I hated dresses. Ingrid loved dresses.
She loved the lavish parties Father and Mother put on. I thought she loved the sophistication of the attendees, their scents, the way they laughed, the way they drank their champagne, the way they smoked cigars, cigarettes. I thought Ingrid was in love with the idea of the lifestyle. The easy parts.
I thought the parties were pointless and a waste.
The only time I’d see Father smile was when Hollywood poured into our house at six o’clock sharp and left way beyond our bedtime. I’d lie in bed and still hear the faint tink of the flatware, the occasional explosion of laughter. On party nights, Ingrid would sleep in her dress. Mother would blow a gasket when morning came, but Ingrid and I both knew Mother loved us most, and her anger would only last a few minutes. Ingrid thought it was worth it. We hated to make her mad, but I think Ingrid wanted to feel beautiful the morning after, and I understood that.
I peeled my dress off at the first opportunity I could. Throw my jeans and T-shirt on even if it was late.
Eventually, Ingrid and I would fall to sleep.
But it would be late when the yelling started. Father would yell at Mother. Mother would take it, as she did every time.
The yelling would fade into morning.
The sun would rise.
The birds would chirp.
Ingrid and I would get out of bed, sleepily walk downstairs.
Mother would have a silent fit when she saw Ingrid in her dress and me in my jeans.
Father would read the paper, sip coffee, nod at both Ingrid and me as we toddled into the kitchen. Eventually, he would beckon us to him, whisper, “I love you both forever.” He would smell of coffee and aftershave.
“Love you, too, Father,” Ingrid always said first.
“Love you, Father,” I always said second.
The purple hydrangeas sat on the counter.
A night of yelling always turned into a vacation.
We went on vacations a lot. Even if it was just a day trip to Disneyland.
And Mother kept all the pieces together.
One day at Clemens Studios, Mother had to drop off something to Father. Father didn’t care in the least when we explored the studios. But if the sign on the studio door read Do Not Enter, Recording In Session, Ingrid and I steered clear. A stagehand had accidentally walked into a recording session, and the director had come unglued right in front of us. Both men never returned to Clemens Studios again.
Father always said, “Keep your personal business your personal business.”
Maybe that was why Father only yelled at Mother when everyone slept.
We were in Studio C when Ingrid almost died. Father had taken us to work that day, and Mother had a procedure, so as long as we stayed away from trouble, we had free rein of Clemens Studios.
We were in the dressing room—of course where Ingrid wanted to be in front of the mirror, pretending to be Jane Fonda. I had my feet kicked up on the yellow sofa they had in the dressing room, picking at fabrics on my shirt. Well, the door to the dressing room slammed shut. By itself. It was just Ingrid and me, for all we knew, in the studio. Don’t get me wrong; there could have been a handyman or a lighting guy or a sound guy, but we didn’t hear them.
I felt the slam of the door throughout my entire body. But the look on Ingrid’s face was pure horror. She stared into the mirror, couldn’t talk, couldn’t move.
“Ingrid? What is it?”
But she couldn’t answer.
It was when I stood and walked to her, looked into the mirror, right where she was staring.
Jason Voorhees’s face was hanging on the back of the door. Obviously a costume left behind, but I couldn’t convince Ingrid of it. I had to drag her out of the dressing room, out of the studio, and into the sunlight to finally get her attention.
That was the day Ingrid almost died of heart failure. Never once did she set foot back into Studio C, nor the fourth dressing room on the right. Still, we didn’t know what had caused the door to slam, but it was enough to keep us out of Studio C altogether.
For the most part, Father and Mother kept our eyes hidden from the world around us. We owned one television at home and nine thousand books. We weren’t allowed to watch television, except on the weekends. And when we were bored, Father would hand us each a book. Father owned a movie studio, and yet he managed to keep our minds from television-rot.
Not only did Mother and Father throw the parties, but we were also invited to vineyards and castles and spent time with prime ministers and world leaders. But I thought my most treasured experience was meeting Diana, Princess of Wales. She was bold, independent, and beautiful, but what I admired most was her beauty on the inside. The person you saw on camera was the same person as behind the camera; that was rare in our world. Secretly, I wanted to be like Princess Diana. Ingrid wanted to be like Mother. Most little girls wanted to be like their mothers, but Princess Diana was fearless, spent time in orphanages, was an AIDS advocate, helped sick children.
Mother fought for us, Ingrid and me, and I fought to escape.
I kept Princess Diana articles from magazines and newspapers hidden underneath my mattress, and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe fear that someone might find them and give me pity or tell me I wasn’t good enough. To Father, we could always do better, and I supposed he told the same thing to Mother when he spent the night berating her.
—Catherine
Mr. Jenkins hands me an address, his cell phone number, and a check from across his desk in the downtown office in Los Angeles. “This is the address of your first interview. I’ll give you two months to do the story because I want it done right. Luke McCay is leaving Carpinteria in two hours. You have exactly two hours to get to his house and get the interview.”
“Luke. Luke McCay. Where’s he going?”
“I don’t know. Some sort of road trip. Spoke with his publicist and said he’s agreed to the interview, but he’s leaving in”—Mr. Jenkins glances at his Rolex—“one hour and fifty-seven minutes.” He looks down at what I have with me. Draws his eyebrow up.
I, too, look down to see if I’ve missed something, but my curiosity wins. “But why the interview?”
“LA Hills is making a comeback on Fix network this fall. I want you to find out why he’s making the comeback after so many years away from television. Find out what he’s been up to for all these years. And”—Mr. Jenkins pauses—“you might want to pack a bag, Ms. Clemens.” Mr. Jenkins looks down at what I’m wearing again.
“Wait, what?” I say breathlessly.
LA Hills was a drama series that started back in 1990 and ran for about ten years. Luke McCay was the heart of it all. The bad boy. The man every woman wanted.
Mr. Jenkins sighs. “Did Adrianne not give you the background on all this?”
I shake my head.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He rolls his eyes. “I’d fire her, but she’s my niece.”
“But my mother—I have family obligations. I can’t just pick up and leave, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Do you want the job or not, Ms. Clemens?” He begins typing on his computer.
I look at what he handed me. Look at all the zeros on the check.
“One hour and fifty-five minutes, Ms. Clemens. Either leave or leave the check.” Mr. Jenkins still stares at his computer, typing.
Shit. I look down at the amount. I look at the address. I swallow whatever saliva sits at the back of my throat. I’d have to leave Mother again. Will she understand? “Can I make a call?”
“One hour and fifty-three minutes, Ms. Clemens. Time is ticking. Either take it or leave it.” A vein that runs through Mr. Jenkins’s forehead to the top of his bald head pulsates.
I try to swallow again, but there’s nothing left. My hands are once again sweaty.
“Look, Ms. Clemens,” Mr. Jenkins sighs and stops typing. Rubs the top of his face out of frustration. “You said you wanted a job. I’m giving you one that could open many doors for you. Now,
shit or get off the pot. If I were you, I’d shit. Now, GO!”
I turn to leave but turn back around to see Mr. Jenkins pointing to his office door. “Go,” he calls after me. “A final draft of your story needs to be submitted no later than December 1.”
I get in the car, and Ingrid is waiting.
“Well?” she says.
“He’s sending me on the road to do an interview.”
“On the road? To interview who?”
“Luke McCay.”
She’s quiet.
“Ingrid? Say something.”
But she’s ghost white.
Finally, “Are you fucking kidding me?” She tries to contain her excitement.
“I have to be in Carpinteria in”—I look down at my watch—“one hour and forty-seven minutes.”
“It takes an hour and twenty to get there, Cat! We’d better drive like hell.”
“So, you want me to go?”
Silence again.
“Are you kidding me? Yes, of course I want you to go.” Ingrid looks out the window, her reflection white against the sun rays.
“I need to pay Alder Grove. I talked with Eddie. We’re out of money, Ingrid. The only thing we have left is the house. Listen, I received my monthly wages from Mr. Jenkins. I’m going to cash it, take some for me, and leave the rest at Alder Grove. Can you get it there for me?”
“Whatever you think is best,” she says, looking back at me now.
“I think it’s best.”
I hear the pain in her voice when she says, “You spent thirteen years paying a price you shouldn’t have had to pay.”
What I want to say is, I’d do it again, and I wouldn’t change a thing, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I’ll leave the rest in the freezer at the house.” Our house. The one we shared with Mother and Father. The house on North Alpine Drive in Beverly Hills.
“You could sell the house,” Ingrid says.
“No.”
Ingrid sighs. “Okay.”
I won’t sell the house because I know how much it means to Ingrid.
“Tell Mother, okay? Tell her I’ll be back, this time quicker than the last time.”
These words make me think about the eleven years I spent in the Federal Correctional Institution in Dublin, California. Ingrid came down every weekend to see me. Every single weekend without fail. How she made it work still baffles me.
I pull up to a beachside house and double-check the address that Mr. Jenkins wrote down. The house is simple but big. A large front window overlooks the Pacific Ocean. The beach is somehow quiet—without people, without wave-catchers and watchers. Houses line the shore, each having their own architect, their own set of plans. Nothing is the same, and each house is unique. Some are beach cottages, others are more modern with browns and tans and creams, and others are far more extravagant with several floors and several decks that overlook the ocean.
The sky is blue, not the light blue when the sun is high in the sky, but a deep blue as if, somehow, God gave the sky a higher setting of vibrance and smiled.
I get out of my 1997 Volvo, lean in, and grab my backpack full of clothes, my purse with my wallet, and several notebooks, sharp pencils, and a few pens.
A 1965 Ford Mustang sits in the driveway. It’s midnight black. One sits in one of our garages at home. Undriven and unloved for years.
What the hell am I doing? I look at the staircase that leads up to the front door, which is open.
I push my hands against my pants to dry them as the sweat begins. I throw my backpack on my back and my purse on my shoulder, and I manually lock the Volvo and look up at the house.
I see him.
I swallow and pull my fingers through my naturally curly brown hair that oftentimes gets unruly while driving the coast with my windows down.
A feeling I missed for eleven years.
Luke’s back is to me, and I somehow feel as though I have a leg up. As if I’ve seen him first and I can buy some time in taking down his features.
But he turns and starts down the stairs, watching his steps, but then he looks up and sees me standing below.
He slows, staring at me, and makes his way to the bottom of the steps.
I can’t help but stare at the creases on his forehead, the lasting grooves that sit and wait for his smile. His perfectly shaped chiseled face, high cheekbones that narrow out his face. I wonder if Luke was created just for the woman’s eye, and for those who see him, do they know that perfection was produced just so they had something beautiful to look at? His lips, thin yet perfect, create a mythical illusion that they might be fuller on some days when the sky is this blue. On days like this, he looks like he just finished filming on a set. His confidence displayed in the set of his shoulders.
Seagulls call, breaking me free of my thoughts.
“You that reporter?” Luke calls out, his tone salty like the ocean, rough and gritty. He throws on a baseball cap. The button-up shirt he wears exposes his chest; a light dusting of chest hair is exposed. Cargo shorts hang loosely from his hips.
“Staff writer for US Monthly,” I correct him. The word reporter sounds too demanding, too untrustworthy.
I take a few steps forward, and when I get closer to him, something happens. It isn’t about his face or the creases in his forehead; it’s the worry I see in his dark brown eyes. I know the worry because I’ve seen it in so many. A worry I feel almost every day I walk the free earth. Because life on the inside of prison walls seems easier than life on the outside.
“I’m here to do the interview.”
I saw the worried look in Eddie’s eyes at my sentencing hearing.
I saw it in Paula’s eyes as we sat in cell three, and she talked about accidentally killing her six-year-old daughter while driving drunk.
And mostly, I see it in Mother’s eyes.
“You missed your window. I’m leaving.” He walks past me. The scent trailing behind him is woodsy and fresh, leaving me no other option but to turn toward him.
Luke opens the trunk of the Mustang and throws an overnight bag in.
Do something, Cat. You need the money. You have to get the interview.
I throw my shoulders back, walk to his trunk, and throw my backpack in, too.
Luke turns to me. His eyebrows narrow.
“I need the interview,” is all I say, keeping my purse tucked in tight beneath my arm, praying to God he’ll give me a chance. I try to act casual as I make my way to the passenger side of the car, pull open the door , sit down, and shut the door behind me. In the back seat, I notice a guitar case.
After what seems like an eternity, the driver’s door opens. Luke gets in and starts the Mustang with a loud roar.
He side-eyes me as he pulls out of the driveway.
I want to ask where we’re going.
I want to tell him that I think this might be a bad idea and that I’ve made a mistake.
But something deep inside me won’t bring the words to my mouth, the ones floating in my brain.
I breathe.
My heart pounds.
And Luke hits the gas.
The Carpinteria air seems cleaner. The city seems less populated. But anyplace is less populated compared to Los Angeles. I wonder why Luke chose this town to live in. Does he have houses in other cities? I grab my notebook from my purse and begin to write these questions down. I didn’t have time to prepare any questions. He’s probably thinking I’m this unprepared, new staff writer, that I’m green, like a new pair of tennis shoes waiting for the big game. And maybe I am. My last interview was in college at Brown. We had to do one—no, several, for The Brown Daily Herald. So, it’s been a long time.
I try to visualize his face without stealing a glance.
“You from Carpinteria?” he asks, his tone cool and deep, as if he should have a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips and have a drink in the other. Wear a leather jacket that says Killer on the back. One hand on the top part of the wheel as he stares straight ahead.
“What about you?”
“Kentucky.” Luke keeps his eyes on the road but reaches into a compartment and grabs his sunglasses. Puts them on. “What’s your name?”
“Catherine.”
He nods. “Look, Catherine,” he sighs. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should take you home.”
We’re going back toward Los Angeles. My car is back in Carpinteria.
Build a rapport.
“Maybe you should.” I shrug. I grab my sunglasses from my purse and slide them on, roll down my window, and allow for the September air to blow through my hair.
I stare out at the Pacific that guides us. Oceans could be famous. There are only a few, and yet everyone knows them by name. People have traveled them. Swam in their water. Watched them from afar. Flew over them. They’ve been in movies. Hosted celebrities. And yet there they are—steady, mighty, and breathtaking.
“You surfed on LA Hills as the character Dylan Klein. Do you surf as Luke McCay?” I ask, embracing the wind that blows, the wind I didn’t get to feel for an awfully long time.
“Every chance I get.”
“Don’t see any surfboards on top of the Mustang.” I look at him and watch how the lines that are drawn from his eyes move, indicating a smirk.
I realize I like his smirk—and not in the way you might think. I like his smirk because I don’t think Luke is the type of guy who smiles often.
“Going east. Not many oceans that way.”
“So, you’ll let me come along?”
“Suit yourself.”
Before
Federal Correctional Institution, Dublin
Dear Journal,
One night, I crept down the stairs to listen while Ingrid snored in her purple lacy dress, one foot hanging off her mattress.
The Light We See Page 2
