Lost in Hollywood

by Cindy Callaghan

  “Good night, Aunt Betty-Jean,” I called after her. When she was gone I asked, “What did the doctor say?”

  Mom took a few papers from her purse and set them on the table. “He thinks it’s the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. He gave her medicine to take every day to slow it down, but”—she glanced at the white tile floor—“there’s no cure.”

  I read the top paper: HOW TO SLOW THE PROGRESSION OF ALZHEIMER’S DISEASE.

  I had the very beginning of an idea, but no time to think about it right now. I stored the idea in the place in my brain where I file things that I want to think about later. It doesn’t have a scientific name, but it’s in my limbic system. I think of it my mentalus storageum.

  Dad continued, “The doctor said that it’s not unusual for people to think clearly in the morning, and then have trouble later in the day.”

  Mom said, “Maybe we can adjust her schedule to accommodate for that. You know, plan her activities and visits in the morning.”

  “She doesn’t have any activities,” Leo said. “She doesn’t visit or get visitors. Besides me, that is.”

  Everyone was quiet as we started to better understand ABJ’s life. It was different from the life I’d imagined. No premieres, no big Hollywood parties, no celebrity friends. I guess some actresses got parts as grandmothers, some retired to Caribbean islands, and some hung out all day in their Hollywood homes, dressed up for guests or journalists or fans who would never come. Some had only one friend, her housekeeper, when he wasn’t running a Burrito Taxi business. And, was he really a friend? Or was he an employee?

  Admiring the lights of the Hollywood valley below, I thought that even this fancy Hollywood home with all its glam, sculptures, and mirrors, was really a cave, and ABJ was trapped in it.

  I took the doctor papers from the table to read more carefully. I wasn’t ready to accept that there was nothing we could do for her.

  Later, as I walked upstairs to bed, I finally opened my hand and looked down to see what ABJ gave me. A matchbook.

  15

  I woke up to Payton’s face an inch away from mine. “Yikes! What the heck, Payt?”

  “I’m freaking out!” she said. “It might be a panic attack.”

  “Chill. We’re gonna search more today. We’ll find the money and award, pay Leo so he can get a second burrito car, and pay the mortgage to keep ABJ in this house”—and out of my Delaware bedroom—“and maybe get her a nurse,” I said. “I thought we could go to the Dolby today.”

  “Dolby, dandy,” she said. “But the Olympics.” She pointed to the countdown app. It read: NINETY-SIX HOURS. “We need a schedule, Ginger. A schedule!”

  “I like schedules.”

  “Do I need to remind you about the DeMarcos?” She planted a hand on her hip and I noticed that she was completely dressed, pink sneakers and all.

  “No. You don’t have to remind me. I know the DeMarcos very well. How long have you been awake?”

  “Long time, Ginger. A long time,” she said. “And I made a pot of coffee. Want some?”

  Not if it makes me like you. “No thanks.”

  “So how about the schedule?” Payton read from a yellow legal pad. “We could wake up early, starting today, and make the molds and do the crafty stuff. Then at night we can sand the molds and do the labels.”

  “I like it.” Do I have a choice? I am actually a little afraid of you right now. “But how early are we talking?”

  She looked at the time on her phone. “Like five.”

  “Payton,” I said. “Is it five a.m. now?”

  “On the button.”

  “Ugh.” I pulled the pillow over my face.

  She yanked it off. “It’s the Olympics were talking about! If we were Olympic figure skaters, we’d be in the rink right now. This is no different.”

  I didn’t comment on her analogy, which wasn’t too bad, even though it meant I had to get out of bed.

  • • •

  We worked on the patio so that we could talk without worrying that we would wake anyone up. After a while, and I’m not even sure how long it was because once we got into science mode, time seemed to disappear, Payton said, “I smell croissant.”

  Sure enough ABJ pulled open the French doors and walked out holding a crystal tray with three croissants on doilies. She looked like she was hiding a hair salon and makeup artist in her bedroom. Today her house robe was pale blue and edged with a puffy boa. It brought out the color of her eyes.

  “Good morning, girls.” She took a nibble of a croissant and called over her shoulder, “They’re perfect, Leo!” To us she said, “A man who can make a burrito and a croissant! If only he was twenty years older—wait, even better—if I was twenty years younger, I’d snatch him up.” Her smile showed off her beautiful white teeth.

  I imagined that if Marilyn Monroe were still alive, she would look like this—elegant, radiant, stylish . . . At least until the afternoon, when she became someone else, who was equally as beautiful, but couldn’t think straight.

  Leo set a cappuccino down next to ABJ. His hair darted in all directions. If ABJ was twenty years younger, they would be the most opposite couple ever. She was sophisticated, and he smelled like yesterday’s pork.

  “Where’s Margot?” I asked.

  “She’s organizing our day. Making a chart or something. That sidecar is like her little office. She’ll come in soon.” He went back into the kitchen.

  “Tell me what you have here.” Her manicured hand indicated the model we’d worked on.

  “This is our project for the Science Olympics,” I said proudly.

  “It’s not done yet, of course,” Payton said.

  “We’re going to sculpt the shape and sections of an actual brain,” I added.

  “And then make labels—”

  “That we’ll glue to toothpicks—”

  “And stick them in the right places—”

  ABJ interrupted, “I get it.”

  She nibbled another piece of her croissant and studied the mold. She tilted her head. “Hmmm . . .”

  “What?”

  “I like it fine, but these cats, the DeMarcos, are making a robot, you say?”

  “Yup. We’re gonna kick their butts,” I said.

  “Is this robot going to move around and do stuff?” she asked.

  “I’m sure,” Payton said. “The DeMarcos are serious about their science.”

  “Hmmm.” She studied the mold some more.

  “What is it?” Payton asked.

  “You don’t like it?” I asked.

  “No, I do. I can see it’s going to be a lovely model of the brain complete with toothpick flags.” Then she added, “I just wonder . . .”

  “What?” Payton asked.

  “Wonder what?” I asked.

  “When I audition for parts, I always think about how I can stand out.” She picked a tiny spoon off the saucer and stirred the foam and coffee together with clink clink against the side of the cappuccino cup. “So I’m wondering what about this will stand out among a crowd of Olympians?”

  I looked at the white round ball of clay. In my mind I could see every crack and crevice of the brain carved and molded, every toothpick a different color, every flag typed—maybe even laminated—with meticulously researched details about the brain parts. It would be perfect. It would totally win. Right?

  Leo returned to the patio with three bowls of pineapple.

  “For you.” He gave a bowl to ABJ. “And for my new friends.” He gave one to Payton and to me.

  ABJ poked a fork into a chunk and held it up. “Leo’s business stands out,” she said. “The taxi, the taste, the business cards . . . all of it.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “You have to think of ways to make your product va-voom, kapow, ooh la la.”

  I considered the brain model again. Ooh la la? Just because it was perfect (which it would be), would it kapow?

  16

  Leo dropped Payton, Margot, and me off at the Wal
k of Fame near the Dolby Theatre in time for us to get tickets to the ten-thirty tour. I looked off into the distance, where I could make out the Hollywood sign in the smog. (Apparently, even celebrities have to deal with bad air quality out here).

  Entering the theater there were storefronts on either side of a grand staircase. Suddenly, the Dolby looked familiar to me. I’d seen it on TV during the annual Academy Awards show. I took a picture of the columns that displayed names of past award winners. Mom would love this! Maybe we should’ve invited her.

  During the ceremony, the famous red carpet rested on the path we’d just walked from the Burrito Taxi and extended all the way up the stairs. Film royalty arrived in limos and entered the Awards in the very spot we were standing on.

  I pretended to hold a microphone. “How does it feel to be nominated tonight?” I asked Payton.

  “It’s like a dream come true. I am just so thankful to the Academy.”

  “Do you think you’ll win?”

  “It’s a thrill to even be nominated.” Then she pretended to wave to someone in the distance.

  “Who are you waving to?” Margot asked.

  “Oh,” Payton said. “There’s Nick Jonas. I have to thank him for the birthday card. Please excuse me.”

  “What?” Margot looked to where Payton was indicating. “There’s no one there.”

  I explained, “She was pretending.”

  “Right,” Margot said. “Of course. I mean, could you imagine if Nick Jonas was there? And if he’d sent you a birthday card?”

  Then my mind tingled for a sec, like it does when I think deep science-y thoughts. “I wonder if ABJ can still imagine things, you know, when her mind is in ‘another place’? ” I wasn’t looking for an answer.

  “What do you think she meant by ‘Things change over time’?” Payton asked. I’d told Payton and Margot what ABJ whispered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she was sort of talking in her sleep, but awake,” I said.

  Payton twirled a bit of hair and said, “huh,” like she does when she’s contemplating a theory. “Maybe. I wonder if that could happen.”

  “Maybe,” Margot repeated. “You know what I wonder? I wonder if we could build chutes, like the kind at a bank drive-through, around the city, and people could stick their burrito order in the chute and then we could shoot a burrito back to them. That way we could get food to people two different ways—taxi delivery and chute.” She paused. “Wait. What am I thinking? Bacteria would grow in the chutes and larvae would grow and customers would get sick and we would get sued and lose the taxi. Forget it.”

  I often thought that my mind and Payton’s were unlike that of other girls our age, because we really think about and discuss science-y possibilities. But maybe we weren’t as unique as I’d thought. Margot’s hypothalamus seemed equally overactive, only it focused on anything that could possibly go wrong with anything.

  A voice bellowed from the Dolby Theatre’s overhead sound system. “If you have a ticket for the ten-thirty a.m. tour, please convene at the theater entrance.”

  That’s us!

  Our tour guide introduced himself as Harry. And he was unique.

  Harry had a bit of an issue in the pants department. He wore them about as high as they could go, and kept them there by tightening his belt—really snug—around his lumpy belly.

  “My lord,” Margot said to him. “Does that hurt?”

  Payton subtly put her foot on top of Margot’s pink sneaker and shifted her weight down onto Margot’s foot.

  “What? What did I do now? I didn’t even mention the money.”

  Payton and I rolled our eyes. It seemed like Margot really couldn’t control what came out of her mouth. In a way, ABJ and Margot had a similar condition—neither could control when her brain was malfunctioning.

  Harry either didn’t hear, or didn’t care, or didn’t know what Margot was talking about, because he started his introduction. “The Academy Awards is an annual event when the film industry recognizes the winners of the prestigious Oscars.” He tugged at his self-inflicted wedgie. There had to be something Dad could invent to help people who want to wear their pants up high but not get wedgies. I tucked that away in my mentalus storageum. I’d tell Dad later. “Winners are given a gold-plated statue of a knight standing on a reel of film.”

  He continued, “An Oscar is eight and a half pounds and thirteen and a half inches high. Winners must agree to give the Academy a first right of refusal to buy back the Oscar if it is ever no longer wanted. This is to prevent the private buying or selling of the statuettes, which is illegal.”

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if she hid her Oscar here, at the home of the Oscars?” Payton whispered.

  “Ironic, I guess,” I said.

  Margot whispered, “Can I talk about you-know-what if I whisper?”

  I put a “shh” finger in front of my lips.

  Inside, the main auditorium was glitzy; the thirty-three hundred seats were red velvet.

  “I need another diversion.”

  Margot asked me, “What are you gonna do?”

  I cringed when I thought of my plan. “It’s dirty.”

  Payton smooshed up her nose. “Then don’t tell us.”

  I asked Payton, “Can you get everyone to look somewhere other than down there at those seats?”

  “I think I can. Let’s see . . . Should I fall? Faint? Puke? . . . Oh, I’ve got it!” Payton pushed me away to get started. “This is going to be a good one.” She said to Margot, “Just go with it, okay?”

  “I can do that,” Margot said.

  Before we left ABJ’s house, I’d checked out the seating chart of the Dolby online. I was ready to dash to each of the theater’s seating sections and examine row D. Actually, I planned to look under row D because that’s someplace you could look, but not see.

  “Oh my God!” Payton screeched and pointed to a private red-velvet-lined box where VIPs would sit above the heads of the main audience.

  Harry stopped his speech to inform Payton of the tour rules. “Please raise your hand if you have a question or comment.” He hiked his pants up to a level that didn’t seem possible and must have been painfully uncomfortable.

  “But did you see that?” Payton asked the tour group.

  Harry said, “Raising your hand means everyone will get to say what they want and no one will walk on each other’s words.”

  No one listened to him.

  “You mean over there?” Margot asked Payton and pointed.

  All eyes moved where indicated.

  Payton threw her hand in the air, but didn’t wait for Harry to call on her. “Is this place haunted? Because I clearly saw a ghost there.” She pointed up.

  Once all eyes were up, I dashed. I couldn’t see the rest of the diversion, but I heard all. “There have been rumors.”

  An older lady asked, “Who was it, sweetie?”

  Her little old lady friend asked, “Where?”

  Payton said, “The private box. Up there.” Everyone looked. “Oh my gosh. I just got a chill. There is definitely a phantasm of some kind in here. Can you feel it?” she asked. “I just finished an internship with the APA—Association of Paranormal Activity—and I saw many a ghost. Many. So, I know what one looks like and I’m telling you, there was one up there.”

  “I see it!” Margot exclaimed.

  “Who was it?” asked the first lady.

  “Hard to tell, since he was translucent,” Payton explained.

  “He was?” Harry asked.

  “He totally was.”

  Payton was doing great. This ghost thing was golden!

  “Then how do you know it was a man?” the lady asked.

  Payton said, “Just a feeling. It might have been uh . . . uh . . . Sammy Davis Jr.”

  “Did you see his glass eye?” Harry asked.

  “Yes! Eeeeexactly. His glass eye. That’s what I saw.”

  “Wait.” Harry paused. “Do you hear that?”

  By now I
was on my back scooting down row D of the mezzanine section. I clicked on the flashlight I’d strapped to my head—another of Dad’s inventions. Headlamps have been around, but remote-controlled headlights were a whole new and emerging market. I could shift the light in any direction with a little move of my thumb.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, maybe storage pouches on the bottoms of the chairs, or maybe a map to lead us to the real treasure. I looked and felt for everything.

  “I hear it,” Margot said.

  “What do you hear?” Payton asked.

  “It sounds like—” Margot paused.

  “Like tapping. Like he’s tap-dancing in the afterlife.”

  “That’s what I was going to say,” Margot said.

  “I just got a chill,” one of the little old ladies said.

  “Have you ever had a paranormal investigator here?” Payton asked. “You know, ghost hunters?”

  Harry stuttered, “Umm . . . I . . . umm . . . I don’t know.”

  “Because I have connections with the PPP.”

  Margot asked Payton, “Want me to get them on the phone?”

  Harry asked, “What’s PPP?”

  “Professional Phantom Patrol,” Payton said.

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Seriously?” Margot gawked. “Dude, you gotta get out of the Dolby sometimes.”

  Payton added, “There’s a whole world out there.”

  This line of chatter continued for a while.

  I’d prepared myself to be crawling in sticky, buttery, gummy muck, but this floor shined like ABJ’s foyer. I guess the Academy Awards have certain standards for cleanliness. If there’s one kind of standards I like, it’s standards for cleanliness.

  Payton said, “This place could be full of ghosts of stars just waiting for their names to be called to win their Oscar.”

  “That makes sense,” Harry said. “And it’s consistent with the rumors.”