Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  We talk a few days before the holiday. I wash dishes and catch the phone with wet hands. “Hello?”

  “Hey.” He coughs.

  “You’re sick.” I dry my hands, listen to him struggle to clear his throat.

  “Yeah. And working to keep my voice, so I’ve got to keep this short.”

  “This is the ADR stuff?” I don’t know this technical movie stuff on my own. He already told me what it was all about. The point is to re-record lines that weren’t clear on set.

  “Yeah. I’m dead tired.”

  “Is Logan with you?” I liked that director. Seems like he’d take care of Andrew through all this extra stuff.

  “Sometimes. Mostly it’s an engineer on the other side of the glass telling me not to breathe so loudly.”

  “That does sound fun. Are you getting rest?”

  “Better than on the media push. At least I’m in town.”

  “I wish you could come here.”

  “I wish I knew what my next job was. Then I could take some time and come up there.”

  “Something will come up. You’re amazing.”

  He coughs again. I can’t tell if it’s a sarcastic response to my compliment, or if it’s because he’s sick. “I better go.”

  “Okay. Talk to you soon. Take care of yourself.” I want to reach through the phone and hold him.

  So on Valentine’s Day I’m a little disappointed when flowers don’t come, and neither does a phone call. The boys are already asleep, and I’m getting ready for bed when the phone rings. Okay, it makes me happy. He’s thought of it.

  I answer the phone. “Hello?”

  There isn’t a response. I can hear breathing.

  “Hello? Andrew?” This is the age of caller ID. I know it’s his cell. And it’s the new number, not the one that was stolen a while ago.

  Still no response, just more ragged breathing. Then a cough. A rough, hacking cough.

  “Andrew?” Now I start to worry a bit. “Andrew, are you there?”

  “I’m here.” He’s drunk. Completely drunk. Two words, and I know. My heart clenches into a knot, and I feel adrenaline shoot into my shoulders and straight down my arms.

  “Where are you? Are you all right?” The helpless feeling of being two states away is mixed with anger. He’s drinking. This is not good.

  “Just out.” There’s a weird little breathy laugh.

  I don’t even know what that means. “Are you by yourself? Are you home?” My brain races through all sorts of dilemmas: another woman, drunk driving, drunk at home alone, out on the town, in a bar, somewhere embarrassing for his career, you name it. Nothing feels right about this.

  “I miss you.” Again, this is barely intelligible. “I want you. I want you, Kelly Jo Renaa-reynoldsss.” He botches my name, and this makes him laugh again.

  Well, I’ve gone straight to pissed. This is a visceral response from me. There’s no straight thinking about it. “Is someone there with you?”

  “No. I took a cab home. Jesus, you don’t have to worry. I’m not dumb.”

  Oh, no, I’m not going to be lectured about this from the drunk ass on the other end of the line. I am the wiser, sober one here. “You, of all people, need to be smart about this. For all sorts of reasons.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re alone?” This is me at my most insecure.

  “There’s no one but you. Not that they don’t try.”

  I don’t even want to talk anymore. I’m quiet, and there’s more drunken breathing on the other end of the line.

  “Be safe,” I tell him after a moment. “I’m going to bed.”

  I can’t do this. I’m mad, and there’s no point arguing with a drunk. The second I think that, it hurts. I don’t want to think of Andrew as a drunk. A person who is drunk is bad enough at the moment, but it feels like this is a habit. Has been a habit. I hate it. I want to undo all of this, go back to thinking he was perfect.

  There’s no response for a minute, and then I hear crying, like sobbing crying. All my anger melts away. “Andrew?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m terrible to you.”

  “Oh, Andrew. Just go to sleep. You need to stop doing this. You’re under a lot of stress, and this is not helping.”

  “Okay.” He coughs again, and he sounds awfully sick. “I love you, Kelly.”

  It breaks my heart. What is going on there? I can’t figure out why he’s falling apart so badly. “I love you too. You’re at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go to bed. It’ll feel better in the morning. Call me in the morning.”

  There’s no more crying that I can hear. He’s just breathing again. “Okay. I love you.”

  The line goes dead. Suddenly, I panic. What if he does something stupid?

  I pace around my living room, trying to slow my breathing enough to focus. I know dark places and what they feel like. I know how it can seem like the world is ending. And Andrew doesn’t have kids to pull him out of it, like I did after Peter died.

  This thought puts me in a tailspin, but in the middle of the dive I might not be able to pull up from, I have a moment of inspiration. I’ll call Tucker.

  He’s not necessarily working, but he’s got to be around. The media push hasn’t been that long ago. Will he be mad? I feel like we’ve bonded.

  Screw it. Surely he’s put up with worse behavior from his clients than a woman worried about the health of a man she cares about. Seems reasonable compared to trashing a hotel room, for instance.

  I pick up my cell and find Tucker’s number. It’s a terrible time of night, but it is the weekend, so even if he’s not covering Andrew, he’s probably covering somebody. Or he’s on a date of his own. In that case, I’m ruining his night. I weigh my options and call. I’m desperate.

  It rings once. “Tucker Caldwell.” He’s working. That’s a business voice.

  “Tucker, it’s Kelly. Kelly Reynolds.” God, I hope he remembers me.

  “Kelly, is everything all right?” He sounds concerned.

  “I don’t know. Are you with Andrew?”

  “No, I’ve been working with someone else this week. He’s just doing ADR. No appearances.”

  “Can I ask you a huge favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “He called me just now. He sounded horrible. He was drunk and really out of sorts. I’m worried.”

  There’s a long pause. I’m reminded of our conversation about people in Andrew’s business. Tucker said something about Andrew being young, and sometimes losing sight of the big picture. Maybe this was what he was referencing. Maybe I’m right that this is not new behavior. Heck, at this point it’s not even that new to me.

  “I’ll check on him.” He pauses again. I can’t read his tone.

  “Does he do this a lot?” Might as well get all the info I can now.

  “Before I worked for him, when he first came out here, some stuff happened. I don’t know about that; you’d have to ask Andrew. But I haven’t seen him like this before. Maybe a night or two where he overdid it a few times since I’ve known him, but not like this. He’s not handling himself, this last stretch well. The press and then the post-production. And maybe being apart from you.”

  “Great.”

  “Not to guilt trip you—that’s not what I meant. Todd’s in New York; you’re gone. I think he’s lonely. And when he’s done with ADR, he has nothing to look forward to. He likes to be planning for the next movie. He doesn’t have that lined up yet, so it’ll just be an open schedule. He doesn’t do well with down time.”

  Andrew told me that himself, right at the beginning of things.

  “Thank you, Tucker. Thank you for being so honest with me.”

  I can hear voices. Tucker is somewhere different than when the call started. “I’ll check on him, Kelly. I have to go.”

  “Thanks, Tucker. Thanks so much.”

  There’s a dry laugh. “Happy Valentine’s Day, huh?”

  “God. After all
this I totally forgot. Yeah, you too.”

  This might be one of the crappier ones.

  34: The Visit

  ANDREW DRUNK-DIALS ME like this two more times in the next three weeks before I make the decision to go see him. It’s not an intervention exactly, but I need to assess this situation from up close, not from Boise, Idaho. He still sounds terribly sick, and once when he calls during the day, he doesn’t remember the call from the night before. This is bad.

  It’s spring break. The boys have soccer camp, and Andrew’s tied up with post-production, so we hadn’t planned on anything special. Which is good, because I need to do this. I prepare to go to him. I leave the boys in the capable hands of Tessa on a Friday evening and gear up to face down whatever’s waiting for me in California.

  When I get to LAX, I call him.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Andrew.”

  “What’s up?” His voice still sounds sick, and he coughs, barking.

  “I’m here in LA. Where are you?”

  “I just got home. You’re here? Why?”

  I thought it would be obvious. Maybe not to him. “You’ve sounded so sick. I thought I’d come and take care of you a little. Help you get well.”

  I’m only partially talking about the terrible cough. And there’s a nagging in the back of my head. This might not be something I can fix. I should know that. I’m an adult with a brain. Magic wands can’t be waved to put people right.

  “Are you staying with your folks?”

  Uh-oh. Did I assume too much when I figured we were at the stay-at-each-other’s-house stage of our relationship? It felt like that’s where we left off.

  “No, I thought I’d stay with you.”

  “Oh, okay. Great. Do you need a ride?” He’s coughing again.

  “I’m taking a cab. I’ll see you in a while.”

  When I arrive, I have the cab drop me at the house across the street. I wait, puttering with my luggage, and then pull my roller over to the gate and press the buzzer. The gate clicks open without a word from inside.

  Parked in the courtyard is a brand new Tesla, sparkling white, with the vanity plate GD2B KNG.

  Jeremy.

  He strolls out of Andrew’s front door. He’s got on a pink Polo, collar popped, cuffed chinos, and very expensive-looking driving moccasins. Good lord.

  “Look who it is!” He grins and opens his arms for a hug.

  I can’t believe it. “No hug.” I shake my head.

  He laughs. “You crack me up. I’m sorry about the premiere.”

  “I’m with Andrew. Despite your best efforts.”

  He leans on the hood of his car. “Aw, now, give me a little credit. I’m just making sure he’s not getting used. No offense.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s sicker than shit. Are you here to help?” He swings his car keys around his finger. He always looks so calm, collected. I wish I could rattle him.

  “That’s the plan. What’re you here for?”

  Jeremy’s lips tighten into a smile. “Same thing you are. I think, my friend, that you and I may be on the same team.”

  “I thought you were Team Franca.”

  He snorts. “I’m Team Andy-Sells-Tickets. I could give a rat’s ass about Franca, but until that movie premieres, I’ll continue to keep the two of them in the headlines, on the top of the web searches. Because I’d like my client to have a job. And after that, another job. That’s how I have a job.”

  I actually feel bad for a second. “I understand you have a job to do.”

  “Listen, right now I’m running late for a meeting where the female studio head is going to metaphorically kick me in the balls for two hours straight. You go take care of Andy. Believe me that I will take care of his business.”

  “Okay.”

  He pops open the door of his car. “And tell Tucker to stop with the pained expression. He looks like he swallowed a yardstick sideways.”

  “See you.”

  “Asta.” He gets in his car, revs the engine, and peels out.

  Tucker walks out the door. He smiles wide when he sees me.

  “Hey, Tucker!” I leave my bag and come to him, giving him a big hug. “What’re you doing here?”

  He looks tired. “I gave Andrew a ride home from downtown. He’s almost done with post, but he’s been so sick, I drove him.”

  I feel the worry crawl its way into my belly. I kept it at bay on the way here, justifying calm because I was taking action to fix things.

  “Has he been to the doctor?”

  “Just today. It’s walking pneumonia. He’s got to take it easy for a while.”

  “I only have the week. Can his mom come out? She could help when I leave.”

  Tucker shrugs. “She doesn’t fly. I don’t even think she gets out of the house much. And Todd would come out, but his band just left for a tour in Europe two days ago.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to whip him into shape in the time I have. Is he off for a while at least?”

  Tucker nods. “In two days, he will be. They have some pick-up shots to do. Thank God it’s just some tweaks for the CGI guys. He can’t talk, much less act. But I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not for him to be done. You know he likes to be busy.”

  I do, but beyond Andrew saying just that, I’ve never been able figure out why. I know, I could quote various adages about idle hands and devils, yadda yadda, but where is that coming from with Andrew? He’s always seemed so together…Well, until recently. I don’t know.

  Tucker gives me one more hug and leaves me in the driveway. I’m surprised Andrew hasn’t made it out to the courtyard. He must be really sick.

  I let myself in. The house is quiet. The living room looks the way I saw it last. The kitchen is empty and doesn’t look like it’s been used much. It includes an array of cereal boxes much like the one Andrew built in Ventura County. Some mail is on the kitchen island.

  I go upstairs. As I get nearer to the master bedroom, I can hear him coughing. He still sounds terrible. His cough is a bark like a seal’s.

  “Hello?” I swing the door open.

  There’s a humidifier in one corner. On the bedside table is a collection of Kleenex, cough drops, pill bottles, cough syrups. The bed is strewn with scripts, magazines, and newspapers. Andrew’s propped up on pillows in the center.

  He looks terrible.

  “Hi.” He tries to focus on me. His eyes are sick, his skin grayish-white.

  I am genuinely scared. I sit on the edge of the bed and take his hand. I can’t help it; I start to cry.

  “That bad?”

  I can’t say anything.

  He smiles. “It’s okay. It’s just a bad cold.”

  “It’s pneumonia. Tucker told me.”

  “I’m fine. I already feel better.” He coughs again, like his body can’t help but tell me the truth. “Listen, I promise, this isn’t a reason to worry.”

  “It’s just, this is the worst kind of déjà vu, I have to say.”

  His face registers. He gets what I mean. Peter.

  He runs a hand through his hair. “God. Now I feel like a total ass for not taking better care of myself.”

  I shake my head. “No, no, I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. It just sort of knocked me flat when I walked in the door.”

  He sits up. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll hibernate, you’ll try to make some chicken soup—and who are we kidding, it’ll be out of a can—and then it’ll all be good. No worries.”

  I grip his hand. “You’re right. We’ll fix it. I’ll make you soup, make you some tea, and we’ll get you better.”

  He closes his eyes. “I hope so, ’cause honestly, I feel like shit.” His face seems to relax. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I wish you could just come to Idaho for a while. I could take care of you.”

  “This is where the work is. Could you stay here for a bit?”

  “The boys go back to school next week. Spri
ng break, you know.”

  “Yeah. I guess you can’t play house. You’ve got a real one to go back to and all.”

  “Maybe someday it’ll all be the same thing.” I’m trying to say something here, I think, that involves the two of us living in the same place. Not that I’m saying it clearly, or anything, but…

  “I don’t know.” He’s noncommittal. Or too sick to focus. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. Time to change the topic.

  “Sleep.”

  I take a minute and clean up the whole room. I commandeer the stuff by the bedside. I make sure the humidifier is clean. I pull all the towels from the bathroom to wash in scorching hot water and bleach. I dig around and find him a new toothbrush and throw out the one from the cup on the sink.

  I will do battle with his illness. This is something I know how to do. And the encouraging thing here? Pneumonia is something people recover from. Especially young, healthy men. This thought takes a little of the panic out of my head.

  After I get a very basic pot of chicken noodle soup on the stove, I mill about for a while. The house is basically clean. I don’t think Andrew’s been spending much time here. Besides working, I try not to think too much about where else he’s been of late. I find a can of orange juice in the freezer and whip that up, but there’s not much more to do.

  He’s still sleeping. This is a tempting opportunity. I know. I’ve been wavering about invading his privacy. But a little looking around his house is irresistible. I make a bargain with myself that I won’t open drawers. Maybe that makes it okay.

  In the living room, I spend a little time at the piano. There are sheaves of sheet music with assorted scribbles. I hope he’s been writing. I suspect it’s therapeutic for him. He needs something, I can tell. I can only pump him full of chicken soup for a few days, and then he has to work out whatever is bugging him on his own.

  On the top of the piano are photographs. Most of them I can tell are his family: his folks, his sisters, pictures of him with all of them. There’s one picture that intrigues me, though. It’s a young girl, high school age or so. Cute, red-haired. No one that looks like him. It looks like a senior picture.