by Liza Palmer
“Darling, we’re going to have Thanksgiving at the Montecito house this year. Your father is already there. We’ll arrive on Wednesday—have just a small gathering on Thursday—and then you can join us on Sunday morning. We’ll have Thanksgiving dinner at four that afternoon,” Mom says, cracking open her organizer.
“Sounds good,” I say, my head spinning. I’m kind of glad that I have to get to work. I wouldn’t be able to . . . I just . . . it’s easy to think I’ve changed when there’s no opportunity for relapse. My feelings for Will are stowed away in places I have yet to uncover.
“My mom’s out of—” Will quickly stops himself and gauges the table. We all know. Even Mom. He continues, “She made it through the outpatient program. Clean and sober since the White Russian incident. She says she’s going to roast a turkey.”
“You won’t be joining us this year?” Mom asks.
“No. What are you guys going to do without me?” Will jokes. I laugh too loudly. I know he’s afraid to feel even the teensiest light of hope about his mom.
“You’re leaving?” I ask.
“Well, yeah. To go meet Mom back in Aspen. I’m here for a couple of days on a gig for Rolling Stone. I turned down a great story for Time that would have taken me to Nepal for at least two or three months. Nope. It looks like it’s home for the holidays,” he says with a hint of sarcasm. He stares at me a little too long. Turning down assignments? It’s what I’ve always wanted. His mom is clean and sober. Why am I not excited for him? God, I hope he doesn’t get that I think it’s all too good to be true. I don’t believe things until I see them. He used to be like that, too. It was like piña coladas or getting caught in the rain—we never trusted that people would actually do what they said they’d do.
I quickly turn away. “That sounds perfect. It . . .” I trail off and take Will’s hand. Then I make eye contact with him for the first time this morning. I squeeze his hand tight. Will softens and puts his other hand over mine. His iridescent blue eyes blaze for a second in fear. Even I’m afraid to get my hopes up about Anne Houghton and her promised Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving.
“So they’ve already hired someone to adapt the book for film,” Rascal blurts. He’s not a blurter. All of us take note.
“Oh?” Mom asks. Rascal had to have a special intervention with Mom and Dad about the impending movie version of The Ballad of Rick Danko. It was like a weekend retreat, complete with trust walks, couples massages, and role-playing games. In the end, Dad told Rascal he was fucking crazy, and Mom took him aside and told him everyone was proud of him, “everyone” once again being code for “Dad.” This could explain the trek to Montana.
“Some girl. Met her the other day. Calls herself Dinah,” Rascal announces.
“Like ‘someone’s in the kitchen with—’” Will starts.
“Exactly! Fucked up, isn’t it? You literally can’t get it out of your head when you’re with her.” Rascal sips his coffee. Mom flips through her organizer, penciling in, erasing, penciling in.
“Is she doing a good job?” I ask. The waitress brings me my tea.
“I don’t even know what . . .” Rascal is sputtering. Suddenly, he looks over my head at something.
I hear a voice behind me. “Elisabeth?”
I look over my shoulder. Daniel. In all of his morning glory. Wet Crayola-brown hair. A Kansas T-shirt. Wait—what? What is he doing here? I stand quickly, and my chair tips over and hits Daniel. He catches it and sets it back in place. The family has gone into a complete catatonic state. A quick slide show of Averyesque evisceration flashes in my mind. Mom slowly closes her organizer. Will repositions his arm around the back of my now-empty chair.
“You left your BlackBerry in my car. It’s been going off nonstop.” Daniel’s voice is low, and he’s leaned in to give us privacy. I sway and giggle, trying to act as indifferent as possible. Daniel takes in the people at the table. He straightens his T-shirt, obviously cursing the casual outfit he’s chosen. He attempts to tamp down his wet hair, to no avail.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. Daniel Sullivan, this is . . .” I start, trying to stop his downward spiral. Mom’s eyes bore into me.
Rascal stands, extending his hand across the table.
“Rascal Page. I’m Elisabeth’s brother . . . older brother,” he interrupts. His napkin is tucked into his belt. Mom sighs and pulls it free, folds it, and places it at the side of his plate. “Have you heard about me, or are you as in the dark as I am?” Rascal asks. Will is watching this interaction with a heat that burns the side of my face.
“I saw a picture of you on her kitchen counter,” Daniel offers.
“I’m three in that picture,” Rascal says, staring at me.
“You’ve really grown up,” Daniel says. Rascal laughs as he sits back down.
“This is my mom, Ballard Foster. Mom, this is Daniel Sullivan.” My voice changes into a softer, more proper tone. Daniel moves behind the table. Mom stays seated as Daniel shakes her hand. She tilts her head coyly as he tells her it’s a pleasure to meet her. I must have done something right in a past life not to have Dad sitting at this table this fine morning. My farce can continue for just a bit longer. Oh, wait . . .
“Will Houghton, this is Daniel Sullivan.” Hello, yes—-Daniel, meet Can of Worms. Can of Worms, meet Daniel.
Daniel turns, and they just know. The realization sweeps across both of their faces. Will is steadfast, his gaze fixed. For the briefest of seconds, I see confusion and apprehension flash across Daniel’s face. He extends his hand. I can see him tensing his jaw, unsure of the backstory. What haven’t I told him about this Will Houghton? Will stands. He’s the only one at the table who’s not dwarfed by Daniel. He takes Daniel’s hand, and their handshake is tense yet cordial. I’ll say this: They both have impeccable manners.
“Can you join us?” Will asks. His voice borders on the patronizing.
“Oh, no. No, thank you. I have a plane to catch,” Daniel says. Will eases back into his chair. I didn’t want him to find out this way. Maybe I didn’t want him to find out at all.
“You travel?” Will asks, looking directly at me.
“Just for the week,” Daniel says. His smile is tight.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say to Daniel. He looks shell-shocked.
“It was nice meeting all of you,” Daniel says. I’ve gotten so used to him, his body, but right now, in this situation, I don’t know how to be with him. How to touch him. We have to walk out of this restaurant together, and I can’t figure out how to do that without holding his hand. I don’t know if I can do it in front of Will. I run through scenario after scenario. Sensing my apprehension, Daniel turns and begins to walk out of the restaurant. I catch up to him. I take his arm to slow him down, and slide my hand all the way until it meets his. He clasps my hand tightly and sighs.
“I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry,” I say once we’re outside.
“Tell me about him,” Daniel says, his dark blue eyes squinting in the sunlight.
“He’s a friend, a family friend since birth. We have a history,” I say.
“I’m not sure he thinks it’s in the past,” Daniel says, his voice low and calm.
“I can’t help how he feels,” I say, taking both his hands in mine.
“Yes, but you can certainly clarify how you feel,” Daniel says, looking down at our clasped hands. We look ridiculous. Both of us let go. I kiss him.
“Be good,” I say, close to his face, brushing his lips with mine and actively dodging the whole “clarifying” comment.
Daniel hesitates. “My parents are coming out after Thanksgiving, you know, for the Hollywood Christmas parade. I thought you might be able to come to one of my games, meet them, and all of us could have dinner together or something? On your night off, of course.”
“I’d love to,” I say.
“Great,” he says. His jaw is tense.
“What are their names?” I ask.
“Why?” he asks, smiling.
“I just have a thing. I like to know names,” I say.
Daniel’s body relaxes a bit. “Nick and Marilyn.”
“Your father is a professional Santa . . .” I trail off.
“Yeah,” Daniel agrees.
“And his name is Nick?”
“Kind of funny, huh?” Daniel says.
My chest tightens. “You’ll call when you land?” I ask, already missing him.
“Absolutely,” Daniel says, his eyes still unsure. He leans in and kisses me once more. A long sigh and a flood of unsaid words pass between us in those moments. He smiles and turns to leave. I watch him go. He waves when he gets to his car, and then it disappears down the street. The sounds from the restaurant seem to come back up. I walk back in. Dreading what is waiting for me once I sit back down.
“What was that thing on his shirt?” Will asks as I smooth my napkin over my lap.
“It was a Jayhawk,” I say.
“I like him,” Rascal announces, digging into his bacon and eggs.
“What?” Will is flabbergasted.
“He seems like a nice young man. Real salt of the earth,” Mom says, giving me the tiniest of smiles.
“ ‘Salt of the earth’ is a nice way of saying ‘white trash,’ ” Will insists.
“Fuck you,” I say. The cracks in the foundation are showing.
“Elisabeth. Language,” Mom scolds. I deflate into my chair.
“He’s very . . . what’s that catalog . . . the one that’s all . . .” Rascal is posing as if he’s throwing a football.
“Abercrombie and Fitch,” I offer dejectedly.
“Yes, exactly! That’s it! Abercrombie and Fitch. He’s very Abercrombie and Fitch.” Rascal takes another giant bite of eggs.
Will looks over. I can feel him trying to get a read on me. He bends over the table a couple of inches, trying to make eye contact. I can’t. He’ll know. He’ll know. No one has ever come between us. The waitress reaches over my shoulder, placing my breakfast in front of me. I thank her. I pick up my fork and take a bite, forcing the food down my closing throat. My chest is tight and pained. Is it wrong to want to erase Will? Scoop out the parts of my heart that still love him, worry about him and want him to be happy?
After we eat, we finalize the Thanksgiving plans, and now we’re all standing in front of the restaurant waiting for our cars. Mom’s arrives first. She tips the valet; he opens her door as she waves goodbye. He closes the door behind her. Immediately, we all relax our posture. Rascal and Will reach for their cigarettes. Rascal hands the valet our tickets as Will’s Porsche rounds the corner. Hearing the rev of the engine, Will turns his head.
“You’re welcome to come to Aspen. It’d be nice to hang out with someone other than my mom for a couple of days,” Will says to me. Rascal stands by the valet station, sensing that Will and I may need a moment.
“Oh . . . I have work. And you know, Mom has plans . . . lots of plans,” I joke, not wanting to hurt him.
“Is this about that guy?” Will says, motioning to the valet to hold on a second. He zeroes in on me. Rascal walks over to us.
“No . . . no . . . I just have to get into work,” I say. Will’s face contorts in a mix of confusion and worry. I am still. My breathing quickens. I hold eye contact.
“Up high,” Rascal blurts, raising his hand high in the air. Will slaps his hand automatically.
“Down low,” Rascal taunts.
“Fuck you,” Will says.
“Well, now, that doesn’t even remotely rhyme with ‘down low,’ ” Rascal says, pulling his hand back.
“I’ll call when I get to Aspen. Wish me luck,” Will says, handing the valet a tip and hopping into his car. The valet shuts the door behind him, and Will speeds off.
Rascal turns to me. “So, was it about that guy?” he repeats.
“Yeah, totally,” I say, putting on my sunglasses.
“Thought so,” Rascal says almost under his breath.
“Yeah,” I say, my mind elsewhere.
Rascal takes a long look at me, sizing me up. “So, I was watching this high-speed car chase the other day,” he begins. “And they’re chasing this guy on a motorcycle—which, as you know, switches shit up—you can’t do a spike strip, you can’t pull a pit maneuver. I mean, hell, you can barely track the guy, the way he’s snaking through traffic.” Rascal pauses, casually taking a drag on his cigarette.
“Wow, are you really telling me a story about a high-speed chase?” I ask. In Los Angeles, televised high-speed chases are a cultural phenomenon. The art of watching and studying them has become as popular as handicapping the Kentucky Derby.
“If you could maybe be quiet for half a second—” Rascal pauses for effect. I zip my mouth shut. He continues, “So, this guy is zooming in and out of traffic, and the only thing we know is that a police helicopter is overhead—no cop car could keep up with this guy. It’s five o’clock on a weeknight, and traffic is getting pretty heavy, and all of a sudden, the news copter’s camera pans back, and there’s this one lone LAPD car right on the guy’s tail. No one saw this coming. Now, right as this is happening, a civilian hears the lone cop’s sirens and starts to pull over to the side of the road and, in so doing, wedges the guy on the motorcycle in—-trapping him. The LAPD car pulls right up, the cop in the passenger seat hops out, and he takes the guy down. Perfect.”
“That’s a beautiful story,” I say as Rascal’s BMW rounds the corner.
“You’re not alone in this, Bink,” Rascal says, stamping his cigarette out on the sidewalk and kicking it in the gutter.
“What?” I say, caught completely off guard.
Rascal pulls out his wallet and starts for his car. “If you want to take Will down, you don’t have to do it alone. Some civilian could come up and inadvertently wedge him out. As long as you trust someone to have your back and pull up alongside, all you gotta do is hop out of the car.” Rascal puts his sunglasses on. “See you next Sunday. I’m bringing blankets infested with smallpox instead of mashed potatoes. You?” He smiles widely, handing the valet a tip and bending into his car.
“Apple pie,” I answer.
He pulls out onto Third Street without looking back.
My little wagon rounds the corner. I take out my wallet and hand the valet a tip as he opens the door for me. I sit down, and the door slams behind me. I set my purse on the passenger seat and then just sit there. Silence.
I don’t know how to juggle this new life. First it was the one flaming torch: Balance the job. That was it. Keep that torch in the air. And every once in a while someone would throw another torch in. Balance the family. Then they’d take the torch, and it would be back to the one. Keeping it in the air. And then maybe someone would come along and throw two torches at me. My family and Will. And it would get a bit more difficult. Juggling the three torches. Keeping them all in the air. Balancing each one’s time in the top position. Then two torches would be taken away. But then there was a new torch. The TV show. So I was juggling two torches. Then I met Daniel. Three torches. And now I get the other two torches back. Family and Will. I’m juggling five torches all at once. I’m barely catching that one, and this one almost dropped. And that one called me a little dog, and that one has the deepest blue eyes, and this one has impossibly high standards, and that one is the only love I’ve ever known. And that one—that one offers me a way out. Keep ’em high. Balance it all.
My arms are tired.
Someone honks behind me. I’m jolted out of my thoughts. I put the car in drive and pull out onto Third Street. All five torches are high in the air.
At the end of my shift that night, I check my phone. There’s a message waiting. I dial my voice mail and wait as I walk through the restaurant and out into the crisp fall air. The blur of the kitchen has given me exactly what I wanted tonight—oblivion. And now, as I wait for this voice mail, my chest tightens again—not knowing. Which one is it? The call log says the call came from an unknown number. It could be Daniel calling from the
hotel in Maui, or Will calling from his mom’s house in Aspen. I push the buttons that walk me through a voice-mail center. It’s apparently designed for people with the IQ of a woman Rascal would date. I beep my car unlocked. I have one new message, the phone tells me for the eighth time. I slam the door behind me, and the silence of my car surrounds me again. I wait.
“Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know I landed and I’m all settled in at the hotel. I’ve never been to Hawaii before, you know. This . . .” I can hear Daniel move around and then the distinct sound of the opening of hotel curtains. He continues, “It’s beautiful here. Just incredible. We definitely have to come back. Okay . . . Well, sleep tight. Talk to you soon.” Daniel pauses, and I hear him fumble a bit with the phone as he hangs up. The voice-mail lady asks me if I’d like to delete the message, press seven, or save it, press nine.
I press nine.
Chapter Twenty-nine
We’re going to do a shot of you driving up to the parking lot. You’re going to stop the car right where that tape is, stick your head out the window like we went over, and say the line that’s written on the card. From there we’ll go into your show opener.” It’s eight on Sunday morning. I’m about to shoot my first shot for the pilot of my very own television show.
I’m being talked at by Hunter, my director. He looks like he’s fifteen. Paul is standing behind him, on the cell phone. We’re filming the field piece right outside of the CheeseStore in Silver Lake. This will correspond with my overall theme of building a box lunch to take to a performance at the Hollywood Bowl.
“Got it,” I say.
I have on more makeup than three women put together. My hair, which took hours, is in a beautiful 1930s-style wave. A wardrobe girl put together a flirty little skirt, a pink tank top, and a vintage-y cardigan for me to wear.
We’re starting by filming the field pieces. Each episode will have one destination that opens up the show; this is threaded through the rest of the episode and coordinated with what we decide to cook. Then we’ll go into the kitchen and film three recipes that relate to the theme. For the field pieces, we work with two cameramen. Each camera has two guys whose whole job is to wrangle all the cords. A smallish woman keeps checking sound; the boom mike hangs over my every word. The amount of people it takes to film anything always astounds me. I put my Audi in reverse and pull up the street to where a production assistant (to whom I will have to learn to refer coolly to as a P.A.) stands with a walkie-talkie. My car idles as the P.A. and I wait for our cue. He holds on to that walkie-talkie as if it’s—
