There's a Word for That

by Sloane Tanen

  So it really was no surprise that as soon as her father retired, as soon as the spotlight shifted, Los Angeles had no use for him. Once the phones stopped ringing and the meetings ceased, once the maître d’ no longer had a table for him, Marty was left with nothing to do but convince himself that he didn’t care, that he didn’t mind the long empty hours.

  Janine lay back down on her bed, curled herself into a ball, and reluctantly considered the silence. Perhaps her favorite thing about Manhattan was the general chaos. It kept her from getting trapped in her head and revisiting the phantoms of her childhood. But the smell of eucalyptus paired with the muted purr of LA—a Pavlovian trigger—invariably pitched her back to those days. Most of her memories were painted in broad strokes now, but the details of the afternoon her mother died were so finely etched, Janine could trace every line.

  It came back to her now: The sound of her flip-flops slapping the floor as she ran into her mom’s house, late after her swim lesson, hoping Pamela wouldn’t be angry. She’d been so desperate not to drain Pam’s limited maternal generosity with a stupid mistake like being late. Her silver Emmy dress with the crystal sweetheart neckline was carefully laid out on the dining-room table. But nobody was home. There was no note. No blinking light on the answering machine. Janine had walked through every room, calling her mom, wondering if there had been some mix-up. Was she supposed to meet her mother at the tailor’s? But the dress was here, so that couldn’t be right. Pam’s Mercedes wasn’t in the garage. Janine had quickly showered and put on a lace blouse she hated but that her mom had given her the year before. She walked through the rooms again, breathing in the stale smell of cigarettes and popcorn, as if maybe she could have overlooked her mother the first time. She’d finally called Maria to pick her up and take her to the tailor’s before they closed.

  Pamela didn’t show up at the fitting. Janine figured her mom had simply forgotten and gone to an aerobics class or to see a double feature, or maybe she was with Randy, the latest loser in her diminishing pool of suitors. Or possibly she was in one of her creepy moods, in which case Janine preferred to be with Maria anyway. Those moods had been more frequent of late, signaled by the peculiar flatness in her mother’s voice as she talked about her crackpot business ideas or went on long rants about the injustices of aging. Pam would say Logan’s Run was her all-time-favorite movie. She was taken by the idea of dying before she got “old and ugly.”

  Janine had been joking around in the car with Maria when she found out. The phone rang. It was a novelty to have a phone in the car back then, and the contraption was giant, the size of a man’s shoe. Her dad had had it installed because Maria was usually the one conveying Janine to the set, to the pool, or back and forth between her parents’ houses. “Hi, Dad!” she said, always happy to hear from him, to talk about nothing. But his voice was somber and he’d immediately asked to speak with Maria. Without even hearing the conversation, Janine knew that her mother was dead. She made herself rigid. Maria pulled the car over and wept.

  At the time, Janine had conceived of the suicide as her mother’s way of ensuring that Janine didn’t get to go to the awards ceremony. It was the kind of thinking only a fifteen-year-old girl could come up with, but it felt true just the same. When she thought back to that afternoon, she always remembered how still the house had been and how uncomfortable the blouse had felt buttoned high around her neck. She recalled staring at the dashboard of Maria’s car, feeling not grief or sadness but guilt and relief.

  She still wondered what kind of person felt that way, what sort of daughter. Her therapist at McLean had tried to explain that experiencing relief at the death of a difficult parent was normal, but Janine didn’t believe him. She should have been devastated; in fact, she felt she should have kept it from happening in the first place. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know her mother was depressed. Even though Janine was only fifteen, that much was clear. Her mom had taken to spending entire days watching TV and smoking cigarettes. She ate nothing but Jiffy Pop.

  Now here she was, twenty-five years later, feeling every bit as useless as she watched her father spiraling down through his own slower, more insidious self-destruction. She looked out the window again at the overgrown backyard. She stood and got dressed for the day.

  The kitchen was spotless, and there was ground coffee. She brewed a cup and poured it into one of the Italian mugs she had bought with her father on a trip to Rome years ago. Then she scalded her tongue. There’d been no milk or cream in the fridge, and the freezer held only pints and pints of half-eaten Ciao Bella pistachio gelato.

  She’d go to the market right away. God knew, she was in no rush to get to Directions. There was nothing like visiting her dad in rehab to illuminate how far he’d fallen in the world. Every stint at rehab, Janine knew, confirmed Marty’s fear that he was no longer essential, that in getting old, he’d become useless. She had to brace herself for the way he’d look at her almost confusedly for a minute, disappointed that she was no longer twelve—not because he loved her less for growing up, but because he’d liked himself so much more when she was young.

  Henry

  Henry woke to a series of chillingly hostile texts from Risa. He stopped reading after she accused him of never being the man his mother was. He couldn’t argue with her there.

  He was expected at the rehab facility at eleven o’clock. Had it not been for the evening with Risa, he couldn’t have imagined a less agreeable activity. Certainly he wouldn’t be engaging in whatever New Age therapy they were spooning out. He’d say his hellos and make a dash for the exit. If he’d learned one thing in his youth, it was that nothing good ever came from trying to have a real conversation with his mother. Keeping a detached air and a few thousand miles between them was the key.

  He found his Subaru transformed in the carport. The windshield wipers had been broken off and the word A-hole was scrawled (in Risa’s handwriting, with her Sensodyne toothpaste) across the glass. Risa wasn’t one for brevity, so she must have been running out of toothpaste and figured abridgement was required. Nice to think that, if nothing else, her teeth were sensitive.

  Henry set his coffee cup on the roof of the Subaru and went to get paper towels and Windex. Of course he wished he’d handled things better but he didn’t regret the split, especially when he returned and discovered the difficulty of removing toothpaste (and what appeared to be a thick underlayer of petroleum jelly) from window glass. He did the best he could.

  As he was finally backing out of the driveway, he realized he’d forgotten the coffee, which toppled off the Subaru’s roof and spilled down the windshield. How astonishing that the day could be off to such a shit start and he hadn’t even seen his mother yet.

  The drive to Malibu was interminable. Over an hour later, his GPS seemed to be directing him curiously close to the Getty Villa. Not that he wouldn’t prefer to spend the afternoon ambling through that glorious Roman estate, admiring the art of Greece, Rome, and Etruria. Dear God! he thought, panicked. What if the Getty had been turned into a rehab center for the rich and famous? That seemed just the sort of thing someone would do these days. Very few people went to museums in LA, but everybody went to rehab. Etruscan antiquities didn’t stand a chance.

  The GPS directed him past the Getty, and, relieved, he kept going. After a series of hairpin turns, he landed in front of an imposing iron gate with the words SOBRIETY IS FREEDOM emblazoned across the upper half. An odd choice, he thought, one that couldn’t help but remind him of ARBEIT MACHT FREI on the gates of Auschwitz. He wondered briefly if this was all some sort of a joke when the gates opened and he saw an architectural atrocity that made Gaudí look like a minimalist. The smattering of fountains and waterfalls was offset by an assortment of grassy knolls and a large circular driveway. The building itself was enormous. A Mediterranean Revival style with a nod to the Chinese apparent in its hip-and-gable roof. A valet in white shorts was helping a woman with cropped brown hair get out of a red Honda Civic. Henry took a
deep breath.

  “Are you visiting or checking in?” another valet asked Henry. His name tag read TODD.

  “Visiting,” Henry said in a loud voice.

  Todd looked askance at the sludge on Henry’s windshield before directing him to the main lobby.

  People in bathrobes and leisurewear populated the sunny main atrium. The staff wore uniforms like Todd’s, white shorts and polo shirts with name tags. Henry’s gaze was drawn to an old man in a wheelchair having coffee. Was he an addict? A barefoot girl in a sundress came running through the lobby holding a tennis racket. She looked all of fifteen.

  The woman he’d seen get out of the Honda was standing in line at a reception desk. He took his place behind her while a jumpy young man, dressed in a tank top and shorts, hopped into the line after him. The woman was wearing baggy blue jeans and a man’s shirt, loose around the collar, so Henry could see her long necklace disappearing down her back.

  The man behind Henry reached over him and tapped the woman on the shoulder. “Hey, do I know you?”

  She turned to him, surprised. “I doubt it.”

  “You’re Jenny Bailey.”

  She turned back around and stared at the floor. “No.”

  “Yes, you are,” he said, maneuvering forward so that he was standing in front of her. He waved his finger playfully. “I remember you. You were on TV.” He grinned idiotically.

  Henry pretended to be reading a text on his phone. He turned it off, slipped it into his pocket, and began cleaning his already pristine glasses with his shirt.

  A woman whose name tag read CORNELIA approached them at a fast clip. “What are you doing here, Doug? We’ve had this conversation. So many times.”

  “I’m just fuckin’ around,” he said and laughed. “Remember her, Cornelia? It’s Jenny Bailey. What’s your real name, Jenny Bailey?”

  The short-haired woman looked at Cornelia, accidentally catching Henry’s eye. He yawned, feigning a lack of interest.

  “I’m very sorry,” Cornelia said to her with an apologetic grin. “Are you checking in?”

  “No, I’m here to see my father.”

  Henry nodded and raised his hand as if to indicate that he and Jenny Bailey had something in common.

  They all looked at him.

  “Well, no, I’m not here to see her father,” he said. “I’m here to see my mother.”

  “And I thought you were just eavesdropping,” she said. Doug laughed at that.

  Mortified, Henry began fiddling with his glasses again.

  “Sorry about the confusion,” Cornelia said. “The visitors’ check-in desk is to the left, just around the corner. Do you have appointments?”

  “At eleven o’clock,” Henry said, flushing.

  Jenny Bailey shook her head.

  “I’m afraid appointments are required. You can make one over there.”

  “But he’s expecting me today.”

  “I’m sure they can fit you in later.”

  “Okay,” she said, visibly irritated. “Thank you.”

  “Of course. And sorry I don’t recognize you. I know I should.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not…I’m nobody.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Cornelia said with a friendly wave, ushering Doug out of the room.

  “Perhaps a good thing,” Henry said, trailing Jenny Bailey to the appropriate area.

  “What’s that?” she asked, stopping just short of the check-in desk. She looked at Henry as if surprised to find he was still there.

  “Being nobody.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said with a half smile. “I think it might be.”

  “Henry,” he said, extending his hand. “Henry Holter.”

  “Bond,” she said after a brief pause, not taking his hand. “James Bond.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I gather we’re keeping it anonymous?”

  Henry stared at her blankly, momentarily distracted by how pretty and unassuming she was.

  “Henry Holter?” she asked. “Really?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Right. That’s actually my name.”

  “Well,” she said, turning away from him and walking toward the person behind the counter, “say hi to the Winwicks for me.”

  “Right.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and tried to smile.

  Why was it that every failure, every loss, every humiliation could be traced so directly back to his mother? Some men would assuredly say he should get over it, grow up, and move on. Well, he’d like to see one of these men walk up to an attractive woman, offer his hand, and say, “Hello, I’m Christopher Robin, care to dance?”

  Bunny

  Who needed to drink when the circus was in town? Bunny was having the time of her life at Directions. She loved walking about, staring at people, listening to strangers divulge their most personal details to any available set of ears. And the anonymity! Amazing what two black eyes, a bandage, and a hair clip could do. Nobody seemed to recognize her, or if people did, they were doing a superb job of pretending not to care. Being a writer in Malibu was like being an anchovy at an aquarium—nobody stopped to look at you.

  She hadn’t attended a group meeting yet, but she’d had a pedicure and a hot-stone massage in the spa. She’d even had a private yoga class on the lawn. The only fly in the ointment was that Bettina had packed for her, so there wasn’t a bit of linen or cotton to be found in her suitcase. Bettina clearly had no idea where Malibu was. Judging from the contents of Bunny’s suitcase, she must have thought it was somewhere in Antarctica.

  “If only they hadn’t rushed me out of my flat like some sort of fugitive,” Bunny said to Mitchell, the founder of Directions, pulling at the turtleneck of her oversize cashmere sweater en route to the meeting room. “I can’t go in there like this. I’m so bloody hot.”

  Mitchell stopped short and looked at Bunny meaningfully. “I know you’re nervous. It’s going to be fine. You’ve got to trust me. Can you do that, Bunny? Trust me to be your guide on the path to healing?”

  “Mm,” she said, because what response was there to such drippingly Californian parlance? She was anxious about seeing Henry. He was the only reason she’d agreed to come to Los Angeles. She could never understand why their conversations over the phone always quickly devolved into arguments. He was very hard to read with all those miles between them. What they needed was face-to-face time.

  Mitchell began walking again. Bunny trotted alongside him. She suddenly felt weak with misgivings. Her bitterness toward Henry had been reduced to a simpering desire for his affection. Whatever grudges she held toward her son never lasted. She always sensed that somehow he had a right to be angry with her, that she’d done something terrible to him. But what? What had she ever done but love that boy?

  “It’s nice to see you, Mum,” Henry said, standing up to give his mother two mechanical kisses on the cheeks. She touched her face self-consciously, waiting for him to make a comment about the injuries, but he didn’t. He smiled tightly and sat down. Then he looked at Mitchell, who had taken a seat, and asked, “Are you staying?”

  Mitchell nodded. “I’ll be mediating.”

  “I see.” Henry looked confused. “I thought this was just a family visit.”

  “It is,” Mitchell said. “A mediated family visit. We recommend a week of family therapy before our guests attend their first group session.”

  “Mm.”

  “You look wonderful, Henry. Doesn’t he look wonderful, Mitchell?” Her eyes were wet as she settled into the chair across from her son. Bunny felt a surge of pride and affection. She couldn’t wait to set things right. “Have you lost weight?”

  He nodded. “I’ve been on antibiotics for my ear for a few—”

  “Oh.” Bunny laughed and turned to Mitchell. “Henry and his silly ears. He’s always on antibiotics for something or other. God knows where he gets his fragile constitution. Not from me, I can assure you.”

  “It does help to have your organs pickled in gin,
” Henry said, stiffening. “Inhospitable for bacteria and such.”

  She shrank away from him. The phone wasn’t the problem. Henry was the problem. He was so self-righteous, so quick to accuse her, to attack her. All she’d done was say he looked thin. “Maybe a drink’s just what the doctor ordered, then.” Bunny narrowed her eyes. “God knows I always thought you could use one.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know you thought of my needing something. I was under the impression you felt children were like sea turtles, self-sufficient from birth.”

  “These must be the sorts of intellectual nuggets one can pick up only in Los Angeles.” Bunny looked at Mitchell, waiting for him to step in. “Sea turtles indeed.”

  “Fantastic,” Mitchell said, clapping his hands.

  Henry inhaled dramatically as he began massaging a little Buddha head placed in a bowl of potpourri on the table next to him. He exhaled very slowly before speaking. “I’m not doing this with you. I promised myself I wasn’t going to get manipulated into a scene, and I’m not going to.”

  Bunny was outraged. “Do you see now, Mitchell? Do you see the way he just attacked me? He calls me manipulative and then behaves as if I’ve done something wrong. Why, Henry? I was so looking forward to today.”

  “Oh, me too, Mother. There’s nothing a son fancies quite so much as visiting his mother at a sanatorium.”

  “It’s not a sanatorium! I’m trying to get help.”

  “Ian and Dad are trying to get you help,” Henry said in a controlled whisper. “You simply spin this way and that, knocking everyone down in the process. Though from the look of things, you’ve managed to knock yourself about a bit this time.”