, retrieved their luggage, then drove to Serena’s brownstone in the Village where the driver, unlike that long-ago cabdriver who delivered Serena to her first New York apartment, carried their luggage to the appropriate bedrooms. Emma’s suitcases were tucked into the back of Serena’s walk-in closet so that Zoe wouldn’t have to deal with or stare at them.
They were tired and raw, the worry about Emma written on all their faces. Serena was grateful when Mackenzie turned their attention and conversation to their surroundings.
“This place is gorgeous,” Mackenzie said when they reassembled in the kitchen, which dominated the great room and opened onto a walled garden. “It’s light years from that walk-up over on Bleecker that you and Emma were living in when we first met. And it’s so much bigger than your last place.” Although they’d spoken on occasion, there had been no get-togethers once the lake house retreats had stopped. Serena had had no reason to visit Indiana, and if Mackenzie had been in New York she’d never said so.
“Thanks.” Serena had not grown up poor and Charleston was certainly no shirker in the historic home arena, but she could still hardly believe the 1901 West Village brownstone belonged to her. “It was only partially renovated when I bought it and there were times during construction that I wondered what the hell I’d been thinking. But I fell in love with the high ceilings and the windows and although I’ve murdered more plants than I’ve saved, I love the garden.”
“Is that rosewood?” Mackenzie eyed the floors appreciatively.
“Yes.”
“It’s so spacious but manages to be cozy at the same time.”
“Thanks.” Her home was near the intersection of Bank and West Fourth streets, not far from the brownstone where Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw had lived. Every time Serena walked in the front door, she was reminded of just how much Georgia Goodbody had given her. “Have a seat. Anybody want a cold drink?”
They dropped onto the nearby sectional while Serena took stock of the contents of her refrigerator, not that there was much to take stock of. She brought a tray with Diet Cokes and bottled waters and small bowls with nuts and pretzels. Zoe, who’d been extremely quiet on the ride from the hospital, yawned as she reached for a bottle of water and a handful of pretzels.
“The cupboard’s pretty bare since we were headed out of town. I’m going to run out for a few things,” Serena said. “Any requests?”
Zoe was chewing with her eyes closed. Mackenzie slumped into the sofa. Serena was exhausted too, but oddly restless. She couldn’t stop thinking about Emma lying there so lifeless. What if she never woke up? She couldn’t sit here any more than she could sit in the hospital.
“I’m going to shower and head out to run some errands. I think you guys should catch a nap. Why don’t I pick up Thai food on my way back?”
They nodded sleepily then followed her upstairs.
Thirty minutes later Serena was cabbing to the studio where As the World Churns was recorded. She waved hello to Catherine Stengel at the reception desk, walked past the booth where a red light glowed to indicate recording was in progress, then slipped into the control room. Lauri Strauss, a twentysomething blonde whose character, Dahlia, was far younger and dewier than Georgia Goodbody, was recording with Wes Harrison, who played Georgia’s current love interest both on-screen and off. They stood at side-by-side microphones, the monitor positioned where they could both see it. Serena’s eyes lit on Wes, who had pursued her for months before she’d finally slept with him. His broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his shirt. His jeans hugged a great butt and an even more impressive pair of thighs. The craggy features and whiskey-colored eyes didn’t hurt, either. Despite her exhaustion and worry, she felt a small tingle of sexual awareness as she remembered their lingering farewell just two nights ago.
This evaporated when Lauri looked up at Wes as if he were God’s gift to the female universe. Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest when Wes stared back at her as if he agreed.
“Rolling playback.”
Lauri was so busy fluttering her eyelashes at Wes that she flubbed her next line. “Sorry,” she giggled.
“No problem,” Wes said as if her screwup was somehow endearing. Then he smiled at her in a way Serena had always thought he reserved for her. And possibly, on occasion, for his wife.
“Rolling.”
This time the two made it through the scene without further screwups. Serena’s jaw clenched each time they smiled at or touched each other. Wes had acted so disappointed that she’d be gone a whole week. “Acted” was apparently the operative word.
She was preparing to slip out as quietly as she’d come in, when Ethan Miller entered the control room. He’d been only thirty-five eleven years ago when the series was green-lighted. Even now he could have passed for late thirties, an impression that was reinforced by his laid-back personality and clothing choices that rarely strayed from Levi’s and T-shirts. His feet were typically laced into running shoes.
“Hi. I heard you were here.” He was of average height and build. Even his brown hair was of average length and color—as if unwilling to declare itself. He’d been a skit writer and cast member at Second City in Chicago before joining SNL’s “not ready for prime time players.” As the World Churns had grown out of several characters he’d created on his comedic journey.
When his face was in repose, he looked like the boy next door. Or the nice-enough-looking guy you sat next to in math class through high school but whose name you’d forgotten as soon as you graduated. But his unremarkable features were made of rubber and could stretch into almost any expression or look—all of them funny.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said now.
“Thanks.” Serena watched out of one eye as Lauri cracked up at something Wes said. She tensed as he laid a hand on her upper arm.
“I saw the story on the news last night,” Ethan continued. “It looked like a pretty big pack of paparazzi out in front of Mount Sinai.”
“Yes. Way too big.” They’d had the car pick them up at the back of the hospital today and made Zoe duck down until they’d rounded the corner.
“How is she?”
“Not good. Her head was hit pretty hard. She’s in intensive care.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Ethan’s tone left no doubt that anything she asked for would be immediately taken care of. She’d learned the first year of the show not to sit at a table with him while sipping anything that might be spewed on others. But when he wasn’t trying to make you laugh, he was unfailingly polite and sincere.
“No, but I really appreciate you asking.” She tried to maintain eye contact, but couldn’t quite stop stealing peeks at the recording session.
“Well, if you need more than the week off just let me know,” Ethan said. “We can record remotely if that would help. And I can probably cut your lines together from earlier shows if necessary.”
“You’re a good guy,” she said, accepting a hug, surprised at the warmth and strength in the sinewy arms and lean frame. “A real mensch.” She threw out one of her few Yiddish words.
“Well, that’s high praise coming from a gorgeous shiksa like you,” he said in an exaggerated voice that could have belonged to Jackie Mason or any other borscht belt comedian. Still in character, he bussed her lustily on the cheek then slung an arm around her shoulders as he walked her to the control room door.
Oddly comforted, she took a last peek through the plate glass window and was rewarded with a punch-in-the-gut view of Wes Harrison standing way too close to the adoring Lauri Strauss.
Ethan Miller’s eyes were on her. Ethan was a mensch all right. Unlike Wes Harrison. Who was pretty much a cheater and a bastard in any accent, dialect, or language.
Seven
When they drove past the front
entrance of the hospital the next morning, the number of paparazzi had doubled. Like a cell that had divided and reproduced on its own. Mackenzie, who had often thought of Emma’s life as glamorous and exciting, watched them jostle for position, reminded that there was a dark underbelly to fame. The cab deposited them at the back entrance, where they took a freight elevator up to the neuro ICU.
Rhonda, Emma’s lead nurse, sat at the computer outside Emma’s room staring at the monitor and jotting notes on a file. Rubber soles squeaked on the floor and there was a hum of low-pitched voices as white-coated doctors conferred. The patients’ families wore wrinkled clothing and shell-shocked expressions. Their tired, disbelieving eyes were rimmed in dark circles like the ones Mackenzie had seen in the mirror this morning.
She’d tossed and turned for much of the previous night, but at least that tossing had taken place on a queen-sized bed rather than a molded plastic chair. Breakfast had been the Thai food none of them had been able to face the night before. They’d eaten it cold, out of the cardboard containers, their eyes glued to the small flat-screen on the kitchen wall as the morning news programs ran their versions of the Emma Michaels “tragedy,” buttressed by old shots of Emma as a child star, which dissolved into shots of her entering the offices of a Los Angeles district judge as a teen, her grandmother at her side. Stories about her legal emancipation from her famous parents had pulled in a hefty audience in its day.
Serena clicked the set off in the middle of a tight two shot of Rex and Eve Michaels professing to not understand why their daughter would do such a thing. “Thank God Emma’s emancipation happened before reality television,” Serena said drily. “Or there might have been a show called Making Up with the Michaelses.”
Dr. Brennan had already been in to see Emma and left word that the night had been uneventful and there was nothing new to report. He’d stop by again in the afternoon.
They took turns sitting with Emma. Waiting at times with held breath for something, anything, to happen. Mackenzie’s mind wandered as she watched Emma’s chest rise rhythmically up and down. Her eyes remained closed. Her jaw slack. Her arms and hands limp at her sides.
She thought of how turbulent Emma’s life had been, how much of it had played out in public and in the tabloids. Only those years when she’d lived with them and auditioned as someone else—a significant acting job in its own right—had been remotely private. When they’d discovered that Amelia Maclaine was actually Emma Michaels, Emma had been frightened that their friendship might change. But by then they’d seen the best and worst of each other. Held each other’s hair out of the way while they bowed before the porcelain throne after too much partying, eaten tons of ice cream and chocolate together when men had proved disappointing, and learned when saying nothing was the best choice of all. Though some of them were better at remaining silent than others. By the time they knew that Amelia Maclaine was Emma Michaels, they were too close for an accident of birth to come between them. Or so they’d always thought.
Around one o’clock, she, Serena, and Zoe took the elevator down to the hospital cafeteria. At a quiet table in a dark corner, they picked at their food without enthusiasm.
“I had a call from Calvin,” Zoe said as she picked up a French fry then put it back on her plate.
“What did your dad say?” Mackenzie asked.
“He just called to ask if I needed anything. He said he’d come if it seemed like that would be helpful. But I wasn’t sure if he meant for me or for my mother.”
“Would you like him to come, Zoe?” Mackenzie asked. “I know you said no the other day, but if it would make you feel better . . .”
“No.” She looked up from her plate, her chin jutting outward.
“Are you sure?” Serena asked. “Because . . .”
“No. He asked me to give my mother a hug.” Zoe’s voice broke. “I don’t think he understands what condition she’s really in. I told him not to worry about it.” She picked up the same French fry and motioned with it. “Then he asked me if I’d like to come be with him on location.”
Mackenzie was careful not to comment.
Serena had no such hesitation. “He thought you’d rather be on location in New Zealand than here?”
Zoe nodded dully then looked down at her plate.
“To be fair to your father, I think it’s hard to understand what’s . . . going on . . . without being here,” Mackenzie said, thinking about her exchange of texts with Adam just thirty minutes ago. He’d texted two brief queries about Emma and herself. Then there’d been a flood of text, most of it followed by exclamation points. Another meeting is scheduled at the studio! Don’t want to jinx things, but this time I feel like something could really happen!!!!
She’d kept her responses short but upbeat. A few “wows!” Two or three “greats!” each with an exclamation point of its own. It had felt so odd though, almost disloyal, to even be thinking about anything so frivolous as a movie deal when Emma was lying in the ICU like a block of wood, unmoving and unresponsive.
“I guess,” Zoe said finally. “But I’m not going anywhere.” She pushed her plate away. “Not until she wakes up.”
Serena’s mouth opened and Mackenzie braced. Serena had always prided herself on “telling it like it is,” except, of course, when it came to certain personal truths she was avoiding. She shot Serena a warning look.
“I was just going to say that none of us are going anywhere until Sleeping Beauty awakens. Even if I have to find a handsome prince to lay one on her.”
Mackenzie rolled her eyes at Serena, but Zoe’s eyes had stopped glistening. “Well, while you’re looking,” Mackenzie said, “maybe you should find out if Doctor Brennan’s single.”
“You don’t have to be single to kiss somebody awake. It’s not like a fairy-tale rule or anything.” Serena helped herself to one of Zoe’s fries.
“That may be, but I’m pretty sure the kiss is more potent if the prince who locks lips with you isn’t contractually promised to someone else.”
Back at her town house late the next night, Serena kicked off her shoes and sank into the sofa with a groan. Mackenzie and Zoe joined her.
“I was really hoping for some sign, even a small one, today,” Serena said, rubbing her bare feet. “Some tiny signal that Em is getting ready to wake up.”
“Well, Dr. Brennan said this is a critical time while we wait for the swelling to go down. And that we have to remain vigilant for threats of infection or blood clots or other problems,” Mackenzie reminded them. “Since none of those things happened, that makes it a good day.”
“It didn’t feel like one.” Zoe’s voice was quiet.
Mackenzie kept her inner Pollyanna to herself.
The doorbell rang and Serena stared briefly at the door before hauling herself up and heading over to it. She peered through the peephole then opened it to a deliveryman who handed over a large gift-wrapped box. As she set it on the coffee table and undid the bow, she wondered if it might be from Wes, who had sent her a series of increasingly lame texts that began with a slightly apologetic, “Wish I’d known you were in the control room last night.” No kidding. And ended with a more than slightly indignant, “I can’t believe you left without saying hello.” As if she was the one in the wrong.
As soon as she opened the box and saw the gourmet popcorn, and boxes of Sno-Caps and Jujubes tucked into the collection of videos, she knew whom it was from. Ethan had sent all six original seasons of I Love Lucy, a Dick Van Dyke Show holiday special, an early reel of George Burns and Gracie Allen, Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First,” National Lampoon’s Vacation, and the Three Stooges’ Have Rocket, Will Travel. A hand-labeled DVD read, Georgia Goodbody Outtakes. Have fan, will pummel. The card read, Watch. Laugh. Repeat. Don’t get Jujubes stuck in your teeth.
“Very nice,” Mackenzie observed.
“Is all that from your boyfriend?”
Zoe asked, reaching for a box of Sno-Caps.
“No, they’re from my friend Ethan. He’s the producer/creator of . . .”
“Ethan Miller?” Zoe asked. “The Ethan Miller who was in Tempest in Toledo?”
“Yes,” Serena said tentatively.
“He’s like the funniest person ever,” Zoe exclaimed. “For an old guy, I mean.”
Serena sighed. “I know. He’s already forty-five. Hard to believe his sense of humor is still intact.”
“Clearly Ethan Miller is one very thoughtful guy,” Mackenzie said.
“Don’t you wish the hot ones were nice like that?” Zoe asked. “Hot guys never have to develop a personality or a sense of humor. Because everybody’s already falling all over them.”
Serena looked at Zoe. “How is it you figured that out so much sooner than I did?”
Zoe shrugged. “What kind of guys did you all date? Back when you were . . . younger?” She said this last as if she couldn’t quite imagine it.
“I never really had boyfriends back when I was in high school. But I fell for Adam the minute I saw him,” Mackenzie said. “I’d only been in New York maybe two weeks. Your mom and Serena always got more attention in that department than me.”
“I was engaged when I first got here,” Serena said, taking a seat next to Zoe. “So I wasn’t looking or dating.”
Zoe shook a mound of Sno-Caps into her hand. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“I wasn’t. My fiancé had been offered a job up here. But at the last minute he decided to stay in Charleston.” Her jaw tightened. “To marry someone else. He went to work for her father.”
There was a brief silence.
“His loss,” Mackenzie said, surprised by the hurt on Serena’s face all these years later. “He was forever after known as ‘The Tool.’ And other less flattering names.”
