Her voice softened. “Listen, Lily, your mother would want you to—”
“Franny, do not tell me what my mother would or would not want. And stop talking about her as if she’s dead.” I pressed the end button on my Blackberry. Truth be told, I was really upset with myself—not with Franny. I do care about the Emmys—a lot. What kind of daughter did that make me?
“Congratulations on your Emmy nomination, Miss Lockwood,” the driver said innocently as he looked at me in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, and slumped down in the seat.
I thought back to the morning of the Emmy nominations. Mom and I agreed that, even though we were 3,000 miles apart, we’d be on the phone together when they made the announcements. It was our ritual: If we weren’t together in the same room, we’d at least be on the phone together. She was in New York City, so we decided she’d call to wake me up, since it was three hours later there. Even if the roles were reversed, with me being in NYC and my mother in Malibu, she still would’ve called, because, well, she’s the Mom. That’s just the way it was.
On July 18th, the phone woke me up at 5:20 a.m. I grabbed my cell after the first ring. “Hello?” I whispered. I looked over at Jamie, who was sleeping in bed next to me. I didn’t want to wake him up; he’d been shooting until 1:00 a.m. and didn’t get home until an hour later. His role was that of an out-of-work actor, down on his luck. Thank goodness he’d booked this indie movie—because otherwise it would certainly be art imitating life. The movie was over budget and running way too long. He was on a twelve-hour turnaround and had to be back on set by early afternoon. I tiptoed out the room, softly closing the door, and went downstairs.
“Good morning, Miss Lily Lockwood, and welcome to The 60th Annual Emmy Nomination Announcements,” Mom said in her cheeriest announcer voice.
“Wow, you are way too perky for this time of the morning,” I whispered.
“Are you kidding, Miss Sleepyhead? I’ve already worked out and read the Times.”
I was curious if Mom was calling me from the city apartment or the farmhouse in Southold. She dressed differently for both residences. At the farmhouse, her attire was comfy—always stylish, of course, but relaxed and a bit on the nautical side. In the city, she looked more put together, very “chic couture on the go,” even if she stayed in the whole day and wrote. Since this was Thursday in July, my bet was that she was at the farmhouse and would probably spend the rest of the morning working on her sixth novel. In the afternoon, she would garden or sail.
“Where are you, Mom: city or farm?” I hopped onto the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV. The house was chilly, so I wrapped my favorite green velvet throw around me.
“The farm,” she said. I heard cups rattling in the background.
“Let me guess: Ralph Lauren jeans and top?”
“You know me too well. One of these days, Lily Lockwood, I’m going to surprise you.”
““That will never happen, Mother darling. Sorry, you’re incredibly wonderful and loveable, but totally predictable.” I heard more clatter in the background. “What’s that noise?” I asked, stretching out on the leather couch.
“I’m having coffee,” Mom replied. “Why don’t you make yourself one, so we can have a cup together?”
“Nope, I’m going right back to sleep after the announcements.” I glanced at the wall of windows that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. When it wasn’t foggy, the view was breathtaking. You could see straight across the twenty miles of ocean to Catalina Island. The mornings that I didn’t have to be on set early, Jamie and I would always have our breakfast on the terrace, watching dolphins frolic and leap through the crests of the surf.
It was before sunrise and I could hear the rhythmic crash of the waves. Yet I saw nothing but pitch black. I clicked the remote until I got to the right channel.
“Are you kidding me, my sweet Lily of the Valley? You’re going to be way too excited after the announcements are read to go back to sleep. You, my darling daughter, are going to be nominated. This is your year, Cookie; I can feel it in my bones.” Mom was the best cheerleader any girl could have.
“As Grandma Rose used to say, from your mouth to God’s ears,” I replied. We both laughed.
“Shhh…Lily—it’s coming on—oh my God, I can’t breathe.”
“Relax,” I told her. “We go through this every year, and every year we’re disappointed.”
“Lily, stop! You can’t send negative energy out to the universe. Think positive. Repeat after me: I will get nominated this year,” she commanded.
“Mom … c’mon, it’s too late for that. I should’ve sent my intentions out six months ago.”
That stopped her dead in her tracks. “Oh my God, you mean you didn’t?”
I loved shocking Mom; it was a hobby of mine. As a matter of fact, only a few years earlier it had been my main mission in life.
“Okay, I’m busted—yes I did!” I confessed.
She gave a dramatic sigh of relief and said, “That’s my girl!”
Kristin Chenoweth and Neil Patrick Harris came on- screen to make the announcements.
“Oh I love, love, love Kristen Chenoweth!” I gushed. “She was so great in Wicked and on West Wing! But what the hell is she wearing? It is way too blue and way too shiny for this early in the morning.”
“I think it’s cute,” Mom replied. “Oh and I love Neil Patrick Harris. Doesn’t he look great? Sweetie, do you remember watching Doogie Howser, M.D. together every week? He was so darling. You had a huge crush on him, remember?” She paused for a second. “Lily, he would be a good guy for you. He’s really serious and talented and cute, and extremely mature for his age.”
“First of all, Mom, I have a totally cute and talented boyfriend. Second, Neil Patrick Harris is not and never was a kid genius or a doctor. And third, Mom, he’s gay.”
“I don’t believe you.” She sounded genuinely surprised.
“Believe it.” I laughed.
From our televisions came the voice of Neil Patrick Harris, who announced, “Leading actress in a drama series…”
“Shhh, here’s your category!” she shouted.
Kristin Chenoweth read from the card she was holding. “Glenn Close, Damages. Sally Field, Brothers & Sisters. Holly Hunter, Saving Grace. Kyra Sedgwick, The Closer.”
“Holy Mother of God,” I said. “Who’s next, Meryl friggin’ Streep?”
“Lily Lockwood, St. Joe’s.”
We both screamed at the top of our lungs. I danced around the room like a crazy woman. I didn’t care if I woke up half of Malibu! I jumped up and down on the couch and tried holding the phone close to my ear so I could hear what my mother was saying. Mom was, of course, crying. I could expect nothing less from her.
“I’m so proud of you, honey.” She was bawling by this time. I stopped jumping. Reality doused me like an Arctic shower. I said, “Mom, those women are all icons. I’d have to be crazy to think I can win.”
Mom sighed. “Lily, what is the one thing I’ve told you since the moment of your first audition?”
“Don’t worry about anyone else; just worry about the girl in the mirror.”
“Lily, you were just nominated for an Emmy.”
We both screamed again and I jumped on the couch again.
Jamie walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs into the living room. He was in his boxers, his hair sticking straight up, and he was rubbing his eyes.
Even that early in the morning, he could easily be cast as a leading man. Six foot two, blonde hair, high cheekbones—a young Kevin Bacon or River Phoenix with a smidgen of Brad Pitt thrown in. He’s athletic without being too muscular, and he has a killer six.
He yawned. “What’s going on, babe?”
“I got nominated for an Emmy!” I shouted. Then I spoke into the phone. “Ma, Jamie’s up, I’ll call you later. I love you.” Jamie tried to grab the phone, but I held it away from him and clicked it shut.
“Wow, babe, that’s awesome, an Emmy nomination. Wow!” He pulled me into him, gave me a passionate kiss (totally unexpected), and put his hand inside my pajama bottoms (totally expected). He gave my butt a good squeeze.
“Hmm…very nice!” He took my hand and said, “C’mon, back to bed, babe, I’ve never done it with an Emmy nominee before.”
I followed him up the stairs, taking off my pajama top and bottoms on the way up and flinging them to him, Gypsy Rose Lee style.
The bottoms ended up around his neck. Very dramatic, I thought, and most definitely worthy of an Emmy nominee!
I was completely naked by the time we reached the top of the landing. He lifted me up, opened the door with his foot, carried me into the bedroom, and tossed me on the bed.
“My mother’s right again,” I said to him in between kisses. “She told me I’d be way too excited to go back to sleep!”
Sitting in the back seat of the town car, I wondered if my mother would be seated next to me at the Emmys. How could I go to the ceremony if she wasn’t there? How could I do anything without my mother?
The driver made a turn off the side road and into the hospital parking lot. I took a deep breath to steady myself for what lay ahead. Since it was the middle of the night, the lot was eerily serene. An ambulance slowly drove by, passing a sleeping guard.
My driver pulled up to the front of the entrance. As if on cue, three men and one woman, all in white coats, ran toward the car.
“Oh shit, this can’t be good,” the driver said, almost to himself.
It is finally 7:30 a.m. Three hours at a hospital is like three days anywhere else. If you can’t sleep, all you do is sit and wait. Everything happens in slow motion. It’s what I imagine water torture might be like. (Maybe you’ve guessed by now that patience has never been a virtue for me.)
I am alone, sitting at a large rectangular table in a stark conference room of the Intensive Care Unit, waiting for my mother’s doctor to appear.
I look around. The art on the wall consists of a few terrible prints of tractors. My mother is going to hate this room. When she gets better, I’ll make sure she avoids it.
I remember the time we were in a hotel in San Francisco. Mom was on a book-signing tour and because I wasn’t working, I went to keep her company and do what we do best together—power shop!
We got into the suite and it was lovely. We had a breathtaking view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Mom looked around the room and said, “Lily, you must always surround yourself with beautiful things. They don’t necessarily have to be expensive, but they must speak to you, move you, evoke emotions.”
Five minutes after we got into the room, she called the concierge and told him that the artwork in the room was playing havoc with her Zen feng shui.
When housekeeping arrived to take down the pictures, she was her charming self and asked if she could possibly choose other paintings to replace them. They walked her through room after empty room until she found the perfect ones.
After she had hung them on the empty walls, she turned to me, hands on her hips, and said, “Much better. Don’t you feel better already, Lily? Don’t you feel your Zen centered?” I laughed and told her she was crazy, and that one of these days someone was going to lock her away.
The buzzer on my cell phone goes off again, indicating someone has texted me. My phone has been beeping nonstop texts and messages since late last night. The cast and crew members started texting and emailing when I was on my way to the airport. I answered a few and then it just got too overwhelming. Franny must have gotten right on the phone with Bette Maloney, so I’m pretty sure the news about my mother must’ve hit the news and internet. I check the streaming news on my Blackberry and there it is: Daisy Lockwood, well-known author and mother of St. Joe’s star Lily Lockwood, was in a near-fatal accident on Long Island Wednesday afternoon. There has been no statement yet from a University Hospital spokesperson or members of the family, but a reliable source tells us that Ms. Lockwood is in critical condition. Her daughter flew in late last night from Los Angeles to be with her.
Man, Bette is good! The texts and the calls are coming in nonstop and I can’t force myself to answer any of them. I’m too tired and too sick to my stomach to go through the whole thing over and over again. I check to see if there are any calls or texts from Jamie. None. I guess when you’re shooting a Western in New Mexico, riding horses all day and your costar all night, you’re probably too busy to watch the news.
A nurse walks in with a pen and paper. I can’t believe my eyes—what a moron! She’s actually going to ask me for my autograph!
“Miss Lockwood, you might want to take notes when you speak to the doctor. This way you can remember everything, so you can tell the other family members.” I thank her. Feeling like a major jerk, I take the pen and paper.
There are no relatives, not since Grams and Grandpa died. It’s just the two of us, Mom and me. My father and mother split up when I was five months old. Mom told me once that I was a colicky baby and cried nonstop for months. Maybe my father couldn’t stand the noise, or didn’t like kids. I’ve never really had the patience or that certain knack with babies; maybe I inherited that from dear old dad. When babies and children see my mother, they’ll crawl, they’ll walk. Shit, they’ll friggin’ knock each other over, roller-derby style, just to get to her. She’s that much of a kid magnet.
Once I asked my mother what had happened, why my father had left, and why we never see him. An expression of deep sadness came over her face. “Honey, I’m sure your father does love you, but he’s not mature or responsible enough to have a family.” I never asked again.
There have been moments when I’ve be on a set somewhere shooting a movie, and I’ve thought, “I wonder if my father will ever see this film, and if he does, will he even know that the actress on screen is his own flesh and blood?” When I was a teenager, I would imagine that one day my father and I would meet unexpectedly and there would be an emotional reunion of such dramatic proportions, that all we could do was fall into each other’s arms and weep uncontrollably.
Over time, my father became unreal, an urban legend of sorts, like alligators in New York City sewers—a being that might exist, but is never seen. Our friends were our extended family. And Mom and I were the tight nucleus in our close-knit group.
A young female doctor walks into the conference room holding charts and files. She looks frazzled and embarrassed. She clutches her files to her chest as if she thinks someone is going to yank them out of her hands. Her frizzy hair looks as if it hasn’t been combed in days. She has a soft voice and a thick accent—maybe Italian, it’s hard to tell. I have to strain to understand her.
“Miss Lockwood, I’m Dr. Grippi. Dr. Niptau had an emergency and he’ll be up in about thirty minutes. Since University is a teaching hospital, he will introduce you to your whole team. I’m the intern for the team; you’ll see me here for the next twenty four hours or so.” She clears her throat, turns red and looks down. “Also, after you speak to Dr. Niptau, Roy Martinez, the hospital’s Public Affairs Director, would like to see you about making a statement to the press.”
“A statement…what kind? What are you talking about?”
“Well, it seems, Miss Lockwood, that there have been reporters here since around 5 a.m. They’re trying to question everyone about your mother’s condition.” She clears her throat again. “And we….. well, I guess Mr. Martinez will speak to you about it.” She walks briskly out of the conference room.
I need to call Franny so she can deal with this Martinez guy. I pick up my cell and realize it isn’t even 6 a.m. in LA. I put the phone back on the table, feeling like a prisoner. I close my eyes. Waves of nausea suddenly and violently hit me, and I run into the nearby ladies’ room. I throw up for the third time since my arrival, five hours earlier. I feel shaky and dizzy as I head back to my “jail cell.” A nurse stops me just as I’m walking into the conference room. She is middle-aged, tall, and looks like a re
al no-nonsense type.
“My name’s Gilda. I took over for Tina, so I’ll be your mother’s day nurse.”
“Hi Gilda,” I say softly. (I hope my breath isn’t offensive.)
“I just want to inform you that in the I.C.U. there is one nurse for every two patients, so—” She stops suddenly. “Are you okay, dear? You look a bit pale.”
“Gilda, I’m not feeling so good. Actually, I’ve been puking for hours—I guess it’s nerves.”
She puts a protective arm around my shoulder and walks me back into the conference room. “Sit down; I’ll bring you a glass of water. Have you eaten anything lately?”
“No, I couldn’t eat on the plane and I’ve eaten nothing here at the hospital.”
“Not good. Sit tight and I’ll be right back.”
I cross my arms on the table and put my head down, kindergarten style. The room eventually stops spinning. Gilda walks back in holding a glass of water, a pack of crackers, and a small cup of Jell-O.
“Here, try to eat something. You really have to keep your strength up and take care of yourself now. If you need anything, I’ll be outside your mother’s room.” She starts to walk out, stops, turns around, and smiles. “Your mother’s novels are my favorite. And her children’s books are my niece’s favorite. One day, my sister had to hide Woman in the Moon because she had already read it to her daughter ten times that day. She figured if my niece couldn’t see it, she’d ask for something else.” She smiles. “It didn’t work.”
“Thanks, Gilda. My Mom will appreciate that. I’ll make sure to tell her when she wakes up.”
A strange look comes over her face before she turns and leaves the room. I open the crackers and take a few tentative bites. The food does make me feel a bit better. I sip the water and open the Jell-O.
On set, we all joke about Jell-O. They always have a shitload of it on hand as props for the patients on the show. It reminds me of the first time I met Jamie. It was the first day he worked on St. Joe’s.
He had one scene, and I found out later it was his only real acting job—the first one that paid, anyway. I was running lines for my scene, which was up next. The scene was set in a hospital room and centered around a patient who was a professional baseball player with some sort of heart problem. I played his attending nurse. I hadn’t yet met the episode guest star who had been cast to play the athlete.
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 3