by Leslie Lehr
Michelle was drawn to those gold-flecked eyes, as if they were her own and she was looking in the mirror. She slid down until she was sitting on the floor. She no longer heard the dog, or her husband calling her name. She used to remind herself not to confide in her daughter when she was lonely, and yet Nikki always seemed to read her mind, as if Michelle’s life had imprinted on her before she was born. Michelle read once that females are born with all the eggs they’ll ever make, and the notion had resonated with her—it confirmed how she felt. Nikki had always been part of her. At this moment, curled up on the cold tile, Michelle felt bereft of more than flesh and blood; she had lost her very essence. Who was she without her daughter?
She buried her face in her arm and began to moan. After working so hard to get better, counting the weeks to come home, she felt more pain now than ever. For the slimmest of seconds, she wished she had never woken up.
After a few minutes passed, Michelle’s moaning turned into a whimper. She felt the warmth of Drew’s arm around her shoulders and his lips pressed against her head. When she opened her eyes, he offered her the pill bottle. She held out her hand.
5
The scream stung Michelle’s ears. She struggled to shout at someone, to make it stop, but she was unable to form the words. As the sound faded to a hum, she floated until the wave washed over her, pushing her back down into the numbing calm. But soon there was muffled noise on the surface, luring her back.
Tyler’s voice. “Bella, no!”
Michelle opened her eyes.
The morning light was hazy through the bedroom curtains, but Drew’s side of the bed was already empty. She heard banging in the kitchen and remembered that he was leaving today. A pain shot like electricity through her bad arm. Wincing, she paused until it passed and she could breathe again. If Drew was cooking for Tyler, she could take her time. The boy ate a lot.
She slipped on her hospital bathrobe without bothering to maneuver her bad arm into a sleeve, and managed to snap the front closed enough to cover her wrinkled nightgown. Then she headed down the hall. As she approached the foyer, she smelled Chanel No. 5 and stopped short.
Michelle peeked around the corner to the front hall. Sure enough, a Louis Vuitton tote rested by the entrance table next to a matching cosmetics case engraved with the name Elyse Deveraux.
“Bonjour!” Elyse called. Her dancer’s posture was silhouetted in the kitchen doorway where she stood, impossibly chic in a knit St. John suit despite the dawn flight from Columbus. She wrapped her arms around Michelle and hugged her close before kissing her smack on each cheek. Michelle felt the creamy lipstick prints and pulled away. Elyse wiped them off with a graceful swipe of her manicured fingers, then adjusted the silk flower pinned to her silver chignon.
“Hello, Mother. You look as beautiful as ever.”
“Ah, ma chérie. I wish I could say the same for you.” Elyse straightened Michelle’s bathrobe then tapped her chin as a reminder to stand up straight.
Michelle couldn’t help marvel that her mother’s idea of a warm homecoming was to revert back to her habit of critiquing her only child. At least some things hadn’t changed.
“How are you feeling?” Elyse asked, as she glided back toward the sound of gurgling coffee.
Michelle followed her mother into the kitchen where the blessed scent of coffee overpowered the perfume. The counter was covered by breakfast takeout cartons. Michelle sniffed at the bacon staining one of them. “How could you not tell me about Nikki?”
“I know it’s horrible, but we couldn’t risk your recovery.”
“I might have recovered faster had I known there was an emergency.”
“You were the only emergency we knew how to handle.” Elyse poured a cup of French Roast. “Our Nicole is more of a mystery. Try to understand.”
Michelle reached for the cup.
“Non, ma chérie, I made this for your husband.”
“It’s not too strong, if that’s your concern. Dr. Palmer gave it to me.”
“How kind.” She pointed to a tub of oatmeal. “But no caffeine this morning. You must eat your fiber and return to bed.”
“No, thanks. I’m going to the police department.”
“Absolutely not. You need to rest.”
“I’m not a child,” Michelle said. She followed her mother’s gaze out the window to where Drew was pacing in the driveway.
Elyse unbuckled the purse that lay atop her Burberry raincoat and pulled out a Chanel lipstick. Then she attacked Michelle’s chapped lips. Stop, Michelle tried to say, but she was trapped between the refrigerator and her mother’s iron grip. She finally pushed her away with her left hand.
Elyse scrutinized Michelle’s face. “Better. And I see your good arm is compensating nicely for the damaged one. That charming doctor of yours was right. Mais alors, I owe your husband a dollar.”
“You bet against me?” Michelle asked.
“No, I bet against him.” Elyse redrew her pout in the glass window of the oven door. “How are things with Drew? He’s a good man, Michelle. He’s missed you terribly. You have a lot of making up to do, if you know what I mean.”
“Now you’re an expert on relationships?” Michelle eyed the tan line on her mother’s left ring finger. “What happened to fiancé number three?”
“Be nice to your husband. That’s all I’m saying.” Elyse pulled a brochure from her purse and set it on the dinette. She tapped it with her pink talon.
Michelle looked at the new brochure. Elyse Deveraux School of Dance was printed in florid script across the cover photo, a glossy reprint of a young Elyse dancing in the classic blue costume of Giselle.
When she glanced up, her mother was waving to Drew, who was still on the phone. He barely noticed the neighbors walking their dogs or strolling past in church clothes.
“It’s a work call, Mother. Producers don’t respect Sundays—I never did.”
“His breakfast is getting cold.”
Michelle was tempted to mention that it was only takeout, but even that was better than she could provide. She sat down at the dinette and pushed the trade papers away. “May I borrow your glasses?”
She waited for Elyse to unfold them, then gave her full attention to all the glorious things her mother had written about herself. The back copy described Elyse’s early training at the Paris Opera, her star turn with the Bolshoi, her performances in San Francisco, Chicago, and her last role as the prima ballerina of the Columbus Ballet. Michelle opened it to the schedule of classes printed inside. At least the background montage of baby ballerinas was adorable, with all of them playing dress-up in matching blue tutus. She pressed the brochure closed.
Elyse smoothed her chignon in the reflection of the upper oven, then raised her eyebrows as much as her Botoxed forehead allowed. “Did you get a good look?”
“Très élégant, Mother.” Michelle was about to ask why the brochure glossed over the reason for Elyse’s fall from grace, how she was seduced and abandoned too late to do anything except have her unwanted baby and drop lower and lower on the ladder of dance until she landed in Ohio. But it wasn’t the brochure that upset her.
“No need to lie if you hate it,” Elyse said with a sigh. “Throw it away; I don’t care.”
“I don’t lie as easily as you, Mother. And I don’t hate it. But it looks expensive.” Michelle’s eyes went to her mother’s bare ring finger. “Did you sell your diamond ring?”
“That’s not your concern. Advertising is important.”
Michelle took off her mother’s glasses and got up to open the nearest cupboard. It was empty. She slammed the cupboard shut.
“You could pretend to be happy to see me, you know. That’s what Frank does when I visit him in Key West.”
Michelle resisted the urge to say that was because her stepbrother never actually lived with her. She opened another cupboard instead.
“Did you know I was Queen of the Conch Festival this year?” Elyse stuffed the brochure back in her
purse. “What are you looking for?”
“Coffee mugs. I’ve lost my daughter, a year and a half of my life, and all memory of my kitchen.”
Elyse shook her head. “Non, ma chérie, I reorganized.” She opened the cupboard above the coffee maker and took out one of the few remaining mugs. “Perhaps some green tea before your nap.”
Michelle picked up the mug and read the faded print, World’s Best Mom.
“Let me help,” Elyse said, reaching for the mug.
Michelle pulled it away and went to the refrigerator, looking for juice. She pointed at the bare door. “Where are my magnets?”
“Those tacky things? They’re around here somewhere. I meant to throw them away, but…” Elyse put food cartons in the microwave to reheat.
Michelle began a new search. She opened drawer after empty drawer. The next one contained silverware and the clip-on earring that Michelle had thrown across the room. Nikki used to accuse Michelle of being a control freak and maybe she was; she liked things to run smoothly. But now, everything was out of her control, even her kitchen. Where were those magnets?
She opened the floor cabinet where the trash can used to be and found a grocery bag full of expired coupons from the junk drawer. She gripped the top and lifted it up to the counter. Then she fished in the bag with her left hand and pulled out the first thing she touched, a photo of Tyler at bat, framed by a magnetic mock-up of a Wheaties box. Delighted, she stuck it up on the refrigerator and reached in the bag for more.
Her hand closed around the plaster turtle she’d bought in Maui the year the kids found airline tickets from Santa in their stockings. She rubbed her thumb against the moss-colored magnet, a souvenir of their snorkel trip. She could picture those enormous green turtles swimming beneath the glass bottom boat when it stopped at Turtle Town. The children had been giddy at the sight of the creatures gliding below, with their fins flapping like underwater wings. Once the turtles had safely passed, the boat motored to the lip of Molokini Crater. Everyone latched on life jackets and snorkeled around the reef. A lone sea turtle spotted Nikki and flapped behind her like a long lost friend.
The microwave dinged. Startled, Michelle dropped the magnet. The green shell cracked into shards on the floor. Michelle stuck a green fin back on the fridge, then reached back into the grocery bag.
When she pulled her hand out, a red line bled from a slice on her finger. She sucked on it, then grabbed the folded paper that had cut her. She recognized the elegant cursive of Elyse’s Parker Penmanship on the outside. The words looked fuzzy, but when she squinted, she could read her name. Michelle Deveraux Mason, it read. Daughter of prima ballerina Elyse Deveraux. A line was scratched out, then: Executive Producer of Golden Hour Productions. She is survived by…” Michelle dropped the paper. Dread shrouded her like a cloud of smoke. Her mother had written her obituary.
Elyse returned and saw Michelle’s stricken face. She snatched the paper from the floor. “Try to understand, Michelle. You were not expected to…You were not…What is the word? Viable.”
“You gave up on me?”
“Non!” Elyse folded the paper to hide her writing.
Michelle couldn’t bear to look at her mother any longer. Her eyes dropped to the paper. There was a fuzzy image from a cheap printer on the back. “What’s that?”
“It’s scratch paper,” Elyse said.
Michelle grabbed it. The picture showed Michelle and Tyler embracing Nikki, who wore a bulky coat and a birthday crown. She held a muffin topped with a candle shaped like the number sixteen. Nikki’s lips were spread, but not enough to be a smile. There was a smudge of ink on her cheek. “This must be from Nikki’s birthday. September 19.”
Elyse nodded. “I sent that lovely sheepskin coat.”
“Yes, because it’s so important to have a winter coat in California.”
“Don’t be rude,” Elyse said. “It was on sale and Nikki adored it. When I called to make sure she received it, you put her on the phone, remember? I could barely hear her over that horrible music.”
Michelle looked back at the image. She had researched cameras for weeks before Nikki’s birthday. The lens had to be better than the one on her phone, or why bother? This one also had the timer that was so easy to set. It looked like Nikki had put the camera on the counter to shoot it, then printed it out on her old inkjet. Michelle peered at the circles beneath Nikki’s ears. She dug the disco ball earring from her pocket and matched it to the picture.
“A gift from Frank,” Elyse guessed. “Those tacky souvenirs are as popular as key lime pie down there.”
“So her birthday was two weeks or three weeks before the accident? I keep forgetting the date. What happened?”
Elyse poured her own coffee. “It was October 8. Your husband called, of course. I flew in as you came out of surgery. Then you took a turn for the worse, and there was more surgery in November, which you did not come out of so well. By December, doctors had induced the coma to avoid permanent damage from your brain swelling.” She offered the juice, then gave up. “It’s too horrible to discuss. There were so many forms to sign: liability releases and health directives and the legal conservatorship. Then five months later, you started to wake up—and I reorganized the kitchen.”
Michelle shook the obituary at her mother. “How long after the accident did you write this? Was Nikki still here?”
“I don’t remember. I found it in the drawer and used it as scratch paper during one of my visits.” Elyse sipped her coffee. “That’s the thing about memory. It has a way of being exactly what you want it to be, mais oui?”
Michelle wondered if her mother had planted the idea of Nikki’s hospital visit to keep her from knowing she was gone. Or was Drew right about it being wishful thinking? But there was no reason to pick a fight over it; there were more important things to do.
Elyse noticed the prescription bottle, then poured juice for Michelle. “Now drink up and get some rest. Would you like pharmaceutical help?”
“No, would you?” Michelle scowled at her mother. “I’m not ready to write my daughter’s obituary. I’m going to the police.”
“All in good time, ma chérie. No one is going to help if you barge in wearing hospital clothes. You’ll need proper attire.”
“Aren’t my suits in that garment bag in my closet?”
“Bien sûr, for charity. You were a bit more, shall we say, zaftig then.”
“A few extra pounds are not the same as fat, Mother. I ran three times a week.”
Elyse rubbed her own svelte hip. “In any case, your suits won’t fit you now. And black is no good. No need to look like you’re going to a funeral. Or like you missed one.” She raised a penciled-in eyebrow.
Michelle sipped her juice. “Point taken, mother. But I work in Hollywood—everyone wears black.”
“D’accord, but no one has gray hair.” She turned Michelle gently toward the oven until she could see her homely reflection in the glass window. “Go blond. The roots will barely show.” She tapped the small scar on Michelle’s forehead. “And you can cut your bangs to cover this scar.”
Michelle pushed her mother’s hand away to feel the now-familiar scar from the accident. “I’ll ask Sasha, my old stylist, to come by. She can color my hair in the sink. May I borrow your phone?”
“Non, I’ve made you an appointment for later this week at a spa in Beverly Hills: facial, mani-pedi, the works.” She pressed the loose skin on Michelle’s face. “Your eyes are hollow and your lips have thinned, but fillers can fix that.”
Michelle scoffed. “I’m not going to a spa while my daughter is missing.”
Elyse continued, undeterred, and reached into her purse for a silk drawstring bag. “Let’s start with these.” She pulled a strand of pearls from the bag and hooked it around Michelle’s long neck.
Michelle rubbed her fingertips over them. “Were you planning to donate these or sell them?”
“I was saving them for Nikki. They’re of little value.”
“Au contraire, Mother,” Michelle said, spying Drew in the doorway.
He stepped inside and kissed her on the head. “I gave you those for our first anniversary,” he confirmed. “Good morning, ladies. How is everything?”
“Bon,” Elyse said. “If you don’t count the breakfast.” She set his plate of eggs in the microwave and pressed Start.
Drew was already eating when Tyler burst through the front door with Bella. He locked her in the backyard, then returned for a stack of pancakes.
Drew downed the last of his black coffee at the sink. “Be quick. Security at LAX is a bitch.”
Elyse took Drew’s empty mug. “I don’t like my grandson driving in LA traffic.”
“Not much traffic on Sunday. He’ll be fine,” Drew said, rubbing his lower back. He gave her a hug and slipped the copy of Variety under his arm.
Michelle blocked Drew’s path out of the kitchen. “Please don’t go.”
“Oh, honey. I’m doing this for you.” Drew kissed her cheek, then saw her tap her lips. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wreck your lipstick.”
Michelle glanced at her mother, then clutched his denim sleeve. “We need to talk.”
“I’ll call you,” he said as she walked him to the door. He pulled a petty cash envelope from his wallet and fanned it to show her the $50 and $100 bills inside.
Michelle shoved it in her bathrobe pocket. She used to pass out per diems in the same kind of envelope during production. “Do I have to sign a receipt, too?”
He chuckled and pulled on his jacket. “I’ll send you a debit card, but first you need a new ID to prove you exist.”
Michelle raised her eyes to his. “What do I need to convince you I exist?”