“Which is?”
“The dos and don’ts of fashioning personal hygiene items from things found in nature.”
I’m sorry I asked.
***
It takes three hours and a blistered thumb, but I finally spark a fire. The way Jules and I whoop and holler and dance around it, you’d think we discovered the cure for cancer. By that time, she decides I’ve earned a break and we head inside. I try to follow her into the kitchen, but she steers me to the family room and plops me down in front of the TV.
“Not more study time.” My head falls against the back of the couch. “If I watch one more episode of Last Family, my brain will liquefy and run out my ears.”
“Thank you for that lovely visual. No, I have something different for you today.” She punches a few buttons on the remote, bringing the TV to life. “I figured it was time you got a little background on Rick Wolff.”
That gets my attention. “Why?”
“Because he literally runs the whole show. He’s the host and the executive producer, among other things. Knowing more about him can only help you.”
Hard to argue with that kind of logic, so when she hands me the remote I relax and settle in. The one-hour show takes about forty minutes to watch after zipping through commercials, but it’s a very informative forty minutes. I find out that Rick Wolff is the oldest of five children, grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in the Midwest, and he’s one-eighth Native American, which explains that unique last name.
The program wraps up with a montage of all the women Rick has romanced over the years, and there are a lot of them. So many, the tabloids have given them the cringe-worthy nickname, The Wolff Pack. What I find interesting is he doesn’t seem all that taken with any of them, at least not from the pictures. In one, he’s sitting beside a gorgeous blond, his arm slung over her shoulder. But he’s still so distant. Their sides don’t touch, and his hand hangs limply. When he put his arm around me, he was smashed right up next to me, his fingers squeezing my shoulder.
What am I doing? I jerk forward on the couch, grab the remote and aim it at the TV, jabbing the off button with a tad too much enthusiasm. The man offered me a little bit of encouragement while I was losing my mind. Why would I compare that to how he acts with the ladies of his pack? There’s only one plausible explanation.
Sunstroke. I was out there toiling over the fire for so long, my brain fried and now I can’t think straight. Before you know it, I’ll be hallucinating.
“Dinner’s ready!” Jules calls out from the kitchen.
I pop to my feet and hurry out of the family room, glad to get away from the image of Rick Wolff and his ridiculously dimpled smile.
7
I’ve never enjoyed traveling. Yes, there are beautiful parts of the world I’d love to see, but the production of getting to these places is just too stressful. Never knowing what to pack or how to get around in a new environment. It’s one of the reasons I decided to open my catering business in Vegas. I figured that, sooner or later, everyone winds up here for a visit. Why not let the people come to me? That and the fact that I never want to see another Minnesota winter as long as I live.
The open suitcase on the bed mocks me. Go ahead, fill me up. You probably won’t be able to use half of it, anyhow. The moment oozes with irony.
Jules gave me a list of things to take. And the production company emailed me a list of things not to take. A fair amount of the things on the Jules list is also on the don’t-even-think-about-it list. Like sunblock. Apparently, they provide it once we arrive at the island. I suppose this is to keep the contestants from smuggling contraband protein shakes or moisturizer in their Banana Boat bottles. But there could be no sunblock for a five-hundred-mile radius, and I would still go. Not even the threat of skin cancer is going to keep me from my daughter now.
I’ve spent the last five days preparing myself for the game. I’ve watched untold hours of back episodes, so much so that I hear the theme music in my sleep. I’ve mastered fire, made a toothbrush out of bamboo, eaten snails, and camped out in Jules’s backyard, all of which thrilled her sons far more than it did me. Right now, I’m as ready as I can be for a person who barely knew anything about this reality program a week ago.
What I’m not ready for, not in the least, is seeing Jessica. And unfortunately, that’s a test I don’t know how to cram for.
Not that I haven’t tried. Now that I know her first and last name and where she lives, I Googled her. She has a Facebook account, but you have to be friends to view anything on it, and besides the fact that I signed an agreement prohibiting me from contacting her in any way before the show begins filming, I didn’t think sending her a friend request would be a smart move. I found her in the employee roster of the company she works for, but other than her extension and company email, it didn’t tell me anything useful.
Which is why I subscribed to one of those people-finder services. I’m not proud of it, but it was the only way I could think of to discover something concrete. So now, I know her address, and her parents’ address. I have all their cell phone numbers. I even know how much the Becketts paid in property taxes for the last five years. But that’s as far as it went. I didn’t call any of the numbers, didn’t drive all night to get to Irvine and camp out in front of Jessica’s door. Although I did look up her address on Google Earth and saw the street view of her apartment, and then I checked the database of registered sex offenders to make sure she doesn’t live next door to a predator. Which she doesn’t. But that was all I did.
Except for the picture.
There was a photo of her on the Last Family Standing website under the “Meet the New Cast” tab. All the families are made up of two people, with their picture and a short bio. Except for ours. There’s a picture of Jessica, her bio, and where my picture should be is a dark gray silhouette with a bright yellow question mark in the middle of the skull. It’s the kind they use as a placeholder on sites before you replace it with your own avatar. Where my bio should be is this sensational little paragraph: Jessica knows her birth mother only as “Monica.” Will the mystery woman answer her daughter’s appeal, or will she leave her hanging?
It’s ridiculous, because they know I’m coming. Yes, I understand they want to keep the suspense up until the show airs. I guess I should take it as a compliment, that folks might actually set their DVRs to see if I do right by my daughter, or if I’m a despicable human being and don’t show. But it’s hard to consider that kind of morbid curiosity is a good thing.
Still, I’m thankful that at least Jessica’s picture was on the site. I printed it out and put a copy on the fridge.
And in my wallet.
And on my bedside table.
And in the glove compartment of my car.
Some people might consider that obsessive, but I just see it as making up for lost time. If Jessica had grown up with me, the refrigerator would have been covered with photos of her mugging for the camera, pictures she’d drawn, and school lunch schedules. My wallet would always have held the most recent school photo, the same one that would have been in a frame, sitting by my alarm clock next to my bed. And my car would have been littered with discarded scrunchies, empty juice boxes, and all the other reminders that a child had been there.
But Jessica didn’t grow up with me. My fridge and my car have always been immaculate. The only things in my wallet are cash and the usual assortment of credit, ATM, and grocery store preferred customer cards. And the photo beside the bed is of Ranger and me the day I brought him home from the shelter.
So I’m not going to sweat the fact that I can’t stop looking at her picture.
From his place in the corner, Ranger lets out a whine. “Poor baby.” I pat an empty space on the bed beside my nearly empty suitcase. “Come on up and help me figure this out.”
In two leaps he’s across the room and bounding up onto the mattress. The last week has been almost as hard on him as it has been on me. I haven’t spent nearly as much
time with him as I usually do. He knows something is going on. I can tell from the way he follows me around.
Taking his face in both my hands, I kneed the skin under his jaws and look into his soulful, brown eyes. “I’m breaking the confidentiality agreement telling you this, but I’m going to be gone for a month.” Actually, I broke that agreement when I asked Jules for help. But I didn’t mean to. As long as she keeps her mouth shut, which I know she will, it won’t be a problem. And Jackson. And her boys. Oh man . . . It’ll be a miracle if I get through this thing without being sued.
I pull my attention back to Ranger. “John, Jerrod, and Justin are going to spoil you rotten, but I know you’ll still miss me. I want you to remember, I love you, and I will come back.”
He bounces on his front paws and pushes forward until he’s able to lick one entire side of my face. It’s a gesture made not because he understands what I said, but because he feels the love. Still, what should be a sweet moment has turned sour. Here I am, worried about how my dog will feel if I’m gone for a month, yet I was able to give my daughter to virtual strangers and walk out of her life forever. How does a woman do that? What kind of a person does that make me?
I take the picture of Jessica out of the suitcase—because of course, I put one in there, too—and stare at her bright blue eyes and her subtle smile. Will she still be smiling when we’re face-to-face? More than once this week, I’ve prayed she’ll forgive me so we can form some kind of relationship.
But how can I hope for her forgiveness when I can’t even forgive myself?
8
Despite my insistence that I am perfectly capable of getting to the airport by myself, Brittany—the Last Family Standing contestant liaison—was equally insistent that she’d arrange for a car to come by the house. It seemed silly before, but now that the time has come, I’m glad that’s one less thing to worry about.
I’ve spent the last hour wandering from room to room, going over mental lists of all the things that needed to be done before now. Ranger is already with Jules. The furry traitor was much less distressed than I expected once the boys got their hands on him. In my office, I flip through the date book, ensuring that I didn’t miss handing off any of my catering jobs to one of my colleagues. House lights and the drip watering system in the yard are all on timers. The folks at the Review Journal know to donate my newspaper to a local school for the next month and a half.
A month and a half. Thankfully, I’m standing by the sofa when the thought hits me, because my knees give out and I drop down on the overstuffed cushions. What am I thinking? Obviously, I’m not thinking at all. I’m reacting. I’ve long thought my maternal instincts were dead, but apparently, they were only hibernating. For the first time in twenty-five years, my daughter makes a request of me, and the mother tigress inside roars to life.
Before I can follow this rabbit trail any further, my doorbell rings. That’s my ride. With a sigh, I push off the couch, grab my purse and rolling suitcase, and head toward whatever scary future is on the other side of that door.
***
What I’m sure is the first of many surprises comes when the driver of the stretch Hummer avoids the passenger drop off area of McCarran airport and heads around to the back.
“Why are we going this way?” The window between us is open, but there’s so much space between the driver and where I’m sitting, I feel I need to yell to be heard.
“Didn’t Brittany tell you, ma’am?”
I growl at being called ma’am. “Tell me what?”
“You’re taking a private plane. Better to keep you inconspicuous.”
Is he serious? If they wanted to stay under the radar, they should have chosen a vehicle that didn’t stalk its way through the streets. Still, the idea of a private plane is appealing. I can use the time—about eight hours, according to the mercurial Brittany—to think, to settle myself. If I’m lucky, I might even be able to sleep, something I wasn’t able to do much of last night.
The driver pulls into a section of the airport filled with an assortment of sleek, white planes. Small, sleek, white planes.
“They’re so tiny,” I mutter under my breath.
We stop near one of them. The very tall driver opens my door and nearly folds himself in half so he can look in at me. “Don’t worry,” he says with a grin. “In this case, size really doesn’t matter.”
That’s one thing about Vegas residents: not much embarrasses us. So the man’s double entendre does nothing more than make me laugh, something I desperately need.
As I climb my way out of the Hummer, he retrieves my bag from the trunk, then carries it to a man wearing a bright orange vest. The two exchange a few words. The driver points at me, vest-man looks at me and nods, then takes my suitcase and stows it in an open compartment in the side of the plane.
“Have a good flight, ma’am.” With a quick, two-fingered salute, he ducks back into the driver seat. A moment later, the Hummer is gone and I’m staring at the steps leading up into the plane.
Now what? Am I supposed to wait here? Should I go up and make myself at home? Is there still time for me to turn around and run?
Vest-man shuts the cargo hold door and turns. When he sees me, he looks confused. “Do you need something, miss?”
I want to hug him for calling me miss. “I, uh, I just wasn’t sure if I should board the plane or wait out here.”
He shrugs. “Up to you. We won’t be leaving for about half an hour. Might as well go on in and get comfortable.”
Well, if he insists . . .
There are only four seats inside the airplane, two rows of two, facing each other to form a little conversation area. My heart sinks a bit when I notice someone is already sitting there. I can see the top of a head over the back of one seat. So much for a quiet, contemplative trip.
As I try to maneuver my way through the small space, I accidentally slam my purse into the back of the person’s seat. Yeesh, what a great way to meet someone.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No problem.”
That deep rumble cuts me off as the person stands and a moment later I’m face-to-face with Rick Wolff.
“What are you doing here?”
He laughs. “Nice to see you, too, Miss Stanton.”
Way to go, Monica. First you bang into his seat, then you’re rude. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t expect to see you again until I got to the island.”
“Normally, you wouldn’t. Please, sit down.” He motions to the empty seats across from him.
I sink into it, impressed with the soft leather, the leg room, and the cup holder in the arm rest. “Wow. This is going to ruin me for the next time I fly coach.”
“The way I see it, if you’re going to buy a jet, you may as well get a comfortable one.”
My eyebrows go up. “You own this?”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “When you fly as much as I do, having a plane makes sense.”
“Uh huh. Well.” I shift in the seat, enjoying the creak of the leather. “Thank you for giving me a lift. Although I’m still confused.”
“I’m not surprised. Let me try to explain.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Wolff?” The pilot stands behind Rick’s seat. “Are you expecting any other passengers?”
“No. Our party is complete. Feel free to leave whenever you’re ready.”
The pilot nods. “As soon as we get tower clearance, we’re out of here.”
As the pilot moves to the cockpit, I smile at Rick. “Won’t Bruce be joining us?”
“No, he’s already on the island, getting some candid shots of the other contestants.”
“They’re all there?” And by that I’m really asking if Jessica’s there. I’m sure he understands my code, but chooses to ignore it.
“Yes, they are. Except for you, of course.” He leans back and crosses one ankle over his knee. “You’re making this season a little more complicated than usual.”
“Me? I’m the one
having my life turned inside out. How can I be complicating things?”
“It’s not your fault,” he says. “But I can’t let any of the other contestants see you until we officially start the game.”
In other words, they—my daughter, in particular—can’t see me until the cameras start rolling. “You want the look of shock on Jessica’s face to be real.”
“You make it sound so calculated.”
“Because it is.”
“It’s also the whole point of the show. Real emotions, real reactions. That’s why they call it reality television. Jessica knew what she was getting into. And by now, you should, too.”
There’s a little pop as the sound system turns on. “Please fasten your seat belts, folks. We’re cleared for takeoff.”
Rick’s foot thuds to the floor as he sits up straight and snaps the buckle. “I realize this is a very emotional situation for you. Frankly, when we received Jessica’s audition tape, my first impulse was to reject it.”
“Why?”
The boyish smirk that seems to always hover around his lips disappears. He hesitates, as though he really doesn’t want to reveal his thought process. But then something clicks, and he starts talking. “Because your story transcends making good television. You and Jessica are real people, with real families and real lives.”
I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “Aren’t all the contestants real people? As you said, it’s a reality show.”
“Yes, of course. But they’re all family members who already know each other and have outrageous elements to their relationships. We’ve never had a parent and child meet for the first time on our show.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it more than it already was. “The next thirty days will change your life, and not just because you’ll be on television.”
“I see.” The seat shakes with the revving of the jet engines. “What made you change your mind?”
“Jessica. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About how honest she seemed when she said this was her only chance to find you.”
Last Family Standing Page 4