The Truth About Gretchen

by Alretha Thomas

  Initially, my parents were happy I’d found something that ignited my interest. But their happiness quickly faded when our home turned into my version of Big Brother. After several months of my filming their every move, my parents realized my passion for film wasn’t a fad, and they enrolled me in an afterschool program at Dancing Hills University, for aspiring filmmakers. I stayed with the program all the way through high school. I fell in love with the instructors, and it was a no-brainer that I would attend the university after high school.

  The actress composes herself and stares at me as though waiting for further direction. I gather my thoughts and say, “That was amazing.”

  “Thank you,” she says, her voice cracking.

  “You’ll definitely get a call back,” I say. “Be sure to put her on the list.”

  “Will do,” Jocelyn says.

  “And you’re available for the shoot dates?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, Vanessa. Thank you so much for coming in. We’ll be in touch.”

  She nods and turns on her heel. I watch as she leaves the room with a bounce in her step.

  “Didn’t I tell you things would get better?” Jocelyn says.

  “You did. But I wasn’t expecting that.”

  Jocelyn knits her perfectly arched brows and says, “I must caution you on settling too quickly. Keep an open mind. There could be someone better out there.”

  “I understand,” I say, still stuck on Vanessa. “Who’s next?”

  “Gary Franklin,” Tabitha says. “I’ll get him.”

  “Can you hold on for a minute? I need a restroom break,” I say, grabbing my phone and turning it on. It takes forever to power up, and I want to make a quick call.

  “No worries,” Jocelyn says. I leave and head to the restroom.

  All eyes fall on me when I step into the lobby, teeming with actors. I speed past the group and head to the ladies’ room. I push open the door, and the sound of whispering gives me pause. Someone in a stall is on their cell. I hate when people talk on the phone in the restroom. I do my business and wash my hands. While at the sink, a woman emerges from the stall, and our eyes meet in the mirror. She holds my gaze for an instant, then backs up and shuts the stall door. What was that about? I leave, still curious about the whisperer, but I dismiss that thought and call Patty, my best friend and producer.

  “Gretchen, aren’t you in the middle of auditions?”

  “I am. But I couldn’t resist calling you. I’ve found our Sandra. She’s amazing.” I look around to make sure I’m not within earshot of any of the actors. “I can’t wait for you to meet her. You’ll be at the callbacks, right? I want the actors to meet you.”

  “Of course. What about Him?”

  “I’m about to audition someone now. I’d better go. I just had to tell you.”

  “Great. Get back in there. We can talk later. And please put in a call to Lance or even a text sometime today.”

  “I did a few minutes ago. Don’t worry—I promised myself I’d try to spend more time with him. As you know, it’s not easy because I have a lot going on. I do feel guilty though. He was all over me this morning.”

  “You don’t leave him any choice, Gretchen. You’re absent in the relationship. The only time he can get close to you is in bed.”

  “He said pretty much the same thing. I can’t help it. I’m obsessed with finishing the film.”

  “Well, don’t lose a good man in the process.”

  “You’re right. He is good. He even remembered to put banana slices on my pancakes this morning.”

  “You’d better get back in there, Gretchen.”

  “Yes. Talk to you later.”

  I set my phone on vibrate, slip it in my hoodie pocket, and return to the audition room. Jocelyn and Tabitha exchange curious looks. “Is everything okay?” Jocelyn says.

  “It’s fine.”

  She knits her brows and says, “We’re running way behind schedule, and the actors—like me—may have other appointments.”

  “Sorry about that.” This is my first time using a professional casting service, and it might end up being my last. Then again, Jocelyn’s right. I need to respect other people’s time. It’s not one of my strong suits. I can be easily distracted. “I’m ready.”

  Jocelyn turns to Tabitha and says, “Bring in Gary Franklin.”

  I sit next to Jocelyn, hoping Gary is as good as Vanessa.

  Chapter 4

  Regina

  My eyes scan the marble sink countertop and recessed lights above the mirror. They have nice restrooms in John Blakely Hall—School of Theater, Film, and Television. I wonder who John Blakely is. Whoever he is, he must be loaded to have a building named after him. Speaking of Him, that’s the film’s name. Maybe the writer got her idea from that movie called Her, about some guy who falls in love with a computer. Carol couldn’t get a copy of the full script, so I don’t know everything about this project, but based on the monologue, it doesn’t have anything to do with a computer.

  I pass my hand over my blue sweater and jeans, then splash water on my face, now thinking about my close encounter with Gretchen Holloway. I couldn’t believe she was standing at the sink when I came out of the restroom stall. I didn’t want her to see me. Before an audition, I’ve always felt it’s bad luck to be seen by someone involved in the project. And the last thing I wanted to do was try to engage her in some off-the-wall conversation. I could’ve acted like I didn’t know who she was, but that would’ve been weird. I barely recognized her, but that red hair is a dead giveaway, even though she’s wearing it in a ponytail. But what captured my attention was her Patriots hoodie. That’s who Robert wanted to play for. Maybe that’s a good omen—a sign I should go through with the audition. Or maybe that’s more evidence that this woman plagiarized my brother’s life story. I remove my water bottle from my purse and take a sip. I wince at the sight of Robert staring at me. “Don’t judge, Bro.” I slip the bottle back into my purse, glance at the time on my phone, then force myself to join my fellow thespians in the waiting area.

  On my way there, I notice the woman I saw in the parking lot, standing outside on the steps, yapping on her phone. I wish I could read lips. She’s excited about something. I wonder if she’s already been seen. I disregard her and enter the lobby. I sign in to the computer, have a seat, and once-over the room. Ten women here could easily play the mother, and twelve guys here could play Him. Of the twelve, only two could pass for Robert, and even that’s a stretch. The skin color is right, but the features are off. Robert was unique looking. We all turn toward the door when it opens. A guy in his early twenties, with close-cropped hair and wearing a football jersey, emerges, followed by a girl who looks like the subject of an Amber alert. She’s thin, with braces and scraggly blond hair. Looks to be no more than twelve. She thanks the guy as he leaves, then walks to the computer.

  “Lillian Brown.”

  A woman standing near the water fountain raises her hand, and I glance at the time on my phone. It should be my turn soon. They’re obviously running behind. All the actresses watch the competition follow the girl into the room. The door shuts, and we return to our phones, like junkies not wanting to miss a fix.

  “What time is your audition?”

  I turn toward the young man with a huge afro. “Eleven forty-five,” I say. “What about you?”

  “Noon. They’re running behind. And they’re probably seeing a lot of other people too.”

  “Looks that way.” I glance at the monologue.

  “I heard they’re seeing people until 6:00 p.m.”

  Gut-wrenching screams from inside the room halt my chitchat with Mr. Afro. As they reverberate through the lobby, my stomach lurches. The yelling is followed by sobbing. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I hear, “And now he’s dead. I’m not going to rest until I find his killer. You had no right to take my baby’s life. So help me God, I’m going to find his killer if it’s the last thing I do!”

>   The words cut through me like a blistering blade. Lillian Brown is good, damn good. Too good. I grip the sofa arm, memories from the night Robert was killed assaulting me. My mother pulling her hair out by the roots, crying uncontrollably, me in a daze, the neighbors crowding around, wanting to console her, but afraid of her fury. The neighborhood overtaken by police and an ambulance. Robert lying in a pool of blood, brain matter on the ground. I jump up, sick to my stomach, and leave. I don’t look back. Not even when Mr. Afro calls out to me. All I can think about is getting some air, getting the hell out of Dancing Hills.

  *****

  Brickman Street—12150 Brickman in Shady Grove. That’s where we used to live. I haven’t been there in twenty-five years. My mother was born December 1, 1950. That’s how I remembered our address. She said that’s how she knew the red brick house was the one she and my real father were supposed to buy. It was between that one and the one next door to it.

  Still at the university, sitting in my car in the parking lot, I snatch off my wig and run my fingers through my braids. I look like a madwoman. Red swollen eyes, mascara running. Carol’s gonna go ballistic when she finds out I bailed on the audition. I grab a tissue out of the box on the passenger seat and wipe my face. My vibrating phone demands my attention. I glance at it and roll my eyes. Taylor’s stalking me. I can’t talk to him now. I can’t bear to hear him lecture me.

  “I’m out of here,” I say, starting the car and backing out of the lot. I pull onto the street, trying to remember the way to Interstate 10. I don’t feel like messing around with the navigator. I turn right on Vista Avenue, and I spot the freeway sign up ahead, but something inside tugs on me to head to the old neighborhood—Shady Grove. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe this is what it’s all about, why I got the audition in the first place. What if none of this has anything to do with landing that part, but everything to do with going back to where the nightmare started? Maybe someone knows something now. Maybe after more than two decades, people are willing to talk.

  Stopped at a traffic light, I try to remember our old cross street. I’ll have to use navigation to get there. The light changes, and I pull into a strip mall. I park then click Google. “Driving directions to 12150 Brickman in Shady Grove.” I wait for the directions to appear. Dammit, Taylor’s calling again. I ignore him and get back on the road, headed to my old ’hood.

  After about ten minutes, I arrive at Hudson Park where we used to play. It’s near our old house. I slow to a crawl as I pass it, wondering where the old basketball court is. I look for the swimming pool, empty and stained, gang graffiti on its walls. But it’s nowhere in sight. The dilapidated recreation hall with busted windows is also missing. As I continue driving, I notice a modern building with the words Community Center/Gymnasium/Pool on the front. I do a double take at the state-of-the-art playground, filled with Hispanic women pushing babies in expensive-looking strollers and overseeing white kids and a few black ones, playing like they don’t have a care in the world—which they most likely don’t. I scrunch up my face. In the distance I see a tennis court, a baseball field, and an area with workout equipment. What the hell is going on?

  My eyes widen when I turn toward my right. The houses across the street from the park are freshly painted. Beautiful trees line the pristine streets. Taylor’s favorite word comes to mind: gentrification, the process of renovating and improving an area so that it conforms to middle-class taste. I’ll be damned. They’ve gentrified the old neighborhood. I wonder when all this happened. Nobody I knew growing up probably lives here anymore.

  I pass the park, and after a few miles I turn onto Brickman, sweat beading on my forehead. I blast the air conditioner and drive up our old street, still shocked at the transformation. I stop before I arrive at our old house, now painted white. I park a few houses down from it. What am I doing here? My phone rings. I don’t want to talk to Taylor. But I won’t have to, because it’s not him. The name flashing on the screen says Matchmaker.

  “What’s up, Cookie?”

  “I’m calling to see how your auditions went.”

  “They went.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I did the print one. It was okay, but I didn’t do the second one.”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Why? What happened? What’s up, Gina?” I imagine her shaking her head, the glass beads at the ends of her braids clinking together.

  “Some actress was in there before me crying, and it shook me up. I couldn’t do it.”

  “Damn, Gina. Is that why you haven’t returned my pop’s calls?”

  “He told you to call me?” I ask, thinking about the day in my acting class when Cookie told me she wanted to introduce me to her widowed father

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “What’s new?”

  “That’s not fair, Gina.”

  Guilt pings me in the chest. Taylor lost his twenty-five-year-old wife, Cookie’s mother, to ovarian cancer thirty-four years ago. He was only twenty-three, and Cookie was still in diapers. That gave him serious abandonment issues. Maybe that’s why he chose to hook up with a younger woman the second time around.

  When Cookie told me she wanted me to meet him, I told her I wasn’t interested, because I figured that with him losing his wife and being older, he’d have a lot of baggage. But Cookie convinced me to give him a chance. I told her she could give him my number, and he called me right away. He stuttered throughout the entire conversation. I thought it was cute. Then we had our first date. Cookie secured us reservations at an exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant. I chuckle reflecting on how uncomfortable and awkward he seemed in that setting. He’s a blue-collar country boy through and through. His eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when the hostess walked me to our table. Dressed in a tight-fitting black dress, I wore my hair down, and it cascaded onto my bare shoulders.

  *****

  As I neared the table in the rear of the restaurant, I tried to sneak a peek at Taylor. He was swiveling his bald head, taking in the other patrons and the ambience, fidgeting with his tie and his phone. He was a bundle of nerves, and he was fine as hell, especially for an older guy. When we reached the table, he jumped up and nearly upended it. I tried not to laugh. He apologized and helped me to my seat, while the hostess returned to her station.

  “You … uh … wow … your picture doesn’t do you justice,” he said, sitting, his eyes fixed on me.

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “Hmm … uh … you know … Hell, I’m nervous, Regina. I’m going to admit that right here and now. I don’t date much. I work a lot. And, woman, you have me shaking in my boots.”

  Watching him, my eyes misted, and my heart swooned. I was used to dating self-absorbed guys, who didn’t know the first thing about how to treat a lady. But I could tell Taylor was different. He was old school. He was a man—a real man, and I was glad I’d listened to Cookie. I placed my hand on his, and he grinned, revealing a sexy gap in his front teeth.

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The only thing I plan to bite tonight is a big, fat, juicy steak,” I said.

  He laughed heartily and said, “I like steak too. And you know what else I like?”

  “What?”

  “You. I like you Regina, and I want to see you again and again and again.”

  *****

  “Gina, are you there? You need to call him!”

  Cookie’s scolding voice jars me back to the present.

  “I haven’t had a chance to call him. And don’t you tell him I ditched the audition. I don’t feel like being lectured. Anyway, aren’t you at work?”

  “I’m taking a late lunch. Where are you now?”

  “You’ll never guess,” I say, sitting up ramrod straight when I see a white woman coming out of our old house, walking to the mailbox. She turns and waves to a Hispanic lady standing on the porch next door.

  “Where?”

  “My old neighborhoo
d.”

  “What are you doing in Shady Grove?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

  “I’m worried about you, Gina. It’s not like you to miss an audition. Carol is going to have a fit. I’m so glad I’m not acting anymore.”

  “Don’t remind me about Carol,” I say, eyes fixed on the slender, black-haired woman in a yellow sundress. “Look, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay, Gina. Please call my pops,” she says, hanging up.

  I take a deep breath and reach into my purse for my water bottle, but it’s not there. I grab my purse and rifle through it. Nothing. I search under the driver’s and passenger seats and in the backseat, but it’s nowhere to be found. My eyes sting, and I swallow hard, trying not to lose it. Where the hell is it? Oh, god, please let me find it.

  Lightning flashes crackle overhead, and I stare at the nickel-size raindrops splattering the windshield, hoping this downpour isn’t a bad omen.

  Chapter 5

  Gretchen

  I force my eyes to stay on the day’s final actor. My gaze dips to the credits listed on the back of his 8x10. They must be fake, because he doesn’t know the first thing about acting. Jocelyn, sitting next to me, is playing opposite him, reading the part of Sandra. It’s a scene where they’re celebrating Him being drafted by his favorite football team, and Sandra is telling Him how proud she is. Her words are supposed to move the actor, but I’ve seen rocks with more personality and emotion. I’m tempted to cut him off, especially now that it’s raining so hard it’s battering the skylight like hail. But I wouldn’t dare. Who knows how much rejection he’s had to endure? I don’t want to add to his misery.