Older

by Pamela Redmond

  “It means she’s going to star in it, her husband is going to finance it, and we got an order for a pilot.”

  “That’s good, right?” I said tentatively.

  Kelsey laughed. “That’s as good as it gets right now: a big studio behind you, a star who wants to play the lead.…”

  It was exciting. The very rhythm of Kelsey’s voice was making me excited. Except I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. “What happened to Sutton Foster?” I said.

  “I know, she would have been fabulous,” Kelsey said. “But we couldn’t turn down this kind of package, which comes with generous financing and support from the top.”

  “I mean, has Stella Power done anything in the past twenty-five years?” I said. “How do we know she can even still act?”

  “That is pretty ironic,” said Kelsey, after a beat, “given the subject and the source.”

  When I’d realized what I said, I was awash in shame.

  “You’re right, of course,” I said. “In fact, it’s perfect, because she knows the situation from the inside out. She’ll be living it while making the show!”

  “Exactly!” said Kelsey. “See, you’re catching on.”

  “So, what happens next?” I asked.

  “I write a script,” Kelsey said. She had stopped walking. She was definitely at the beach, but closer to the parking lot now, with more cars and cement than sand and ocean as her backdrop.

  “You write the script?” I said.

  Kelsey had always been an editor, a producer, an adapter, but not really a writer.

  “That’s the way it usually works,” Kelsey said. “The show creator writes the pilot script. That’s literally the Guild definition.”

  “Could I write the script?” I said.

  Kelsey frowned. “Writing a TV pilot script is very different from writing a novel.”

  “Maybe we could do it together,” I said, instantly warming to the idea. “We always loved working together. This would be the perfect project for us to start again.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to move to LA,” Kelsey said.

  “Why would I have to move to LA? Couldn’t we just do it online?”

  Kelsey was already shaking her head no. “Stella wants to be involved in the creative process,” Kelsey said, making air quotes as well as a dismissive face. “She thinks it’s going to be fun.”

  “Okay, well, we could FaceTime,” I said.

  “No,” Kelsey said firmly.

  “Can she come to New York?”

  “Six kids,” said Kelsey. “Plus, it’s not like you have one meeting and that’s it. You keep talking and talking over several days and weeks.”

  “How many days and weeks?” I said.

  “I can’t pinpoint, but probably about three or four weeks.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I can come for three or four weeks.”

  “Or maybe a little longer,” she said.

  “How much longer? Caitlin’s baby is due at the end of August, so I need to be back well before that.”

  “Oh,” said Kelsey. “No problem. We’ll be finished shooting before the end of August.”

  Shooting. That introduced another potentially disturbing problem. “Do I have to be there for the shooting?” I said.

  That word didn’t sound right. I felt like I was hiring a hit person. Shoot? Not really better.

  “No, because we’re shooting in New York,” Kelsey said.

  “What? Are you sure Stella will agree to that?”

  “It’s as much of a New York story as, I don’t know, Sex and the City. It wouldn’t be practical to shoot it anywhere else.”

  “Okay. Phew. Great,” I said. “I was worried about what would happen if it was a big hit and I had to be there all the time. Caitlin would seriously never forgive me if I moved to LA.”

  “If having a big hit turns out to be a problem, you’ll be able to fly yourself and Caitlin and your whole family back and forth from LA to New York in your private jet,” Kelsey told me.

  “What?” I said. “Really?”

  “Don’t count the money yet,” Kelsey said. “Does that mean you’re going to come out here and work on it with me? Because I would love that.”

  “I would love that too,” I said.

  I told Kelsey I’d let her know my decision by Monday morning and clicked off the phone. Though the kids were still shrieking and pounding across the floor in the loft, that was no longer a distraction. I blinked at the page of search results on whether you should have sex with your ex: Why did I think the internet could help me with a question I couldn’t answer for myself?

  I closed that window and opened a fresh document.

  Younger, I typed at the top of the page. And below that: Pilot.

  seven

  Every Sunday evening, Maggie cooked one of her mother’s secret family recipes for a rotating cast of family and friends. Since Frankie had come on the scene, a great addition had been their thematically clever cocktail of the week.

  “This week’s drink,” said Frankie, displaying their extra-jumbo cocktail shaker to the right and then to the left in a Vanna White kind of move, “I call the Mayday.…”

  “I think that’s already a drink,” said Caitlin’s husband, Ravi, bouncing a basketball on the concrete floor. Ravi was a math genius—one of those freaky kids who goes to Harvard at fourteen. The year he graduated from Harvard, he grew seven inches and got drafted by the European basketball league. He saw all of Europe, played some ball, came back to go to medical school—he may have gotten a law degree in there too—and now he was a resident at Einstein. His only real fault was that he thought he was perfect.

  “But my Mayday,” said Frankie, beginning to shake the shaker, “is short for Maydaylightsavingsbank. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”

  Frankie rattled the cocktail shaker, now over their head. “It’s got a little Russian vodka in it for May first being a celebration of revolution,” they said. “It’s got some brandy because that’s what you drink in an emergency—mayday, get it? And then it’s got some lemon juice.”

  “What does the lemon juice stand for?” said Caitlin, who was cradling her belly as if her hands were the only thing keeping it aloft.

  “That symbolizes daylight,” said Frankie, “and I hope you like that part, because yours is going to be ninety-nine percent lemon juice.”

  “What’s the other one percent?” I asked.

  My pregnant daughter grinned. “A splash of champagne.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” I said.

  “I’m a doctor, and I say it’s fine,” said Ravi.

  “I’m a cook, and I say it’s time to eat,” said Maggie.

  Often on Sundays while Maggie cooked, the rest of us played a game together—Go Fish or Mother May I—but tonight the kids were clamoring to watch a movie. Ollie made a half-hearted pitch for How to Train Your Dragon, but his stepsisters succeeded in overruling him in favor of The Little Mermaid. They tore into their parents’ bedroom and soon we heard the sweet songs of “Under the Sea,” with its Cole Porteresque rhymes.

  “Your girls are so heteronormative,” Caitlin said.

  “Tell me about it,” said Frankie.

  “It’s because of all the crap they watch,” Maggie said.

  “So why do you let them watch it?” Ravi asked earnestly. He took Caitlin’s hand. “I mean, we’re going one hundred percent screen-free, at least until the baby starts school.”

  “Letting them watch TV gives me time to work and have a social life,” said Maggie, “so I consider it a feminist act.”

  Caitlin laughed. “You’re such a great model of working motherhood,” she said. “You had two kids in one year all by yourself, and instead of giving up your whole life, you became even more successful after you had kids.”

  My daughter might not have meant that as a criticism of me, but I couldn’t help but feel she was comparing Maggie’s international success during the early years of singl
e motherhood of near twins unfavorably with my own full-time focus on one measly kid.

  “Hey, I didn’t have those kids all by myself,” Maggie said, jabbing her wooden spoon in Caitlin’s direction. “Your mother was here with me every step of the way, and I remember you changing quite a few diapers too, Caitie.”

  “But then Caitlin got a nursing job and I moved to Maine,” I reminded her.

  “I was around by that time,” said Frankie.

  “And I also had plenty of help from Isabella and Graziella and Marianne and Seymour,” Maggie said, referencing her most trusted childcare helpers and housekeepers.

  “Seymour?” said Ravi.

  “The manny,” said Maggie, as if that were a standard household position.

  “What did you do for childcare when you had Ollie?” Caitlin asked Frankie.

  “My ex stayed home with him for the first year,” said Frankie. “After we split up, I did some textbook editing from home for a while until I found a good day care situation.”

  “What are you going to do about work, childcare, that whole thing, Caitlin?” asked Maggie.

  I hadn’t mentioned anything to Maggie about Caitlin wanting me to be her nanny, figuring that Maggie would be critical of Caitlin for suggesting such a thing. For underestimating my stature in the world. Maggie’s kids were still young and she was still innocent: She’d find out that they wouldn’t hold her in such high esteem forever.

  Caitlin shot me a sharp glance. “I’ve been trying to look at day care centers, but most of them don’t take infants, and you can’t even get them to call you back,” Caitlin said. “I went to this one corporate place and it was so depressing.”

  “I can ask my nannies if they know anyone,” Maggie offered.

  “I don’t want someone too young,” said Caitlin. “I just don’t trust they’d know what to do in an emergency.”

  “I got an interesting call from Kelsey Friday night,” I announced. “She sold the Younger show and she invited me to go out to LA and help her write it.”

  “What?” said Maggie. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? This is huge. Congratulations.”

  She held up her glass in a toast, and the others followed suit. All except Caitlin.

  “You just got back from living on an island with no cell service for nearly two years,” said Caitlin. “You don’t have a place to live yet. And you’re running off to California?”

  “I’m not running off,” I said, trying to sound convinced. “It is work.”

  “Oh, riiiiight, flying off to LA, pretending that you’re a screenwriter now,” Caitlin said. “What’s your next book going to be called—Youngerer?”

  “That’s not fair,” Maggie said. “Why shouldn’t your mother take this opportunity? It’s her book; it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, she’s got to lean in.”

  “It’s only for three or four weeks,” I said.

  “I’m only going to be pregnant for eighteen more weeks,” Caitlin said. “You promised you’d be here for me.”

  “What do you need from your mother in the next three or four weeks that only she can give you?” Maggie asked. “Seriously, Ravi could, like, lift a car off you all by himself. I’m right here if you need money or wisdom—”

  “I don’t know how to make a list,” said Caitlin, “but yes, there are things that only your mother can give you, no matter what age you are. Don’t you feel that with your kids?”

  Maggie had to acknowledge that was true, as did Frankie, after amending mother to parent.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m staying in New York.”

  “Good choice,” Frankie said to me. “New York is way better than LA.”

  Maggie looked taken aback. “You’ve never even been to LA.”

  “Now you know why,” said Frankie.

  Caitlin couldn’t help breaking into a smile. “I guess that settles it,” she said to me. “You’re staying.”

  “I think you should go to LA, Liza,” said Ravi.

  “What?” said Caitlin, a shocked look on her face. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am on your side,” Ravi said. “Your mother being here is causing more problems than it’s solving.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Liza, but it’s true. You’re so worried about Caitlin all the time, like she needs you there at her elbow every second or something terrible is going to happen.…”

  I began to explain. “I had two miscarriages—”

  “We know, Liza. That must have been terrible for you,” Ravi said. “But you talking about it all the time is making Caitlin think that we’re going to lose our baby.”

  I was horrified. “Is that true, Caitie?” I said.

  “Kind of,” she said.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I never meant to make you feel scared.”

  “Okay, well, I guess it’s two to two,” said Maggie. “You’re the tiebreaker, Liza. What’s it going to be?”

  I didn’t want to say no to Caitlin. But I didn’t want to say no to LA because I was afraid to say no to Caitlin. The truth was, I wanted to go to LA.

  “It’s only a short trip,” I told my daughter. “It could be great for my career, which would mean I’d have more money to help you buy a place and get a place for myself. I know you’re worried about me finding more stability—”

  Caitlin held up her hand. “I know you want to go, so you should just go,” she said. “But don’t try to make it sound like you’re doing it for me.”

  eight

  Two days later I found myself sitting on a vast white marble patio overlooking the Pacific Ocean, staring into the blue, blue eyes of actress Stella Power. Stella still looked amazingly like her poster girl self. All I could think about, smiling and nodding at her as if this were a normal conversation, was that her hair was so thick.

  “How do you get your hair like that?” I blurted.

  She laughed, exactly like Barbie might laugh if she could.

  “Easy, compared with sitting around all day being a creative genius!” She squeezed my knee. I could just make out, on the other side of her, Kelsey rolling her eyes.

  “I think the hair is harder,” I said, utterly fascinated.

  My own hair used to be effortlessly thick and flowing but lately had been getting so thin I was worried I’d inherited my dad’s baldness gene. I’d never been much of a whiz at the beautifying arts, which had been a distinct disadvantage when I was trying to look fifteen years younger every day.

  “Oh, well, some of it’s extensions,” she said, reaching up and fiddling around as if she were trying to tease out a nit, and instead removed a huge hank of hair. I nearly screamed. “And then I had stem cells injected into my scalp to stimulate hair growth. It’s amazing.”

  I told Stella I’d never heard of such a thing. “It’s still experimental,” she said, “but Barry is a big donor to the medical school, so I got into a clinical trial. The really beautiful thing is that they get the stem cells from your fat, so you get a little lipo in the bargain.”

  I told Stella that I couldn’t imagine where they found any fat on her body.

  “Stop, I’m like eighteen percent body fat!” Stella said.

  “You look amazing,” I told her sincerely. “You really do look twenty-six.”

  As someone who knew from the inside out how difficult it was to achieve this, I was in awe.

  “Good surgery,” she responded, as if that were as natural as good diet or good genes.

  “You mean, plastic surgery?” I said.

  “What else?” said Stella. “I’ve already had my whole face done once and my neck done twice. Nose, of course. Pussy, of course of course, after pushing out all those kids. Boobs, though then I had them undone because Barry thought they were too big.”

  “That must have… hurt,” I said.

  “Love is pain!” said Stella. “You know Barry, don’t you, Kelsey?”

  “Not yet,” Kelsey said.

&
nbsp; Stella cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Barry, Bar!”

  A gnomish white-haired man walking along a dark hedge of cypress trees at the far side of the property gave us a wave without actually looking our way. He was dressed in a khaki jumpsuit and was engaged in an animated conversation, seemingly with himself. I had assumed he was the gardener, or at least one of them.

  Stella motioned to him. “Come over and meet the Younger ladies!” she called.

  He smiled and waved again but kept on walking.

  “Now my boobs could turn purple and he wouldn’t notice,” Stella said. “What did you have done before your little Younger stunt?”

  “You mean, done as in plastic surgery?” I said. “Nothing.”

  “Now that is amazing,” she said. “Though this was a while ago, right?”

  “Five years,” I said.

  Stella sighed deeply. “I wish I was a New York intellectual and never had to worry about how I looked.”

  I barely had time to consider whether that insult had been deliberate when out from the house hurtled a small blond child, screaming and running straight for the swimming pool. I was about to leap up and run after him when a young man appeared on his heels, making play dinosaur sounds. The child screamed louder and ducked into a structure covered with gauzy white fabric beside the swimming pool.

  “Brooksy, be careful with the massage tent!” Stella called. And then to us, “One of the kids knocks it down every single week.”

  Brooks tore out the other end of the tent and hurled himself into the pool, his caregiver right behind him.

  “Brooks is my youngest, and I was so devastated when it was time for him to start school, I decided to homeschool all six of the children.”

  I was astonished. “Isn’t that a lot of work?”

  “Oh God, yes,” Stella said. “It takes ten teachers.”

  Stella tucked her feet up and lifted her arms to twist her thick mane of hair into a knot on top of her head. The minute she dropped her arms, it cascaded back around her shoulders.

  “I don’t know about you ladies,” Stella said. “But I’m ready for a little wake and bake.”

  She extracted a white vape pen from the folds of her silk blouse and took a deep draw, holding her breath while extending the pen to me.