One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies

by Sonya Sones

  and—

  Oh my God!

  It’s him!

  He’s slipping through the first-class curtain,

  passing right by me with this big grin on his face,

  motioning for me to meet him at the back of the plane.

  I manage to levitate over the sleeping giant next to me,

  and float down the aisle right into Ray’s arms.

  He wraps me into a hug so hot

  that I practically burst into flames.

  We slip into the bathroom,

  and lock the door.

  Then, without even saying a word,

  we start kissing.

  And we kiss and kiss and kiss

  until I can feel his kisses running all through me.

  And now he’s starting to unbutton my shirt and—

  that’s when I wake up.

  No!

  I don’t want any honey-roasted peanuts.

  It Figures

  The pilot just announced

  that there’s a breathtaking view

  of the Grand Canyon

  for the passengers who are seated

  on the left side of the aircraft.

  Guess which side

  I’m sitting on?

  Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Beginning Our Dissent

  Will the passengers in coach class

  please return your seat backs and tray tables

  to their full upright positions for landing.

  And will the passengers in first class

  please take a moment

  to stow their personal footrests

  beneath their seats.

  Their personal footrests?!

  Oh, and if it’s not too much trouble,

  would they mind returning

  their empty champagne bottles

  and caviar buckets

  to their personal in-flight servants?

  Those first-class passengers

  who are still submerged

  in their individual hot tubs at this time

  should take this opportunity to climb out

  in order to allow their geishas

  sufficient time to towel them dry.

  At this time we must also request

  that all the exotic dancers

  place their clothes back on their bodies,

  and that all masseuses fold up and stow

  their portable massage tables in the massage table bin

  located at the rear of the first-class cabin.

  Kindly take a moment to hand

  your monogrammed cashmere blankets,

  your imported goose down pillows,

  and your exclusive complimentary

  American Airlines Armani bunny slippers

  to your personal in-flight butlers

  for placement in the overhead compartments.

  Thank you for flying with American Airlines.

  We hope that all of you,

  even the scum

  who could only afford coach class,

  will have a very pleasant stay here

  in the Los Angeles area.

  The air quality at the present time

  is hideously unhealthy

  for all living creatures.

  That’s L.A. Down There

  Lurking under a curtain

  of olive brown mist

  that’s hanging over it

  like a threat.

  That’s L.A. down there,

  simmering in that murky smog stew.

  But from where I’m sitting,

  it looks more like

  Hell A.

  I Didn’t Want to Get on This Plane

  But now I don’t want to get off it.

  I gather up my stuff in slow motion

  and make myself follow

  the sumo wrestler down the aisle,

  past the flight attendants standing by the cockpit,

  grinning and nodding at me

  like those bobble-head dogs

  that people stick on the

  dashboards of their cars.

  I force myself to step through

  the gaping steel jaw of the doorway,

  and inch down the corridor of doom,

  balancing on the tightrope

  of dirty gray carpet,

  painfully aware that every step I take

  is leading me

  closer and closer

  to the sperm donor himself.

  There He Is

  The Whip Logan.

  In three whole dimensions.

  I don’t know whether

  to ask him for his autograph,

  kick him in the balls,

  or run.

  So I Don’t Do Anything

  I wish I felt

  like racing over to him

  and flinging my arms around his neck.

  I wish I felt

  like telling him I love him

  and all is forgiven.

  I wish I felt

  at least a tiny bit

  glad to see him.

  Not that my feelings

  exactly appear to matter to him

  one way or the other.

  He’s too busy signing autographs

  to even notice

  that I’ve gotten off the plane.

  I Watch Whip Logan

  Chatting away

  with his giggling fans,

  scribbling on all their scraps of paper,

  and their arms

  and their T-shirts

  and their whatevers.

  I watch him

  being so damn friendly

  to everyone,

  and

  I feel—

  what do I feel?

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  Zip.

  Zero.

  Uh Oh

  He’s spotted me.

  That nice comfortable

  nothing feeling

  just morphed into dread.

  Here He Comes

  The guy from whose

  ridiculously famous loins I sprang

  is heading straight toward me.

  He’s walking right up to me,

  smiling at me

  just like he smiled at Gwyneth Paltrow,

  in that sappy opening scene

  from The Road to Nowhere.

  My real, live, honest-to-goodness dad

  is standing here right in front of me

  saying, “You must be Ruby.”

  Who wrote this dialogue?

  I want to say, “No, duh.”

  I want to grab him by his collar and scream,

  “Where have you been all my life,

  you worthless piece of—”

  But the words

  get all fisted-up in my throat.

  So I just nod.

  Then his eyes start getting all blurry,

  exactly like they did when

  he was reunited with Julia Roberts

  in that terrible remake of It’s a Wonderful Life, and he puts his arm around my shoulder,

  just like he put his arm around hers.

  Gag me.

  So I duck down,

  pretending I have to tie my shoe.

  And when I stand back up

  he doesn’t pull any more of that

  arm-around-the-shoulder,

  I’m-your-famous-movie-star-father crap again.

  At least he’s capable of taking a hint.

  “Welcome to California!”

  He says it like he’s rehearsed it.

  But he says it like he means it.

  Like he really, really means it.

  Well,

  so what if he does?

  Because I’m here to tell him

  that he can’t just ooze out

  onto the stage of my life

  and play my father.

  Not after Mom did all the hard work

  of teaching me to be a decent human being,

  which is something he obviously couldn’t have don
e

  even if he’d bothered to try

  since he clearly doesn’t know the first thing

  about being one himself.

  I’m here to tell him

  that this is going to be

  the toughest role he’s ever had to play.

  Suddenly

  A billion flashbulbs are exploding all around us

  and people are shouting and pushing and shoving

  and sticking cameras in our faces

  and crowding so close

  that it feels like we’re in a mosh pit.

  “Whip! Whip!” they’re calling

  from every direction at once.

  “Is that your long lost daughter?”

  “She looks just like you!”

  “Come on, honey, smile for the camera!”

  “Hey, Ruby, look over here!”

  “Put your arm around her, Whip!”

  “Come on, Miss Logan, give us a smile!”

  “Damn paparazzi,” Whip says under his breath,

  and then all of a sudden

  these four incredible hulks muscle through the throng

  and link arms to make a pathway for Whip and me.

  “Thanks, guys,” he says as we rush past them.

  “We’ll see you back at the house.”

  Then he grabs my hand and starts running

  toward the limo that’s parked out front.

  “I’m so sorry, Ruby,” he says,

  as we leap inside and it speeds away.

  “I hired a look-alike to throw the reporters off the track,

  but I guess it didn’t work.”

  Is that all you’re sorry for, Whip?

  It’s Creepy Being in a Limo

  Because the only other time

  I was ever even in one

  was on the way to Mom’s funeral.

  And there’s a movie star in this one.

  He’s sitting right across from me,

  staring at me like I’m a movie star.

  Only this movie star

  is my father.

  How bizarre is that?

  He’s just sitting here,

  staring at me,

  trying to catch his breath.

  And now his eyes are getting

  all disgustingly misty and he’s saying,

  “You look so much like your mom.”

  Whoa.

  I feel like I’m the co-star

  of one of those gruesome soap operas

  and the director’s going to start shouting “Cut!”

  if I don’t get a grip

  and remember my line.

  So I say, “You’re a lot shorter

  than you look on the screen,”

  practically spitting the words in his face.

  But he just smiles at me,

  that same smile that he smiles

  in all his movies,

  and says,

  “I’m sure glad you’re here.”

  Cut. Cut! CUT! CUT!

  Sightsniffing

  Whip tells the chauffeur to turn left on California

  and take the Pacific Coast Highway to Sunset.

  Then he presses a button on the control panel

  and the tinted window floats down.

  Across an expanse of strangely duneless sand,

  I catch my first glimpse of the Pacific.

  A little thrill runs through me.

  I’ve always loved the ocean.

  The sound of it, the feel of it…

  And I guess this one’s pretty enough.

  But there’s something weird about it.

  It doesn’t smell right.

  In fact, it doesn’t smell at all.

  That’s what’s wrong.

  I fill my lungs with what should be sea air.

  But I might as well be in Nebraska.

  I can’t pick up even the vaguest whiff

  of seaweed or salt.

  What kind of an ocean is this, anyway?

  “You Wanna Stretch Your Legs?”

  Whip asks me,

  all boyish and perky

  and so deeply upbeat

  that I want to slug him.

  But he doesn’t wait for me to answer.

  He just tells the chauffeur

  to pull into a beach parking lot.

  “Let’s take off our shoes,” he says.

  He tears off his $200 Nikes,

  leaps out of the limo,

  then turns and offers me his hand.

  Which I pointedly do not take.

  I slip out of my Payless sandals

  and suddenly find myself sprinting across

  the silky heat of the sand

  toward the waves.

  I might have been able

  to enjoy this moment,

  if Whip wasn’t prancing along

  right next to me.

  We don’t stop

  till our toes are in the water.

  “I’ve always loved the ocean,” he says.

  “The way it feels, the way it sounds …”

  And when I hear these words,

  something flickers on and off inside of me,

  like a tiny flash of lightning.

  And I suddenly feel like sobbing.

  The tears surge to my eyes,

  swelling and stinging like salty waves.

  But I don’t cry

  I never do anymore.

  Not since Mom.

  I guess I must have used up

  my entire lifetime supply of tears

  on the night she died.

  Whip Stares Out at the Water

  “Maybe we’ll spot some dolphins,” he says.

  And just then,

  I see this sleek fin slice through the waves,

  this shining fin attached to the back

  of a velvety gray creature

  that leaps up through the spray.

  Suddenly I’m one big goose bump.

  I’ve never seen a dolphin in the ocean before.

  Only the one at the aquarium.

  And wow!

  There’s another one. And another.

  It’s a whole family of them!

  Cresting through the waves.

  Spinning on their tails.

  Like they’re putting on a show just for us.

  And now they’re close enough

  for me to see the smiles on their faces.

  I’m not kidding—they’re actually smiling!

  And then I notice that Whip is, too.

  But at me.

  So I wrestle the smile off my own face

  and watch his fade.

  It’s a Very Long Driveway

  Curving through a forest

  of anorexic palm trees,

  waving their scrawny necks around

  miles above an unnaturally green lawn.

  The house finally rolls into view.

  It looks like Walt Disney designed it.

  Turrets. Balconies. Gables. Flags.

  There’s even something

  that looks sort of like

  a drawbridge.

  What?

  No moat?

  Really, Whip.

  You’re slipping.

  I Wonder What Ray Would Think of This Place

  It’d probably make him hurl.

  He wants to be an architect someday.

  Before I left,

  he gave me an amazing drawing of a house.

  He said he designed it especially for me.

  Called it Ruby’s Slipper,

  and said he wished we could live in it

  together.

  I can’t believe that I’m going to be living

  three thousand miles away

  from that guy.

  I can’t believe it.

  And I can’t stand it.

  Be It Ever So Humble

  Whip guides me through the front door

  by my elbow.

  (Does he have to keep touching me?)

  And w
hat I see

  makes it awfully hard to keep my eyes

  from popping out of their sockets.

  The front hall alone

  is twice the size

  of the house Mom and I lived in.

  And the floor twinkles

  like something straight out of

  an old Fred Astaire movie.

  There’s a gurgling indoor fishpond

  right in the middle of it,

  a curved marble staircase on the left,

  and off to the right,

  a living room roughly the size

  of a football field.

  Okay.

  Maybe I’m exaggerating.

  Half a football field.

  In the Living Room

  I feel like I’ve just

  stumbled through the looking glass

  into the Whip Logan Museum.

  There’s movie posters from all of his films

  plastered on the walls,

  a framed thank-you letter from the mayor of New York City,

  a plaque from the governor of Someplace-or-other,

  and an honorary degree from Yale Drama School.

  There’s a sculpture of Whip,

  an etching of Whip,

  a caricature of Whip,

  and an enormous oil painting of … who else?

  Signed by David Hockney.

  There’s photographs everywhere:

  Whip with Madonna.

  Whip with Tom Cruise.

  Whip with Michael Jordan.

  Whip with Steven Spielberg.

  Whip with Bill Clinton.

  I don’t see any

  of Whip with the pope,

  but I bet there’s one around here somewhere.

  And in the center of the mantel,

  above a fireplace big enough

  to rotisserize an elephant,

  stands Whip’s Oscar,

  shimmering,

  under the beam of a single spotlight.

  Jesus.

  If this guy was

  any more full of himself,

  he’d explode.

  He Ushers Me Out of the Room

  And up the staircase,

  down a hallway

  carpeted with a rug so soft

  that I sink in past my ankles.

  He stops in front of an oak door

  and whips it open (pun intended)

  to reveal—

  my bedroom.

  I almost fall over when I see it.

  Because it’s my dream room.

  I mean, I don’t think you understand.

  It’s literally the room of my dreams.

  And seeing it is this totally

  surreal experience because it’s the very

  same room I described in an essay once

  for a contest that won me first prize.

  Whoever designed it

  must have read my mind.

  Because whoever designed it

  got it exactly right.