There was a spare car in the garage that she used when she was home, an old Volvo from her high school days. It was ancient but it still worked. She drove around L.A. that afternoon, looking at familiar places, thinking about her life now without Ivan. It felt good to be home. And when she got back to the house, her parents were both there and excited to see her. She hadn’t been home in almost a year, since Christmas, and she was startled to see that her parents had aged a little. She always thought of them as young and vital forever. Her father was complaining about a bad knee he had injured playing tennis, and her mother was healthy, but seemed subtly older. They had been older parents when she was born, as a surprise, and now they were in their late sixties, but still going strong with no thought of slowing down, and Abby was glad to be spending the holiday with them.
They talked about her writing that night at dinner, and were relieved to hear that she had given up writing experimental plays to please Ivan, and was writing more traditional material again. They had ordered in fancy takeout food since her mother never cooked. They had an offsite chef who dropped off meals for them several times a week, based on healthy nonfat meal plans.
“So what do you think, Abby?” her father asked her gently. “Are you ready to come back and try your hand out here? Your mother could get you a job writing scripts on just about any show you want.” They thought in terms of commercial material, which was what Ivan had hated about them.
“I want to try to find work on my own,” she said softly, grateful for their help. And eventually, she wanted to be self-supporting too, it was her goal. And she didn’t want a job because she was someone’s daughter. She wanted to sell her writing or get work because of her talent, not her parents. “I don’t think TV is right for me,” she said honestly. “I’d like to finish my novel and sell some short stories. I could try screenplays later, but not yet.” She gave her mother three recent chapters of her novel that night, and the next morning she told Abby how much stronger her writing had gotten and said she was impressed by how much her style had tightened and matured. And she thought the work was very cinematic and would make a great film. Abby was pleased and respected her mother’s opinion. Coming from her, it was high praise. Abby knew there was still a dark edge to her writing, even without Ivan, but now she felt sure it was her own voice and not his.
“Would you mind giving me a little more time in New York to work on it?” she asked humbly. She was at her parents’ mercy financially, but they had always been supportive, and were still prepared to be. They both made that clear to her in their conversations and she was grateful to them. They had always been reasonable and kind, even during her three years of insanity with Ivan, and even more so now that he was gone. And she was clearly making progress with her writing without him.
They were having their usual Thanksgiving dinner the next day, with the strays her parents collected. She had learned her love of eclectic, interesting people from them—the difference was that theirs were often famous ones, not charlatans like Ivan, and Abby didn’t always know the difference. Her parents were nontraditional, and their Thanksgiving dinner normally consisted of twenty or so people who had nowhere else to be, and no family, and Joan and Harvey Williams had their dinner catered by Mr. Chow, with fabulous Chinese food, a lot of great French wine, and a combination of actors, writers, directors, and producers, who gathered at their table for an unconventional Thanksgiving. Abby had always loved it, and the people she met there. It was very Hollywood, in the best way. Some of the guests came every year and had for twenty years. Others were new. Some disappeared for a few years and then showed up again after they came back to town, finished a film, or wound up between relationships with no one to spend the holiday with. There was nothing mournful about it—in their own way they were all winners, even if some appeared to be misfits or very strange. Abby had grown up among people like them, which had given her an open mind and broad view of the world. And her parents may have been too busy to spend a lot of time with her, but she knew they loved her, in spite of the awful things Ivan had said about them. She felt guilty for listening to him now, and knew that none of what he said was true.
Her mother wandered into Abby’s bedroom before the guests arrived and hugged her daughter. “You know we love you, baby, don’t you? Sometimes I feel like we get disconnected with you living so far away.” And they never got to New York, they were busy in L.A. with their work, and got stuck there. “And I don’t care what kind of work you do. I just want you to be happy and feel good about yourself. Don’t let anyone pull you off your path or tell you what to do, not even us. You don’t even have to be a writer if you don’t want to be. Life is about following your own dream, not someone else’s, whatever that dream is. You know what’s right for you, better than anyone else. And we’re here to support you, whatever choice you make.” It was what they had done for the past three years, while Abby drank the Kool-Aid with Ivan, and she was so grateful they hadn’t given up on her, and were there for her now, stronger than ever.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said, touched by what her mother said. “I’m really trying.”
“I know you are. You’ll get there. I didn’t even start writing for TV until I was thirty-five. I was writing literary novels before that, and novellas, and believe me, they were awful. Your father was the only one who liked them, and that was because he loved me. So just hang in, and you’ll find the right writing form for you, and the right vehicle, if you really want that.” And they both knew it would be a lot easier without Ivan. They had been incredibly kind and supportive about the breakup without a single “I told you so.”
“I feel so stupid for wasting all that time with him,” she said with tears in her eyes, and her mother hugged her again.
“Don’t forget I was married for two years, before your dad. The guy started out normal when we got married, and became a religious fanatic, and founded a cult in Argentina, which was when I left him. We all do stupid things sometimes and get involved with the wrong people. It’s good to keep an open mind, but also to know when to cut your losses and close the gate. You did with Ivan. And it takes the time it takes.” Abby didn’t know what she had done to deserve such understanding parents, but she thanked God that she had them. She had forgotten about her mother’s first marriage. She never talked about it. There was no reason to. Her parents had been happily married for more than thirty years, and they still liked surrounding themselves with unusual people. It had never occurred to them that it would rub off on their daughter, to her detriment. Her father had said as much to his wife when they first met Ivan in the beginning, but they let her make her own decisions, for better or worse, and it had worked out in the end, after a three-year detour, but she seemed to be back on track again and even more dedicated to her writing, which had improved after what she’d been through.
People started to arrive at six o’clock, and by seven, there were twenty-six guests, in assorted casual outfits, drinking wine, and in earnest conversations in the living room and around the pool. The food was delivered at eight, and people sat wherever they found space, indoors, outdoors, on the floor, in chairs, and on couches, with their plates perched on their knees, enjoying talking to the other guests about various aspects of show business. It was a perfect Hollywood Thanksgiving, and typical of her parents, and seemed normal to Abby.
She was sitting on the floor, in jeans and sandals, wearing a Guatemalan peasant blouse that her mother had brought her back from a trip when she was fifteen, when a man with a beard and jeans and a camouflage jacket sat down next to her on the floor, and introduced himself as Josh Katz. He said he had produced a TV show with her mother, and was now making a feature film on location in South Africa, about the early days of apartheid. She knew it was the kind of project her parents respected. He had warm dark brown eyes and a slight accent, and later said he was Israeli, and he had a strong interest in work about oppressed people, particularly women. For a minute, she wondered if he was a better version of Iva
n, with a more convincing line, but she also knew that if he was sitting in her parents’ living room, he had the right credentials and was for real. Her parents were allergic to phonies, which was why they had hated Ivan.
“How come you’re here?” Abby asked him, and then realized how that sounded and apologized. “I mean alone on Thanksgiving. Do you live in L.A.?”
“Some of the time. Tel Aviv, L.A., New York, and wherever I’m shooting. Johannesburg right now, but I’ll be back in a few weeks for postproduction. I have two sons here. I’m spending the weekend with them, but I was free tonight, so your parents were nice enough to ask me when they heard I was in town. And I’m starting a film here in six months, so I have to find an apartment, to finish this film and the next one. I’ll be here for a year and a half.”
“How old are your sons?” She liked him. He seemed interesting, nice, and offbeat, like her parents.
“Six and eleven,” he said proudly and showed her a photograph of them on his phone. They were cute boys. And he looked to be about forty. “My wife lives here. We got divorced two years ago, but I try to see my kids whenever I can. It will be nice living here for a while. I hear you’re a writer.” She nodded, looking vague for a minute. “What do you write?”
“I’ve been writing plays for experimental theater for the last three years. Now I’m working on a novel and some short stories. I’ve gone back to a more traditional style.” She smiled. “I’m trying to figure it out. I’m in transition,” Abby said and laughed.
“Sometimes that’s a good thing. It leaves you open to change. Sometimes you have to tear everything down to build a stronger structure. I find that to be true in life and movies too.”
“Then I’m right on track.” She laughed ruefully, and he smiled. He liked her, and he liked her parents too. They were good, honest people with talent and integrity, which were rare in Hollywood.
“Can I read anything you’ve written?” He was always looking for new material and found it in surprising places.
“My stuff isn’t representative of my current style and what I’m doing now. And my novel isn’t finished.”
“Have you ever written a screenplay?” She shook her head in answer. “It’s a pretty short jump from plays to screenplays—you’d probably find it easy. Can I see something you’re working on now? A few chapters of your novel?” He handed her his card before she could answer. “Send me something. You never know. I may know someone who’s doing something you’d be perfect for. That’s how it works. Networking. That’s how I met your mother, and I did some shows for her, which got me started. She gave me a chance.” Joan had always been brave about that, and had discovered some real talent, people who were famous now, and a few duds. She was willing to make mistakes, which made her more forgiving of others.
“Okay,” Abby said thoughtfully. He was very convincing, in a nice way, and very positive. She got pulled away by her mother then, to talk to someone else, an old friend of theirs she hadn’t seen since high school, who looked a hundred years old now, and was nearly unrecognizable after a face-lift. She was grateful her mother hadn’t had any work done and still looked like herself, even if slightly older.
Abby found Josh’s card in her pocket when she got undressed, and wondered if she should send him some short stories or a couple of chapters of her novel. She mentioned it to her mother the next morning when they had breakfast by the pool, sitting in the sun. Her father had gone to play golf, which he could still do with his bad knee.
“Why not?” her mother said easily. “He’s a very talented guy, and very open to new ideas. I knew we’d never keep him around for long. He’s too unconventional, and too creative, and he doesn’t like playing by network rules.” Her mother was good at doing that without compromising her talent or ideas, but not everyone could pull it off. She had a rare knack for walking a fine line between commercial and sheer genius, and the ratings showed it, despite what Ivan said about her. “Send him something,” Joan encouraged her. “Maybe he’ll have some good suggestions for you, and introduce you to someone making an indie movie, if that’s what you want.”
“Maybe it is,” Abby said, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know where I’ll wind up, maybe novels or film.” She knew she hadn’t reached her final goal yet. Her current writing was a work in progress.
Abby opened her computer that afternoon, and sent Josh an e-mail of the first two chapters of her book and one short story and said she’d enjoyed meeting him, and then forgot about it, and went shopping with her mother at Maxfield, and some of the vintage stores they both liked. Their wardrobes were very eclectic, and they loved borrowing strange pieces from each other.
The weekend flew by, and she was sad to go back to New York on Sunday. Her parents had told her that they were going to Mexico for Christmas and had invited her to join them, but she thought she should stay in New York and write, and she didn’t like Mexico as much as they did, she always got sick. In some ways, her parents acted like people who didn’t have children. They treated her more like a friend, and always had. But the flip side of that was that they accepted her independence and had always given her her freedom. They had always treated her like an adult, even as a child. And they were delighted to include her in anything they did now, but they had never adjusted their life to her. She was welcome to follow along, but they made their own plans, regardless of hers, like Mexico over Christmas.
She promised to come back soon, and her father drove her to the airport and hugged her tight when they got there.
“We love you, Abby,” he said, holding her for a moment. “Good luck with the writing.”
“Thank you, Dad,” she said with damp eyes. Even after the last three years of insanity with Ivan, which had been like joining a cult, they still believed in her. It was amazing, but that was the kind of people they were—always engaged in the artistic process, and profound believers in the power of the creative, even if they weren’t perfect parents. She loved them anyway. She waved as she walked into security, and a moment later she disappeared, and went to board her plane to New York. It had been a great four days.
—
When Claire got to San Francisco, nothing had changed. And the occupants of the house never changed either. Her parents’ house was a small, slightly shabby Victorian in Pacific Heights. It needed a coat of paint, but Sarah kept it looking fresh inside, even when she had to paint a room herself, which she sometimes did. And she used her least expensive upholsterers to re-cover the furniture so her husband wouldn’t complain about the expense. Her father looked depressed, and was grousing about the real estate market. He hadn’t sold a house in eighteen months, which Claire thought was due to his personality, not the economy. Who wanted to buy a house from someone who told you everything that was wrong with it and the world? And he hated the broker he worked for.
Her mother was making chirping noises, and had the house looking bright and pretty, with flowers in Claire’s bedroom. She had bought a turkey, which was slightly too big for them, as though they were expecting guests, but they no longer entertained, and rarely saw their old friends. Her father had eliminated them over the years, and her mother no longer tried to convince him to have a social life, so she met her women friends for lunch. She did a lot of reading at night. And no one ever mentioned the fact that her father drank too much, which contributed to his depression. He was never falling-down drunk, but three or four scotches at night were too many, and Claire and her mother knew it, and never said it out loud. They just let him do what he wanted, and after the second scotch, he sat alone in front of the TV, which he did every night until he went to bed.
Claire’s mother wanted to know all about George when Claire got there, and she could see how excited she was about him. He hadn’t called her yet from Aspen.
When Claire didn’t hear from him when she arrived, she assumed that George was already skiing, or afraid to intrude on her with her parents, and she was sure she would hear from him later that night. When she
didn’t, she called him from her room on her cell, and the call went straight to voicemail. With the time difference between San Francisco and Aspen, she figured he was already asleep, so she left him a loving message.
He didn’t call the next day on Thanksgiving, probably for the same reason. He was skiing for sure that day, and he knew she would be having Thanksgiving dinner with her parents, and he didn’t know what time. Claire sent him a text, and he didn’t respond.
It didn’t start to worry her until the next day. They hadn’t spoken since he dropped her off late Tuesday night, which was very unusual for him. He liked to keep track of her all day, with calls and texts, and to know what she was doing. After three days of silence, she wondered if he hated holidays so much that he had retreated into his cave in a mild depression. She didn’t want to push him, or intrude or insist. So she sent him another loving text and said she missed him, without trying to make him feel guilty for not calling. He obviously needed space, and they would be home in two days, on Sunday night, and were planning to spend the night together.
Her mother’s questions about him continued through the weekend, and Claire tried to answer as honestly as she could, that she had no idea what the future would bring, but that it appeared to be serious for both of them, and he was wonderful to her. She didn’t tell her that he had asked her to be the mother of his children the night before she left, or that she hadn’t heard from him in three days. She was sure that that was a momentary aberration—they had never been closer than the night before she left for San Francisco.
On Saturday, she felt a mild flutter of panic, and began to worry about him, and that something might have happened. What if he was sick, or had been seriously injured skiing? He might have broken both his arms and couldn’t use his cell phone, or had a head injury, since he said he didn’t wear a helmet but was an avid skier. But she thought he would have had someone call her if he was hurt, or texted her himself if he was sick. She had to believe that holidays were even harder for him than she had thought. He had cut off all communication with her, and was obviously depressed. She was concerned that she might have offended him without realizing it, but nothing on their last night together indicated it. He had hardly been able to tear himself away from her when she got out of the car on Tuesday night, and an hour before that said he wanted to have babies with her. How angry could he have been, and over what? Clearly, his silence was not her fault, but it was alarming anyway.
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