by Leslie Lehr
“Hello, Mother. Just got the mail and wanted to thank you for your generous invitation. My lawyer insists I stay in Los Angeles. He actually said, ‘Don’t leave town.’ Shall I return the ticket so you can get a refund?”
By the time Michelle handed her documents to the snaggle-toothed man with the clip-on tie behind the counter, she was giddy with relief. She gave him such a dazzling smile that he checked out her bare left hand and asked her for a date. She thanked him politely and went to wait in line behind a Spandex-clad cyclist ranting on his Bluetooth. She realized she could make her own calls now and held up her phone. “Husband,” she commanded. After a few rings, he answered.
“Hey, there you are. How’s the new phone?”
“So far so good. I had to charge it, or I would have called you last night.”
“That’s all right. Are you feeling better today about the deposition?”
“I guess so.” There was something nagging at Michelle, but she felt a jab in her shoulder. She looked behind her at a woman wielding a plastic hairbrush and moved up. She heard Drew calling her name. “Sorry, I’m at the DMV. But guess what I found in Nikki’s room yesterday?”
“Michelle, I told you to let it go,” he said. She could hear the edge to his voice, even three thousand miles away. “I’m worried about you. Your mother called, still upset that you asked her to leave.”
“If I need a nurse, I’ll call Lexi. Besides, Tyler is a great help,” Michelle said, glad she hadn’t mentioned the Venice Bistro.
“Kenny said you’re making erratic decisions about medical treatment. Is that true?”
“No, there’s nothing erratic about it. I want treatment.”
“Michelle, I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”
“You’d rather I have no hope at all?” She remembered what was bothering her. “Oh! I have a question about something that came up in the deposition.”
“Make it fast, I have to get back to the set.”
Michelle stepped up in line. “Okay. One of the lawyers threatened to hold you in contempt of court if you prevented anyone from testifying. But since Tyler already gave a statement, who was he talking about?”
“He was talking about Nikki.”
“How can they subpoena a missing person?” Michelle asked.
Voices shouted his name in the background. “I gotta go,” he said.
“Wait! That detective couldn’t find Nikki’s file, but he said if we had the date it might help. When I couldn’t get hold of you, Tyler and I went to the school.”
“Michelle, I told you not to do this. It’s too much activity, too soon. You need to take it easy.”
“But Drew, we only learned when she dropped out, not when she ran away. How long did you wait before going to the police? What was the date of the report?”
“Forget about the report, Michelle,” Drew said.
“How can I?”
“One hundred eighty-one?” the clerk’s voice rang out.
Michelle looked up at the clerk, then back at the phone in her hand. Why didn’t he care about learning whether the police had new leads? The clerk called her number again while she waited for Drew’s answer. But still, he didn’t speak.
“Hang on,” she told Drew. She put the phone down to keep her arm hidden, then hurried to the X in front of the camera. She stood still and smiled—flash!—then stepped away.
The woman behind the camera rubbed her stiff neck. “Again, one hundred eighty-one, open your eyes!”
Michelle stepped back and waited for the next flash. Something did not add up. The camera flashed again. This time, her eyes were wide open. She put the phone back up to her ear. “Oh my god. You never submitted a report, did you?”
“Michelle…” He was pleading.
“You lied to me!” He hesitated a moment too long. “Where is she?” Michelle demanded.
“I don’t know!”
“Are you lying now?”
“No! I was trying to protect you.”
“From what? What else are you lying about?” Michelle asked. She felt a shove and moved aside to wait for her paperwork.
“There’s a lot at stake here, Michelle.”
She leaned against the wall. “Is this about money, you fucking asshole? Did you tell Tyler he could get a car if we won the case?”
“Number one hundred eighty-one! Need your signature!” The woman behind the camera called. People were staring at Michelle. She had been shouting. The clerk gestured to the hairbrush lady, already toeing the taped line.
Michelle couldn’t keep the phone open and take the papers with one hand. Frustrated, she burst into tears. She dropped the phone into her backpack, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and hurried back to the counter. “I’m sorry. My husband just lied to me!”
“Welcome to the real world.” The clerk stamped her temporary license. “Next!”
Michelle headed toward the drinking fountain to splash her face and calm down enough to call Drew back. What was he afraid of? As Nikki’s guardian, if he knew where she was, he’d be put in jail for obstructing justice. Maybe he didn’t report her missing to keep the police detectives from finding her. He could have been afraid that Nikki’s testimony about ignoring the recall might send him to jail, right? Maybe it still could.
A voice interrupted her thoughts. “Michelle? It’s me, Colleen. How nice to see you. And looking so trim.”
Michelle blinked at the woman locked arm in arm with her daughter in the plaid school uniform. She sounded sincere, as if she didn’t know about the accident. How refreshing. Michelle cleared her throat. “I could say the same thing about you. Tennis, right?”
“Something like that.” Colleen’s smile was as polished as a china plate, her eyes just as flat. “You remember Natalie? She just passed her driver’s test.”
“Congratulations, Natalie. Wow, time flies. Tyler’s around here somewhere. Remember him? You were in second grade together, I think.”
The girl nodded politely while dabbing on lip gloss that reeked of watermelon, then pulled a comb from her mother’s purse. Colleen nodded toward the restroom. “Go ahead, but come right back. Don’t talk to strangers.”
Michelle watched her trot off. “Adorable. And how is your son? Did he get that scholarship to Yale? Or was it Penn?”
Colleen’s lips trembled. “Montana.”
“Tennis camp?”
“Boot camp.” Her eyes turned red, as if all the blood vessels burst at the same time. Then they flooded. “We had to kick him out. He was using…” She jabbed the inside of her elbow.
“Oh my god, Colleen, I am so sorry.” Michelle had goose bumps.
Colleen rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“I’m sure you did the right thing,” Michelle said. “If anyone is a good mother, it’s you.”
“Makes no difference,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “His dealer was a girl. From the Palisades, no less. Did you know that heroin is cheaper than pot?” She shook her head and pulled a tissue from her sleeve.
Michelle saw Natalie approach and lowered her voice. “How’s Natalie?”
“Hard to tell. Her big brother hacked into her savings and stole it all.”
“I am so sorry, Colleen.” Michelle reached out to console her, but she reached with the wrong arm. Fiery pain burned down her arm.
“Mom, it’s our turn.” Natalie put the comb back in her mother’s purse.
Colleen tucked her tissue away and slapped on a mask of good cheer.
“Good luck,” Michelle called, as if luck had anything to do with it. Maybe it did, she thought, catching Tyler’s wave from the test area. How ironic that a near stranger had confided in her, as if she had all the answers. Michelle didn’t even know what questions to ask.
Tyler headed over with his paperwork, stopping by Natalie for a hug. Colleen looked back at Michelle, just as surprised. Michelle waited for him. “You remember Natalie?”
“From Facebook. She’s a friend of Cody
’s.”
“Tyler, you would never do drugs, right?”
“Mom, I’m not stupid. I’d get kicked off JV.”
“Sorry,” Michelle said. “What about your sister? She ever say anything about drugs?”
“Nope.” He checked his phone “Can you drop me at Eric’s? School’s out early, so he’s having a kickback.”
“A party?”
“No. A bunch of kids kicking back.”
“Not a party?” Michelle wasn’t clear on the difference. When she was in school, party was a verb.
“Nope. I just asked Nat for a ride, but she has to drop her mom off.”
“Okay, but let me call your dad first. I have a question about insurance coverage.” Among other things, she thought. She found her phone and pounded redial until husband appeared on the display.
“No answer.” She looked at Tyler.
“He must be busy. Text him, that’s what I do.” He looked at her limp hand. “That might be hard.”
“Slow, anyway. Like my brain these days.” She dropped the phone back in her purse, wondering what would have happened to Tyler had his dad gone to jail. “Tyler, did your dad ever mention you moving in with Nana?”
“Sort of.” He shoved the papers in his jeans pocket. “His hours are so long, I guess he thought I’d be better off in tights than shooting up in Times Square.” He noticed her alarmed expression. “Kidding. I wouldn’t wear tights, even for Nana.” He laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Michelle led him toward the exit doors.
“I was just thinking about that time we visited, and Nikki had to take her ballet class. Nikki wanted to wear a tutu, but Nana said it was only for recitals. She put on some goofy music, and all the girls were twirling like little dolls. But not Nikki—she just stood there. Nana got so mad, in front of the parents and everyone, but Nikki wouldn’t twirl without her tutu.”
“She just stood there, crying,” Michelle said. “But how do you remember that? You were six.”
“We were watching through that two-way glass. You gave me change to buy Milk Duds from the machine. You usually made me get a granola bar. Remember?”
Michelle nodded. She didn’t remember the candy, but she’d never forget feeling so torn between her mother and her daughter.
Michelle rescued Nikki by leading her out of the dance studio. The car ride with Elyse back across the river and through miles of cornfields was stuffy with anger. Michelle grilled hot dogs and fresh corn cobs out on Elyse’s wooden deck while watching the kids trawl the creek for crawdads. Mud spotted Nikki’s tutu when she clambered up for dinner. Elyse rocked on the wooden glider without a word. As the sun slipped down and the fireflies lit up and the crickets began to sing, Nikki twirled. She spun across the dandelion-covered yard spreading the fluffy seeds like a fairy. Her smile grew as she twirled, faster and faster until she collapsed in a giggling heap, until even her grandmother laughed.
“She never did anything on demand,” Tyler continued. “Wish I was more like that.”
“You’re perfect the way you are,” Michelle said. “Though I think you’d look good in tights.”
Tyler blushed. “Dad said I’d meet girls that way. But then I got into Rutgers Prep.”
Michelle nodded. Drew had obviously never told Tyler that he might not have a choice about where to live. No need to scare him; one lost parent was enough. But it was one thing to lie to your child and another to lie to your wife. Michelle’s temple throbbed. She stopped to dig in her purse for some Tylenol and felt the memory card in the pocket. Trust was a two-way street.
“Tyler, let’s not tell your dad that I took you to a bar.”
“Are you kidding? He’d kill me.” He smiled at her in solidarity.
“Now all we need is a camera. When you helped your dad pack those boxes, did you see your sister’s?”
“No, but that disk looked generic.”
“Is my pocket camera around?”
“It’s at school.” Tyler looked outside the exit doors and pointed at the lone paparazzi loitering in the parking lot. “We could borrow his. Just kidding. Seriously, though, Celeste already posted about meeting you.”
“Lovely. Shall we make a run for it?”
Tyler grinned. “You want to be Butch Cassidy or the Sundance Kid?”
“You know neither of them made it out alive, don’t you?” She calculated the distance to the car. “Never mind. Besides, if people know I’m out of the hospital, Nikki must know, too. Why won’t she come home?”
Tyler shrugged. “Maybe she’s afraid.”
“Of what?” she asked.
“Of you. Or of them.” He pointed outside.
Michelle backed into the door until it swung open, ignoring the flash. “I’ll drop you off at the kickback, but do me a favor. Tell all your Facebook friends to put the word out.”
“What, a reward?” he asked, as they hurried through the busy parking lot.
“No, that funny phrase you shout during hide-and-seek. The one that means it’s safe to come home.”
“Ollie ollie oxen free?”
That was it, she nodded. But was it true?
18
The curtains of the director’s cottage closed with such force that Michelle stopped short, amazed how little had changed in eighteen months. Here, yards from the back entrance of her old office on Sunset Boulevard, the scent of marijuana was so strong that she was afraid she might get high just by breathing. But she needed to borrow a camera and Victor had a closet full of them.
A piece of paper blew across the small courtyard in the wind. She put her boot down on it and saw the cartoon-type drawings that made up a storyboard. She glanced back at the cottage it had come from. They were just smoking weed, right? The cocaine years were long past, with those foil packets of powder fueling the thirty-hour beer shoots that put them so far over budget that only CLIO Awards kept clients coming back. Michelle had always been a “suit,” but she’d done her share of partying before she had children. She wasn’t proud of the double standard of her antidrug policy, but things were different now. The drugs were far more potent since they’d become medically prescribed. And those privileged enough to be in Victor’s cottage were craftsmen at the top of their games. Old enough to fry a few brain cells, if they so chose.
She studied the illustration of Tarzan swinging over the sand, an image designed by some advertising genius to sell an energy drink. Michelle tried to guess the price, whether shot on location at Zuma Beach or on stage at Raleigh Studios. She used to come within 10 percent of the actual estimate, but after all this time away, she wasn’t sure how to adjust for inflation. In the old days, if Victor really wanted the job, she would recommend the live location and cut the greens rental altogether. Executives from Chicago never noticed the lack of plants on the beach until they got there. By then, their director’s chairs had been set out, their coconut shells were filled with piña coladas, and they were happy to pay extra for palm trees.
Michelle spied a cluster of nubile young women on the sidewalk adjusting black bustiers and fishnets. They were the same age as the working girls in the police department, the same age as her daughter. Nikki had been to Michelle’s office, so it was unlikely she would work this corner even if she had taken to the streets, but Michelle couldn’t help but scan their faces.
“Michelle, is that you?” Victor let the door of the cottage slam behind him. He shook his head of too-black hair and buttoned the bowling shirt over the threadbare jeans dragging on his leather flip-flops. Then he crushed her with the embrace of a man whose personal trainer was on speed dial. He smelled of second-hand smoke, but his eyes were bright. He raised his hands as if framing her in a camera lens. “You look even better than before the accident, if that’s possible.”
Michelle blushed and handed him the storyboard. “Looking good yourself.”
High-pitched voices called from the curb. “Victor!” “Pick me!”
Michelle was relieved to see the girls waving g
lossy head shots, but noticed with a start that their costumes weren’t far off from Nikki’s outfit in the video.
Victor ignored them and popped a stick of gum in his mouth. Cinnamon, by the smell of it. They strolled over to the main office, an architecturally acclaimed mid-century box. Music blasted when he opened the door. “Why didn’t you call? I’d have cleared my day.”
“I didn’t think I was up to it until last night. No need to bother you and Sasha at home.”
“Sasha? Ancient history. You don’t remember doing the honors for me?”
Michelle racked her brain as they stepped inside the bullpen, a room with worktables lined up for the production crew. Victor pointed at the production coordinator, a twentysomething kid in a knit cap banging away on his laptop. “Fletch, call casting. Talent is still showing up.”
Fletch pulled out his phone. The other production assistants, a plain girl in a pink Save the Ta-Ta’s T-shirt and a guy in a Stones T-shirt that looked like it could walk home by itself sorted out receipts on the long tables. They all had dark circles under their eyes. Cheap labor, Michelle knew, because she used to cut their checks. Before that, she was one of them. They stole glances at Victor, as if God was opening the mini-fridge. He offered her a bottle of pomegranate-acai water.
Michelle declined the water and followed Victor down the hall to the front entrance. She took in the wall photos that had been moved downstairs from her office. In one of them, Michelle wore a gorgeous gown at the CLIO Awards with Victor; in an autographed shot, a hot young actor kissed her after a car commercial. In the reception area, the classic movie stills Michelle had bought still lined the metal stairway leading up to her old office. She peered up the steep stairs, hoping little had changed there either, especially the existence of cameras hanging in the storage closet.
Victor picked up the new issues of Ad Age and Variety from the empty desk. “Did you hear Becca got a studio deal?” Michelle asked.
He nodded. “I have a project there.”