Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  “This is adorable,” Mom exclaims after I take her up to my apartment. I’ve borrowed an air mattress from Marisol and made it up for her with Marisol’s fancy sheets and the soft blue blanket that Raj bought for me. “From the way you described it on that first day, I was prepared for the worst. But it’s clean and cute and even has a certain charm.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Would you like coffee?”

  “You’re a coffee drinker now, are you?” I nod. “Well, then yes, I’d love some.”

  As I scoop the coffee into the filter, I feel her watching me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You just seem so grown-up. And you look, well, gorgeous. This outfit is so chic.”

  “Marisol found it for me in Goodwill. These jeans are Calvin Klein from the nineties.”

  And somehow, with my mom’s stamp of approval, I feel like I can finally check off number ten.

  “Sounds like she has an eye for fashion,” Mom says, checking out the contents of my refrigerator.

  “She does.”

  “And thrifty, too,” Mom says. “You know I admire that. Organic yogurt? Salad ingredients? Sliced fresh turkey? I’m even impressed by your fridge, honey.”

  “My body is my instrument, you know.”

  Mom nods, though I think I see her biting back a smile.

  “I wish you could meet Marisol, but she’s with relatives in Orange County for Christmas.”

  “Me too. I told all of my friends about your review in Variety,” Mom says. “At least everyone I could text before I got on my flight. I stopped sending individual texts by the time I got on the plane, and then I sent out a mass message to all my contacts seconds before the flight attendant told us to shut off our devices. I’m so proud of you.”

  I beam as I hand Mom her coffee.

  “Hey, is your mom here?” Reed asks when he comes into the dressing room after taking tickets up in the lobby. Pam and I are chatting and applying our makeup.

  “Yes, how’d you know?” I ask, adding just a bit more blush to my cheeks.

  “Because she’s your twin,” Reed says. “She’s really young, huh?”

  “Don’t get any ideas, Reed,” Pam says.

  “Yeah, that’s a bridge too far,” I say, disgusted at the direction this conversation is going.

  “You really think the worst of me,” he says. “I hate that. All I was thinking was that you two must have a deep bond.”

  “We do,” I say. He’s giving me puppy dog eyes, begging me to say, Of course I don’t think the worst of you, but I won’t say it. Tamera enters the dressing room, late as usual, and Reed’s focus immediately shifts to her.

  “Would you please scram so that we can get dressed?” Pam asks.

  “Sure,” Reed says, and closes the door behind himself, but not until he gives Tamera’s shoulder a little squeeze.

  “Be careful,” I whisper to Tamera. She looks at me as if to say, What could you possibly mean? I just smile, because she knows exactly what I mean.

  My mom is here, I think before I go onstage. This is my chance to show her I can do this. I take a deep breath and remind myself of Kingman’s advice about taking the shit out of it, just doing the scene without any extra emotion. My job is to make my scene partners look good. I hear my cue, and I’m off.

  My scene feels great. Alive and awake but not forced or pushed. The whole show feels great. It goes by fast, and I’ve found peace in the routine of it: the lifting of the tree, the handing off of the tray, applying Pam’s bruises, the reliable music cues and audience responses, the pulsing electricity of a live performance.

  After the show, when I spot Mom in the lobby reading over the program, she’s smiling to herself so broadly, I take out Marisol’s Polaroid and snap her picture without her even realizing it. Just as I’m about to greet her, Kingman taps me on the shoulder.

  “Becca, this is Hal Conway, he’s an old friend of the family and a producer at MTV.” Kingman raises his eyebrows at me in this way that lets me know this is a big deal.

  “Hi,” I say. “Becca Harrington. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  We shake hands. It feels for a second like a spotlight is shining on this moment. I can sense something important is happening, and I’m absolutely present.

  “I just wanted to let you know you were terrific,” Hal says to me. “I’m always on the lookout for young talent.”

  “Wow,” I say, wondering if I might be sparkling from the compliments. Out of the corner of my eye I see Reed and Tamera holding hands, but I don’t think anything could get me down right now.

  “Normally I’d contact your agent, but Kingman said you’re looking for one….”

  My breath leaves me for a second. I look to Kingman, and he smiles the smallest of smiles. It’s hardly a gesture of reassurance. More like an acknowledgment of what happened.

  “I don’t, it’s true—” I begin, but Hal cuts me off.

  “That’s okay. Do you have a website?” Hal asks.

  “I don’t have a traditional website, but I do have a bunch of work on YouTube,” I say. “Webisodes.”

  “Excellent,” he says. “Every actor needs to be creating her own work these days.” He hands me a card. “E-mail me the link, okay? Let’s keep in touch.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d love that.” We shake hands again and he walks out the door.

  “Kingman, thank you so much,” I say. He waves me off. I glance at Mom, who is watching this conversation with wide eyes and a smile as big as her face. I don’t think she can hear us from where she’s sitting, but she knows something good is happening. I give her the one-second signal. There’s something else I need to do while I’m still high on this moment.

  “So, I’m going to apply to California Film School.”

  “Good for you,” he says.

  “Is there any way you would write me a recommendation? It would really mean a lot to me.” I feel a little light-headed, and my mouth is dry, but that spotlight is still on me. I can feel it. I have to take the risk.

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Really?” I ask. “It’s due in a week.”

  “How about this: you write it for yourself and then I’ll sign it, okay? Assuming I agree with everything you write.”

  “Thank you so much!” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” Kingman says. “Now, I think you have another fan.”

  I turn around and see Mom, watching from afar, beaming at me.

  “That’s my mom,” I say.

  “I guessed that,” Kingman says, and he politely excuses himself.

  Mom opens her arms and I leap into her embrace. I don’t care if it looks uncool. Mom whispers in my ear, “I’m so proud of you.”

  “You’re never going to believe what just happened,” I say.

  “What?” Mom asks.

  “I’ll tell you all about it in the Uber.”

  THE NEXT DAY is Christmas Eve. I have another morning shift at Rocky’s, where the holiday spirit is alive and well. People are tipping well above the usual 15 to 20 percent. I wait on my mom at the counter, bringing her French toast and eggs, and Gloria comps it as a Christmas present. Afterward, Mom and I go shopping at the Grove. A mariachi band plays Christmas songs, and Mom and I drink Mexican hot chocolates as we shop.

  The upscale outdoor mall is swarming with people, but the dancing fountains, the carolers, the elaborate Santa’s cottage, and the Christmas tree the size of an office building are all putting me in the Christmas mood. Mom buys me a pair of shoes at Nordstrom, and I buy her a new lipstick from the Bobbi Brown counter after we both get our faces made up by the pretty girls in lab coats. We stop in J.Crew and try on some sweaters, but decide we should wait until they go on sale in January. We debate getting our picture taken with Santa for old times’ sake, but the line is so long and both of us are hungry again. I take Mom’s hand as we walk toward the new burger place that everyone in the cast has been talking about.

  “So, Becca,” she says when the hoste
ss seats us. “I have to ask. What about those applications?”

  “Well, they’re coming along,” I say, feeling both guilty and a little blindsided after all the positive feedback last night—she practically peed her pants when I told her about my conversation with the executive from MTV. “But given how everything is going, do you really think that’s the best choice for me right now?”

  “I am so proud of you,” Mom says, squeezing my hand.

  The waitress stops by, and we order some Cokes. “Anything else?”

  “We need another minute,” Mom says, and then she turns back to me. “But we had a deal. Even if in this moment you don’t think college is right for you, you promised me that you’d apply, and I’m counting on you to stick to your word.”

  “I will. But I feel like I’m just getting some traction, and I’ve worked so hard for this—”

  “I know. And this show you’re in is great. I’m really impressed. But what happens after it ends?”

  “This guy from MTV said he was going to be in touch, and I know that eventually I’m going to get an agent—”

  The waitress returns with our Cokes and looks at us expectantly.

  “We’re still not ready,” Mom says. We haven’t even opened our menus. The waitress walks away. “You have to get a college education. Without one—oh, honey. I don’t want to think about it. As your mother, I won’t let you not apply. I love you too much.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll ask you again. How are the applications coming?”

  “Some are coming along better than others,” I say. This is not a lie. I did just ask Kingman for a reference last night, and I have Mr. Devon’s reference ready to go. I’ve filled out the entire informational section of the CFS application, and my collage is almost complete. I haven’t totally ignored the Common App. I’ve filled out the easy parts and uploaded my references from last year, even though they did me little good. It’s that essay question that feels totally insurmountable to me, that stops me in my tracks each time.

  “I know we talked about how the University of California schools would actually be much more affordable now that you’re a resident, and of course I’d love to have you back in Massachusetts. Or at least New England, or even New York. Honey, you look extremely pale. Have a sip of Coke.”

  I do, in fact, feel like I’m about to faint. I sip the sugary drink. “Can we talk about this later. Please?”

  “We can talk about it later,” Mom says. “And we will. Right now I want to get some food in you. I think you need some iron. Do you think you’re anemic?”

  I open the menu and am perusing the burgers, when Mom grips my hand and shrieks. I glance up at her and her eyes are glued to something behind me. I turn around to see what has transfixed her. My Volkswagen commercial is playing on the TV mounted above the bar!

  “It that you?” Mom asks, pointing to the TV.

  “YES! Oh my God, YES! That’s my commercial!” I’d been wondering when it was going to come out. There I am with the greatest haircut of my life, dancing in the bright blue dress. But I’m not just there, on this TV, in this bar. I’m on thousands, no millions, of TVs across the country. The volume on the TV is turned down. I watch my lips on the screen as they say, “I love the way you make me feel, Volkswagen.”

  “That’s my girl!” Mom announces to the burger place. “That’s my baby girl!”

  I don’t need college, I think to myself with a smile. I’m going to be a star.

  That evening Mom and I pick up a tabletop Christmas tree at Trader Joe’s and some white lights at Rite Aid. We make popcorn and hot chocolate and watch my commercial online about a thousand more times. After we think we’ve seen it enough, we watch movies on my laptop. It’s cold, and my apartment doesn’t have heat, except for a small space heater that I picked up at Home Depot. Mom and I fall asleep together in my tiny bed. In the morning, she makes pancakes and coffee, and we open presents next to the tiny tree. She loves the scarf I bought her and puts it on over her pj’s. Later, we go for a hike in Griffith Park, which is surprisingly crowded with families having picnics and playing soccer. I take her up the same route Raj took me. The sky is an almost alarming shade of blue. We stop every so often to check out a particular tree or flower, which feel incongruous with Christmas. On our walk home, we stop by the Mayfair and buy a chicken to roast, and some apples to fill with cinnamon and sugar and bake whole, just like we do back home.

  “You’re going to turn in those applications, Becca,” she says to me before we fall asleep that night.

  “Yes,” I say.

  When the cab arrives to take her to the airport in the morning, we both cry. And yet, when I watch the car turn down Hollywood Boulevard, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little bit relieved.

  That night Raj stops by with a few gifts. He’s carrying a big white piece of cardboard, and what at first I think is a bottle of wine. It’s a wine-shaped gift bag, after all. But when I open it up, I find a can of what looks like hair spray. I read the label. “Adhesive spray?” I ask.

  “For your collage,” he says. “I think it will hold your pictures better than that double-sided tape you’ve been using. And this,” he says, holding up the cardboard, “is foam core, which is a lot stronger than that poster board.”

  “Cool! That’s awesome,” I say. I love that my collage, which has been buckling under the weight of everything I’ve added to it, will now be sturdy and substantial. “Thank you. Now, your turn.”

  I hand him my gift, which is in a more normal-shape gift bag. He smiles and pulls out two thermoses, the perfect size for the cup holders in his Corolla.

  “I figure if we start teaming up again in the morning, these will work better than my coffee cups. Especially if you have to park up the hill somewhere.”

  I’M ACTUALLY GOING to miss this little apartment, I think as I lock the door and place the key into the padded envelope with the landlord’s address on it. I was able to sell my entire Ikea collection for a whopping one hundred and fifty dollars to a guy just moving into the apartment downstairs. He’s an aspiring model. Even though Marisol’s apartment is nearly identical, and a whole lot nicer given her furnishings, it was kind of sweet having my own little corner of Los Angeles. Still, the relief of splitting the rent—and the damn trash bill!—is nothing to ignore. Even though I technically have this place for another night, Marisol and I decided I should just move in today before my afternoon waitressing shift. That way we could relax and enjoy New Year’s Eve without thinking about hauling my stuff. She cleared three drawers for my clothes and half a rack in her closet, which I’ve already filled. My Ikea sheets are on her trundle bed, waiting for me.

  I pick up my collage, which I’ve transferred onto the foam core using the adhesive spray, and head over to Marisol’s.

  I knock on the door and she opens it wearing black jeans, a black sweater cape, and sunglasses. I don’t think much of this look given her eclectic style choices.

  “What’s that?” she asks, dabbing her nose with a tissue.

  “It’s my collage,” I say. I haven’t shown it to her yet. I haven’t shown it to anyone except Raj. But I just can’t hide it from her now that we’ll be living together. “I’m making it as part of my application to California Film School.”

  “You’re applying?” she asks.

  “I think so,” I say. “And anyway, it’s been fun to work on.”

  “It’s so cool,” she says. “Look, there we are with our advice booth! And ooh, is this that list you told me you made when you first moved here?”

  “Yep,” I say, blushing just a bit.

  Marisol takes off her sunglasses to get a better look, and that’s when I see that her eyes are bloodshot and wet.

  “Oh my God, have you been crying? What’s wrong?” Her face is streaked with tears. I take a seat on the sofa and motion for her to sit next to me.

  “It’s terrible,” she says, shaking her head and holding an embroidered handkerchief
to her nose.

  “Oh, no.” I wrap my arms around her. She sits down, gives me her full weight, like a little kid, and sobs into my jacket. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s awful.”

  “It’s okay. You can tell me anything. Anything.” I take her by the shoulders and look in her eyes. “Is it herpes? If it is, I’ve heard it’s not as terrible as they make it out to be. And warts can be removed, regardless of their location.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” she says, shaking her head. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and lowers her voice. “I found a gray hair.”

  “Where?”

  She looks at me with complete and utter disbelief, and then I realize.

  “Oooh. I thought maybe you found one in your soup.”

  She laughs for a moment before the laughter morphs back into tears.

  “I’m aging prematurely,” she moans. “Today it’s gray hair. Tomorrow I’ll be hobbling toward a bus stop in my nursing-home shoes. And I’ve made nothing of myself. Nothing.”

  “This is crazy talk.” I pull a napkin from the dispenser and hand it to her. “You’re twenty. It’s just a freak thing. Unless…are there a lot of them?”

  “No, just one.” Marisol delicately pats her reddened nostrils.

  “You want my advice?” She nods soberly. “Say fuck it and pluck it.” I smile, pleased with my cleverness. She laughs. And once again, before I can blink, she slides back into tears. I cover her hand with mine. “I get it. It’s upsetting. But I think it’s probably just one of those random things, you know? Is there something else going on? I’ve never even seen you cry before. Not once.”

  She sighs, resting her forehead in her hand briefly before she begins. “Well, something else happened this morning….” She waves her hand in front of her face to fan away the rising emotion.

  “Deep breaths.”

  “Yes.” She inhales three times, exhaling dramatically. “This morning. I went to turn on the lights. And they wouldn’t turn on.” Her hand worries the handkerchief.