Welcome Home

by Eric Smith

  I pick up my phone before leaving my trailer and see that I have a missed call from The Number. My heart jumps, as it always does, but I click it off and shove the phone in my pocket, ignoring the call as I have the last seven hundred times or so. I still don’t know what to do about it, so I’m ignoring it until I do. It’s easier that way.

  Oliver is scrolling through his phone when I step out, and even after all this time, I still get excited to see him. Not like the other girls, the fans who think he’s just hot—and he is—but in a different, more personal way. He knows me better than most people, which I suppose is expected since we work together every day, but still. It’s gotten to the point where we’ll drive and he’ll know where I want to go without me telling him.

  He catches my eye as I meet him by his trailer and smiles. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Um . . . how about that new Mexican place Michael told us about? It’s not cool yet.”

  “Which means it’ll be dead or slammed.”

  “Let’s hope for dead?”

  He nods, adding, “I can always go for burritos.”

  He puts his arm over my shoulder, and we walk to the parking lot behind us. “I’ll drive.” He lets go of my shoulder and opens the door to the passenger side of his jeep. The sky is just starting to change as he pulls out, deepening from the light blue it was to a purple hue, and though I try to wipe the thought of The Number out of my mind, it keeps coming back. I roll down the window to let out my thoughts as we drive in silence. It’s one of those evenings where talking isn’t required; the sound of the wind blowing in through the windows is enough. I look at Oliver and know he’s thinking the same thing when he smiles and slows down. A song plays on the radio. I can’t place it, but its quietness speaks volumes.

  We park in a lot a street down, and look up. A billboard for Thirst’s second season hangs above us, showing Oliver embracing me from behind, leaning down to bite my neck, while I look straight out with a smirk, holding a stake close. The session went for two hours, and it was the first shot they ended up going with. We started dating two days later.

  “I still can’t get used to that,” Oliver says, putting his hands in his pockets as he looks up at us.

  “Yeah.” Taking in the billboard, I feel so visible, so out there. For everyone to see. For everyone to find. No matter how much time has passed, it still seems surreal to me. “Me either.”

  We cross a small street, and once we hit the sidewalk, we hear our names called out. I instinctively look back.

  “Oliver! Tallulah!”

  Oliver swears, then grabs my arm, pulling me forward. “Already?”

  “Ol, let’s just pose quickly, get it over with. Then they’ll leave and we can eat.”

  “No, because then they’ll call their friends. Just keep walking.” He lets go of my arm, careful not to be too touchy in public. We never confirmed dating rumors, but people assumed, especially when photos of us kissing in a secluded area of a beach surfaced. We thought we were alone. We were wrong.

  We swing around the corner, and in front of the restaurant is a slew of photographers taking pictures of the newest YouTube singer turned pop star who’s posing with fans. Apparently, we aren’t the only ones who thought of going for Mexican food.

  “I told you this was a bad idea,” I sigh, frustrated and feeling exposed.

  Behind us, the other photographer catches up. “Tallulah, what do you think about—”

  “And I told you there’d be an adventure,” Oliver says, cutting off the photographer, but not before I heard the word “mom.”

  “Wait, what did—”

  “In here.” Oliver grabs my arm and pulls me into a Vietnamese restaurant.

  We burst through the doors making much more of a scene than intended. My face flushes from embarrassment, and I guiltily slink to a table in the corner with Oliver following and chuckling as quite a few eyes follow us, and phones start to light up.

  “I think our cover is blown,” he says when we sit down.

  “We were doomed from the start,” I say, picking up my menu and then putting it back down. “Hey, did you hear what that photographer said?”

  He sighs. “No, probably something to get a rise out of us. Like always.”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding, but something still doesn’t sit right with me. Did he say “mom?”

  “Let’s just eat and get this over with.”

  I glare at him. “Glad you’re looking forward to eating with me.”

  He looks up and his face softens. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.” I smile, shaking away the previous questions. I look around and see the gaping looks, hear the whispers, and note the texts being sent. I know that if I check Twitter now, there’d be mention of us here. There might be photos and details about every movement we make. The visibility is startling. I consciously pick up my phone and see a missed call from my agent, but no message, so I assume it’s not important. Then I see that The Number called again, too. She never calls this many times in a row. I shake my head and then look up at Oliver.

  “All okay?” he asks.

  “Just looking.” I shrug, leaving my phone on the table. If she calls again, I’ll decide what to do. Maybe.

  “Welcome to Pho 22.” A waitress says as she materializes beside us and greets Oliver, not me. “Can I get you anything?”

  “One Coke, a water, and spring rolls to start,” I say, ordering for the two of us, trying to see if she’ll, for a second, look away from Oliver. She glances quickly, and then meets my eyes again and recognition crosses her face. She nods, then backs away, disappointed I’m sure that Oliver brought a date, and the date was me.

  “I think you have an admirer,” I say, not sourly.

  “I love that you ordered for me,” he says.

  “Sorry. Just trying to get her attention.”

  “Don’t be sorry. The assertiveness . . . it was hot.”

  “So it really is my vampire-slaying skills that attracted you?” I lean forward on my crossed arms, and he smiles. I sometimes wonder what he sees in me, compared with Every Other Girl that wants to be with him. Why me? But then I see that look and I shake away my worries and thoughts because for some reason he made up his mind, and I like the decision.

  My phone rings again and I see that it’s my agent. Again.

  “It’s Tracey,” I sigh, and he gestures for me to take it because he understands.

  I pick up my phone, hoping for good news but knowing it’s probably not that. “Hey, Tracey.”

  “Dammit, Tally, there you are.”

  My pulse speeds up in fear. “What’s going on?” I look at my phone and see that it wasn’t one call I missed from Tracey, but several. Seven, to be exact.

  “Where have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Doesn’t matter. I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to be honest with me.”

  Dread comes over me as I slowly answer, “Okay. . .”

  “Are you adopted, and if so, has your birth mother been contacting you?”

  My heart jumps as I gasp. I flick my eyes to Oliver, but he’s looking down at his phone. I try to slow my racing pulse, but I can’t. So I breathe in and slowly nod, answering, “Yes. To both.”

  She sighs, disappointed. “Why haven’t you told me?”

  “It’s kind of personal.” With that, Oliver looks over at me, worried. “Wait, how do you know?”

  “Everyone knows. Your mom just went to TMZ.”

  “My mom? Wait, what?”

  “Your mom, your birth mother, that woman trying to contact you. She went to TMZ and now everyone knows. She said she’s been trying to get in touch with you for months and you’re ignoring her. It’s on all the blogs; they’re all wondering why you don’t want to talk her. Do you know how this makes you look?”

 
“No . . .” My heart starts racing again and I think back to the photographer. He did say “mom.” I never thought it would come to this. This is something small, something personal, something I haven’t wanted to deal with, which is why I haven’t answered the calls. Why did she go to the news? Why has she needed to see me so badly, after all this time?

  Tracey sighs again, frustrated. “To mothers you look like someone who’s giving up on family. To adopted children, you look like someone who’s embarrassed by that, which is why you’ve never mentioned it. To everyone, you just look like a liar.”

  “What? Why? I mean, this is personal, this isn’t . . . this isn’t . . .” I start to panic. My breath is coming in short bursts, tears springing up in my eyes. It was one thing for everyone to question my relationship with Oliver, but another for them to question and dissect something I don’t even want to question and dissect. Something I kept private for a reason. I catch Oliver’s eyes across the table and he mouths, “What is it?” but I can’t answer. I can’t even shake my head. I know I’m making a scene, but I can’t calm down. I can’t even think. I feel Oliver’s arm around me and impulsively shrug him off, not wanting to be touched or comforted. Not wanting to be seen or heard or known. My eyes are blurry with tears.

  “So you haven’t spoken to her?”

  “No! Not in about a year.” I shake my head, as if she can see. “Why?”

  Tracey sighs, as if bracing herself. Instinctively, I do the same. “It gets worse.” She pauses. “You should probably hear this from her, but . . . she’s sick. That’s why she’s contacting you.”

  I shake my head again and realize I haven’t stopped, shock and weariness run through me.

  “Wait, what?”

  “She’s severely sick. Apparently that’s why she’s been trying to see you. I don’t know. Call her. Let her tell you.”

  “Tracey . . .” I start. I try not to let my mind go into the what ifs of it all. What if it’s all a joke? What if it’s not? What if, what if, what if.

  “Let’s meet in the morning and find a way,” she says, her voice measured. “I’m only upset because I didn’t know. And you know when I don’t know about something, I don’t know how to react right away. If I knew, I would have been prepared.”

  “I know,” I say, sniffling. “I know.”

  “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up and cover my face with my hands. I know she’s going to be up all night, trying to spin this so I don’t look like the complete jerk I’m being made out to be. I know she’s going to work hard. But it’s almost secondary to what she said. Severely sick. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I take my hands away and look up. Oliver’s still sitting beside me, and I’m reminded of shrugging him off, pushing him away when I needed the comfort. His arms are crossed and his eyes squinted, looking at me wearily. There’s motion and action in the restaurant all around us, but it’s as if we’re frozen.

  I shake my head, then nod. I need to tell him. I need him to hear the whole story from me, not the press, not his agent, who I’m sure is about to call him. I feel naked, exposed. I can’t imagine how I look in the photos people are taking now. How I’ll look online. Honestly, at the moment, I don’t care.

  “Something personal about me leaked. . .”

  He raises an eyebrow and sits up. I quickly backtrack. “About me, not me and you. And not me and someone else, don’t worry.”

  He breathes out and drops his arms. “Sorry. When you start things like that, I’m just waiting for you to say you’re seeing, like, seven other dudes or something.”

  I shake my head. Normally I’d quip back, but I don’t have the energy. “It’s a long story.”

  He leans forward, and I turn to look at him so our knees are touching. With his elbows perched on his knees, he gently touches my arm. “I’ve got all night.”

  “Okay,” I brace myself, knowing I can trust him, but I still feel uncomfortable sharing. Because it’s not how I wanted to tell him, not how I wanted it to all unfold. I wrap my hands in his. “I haven’t really told people about this . . . not that I’m embarrassed by it, I’m just . . . I don’t know, I don’t like talking about it.” I breathe in. “You know I was adopted, but you don’t know the whole story. When I was two, I was put in foster care.”

  “Oh. Oh, wow.”

  “Yeah . . . um, I don’t remember anything from then, but I know I lived with my mom before, and . . . it was a bad situation. Like really bad. So the state took me away and I lived with another family.”

  “Oh . . . Tally . . .” He squeezes my hands.

  “No, it’s okay. It was great, because that’s my family now, you know? The ones you met. They became my parents; their kids became my siblings. I was welcomed in. I mean, I guess it was hard for them, I’m sure it was, but, yeah, I don’t remember. I just know that I was happy there, and I still am. My family is great.”

  “Yeah, they are. So . . . what . . . that’s what got out? That you’re adopted? That’s not bad.”

  “Yeah, that—which isn’t bad—but also . . . my birth mother’s been trying to get in touch with me.”

  “She has?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. . . .”

  “What’re you doing about it?”

  “That’s the thing. I’ve been ignoring her.”

  “Well, that’s your right.”

  “Right, I know. That’s what I thought.”

  “But . . .” he starts.

  “But she went to TMZ.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “No, that’s what my agent just called to tell me.”

  “What the f—”

  “I know,” I cut him off.

  “Why the hell would she do that? What does she want? Does she want money?” Anger starts to flood his face.

  I breathe in, and tell him what Tracey told me. “Apparently she’s sick. . .”

  “Oh . . .” His face falls and mixes in a way that’s undecipherable. Kind of like my feelings. “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I sigh. “I’m terrified. I mean, I wasn’t planning on talking to her. At least not until I knew what I wanted to say. But now I kind of have to.”

  “Screw that. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Especially after this. What if she’s not sick?”

  “What if she is?” I shake my head, taking the thought away. Because what if she really is—what if I lose her before ever getting to know her? Or what if she isn’t, and she’s just lying to get to me? Which would be worse? “Apparently people are pissed.”

  “Like, fans and stuff? Why would they be pissed?”

  “Fans? I don’t know. Moms are mad I’m ignoring her. Adopted kids think I’m ashamed. It’s all—”

  “You’re kidding? They’re giving you crap for this? Do they even know the story?”

  “No, and I don’t want them to. This is my past. I don’t want it on TMZ. And it already is. And I hate that.” My face flushes.

  “I’m sorry . . .” He calms down when he sees me start to panic, squeezing my hands again and pulling them toward him. Our knees bump, and if we were alone, I’d curl up in his lap, but we’re not. So instead he cradles my face and kisses the top of my head. “I’m really, really sorry. What can we do?”

  “I don’t know.” I sigh, sinking into his touch and then straightening up. “What is there to do?”

  “Have you even met her before? I mean, uh, re-met her? Since you were a kid?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I tried . . . I tried talking to her when I was younger, just starting high school, but she
never got back to me. I figured she just didn’t want me in her life, and that . . . really hurt.”

  “Yeah, I could imagine.”

  “And then I was cast on Thirst and she got in touch with me. My parents warned me it was because of money, but I didn’t want to believe them. I wanted to believe she came back because she missed me.” I shake my head. “It was stupid.”

  “What happened?”

  “I mean, they were right.” I shake my head. “I met her for lunch. I was so nervous; I think I changed my outfit, like, seven times. What do you wear to see your biological mother, you know? For the first time since . . . I mean, I couldn’t even remember her. Anyway, she came and basically asked me to pay her rent.”

  “Seriously?” He looks angered. He looks the way I feel.

  “More or less. She was proud of me, excited for the show and whatever. But was under ‘hard times,’” I say, using air quotation marks, “and needed help.”

  “You didn’t help her, did you?” I don’t answer. “Oh . . .”

  “What was I supposed to do? She looked just like me. I think that’s what freaked me out the most. She looked just like me.”

  “So what happened after?”

  “Nothing. I left, angry, and swore I wouldn’t see her again. And I haven’t.”

  “But now she’s contacting you. Again.”

  I sit up straight and admit this to the front door, the restaurant’s ceiling, to anywhere but him. “She has been. For over a month. I didn’t want to go back to that whole . . . thing, to me getting excited and her letting me down. So I ignored it. And now . . .”

  “Now you can’t, really, anymore.”

  “Exactly . . .” I say, turning back to him.

  He’s silent, because there’s no answer. I can talk to my mother and see what she wants, see if she’s lying, see if she’s not. Get this feeling out of my chest. But am I ready for that? Am I ready to be disappointed again? Or hurt? Why would she do this—why would she go so public?