Between Me and You

by Allison Winn Scotch

“Competition for what?” I shake my head.

  “The nightclub he invested in, babe,” Tatum says as she hoists herself to her feet. “His outlet from that dreary job at Merrill Lynch.” She winks at him.

  I vaguely remember the details he’d shared last night as I was drifting to sleep on the couch, and as he whisked out the door to a waiting cab. Something about a club in Florida—Miami, maybe?—that he and his friends had gone in on.

  “Nothing’s open tonight,” I say to him, as Piper emerges from the kitchen with her hands in oven mitts and a steaming plate of green beans between them. Scooter tails her with a final casserole dish.

  “We used to always watch a movie Christmas Eve, remember that, Piper?” Tatum calls to her sister. “Remember how Mom would let us choose?”

  “You always got to pick,” Piper says. Then, to Scooter: “She was always Mom’s favorite.”

  “Well, how could I not be?” Tatum says. “I mean, look at me.” She moos again.

  “Stop, Tate. You’re beautiful,” I say, and I wink. I see you.

  “OK.” She nods as if she knows that if I believe it, then it must be true.

  I raise my glass. “To my beautiful wife. To . . . family. To all of us being together here to celebrate.”

  I put aside my baggage, and I stare at Tatum, my glowing wife ascending a meteoric star, and for the moment, I mean it.

  20

  TATUM

  FEBRUARY 2008

  The baby has been kicking me all night, and when I do manage to sleep, my heartburn roars up my esophagus and shakes me awake.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a mess,” I say to Hailey, the makeup artist the studio sends.

  “I’m sorry, I’m a whale,” I say to the seamstress who lets out my gown (more of a tent) another half inch.

  “Don’t be silly,” they both say, because I’m now an Oscar-nominated actress who is due any day now, and they are effectively on my payroll and are told to say reassuring things like this to a hormonal tank several hours before she may lumber onstage to accept the award.

  It’s a relief to be done with it all tonight. To be done with the air kisses on the red carpet, with the cocktail hours and dinners and Q and As and interviews, even though some of those interviews have granted me covers like Variety. But my ankles are swollen, and my fatigue is drowning me, and I can’t possibly imagine how I could take one more week of the pomp and circumstance, of faking nice with Lily Marple in front of the cameras or at sit-down roundtables like with Variety, where she smiles at me but mostly just exposes her teeth. When we took a bathroom break before the photo shoot, she leaned close (too close) and said:

  “How’s Ben?”

  And I rubbed my belly and said: “We couldn’t be better.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I remember him being pretty good on the set of that little movie we shot too.”

  And it was her implication—He was pretty good—that made me curl my fingers so tightly into little balls that my red manicured nails practically sliced my palms. He hadn’t slept with her; he’d spurned her, and he told me, immediately. But the way it rolled off her tongue—He was pretty good—she made me doubt him, not that he had slept with her. Of course not that, but that maybe he’d been tempted. My dad had never been much of a partner to my mom until the end; Piper told me that was when he dug in and committed. I sat in the stall in the bathroom until it emptied, reminding myself over and again that we weren’t my parents, that I wasn’t my mom, and Ben wasn’t my dad, and I steeled myself for the rest of the day with Lily, and the rest of the awards season with her too. And I transformed myself into someone I wasn’t: a woman who believed that she’d left her old self behind, a woman who wasn’t still chased by the ghosts of her childhood.

  Now, on the last night of awards season, I swallow four Tums and hope that they fight back my braying, ever-present heartburn.

  “You OK?” Ben says in the limo.

  “Fucking heartburn,” I say, and burp. Most of the time, in the press, at the endless awards dinners, I try to play the role of a glowing, cherubic mom-to-be, but with Ben, there’s no need.

  “It’s almost over,” he says.

  “The baby or the awards?” I laugh.

  “Both.” He swings one of my waxed and faux-tanned legs atop his lap and massages my elephant-sized ankle.

  “You’ve kept me sane,” I say, easing my head against the leather seat, emitting a groan. I meet his eyes. “You know that, you’ve kept me sane, right?”

  “Ah, every actress says that right before she goes batshit.” He laughs.

  “I make no promises,” I say with a grin, then close my eyes once more.

  But he has, it’s true, and I probably haven’t been gracious enough, thanked him enough. It’s admittedly a quieter time for him as he waits for Alcatraz to go in March, and then hopefully gets Reagan out of turnaround. But he dutifully shows up as my plus-one, sings my praises to the likes of anyone who will listen, rubs my belly with cocoa butter to prevent stretch marks, heads to the guest room to sleep on nights when I am sweaty and restless and need the entire bed to myself.

  “My hands are shaking,” I say, as the limo rounds the bend to a line of other black cars, all carrying anointed Hollywood types. “Jesus, I guess this is really real.”

  His hands move from my ankles to my fingers, where he weaves his own into mine.

  I blow my breath out.

  “You have your speech?” he asks, moving both of our hands to my belly, stopping expectantly to wait for the baby’s kick.

  “I’m not going to need it. Lily’s gonna win.”

  “But do you have it? Because you never know.”

  “Yes.” I exhale again, crane my neck to see how far we are from the entrance, then, as Ben checks his phone, I rehearse my speech one last time. I’d like to thank my agents, my publicist, my amazing team, David Frears for seeing the sliver of potential in my terrible audition, for dreaming that I could ever inhabit this beloved role of Elizabeth Bennet! Colin Farrell, oh thank you so much, dear, you know how much you mean to me. My dad, who is a fighter! My sister, love you, Pipes!! I can’t forget my husband and, well, let’s be honest, there’s no denying it now, this baby who might come out of me at any moment . . .

  My publicist had tweaked the speech for me, felt that a dose of humor and heart were the perfect way to introduce myself to the world on a larger scale. Pride and Prejudice had given me industry cred, like Romanticah had done for Ben, but I wasn’t yet a household name, wasn’t yet commercial. It wasn’t like I didn’t have practice delivering a speech, though. It was my favorite way of disappearing when my mom first got sick, my favorite way of imagining a road out. From my suburb in Ohio, it’s not as if there had been a streamlined path. Nina Blackwood, whom I watched every afternoon on MTV in fourth grade, was from Cleveland, and Teri Garr, who was in Tootsie, my mom’s favorite movie and thus my favorite movie for all of seventh grade, was from Lakewood, but there wasn’t a brick path paved with gold from our state borders to Hollywood. But still. I’d stand in front of the mirror, with a hairbrush or a flashlight in my hand, and I’d thank all the little people: I’d like to thank Mr. Lawrence, my sixth-grade PE teacher, for announcing my mile time as the worst of the grade; I’d like to thank Philip Paulson for pointing out that my training bra was, in fact, too large. I’d bow, and I’d spin, and I’d swirl, and sometimes Piper would come in and sit on my bed and applaud and ask me to do it again and again. I’d like to thank Jessica Johnson for telling Philip Paulson that I just got my period. I’d like to thank Aaron Johnson for taking my virginity and then dumping me for Julie Seymour. Thank you, thank you! Look at me now! Ha ha ha ha ha!

  But when I flitted about in the mirror or for Piper, mostly, it was just fantasy, a dream of a dream of a dream.

  Now, the dream of a dream of a dream seems tangible; my team is already strategizing my next move: how to leverage this to catapult me to A-list. Offers rush in at a dizzying pace; roles I’d never have had acces
s to prior to Pride and Prejudice, as if I somehow became a better actor overnight. I’ve done magazine covers, I’ve done Ellen. I’ve been asked for pregnancy advice, I’ve been asked for marital advice. I’ve been asked how I stay grounded and how it feels to be vaulted into the Hollywood stratosphere. Everything has shifted.

  The baby kicks against my taut stomach just as the limo edges up to the red carpet at the Dolby Theatre.

  “I think I might puke,” I say to Ben.

  “You look perfect. Nowhere close to green,” he replies, though he’s actually looking a little peaked himself.

  “It’s all this makeup, you can’t see anything close to what’s going on beneath the makeup.” That was the point, Hailey explained. To cover up my dark circles, the hormonal acne that had flared along my left jawbone (despite the weekly facials since the nominations), my splotchy T-zone.

  “You’re going to be great,” Ben says, leaning his forehead to mine.

  “Thank you for doing this all with me, beside me. I couldn’t be here without you.”

  “Not true,” he says, pulling back, waving a hand, averting his eyes. I wonder, for a beat before I lose track of it, why he does that. “You would have done it on your own. It was just my privilege to watch you.”

  “I don’t believe that. That’s not true.”

  He stiffens his spine and turns his attention to the window, to the roar of the crowd that is greeting whichever star just made her own grand entrance.

  “Hey,” I say. “I mean that. You get that right? That I couldn’t have done it without you?”

  He looks back toward me. “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What? Nothing’s wrong. We’re at the Academy Awards, and you have a fairly decent shot at winning. What can possibly be wrong?”

  “I feel like you think I haven’t appreciated you.”

  “I didn’t say anything like that.” His eyes return to the window.

  “But I feel that way.”

  “How did we just take this turn?” he asks. “I told you a minute ago that you could have done all of this on your own—you are that good—and now I feel like we’re about to fight about something I don’t understand.”

  “I just got the sense that you were tired of all this, that I haven’t appreciated you enough.”

  “You got that sense from me telling you that you deserve this?”

  I chew my (perfectly lipsticked) lip, narrow my eyes, and feel like I walked into a trap.

  “I’m just suddenly realizing that this was a bit of a chore for you.”

  “It has not been a chore for me, OK? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, and I’ve done it with a smile. More than that. I’ve been genuinely enthusiastic. I’ve gone to industry parties and put my ego aside when I have to say I’m working in TV. Do you know how some of these assholes look at me? Poor little Ben Livingston: we thought he had something special, but I guess not.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I’ve sucked up your dad living in our guesthouse for almost a year, I’ve grown used to you urging me to therapy to deal with my own ‘daddy issues,’ though I’m working stuff out in my own way. I’ve done it all, Tate. All of it. Not complaining, not taking anything away from you. But please don’t tell me that I can’t be a little exhausted.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to all of that,” I snap. Because I don’t. Because I had no idea that any of this lived inside of him, not when I thought that we were so transparent with each other that his insides could be seen from the outside, at least to me.

  “There’s nothing to say to it,” he says plainly. “I want to celebrate tonight and make this special, and I don’t mean this rudely, but you are stressed and hormonal, and can we not make a mountain out of a molehill right now?”

  “So now I’m being too emotional?” I am being too emotional. I can feel my floodgates open, the tide of hormonally fueled hysteria washing in. This tide is exactly what I need when I’m in front of the camera; it serves me less well with Ben. My cheeks flush, my heart races, white noise fills my ears so I can’t even talk myself down if I wanted to.

  “Please,” he says. “Can we drop it?”

  “I’m sorry that I’m up for an Oscar when you’re not, when both of us always assumed that it would be you,” I say, and it is immediately too cruel, too dismissive. I am drowning under my emotional tsunami, and I regret it at once.

  He blinks and stares out the window.

  “Shit,” I say. “Shit, shit. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.” I rest my palm on his leg. “I just . . . shit. I didn’t realize all of this was going on with you. I wish you’d told me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he says. “Besides, you have your own stuff.”

  “My stuff is your stuff,” I say. What’s mine is yours and yours is mine, and we are braided together, remember?

  The limo glides to a stop.

  “OK,” he says.

  “We’re OK?”

  “Sure.” He kisses me, just as our chauffeur opens the back door and the roar of the waiting crowd ushers itself into our private bubble.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching for his hand.

  But he’s already stepping out to the pavement, squinting his eyes against the glare of the bright sun. He turns to help me ease my pregnant body out of the limo, and I breathe it all in: the adoration, the success, the Academy Awards that are terrifying and exhilarating and everything I thought they would be when I was standing in front of my mirror with Piper on my bed, when my mom was still alive, and my dad was still drinking, and Ben wasn’t even a speck in my imagination.

  Everything has shifted, it’s true.

  Then the baby kicks again, hard this time, and I reach again for Ben’s hand and find it, and he steadies me as I glide, as gracefully as one can when labor is imminent, out to the carpet.

  The cheers are near deafening now, the blur of the camera flashes, the electricity palpable.

  The photographers shout, “Give us a single, Tatum, give us a single!” Meaning: Leave Ben behind, give us a shot of just you.

  “Go,” he says. “You look great.”

  And so I do. I inhale and exhale and try to transform myself as the actress who is owning her first Academy Award nomination. And then I move into the glittering lights and the catcalls, and I step into my future.

  21

  BEN

  SEPTEMBER 2006

  The sky is robin’s-egg blue, just as it was five years ago.

  I stare upward for a beat too long and am blinded for a moment, hazy yellow orbs obscuring my vision, despite my sunglasses. Leo stands ramrod straight next to me, his shoulders pinned as if literally stapled back, but his toes jigger up and down, his fingers twitch in nonstop motion. My mom is weeping silently to my other side, staring out at the vast wasteland of a construction pit at Ground Zero, staring farther to the two reflection pools she says will bring her a bit of solace, but I can’t see how. Tatum had planned to come, but then the roof to the new house in Holmby Hills cratered in, and I told her she should stay behind to deal with it. She assured me that her dad could manage on his own—he was living in the guesthouse and taking classes at UCLA for accounting—but I didn’t mind. Really. I wasn’t interested in delving too deeply back into my grief, and if Tatum had been along, she’d have poked and prodded and asked me over and over and over again if I’m OK, if I shouldn’t see a therapist—when really, I just wanted to be done with it.

  I don’t need a therapist when I have learned how to soothe myself on my own: I avoid New York unless mandated here for work (or family, but it’s easy to lure them out west instead); I flip the channel when newsreels and talking heads pontificate about the horrors of the day, one dimension removed from those of us who live it, dream it, breathe it, in order to (almost) forget about it. Sometimes I start to call my dad to share some tidbit about my career—the acclaim for One Day in Dallas or the Reagan biopic I’m drafting that he would have been so proud of because Reagan was hi
s hero. Or even something ridiculous, like the fact that I taught Monster to wake Tatum up by licking her face. Of course those moments sting; of course they raise it all up for me again.

  But mostly I just want to ignore it. Mostly, I don’t want to be standing here, listening to Mayor Bloomberg speak at the site of my father’s death. It shouldn’t seem like that much to ask.

  A town car retrieves us after the ceremony, and I uncoil as we head uptown.

  “Brunch now,” my mom announces.

  “I’m not hungry,” Leo says.

  “You’re never hungry these days,” she says, squeezing his leg, staring out the window at the rush of Eighth Avenue traffic.

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Work makes you lose your appetite?” I ask.

  “I made associate,” he says flatly. “All I do is work.”

  My mom laughs at this. “Leo, sweetheart, I’m sure the women of New York would disagree.”

  The town car deposits us outside the Plaza Athénée, where my mom has evidently arranged for a grief brunch with friends she has met through fundraising, which is how she has channeled her own pain. We all have our outlets. I bury mine. Leo works through his. And my mom raises money for the widows of firefighters. It’s admirable how she has forged on, her chin up, her cause determined. I consider, as we shake hands and make introductions in the marble lobby of the hotel, how I would cope if I lost Tatum. My mother introduces me to a man, Ron, whom she looks at with affection and who, she tells me, also lost his wife—this is simply how they introduce themselves here, in this committee of battle-wounded survivors—and I barely hear her, barely pay attention, because I’m absorbed in the question of what I would do without Tatum.

  I simply don’t know. It is an unimaginable question with no answer.

  I duck to the bathroom to call her, to tell her I miss her, which I don’t do often enough. In fact, I’d promised I’d call last night, but Leo and I had gone out for beers (too many beers), and I’d passed out before I could remember that I’d forgotten. That she’d be sitting by the phone, waiting to hear from me. It wasn’t intentional, my neglect. Tatum was just needier than I was; she needed more reassurance, more connection, more of us.