Tainted Love

by Melody Mayer

  “I think it's good for the kids,” Kiley said carefully. “It'll make them proud of their mom. Just look at them.”

  Serenity and Sid stood together just to her left, their faces shining with pride.

  “Maybe,” Ms. Johnson agreed. “But this is highly irregular.”

  There had, in fact, been a heated impromptu conference when Platinum had announced that she'd be singing at the Magic Mountain main stage. It turned out that she had called the park ahead of time and gotten permission to perform, so long as her minders were in agreement. Platinum played the it's-good-for-my-children card heavily, and a reluctant Ms. Johnson acquiesced, threatening to cut off the microphone and return Platinum straight to Judge Ito if there were any missteps.

  Platinum had to wait a moment or two for the cheers to die down.

  “Hello, Magic Mountain!” Her voice boomed through the public address system. “It's great to be here. Ready for some music?”

  Platinum turned to the five-piece band that looked as if it had just collectively died and gone to rock-and-roll heaven, shouted some instructions, then whipped back around and launched into her first hit, “Eighth-Grade Roadkill.”

  “I'm eighth-grade roadkill

  Don't matter I got other skills

  Not reading and writin’

  Mostly chillin’ or fightin’

  Eighth grade is a kind of hell

  Parents don't know so well

  I'm eighth-grade roadkill

  Now wha-choo got to say?”

  Platinum started pogoing around the stage while she sang—the transformation she made as a performer was remarkable, and she was in great shape for a woman well into her forties. Any other woman that age would have looked ridiculous. Platinum, though, just looked cool.

  She brought that song to a close, and then raced through a four-song medley of her biggest hits: “Love Junkie,” “Eat Your Heart Out,” “More and More and More,” and “Who's Your Daddy?” This last one, Kiley knew, had been composed just a few years ago as a kind of answer song to all the queries Platinum got about the paternity of her children. She never answered that question, and the song lyrics underscored her intent never to tell.

  “Who's Your Daddy?” finished to thunderous applause and whistles from the crowd.

  Serenity was literally jumping up and down with glee. “That's my mom! That's my mom!”

  “Talented lady, for sure,” the social worker muttered to Kiley. “If she could ever get her head screwed on right.” She gave a signal to Platinum that this would be her last song. Platinum made the okay sign to show that she understood.

  “I'm here with two very special guests today,” Platinum told the crowd. “The most special people in the world. Friends, I'd like you to meet my two youngest children, Serenity and Siddhartha. Guys, come on out and take a bow!”

  Once they got an approving nod from Ms. Johnson, Serenity and Sid charged out to their mom; the little girl blew kisses to the crowd as it cheered. Except for the clothes, she was a miniature of her mother, with an equal amount of moxie.

  The singer put her arms around her children. “Some of you might know my family's had a difficult time lately. I've had a lot of time to just think. And write. I want you guys to hear a new song I wrote. It's called ‘I Don't Know.’ I don't know what the future is going to bring. But I do know if any of you are moms or dads out there, love your children. And kids, show your moms and dads that you love them back.

  “I don't know about tomorrow

  I just know about today

  There's no crystal ball to search in

  That can show you the right way

  “All I know is what we have

  And what we have got is love

  It's a gift to every one of us

  That comes from up above

  “I don't know about next week

  I don't know about next year

  I don't know if it will bring us peace

  Or war or joy or fear

  “All I know is what we have

  And what we have got is love

  It's a gift to every one of us

  That comes from up above

  “We've got love.”

  Kiley looked out at the crowd as Platinum sang this very un-Platinum-like song. People's eyes were shining; parents with arms around their children were swaying to the melody.

  This was a Platinum she'd never seen before. Hokey or not, contrived or not, Machiavellian or not—Kiley was not so naive that she didn't see the PR benefits of a song and performance like this—it was still a touching moment. Impressive, in fact. If this was the new Platinum, maybe she needed to be arrested more often.

  Esme contemplated her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she quickly pulled her hair back in a ponytail for a no-nonsense nanny look. At least that was what she'd hoped for. Diane had given her the morning off because Easton and Weston were seeing their English-language coach, a multilingual professor at USC who made extra money removing the accents of those who immigrated. Though Esme had assured Diane that the twins would sound completely American in a matter of months, the anxious mother wasn't taking any chances.

  Even with the twins away, Diane asked Esme to come up to the house. There was something she wanted to discuss. Esme was puzzled, since things had been going really well lately; she'd even been given a raise. She hoped it wasn't about Jonathan. Their most recent night together, after she finished his tattoo, they'd celebrated his potential new movie role with Taittinger champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, and fresh mango. After that … well, remembering the “after that” part was what made her blush. They'd awakened on the pool table. Enough said.

  As she hurried up the gravel path to the main house, past the swings and sandbox where she had first met Easton and Weston, past the tennis court where she had first seen Jonathan hitting balls with Mackenzie, she vowed to banish thoughts of that night from her mind.

  Steven and Diane Goldhagen's Bel Air mansion was in a class by itself in a city that sprouted mansions like dunghills sprouted mushrooms. Three floors and thirty rooms, it was constructed of natural wood, with soaring windows and radically sloped roofs. A series of cascading reflecting pools that produced a constant lulling white noise lined one side and circled around to the front.

  Esme approached it from the back, pulling open the heavy, gleaming brass door handle and then making her way through the enormous front hallway with its twenty-foot ceiling toward the family room. This room was a marvel. Half open-air and half roofed, it could be closed off completely in the rare case of inclement weather. There was a freestanding stone fireplace surrounded by a riot of flowers that were changed every other day by the local Conroy's floral shop.

  She found Diane already waiting. Esme guessed that her employer was a good fifteen years younger than her husband of two years. The embodiment of a Hollywood cliché, she was Steven's second wife, upgraded from being a line producer on one of his many successful shows. Since they married, she'd quit working, preferring to devote her time to her hair, makeup, and body, plus any number of worthy charities. Today she wore a Louis Vuitton cotton and silk taupe jacket with gold piping, and skinny jeans. Her champagne-colored toy poodle, Cleo, whose look changed as often as Diane's, sat by her feet. For today, the Beverly Hills Mutt Club—the designer canine boutique on Santa Monica Boulevard—had outfitted the poodle in a gold lamé doggie sweater with a gold neck ribbon, plus matching glittery gold polish on Cleo's perfectly manicured nails. As a BHMC member, Cleo also received regular doggie massages and a “communication session” with Kim OgdenAvrutik, famous for her ability to speak with canines.

  “Hey, Esme.” Steven strode into the room, a very different picture from his wife. His friendly, tanned face was lined, since he was successful enough in Hollywood to eschew Botox without economic repercussions. A baseball cap hid his thinning hair, and he was sporting his on-again-off-again scraggly beard. If you didn't know that he was one of the most successful producers in the history
of television, you could easily mistake him for a homeless guy outside the Staples Center. “How's life?”

  “Fine,” Esme replied, resisting the urge to add “sir.” Mr. Goldhagen had told her endless times to call him Steven, but it still felt odd.

  “Sit, sit.” Steven motioned toward a high-backed eggshell velvet chair. Meanwhile, he joined Diane on the matching sofa. Okay, this was getting stranger by the moment. As easygoing as Steven was, he was almost always working. Even when he ran on his home-office treadmill (he had another in his new digs on the Warner Brothers lot, where he'd recently inked a three-year deal), he used the time to watch daily rushes from one of his shows. What was he doing home on a workday?

  “We have a surprise for you,” Diane said. Cleo barked her agreement, which made Diane laugh. “I think it will make you really happy.”

  You're doubling my salary, Esme guessed silently as she waited for the kicker. You bought a winning lottery ticket and since you're already richer than God you've decided to give the fifty-five mil to my parents so they don't have to scrub your toilets and mow your lawn and nice you to death.

  Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

  “You are about to take a trip to the airport.” Diane scratched Cleo's neck under the gold ribbon.

  She was picking someone up for them. Why? They had one full-time driver and a part-time fill-in.

  “Remember when we were in Jamaica and the girls wandered off at that festival?” Steven recalled. “And you met a lovely young woman named Tarshea, who helped you find them?”

  Esme's heart quickened. She did remember. Tarshea Manley was a tall, lithe, and beautiful Jamaican girl, a couple of years older than Esme. They'd met when Tarshea painted the twins’ faces during a visit to the sugarcane cutting festival on Jamaica's southern shore. One minute, Esme had been chatting with Tarshea about the girl's desire to go to art school and how impossible that goal was in a place like Jamaica. The next moment, the twins were gone. Esme couldn't remember a time when she'd been more panicked over something that was her direct responsibility.

  It was Tarshea who had helped her find the girls and then covered for Esme, pretending she had glanced away from them to look for another color of face paint. Tarshea's story was the only reason Diane and Steven had not fired Esme on the spot. She had been so grateful that she'd asked the Gold-hagens if they could help bring Tarshea to America and fulfill her dream of going to art school. Maybe she could find a nanny job. Maybe Esme and her friends could help her on that score.

  Steven had jotted down Tarshea's contact information, which consisted of her minister's phone number. Tarshea's family, like so many others in Jamaica, was too poor to own a phone. Esme had seen the look on her beautiful face when they'd departed to go back to their exclusive resort on the north side of the island; the sadness and resignation. Esme could tell just what the Jamaican girl was thinking: the rich Americans would have her out of mind just as soon as she was out of sight.

  Now they were bringing up Tarshea's name. And the airport. So could it possibly mean—

  “We managed to secure Tarshea a work visa,” Steven continued. “We hope that's a good surprise.”

  “It's … fantastic!” Esme cried. “You never said anything …I can't believe … when did you …” She knew she was sputtering but she couldn't help herself.

  Diane nodded approvingly. “We weren't sure we could pull it off. That's why we didn't tell you ahead of time. And we don't have a nanny job lined up for her yet, so we stretched the truth and said she'd be working for us. I hope you don't mind sharing your guesthouse with her while we find her another position.”

  “No, no, of course not! Of course it's fine. I can't believe the two of you did this. It's so … kind.”

  Steven looked fondly at his beautiful wife. “Thank Diane. It was her idea. She was pretty damn relentless about it.”

  “Thank you,” Esme told Diane, and meant it with all her heart. Diane was such an enigma. She was high-strung and high-maintenance, worried about appearances, and at times utterly superficial. Then she turned around and did something like this.

  “Tarshea's minister went on and on about how wonderful a girl she is, and how talented,” Diane said. “So I registered her for art classes at the Museum of Contemporary Art starting in the fall. My friend Abigail Huff is a docent.”

  Steven glanced at his classic Rolex tank watch. “Tarshea's flight from Kingston arrives at LAX in ninety minutes. You'd better get going. International arrivals building. You'll see her when she clears customs.”

  “Great. Let me get my keys.”

  Esme jumped up. She'd need to run back to the guest-house to get her purse and the keys to the Goldhagens’ Audi, the car her employers had provided for her daily use.

  Diane waved her off. “No need. Stuart will drive the limo. We thought Tarshea would enjoy arriving in America in style.”

  “That's right. And after that, he'll take you to the Warner Brothers commissary for lunch, over in Burbank. The good one at the office building on Riverside, not the bullshit one on the lot. All you need to do is sign when you go past the cashier. See if your nanny friends can join you—what are their names? Lydia and Kiley? I'll call their bosses and send temps to watch their kids if they want. Tarshea needs to meet some people.” Steven got out his BlackBerry. “I'll call the commissary now.”

  “That's very generous of you,” Esme told him.

  Steven rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Just following your lead, Esme. If it wasn't for you and the initiative you took, Tarshea wouldn't be coming here. I think it's the very least that Diane and I can do.”

  Tarshea stared wide-eyed out the rear window of the black stretch limousine as it inched north on the 405 freeway somewhere south of Marina del Rey. Though it wasn't yet noontime, they were stuck in traffic, with cars and SUVs in both directions as far as the eye could see.

  “So many cars,” Tarshea murmured in her lilting Jamaican accent. “This is the third time in my life I've ever been in a private car. Only buses for this Jamaican girl. No wonder none of this seems real.”

  Esme smiled, thinking what a huge culture shock this had to be for Tarshea, who had arrived with but a single beige suitcase held together with gray duct tape. She wore a much-washed plain white cotton blouse primly buttoned to her chin, and a thin navy blue polyester skirt that fell to her slim calves. On her feet were cheap navy blue patent leather flats. Her hair was slicked back in a short braid that showed off an elegant, swanlike neck. There was a small gold cross around her neck; her face bore no makeup.

  “I didn't think this would really happen,” Tarshea confessed. “I don't know how to thank you.”

  “I didn't do it. Diane Goldhagen did. Thank her.”

  “You are lucky to work for such an admirable woman; adopting the twins, taking me in. … So tell me, how are the girls?”

  “Fine, funny, spoiled rotten. Turning into Americans before my eyes.”

  Esme loved Easton and Weston dearly. They were both still happily experiencing so many things they hadn't had back in Colombia. Everything from escalators to ice makers to cable television fascinated them. On the other hand, after barely more than two months in America, they were starting to act as though they were entitled to the life they'd parachuted into out of the blue. Recently, Jonathan and Esme had taken them out for their favorite food in the world—ice cream. When told that Cold Stone Creamery was temporarily sold out of their favorite, chocolate-chocolate-chip, each had a meltdown right in front of the counter.

  “They should always remember where they came from,” Tarshea said.

  “Well, Steven and Diane don't necessarily see it that way.”

  “I don't understand.”

  Esme tented her fingers. This was a subject that got her angry. First, the children had been born with very nice Spanish names—Isabella and Juana—but Diane had changed them to the more Hollywood-friendly Easton and Weston. Then, in a city full of Spanish speakers and Hispanic culture, i
t seemed more and more as though Steven and Diane were shielding their daughters from their roots. Yes, they'd hired bilingual Esme as the nanny, but that was to ease the twins’ transition to America. In Esme's opinion, the Goldhagens could be in for a rude awakening when the girls got older and realized how little their adoptive parents had made of their root culture.

  “Me placeré verlos otra vez,” Tarshea recited in halting Spanish as Stuart the driver inched the limo forward. They saw the reason for the traffic jam: A BMW had tangled with a Hummer in the right-hand lane. The Hummer had won, judging from the condition of the Beemer's rear end. “Did I say it right?”

  Esme was astonished. “ ‘I will be happy to see them again.’ When did you learn Spanish?”

  “When my minister told me that he'd spoken with Mrs. Goldhagen, that she was arranging a visa for me, I immediately took a book from his library. I thought it would be important to speak to the girls in their first language. I hope my accent is not too atrocious.”

  How nice was this girl? And how thoughtful?

  “That's so sweet of you! Maybe together we can help them remember where they came from.” Spontaneously, she reached out and touched Tarshea's slender forearm. “I'm so glad you're here.”

  Tarshea looked troubled. “You don't mind that I will be sharing your house? That is what Diane told my minister. Not that you'd be surprised, but that we'd be sharing.”

  “Not at all. It will be fun.”

  “I want you to know, Esme, that until I get a job, I will help you every way that I can,” Tarshea declared. “I can take care of the girls for you any time you want.”