by Sloane Tanen
Her mom took Janine to Nate ’n Al’s in Beverly Hills, where they ordered an enormous to-go lunch for the long bus ride: macaroni salad, coleslaw, sandwiches, chips, pickles, three-bean salad, turkey, a cola, and cookies. Pamela was so enchanted with herself in the fleeting role of Good Mother that she didn’t even flirt back with the cashier. It didn’t take much for Pamela to impress Janine. Janine was so hungry for her mother’s love that Pam buying her daughter a macaroni salad qualified as a satisfying substitute.
Pamela packed the lunch in a brown grocery bag and wrote Amy Tanner! on it. “You’ll get a gorgeous tan, Amy,” she said with a wink as she made room for the bag of food amid the bottles of Blue Nun, peach nectar, and canned tomato sauce in the fridge.
Two hours into the bus ride, Janine realized she’d left her lunch behind. She knew her mother would be furious. She tried not to think about Pamela as she watched Stacey Leary, her seatmate (and maybe new friend), unwrap a peanut butter sandwich from crumpled tinfoil.
“Are you sure you’re not the girl from that TV show?” Stacey asked again. “You even sound like her.”
Janine rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Stacey! Stop.” She tried to laugh it off the way she’d practiced, but she was feeling worn with hunger and anxiety.
“Is something the matter?” Stacey asked. She put her sandwich on her lap. Janine could feel herself begin to unravel.
“I forgot my lunch,” Janine said, choking on a sob. “I mean, it’s fine. I just, you know, my mom packed all this good stuff.”
“Oh no,” Stacey said. She rifled through her backpack and pulled out a Tiger’s Milk bar and a bag of Funyuns. “Does anybody have any extra food?” she shouted to the entire bus. “Amy forgot her lunch!” Stacey had been attending Camp Shasta since she was seven. She was the tetherball champ. She knew everyone.
“Thanks,” Janine said as she accepted the apples and unwanted sandwiches passed to her from all sides. She couldn’t believe the kindness being rained on her in the form of snack foods from strangers.
“You look real familiar,” a handsome older boy said as he handed a small bag of coveted Cheetos to her over the seat between them. Janine didn’t think he’d be as easily distracted from this topic as Stacey had been. According to the HELLO, MY NAME IS sticker on his T-shirt, his name was Brandon, and he looked like her friend Todd Bridges from Diff’rent Strokes. Todd was older, but the resemblance was uncanny. Brandon had on a Van Halen baseball cap turned sideways.
“I look familiar? Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” Janine said, which made him blush and chuckle to himself before turning back in his seat. Janine dissolved with relief that she’d defused yet another You look like Jenny Bailey moment.
“I can’t believe you said that!” Stacey pinched Janine on the arm and whispered in her ear, “He’s so cute! Doesn’t he look exactly like Todd Bridges?”
A few girls were helping to collect the handouts now. People had always liked Janine, but she’d assumed it was because of her powerful father or, more recently, because she was on TV. That she was already making friends as Amy Tanner was so thrilling, she could barely sit still. She couldn’t remember ever having felt so free. And they were only hours into what she was now sure was going to be the best summer of her life.
And then, like a sailboat listing to the port side, the whole vehicle seemed to slope as a group of children ran over to stare at a spectacle out the windows. There, traveling parallel to them, was a vintage white Mercedes convertible with what could only be a famous actress honking the horn and waving at their driver, clearly determined to make him pull over. Her platinum hair whipped around her perfect heart-shaped face. Janine fixed her eyes on the seat in front of her and slumped down on the sticky vinyl.
“Oh God, please, no,” she whispered.
“Do you know her?” Stacey asked.
“Kind of,” Janine answered as the bus driver happily pulled onto the shoulder to see what benevolence was about to be bestowed upon him. Janine swallowed and held her breath. The doors creaking open, followed by the sound of Pamela walking up the steps, cued Janine for the impending horror.
Within seconds, her mother was scanning the sea of astonished faces, sunglasses dangling from her mouth, cradling the enormous lunch bag like a baby. She was wearing flip-flops, a camisole with no bra, and silky shorts that Janine knew were her sleeping pants. Pamela spotted Janine and began waving at her like they were in a noisy, crowded airport rather than on a silent bus.
“Janine!” she sang out, walking toward her, wafting the scent of Marlboro Reds as she passed the rows of slack-jawed faces. A gasp from the chorus of children as Janine tried to melt into the seat. “Your lunch!” Pamela smiled, breathless. “You forgot your lunch!” She obviously expected Janine to be thrilled to see her, to tell her that she’d saved the day, that she was a hero. Janine just stared as Pamela thrust the enormous bag onto her daughter’s lap and stood before her, effectively naked. From the backseat came a snicker and then, to Janine’s horror, a wolf whistle.
“Thanks,” Janine said, torn between hot shame and disbelief that her mother had chased the bus for two hours to deliver her lunch. A silence ensued as the two looked at each other, both clearly disappointed.
“That’s your mom?” Stacey whispered.
“Janine!” Pamela snapped. “I mean, um, Amy,” she said, glancing at her daughter’s name tag. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”
Janine didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.
“Fuck it,” Pamela said, and she turned abruptly and walked off.
Janine understood that her mother had been trying to be kind. She could envision Pamela opening the fridge door, seeing the lunch bag, swearing to herself, then grabbing her car keys and hopping into the car without thinking about getting dressed or considering her daughter’s wish to be normal for a few weeks. Come hell or high water, Janine would have her special lunch because Pamela was feeling both generous and guilty. Janine understood all of this instinctively as she curled her body into a tight knot against the silence.
She’d stayed at Camp Shasta for three days. Once the other campers knew that she was Janine Kessler and not Amy Tanner and that she clearly had not wanted to be recognized (to the extent that she’d lied about her identity and dyed her hair), half of them treated her like a freak and the other half were awkward and deferential. She went to see Chip and the matter was settled.
Her mother, feeling neither generous nor guilty after the heated phone call from Marty, picked Janine up in Mendocino and they drove home in a long, smoke-filled silence.
Family Happens was renewed six weeks later in large part due to the popularity of Janine’s character. Her role would be expanded and the show would go on to be nominated for over sixteen awards, including two Emmys; Janine was nominated for three Youth in Film Awards. Her face would appear on magazines, lunch boxes, even a pink Swatch and a color-blending eye-shadow kit.
For many years, Janine thought about Amy Tanner and the life she might have had. She wondered what it would have been like to play tetherball with Stacey, make out with Brandon at the Sadie Hawkins dance, then return home after four weeks, filthy but happy, greeted by her smiling parents waiting eagerly at the bus station. She didn’t feel regret, exactly, but a piercing curiosity about how different everything could have been.
Marty
Marty was what they called a “chipper.” He never injected. Christ, no. He snorted only on Wednesdays and Saturdays and was strict about his schedule. No point getting addicted to heroin again. Not after all the money he’d spent in rehab. He carefully supplemented his habit with what he thought of as less addictive drugs—Ativan, Valium, Klonopin, and still the occasional Percocet. He considered his regimen a lifestyle choice. It worked well for him until something—or someone—ratcheted up his stress levels.
Since Amanda’s big announcement about her job offer at Sarah Lawrence, he’d been chipping a little more. Last Thursday he’d taken a much-needed quarter bump. H
e’d gone off schedule again on Sunday, finding himself requiring the same therapeutic amount. Just a little, but still. Sure, he could yell at Amanda, but what could he say that didn’t sound irrational? That he didn’t want her to leave? That it would be thoughtless of her to accept a better job in New York after finally leaving her useless husband and moving back to LA? What was the point of having kids if they moved to fucking New York the minute you got old?
Gail, of course, thought it was a fabulous opportunity for Amanda and her family. The salary would be better, and the offer included campus housing and a free ride for Hailey and Jaycee at a top-notch prep school on the East Coast. All that, and apparently Sarah Lawrence was a good school now. The drama department was a big deal.
“Jill Clayburgh and Joanne Woodward went there,” Gail had told him over dinner.
“Anybody since World War Two?” he’d asked.
She folded her hands on the table and narrowed her eyes. “Julianna Margulies, Emma Roberts, Lauren Holly.”
Marty grunted.
“Larisa Oleynik, Gabrielle Carteris, Melora Hardin.”
“Are you speaking English?”
“How ’bout Rahm Emanuel, Marty?” she asked. “Heard of him?”
“I doubt he spent a lot of time in the drama department,” Marty said, mildly disturbed that a mayor of Chicago had gone to Sarah Lawrence. Marty suspected that Gail’s convictions had less to do with his daughter’s welfare and more to do with having him all to herself. She especially liked having his credit cards and car all to herself.
Certainly, changing financial advisers hadn’t altered Marty’s financial situation. The meeting with Jim Keating hadn’t gone well. Keating, that glib Irish shit, had smiled condescendingly while informing Marty he’d be “broke as a joke” in six years. Six years! He’d gone so far as to insinuate that Marty’s portfolio wasn’t really SGDK material but that they’d take him on as a favor to Gail. A favor?
Marty kicked Keating’s desk, accidentally knocking over a shitty orchid, making it clear that he wasn’t looking for favors and that Jim wasn’t to breathe a word of his financial standing to Gail. He’d sooner celebrate the Fourth of July in Afghanistan than have Gail, or anyone, know he’d blown through the bulk of his savings. He’d be eighty-one years old in six years. Old, broke, and single. How the fuck had that happened? He wasn’t sure he even liked Gail but he didn’t want to be alone. Now he’d have to make a show of being rich, for Christ’s sake, just to prove a point.
He realized, as he stood to leave Keating’s office, that he’d hurt his foot kicking the goddamn desk. He could barely walk. Jim winked and pressed a button. A man in a suit arrived at the office door pushing an empty wheelchair. Marty looked at Jim. “Do all your clients leave in that thing?”
Keating nodded but didn’t laugh. Marty sat down in the chair and dry-swallowed three Percocets. Gail was idling in the parking lot when he was wheeled out. He limped over to the car and slid into the passenger seat without a word. Another humiliation.
Maybe a trip back to rehab was inevitable; it sure seemed like it a few days later. Marty had decided to take the car out on his own for some fresh air, and as he was backing out of his driveway, easing off the morning’s bump with a kratom-and-Valium cocktail, he heard a loud crunching sound followed by the sickening sensation of something solid giving way under the car. Christ! It never ended. He sat fuming in the driver’s seat, in no rush to get out and assess the damage. He let his head drop back on the headrest.
He was old and nobody gave a shit anymore. That’s what it boiled down to. Nobody gave a shit how decent a man he’d once been, how dedicated a father he was, or how many Academy Awards he had in the garage. He’d be remembered only for the ways he’d fucked things up, the ways he’d let his family down. He got out of the car and slammed the door hard, then looked underneath it and moaned.
Gail pulled up to the house as he was in the process of trying to hide the remains of the neighbor’s Fisher-Price Little Tikes basketball set that he’d backed over. She stood in the driveway with her hands on her hips and her mouth in an angry line, looking at him like he was a dog who’d taken a shit in the house. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t going to replace the goddamn thing. He just didn’t want anyone to see what he’d done. He watched as Gail made a rapid-fire calculation. Clearly, he didn’t just prefer that she drive when they went out, as he frequently said; he was actually often incapable of driving. It was also then, Marty knew, that she realized the extent of his habit.
“You’ve got to go back to rehab,” she said. “I just can’t take this insanity from you anymore.”
“What insanity?” He sat down on the mangled plastic backboard of the basketball toy, feeling dizzy. He tried a sheepish grin. She narrowed her eyes.
“Good-bye, Marty,” she said and turned to get into her car.
He couldn’t have any more leaving. After Pamela, Janine, Ed, and, possibly, Amanda, he couldn’t stomach it. “Fine,” he called out to her. “I’ll go back.”
It didn’t matter to him. He didn’t plan on living another six years anyhow. What better way to prove his financial health than by flushing his money down the toilet at rehab? Let Gail think she was the reason he’d agreed to join yet another circus of Jesus-loving fuckups. It was a good idea to clean up a little. Not that he planned on abandoning the cloudy, blissful world of Valium and opiates. No fucking way. He’d taper, but he had no intention of stopping. His situation was preposterous, but so were a great many things.
That’s how Marty suddenly found himself exiled from the comforts of his home and sent back for a sequel at Directions Rehabilitation Center in Malibu. Never mind that it hadn’t worked before. Gail was certain it would work this time because (a) she was there for him emotionally; (b) she’d happily visit often (Marty was sure she would, since it was a fashionable facility and conveniently located close to her house); and (c) the staff kept patients as long as they felt necessary. This also meant that Gail could enjoy both his credit cards and his absence for what might be months.
After Gail and Amanda (his younger daughter had insisted on joining them on the trip to rehab) were sent off with their family-orientation packets, two nurses, a man and a woman, carefully sifted through Marty’s suitcases. They took away his phone, his razor, his cologne, and the small stash of heroin he’d cleverly (or so he’d thought) taped between two book pages. They briskly confiscated the baggie. Then they took all his books, which he’d packed in a separate carry-on, and began loading the mountain of historical fiction into gray bins like contraband.
“What’s wrong with those?” he yelled. “They’re just books, I swear. Go ahead and look.”
“Approved fiction and self-help only,” the male nurse said as he sealed the bin and wrote something on the lid’s label in black ink. Marty had planned on doing a lot of reading here. In fact, his entire recovery plan had been to stay alone in his room and read.
“And what the hell am I supposed to do all day?” Marty asked the female nurse. “Color in mandalas? I don’t read self-help.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Kessler. We have plenty of other reading material.” Her name tag said VANESSA. Generally, Marty liked women better than men. He wasn’t so sure about Vanessa, though.
“Well, I can’t wait to begin my new education in horseshit,” he said, which failed to rattle her irritating calm. “I read my own books the last time.”
“The rules change for returning guests.”
“Along with the prices. Is that some kind of psychological deterrent? Charge more, give less? If I hear the name Deepak Chopra one fucking time,” he said, raising his finger, “one time, I’m gone.”
“I’m sure we can find something to your liking in our library.” Vanessa smiled. “If not, I can speak to your therapist about making an exception for you. Okay?”
My God, Marty thought, feeling appropriately small and ridiculous in the wake of her kindness. Why am I threatening this poor woman who is just trying to
do her job? It was one thing to treat the people close to you like shit, but Marty had always been respectful to the workers. That’s where he’d come from. He thought of Maria with a stab of grief. What a goddamn mess.
“I’m sorry, Vanessa,” he said. “I’m very tired. Please, call me Marty.”
“No need to apologize, Marty.” She took out his toiletry bag and began examining each item carefully. She paused at the discovery of a dirty, two-inch-long soft vinyl baby doll with matted hair, dressed in a worn yellow romper.
“A gift from my kids,” he explained, embarrassed by the mawkishness. “A long time ago.”
Baby Sweets was a vestige of the Sunshine Family, a coveted group of dolls he’d given to the girls one holiday. Marty had liked that twisted-looking baby and always chose him when the girls asked him to get down on the floor and play. Janine and Amanda had wrapped up Baby Sweets and regifted him the following year, renaming him Little Marty in his honor. Marty had kept that crazy baby next to his sink ever since, a sort of rabbit’s foot, standing at attention alongside his razor and colognes. He never left town without Little Marty inside his toiletry bag. He’d dragged him halfway around the world and back, from New York to Paris, Singapore to Spain.
Vanessa nodded, reassured that Little Marty wasn’t a drug mule, and put him back in the toiletry kit. Then she pulled the pillbox out of his messenger bag and emptied the contents into a large Ziploc.
“Wait. Those are prescription. I can’t sleep without those.”
“No benzos or opiates, Marty,” she said. She sealed the bag and handed it off.