My Life in Black and White

by Kim Izzo

  “I told you it would be tough to believe. But everything I said was the truth.” I couldn’t blame him if he didn’t buy my story.

  He scowled. “So you admit to slapping Miss Ward across the face, then?”

  “I do,” I said. “But she deserved it.”

  He shifted around on his chair. He had amassed quite a pile of yellow foolscap pages, and he shuffled them like a deck of cards.

  “How do you account for all this? It’s bloody impossible,” he said. I nodded. “I agree. Impossible. So what are you going to do?” I asked. “That sure is a lot of paperwork.”

  He clasped the lot of it in his hands.

  “And it’s been a long interview,” I added.

  He took up the pile of papers and in one swift motion ripped them in half. I flinched at the sound. He then scrunched the two halves up and tossed them in the wastebasket. Then he pulled up a new piece of paper and scribbled furiously.

  “Sign this,” he instructed me and showed me a single paragraph that stated I had slipped and fallen into Amber, accidentally striking her across the face. Given my history of such clumsy mishaps, it was really quite reasonable, far more so than the truth. “None of your friends will corroborate Miss Ward’s side of things. You and Frederick Marshall seem to be victims of her bitter temper.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” I said, shocked by the sudden turn of events.

  “You’re free to go, Clara.” Hooper stood up and opened the door. I followed him, pausing at the doorway.

  “Thank you,” I said and kissed him on his cheek. He blushed.

  “You’re very welcome,” he said and smiled. “I would hate to see you taken in by the likes of her. You got to be careful of her type. You know what they say, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”

  “That’s right,” I agreed and walked out the door.

  Niall was waiting outside the police station for me. I still had his trench coat over my shoulders as we walked towards Billy and his cab. It was dark, and there was thick fog again.

  “I’m sick to death of this fog and mist all the time. I can’t wait to be back in sunny California,” I said with a sigh.

  “You plan on leaving soon?” he asked. I detected the disappointment in his voice.

  “I have to go home sometime,” I said.

  We were silent for a bit, and then Niall grinned and said, “You’re not going to tell me that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, are you? I know how you love those film noirs.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No, Niall. For one thing, I like you more than as a friend. And for another, Casablanca isn’t a film noir.”

  He stopped and chewed on this as I raced to the cab. Billy held the door open and I jumped in. Then Niall climbed in beside me and we kissed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I grinned all the way through the streets of London, taking in all its colours from the back of the taxi. A city never looked so vibrant. The sun had at last made an appearance, so that every shop window, bus stop and park bench, even the sidewalks, appeared to twinkle. Trinity’s flat was bright and airy like it had been when I first arrived. My tiny room looked happy and full of light. The closet was as I’d left it, overflowing, and the typewriter sat looking forlorn on the tiny desk, the same blank sheet of paper drawing me in. Part of me was afraid to go near it. As much as I admired the land of film noir, I was in no hurry to make it a permanent relationship. I wasn’t sure where the magic began and where it ended, the clothes on my back, or the suitcase, or the unfinished screenplay—the thing Alice started that I was supposed to finish. But one thing was missing—the train case. Though I wished that the matching set of luggage had stayed together and intact, it made sense that the case had vanished, destroyed in the car accident.

  “Clara, let’s go to the pub,” Trinity called out from the living room. “We told Niall and Frederick four o’clock and it’s nearly that now. I can’t keep my producer waiting.”

  “I’m coming,” I said and took another glance at the time-worn machine. A Woman Scorned was one scene from The End and I still couldn’t finish it.

  We had put our coats on and were about to open the door when the typewriter keys began to click. I stopped cold and looked at Trinity. She heard it too.

  “What is that?”

  We tiptoed to the room, but this time the door was wide open, and we didn’t have to get too close to see what was going on. There on top of the typewriter was a ginger cat. It walked back and forth along the top, its paws punching a different key each time.

  “I can’t believe it!” I burst out laughing. “Whose cat is that?”

  “It’s Clifford. He lives downstairs. That’s the cat I borrow to kill mice when I need to. He’s a great mouser.”

  I sighed. That explained the mysterious typewriting and the dead mouse. “Maybe he can finish the script,” I joked. My cell rang. It was a Los Angeles area code but it wasn’t Marjorie’s number. I was anxious to talk to her and had called a couple of times since leaving the police station but hadn’t been able to reach her.

  “Hello,” I said. The woman at the other end of the line was professional, concise and spoke with all the warmth of an iceberg.

  “Your mother had a heart attack. We’ve admitted her, but her condition isn’t stable.”

  When the plane landed at LAX, the air was the colour of toast. The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever. I’d called the nursing station from the baggage carousel, and Marjorie’s condition had improved; she was considered stable, but she was quite weak. Weak enough that they wouldn’t let me speak to her. I rarely took cabs in Los Angeles, and the driver apparently thought I was a tourist. Eventually, we wound our way through the traffic on La Cienega and into the vast complex that is Cedar Sinai Hospital. I raced down the corridors like you see on television, the robin’s egg blue suitcase banging and knocking into me the whole way.

  “Where is Marjorie Bishop?” I asked, out of breath. The nurse looked me up and down.

  “Are you her daughter?”

  I wanted to ask who else I’d be but just nodded. She picked up a file and walked around the nurse’s station and down the hall. I followed. She looked at the suitcase.

  “Been away for a long time?”

  “It feels that way.”

  “Did you go far?”

  I smiled at this. I wanted to say all the way to 1952 but instead said simply, “London, England.”

  “That is far.” Then we reached Marjorie’s room. The nurse opened the door for me and I walked in cautiously. She was lying on the bed fast asleep. Everywhere were tubes—up her nose, coming out of her arm; she looked very, very ill.

  “I’ve never seen her sick before,” I said to no one in particular. But the nurse nodded politely.

  “I’ll leave you alone with her. She’ll wake up soon.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed as carefully as I could and held her hand. “Mom?” There was no reaction. “Marjorie?” I said softly. Slowly her eyes opened. They were rimmed with red. She looked at me, and a weak smile drew the corners of her mouth up.

  “Clara,” she said faintly. “You’re back.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m back. I came as soon as I heard. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine. Just had a little trouble with my heart,” she explained.

  I felt the tears come to my eyes. She looked at me and shook her head. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’ll be fine.”

  I swallowed hard. She was studying me. Then I remembered. “How do you like my hair?” I asked and tossed my hair so the curls tumbled down. She brought her chin up higher and gave me the once-over. For a moment, I thought she was going to cry. “Do you hate it?”

  The weak smile came back. “You look very pretty. Like your grandmother.”

  I was taken aback. “That pretty?” I asked. Marjorie nodded.

  I watched her eyes roam over my outfit. “You’re wearing her dresses?” she asked.

&
nbsp; “I haven’t stopped since I left,” I explained. “I guess they’ve grown on me.”

  The door opened and my mother smiled, a little stronger this time. I turned and in walked my father. I stood and hugged him. He held me and kissed the top of my head.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” I said.

  “He’s been here every day,” Marjorie said with as much slyness as she could muster.

  My father ran his fingers through his white waves of hair and smiled. “You were away and, well, we were married once.”

  “Oh God, don’t explain to me!” I said, feeling badly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  For the next few hours the three of us stayed together. It was almost like a family. He teased her. She teased him. And I sat there wondering what had gotten into them. At one point I must have yawned, perhaps more than once, because my father stood to leave.

  “I’ll drive you home,” he said and put his arm around me.

  “But I don’t want to go,” I said.

  “You need to rest. I will pick you up in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” my mother reassured me.

  We walked down the corridor together and out to the car park. The haze had lifted as usual and the sky was white hot. I squinted and dug for my sunglasses in my handbag. I’d never been so happy to see the California sun. It was a contentment that I wasn’t going to mess with.

  “Don’t take me to the apartment,” I said. “I want to go to mom’s house.”

  My father turned the ignition key. “That’s a good idea,” he said and kissed my cheek. “Tidy it up for her.”

  We chatted about Marjorie’s health and when she could possibly come home. And then my trip came up and that topic took us all the way to Camrose Drive. Of course, I had to leave out the bits about the enchanted suitcase full of magical clothes, the screenplay that belonged to my grandmother and being thrown into a living, breathing black and white film noir. So mainly I told him about Trinity getting a big break and which bars made the best sidecars. I also neglected to mention Niall.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I didn’t unpack. As soon as my father had dropped me off, reassuring me that he’d call if anything changed during the night, and despite my jetlag, I set up the antique typewriter in the great room, facing it towards the mantel and the giant movie poster starring my grandmother. I poured a shot of bourbon and raised the glass at the poster. “Okay, Alicia Steele, you wanted the story to end. I’m going to end it, but in exchange, you’re going to take care of Marjorie. Deal?” My grandmother’s expression remained unchanged. “Good,” I said as though she were in agreement. “And no funny stuff either. You’re going to stick with me, right in the here and now.” I shot back the bourbon and poured another and started to type.

  It was dawn by the time the screenplay was finished. I had to admit it felt good. And the world still appeared to be in colour and in the right century. Exhausted, I stumbled away from the typewriter and onto the sofa. It was soft and deep and that was the last thing I remember until my cell phone rang. I scrambled to my feet and dug it out of my handbag. It was my father.

  “How is she?” I asked, dispensing with pleasantries.

  “Good. She’s much better today. The cardiologist says she’s out of danger.”

  Tears of relief flooded down my face and I sniffled. “I’m so happy. I’m going to shower and come down.”

  “Take your time,” my father said. “She’s going to be fine.”

  I hung up. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. I’d slept away the entire morning. Marjorie would think I’d forgotten about her. I ran into the bathroom and took a shower. I went to the suitcase for clothes but the lock was jammed again. The tiny key that had worked faithfully seemed to stick in the lock yet wouldn’t turn. I tried a dull kitchen knife to gently pry it open, but it was no use. It was exactly as it had been when I first went to London. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t be jimmied, and it was far too delicate and too precious to bash open with a hammer. I ran into my old room and, sure enough, a pair of skinny jeans and some T-shirts were stuffed into a drawer. My hair was another story. The past several weeks involved a set of hot rollers. There was no time for that, so I left it straight and drove to the hospital, leaving the screenplay on the small table beside the typewriter.

  “You look fabulous!” I said to Marjorie and hugged her gently to avoid tangling up the various tubes. She did look better than yesterday. Her eyes were bright white again and her complexion had life to it and, despite the tube in her nose, she’d managed to apply lipstick. That was my mother through and through.

  “Thank you, darling,” she said; her voice had gained strength too. “Sorry I scared everyone so much.”

  “Don’t think about that,” I said. “Besides, it brings us closer. Dad’s been hovering around you like a lapdog.”

  I’d rarely seen my mother blush before, but there was no other way to explain the rosy glow that materialized on her cheeks.

  “I prefer to think of myself as a working dog,” my father said. I turned to see him in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand and the newspaper. “A German shepherd or Rottweiler.”

  “You’re more Dalmatian or golden retriever,” I teased, then turned my attention back to my mother. “I was just telling Marjorie that sometimes these moments test us and make us closer, and then you appeared, so I must be right!”

  My father coughed. “You want to tell her or should I?” he said cryptically. I felt my stomach fall again.

  “What is it?” I asked in a panic. “I thought you were going to be fine!”

  “Hush, I am fine,” Marjorie said. “This is what your father means.” She raised her left hand. I could see the ugly IV needle stuck in her blue vein; the gauze had a tiny circle of blood on it.

  “You have to wear the IV at home?” I guessed. Then more blushing from Marjorie.

  “Are you blind, Clara?” she said and laughed. “Not my hand, my finger. Your father proposed to me again.”

  My jaw dropped. Sure enough, my mother had quite the chunk of ice on her ring finger, a platinum setting to boot. Somewhere behind me someone wolf-whistled.

  “Geez, that’s quite the rock, Marjorie.” It was my friend Sylvia with a giant vase of roses. “Sorry to muzzle in on intimate family moments, but this thing weighs a ton.”

  My father took the flowers and set them on the bedside table. I was thrilled to see my friend and we embraced. Finally, I got it together enough to speak.

  “That’s fantastic. It’s crazy but fantastic,” I said. They were the kinds of words you said when you didn’t know what to say. I’d never known my parents married. They split up when I was so young. “And congratulations!”

  Somehow the three of us managed a group hug, another first, as Sylvia, never without some form of photographic equipment, snapped us with her smart phone.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Sylvia said. “I brought you a welcome-home gift, Clara.”

  “You didn’t have to,” I said kindly.

  She stuck her head out into the hall for a second. “Actually, it was something you picked up in London but left behind. You’ve got to learn to pack more carefully.”

  Before I could react, Niall walked into the room.

  “Hello, everyone,” he said and looked respectfully at my parents. “I’m Niall Adamson. Trinity told me which hospital you were in. And Sylvia found me waiting outside the door.”

  “I told him not to be so English and polite, and to just follow me,” Sylvia explained cheerfully.

  “I hope you’re feeling much better, Mrs. Bishop. And pleased to meet you, Mr. Bishop.” He shook both their hands as they looked at him with a mixture of confusion and friendliness. He was back in his slightly wrinkled, striped button-down and dark jeans. His hair was its normal wavy blond mess. And he was sexy as hell. I felt all sweetness and swooning and knew I was smiling. A reaction not lost on my parents.

  “I take it he’
s a friend of yours?” my father asked pointedly. Maybe he had some Rottweiler in him after all.

  “A friend?” Marjorie scoffed. “From what I see, this young man is in love with Clara and she’s in love with him.”

  Now it was my turn to be in full blush mode. I had no choice but to stare at my feet. I expected Niall to be the same shy retiring type that I was, but he didn’t seemed fazed by my parent’s bluntness.

  “That is true, Mrs. Bishop,” he admitted with a sort of glee in his voice. “Though I’m not sure she loves me.”

  I looked up, unsure what to do. Where was the fictional Clara when I needed her? As if sensing my dilemma, Marjorie shook her head.

  “Clara, what’s gotten into you?” she said. “You don’t need those clothes to make you behave like the woman you are. Just be yourself.”

  I locked stares with Marjorie. What did she mean exactly? She gave me a knowing nod. It was enough for me to know to ask more later. I stood up; my hair had dried into long loose waves and now flowed down my shoulders. The clothes were different, but the attitude was the same if I let it be. So I let it. I walked across the small floor space and stood practically on top of him; our noses nearly touched.

  “What took you so long?” I practically purred.

  He smiled that lopsided, cheeky grin of his. “To tell you I loved you or to arrive from London?” he teased.

  “Either. Both,” I said playfully.

  “The flights were booked tight so I had to fly standby,” he said.

  “And the other thing?” I asked.

  “I wanted to make sure you weren’t taking your husband back,” he said and looked at my parents. I checked too. Marjorie was smiling; my father was glaring.

  “I won’t be doing any such thing,” I said and grabbed his hand. “You can count on that.”

  “This is all very romantic,” my father said after he had cleared his throat. “But your mother needs to rest. Shall we all go to dinner?”

  “I’d love that!” Sylvia said. We all looked at her. “That is, unless it’s strictly a family thing.”