by Amy Meyerson
“I don’t want to see that woman again.” The words erupted involuntarily. She’d lost her composure, something that rarely happened.
“You know her?”
“We’ve met,” she said, regaining her cool.
“When she and Billy were dating?”
“They weren’t...” I waited for her to ask me how I knew they were dating. “That woman was a horrible influence on Billy.” She sniffed, jolting herself out of whatever memory she’d drifted into. “Let’s plan for next Sunday, all right?”
“Sure, next Sunday,” I said, a sinking suspicion that something would come up the following week, too. “Mom?” I asked before she hung up.
“Yes?”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.” Her voice quavered. “We’ll see you next Sunday.”
I hung up and sat back on Billy’s couch. I wasn’t sure how we’d gotten here. Mom knew every doctor’s appointment I had, every movie I saw, whenever I finished a book. She was my stream of consciousness. I never filtered anything. I told her everything. When Sam, the class bully who seemed to think teacher was another name for potential victim, left a tampon on my desk, slathered in red paint. When I discovered two girls vomiting in the bathroom during lunch, when I caught my favorite student plagiarizing, when I had a strange bump on my arm and I thought I might be dying. It turned out to be a benign cyst, but Mom still flew to Philadelphia for the outpatient surgery. I told her how my teeth smashed Jay’s during our first ineloquent kiss, how I wasn’t sure I could date someone so off-type. Mom was the first person I confided in. She was my confidante, my adviser, my cheerleader. In turn, I knew when she had a meeting with a new client, when she was trying a new restaurant, when she and Dorothy Conrad were driving to Arizona to go antiquing. I knew the price and quality of each chandelier, each armoire, each vase she bought, but those stories, they weren’t benign cysts. They weren’t awkward first kisses. They weren’t feelings of fraudulence that I wasn’t really a good teacher, after all. She told me anecdotes. I told her insecurities. Maybe we couldn’t return to what we always were to each other because we’d never been as close as I’d assumed we were. My mother knew everything about me. I hardly knew anything about her at all.
* * *
On the afternoon of Sheila’s reading, Joanie came over to get ready before the event. It was the first time I’d seen her since she’d started rehearsals for The Three Sisters. She leaned against the dresser in Billy’s bedroom, tousling her hair before the mirror and prattling on about a lunch she’d had with the famous actresses who played Masha and Olga, what it was like to dine with a roomful of people covertly watching you.
“My director says it’s good I’m getting a taste of it now. A lot of people think they want fame until they have it.” Joanie said director with a practiced gusto. My director. My play. My career. My fame. I hoped this play would be as important as she assumed it was.
She pulled a tube of lipstick out of her bag and waved me toward her. I sat on the edge of the bed as she angled my face toward the light.
“This reading is a good idea. It should definitely bring in a crowd,” Joanie said.
“It was all Malcolm. He had it set up before I even got back.”
“Sounds like you two are getting along better?” Joanie pressed the waxy lipstick into my lips.
“I seem to have passed some test. Turns out he’s not a total asshole, after all.” Joanie stepped back to appraise her masterpiece, studying me like she understood my thoughts better than I did. “What?”
She used her forefinger to dab more lipstick onto my bottom lip. “Men always think about kissing when they see scarlet lips.”
“You’re totally off base.” She kept smiling in that Joanie way, where neither logic nor facts could dissuade her. “Joanie, I have a boyfriend.”
“And how is the good offensive man? Striker? I guess I should learn my soccer positions if this one’s sticking around.” She capped the lipstick and tossed it into her overflowing purse.
“He plays defense. I don’t know what he’s going to say when I tell him I won’t be back for another six weeks.”
“He misses you, is all.” Joanie held her phone out, evaluating her appearance in the camera before snapping a selfie. “There’s a reason most long-distance relationships don’t work out.”
“We’re not long distance,” I said.
Joanie looked like she was about to argue, then decided against it. I wanted to press her, but I also didn’t want to hear why she thought Jay and I wouldn’t work out.
“So Sheila’s got the next clue?” Joanie asked instead.
“Let’s hope so.” I opened the top drawer of Billy’s dresser and located Sheila’s letter.
She paced the bedroom as she read. “‘From the first time we fucked on your living room floor’? Oh, my.” Joanie wiped her brow as though she was Scarlett O’Hara.
“Keep reading. The key part’s at the end.”
“‘Knowing you has been a great kindness in my life. You will survive this. We both will. And once we have, I’m certain we will see each other again’?” She squinted, trying to parse out its significance.
“Not that part.” I grabbed the letter. “‘Evelyn’s death wasn’t your fault, either. You have to believe this, if you ever want to move on.’” Joanie shrugged, not understanding. “Billy thought he was responsible for Evelyn’s death.”
“It sounds like survivor’s guilt to me.” Joanie flopped down on the bed, apparently bored with the conversation. “Besides, what does that have to do with his fight with your mom?”
“I’m not sure. My mom shuts down any time I mention Evelyn or Billy.”
“What’d she say when you told her about the scavenger hunt?”
“I haven’t told her yet.” Joanie perked up. “Things are really awkward between us. We’re hardly speaking.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“No, but you know my mom. If she doesn’t want to talk, you can’t make her.”
“So you should stop asking her questions she won’t answer.” I shot her an indignant look, which she matched, mockingly. “You have a good relationship with your mom. I don’t see why you’d want to jeopardize that over an uncle you’d pretty much forgotten.”
“You’re serious?” Joanie had known me through all of Billy’s quests, even participating in a few. She’d been there when he’d disappeared. She’d helped me plot my route across LA to find him again. How could she remember all that and think that just because I was stuck, just because Mom and I weren’t speaking, that I would give up on the last quest Billy would ever leave for me? “Since when have you advocated for bowing down to anyone?”
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m just saying, you’re lucky to have a mom who’s invested in your life.” Growing up, Joanie had spent countless weekends at our house when her mother was off in Hawaii or Santa Barbara with her latest boyfriend. She ate regular dinners with my family when her sisters forgot to pick her up after school. After each leading role in high school, Joanie would find me waiting in the parking lot with flowers. Me and Mom. “Don’t throw away your relationship with your mom over this. It’s not worth it.”
“Well, don’t act like you’re the expert on the importance of mother-daughter relationships just because you have a shitty one with your mother.” Joanie winced, betrayed. “I didn’t mean that.” I sat on the bed beside her. She turned away from me. “All of a sudden everything between me and my mom feels fake. I want things to be okay, but she’s keeping secrets from me.”
“They’re her secrets,” she said coldly. “You don’t deserve to know them simply because you’re curious.”
“They’re my family’s secrets.”
“Why is this so important to you?” Her voice had calmed, but she was still angled away from me.
“After Billy, it was just me and my parents. I never had siblings or grandparents or cousins. I always felt like I was missing out on something. I want to understand why I never had any extended family.”
“And you think you’ll feel complete if you know why Billy disappeared? Life doesn’t work like that, Miranda.”
“At least I’ll understand my mom better.” Joanie nodded and shifted her knees slightly toward me. I shifted my knees toward her until they touched. “I’m really sorry about what I said. How about we trade mothers? I’ll take yours, and you can have my mom in the front row at every single performance of The Three Sisters?”
“Those tickets are reserved for famous people,” she said, still pouting.
“I’m sure she’d settle for the back row.” I batted my eyes and did my best to look repentant. “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
Joanie sighed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
* * *
At five, we closed the café early to get ready for the reading. Charlie, Joanie and Lucia wiped down tables while Malcolm and I set up a makeshift bar. We were offering wine and beer for a mandatory donation, since we didn’t have a liquor license and couldn’t risk the cost of a fine. We put out a row of reds and whites, beer bottles, moving to the beat of the music, gliding in and out of each other’s periphery. At seven dollars a drink, it wasn’t a bad boost for the store. Like all of our endeavors, it was minimal compared to our accumulating debt.
Fans filed in a half hour before Sheila’s reading. The bell on the door rang with the arrival of each patron, and every time I heard its chime, I turned, optimistic that Mom had changed her mind, but it was just another young woman clutching one of Sheila’s books against her chest. I chided myself for hoping, yet every time I heard the bell, I turned again.
By the time Malcolm was ready to get started, every seat in the café was occupied. Patrons lined the stacks, angling to see the podium in the back of the café. Heads turned as Sheila entered the room. She wore dark sunglasses and a bright shawl, waving hello to a few people as she made her way through the dense crowd. Before I was able to introduce myself, my phone rang. I motioned to Malcolm that I was going upstairs, and he tapped his wrist.
I ducked into the stairs to answer Jay’s call. “Hey, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later?”
“I’m going out later,” he said coolly.
“Well, what’s up? I have a minute or two.” I leaned against the banister. It shifted with my weight.
“My mom’s getting tickets for the mummy exhibit at the Franklin Institute. It’s closing in August, so she wants to buy them now before it sells out.”
While a mummy exhibit was right up my alley, I would have tried to get out of it if I were home. Jay’s mother was never cold to me; she simply ignored me lest it appear rude. I didn’t believe there was anything particular about me she disliked. I was simply an obstacle between her and her son. Now that I had the perfect excuse, I wished I didn’t have to use it.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I don’t think I can get back to Philly until orientation.” I bit my lower lip to prevent myself from apologizing.
Jay didn’t say anything for too long. “I think I’ve been pretty patient.” I let out an involuntary cough. “Most guys wouldn’t let their girlfriends go away all summer.”
“I didn’t realize I needed your permission to come home,” I snapped.
“I know you’ve never been in a serious relationship before.” He had his teacher voice on, his tone intimating that it was all simple if you approached it in the right way. “But when you’re committed to someone—”
“Don’t you lecture me on being committed. How many Saturday mornings have I froze my ass off to watch you play soccer? How many times have we canceled plans because your mom has a dinner party or an art show or just calls your name and we go running? Do you realize you haven’t asked me a single question about Billy or Prospero Books? Don’t you dare talk to me about being committed.”
“I didn’t realize being part of my life was an obligation to you,” he said in a different teacher voice, one reserved for disobedient students.
“Oh, fuck you, Jay.”
Malcolm popped his head into the staircase. He must have realized I was in the middle of something because his expression quickly shifted from annoyed to apologetic. “It’s time,” he whispered.
“Jay, I have to go.”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that? Sure, go. Stay all summer. Stay forever. Do whatever you want, Miranda. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.”
“Nice. That’s real mature of you, Jay. Real fucking mature.” I hung up and turned off my phone before Jay had a chance to say anything else.
* * *
Malcolm was a magnificent orator. He analogized Sheila’s prose to ballet and quoted Rilke without sounding pretentious. He fit Sheila into a legacy of female writers, including Joan Didion and Susan Sontag. I tried to focus on Malcolm’s eloquent introduction, on making eye contact with Sheila so she would recognize me later, but I had too much adrenaline. Did Jay really think this was what I wanted, to be apart all summer, to reconnect with my uncle only after his death, to have fractured my relationship with my mother, to be tasked with the responsibility of saving Prospero Books?
“Her words captivate, inspire and ignite. So, without further ado, the inimitable Sheila Crowley,” Malcolm said, concluding his introduction.
Everyone cheered. Malcolm solemnly thanked the crowd, his eyes poring over everyone until they landed on me. He watched me while Sheila kissed his cheek. I smiled at him. I didn’t want to be fighting with Jay. I didn’t want to be fighting with Mom, either. But I did want this. I wanted to make eye contact with Malcolm; I wanted to listen to Sheila read, to calculate the precise moment to approach her. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.
For twenty minutes, Sheila read about the summer before her mother went to rehab. Sheila was twelve and they lived in a ranch house in Altadena where her mother bred sheepdogs. One of the females was pregnant. Sheila’s mother was passed out on the porch, and Sheila had to supervise the birthing. She had a voice like a jazz singer. I could have listened to her for hours. Mom had a voice like a folk singer. I could have listened to her for hours, too, if only she would talk to me.
Sheila finished the chapter, took off her glasses and bowed her head at the applause of her fans. As she began to field questions, the bell on the door chimed. Instead of my parents, Elijah waved to me from the entryway. I waved back, then searched the room for Malcolm, hoping he didn’t think I was colluding with The Vulture. Malcolm was busy organizing the signing table and fortunately hadn’t noticed Elijah’s arrival.
“Last question,” Malcolm announced, pointing to a tall brunette leaning against the YA section. She looked like a model and, in Los Angeles, she may have been. A rush of jealousy surprised me as I watched Malcolm nod to the prettiest girl in the room. She proceeded to ask Sheila a question about her writing process. Sheila answered curtly, telling the girl there was no magic formula, that every writer has to figure out her own routine. The girl cowered at Sheila’s response, and I felt guilty for the pleasure her dejection aroused in me. I glanced over at Malcolm. He’d already moved on from the pretty girl, back to aligning books on the signing table. As Sheila began to gather her things from beneath the podium, I sidled through the tables to intercept her.
“Ms. Crowley?” I asked.
“Malcolm’s having everyone line up against the wall,” she said without looking up at me.
“I’m Miranda Brooks. Billy’s niece.”
Sheila smiled widely at me, revealing a sizable gap between her front teeth. “Miranda! I didn’t realize you were here.” Her face sobered. “I’m so sorry about Billy. When I got here today, I expected to see him, then it hit me all over again.”
“I know what you mean.”
“You know, I met you once when you were a baby.” She closed the copy of her memoir she’d read from. The page was covered in pencil markings, edits to the draft that had already been published.
“Was that when you and Billy were dating?” I tried to sound casual, but my voice betrayed me.
“I’d hardly call what we did dating. Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear that.”
“I do. I want to hear everything. I haven’t seen Billy in years.” Sheila indicated to Malcolm that she’d be a second.
“And I want to tell you everything.” She patted my hand. “But right now what I really want is a glass of red. I’m going to need it if anyone else asks me about my process.” When I told her I’d get her a glass, she said, “Maybe bring the whole bottle with you?”
I carried a plastic glass and a mostly full bottle of Malbec to the table where Sheila had situated herself behind a pile of her books and several black Sharpie pens. The line of fans snaked the length of the fiction section, winding its way around History and the recommendations table in the center of the store.
“I think we’re going to get along quite well,” she said when I poured her a glass.
“I’d really like to talk to you about Billy,” I told her.
“Sheila, you ready?” Malcolm said, carrying another pile of her memoirs over to the table.
“Let’s meet here for coffee tomorrow?” she suggested, and we arranged a time for the following morning.
“Ms. Crowley?” a young man asked as he approached the table, holding out her memoir. His hair was cut into a mullet and he wore tortoiseshell glasses that made him seem earnest, although I doubted that was the look he was going for. He was one of a few men at the reading. “I was hoping you could sign this for my mom.”
Sheila turned to me. “We may need a second bottle.”
I watched Sheila sign the boy’s book, signaling to the next eager fan that it was her turn. She was efficient without being cold. Fastidious.
Elijah appeared at my side. “You got a good turnout.”