Seeing Stars

by Diane Hammond

  “Mom,” Laurel said, yawning hugely. “I’m so sleepy.”

  “Good,” Angie said.

  “Am I better? Because I might feel better.” She flipped the bed sheet aside and looked at a catheter draped over her leg into a collecting bag hanging beside the bed. Angie could see, though Laurel could not, that the urine was a dark rust color. Blood.

  “Yes, you’re better,” Angie told her.

  “Really?”

  “No, but you will be in just a couple more hours. In the meantime they’ve given you some morphine.”

  “What if I’m not better, though?”

  “I’ve already asked Mimi to reschedule. If they liked you enough, they will. And if they didn’t, you wouldn’t have booked it anyway.”

  “I wasn’t really thinking of that.”

  “No?” Angie smoothed Laurel’s damp hair off her forehead.

  “What if it isn’t just an infection?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  She and Laurel locked eyes briefly, and then Laurel looked away.

  “Cancer?” Angie said. “Do you mean what if it’s cancer?”

  “Yes,” Laurel whispered.

  “Oh, honey.” Angie pressed Laurel’s hand hard, hard enough for her platinum wedding ring to bite into her finger. “I’m the one with cancer. I am, not you.”

  “But what if—”

  “Not what if. Cancer is not contagious. All you have is an infection that women get all the time—all the time. And it doesn’t mean a thing, except you’ll feel like God stomped all over you for a couple days, and from now on you’ll be more careful about cleaning yourself after you poop.”

  “Really?” The relief in Laurel’s eyes was heartbreaking.

  “Really.”

  Laurel closed her eyes and said dreamily, “That’s good.”

  TWO HOURS LATER ANGIE SAT IN AN UNCOMFORTABLE vinyl visitor’s chair beside Laurel’s hospital bed, holding her hand lightly and watching her sleep. Laurel had finally, thoroughly conked out an hour ago. Angie traced the faint blue veins on the back of her daughter’s hand, admired the young, pale, flawless skin, the delicate, pearly color of a body at one with itself. Ever since Angie’s first round of chemo last summer, her own hands had become terribly dry, with rough and splitting cuticles and nails that chipped like mica. It was as though, to slake itself, the cancer had appropriated everything, all of her.

  That was Angie and Laurel’s secret: Angie Buehl was dying. Slowly, mind you, slowly. But she was dying. She had chronic myelogenous leukemia, a usually but not always slow-burning form of leukemia that would eventually do her in, though no one could say when. They didn’t talk about it much, because really, what was there to say? You could devote your remaining time to the business of dying, or you could say screw it and not give it the satisfaction of besting you until the very end—or that’s how Angie chose to look at it, anyway, so Laurel looked at it that way, too.

  As an act of love and knowing he’d be devastated by the news, they had decided back in Georgia not to tell Dillard, not yet, anyway. When Laurel went with her to chemo they’d told Dillard they were going on trips out of town so Laurel could take a modeling class in Atlanta; thankfully, Angie’s hair loss hadn’t been total and Angie had simply told Dillard it was female trouble, something to do with a hormone imbalance. Sweet man, he’d believed her. Over the interminable drip of the IVs they’d agreed that if they were going to launch Laurel’s career in TV and movies while Angie was still alive and able to help, they had to start now. So when the chemo was over they’d told Dillard that Laurel had been invited to Hollywood to take part in a talent competition for young actors and, if she won, she’d be given a manager and invited to stay. Dillard hadn’t questioned it, as Angie had known he wouldn’t. He was like that: a good, busy, simple man who worked hard, believed what he was told, loved with ferocity, and made a surprisingly good and satisfying living standing over a vat of boiling peanuts all day, talking to men and women just like him.

  Laurel shifted her legs restlessly under the light hospital blanket and moaned. Angie checked the pee bag. The urine was clearer, though brilliantly hued from the Pyridium. She smiled; Laurel would get a kick out of seeing the colors of sunrise in her toilet bowl. Despite her starlet exterior, she was a plain-Jane girl. She talked comfortably about bodily functions, farted freely if it was just her and Angie (Well, goodness! she’d say. Excuse me!), and liked to hold babies whenever anyone would let her.

  And so they’d come to Hollywood with a steely resolve. Had this kidney infection been even somewhat less fast-moving, Angie knew for a fact that they’d have made the producers’ session this morning. Time was their enemy; all they had were now and very soon. Angie knew it was going to be hard—unspeakably hard—for Laurel to be without her. Angie’s own mother had died of an aneurism when she was just twelve, and her life had been like nuclear winter until she’d met Dillard when she was eighteen. Plus she and Laurel had always been unusually close. Laurel had been a compliant, happy baby, given to shrieks of delight and a tendency to giggle in her sleep. She’d loved beauty pageants and sparkles and sequins and little boots and high kicks. A natural, the pageant directors and judges all said; a child to watch. She knew people made fun of pageant girls and their mothers, but in Angie’s opinion that was just small-minded. Look at Laurel’s poise; look at her drive and focus. She was one of the girls who was going to make it: Angie knew that without a doubt. And she’d have earned every mile she gained as surely as if she’d walked there over hot coals.

  Once they’d arrived in Hollywood, they’d called Dillard to say that Laurel had won the competition, she’d won! Then they’d applied themselves with singular purpose to the business of establishing Laurel as an A-list actor. They studied every set of sides together, going over and over them until they both admitted dreaming about them in their sleep. But the point was, Laurel was always exquisitely well-prepared, and this, they believed, was critical, especially in light of Mimi’s mantra, to which they fully subscribed: Luck is being prepared when the opportunity arises. “Lord,” Laurel had prayed aloud more than once in Angie’s presence, “let me be the living proof.”

  Now, though, Angie knew something that Laurel did not: after only the briefest reprieve, the cancer was on the move again. Bruises were massing on her arms and legs like storm clouds; sometimes at night she could actually feel the cancer cells at work, boring like worms through her bone marrow. She’d have to go back on chemo soon; she had already set up an appointment with an oncologist at UCLA. She intended to lie about it, telling Laurel she was just going in for some routine psychological counseling. In the meantime she was careful to wear long-sleeved shirts and long pants, and to change privately. If Laurel suspected anything she wasn’t letting on, and that was fine with Angie. The girl was under enough pressure.

  Mimi Roberts had initially resisted taking Laurel on as a client because of the girl’s age and regional specificity, but she was prepared to milk her now. Just in the last month she’d booked a national commercial for JCPenney, and another for the California Avocado Commission. She also had a callback later in the week for a costar role on Desperate Housewives, which could very well be the breakthrough into theatrical work that they were all waiting for.

  Laurel Buehl was so hot she was on fire, and Mimi knew it.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE CW’S CALIFORNIA DREAMERS, STILL IN ITS FIRST SEASON, was about groups of privileged teens in Malibu and under-privileged teens in Long Beach. The Malibu kids were snotty and the Long Beach kids were earnest and the early reviews had been mixed. Bethy’s episode was only the fifth one, and Joel Sherman had warned Holly Jensen, who’d warned Mimi, who’d warned Ruth, who’d mentioned to Bethy in a very upbeat way that they had to be very, very professional and reliable and pay extremely close attention at all times.

  “How am I going to know what’s professional?” Bethy had asked Ruth, worried. “I’ve never been a professional before.”

>   Ruth allowed that she was right, so in lieu of more specific instructions she should behave the way she did at Nana’s house, which meant being hypervigilant, listening instead of talking, and leaving no messes behind. It was a code of behavior Ruth herself still followed when it came to visiting Hugh’s mother, and it had worked very well over the years, even though it was exhausting.

  After a relatively sleepless night, Ruth pulled up to the guard shack outside Occidental’s Soundstage 5 in North Hollywood at six o’clock sharp on Monday morning. Given Ruth’s poor track record, she and Bethy had made a dry run yesterday to make sure they knew how to get there. From outside, the soundstage looked exactly like an industrial warehouse—plain brown with just one door and no windows. Six or seven propane barbecues were lined up outside, and a green tent was set up beyond that.

  Was it Ruth’s imagination, or did the security guard in the guard shack look at them with respect when she gave him Bethy’s name and it matched one on his checklist? “It’s her first job,” Ruth couldn’t resist telling him. “We’re so proud.”

  “Hey, congratulations,” the guard said, bending down and looking in at Bethany. He was Hispanic, young and handsome. He handed Ruth a square of green paper. “You need to put this pass on your windshield and only park here. Okay? Don’t go around back.” He gestured to a row of spaces, all but one of which was already taken. How early did these people start work? “You can go right on in, ladies.” And to Bethy, “You tell me when the episode’s going to run and I’ll watch for you.”

  “Okay!” Bethany said, thrilled; and for all Ruth knew, he meant it.

  Ruth swung into the last parking space and Bethany hopped out. “Mom, I’m floating. I’m serious. I’m not even touching the ground. I’m going to be acting on a TV show. Can you believe it?”

  Like Bethany, Ruth was thrilled beyond words. She clutched a day planner, manila folder, sweater, water bottle, USA Today, the ubiquitous Seabiscuit, her cell phone, and cell phone charger. “We’re not going to the moon, Mom,” Bethy had said, watching Ruth pack, but Ruth felt the need to prepare for any eventuality, like her cell phone losing its charge around all the equipment that was bound to be in there. Actually, the fact was that she was nervous. It wasn’t that she doubted Bethy’s abilities; it was herself she was worried about. She was sure there were matters of protocol, things you were allowed to do and not allowed to do, and she only hoped someone would tell her what they were, so she didn’t do something wrong and blow the opportunity for Bethy. Mimi had told them very clearly that even once you’d booked a role, you could be released for the simplest things.

  They entered a big area furnished with eight or nine picnic tables, at which were sitting a handful of sleepy kids and parents sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. Ruth was trying to figure out whether she was supposed to be sitting there, too, when she spotted a sturdy-looking young woman carrying a clipboard and wearing a headset, T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she had no makeup on and Ruth thought she hadn’t seen anyone so sensibly dressed since they’d left Seattle. The young woman approached them and said, “Lucy?”

  “Bethany,” Ruth said. “Bethany Rabinowitz.”

  The young woman frowned at her clipboard. “Okay, but what character is she? Is she Lucy?”

  “Oh!” Ruth said, embarrassed. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “No prob.” She made a note and then started walking. Ruth and Bethany hurried to keep up with her. “I’m Emily,” she said over her shoulder. “If you need anything, you find me, okay? Don’t go to anyone else. I’m going to put you in your dressing room, and Wardrobe should be back there in a couple of minutes. Why don’t you look this stuff over while you wait?” She handed Ruth a run sheet of the day’s scenes and which actors were in them, and a copy of the script printed on blue paper.

  “We already have one of these,” Ruth said, handing the script back. It had been delivered to their apartment by a courier yesterday afternoon.

  “Is yours yellow?”

  Ruth looked at Bethany, who pulled it out of her messenger bag and held it aloft. It was yellow.

  “Okay,” said Emily, “but the newest draft is blue. The writers made a couple of changes last night, so throw yours away and check your lines in this one, in case anything’s different.” She looked at her clipboard. “So, it looks like she’ll be working today, tomorrow, and Thursday, and she’s on hold for Friday, so don’t make any plans. And I still need your Coogan information.”

  Ruth pulled out the manila folder and handed it to Emily, who opened it and flipped through.

  “Okay, she needs to take the work permit to the classroom with her when she gets done with the first scene. But I’ll take the Coogan stuff.”

  Ruth and Bethany trotted past a props depot holding two floor lamps, a janitor’s mop and bucket, a bicycle, a U.S. Postal Service street-corner mailbox, some garden trellises, and a store mannequin. Then they broke through into the interior of the soundstage, sweeping past a living room set and an office set; past several mobile cameras and a bunch of men wearing tool belts from which dangled rolls of electrician’s tape; and along a plywood wall that ended in midair and was punctuated by six or seven doors. Emily finally stopped at one on which had been taped a paper sign neatly labeled LUCY and HUNGRY GIRL. Hungry Girl, Ruth had noticed, not only had no name but just one line. Bethy had four lines and a name. Ruth was thrilled anew. Emily opened the door and showed them into a small, ceiling-less cubicle furnished with a cheap vinyl couch, a wooden cube, and two hard chairs. They took the couch.

  “Okay, now don’t go anywhere,” Emily told them. “Wardrobe needs to see her, because she’s in the first scene. Don’t go find them; they’ll come to you. Copy that,” she said into her headset. “Lucy’s here, so let Wardrobe know, okay? Five minutes.” This last was to Ruth. “They’ll be here in five minutes, and then we’ll want her in Hair and Makeup. Wardrobe will tell you where to go. ’Kay?” And then she darted out before Ruth could say anything, closing the door behind her.

  Ruth wished Emily had left the door open so they could watch whatever was going on out there, but she didn’t want to make a mistake, so she and Bethy sat on the hard couch side by side with their hands in their laps and their feet flat on the floor. “Look at the script,” Ruth whispered, “and make sure your lines are the same.”

  They flipped through the pages, but nothing looked any different, either in Bethany’s lines or anyone else’s, at least as far as Ruth could see. Then they looked at the other paperwork in the pile Emily had thrust at them. One was a form saying Bethany’s earnings could be used to pay her AFTRA initiation fee; another was a contract saying she would be paid seven hundred dollars for her work this week.

  “Mimi didn’t tell us anything about AFTRA,” Ruth whispered. “I have no idea what we’re supposed to do. I’ll have to call her.”

  Another harried-looking young woman knocked on their door and came in. She had black hair with purple tips and a tattoo on the back of her hand that looked like a Japanese character, though she wasn’t Japanese. Ruth had read once that a lot of jewelry and T-shirts—and tattoos, probably—with Asian characters were supposed to say things like Happiness or Joy or Prosperity, when really they were just nonsense or, worse, swear words.

  “Lucy?”

  Bethany hopped up.

  “I’m Candy from Wardrobe. We’ve got this”—she held out a skirt and matching T-shirt—“and these”—a pair of black boots and tights—“and this.” She handed Ruth two plastic Ziploc bags holding earrings and a necklace. “I need you to try these on right away and let me know if we have any problems, okay?”

  “Okay,” Bethy said. She was so excited she stripped off her clothes without even remembering that she didn’t let Ruth see her anymore, not even in her underwear. Ruth tried to look without looking. Bethy’s breast buds were growing, and there was a hint of curve to her waist and hips that hadn’t been there even four months ago, w
hich was the last time Ruth had seen her in a swimsuit. Bethany pulled on the skirt and T-shirt. They were heavily spangled and the shirt said, LOOK AT ME, I’M HOT in pink glitter on the front.

  “Mom, did you remember the camera?” Bethy said. “Because you’ve got to take a picture of me so I can show Rianne. She’s not going to believe this.”

  “Let’s wait till you’re through with Hair and Makeup,” Ruth suggested, thinking how experienced they already sounded.

  A minute later, Emily poked her head into the room again. “How’s that stuff working for you? Good, I’ll let Candy know she can come check, and here comes Hair.” She darted out, and this time a young man came in wearing an elaborate apron full of brushes and wands and compacts and pots of every imaginable thing.

  “You look great, honey,” he said to Bethany. “I’m Elliot, by the way.” Over his shoulder he said to Ruth, “Don’t you wish you still had skin like this?”

  “I’d just take the hips.”

  “I hear you, sister,” The young man looked Bethy over closely. “You know, I think all we’ll do is pull your hair up and give you a little powder and lip gloss.” He stood back for a minute, considering. “Maybe not even lip gloss. Are you already wearing anything? No—that’s your natural color? Oh my God.” He flipped Bethany’s hair around and tucked a little here and bound a little there and in no time flat she had two ponytails stacked vertically and twisted into little buns. “Perfect,” he said. “Let’s take a little of that shine away and you’re set.” He plucked a big soft brush from his apron, twirled it expertly in a pot of loose power, dusted Bethy’s face, and stood back to regard her. “There. You’re radiant.”

  “This is her first time,” Ruth confided.