by Bruce Wagner
Anyhow, he didn’t give a shit who Derek climbed in bed with. (He’d called him by his name since middle school, when he’d been ordered to—which creeped his little sister out, inspiring Rafaela’s contempt for Tristen, not their father.) He’d only seen him a few times since the breakup; Derek would get in touch if he had a particularly thorny PC or coding issue. Tristen felt warm and fuzzy that his dad seemed to trust him with his personal shit, in that Derek was well aware of his son’s malevolent online history.
One of the puzzles of his life was determining the exact moment Derek began to hate him. There had been good times, though it felt like a hundred years ago. In Hawaii once, when he was nine, he remembered how they both started laughing, and when his mom asked what was so funny, he and Derek just looked at each other and kept busting up and Tristen could tell it delighted her, like she thought it was a good thing, a nice thing that she was being excluded from the sacred, mischievous fellowship of fathers and sons. And it was a good thing; it was good and it was new. A good, new, special thing . . . Then there was that time in the hospital—was he six?—when some weird infection swelled up one of his balls to the size of a mini watermelon and Derek sat bedside, feeding him grapes he’d put in the freezer the night before. They got warm in his mouth really fast, like sweet frozen marbles, and his dad kept them coming. All had been well with the world . . .
The receptionist told him to wait.
The editing bay of the YouTube reality show Mental Real Estate (featuring eccentric houses) was in a suite of post-production offices on Gower.
Derek was a Tesla freak and Tristen wanted to show him the hybrid. Not that one had much to do with the other. Anyhow. He knew he shouldn’t have come without a heads-up but hoped the nature of the surprise would short-circuit his dad’s knee-jerk pissed-offedness. When he finally emerged, he looked like some sick, emaciated bull entering the ring. It was pantshit scary.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Uhm, hello to you too,” said Tristen.
Something was wrong—maybe he was on drugs again. Opiates and speed were the daily vitamins of the editors of his generation but as far as Tristen knew, his father had been clean for years. He was way gaunt and sallow, though, with wet, stringy hair. Sounded like he was wheezing—
“I wanted to show you my car.”
“Your car? Since when do you have a car?”
“Out front. I’ll show you.”
Derek hesitated. He looked like he wished he was dead or wished Tristen dead or wished both of them dead. He stormed out in disgust, as if to minimize a scene at the workplace.
And there it was—like a thing expecting to be petted:
The Honda.
“See?”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Just . . . with some money I made.”
“Doing what?”
“Computer stuff. It was cheap.”
“What’d you do, some bitcoin rip-off? You hack an ATM?”
“No-o-o-o,” said Tristen, unfazed. He pointed toward the CR-Z like a model on a game show. “It’s pretty cool. It ain’t a Tesla, but—”
“You shouldn’t have come by. I’m barely holding on to this piece-of-shit job without your little unannounced visits.”
“Okay.”
“Well, is that all you wanted? To show me your new car? If it even is yours . . . Are you paying your mother rent? Your sister told me you’ve been staying there again. Are you giving her rent money?”
“Yeah, I am,” he stammered. “And I pay for groceries—not just mine, for the house. Anyway, I’m getting my own place soon . . .”
“Buying a little casita in the Hollywood Hills?” he said sarcastically. “You better not be into any illegal shit.”
“I’m not.”
“If you go to jail, my friend, you’re on your own. Your mother and I ain’t gonna rescue you. And you know what? I don’t believe you bought this car for a minute. Who bought it for you, Tristen?”
“I did. I told you—”
“Because if some man bought it for you, some faggot, that’s even worse than fucking wire fraud or destroying people online or whatever the fuck it is you’re up to, okay? Because if a john bought you a car, that makes you a whore, right? Wanna be a whore, Tristen?” Derek walked over and tapped the trunk of the Hybrid. “You go, girl.”
A young woman covered in tattoos raced from the building. She looked like one of those pale-skinned, blue- and black-haired porn stars Tristen knew from the SuicideGirls tube.
“Derek,” she said urgently. “You need to talk to Manny.”
“I’ll be right in,” he said. Without looking at either of them, he said, “This is my son”—like the introduction had been mandated by law.
“Oh hi!” she said, startled, then all happy-faced.
“Hi,” said Tristen.
“I’m Beth.”
He was too upset to give his name.
“That’s Tristen—queen of the sporty hybrid,” said Derek. He spun around and walked back to the building. Beth followed.
On their way in, Tristen heard her say, “Manny fucking hates the first cut. He was just, like, screaming at me. He’s totally out of control.”
—
It really did feel as if Reina was still alive, which gave some concern.
Her death seemed more and more like a daydream.
Dusty feared her mother had “won,” that she would always walk the earth, haunting her in some form or another. If all the years of therapy meant nothing, if even her dying meant nothing, where did that leave her? Ginevra tried to console, drawing comparisons to those who were raised in a fascist country that finally lost a despotic ruler. There was much rebuilding to be done, not only of infrastructure but collective spirit. The therapist said that her feelings were normal and she needed to give herself time. But Dusty insisted she had no feelings. That was the problem.
The private line rang—Livia, with “some news.”
Dumbfounded, she blurted out, “Did you find her?”
“No no! Not yet. I have other news.”
“Related though?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call you right back?”
A gal from Bartok was having a raucous hang with Allegra out by the pool, one of those casual, getting-to-know-you post-deal-signing playdates that were more about the fab house and the fab Dusty Lifestyle Experience than anything else.
She locked herself in the bedroom and curled up with the phone. “So what’s going on?”
“A few things,” said Livia, girding herself.
A week ago, when Dusty came clean about how she’d lost her daughter, Livia was stunned, and knew right away that finding Aurora might be impossible. Until then, everything that had been told to her over the years, or implied in glancing conversation, portrayed the case as a fairly typical adoption scenario. At the time, of course, Dusty had no desire to go further, so Livia didn’t probe. By accepting what she’d been told, she booked passage on Dusty’s leaky ship; she hadn’t enabled the actress’s false narrative, but rather conspired, in complete innocence, to endorse or at least subscribe to the history that was provided. But the facts she’d recently been apprised of—details Dusty blithely, wrongly presented as what Livia “already knew”—greatly disturbed. The storyline’s fresh parameters fell far outside the usual avenues and networks of Livia’s experience, and well beyond her sleuthhound capabilities. She understood the distortions and confusion of Dusty’s recollections; because of the guilt she carried for losing Aurora, she’d been deeply invested in the somewhat sugary expository yarn her mother had initially imposed. Reina had inculcated, shaped, and molded, persuaded and propagandized, masterfully exploiting the teen mom’s vulnerabilities. It made sense to her that Dusty would have cosigned whatever story she’d been spoon-fed at the age of sixtee
n, one that got reinforced over time—a wrenching tale, yes, but craftily commonplace (though in gross contradiction of the recently shared facts). Even if from early on Dusty was aware subconsciously that something didn’t jibe, the details had hardened into a mythology that served her wayward heart.
It was imperative that Livia handle with care; Dusty was family. Outside help was now required and it was time to have that conversation. But first, she needed to soften the blow—to give her something.
“I found Aurora’s dad.”
“You found Ronny?” she said with a smile, not really surprised. She’d provided Livia with the full name. How hard could it have been?
“Yes. And you did say he never tried to get in touch with you?”
“Absolutely not!” said Dusty. “Wow. God. Ronny!”
In truth, she was only mildly curious, and a little nonplussed. You found Ronny? Ronny Swerdlow? That’s the newsflash? Well, thanks for the memories . . . But, like, uhm, really? It made her bitchily wonder how Livia had been spending her time. Maybe the old broad had been in the general’s tent too long and forgotten what she knew about hand-to-hand combat. Why waste time tracking down a man who was useless to the cause? Besides, anyone could have gone on the Internet and found him, Marta’s daughter could have . . . but she needed to give Livia her due. The woman did know her shit.
Didn’t she?
Perhaps more would be revealed.
“So did you talk to him?” asked Dusty.
“I would never do that. But I have an address and a home phone. He’s married, with three children.”
“Where does he live?”
“Provo.”
“Is he Mormon?”
She was making conversation, to take the edge off her impatience.
“No idea.”
“But what does it mean that you found him, Liv?” she asked, with a hard smile now, unable to restrain her contempt. She’d already shared the strong opinion that Ronny would have been clueless about their daughter’s existence, because Dusty never told a soul—none of her girlfriends knew she was expecting, not even faraway Miranda. Especially not Miranda. So there was no way that he knew.
“How does finding him help?”
“He’s a resource!” said Livia excitably. The declaration sounded hollow and straw-grabby, like the spin a wild-eyed publicist puts on a doomed project. “I’ve been doing this long enough to have seen some pretty strange things. The truth is always so much further out than we can even imagine. One scenario—and it’s just a scenario—is that Ronny’s parents stayed in touch with Reina. That wouldn’t be unusual because in cases like yours, both sets of parents can become ‘co-conspirators.’ They bond over ‘saving the day.’ Reputations and futures. Maybe Reina told them exactly what happened—”
“I doubt that, Liv. But I’m still not following!”
“—then over time, everyone moves away, loses touch. Everyone gets on with their lives. And maybe, after however many years, Ronny’s parents—or maybe just one of them, because the other one died, which would heighten the urgency—let’s just say the mom finally talked to her son. To Ronny. Now this could have happened years ago or this could have happened last month. Maybe even triggered by Reina’s death, by someone seeing that in the paper or on the computer, who knows? But what we do know is that there would be guilt from all those years of keeping secrets. So Ronny’s mom or dad tells all. Blabs the truth. Maybe it’s as simple as them just wanting to be grandparents . . .”
“O-kayyy . . .” Dusty felt like she was listening to a psychotic writer’s pitch.
“So now Ronny knows. The big secret. Again, this could have happened thirty years ago. Because wanting to see your grandchild is compelling. And let’s say he was able to find her, find Aurora, using the information given. The information Mom or Dad got from Reina. From the horse’s mouth. Unlikely, yes, but anything’s possible. It’s a scenario. Remember, we’re dealing with a giant puzzle right now.”
“Let’s go with the scenario,” said Dusty, disheartened and unconvinced. “For argument’s sake. Let’s say he found her. Found Aurora. If he did, why wouldn’t he have found me? Why wouldn’t he have come to me. Why wouldn’t he have told me?”
“Maybe he holds a resentment—”
“A resentment—Livia, this is crazy!”
“—it would have come as an enormous shock to him—that he had a daughter—and he may have been so angry that you never told him. Not to tell you he found her would be a way of retaliating. I once worked with a couple where the mom was reunited with the son and told him in no uncertain terms that his father was dead, when he was alive and well. It’s more common than you’d think. Here’s another scenario: that he found Aurora and did tell her about you—”
“Oh Lord,” she said, exasperated. “Lord, lord, lord.”
“—and Aurora wasn’t ready, was still angry, wanted nothing to do with you—Dusty, I’ve seen it happen! Where children feel that when their parents give them up, they forfeit that right. They go through all kinds of emotions. Maybe Aurora knows but doesn’t want to—didn’t want to give you that pleasure.” The flurry of hypotheticals made the use of tense problematic. “She might have thought—might still be thinking—that if you wanted to see her so much, you could just come look for her like her dad did.”
“Livia . . .” she said hopelessly, unable to account for her old friend and advocate’s delirium. “We’re not talking about some . . . flustered teenager anymore. We’re talking about a woman!”
“Who may still be that flustered teenager inside, we can’t know what wounds she’s carrying.”
“It’s like castles in the sand! It’s less than castles in the sand—it’s like castles in the clouds . . .”
“I know,” said Livia sympathetically. “I know. But we’re just beginning. And we’re not dealing with the rational, it’s fraught. And if Ronny found her—remember, there’ve been far stranger things—if he found her—years ago—and she didn’t want to contact you, didn’t want to know anything about you, then he probably would have honored that because he wouldn’t want to risk losing her again.” Dusty tuned out Livia’s ramblings; she’d already made an executive decision to diplomatically cut her losses and go another way. “He may even have decided not to tell her that Mom was a famous person, because it had—has—the potential of making things worse. For Aurora. That she had a rich and famous movie-star mom who never tried to find her. Or—depending on her self-esteem issues, Ronny might have decided to withhold that information because it would be too overwhelming—you know, Mom’s an overachiever and she’s an underachiever—or thinks of herself that way, even if she isn’t. Ronny might have been—might be trying to ‘protect,’ whether that’s wise or not. There are so many ways to go with this, Dusty, and believe me, I’ve seen every variation. But the truth is out there. Somewhere. We just have to find it.”
But who? thought Dusty. Who can help me, who can I trust? How the fuck am I going to pull this off, where do I even begin? And I don’t want to hurt Livia—I know she means well. But this is my life! I know she’ll understand . . . she has to—
“There is something else I needed to talk about.”
“Okay,” said Dusty, heartbroken, and spent.
“There’s someone I’d like to bring in.”
That took the actress by surprise—at least it sounded like a cry for help. “What do you mean, ‘bring in’?”
“Richie Raskin.”
Something in Livia’s tone changed; the desperation was gone. What took its place scared her somehow. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s had a number of high-profile clients, probably some that you know. He’s a cold-case guy—long history with the foundation. He consults for us and probably will join the board next year. Dick’s retired now but still takes on clients. As a private investigator.”
/> “And why do you think we need him?”
“Well, you know, I’ve been flailing a little bit here, Dusty. I’ve done my best with what you gave me but haven’t uncovered any agency records, private or public. No records at all.”
“What could that mean?”
Ominously, Livia said, “One thing we need to take a look at is the possibility that Aurora was never adopted.”
“Really,” she mulled. “Then, if she . . .”
Something inside her collapsed—for one catastrophic instant she lost her mind and her nerve. Now she understood Livia’s wacko lead-in: how difficult and reprehensible it must have been to “position” Dusty for the infernal deduction.
“You don’t think”—she couldn’t breathe—“that Reina . . . Livia! Is what you’re saying is that she—”
“I’m not saying anything, Dusty,” she said, trying to cap the well.
“—that she killed her? Oh my God—”
“Dusty . . . I know this is hard.”
“Oh my God! You’re right! She killed my baby! Of course she did!”
“Dusty, I need you to pull yourself together.”
“I can’t! I can’t! Oh Livia, Livia, why couldn’t I see—why didn’t I see that? Why—how—how didn’t I know that!”
“We don’t know anything, Dusty, not yet. I told you, in these situations, whenever you assume, that assumption—whatever that assumption may be—is rarely ever the case. Whatever you think you know is usually wrong. So I need you to stop! Don’t go there. It’s all about information. Knowledge is power.”
“But it makes so much sense!” she blubbered. “Livia! What else would she have done with her? The monster! Monster, monster, monster! Can’t you see the sense it makes? You do, Livia; I know you do! That would explain all his letters? Dad’s letters? He kept apologizing—I swear, Livia, the letters were fucking tear-stained! He kept apologizing for what they’d ‘done’—‘we shouldn’t have done it’—‘I know we’ll be forgiven in Heaven’—I thought it was his Catholic bullshit and alcoholic dementia but that’s what he must have been talking about! But he couldn’t have, she must have, oh my God, maybe he was in the same room, maybe she forced him to so she’d have one more thing to hold over him—that motherfucker!—oh Livia, that must have been why he tried to kill himself! Or maybe—maybe he walked in while she was—oh God, Livia! Oh my God, oh my God!”
