A Week at the Lake

by Wendy Wax

“It was quite the scandal back home,” Serena said. “Well-bred southern boys are supposed to keep their promises.”

  “And my mom? What kind of guys did my mom go out with?” Zoe said, munching on a handful of white-capped chocolate.

  “She always picked the strong silent types,” Serena answered. “Partly I think because as long as they didn’t ruin it by talking too much, you could pretend they were anything you wanted them to be.”

  “But she almost never went out with actors,” Mackenzie added. “She once told me that there were way too many performers in her family tree—and that was before we knew she was a Michaels.” She smiled at Zoe. “But what I remember most from that time was the three of us. The men, even Adam, were more like supporting players. But we were Josie and the Pussycats, Charlie’s Angels—God knows we had the hair for it—the female incarnation of the Three Musketeers.”

  “But she married Calvin,” Zoe said. “And he’s an actor. I think that’s the only thing they had in common.”

  “They had you,” Serena said.

  “Yeah.” Zoe’s tone was wistful.

  “Do you remember the weeks at the lake?” Serena asked.

  “Kind of. I used to wish we could live there all the time. Because in LA we were so, you know, alone. And at the lake we had Gran when I was little and you guys. It was almost like having a family.”

  “She always said you were the best thing that ever happened to her.” Mackenzie said this quietly, her thoughts drawn back to a time she tried not to think about.

  Zoe zeroed in on a teetering stack of albums on the coffee table and reached for the two on the top.

  “Sorry for the mess,” Serena said, straightening the remaining stack before settling in beside Zoe. “I pulled some pictures from back when we first met to bring to the lake, and I never got to put them away.

  Idly, Zoe opened the first leather-covered album and began to flip through the pages. She stopped, looking up in surprise. “Was this a baby shower for me?” Zoe asked. “I mean, for my mom?”

  Mackenzie’s hand stole to her stomach as Serena’s gaze swept over her.

  “Yes.” Serena hesitated. She threw another glance, this one of apology, Mackenzie’s way. “Actually it was a baby shower I threw for your mom and Mackenzie here in New York. I, um, didn’t have As the World Churns yet, so it was a bit of a low-budget endeavor.”

  Mackenzie remembered the shower well. How happy she’d been. How thrilled that she and Emma would have children so close in age. Children that could grow up to be best friends, too. And then the accident, the force of the air bag smashing into her. She’d never managed to carry anywhere close to term after that.

  “My mom told me once that you lost your baby,” Zoe said. “I didn’t understand. For the longest time I was afraid she’d lose me, too.”

  Mackenzie inwardly flinched. Her own loss had been so fresh that the time around Zoe’s birth was still blurred around the edges. It had been the only year she was unable to make herself join them at the lake.

  She watched Zoe’s face light up as she flipped the pages, exclaiming over the hokey decorations and the old-fashioned maternity clothes. If it came to it, she and Adam could bring Zoe home with them. Indiana, and especially Noblesville, was a far more wholesome place to raise a teenager than New York or Hollywood. She’d have a daughter to pal around with, to take shopping. And there was their theater; Zoe would love . . .

  She cut off the line of thought, horrified. Emma was strong. The woman had divorced herself from her parents when she was younger than Zoe. She had a will of iron. If anyone could pull through, it was Em. Emma had always gotten everything she wanted—marriage, a career, a child. The only thing Mackenzie had gotten that Emma hadn’t was true love with Adam. Even if that love wasn’t feeling quite as “true” at the moment.

  “Here’s my favorite shot of the four of us.” Serena flipped the page to a shot of the three of them standing on the porch of the lake house, with Zoe, a thatch of red-gold hair and spindly legs, poking above and below the sling she’d been suspended in. Her face was pressed tight against Emma’s chest.

  “Your great-grandmother took this shot,” Mackenzie said quietly. “We couldn’t wait for our turns to hold and carry you.”

  “We even fought over who would get to change your poopy diapers,” Serena added. “Not that any of us was particularly skilled at it.”

  “We felt like you belonged to all of us.” Mackenzie’s eyes blurred with tears as Zoe closed the album. Looking far from comforted, Zoe began to cry.

  “Oh, God.” Serena swiped at her eyes and stood. “We are not going to sit here crying. Emma would totally hate that.” She pulled the bag of popcorn from the gift box. “Go get your pajamas on. I’m going to pop us a great big bowl of this stuff. And then it’s time for a couple of episodes of I Love Lucy.

  Eight

  Two days had passed with no apparent change in Emma’s condition when their cab turned onto the street that fronted the hospital that morning. A white stretch limo idled at the curb and an exponentially larger mob of paparazzi littered the sidewalk. When a small gap in the wall of reporters and photographers opened up, Serena could see why. The Michaels family had arrived.

  “Slow down, but don’t stop,” Serena directed the driver.

  “Oh, my God, it’s Rex, Eve, Regan, and Nash,” Mackenzie said. “In the flesh.”

  Emma’s parents and siblings might have been gods descended from Mount Olympus, and the paparazzi there to worship at their feet given the way they had amassed on the steps below them. Necks cricked back and cameras and video recorders aimed upward; they shouted questions and thrust microphones toward them. If not for the bodyguards positioned around the family, Serena had no doubt the crowd would have already surged, surrounded, and swallowed them whole.

  They looked, Serena thought, like a family of superheroes. All four of them tall, long limbed, and elegant with varying shades and lengths of the trademark red-gold hair, and aquiline-nosed, square-jawed faces dominated by high cheekbones and wide-set green eyes that looked incredible in person and even more so on camera.

  In theatrical terms they were the antithesis of Georgia Goodbody, pure gold versus brass; glowing lights on a Broadway marquee, not popcorn and Jujubes. They walked red carpets and won Oscars, Tonys, and Emmys. Any crowd that gathered around them, professional or otherwise, would be throwing roses and shouting “bravo,” not cracking jokes.

  “Impressive.” Zoe couldn’t take her eyes off them.

  “Definitely impressive,” Serena agreed. If only everything that glittered so brightly were actually gold. From what Emma had shared and even more from what she had not, Serena knew that Eve and Rex had always been a unit, faithful not necessarily to each other but to their joint ambitions and public persona. Their parenting had been aggressive in all things acting, but highly conditional in terms of approval—leaving their offspring to compete for scraps of their attention, typically won only through dramatic achievement. Emma, who’d been far smaller, younger, and seemingly softer than her siblings, had found the playing field uneven and unforgiving. Serena knew firsthand that all actors were rife with insecurity, but Emma who could act the movie star as well as anyone, had always been a veritable Swiss cheese of self-doubt. Serena, whose parents had been demanding but who had nonetheless showered her with love, could only imagine what kind of courage and determination it had taken to overcome having parents like Rex and Eve.

  Physically, Zoe would have fit perfectly into the Michaels tableau.

  “How often do you see them?” Mackenzie asked.

  Zoe’s gaze remained on the family members her mother had divorced. “They always send me a Christmas and birthday present. And I always write them a thank-you note. We’ve run into them a couple of times at awards things and parties. Once Eve and Rex came to one of my shows at school and everybody went crazy.” She p
ulled her gaze away. “Em . . . my mom told me I could visit with them anytime I wanted. But I never really wanted to. And even though she would never tell me much about it, I figure there’s a reason she divorced them. I mean, that’s not something you do to parents who just irritate you the regular amount.”

  “Very true.” Serena motioned the cab to pull around to the back entrance.

  “You don’t think they’re going to make a scene, do you?” Zoe asked as they got out of the cab. “Or try to tell the doctors what to do?” Her voice had grown tentative. She seemed to be shrinking inward.

  “I’m not sure they know how not to make a scene,” Mackenzie said as they ducked into the hospital. “Especially when they’re all together vying for top billing.”

  “But we’ll do what we can to manage the visit,” Serena promised. “Okay?”

  Zoe nodded.

  “I guess we should warn Dr. Brennan,” Mackenzie said, pushing the freight elevator call button. “And make sure he and Rhonda and the rest of the staff understand what Emma’s relationship is with them.”

  “I don’t think there’s anyone in the free world who doesn’t know about Emma’s legal emancipation,” Serena said as Zoe pushed the eighth-floor button.

  The doctor’s first words confirmed Serena’s hypothesis. “I understand we have VIPs headed up.”

  “You know they’re not close to Emma,” Mackenzie said delicately.

  “I’m aware they’re not her chosen healthcare representatives,” Dr. Brennan said.

  “They’re not her chosen parents, either,” Serena said. “You’re a fan, so you must know about the . . .”

  “. . . divorce. Yes. But this is a neurocritical ICU. I’ve seen a lot of family relationships change radically when someone is in the sort of condition Ms. Michaels is.”

  “But they can’t make decisions for her,” Zoe said. “She wouldn’t want . . .”

  “I understand,” Dr. Brennan said. “I’m not planning to consult with them. But like you, they’re her immediate biological family. Barring a restraining order or anything else that would legally prohibit access, they’ll be allowed to see her. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t just chuck them back out onto the sidewalk.”

  Serena nodded. “We understand, but I’m not going to let them go in there and upset her.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible, given her condition,” the doctor said.

  “I’ve been reading blog posts and accounts from people who’ve come out of comas,” Mackenzie said quietly. “And all of them say they could see and hear things no one thought they could.”

  They stared at each other. The doctor made no comment.

  “Give me just a second.” Serena slipped into Emma’s cubicle and closed the door softly behind her. She was greeted by low beeps and mechanical hums as she approached the bed. “Em?” She waited briefly for a reaction that didn’t come. “Eve and Rex and Regan and Nash are here.” Emma’s chest continued to rise and fall. There was no reaction. “Unless you give me some sort of sign that you don’t want them here, they’re going to come in and see you.” She took Emma’s hand, which was cool and slightly clammy to the touch. “Just say the word and I’ll lock the door somehow. Or . . . throw my body across the threshold.”

  Nothing.

  “Come on, Em. What do you say?” It took all she had not to raise her voice in an attempt to get through.

  More nothing. Her own heart thudded dully in her chest. She felt as if she were about to allow a scalp-lusting war party to swoop in on a defenseless wagon train.

  There was a sound behind her. Mackenzie materialized beside her. “What are you doing? Dr. Brennan just went to the ICU entrance to greet them and escort them in. All things considered”—she nodded to Emma’s inert form—“I don’t see how we could keep them from at least seeing her. Or even that we should. They are her flesh and blood.”

  There was a new energy out in the hall. Serena felt eyes on her back. Turning, she saw all four Michaelses standing in the hall looking through the plate glass like uncomfortable visitors at a zoo confronted with a dispirited animal or a too-mangy lion. Zoe stood stiffly to one side, a mirror image of her aunt Regan except that Zoe’s face was twisted with anguish while Regan, who had cried her emerald green eyes out in Indecent Victory and won an Oscar for it, appeared completely dry-eyed. Rex and Nash looked ill at ease but aware, as all actors were, of the impression they were making. Rex had aged surprisingly well for a man who’d lived such an intemperate life. Strands of silver highlighted rather than diminished his red-gold hair; his jaw and cheekbones were still firm. Nash, who split his time between acting and directing, had a soulful look in his moss green eyes that would allow him to play romantic leads for decades to come. Eve was harder to read. According to Emma, her mother’s brilliant green eyes were the result of tinted contacts while her slanted cheekbones and squared jawline owed more to plastic surgery than heredity. Auburn was not her natural hair color. But of the four of them she seemed the most focused on Emma rather than on herself.

  “We’ll be just outside if you need us.” Serena gave Emma’s hand a squeeze then followed Mackenzie out into the hall. “If they do anything to upset her I’ll haul them out of there myself,” she said to Mackenzie under her breath.

  “Maybe riling her up a little wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Mackenzie replied quietly as they positioned themselves on either side of Zoe where they could watch what took place. “I’d give anything to see her wake up. Even if it were just to tell them off.”

  Emma:

  The images change. They’re rougher. Briefer. I’m swept from place to place, person to person, unbound by time. My grandmother’s voice isn’t the only one that sounds in my head. Words. Thoughts. Feelings. All materialize without warning. Only to disappear. I’m one with these images. Yet apart. Alone.

  I sense my family. They waver like a mirage. Pulse with energy.

  I feel Nash’s handsome smile. A flash of pity. All mixed up with a casting tangle he needs to unravel. Regan is beside him. Cool. Calculating. I can almost hear her thoughts. Mine is the first coma she’s witnessed. She wants to know what it feels like. How she might play it. She stores my crisis away to give later to an audience. The same way she does her emotions. Like a poor man hoarding the few coins he possesses.

  My father can’t bear to look at me like this. My mother cannot look away. She takes my hand. I feel a wave of pain. Regret. Longing.

  Before I can figure out which of us these emotions belong to, there’s an explosion of light and I’m at home in the huge house in the Hollywood Hills. Standing in my mother’s master closet, a place I love because of all the colors and textures and the intoxicating smell of Eve, who’s been gone on location for six weeks and has only just gotten home. I’m eleven, Regan and Nash already out of the house, for all intents and purposes an only child. Who works and is tutored on set all day. I have no friends, no life, no . . . anything. Even my parents are only here on occasion.

  “But, sweetheart.” My mother almost never calls me by name. Recently I’ve begun to wonder if she can’t remember it. “You can’t quit the show. You’re under contract. And it’s doing so well. You’re making a fortune.”

  A fortune I’ve never seen.

  “I realize playing the part of a precocious wisecracking preteen isn’t exactly a stretch.” She stops powdering her face in her makeup mirror in order to look directly at me. “But you are surprisingly good at it.”

  The word “surprisingly” pulls me up short as it’s meant to. We all know I’m not as beautiful as Regan or Nash and probably never will be. I’m short and round and overly plump and I have frizzy hair and freckles that refuse to be eradicated or covered up. “You need to make the most of it while you can. Making the transition from child star to adult actress is hard enough under the best of circumstances; the teenage years can be quite brutal on even
the most”—she hesitates delicately here, as if reluctant to inflict hurt—“physically fortunate and dramatically gifted.” Translation: I have no chance in hell of ever working again once I become a teenager. Which is just fine with me.

  “I don’t care. I’m not doing the show anymore.” I’d been excited when Daddy’s Girl was offered, and I did it to show them that I’m just as talented as Regan. So they would pay attention to me. None of these things have happened. “And you can’t make me. Nobody can make me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling.” Coming from my mother, the endearment rings hollow. It’s not warm or infused with love like when Gran says it.

  “Your father and I have already discussed this. The show is a hit. Millions of girls your age would change places with you in a heartbeat.” She smiles a smile that says that she and my father would prefer one of those girls. Or preferably a clone of Regan. Who is frickin’ perfect. And beautiful. And talented. And who has never wanted anything but to follow in our parents’ famous footsteps.

  “And when you’re older”—presumably past the hellishly ugly teenage years that lie ahead of me—“why then we can look at finding you some more suitable parts.”

  I know what she means by this. She means “suitable for a Michaels.” The kind of roles that always come to Regan.

  My mother squeezes my hand. Her lips brush my forehead. A drop of moisture hits my cheek. Wet and confusing. Eve only cries onstage. The hums and beeps grow louder. More urgent. The door flings open. I hear footsteps. Eve drops my hand. Shrinks away.

  The dark gets darker. Bigger. It smothers and swallows me.

  Gran?

  “Everybody out.” The voice is calm but urgent. Not Gran’s. “Her intracranial pressure’s spiking out of control.” The hums and beeps escalate. Sounding an alarm.

  “Page Dr. Markham and Dr. Brennan! Call anesthesiology! We are going to have a code blue here!”