by Len Vlahos
“They told me,” Roger interrupted, ignoring Ethan completely, “that they’re pulling their support for the show, effective immediately.”
“They can’t do that,” Ethan said. “They signed contracts.”
Roger heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head. “Right,” he said. “Let’s tell two of the biggest sponsors we have across all our shows that we’re going to take them to court. Good think-ing. It took every last cent of political capital I had to stop Apple from suing us.”
“Suing us? For what?”
“For infringing on that brat’s First Amendment rights by confiscating her goddam iPhone. Did you even run any of this by legal?”
Ethan had not. “Let me call my contacts at both companies, Roger. Maybe I can find a way to—”
“It’s too late. Variety and Entertainment Weekly have already blogged about it. PR will spin it that advertisers come and go from television shows all the time, but the damage is done.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do?” Ethan asked.
“Do? I want you to get that house and that family in order. I don’t care how you do it. I want to see a grieving, cohesive family unit gathered around their father’s bed, and I want to see them talking to your producers again in twenty-four hours. Or else.”
With that, Roger pushed himself back to an upright position and turned to leave the room.
Ethan, perhaps surprised that his boss had given voice to the threat, and in one of the greatest miscalculations of his nearly perfectly calculated career, asked, “Or else what?”
Roger paused for a beat without turning around. Then he kept on walking.
***
From the moment Life and Death first aired and Deirdre saw the volume of fan mail arriving at her house—including no dearth of mail from perverts and pedophiles addressed to her daughters—she shielded her girls from the outside world. She or one of the producers took Jackie and Megan to and from school, and to any other destination beyond the borders of the house. The longer the show ran, the fewer extracurricular trips they made.
Since all the madness started, Deirdre, Jackie, and Megan hadn’t been to the mall, to the post office, to the supermarket, or even out to lunch.
But the scales had tipped. The danger inside the house was now greater than the danger outside.
When Deirdre pulled out of her driveway, three cars—one also in the driveway and two parked across the street—pulled out and followed her.
“Girls,” she said, “are your seat belts on?” Both answered that they were. “Okay, good. Then hold on tight.”
“Mom?” Jackie asked, wondering just what her mother was going to do.
“We’re being followed, Jackie. And I’m tired of it.”
“What does it matter,” Jackie asked, her voice flat and resigned. “They’re listening to us right now, anyway.”
“Right, I forgot. Look around until you see the camera.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Start looking.”
Jackie, who was in the front seat, checked everywhere. She looked in the glove box and on the visors; she felt around the gearshift and radio; she even felt under her seat and all around her mother’s seat. She was just about to give up when she noticed something.
“Mom, did your rearview mirror always have this thing on it?” Jackie pointed to a small sliding switch that moved the mirror from day to night mode. Deirdre, who was driving, did a double and then triple take. The line of her mouth, which for weeks had formed a taut, straight shot across her face, inched up at the corners. She reached up to pull the mirror, but it was glued on tight.
“Can you help, Jax?”
Jackie reached up and pulled hard, but it was stuck. “I can’t get a good grip with my seat belt on.”
“Then take it off.” Jackie looked at her mother, disbelieving. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’ll be safe.”
Jackie did as she was told and put her full weight onto the mirror, but still it wouldn’t budge. She tried banging it with her fist.
“Use your shoe,” Deirdre offered. Jackie nodded and then took off her hiking boot. On the third hit, the mirror came free and landed on the dashboard with a thud. Jackie pitched forward, hitting her head against the windshield, but not hard.
“Are you okay?” Deirdre asked.
“I think so.”
“Good girl. Now put your seat belt back on.”
Deirdre used her side-view mirror to take stock of the cars following her—all three were still there. She was just coming up on a shopping mall whose garage had entrances and exits on four sides. She figured it was her best shot.
“Hold on tight, girls,” she said, lowering the driver’s side window.
Waiting until the last possible second, and then one second more, Deirdre made an abrupt hairpin left turn into the parking lot. As she made the turn, she tossed the rearview mirror out the window and up into the air.
Only one of the three cars managed to make the turn with Deirdre, and the windshield of that car caught the full force of the impact of the flying mirror. While the mirror made a crack that ran from the top to the bottom of the glass, the real damage was done when the driver, a tabloid paparazzo assigned to cover the Stone family, slammed on the brakes. His sudden stop started a small chain reaction of crashing cars that allowed Deirdre time to slip through the mall and escape.
Twenty minutes later, Deirdre and the girls were seated in a sleepy diner on the outskirts of Portland. There were only two other patrons, and neither looked up when the three Stone women entered. Even the waitress didn’t pay them any special attention as she came to the table.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked in the monotone of an actor condemned to perform the same soliloquy every day and night for the rest of her life.
Deirdre was taken aback that there were no mobs of people, no grotesque intrusion into her and her daughters’ privacy. They had lived so long in the bubble of the television show that she had forgotten life outside went on as it always had. Yes, a lot of people watched the show, but more people didn’t. Many more.
It was a sobering reminder that the world had become a fractured place. In her parents’ day, everyone watched Johnny Carson and Walter Cronkite. And if they didn’t, they at least knew who they were. Today, the long tail of culture pulled three hundred million Americans in one million different directions.
Deirdre regained her composure and said, “I’ll have a coffee. And an omelet with green pepper.” The girls each asked for a grilled cheese sandwich and a chocolate milkshake.
After they ordered and the waitress had left them alone, no one said anything for a very long time.
Deirdre sipped her coffee and savored the bitter taste. It was the first time in weeks that she allowed herself to enjoy a simple pleasure like a cup of coffee. This might be, she thought, the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.
But then she thought of that first cup of coffee on that first date with Jared. She could still smell the latte, the aroma encircling them, pulling them together. Deirdre realized that since this whole nightmare began, she had not been afforded a moment to grieve. Her Jared was dying. He was already dead.
She started to weep.
Jackie and Megan looked at each other alarmed.
“Mom,” Megan asked, “are you okay?”
Deirdre nodded, but couldn’t stop the tears. “It’s your dad, girls. I’m just sad is all.”
Before long, the three of them were crying quietly in the booth of that diner. The waitress looked over once or twice, but let the family be. By the time the food came, the tears had run their course. They ate in silence.
“So what do we do now?” Jackie asked when the meal was over.
Deirdre sized her daughters up for a moment before answering.
“I made a promise to your father, and I need to help him.” Deirdre could see that Jackie understood right away. They both, Deirdre and Jackie, looked at Megan, hoping she would sort it out fo
r herself. She didn’t.
“Help Daddy how?” she asked.
Deirdre was about to speak when Jackie said, “End his suffering, Meg.”
Deirdre looked at Jackie. She was reminded how children never fail to surprise their parents. As soon as you get to know them, understand who they are, they change. She wondered if it ever stopped.
“That’s right, honey,” she said in a calm and even voice.
“But what if Daddy wakes up?” Megan asked. “Sister Benedict said it could happen.”
“There is nothing I want more in this world than for Sister Benedict to be right,” Deirdre answered, “but doctors know more than nuns. Daddy is very, very sick, sweetheart, and he’s never going to get better. The worst thing for him, the worst thing for us, is to watch him waste away to nothing.” Deirdre reached across the table to hold each of her daughters’ hands. “It was his final wish that we not let that happen.”
“I’ll help you, Mom,” Jackie said.
“Me too,” Megan whispered.
Deirdre sat back and exhaled.
“But, Mom,” Jackie added, “there’s one thing I need to do first.”
“Anything, sweetheart,” Deirdre answered.
“I need to get to a computer. Can we go to a library?”
***
Glio was basking in the glow of a brand-new “snow boat.” Unmarked, shiny, and red, like a mid-life crisis convertible, the sled was a thing of beauty.
He, Glio, was a baby again. He did his baby dance, running in place and laughing, as he held the sled’s yellow string. He didn’t even really know that it was meant to be used in the snow, but it didn’t matter. It was, according to his scale of the world, huge, and it was his. He felt pure, unadulterated joy.
But wait, this wasn’t right. He’d seen this exact thing before. He’d felt this exact feeling before. Something was wrong.
Glio probed his surroundings. He saw his first date with Deirdre; he sang to baby Jackie in the hospital OR; he won Twiggy the giraffe at the Greek festival. He had been there, gone there, and done that. What was going on?
He felt around to every corner of Jared’s brain and found nothing but dead, useless tissue. Glio was entombed in a sarcophagus of carbon-based hell. The memories he was eating were now his own.
Glio was consuming himself.
***
Sister Benedict Joan hated the women of the Stone family. She hated them a lot.
The Sister, along with the crew in the control truck, watched Deirdre, Jackie, and Megan’s private moment with Jared. She saw how they could barely muster the emotion to grieve for the man who had provided for them, nurtured them, from whose loins they had sprung.
And then, to hear that woman say, “Girls, let’s go out to lunch”? Disgusting. Even if they felt nothing, didn’t they know the cameras were watching? Didn’t they care what America and the world would think?
The Sister, who had at first objected to the ever-watchful eyes of the ATN cameras, had come to cherish them. There was no room for sin when you were watched twenty-four hours a day. She made a mental note to petition the Cardinal for funds to install cameras in the convent.
She supposed she shouldn’t blame the Stone girls; they were just children after all. But as much as she tried, she couldn’t find forgiveness in her heart. Jacquelyn in particular was a wretched beast. So full of hate, so full of bile. It made her wonder what kind of man Jared Stone was—what kind of man Jared Stone is, she corrected herself—that he could raise such loathsome little brats. It didn’t matter, though. Most of the blame, the Sister was certain, rested with the mother. And now those poor girls will be left alone in that woman’s care, she thought. Tragic.
Maybe, if she tried, she could help the younger one see the way of the Lord, maybe someday entice her to join the convent. It would make for such great television.
She let the idea roll around her mind as she used a cool sponge to mop Jared’s forehead. I wonder, she thought, looking up at the camera, which side is my good side?
***
Hazel was so relieved at seeing Jackie’s name pop up on the Facebook instant messenger that she let all the air out of her lungs at once and giggled nervously.
Hazel
Jackie! OMG! Are you okay? Where are you?
Jackie
Hi, Hazel. Yeah, I’m okay. My mom managed to sneak us out of the house. I’m at a library. My dad’s in a coma.
Hazel
I know. They’re already airing promos for tonight’s episode saying that something big is happening, and one of the blogs that covers the show got a crew member to talk. I’m really sorry, Jax.
They were both silent for a moment.
Hazel
Did you see the latest episode of the “Real Family Stone”?
Jackie
I did!! Was that your voice?
Hazel
Jackie
It was so great. The network is going to totally freak out.
Hazel
They already have.
Jackie
Huh?
Hazel
Oh! You don’t know! It’s all over the Internet. Apple and McDonald’s have pulled their sponsorship from the show.
Jackie
!!!!
Hazel
Can you meet me and Max in WoW later?
Jackie
I can’t. We’re going back to be with my dad, and they’ve taken away my computer. I can’t go online.
Hazel
Okay, you may not need to. I think we have a plan for you to get some footage for the next “Real Family Stone.” It’s going to get you in a lot of trouble, though.
Jackie
The more the better.
Hazel typed furiously as she shared the plan she and Max had hatched. It was far-fetched, she knew, but if nothing else, at least it would give Jackie hope.
***
“What do you mean you lost them?” Ethan asked. He had been back at the Stone house only five minutes and already things were unraveling.
“That bitch and her two little bitches,” Andersona spat. “She pulled some crazy cop movie stunt in a mall parking lot and lost the trail car.” She was overstating the facts for effect, though only a little, mostly to cover her own ass.
“What about the journalists?”
“She lost them, too.”
“Pull up the feed from the car,” Ethan said, nodding toward the array of screens in the control truck. Andersona didn’t say anything; the other three crew members in the room looked at the floor.
“Well?”
“Phil,” Andersona said, motioning to the technical director seated in the well-cushioned and ergonomically perfect chair. Phil swiveled around and tapped a few buttons. The largest monitor on the wall came to life. It showed an extreme close-up of Jackie, her tongue hanging out of the edge of her mouth, her eyes focused dead center. Something was jolting the camera every second or two, as if it was being hit.
“This is from inside the car?” Ethan asked.
“Just watch,” Andersona answered.
The banging stopped, and Ethan heard a voice—Deirdre’s: “Use your shoe.”
Jackie disappeared from view for a moment. With her face gone, the rest of the car’s interior was visible. Ethan could just barely make out Megan in the backseat.
Jackie’s face popped back into the frame. She was so close, and it was so abrupt, that Ethan flinched.
More jolts to the camera, this time much more severe. On the third jolt, the camera tumbled from the sky. There was a jumble of swirling images as the rearview mirror, surreptitious home to ATN’s secret eye, was manhandled and eventually thrown out the window. It landed with a crack on another car. The final image was of a journalist Ethan knew—a flack, really—cursing loudly enough to be heard through the thick pane of his windshield’s glass.
“That was more than an hour ago. It’s the last we saw of them.”
“Are you telling me that three-fourths of the fa
mily starring in the highest-rated show in the history of this network, the only three-fourths not currently in a coma, have gone AWOL?”
No one said anything because there was nothing to say.
Then Ethan did something he never did. He lost control.
“Holy fuck!” he screamed, the sound of his voice a kind of whiny shriek. He punched the wall next to him and screamed again.
“Holy fuck!” This time it was with the agony of a sprained wrist and broken finger. He went down on one knee and clutched his hand.
No one in the control room moved a muscle.
“Don’t just stand there,” Ethan whimpered. “Call the staff doctor.”
While Andersona was on the phone to the medical team, Phil said, “Look.”
Ethan turned his attention to the wall of cameras and saw Deirdre’s car pulling into the driveway.
***
Megan was humiliated that ATN had aired her betrayal of Jackie. It would have been bad enough if the network had shown what really happened—that Megan had been drawn into the conspiracy by Ethan, that he had exploited her vanity—but to see it twisted into something an order of magnitude worse left Megan shaken.
When she tried to apologize to Jackie and Deirdre in the car, after the library, she broke down and cried. She was hysterical enough that Deirdre pulled the car over and climbed into the backseat to hug her. For a brief moment, Megan was a little girl again and burrowed her face into her mother’s bosom. She had never felt so safe.
“If you’re really sorry,” Jackie said from the front seat, after Megan’s sobs had subsided and her mother started driving again, “I know of a way you can help.”
“Anything,” Megan said, and she meant it.
Jackie laid out Hazel’s plan. It was, on first blush, so replete with points of failure that one of her online friends had code-named it Chernobyl. It involved theft, misdirection, and a bold kind of escape. Megan listened intently as Jackie explained.
“A team of video editors has been reviewing footage from Life and Death, as well as the raw footage I shot for the YouTube series.”
“A team of video editors?” Deirdre asked. “How many people have been involved in this thing?”