by Wendy Wax
I drop my gaze. Swallow. Then make myself begin. “It’s just that . . .” I look first at my father and then at the judge. “It’s just that ever since Uncle John moved into the guesthouse . . .” I don’t have to pretend reluctance. I don’t want to hurt my dad any more than Gran wants to hurt her son. But we’re pretty sure that Rex’s lifestyle and his current living arrangement are the one thing that my parents will not want made public.
Eve gasps. My father’s green eyes darken with shock. It’s 1981, not that far from the free love seventies, but most moviegoers aren’t ready to accept the idea that their favorite movie star would rather kiss another man than his leading lady. Or his movie star wife.
I’m hoping I’m not actually going to have to tell the judge that when my father is in town he and his current lover, John Clemente, live and sleep together in the casita just beyond the pool on the Hollywood Hills property.
“That’s enough.” Eve’s eyes are as harsh as her voice. And even at fourteen I know that it’s more than their livelihoods she’s worried about. It’s one thing to let your husband choose a man, actually a string of men, over you; it’s another thing for people to know it. “Go live your own life, Emma. One day you’ll know what you’re throwing away. I have never understood you and I never will.” This is the most sincere thing my mother has ever said to me.
As always my father’s silence hurts more than my mother’s words. I don’t understand my father any more than my mother understands me, but I’ve always loved him anyway. And when he was there and paying attention, I believed he loved me. Daddy’s Girl wasn’t just the name of my television show to me.
I say nothing as Gran produces the paperwork her attorney has prepared. It spells out the two most important points of our agreement: That my parents agree to my legal emancipation. That none of us will ever discuss or reveal the reasons for our “divorce.”
I hold my mother’s gaze. My heart is about to explode, but I make sure my determination is clear. I need her to believe that I’m ready to go out and call a press conference if they refuse. I am a Michaels. Therefore I can act.
I don’t say anything while my mother and father sign the papers. And I don’t say good-bye when they stand and prepare to leave. The judge remains quiet as we depart. He doesn’t ask any of us, not even Gran, to pose with him for a picture.
Two hours later Gran and I are on a flight to New York. Two days later we settle into the lake house for the summer. I’d like to say I never looked back, but that would be a lie.
He actually tried to pretend like he wasn’t sleeping with her.” Serena looked into her psychiatrist’s brown eyes. “He’s left several messages trying to make me feel guilty for my behavior.” She settled back in the padded chair, crossed her arms over her chest, one knee over the other.
“You can’t choose men who are unavailable and who cheat and then think they’ll behave in any other way.” Dr. Grant settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
Serena reached for a Kleenex. Her eyes were completely dry, but she dabbed at them anyway. “Ethan sent me flowers. And funny videos. And Jujubes.”
“That’s because Ethan actually knows you. And apparently cares about you.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“Who’d clearly like to be more.” Dr. Grant leveled a probing gaze at her.
Serena shrugged. “He’s not my type.”
“Do you think you don’t deserve a successful, funny, sincere, and talented man?”
“I didn’t say that,” Serena said.
“Didn’t you?”
Serena bit back a sigh. “You realize you’re starting to sound more like my mother than my shrink.”
Dr. Grant didn’t respond. Which just went to show Dr. Grant was nothing like her mother.
“I didn’t come here to talk about Ethan,” Serena said. “Or my mother.”
“You apparently didn’t come here to talk about your friend who’s in a coma, either.” He watched her carefully.
Just hearing the reference to Emma made Serena’s eyes moisten. Dr. Grant’s features swam briefly until she finally got herself under control.
“You’ve been talking for the past twenty-five minutes about all kinds of things that don’t seem to actually matter to you. But it’s your time and money,” the psychiatrist said.
Serena sighed and reached for a tissue. “It’s too awful to talk about. I can hardly stand to see Em like that. And Zoe . . .” She clutched the crumpled tissue between her fingers. “Oh, God. It’s so awful.”
“What does her doctor say?” Dr. Grant asked quietly.
“Not enough. They removed the blood clot two days ago. I don’t know if her family being there caused it or if it would have happened anyway. We don’t really know anything more than we did when she went in. And I can’t bear the pressure. What if I make a wrong decision? What if Emma . . . what if she dies? I don’t know how to make this better for Zoe. Neither Mackenzie nor I have children, and I don’t have a clue how to handle her. Or the situation. Or . . . anything.”
Tears seeped from her eyes and slid down her cheeks, hot and horrible. “I’ve never been responsible for anyone but myself. And my parents would tell you I’m not particularly great at that.” She didn’t bother to blot at the tears or even try to stop them. “I’ve never been so frightened. Or felt so helpless.”
She added another tissue to the wad in her hand but didn’t use it, either. “And you know what the worst thing is?” she cried. “My onetime best friend is lying there unconscious. And I’m sitting here crying about myself.” She sobbed then. All the tears she’d been so careful not to shed over the last week pouring out of her.
Dr. Grant waited her out. He sat silent until the flow slowed and she began to sniff to a stop. But his concern, his empathy, his basic human kindness were apparent on his face. So was his knowledge of her.
“Your friend is lucky to have you there and so is her daughter,” he said firmly. “You are smart and competent. And if anyone can keep a doctor and/or medical staff on its toes it’s you and Georgia Goodbody. I happen to know this from personal experience.”
She looked at the man who had heard her cry over countless men not worth his time or her tears. Cheaters and adulterers he’d once said she chose as a means of proving that the man who’d married someone else wasn’t really worth having in the first place.
“Do you feel you need to consult other doctors?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. It’s just that there’ve been a lot of times in my life and career that I’ve consoled myself with the fact that whatever I was facing ‘wasn’t brain surgery.’ But this actually is. Emma has had brain surgery. And I don’t know which potential outcome is more frightening. That she’ll die without ever waking up. That she’ll live, but in some vegetative state. Or that she’ll wake up, but be completely incapacitated.” She added another tissue to the growing wad in her hand. “From what I understand, the longer a person stays in a coma the more likely it is that the damage will be significant.”
Drained, she became aware of her tear-soaked blouse, her bone-deep exhaustion. She felt a hundred and suspected she looked twice that. For once she didn’t care.
“From what I can see, your friend chose well,” Dr. Grant said. “It’s clear that you care greatly about her and her daughter.” He smiled gently. “This is an incredibly tough situation, but as long as you’re listening to the doctors and carefully considering the options, you’re doing the best anyone can do under these circumstances.” The psychiatrist paused, waiting for what he’d said to sink in. “There is also another potential outcome you seem to have left off the list,” Dr. Grant said.
Serena looked at him dully. Her own brain was numb. Unable to imagine getting up, going back to the hospital, let alone imagining another scenario.
The psychiatrist reached for and held up the trashcan
, watched as she dropped the wad of unused tissues into it. “Emma could simply wake up,” he said softly. “She could open her eyes and rejoin the world.”
She blinked at him, noticing that even her lashes were damp.
“If you’re going to expend time and energy imagining scenarios, you really need to allow for the positive. No one who’s spent any time studying the brain or personal behavior would ever turn their back on the possibility of a miracle.”
Eleven
The lobby of Merritt Publishing was large and lavish with polished marble floors and equally elegant walls that had been fitted with niches, each of which held an artfully lit book.
Mackenzie crossed the expansive, heavily air-conditioned space and headed toward the burled wood reception desk, careful to keep her chin up, her stride purposeful, and her shoulders unhunched. The dress she wore was one of her own creations, a sleeveless knee-length wrap in abstract blocks of navy and white. She was cleared and directed to a bank of elevators. On the fifth floor a young woman waited. “Ms. Russell? I’m Cathy Hughes’s assistant. Will you follow me?”
The assistant unlocked a door and as they passed through it Mackenzie wondered if the security was meant to keep aspiring writers out or the employees in. The carpeted hallway led past windowed offices on the right. A warren of cubicles filled the interior space to the left. She’d almost canceled the meeting, which had been scheduled for the day after their intended return from the lake and just hours before her flight home. But Serena had insisted that she come.
“How many people are asked to write a book?” Serena had demanded.
Mackenzie had no idea. “It just feels strange to go on a business appointment when Em is . . . well, you know.” She felt more than strange. She felt guilty. That her life would not only go on but be filled with an incredible new opportunity while Emma’s had shrunk to nothingness.
“We can’t all sit with her at the same time anyway,” Serena had reasoned. “And both Dr. Markham and Brennan have confirmed that she’s stable. You should keep your appointment. Ethan asked me to come in and record this afternoon. And I thought I’d take Zoe with me—to get her out for a bit. So as long as you’re back by two we’re good.”
“You promise you’ll call me if anything . . . changes.”
“Promise.”
And so here she was, being shown into a large corner office with windows overlooking the bustle below on Hudson Street and introduced to Cathy Hughes, a petite, thirtysomething brunette with bright blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face.
“Come. Have a seat.” The editor ushered Mackenzie to a sofa. She herself sat on a brightly upholstered club chair.
Her assistant hovered in the doorway. “Would you like a cup of coffee? A Danish?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” Mackenzie smoothed her dress over her knees and folded her hands in her lap as the assistant departed.
The editor leaned forward. “I absolutely love your blog. It’s so upbeat. You know, so forthright. There are a lot of people who don’t feel the need to reproduce.”
“And many who can’t,” Mackenzie added.
“Right.” The editor smiled. “Honestly, I think it’s fabulous that you and your husband have not only been married for so long, but that your marriage is so successful. It’s not like you’re just limping along after being unable to have children.”
“No. I mean yes. We wanted children. But not having them doesn’t have to sound the death knell for a marriage.” She felt a shimmer of unease as she considered how out of touch she and Adam had been over the last week and tried to shrug it off. Their fractured communication was not a reflection of their marriage but of their current circumstances. Being on opposite sides of the country and dealing with a three-hour time difference didn’t help. But then neither did his weeklong euphoria over the possible option on his screenplay. Even in the face of Emma’s situation. She smoothed her dress again.
She and Adam were not “limping along.” Their days were full, the pace of their life frenetic. Between the theater and his screenwriting, they often fell into bed at night too exhausted to talk let alone make love. This was not unusual for long-married couples whether they had children or not.
She looked up to see Cathy eyeing her shrewdly.
“Originally, I thought the book might begin with your own story, move into the standout blog posts with insights as to what had happened and what you were thinking when you wrote them, and then wrap up with advice for other couples,” the editor said.
“I’ve always been careful not to set myself up as some sort of expert. You know, my degree is in fashion design, not psychology or social work. I just share my own experiences.”
“Yes.” Cathy pondered for a moment. “Which is why I’ve been thinking more recently that we should keep things as simple as possible.” She leaned forward. Her tone turned conspiratorial. “Especially since I know you must have a lot on your mind at the moment.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was afraid you might cancel after I saw that story on Entertainment Tonight about Emma Michaels being in a coma over at Mount Sinai. You were identified as a close personal friend.”
Mackenzie stiffened, her eyes on Cathy Hughes’s face.
“Anyway,” she continued breezily. “I’m thinking that if we go with a compilation of the ‘best of’ blog posts, we could streamline the editorial process and publish more quickly. Which would allow us to tap into your, um, personal platform . . .” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to notice the horror Mackenzie felt, spread across her face. “. . . um, whatever happens.”
Somehow Mackenzie managed to get up and out of there without telling Cathy Hughes exactly where she could shove her book idea.
Then, not yet ready to face the hospital, she wandered back toward the Village, ultimately carrying a sandwich she couldn’t bring herself to eat, to a bench near the arch at Washington Square. There, as she watched New Yorkers of all shapes and sizes whirl by, she remembered just how alive the city had always made her feel. Who she’d been and all that she’d imagined in those heady years that she’d lived there.
She’d been the one to press Adam to move to Noblesville. To be near their parents and a slower, more family-friendly lifestyle, when she’d thought they’d be raising a child together. Back when she’d imagined her pregnancy was just the first of many. And not a lone bargaining chip that had won her only part of what she’d wanted.
She pulled out her cell phone, called Adam, and was almost shocked when he answered on the second ring.
“Hi,” he said. “How was the publishing thing?”
She had to remind herself that misery did not in fact improve with company. “Unclear. I’m not sure it’s something I want to do.”
His hand muffled the phone and she heard him say something to someone else, so she left it at that. Before she’d thought it out she said, “Why don’t you come to New York?”
There was a silence she felt compelled to fill. “She was your friend, too.” Mackenzie winced at the “was.” As if Emma were already gone.
Another silence.
“I, um, think I’d rather wait until she wakes up,” he finally said. “I mean, if I came now she wouldn’t even know I was there, right?”
“We don’t actually know what she does and doesn’t know,” Mackenzie said, determined not to beg him to come. How many times had he shied away from anything unpleasant? Her miscarriages. Problems at the theater. Their parents’ frailty and the illnesses that had ultimately taken them within just a few years of each other.
“When do you think you’ll be back in Noblesville?” he asked, as if the hospital might have handed out some sort of schedule—a date when Emma would wake up, when she’d be able to leave the hospital, when she might shoot her next film.
“I don’t know,” she countered. “When are you flying home?” As she said th
e word, she realized how rarely she’d heard Adam refer to the city they lived in as “home.” Even though he’d grown up just a few towns away.
“I thought I’d stay on out here,” he said. “I mean, there’s no reason to rush back if you’re not going to be there, is there?”
“No,” she said, because what he said made sense. The theater was dark for the summer and she wanted to be with Emma for as long as possible after she woke up. She would not allow herself to consider the alternative. “No. I guess not.”
“Good.” She hated the note of relief in his voice almost as much as she hated the reasonable tone he was using to try to disguise it. “Because Matthew said I can stay in the pool house and get started on these rewrites. The sooner they’re done, the sooner we can maybe strike a deal.”
It was time to get off the phone before she said something she’d regret. “Okay, then.” She stood and threw the uneaten sandwich in the trashcan. “Good luck with everything.”
“You too,” he said. “And give Em a hug from me.”
Zoe Hardgrove and Ethan Miller fell in “like” at first sight. Fraught with excitement, Zoe gushed her admiration for Ethan and his work all the way to the studio. The gushing continued through Serena’s introductions and an energetic handshake.
“I was so sorry to hear about your mother,” Ethan said when Zoe finally let go of his hand. “I met her when she did the show. And I know she and Serena go way back.”
“Yeah, they knew each other even before I was born.” Zoe’s tone made it clear that might have been a couple millennia ago.
“Well, I hope she’ll be better soon enough for all of you to get to the lake.” He said this as if Emma’s recovery were a foregone conclusion. Serena could have kissed him for the way Zoe brightened.
“Do you mind if Zoe comes in with me while I record? Or would you rather she be in the control room?” Serena asked.
“Why don’t we let her come in the control room and listen with me?” Ethan suggested. He paused and turned to Zoe. “Actually, I’m looking for a teenage girl to do a brief cameo on an upcoming episode. Have you ever done any acting?”