by Liz Fenton
“Is this the one?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yes!” Audrey grabs the sides of the dress and twirls around.
The personal shopper steps in disapprovingly, her pale pink Chanel suit looking muted against the sea of vibrant designer gowns on the rack next to her. “She has several more to try on. And you might want to consider buying two—that’s what many girls are doing now, changing midway through the dance.” She hungrily eyes the Stella McCartney, Marc Jacobs, and Marchesa gowns next to her and I can almost see her mentally calculating her commission if she can get us to buy another.
“We’ll take this one,” I say as I stand and walk over to hug Audrey, who flinches slightly then releases into my arms.
“You can’t do that!” the personal shopper says indignantly. “It’s the first one. You never go with the first one!”
Destiny steps between the personal shopper and me, waving the American Express card in her face. “When you know, you know,” she says firmly. “Now wrap this up and show us some shoes.”
The personal shopper perks up at the sound of the possibility of a bigger commission and scurries off, no doubt planning to bring us several pairs of Christian Louboutins. I watch Audrey sitting on the velvet bench outside her dressing room, her long legs bent inward, her knobby knees touching, her thumbs flying across the keys of her phone as she texts her friends about her new dress, and I’m struck by how young and innocent she suddenly looks. I start to worry about what might happen when Chris McNies sees her in this dress. Is this what Rachel goes through? This roller coaster of emotions, one minute feeling like you’re on top of the world having just pleased your child, the next worrying that you’ve made a huge mistake? Obsessing that she’ll make the same mistakes you did?
“Thank you,” I say to Destiny, squeezing her hand. Something about the way she handled that prissy salesperson made me miss her more than ever. I wanted to scream, it’s me! Casey! I’m right here! But instead I just raise my hand and give her a high-five.
She smacks my hand with hers. “And that, Rachel, is how it’s done.”
I watch as Audrey slips on a pair of three-inch stilettos that elongate her long legs even more, and I hope that Destiny’s right.
CHAPTER 28
* * *
rachel
I wipe the bead of sweat trickling down my hairline with my left hand while frantically typing an email to Destiny with the thumb of my right. Rushing down the hallway, I try to ignore the pain of my throbbing toes wedged into a pair of heels that after twelve hours feel at least two sizes too small. I push open the auditorium door with my hip and when I see the red velvet curtain on the stage still closed, I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The performance hasn’t started; I’m not too late.
The house is packed and I search for Casey, John, and Audrey in a sea of familiar faces. Faces of my friends I haven’t seen in weeks, even though it feels like years. Standing in the back of the Adams Middle School Performing Arts Theatre—the pale gray carpeting still worn, the walls still painted a shade of orange just slightly too bright, the brand-new blue velvet seats (a recent purchase from years of fund-raising money—quite a coup!) still a stark contrast against the rest of the outdated auditorium—it all looks familiar. So why do I feel like a stranger?
What would I say to my friends now, after living in this other world? Would we fall into easy conversation about carpool schedules and travel soccer uniforms? Or would I stammer, trying to find something to talk about while I attempted to ignore the buzzing of my BlackBerry, feeling like a woman who’s not a mother awkwardly bobbing her head up and down like she understands (or cares about!) the frustration of being up all night with a baby who’s spiking a fever or the challenges of finding something (anything!) to talk to a teenager about that won’t result in a yes-or-no answer. As I look down at my size-two suit and the Gucci handbag hanging from my wrist that costs more than our mortgage payment, I realize how Casey must have felt in these situations before she became like me—an outsider.
Finally I spot the back of my own head—Casey is sitting next to John. John’s arm is slung over the back of her chair and he’s leaning in, flanking her on one side, Audrey on the other. I can see the side of Audrey’s face and she’s smiling. And my throat becomes dry. Are he and Casey playing our game?
We used to compete to see who could think of the conversation topic that would get Audrey to look up from her cell phone for more than ten seconds. And bonus points if you could get her to talk, smile, or even laugh. John usually won, not surprisingly. I’m convinced he could engage Audrey by talking about anything—global warming, the national budget deficit, or even the latest episode of NCIS. Audrey had always looked at John differently than she did me. Her face was usually somewhere between a blank stare and a scowl depending on her level of irritation when I spoke. But when she looked at John, her eyes almost always lit up and she still reminded me of her five-year-old self, when she’d jump into his arms, wrap her arms tightly around his neck, and giggle wildly as she leaned back, her pigtails swinging in the air over her head.
I tried to tell myself this was a typical mother-daughter dynamic, but I wasn’t so sure. I think of my own mom who was always so kind, never impatient, always supportive rather than critical, even when I called to break the news that I was dropping out of college just a few credits shy of graduation to have a baby. Why couldn’t I be more like her?
A tougher nut to crack for both John and me has always been Sophie. She was performing tonight. And for the first time, I’m on the audience side of the curtain before the show starts. For the past two years, I’ve been a part of the group of moms that volunteer in the theater. Ever since Sophie showed an interest, I’d jumped in to support her, relieved to see her finally care about something. It was after Sophie’s first play two years ago when she was the lead in Alice in Wonderland that John and I had seen that she could break out of her shell. And from opening night until the play closed two days later, she’d been on a high. She’d even talked to us about her friends and school, and we’d hoped this was signaling a change in her that would remain permanent. But as soon as the play ended, Sophie went back into hiding like a snail ducking the rain.
I meet Hilary’s eyes and wave. She half smiles and her brow furrows the way it does when she’s trying to figure something out and I remember I’m not Rachel. I think about how much Casey has come to dislike Hilary in the past few weeks and smile. It’s true, I can’t imagine the two of them ever being friends under normal circumstances. They both thrive on being the center of attention. Since dropping out of college, I had told myself that I was meant to lie low in the background and support the most important people in my life: John, the kids, and even Casey. I’d completely let go of the Rachel who used to thrive every Friday night as I cheered for John and the rest of our high school football team, climbing to the top of the human pyramid at halftime, basking in the applause that followed. I forgot how much I came alive in front of the camera at the college broadcasting studio each week. Until now. Leading Casey’s life was reminding me of that part of myself, and like a sleeping bear that’s been awakened after a long hibernation, I was hungry for more.
As I approach Casey and John, I notice Casey has her hand on John’s knee and I flinch. Is Casey playing the part or is there a real attraction?
“Aunt Casey! I saved you a seat!” Audrey beams and stands up so I can sit next to her. Rachel looks up and quickly pulls her hand off John’s leg.
“Hey, little C.” John smiles and stands to give me a hug. I breathe in the smell of a cologne I don’t recognize (a gift from Casey?). I pull away, scanning his face for recognition. Don’t you realize I’m your wife? Shouldn’t you know that something’s off ? That the woman next to you—the one who just had her hand planted firmly on your thigh—isn’t the one you’ve loved for over twenty years?
Casey’s eyes meet mine and without speaking a word, I know she’s asking me if I’m
okay after seeing her hand. Um, yeah, I saw it, bitch. And you’d better be acting! I nod and bite back the tears burning in my throat as Audrey excitedly recounts every detail of the shopping trip for her formal dress. The trip I missed because I chose to stay with Charlie in Santa Barbara. But watching Casey now reminds me that I’ve also been playing a part. Did I really have to miss it because I was working? Or was I using that as an excuse?
• • •
My heart ached when I got the picture of Audrey in the floor-length gown. I’d been out to dinner with Charlie. I couldn’t stop staring at the screen on my phone for so long that Charlie finally asked me to show him what was so important.
“Is that your best friend’s daughter? She’s going to break some hearts in that dress.” Charlie grabbed my phone from me to take a closer look and I’d forced a smile, but all I could think about was John’s reaction to Audrey looking so grown up. He was going to hate that dress and would no doubt be mad at me that I’d bought it for her. I pulled the phone back from Charlie and analyzed Audrey from head to toe, taking in her confident posture, her self-assured smile, her sparkling eyes, wondering not just if I was making a huge mistake by not being there but trying to recall a time I’d seen her looking that way. Was that Casey’s influence? Not wanting to consider the answer, I’d turned off the phone and wondered why I didn’t go. Why I’d lied about needing extra footage of Melissa McCarthy so I could stay here with Charlie instead.
We were out to dinner at “our place,” which turned out to be a quaint Italian restaurant tucked away in a corner off State Street in downtown Santa Barbara. It was packed full of wood picnic-style tables draped with red-and-white–checkered cloths, with carafes of house wine and baskets of warm bread that we drowned in a sweet olive oil. Charlie teased me about my love-hate relationship with carbohydrates (apparently Casey had once called them the Antichrist) and I poked fun at his love-hate relationship with Dean. The waiter began to refill our glasses without asking, and the flirting continued. And I’d hoped Charlie wouldn’t put me on the spot about his relationship with Casey, that he’d just enjoy the night. But I wasn’t so lucky.
“So, I’ve got a couple of glasses of wine in you and that’s all it used to take. What did you used to call it—your truth serum?” Charlie smiled.
I’d nodded yes. That’s what Casey had called alcohol for as long as I could remember. But even before we shared our first drink, Casey was like an open book. It wasn’t long after we’d met in that English class that she’d told me her entire life story, down to her mom’s odd obsession with creepy porcelain dolls and the inappropriate crush she harbored for her second cousin, Shane. I’d been in awe, wishing I could be so open, having always been much more guarded with my feelings. Hoping all those years later in that Italian restaurant with Charlie that I wouldn’t let my guard down then either, that he wouldn’t see right through me.
“So I’m just going to cut right to it. What’s going on? Why are you spending time with me after everything that happened? After you said it was over—all of it—even our friendship. And please, Casey, I’m begging you not to try to dodge this. I think at this point, I deserve some honesty.” He was looking at me in such a way that I expected him to add, “admit that it’s not really you inside that body.”
As I stared at him, searching for the right words, but knowing any I chose would be wrong because they’d be lies, I tried my best to tell as much of the truth as I could.
“I think you’re one of the best men I’ve ever met. You’re kind. You’re smart. You’re talented. You treat me with such respect and . . .” I trailed off, not knowing if I should add the word on the tip of my tongue.
“Love.” Charlie supplied the word for me and I’d been unable to say anything else. I’d held the gaze of his brown eyes, looking lighter, almost hazel in the candlelight. “I still do, you know.” Charlie broke our silence.
“Even after what I did?” I asked slowly, wondering if he’d supply the story, if I’d finally find out what happened between them. I’d felt like such an imposter in that moment, trying to get intimate details from him that, for whatever reason, Casey had never shared with me.
“It wasn’t just you, I know that now. It was me too. I pushed you too hard, came on too strong. It wasn’t something you wanted, I knew that, but I wouldn’t relent. Of course you freaked out on me.”
What didn’t Casey want? What would have made her freak out?
And then maybe it was something I saw in Charlie’s eyes, maybe it was simply knowing Casey for so many years, but something just clicked and I knew what had happened. And moments later, Charlie confirmed my suspicions.
Still in a daze, when we were leaving the restaurant, all I wanted to do was sleep. Charlie slung his arm around my waist and I’d laid my head on his shoulder, absorbing his warmth, the cool air slicing through my light sweater. While we waited for the valet to get our car, two men appeared, one with a Beta Camera on his shoulder and the other who was shoving a microphone in my face. The man with the mic announced triumphantly that he was from TMZ and wanted to know when we were going public with our “engagement.” He’d nodded toward the ring on my left hand. I’d glanced down at the costume ring and laughed. “This isn’t an engagement ring.”
“You two seem pretty cozy, but also like you’re trying to hide something, going out to dinner off the beaten path. What’s the truth?”
“The truth is you need to go to hell. Turn that thing off.” Charlie shoved the cameraman, who stumbled backward.
“Jackpot,” the guy with the mic said with a laugh. “Thanks for giving us our lead story for tomorrow night.”
“Get out of here, you punk,” Charlie yelled after him.
I’d prayed that they’d find a bigger story by the next night, but of course they didn’t. The footage ran on the TMZ show, on their Web site, and was even picked up by our competitor, Access L.A. I’d hoped Casey hadn’t seen it.
My BlackBerry buzzes, jolting me back to the auditorium, back to where I should be. I fight the urge to check my email, knowing it’s the script for tomorrow’s interview with Jennifer Lopez and her take on balancing single motherhood and life in the spotlight.
Tears well up in my eyes as I watch Sophie shine on stage, trying not to notice that John grabs Casey’s hand during Sophie’s solo, his face perplexed when Casey pulls away quickly and glances in my direction with an apologetic look. I finally try to stare straight ahead, ignoring the movement out of the corner of my eye, instead focusing on Sophie’s standout performance.
Exactly ninety minutes later, the crowd is on its feet and Sophie and the cast come out for an encore bow. She’s smiling from ear to ear and I look over at John to share a moment of pride for our daughter’s victory. But he’s not looking my way, he’s beaming at Casey, who’s grinning back at him with tears in her eyes. My BlackBerry buzzes again and I finally give in and grab it, tired of feeling like a third wheel in my own life. I scroll down the list of emails and scan the subject lines, finding one from each executive “checking in” about New York City and five from Destiny. I start to open the one that says “Dean Rumor” when I hear Sophie’s voice. She has one arm wrapped around John, the other around Casey. I watch them and wish I knew why I’d never tried harder to be more affectionate with my girls. Am I to blame for their bad attitudes toward me? Sophie spots me and breaks away from John and Casey. I watch Casey’s face fall and my stomach turns in recognition.
“Aunt Casey, you came!” She hugs me tightly and I cling to her, not wanting to let go. Trying not to think about the fact that she thinks I’m her aunt, not her mother.
“How was I? Tell me everything.” Sophie looks up at me with wide eyes, waiting for my expert opinion.
I try not to focus on what Aunt Casey would say because if I say anything as her mom, I won’t be able to hold back my tears. “You’re a star, honey. You’re a star!” The tears come anyway.
CHAPTER 29
* * *
c
asey
The clock ticks past 2 p.m. and I glance at my phone again. As if on cue, it buzzes and I reach down and anxiously read Rachel’s text. Sorry! I’ll be there in ten minutes! I sigh deeply.
“What is it, Mom?” Audrey calls over from the chair she’s sitting in before Jose, her stylist, snorts his disapproval and firmly moves her head back into place.
“Just like this,” he says in his thick, accented English to her for the third time in the last twenty minutes, an accent I happen to know is not quite as thick after a few mojitos. He locks eyes with his assistant and rolls them as if to say, amateurs. “Jose cannot get your hair perfecto if you’re shaking your head around like you’re in some sort of Whitesnake video.” The assistant chuckles.
“Calm down, Jose,” I say and get a sharp look in return, forgetting that Rachel, suburban stay-at-home mom, can’t say the things to him that Casey, important celebrity client and longtime friend, can. He shakes his head at my gall and continues to work Audrey’s long, dark hair into a sweeping updo fit for an A-list celebrity.
“I thought you said Casey was coming?” Jose asks pointedly, as if we didn’t belong in his salon without her.
“She’ll be here,” I say simply, a little taken aback by the way Jose’s been acting. I’d come here for years and was always treated like a long-lost friend, met at the door with a flute of Veuve Clicquot and chocolate-covered strawberries. Swept through the waiting area to an available chair and the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly. Jose fawning over whatever I was wearing or what celebrity I had profiled on the show the night before. Sometimes we’d even go for drinks afterward at his favorite gay bar, him parading me around to all his friends. Me, dancing the night away with a bunch of incredibly handsome men with six-pack abs. I’d loved every minute of it.