Fishing With RayAnne

by Ava Finch

  “No!” Bernadette gulped, an edge of hysteria in her voice. “I’m seasick.”

  “What? You don’t get seasick!”

  “How would you know? You’ve never seen me in a buh-boat.” Bernadette grasped both armrests and tilted as if set to launch.

  “I have so.” Could it be she’d never seen her mother in a boat?

  Bernadette exhaled. “Now, there’s an omen I didn’t heed. Why would a woman who is afraid of water marry a man that spent half his life on boats?”

  “Why didn’t you ever mentio—”

  “A lot of good it would’ve done!” Bernadette’s cheeks sucked in and huffed out, Lamaze-style. “You three were always out fishing, sailing, swimming, or whatever. You all love the water. I . . . just don’t. I never said anything because I didn’t want to be the killjoy.”

  RayAnne shook her head. “But I’m your daughter! How could I not know you’re afraid of water?”

  “Maybe because you never paid attention!” Bernadette’s eyes darted, as if seeking some escape, but everywhere was water, pontoons bobbing, and cameras aimed at them like cannons.

  Amy made frantic hand gestures they both ignored. RayAnne suddenly yanked free her earpiece, and Cassi’s distant voice fell to her lap, squawking like some tiny mouse.

  “But then why?” RayAnne cast a Vanna White palm to showcase the great expanse of water now frothing with whitecaps. “Why are you out here now?”

  “To help you!” The pitch in her mother’s voice climbed as Penelope lifted on a sizable swell. “You needed a guest! Here I am!” Bernadette looked then like she might vomit. When RayAnne realized her mother indeed would, she quickly scanned the boat for some receptacle, but there was only her tackle box.

  Next came the moment, recorded for posterity from two different camera angles, when she had formed a bowl with cupped hands so that her mother, the shade of pale lettuce by then, could vomit into them. Not only did Bernadette vomit, it kept coming—her breakfast had been a kelp-and-kale Green Monster smoothie, which upon coming out, looked and smelled remarkably like it had going in. RayAnne had to gulp back her own meal of Special K and soy milk to keep from joining the revelry.

  And there, cast in HD digital vividness, was the triumphal, final moment of RayAnne’s last interview on Fishing.

  If only it had been a dream. It’s dark when she stirs on the living room floor, hand throbbing, stomach growling, and Rory snoring lightly next to her. She peels her cheek from the bubble wrap she’d been using as a pillow and gets to her feet, shaking the leg that’s asleep, mumbling to herself in a Jack Crabb rasp, “Pick it up, girl. Git it together.”

  And she will. At the moment she will get it together with another painkiller and something to eat. Turning her back on the living room mess, she pulls the pocket doors closed and follows Rory to his bowl in the kitchen, where the only light is the microwave blinking its perpetual 12:00, never having been reset after the last blown fuse. Not that time much matters—she eats when hungry and sleeps when tired. She downs a pill and with some difficulty unwraps a Lean Cuisine pizza and slides it in the microwave. She plows her good hand through kitchen drawers in search of the corkscrew, and when she pulls, it snags a fat manila envelope that falls from the drawer to the linoleum to spill its contents, a dozen handwritten envelopes. Those viewer letters she’d meant to give to Cassi weeks and weeks ago.

  As RayAnne scoops them up to toss them back in the drawer, the microwave dings a distraction and she sets them on the table. Cutting the pizza will be a problem, but why bother with silly refinements when she intends to eat the whole thing? She cannot manage the corkscrew either, so gives up and locates a cheaper bottle with a twist-off cap.

  Dinner served, she finds the dog-eared page in her current paperback and holds it open with her elbow, keeping her hand elevated while eating.

  Reading during meals was never allowed at Dot’s house—a book on the table was a crime against civility. Gran claimed mealtime was sacrosanct, family time, and also, she wanted the meal to be the center of attention, fishing for all the compliments her dishes deserved.

  Defying the rule in her own home usually makes RayAnne feel like an adult, each splat of tomato sauce on a page a mark of independence. But now, snarfing through a tasteless Frisbee of pizza and leaving greasy prints on the pages of a mediocre story, she wishes for someone to press her book aside and demand to talk. It’s a silly book, chick lit with sappy characters, and exclamation points!, and the font seems suddenly too small. Rory follows her every movement until the pizza is nearly gone and he noses in, hoping for crust. She caves. “Fine.”

  It dawns on her that wine and painkillers might not be a great combo, because she feels woozy. Picking up one of the letters, she focuses and reads the return address and name aloud to Rory. When his ears prick up, she pulls a few more close and opens them with a fork and her teeth.

  Dear Miss Dahl,

  My name is Eleanor. Your show with the grandmother lost in the blizzard really got to me. I read her book twice. It occurred to me that my grown daughters and granddaughters might like to hear something of my history as a Rockette and a mobster’s mistress, so I wrote a few stories and had them bound into books—they said it was the best gift ever. Thanks for the inspiration and keep having great women on your show!

  E.B.

  “Exactly,” she says to Rory. “That is the type of viewer Cassi and I were hoping for—women that could relate to the guests, with stories of their own, right?”

  Dear RayAnne,

  We don’t see much TV with real people (unless you count reality shows that have real awful people), but your guests seem so interesting, and real, like you. I kept telling my friends to watch, but the show was on the same night as our Zumba class, so we convinced our instructor to change it. Now we all watch you. Keep it real!

  Jenny, Chris, Kelsey, Mark, Jennifer, Jenna & Meg

  Included is a picture of a smiling thirty-something group in workout togs, all giving a thumbs-up.

  “Rory, we have fans.”

  There are more letters with the same bent of “keep it up and keep it real” accolades.

  Those people in the ER liked it. She looks to Rory. “The ER was yesterday, right?” she says and offers another bit of crust. The letters are packed with the sort of praise and encouragement that staff and producers have been so stingy with. Still, it might not be too late for her to salvage the host’s seat at WYOY. Maybe she should march down there and apologize for the unprofessional meltdown with her mother and her father’s drunken behavior and ask for a second chance. She’s just not so sure that going back to being the fishing consultant will be enough—like that song Gran sings, “How you gonna keep ’em on the farm once they’ve seen Par-ee?” The fact is she wants to host the show. And if not this show, another one. Uncle Roger had offered her a shot, hadn’t he? That might not be so terrible—if she could talk Cassi into going along with her. But every time she thinks of Roger, she finds herself drifting to the nearest sink to wash her hands.

  She picks up the last envelope. It’s thicker than the others, containing an unsigned card and a stamped envelope—the letter is written on a page torn from a spiral notebook, the handwriting reminding her of Ky’s teenaged scrawl.

  Dear Fishing RayAnne,

  I’m in ninth grade and live in Madison. I have two sisters. My mom likes your show and I’m hoping you would sign this card for her—I’ve included a stamp and put our address on the envelope. Mail really cheers Mom up—she has ALS and was in the hospital a lot but now we have a hospice lady come to our house. My mom’s name is Maggie.

  Yours truly,

  Ryan Edward Olson

  She’d been about to take a sip of wine but sets her tumbler down. Looking at the date, she swallows and slowly pulls out the enclosed card—the sort she would normally laugh at—a photo of a kitten looking mischievous, posed
next to a spilled pot of geraniums.

  Ryan Edward Olson. This boy couldn’t be more than thirteen. He’s gone to the trouble of searching out the address of the station and writing to her—a total stranger—in a bid to lift his dying mother’s spirits. She knuckles away a tear, then another, then lets herself go, shoulders shaking, until she’s honking into her napkin. Here she’s been feeling sorry for herself—wallowing, just as Gran said—while out in the real world others carry on with all manner of hardships. Boys try to cheer dying mothers.

  RayAnne catches her red-eyed reflection in the kitchen window and shakes her head, muttering, “Pissant.”

  Ryan mentioned hospice. Hoping it’s not too late, she reaches for a pen, lays open the card to the blank space—the field of white. Her name is Maggie.

  Dear Maggie,

  Your son Ryan took the time to write and let me know you are a fan of our show Fishing. I’m so glad you enjoy it. It’s been thrilling to meet the inspiring women we have as guests, I feel so lucky to be able to interview them, and to share their stories with you.

  RayAnne taps the pen.

  Ryan seems like a wonderful boy, but I imagine you already know that. I don’t have children myself, but if I ever have a son, I hope he’d be as thoughtful as Ryan. He tells me you are ill, and I’m so very sorry to hear that.

  The pen stops. She is out of her league here, wholly inconsequential in the scheme of things—as if anything she could say might make the merest dent in the suffering of a family three hundred miles away in a house with a hospital bed and medical equipment and death waiting at the center of it. She stares at the half-written card and remembers one of Gran’s well-worn mantras: When in doubt, grab the nearest truth. Gran is right, of course. Always is.

  I understand you and your family must be going through very difficult times, but I also imagine you are all very brave. Ryan’s note reminded me just how precious family is, and that we need to pull close those we love. It was so sweet of him to write on your behalf.

  Out the window, RayAnne catches sight of a snowflake drifting across the patio light. Then another fluffy flake. First snow of the season.

  I hope you are enjoying beautiful moments with your children; I hope you are watching the first snowfall from your windows.

  All my best to you and your family.

  RayAnne

  She’ll put it in the mailbox this minute. Standing up, the combination of wine, pain pills, and emotion sway her, but at the same time, she feels a vague sense of a weight shrugged off—perhaps the self-pity she’s been buttoned into like an ugly dress. Whatever she’s shed feels like it’s pooled at her feet, something she can step out of and kick aside.

  Outside her front door, she breathes in the night air deeply, clearing her head. She walks to the corner in her slippers and drops the card in the mailbox. It could be three a.m., it could be six p.m.; it gets dark so early these days. She stands a moment, registering the frigid temperature and holding out her bandaged hand to catch flakes of swirling snow.

  By the time she’s reached her door, RayAnne is revived some by the chill. Again, she hears the voices of the Birkett twins—perhaps you can, indeed, choose who you are.

  She’s set her alarm for the first time in weeks and is up with the first light. A chalkboard-gray sky lidded with snow clouds greets her when she yanks the shade. Her head pounds in rhythm to the throb in her hand. In the kitchen she sets about making coffee, clumsily, thinking of the mental list she’d fallen asleep to.

  Letter to Mom: Apology

  Cassi: Apology

  Amy: Apology

  Visit Ky and the boys

  Craigslist: Handyman for shelves

  And once that’s all done? She’s saved the best for last:

  Google Map the route to Gran’s. If Gran wants her to come earlier, she will, perhaps as soon as next weekend.

  Scooping kibble into Rory’s dish, she is determined that the end of her week will look nothing like the beginning. Halfway through her first cup of coffee, she’s plugged her laptop in to charge, has found her phone and a legal pad, and is ready to listen to all her messages when the doorbell rings.

  Rory has made progress—instead of yelping and welding himself to her leg, he merely uses her as a human shield, following to the front hall on her heels. Assuming it’s FedEx with Rory’s new activity cube, which will reward him with a treat each time he successfully flips it over with his snout or paw, she doesn’t bother with the peephole, just swings the door wide.

  It’s not FedEx.

  It’s Hal.

  His unexpected presence incites a sort of brain-stutter. He does have a knack for popping up completely out of context—at least her context.

  The chill swirling into the foyer makes her shudder. His hair is a bit longer, a curl tugged across his forehead by the sort of wind that had rattled the windows all night. Snow dusts the shoulders of his gray plaid jacket, the backdrop of the clouds and colorless trees all so dull his eyes seem that much bluer, like the gas pilot on her stove.

  “Hello.” He shifts from foot to foot. “I was . . . not just in your neighborhood; I’ve actually driven quite a lo—what happened to you?”

  “Long story. DIY.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. Her bandage is similar to his brace; her fingers are free, but her wrist and thumb are immobilized.

  “May I come in?”

  Since seeing him with her stumbling father on Location, RayAnne has tried to neutralize all thoughts of Hal. Her performance with Bernadette was one thing, but she’s loath to think of those moments in the well house—the near-kiss and her vomit-scented knuckles are incidents to be categorized under Moments to Forget.

  But now the cornucopia of events of what had possibly been the worst day of her adult life comes spilling into the door along with Hal, her own “personal worst” Groundhog Day, but of course there is no going back to fix things, and now here is Hal on her doorstep, a manila envelope casually tucked under one arm.

  He flashes an imploring smile. “Captain, may I? It’s freezing out here.”

  “Of course. Sorry.” She steps aside.

  Rory loops around her legs to get at Hal, wagging his entire back end and making that rare, joyful moan he makes when finding something ripe to roll in.

  “What a good-looking pooch.”

  “This is Rory.”

  “What a face you have. Aren’t you a handsome boy?” Hal bends down, and Rory, who does not lick faces—unless one has egg yolk or peanut butter on its chin—is all over Hal, lapping him up while his tail lashes at RayAnne’s shins.

  “Weird.” RayAnne straightens, her arms drifting to cross over her chest. “He doesn’t usually . . .”

  Hal sets down the envelope and drops to his knees in order to ruffle Rory’s ears and neck. “Doesn’t usually . . . ?”

  She shrugs. “Fawn.”

  Hal immediately devolves to dog-speak. “What a good dog! Rory? Such a good name for a good dog!”

  Feeling suddenly possessive and a little invaded, she quips, “Well, you can’t have him.”

  Why, oh why does she blurt? Thankfully Hal seems to have barely heard her with Rory all over him. Well, he’s caught her off guard, hasn’t he? It’s not that she can’t handle the unexpected; it’s just that some advance warning would be nice, a little time to prepare. As it is, her thoughts swirl in a clear dome.

  Hal looks up and says, “I tried calling again.”

  He’s got her there. “Everybody has.”

  Motioning him to follow, she moves into the kitchen, and sets about finding him a mug, blowing the dust from one and rinsing it under the tap. Her silence, which he’ll likely misinterpret, isn’t intentional—she’s simply out of the habit of speaking much to anyone human. Trying to remember if she’d washed her face or even mined the gunk from her eyes, she takes a quick lo
ok at her reflection in the window over the sink, baring her teeth to check for toast bits. When she turns back to give Hal his coffee, he’s looking down at the letter she’s reread half a dozen times—Ryan’s letter. Caught, he looks at her. “Sorry, I don’t usually—”

  Ready to volley, Gawk at other people’s private mail? RayAnne stops herself. “Well, it was just there.” Handing over the mug, she smiles weakly. “That one really got to me.”

  “Yeah. I can see why. Jeez. Poor kid.”

  RayAnne sits. “I only hope my reply is in time.” After a few beats, she looks down. The manila envelope he’s set on the table has her name on it. So he’s here to deliver something. “Is that more viewer mail?” She’s not sure she can handle more right now.

  “Nope.”

  “What then?”

  “Your contract.”

  Her laugh comes out more as a bark. “Contract?”

  Half an hour later she’s still blinking in disbelief. Skimming the contract a second time, she zeroes in on certain sections. “Two seasons? Really?”

  “Really.”

  “As host?”

  “Yes, as host.”

  She sits back. “I don’t understand.”

  He frowns. “You haven’t been watching?”

  “No. Well, I sort of stumbled upon the one with Leslie Jordache.”

  Season two had begun airing weeks before. Of course she’d known, but these days the only television she watches is pet-themed, like Rescue Ink, Animal Planet, DogTown, or the show with the doe-eyed dog trainer with two first names, Zak George. Having no desire to be reminded of her near-career, she’d pointedly avoided the Sunday evening WYOY slot for Fishing.

  “But the episode with my mother . . .”

  “Is the one we led with for the season, actually—you two in front of the segment with the twins in the second half. It’s gotten the highest ratings yet.”

  “You’re joking.” Which part of her on-camera pissant hissy fit could possibly have garnered any ratings, let alone high?