Her Perfect Life

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “You’re getting Rowe,” she’d whispered to me once. “You think I don’t see?”

  “We’ll fix it in post,” I kept reassuring her. “I’ll be in the edit booth, you can look at the finished story before it airs. Give me a break, Lil, we had a deal. We won’t—” I stopped, not wanting to complicate things with Rowen. If she knew we were avoiding her face, it might spook her, so might as well avoid the whole ‘we’re protecting you from bad guys’ topic. “Don’t worry, Lily,” I said.

  We interviewed them both, looking forward to summer, blah blah, reading in the backyard, school field trips to the aquarium to see Rowen’s beloved penguins. I had a few doubts about exactly how well this was going to work, not showing Rowen’s face. And worried about the extent I’d have to throw our star under the bus to explain my way out of it. Out of self-preservation, I’d allowed the crew to shoot Rowe’s face anyway, and might still be able to convince her to let us use the video. I could always say we’d gotten it by mistake—those darn photographers—but since we had it …

  I’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

  CHAPTER 7

  LILY

  Lily had watched Rowen walking all the way up the wide cobblestones to the imposing front doors of the Graydon School, regretting, for the millionth time, that she couldn’t allow her daughter the real-life experience of public school. Lily herself had been just fine at Hamilton Elementary, even with the fragrance of chalk dust puffing through the classrooms and those awkward molded wood desks, impossible for a left-hander. But Rowen needed more protection than Lily’s parents could ever have imagined. More than Lily, back then at least, could have imagined.

  Until Cassie, of course. But maybe no one and nothing could have protected her. Sometimes, in the twisted memories of Lily’s brain, two of the most important people in her life merged into one.

  “Bye, Mumma!” Rowen, waving goodbye, was almost too far away to hear. Lily waved back from the front seat of her black BMW—an indulgence, but she needed Rowe to ride in a safe car—as Graydon’s doors closed, her daughter securely inside. Petra would pick her up at four, as usual, when Lily had to be at work.

  Such a juggle, Lily thought, pulling onto Channel 6’s chain-link-fenced back parking lot. Kind of a first-world juggle, though, she had to admit. The heavy metal gate lifted open as she inserted her key card into the slot, and she aimed her car at the parking place marked with her name. Was that a good idea? Anyone who came into the lot would know exactly whose car this was and could find her license plate number. Another example of celebrity’s pitfalls.

  “First-world problem, kiddo,” she told herself again, this time out loud. She took a sip from the insulated coffee mug in the console cupholder, feeling more relaxed in the fenced-in lot. She’d talked to a therapist about her constant suspicions, her hyper-assessment of every situation, but it hadn’t taken too many sessions for the professorial Dr. Hrones to latch onto the Cassie story.

  “You don’t like surprises, I can understand,” the psychologist had told her, looking over his wire rims. He’d made a note on a yellow pad with a fancy black fountain pen. “Perhaps that’s why you became a reporter. You always need to know the answers. But sometimes fear can be channeled, and quite successfully, into curiosity. And as a reporter, Lily, you’re allowed to question. Required to. As such, you’ve made a prudent life choice.” He’d pointed his pen at her. “What do you think?”

  She’d actually thought, Get me out of here. Respected doctor or not, he knew who she was, and where she worked, and one even inadvertent word to a tabloid reporter could give Lily another hashtag. #PsychoLily, maybe. Or #CrazyLily. She had to be careful who she talked to. Even perfectly trustworthy doctors. Nobody was perfectly trustworthy.

  “Could be, Stephen,” she’d told Dr. Hrones. And then, even though he was probably right, she canceled her future appointments. She didn’t need some wavy-haired guy in a tweed blazer to tell her how the loss of Cassie—the yearning to know what had happened—had changed her life.

  Still. She didn’t want to infect Rowen with her own persistent fear that the world was a dangerous place, even though it was. Being in a newsroom made it all the worse. The news was always bad, that’s what made it news. But kids should be happy and free. Feel safe. She’d protect Rowen from it all, as long as she could.

  Lily switched her mind to the day to come. She’d tried to forget about those lilies. Finally, she’d given them to Petra, who had swooped them up, vase and all, to take to her over-the-garage apartment.

  Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe she could make that philosophy work. For flowers, at least.

  The green numbers on the dashboard clock changed to 10:15. She’d be late for work, but Greer’d have to live with it. Lily was still unhappy about her producer’s pushy attitude at the taping yesterday. She was well aware the crew had taped Rowen’s face, but she’d deal with that later. Greer would be nowhere without me, the thought crossed her mind. Lily always got the feeling Greer was vaguely critical of everything Lily had or did. Or said. Or wore. Greer was always pushing her to be more careful, more special, more perfect. Perfection is in the perception, Greer constantly reminded her. You need to keep people loving you. She supposed Greer was right. Television was infinitely fickle.

  Replacing Greer would be a major pain. And if Greer insisted on trying to produce Lily’s entire life—what did it matter? As long as they kept succeeding. She looked at the cell phone, still in its holder on the BMW’s dash. Still stubbornly silent.

  Smith was the more important concern. He’d said he’d call.

  Coffee in hand, she began to gather her laptop and tote bag and, not even looking, reached out for her cell. When it buzzed, she flinched, and grabbed it so fast it flipped and dropped onto the carpeted floor.

  She twisted down to retrieve the buzzing thing, hitting the lid of her coffee on the center console, which dumped milky liquid onto the seat beside her.

  “Damn it!” she muttered.

  The phone buzzed again. Ignoring the spreading coffee, she dived for the cell, through a scattering of cookie crumbs and dog hair, finally scrabbling her fingertips around it, and pushed the green circle.

  “Hello?” The murky coffee on the black leather seat next to her began to seep into the decorative white stitching.

  “I hope I have not caught you at an inopportune time,” the voice said.

  Smith.

  “Not at all.” Lily scanned the parking lot, couldn’t help it. How’d he know to call after she’d parked and turned off the car? He might even be in the unfenced visitors’ lot in front of the station, ducked down in his seat. Maybe he’d waited for her to drive in. Watched for her. Would he have her in his sights when she got out? When she went into the building? It wouldn’t take a genius. She arrived at the same time, give or take, most days. Left at the same time, too.

  “So pleased to hear from you.” Lily kept her voice calm and congenial, but focused out the car’s windshield. No one in the driveway. No one on the redwood bench under the three rangy Norfolk pines. No one on the wide sidewalk that led to the low yellow-brick Channel 6 building. “You said you’d hit a roadblock yesterday.”

  “Indeed,” Smith said. “But before we get to that. I’m hearing there appears to be a—situation? Shall we say? At the Graydon School?”

  “A situation?” Lily tucked the phone against her shoulder, yanked on her seat belt, punched the ignition. Shifted into reverse. Gunned it. “At Graydon? What kind of a situation?” Lily pulled up to the metal gate. The striped bar now closed her in.

  “I cannot be sure,” the voice said. “Shall I call and check for you? Let you know?”

  She jammed her key card into the slot. Missed. The card hit the outside of the metal card reader, then spun to the pavement. “Damn it!”

  “Lily?”

  She slammed the phone into her holder on the dash, pushed open her door to retrieve the card.

  “Can you hold on, please?” Lily yelled,
making sure he could hear her. “I’m just—can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked, keeping her voice loud enough for him to hear. “Do I need to call 911?”

  She scraped the card from the asphalt, slammed the car door closed, tried again to get the card into the reader. Smith knew, he must know, her daughter was at Graydon. This wasn’t a coincidence, and whatever the hell was happening there was not a coincidence either. This was exactly what she feared, exactly, the fragile boundaries of her life disintegrating, with no key cards needed to invade her space. Or Rowen’s.

  “Nothing like that,” Smith told her. “I merely thought—”

  With a clank and a wheeze, the gate finally opened. Lily hit the accelerator.

  “—you might be grateful to be contacted. I am calling to assure you there is no need to worry.”

  She couldn’t decide if she loved his voice or hated it, wanted to hear it or wanted not to. Without him, she’d be inside Channel 6, oblivious to Graydon. Where her daughter was. And all the other children and teachers and—

  “What situation?” She heard her tone go harsh. He was toying with her. She couldn’t allow that. She would not be manipulated. “Mr. Smith? What situation?”

  “I assume you are on your way?” Smith said. “I need to go now, but I will be in touch.”

  She checked the rearview. Was he following her? He knew Rowen was at Graydon, there was no doubt about that. Lily herself had watched her daughter go inside. Maybe Smith had watched, too, maybe from the school’s parking lot. Just like he might have been watching Lily herself from the Channel 6 lot. From now on, she would never leave, never budge, until she saw those heavy doors close her child safely inside.

  “Wait, Mr. Smith? Thank you so much,” Lily said, trying to soften the edge out of her voice. “I would be so grateful if you would just tell me—” She’d accelerated through an almost-red light. Graydon was fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes of highway, then eternal suburban stoplights and crosswalks and who knew what other obstacles. Was she hearing a siren? She buzzed down her window. No. Yes? No.

  “Hello?” She hated, hated, the power he had over her. With the click of a cell phone button he could help her or hurt her. Tell her something true or not true. She hated him. She loved him. She needed him. And right now, so did Rowen.

  “Can you hear me?” she asked. She needed to call Headmistress Glover. Now. Rowen didn’t have a phone, of course; none of the students her age did. There was no way to contact Rowe, except through Maryrose Glover. Or by hurtling through the front door, which Lily was ready to do.

  She heard a dial tone. He’d hung up.

  “What?” Lily didn’t have time to be annoyed. She engaged the Bluetooth. “Call Graydon,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road. She sped onto a rotary, careened out the other side. She heard the phone connect. Heard someone pick up.

  “This is Lily Atwood,” she began. “I need—”

  “This is the Graydon School,” the recorded message talked over her. “Your call is important to us. Please leave a—”

  CHAPTER 8

  GREER

  It wasn’t like Lily to be late, I thought, looking at the clock on my computer screen. But then Lily could do what Lily wanted to do. Maybe she was still angry with me about yesterday’s taping. She’s not good at hiding her emotions, even though she thinks she is. I could never confront her about that counterfeit serenity. The minute I did, she’d work even harder at pretending. But I didn’t make the rules. I just followed them.

  And this morning, I, at least, had work to do. I sneaked my coffee into the “no liquids or food allowed” edit booth and logged in to the video screener. I searched for Lily House SOS—the unfortunate acronym for “Summer on Six”—which brought up the footage from the backyard. The sky pristinely blue, the clouds storybook puffy. The already-lush maple, with the morning sunshine filtering through its variegated leaves, made a soft rustle as the breeze trembled them. It was postcard-worthy in real life, but made for crappy video. That intermittent light dappled splotches on Lily’s face—and Rowen’s, too.

  “Not that it matters,” I muttered.

  It was crappy all around, I decided as I scrolled through the video, since Lily, totally savvy about where the camera was pointing, had done her best to keep Rowen’s face out of the shots. We had Lily and Rowen hand in hand, from behind, naturally. Their dumb dog bounding through the shot, Valentina, her name was, since the fluffy cocker spaniel had been Rowen’s Valentine’s gift. Which could be cute for the story. Lily had a photo of the puppy wearing heart-shaped deely-boppers tacked to her bulletin board. She’d pinned it next to a photo—a vintage one, with scalloped edges—of a little girl and a scraggly border collie. Once, I’d made the mistake of asking Lily who that girl was. “Is it you?” I’d inquired, trying to be friendly slash conversational. She shut that down, damn fast. I scrolled through the backyard video again.

  We had a close-up of Rowen’s croquet shot, with the thwack of the mallet hitting the ball. We did a few takes as she attempted to get the ball through a wicket. We’d only use the successful ones, of course. Everything Lily and her family does is perfect, that’s the message we send. Preposterously, a butterfly danced into the shot, flittering its white wings above mother and daughter. Only Lily’s universe could make that kind of moment happen, a gentle Snow White comes to contemporary Massachusetts, her adoring forest creatures surrounding her.

  I double speeded through it all, as usual. Cute, cuter, even cuter. I could see things just as clearly twice as fast—real-life speed seemed agonizingly slow. The light changed on the video, a burst of snow and then black, and then out of focus/into focus on Lily’s face.

  We’d slipped the mic cord up Lily’s shirt to hide it, and clipped the tiny mic to one side of the ribbed collar. She’d draped her hair over one shoulder so her glossy curls wouldn’t interfere with the sound.

  “This is absurd,” she said. “I’m in my backyard with full makeup and three extra lights. Very natural.”

  “You look great,” I assured her. “It’s TV.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Lily said, as Wade zoomed in then out again. “Sound check, sound check.”

  “Sound check!” Rowen crowed.

  “What’re you seeing in the background?” I heard my own voice on tape, since I’d stood behind Wade to make sure the camera placement didn’t include a tree sticking up behind Lily’s head, or stark slashes of light, or reveal the shiny green garden hose that coiled like a serpent in the back corner of the lawn.

  “Rolling,” Wade said. Warren had tilted the fill light to soften any darkness that dared mar Lily’s face. Rowen sat next to her mother, her little legs barely reaching the grass below her white wooden chair, her white Mary Jane sandals grazing the green tips of the manicured lawn. Valentina, at the beginning of the interview at least, had plunked at their feet, head on oversize paws.

  “Ready?” I asked. Viewers would not hear my questions on camera, but it was more conversational, more engaging, to have Lily responding. Lily nodded, fussed with her hair. She didn’t look happy. But I knew she would change that as soon as the interview started.

  “So, Lily,” I began, and as expected, her faced bloomed into a soft openness. So happy to see you all, her expression seemed to say. So thrilled to know you. “Let’s talk first about why we’re not seeing Rowe—I mean, your daughter.”

  “Welcome to our home, everyone,” Lily said, not answering my question. So Lily. “My daughter and I are so pleased to share some of our summer plans with you. But I—and I know you parents will all agree.” Big Lily smile. “Privacy is so important these days, and although I’d absolutely adore for you to meet my daughter and get to know her, she’s a little shy, and I’m proud of her for being confident enough to tell me. And, of course, I respect her wishes.”

  I almost burst out laughing, and I could see the consternation cross Rowen’s face. What her mother had said on camera was completely untrue. And I’d been baffled at t
he time—we’d discussed that Lily would offer a plea for family privacy, make it stem from her own maternal concerns. Make it a thing. Lily adores hashtags, she’s obsessed with them, and we’d talked about creating a special one for this, #FamilyOffLimits. Maybe #ProtectRowen. Or #OurSpace. This was a detour.

  “I see,” I’d told her, making it clear from my tone that I didn’t. I could have signaled Wade to stop rolling, but Lily was looking at me, bright-eyed and ingenuous, and I thought, What the hell.

  “Great,” I chirped, again making it obvious it wasn’t. “Sounds like you’re raising a very wise little girl.” #SaveRowen? “Tell us about your summer plans, though. Are you two doing the same kinds of things you did as a child? Were you a onesie like your daughter? Or did you have siblings?”

  For such a seemingly innocent question, Lily’s face—even in her confident on-air mode—betrayed some sort of shadow. Sorrow, I decided, after all my years as an interviewer. Then—anger? Then the placid Lily face. Then a tinkle of laughter. “Oh, you bring back so many wonderful memories. Yes, absolutely, we played croquet on our big front lawn—it probably wasn’t as big as I remember, since I was my daughter’s age back then. And we played Statue, and Duck-Duck-Goose—and summer seemed like it would last forever. But now I’m so happy to have our summers in Boston, and we do plan to try to get to the Cape. Of course. And maybe a trip to the beautiful north shore.”

  She crossed her slim legs, the effortless white tee moving with her body, her shoulders tilting at a practiced and flattering angle, her hair obedient.

  This summer, they’d have their personal book club, Lily went on, blah blah, play soccer, go for ice cream, and bicycle together. “We’re both still beginners.” Lily laughed. “But we love mother-daughter biking.”

  Whatever her faults, Lily always put mothering first. Sometimes, in my opinion, when she didn’t need to. Maybe Lily had spoken with her daughter earlier that morning and explained about privacy. Because why bother to tell me about it, right? I leaned back in the rickety swivel-chair and took a sip of my contraband coffee, making sure no drink police were looking through the window in the edit booth door.