Fidelity Files (8 page)

Sophie had found out a few years before that it was called "French kissing." And I remembered asking my mom about it when I was nine years old. She laughed and explained, "Some people just like to kiss with their mouths open."

"Why?" I asked, clearly not understanding why anyone on earth would want to do that. At age nine the inside of a mouth was merely the place where chewed-up food lingered before it was swallowed. Far from an "erogenous" zone.

My mom shrugged, amused by my curiosity. "I don't know. Maybe because for some people it feels good."

Now, suddenly the thought of my babysitter, Elizabeth, making my dad feel good with her open-mouthed kiss made me bolt up to my feet and grasp desperately for the light switch on the wall.

The bright glow was a welcome salvation. It chased away all the lingering images and brought focus to the happy and joyful landmarks that were scattered about my room. The posters on my wall illuminating the envied influences of Paula Abdul, Janet Jackson, and The Party. The Madame Alexander doll collection my mom and I had started three years ago after she had given me my first one for Christmas. My pink boom box with the latest Debbie Gibson tape inside... exactly where I had left it after Sophie and I had choreographed a dance routine to the song "Electric Youth."

Then my eyes found their way to my nightstand, with the framed photograph of my mom propped up on top of it. It was a picture my dad had taken while she was pregnant with me. She was sitting in the backyard of our first house, lounging on one of the chairs. Our dog, Casey, who was then only a puppy, was making her laugh by determinedly attempting to climb onto her lap. It wasn't a particularly special picture. But I had found it in my mom's photo box a few years before and asked if I could frame it and put it in my room.

I picked up the frame and held it in my hands.

That night I felt an emotion for my mother that I'd never felt before: pity. She had always been the wise one, the one who knew everything about the world and all the things in it that she needed to protect me from.

And tonight, as I stared at the picture, it was clear to me that our roles had suddenly been reversed.

She was now the one who would need protection. And I was the only one who could give that to her.

I grew up that night.

In one accidental glance that revealed a side of my parents' life I never knew existed, in that one glimpse at the complexities of an adult relationship, I knew I had taken a giant step closer to becoming an adult myself. A step I always naively assumed came with a private phone line and a later curfew.

I placed the picture down and climbed back into bed. Not daring to shut the light off again, I tried desperately to ignore the distant sounds that continued to find their way from the shadowy living room, up the long staircase, and through the small crack under my closed door.

THREE NIGHTS later my mom came into my room to kiss me good night for the first time since she had left. "Sweet dreams," she said, walking toward the door and resting her hand on the light switch.

I suddenly sat upright in bed. "Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Play the game," I requested softly.

She cocked her head to the side and smiled at me. "The bedtime game?"

I nodded.

"But I thought you were too old for that," she teased, moving toward the windowsill.

I looked down at my lap and fidgeted with the edge of my comforter. Then, with a rush of unexpected strength, I picked up my head and looked her straight in the eye. "I'm not," I said confidently.

The smile on her face brightened up the entire room as she took her usual place in front of the first contestant. It was exactly as I had remembered it. My mom played the game with the same flawless delivery as she always had. It was like we hadn't missed one single night in all those years.

She started in front of Leo the Bear. I obstinately shook my head. She raised her eyebrows curiously, and with one step to the left, moved on to the next contender.

Frank the Fish?

I shook my head.

Floppsy the Rabbit? Always a popular choice.

I shook my head again.

I knew exactly whose turn it was. And he had waited long enough.

When she reached Snuffles the Elephant, I nodded triumphantly and reached my arms out for him to be brought to me.

"Well, isn't that an interesting change of heart?" my mom said with genuine surprise, as she carried him over and placed him tenderly in my awaiting arms.

I held him close and buried my face in his soft purple fur. He smelled new and fresh and... untainted.

I lay back down under the covers and tucked him into the once highly coveted spot in the crook of my elbow. My mom kissed me again on the forehead and then leaned over and kissed Snuffles as well. When she stood up she looked at me, her eyes filled with questions.

Questions that I knew I would never be able to answer.

Not because I didn't know, but because I would choose not to.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

I nodded, swallowing back tears that threatened to flow without end.

"So why Snuffles? Why now?"

I took a deep breath and pulled him in closer to me. "I just wanted to make sure he wouldn't be lonely."

SATURDAY MORNING I awoke at nine-thirty A.M. to the ring of my home phone. It was my first day off in what felt like months. I pulled the extra pillow over my head and tried to drown out the sound until eventually, after five rings, it stopped. I searched under the tangled sea of sheets and blankets for Snuffles and finally found him lying on the floor next to my bed, looking outcast and rejected.

I reached down and pulled him back into bed, tucking him under my arm again and cooing gentle apologies in his ear before drifting back to sleep.

The phone rang again thirty seconds later.

I groaned loudly and looked at the caller ID. It was Zoë. "What?" I said groggily into the phone.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?!" Her voice came screaming over the line.

Yep, it was Zoë, all right. She had a habit of driving while she was talking on the phone. Which didn't always make for the best conversations, as she also had a habit of engaging in serious road rage. I pulled the phone away from my ear until she had finished yelling at whatever idiot had been daring enough to cut her off.

"Sorry." Her voice returned to its normal, snappy tone. "I'm on Sunset. Apparently they don't teach you how to merge in West Hollywood."

"Is there a reason you're waking me up on a Saturday?"

"Oh, right. Brunch in one hour."

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. "What?"

"Hey, don't take it out on me. Sophie called it. Apparently it's an '
emergency.
'" Zoë clearly was not excited about being dragged to brunch either. Especially since we all know what it means when Sophie uses the word "emergency." It normally consists of a group session in which Sophie panics and makes a big deal about nothing and we all attempt to console her. And as much as I liked being able to console my best friend in her times of need, this happened to be the first morning I was able to sleep late in over two weeks. So needless to say, I wasn't exactly thrilled about it being interrupted for an emergency brunch.

"Did she say what it was about?"

"No. She wouldn't tell me. She said it was IPO."

"Initial public offering?" The investment banker in me ventured a guess at Zoë's latest use of instant-message speak.

"In-person only. But it's not like she has to tell us what this is about. You know it's going to be about— Loser! Are you blind? That's not a fucking turn lane!"

I waited for the elongated honking sounds to subside before asking where this emergency brunch would take place.

"Café Montana."

I groaned and threw the covers off of my body. "Fine. I'll be there."

"You better. I don't want to be the one to tell Sophie you're not coming."

Zoë and I had both learned a long time ago that you can't argue with Sophie when she has her mind set on something. She can make you feel like the lowest, most unsupportive friend in the world if you dare say no to one of her urgent requests.

I yawned and pulled myself up to a sitting position. "I can't promise to be joyful."

"Good. I'm on my way to pick up John. See you in a bit."

And before I could even respond she had hung up the phone. I set it down next to me and lingered on the edge of my bed for a minute, attempting to rally enough energy to stand.

I felt utterly exhausted. My post-assignment meeting with Andrew Thompson's wife yesterday morning in San Francisco had been draining. Most meetings only take about an hour. The women usually want the news, and if it's bad, they usually want me out of their sight. And I don't blame them. I assume their appreciation for my services comes much later, and by that time I'm far removed from their lives. But I don't mind that. It's something I've come to terms with over the years. I've accepted the fact that this just isn't the type of job where you can expect flowers and a thank-you card as a token of gratitude.

But Emily Thompson clung to me like a cotton shirt that had been dried without fabric softener. I was there for over three hours, and as a result missed my flight home and had to go standby on the next flight back to L.A.

By the time I left she had taken me through three family photo albums, over an hour of home videos of Andrew and the kids acting out favorite scenes from Disney movies, and countless stories of their child-free college days, when everything had been about fun, partying, booze, and sex.

Times like these are, by far, the most challenging part of my job. Because when I walk into these people's homes I can feel the critical stares coming from the family portraits hanging on the walls. And when you're in my shoes, you don't just look at these pictures. The pictures look back at you. And they don't just watch you enter their house, they judge you for being there.

Without even bothering to take a shower or wash my face, I dragged myself toward the casual section of my walk-in closet and lethargically pulled on a pair of jeans and a hooded purple sweatshirt. I'm sure Sophie will criticize my informal ensemble in a place like Café Montana, but at this point I could care less. She was stealing my only sleep-in day in weeks; she would have to suffer through my sweatshirt and ripped jeans. And so would Café Montana.

Plus, this is L.A. Dressing casually in a nice place doesn't make you look like a scrub; it makes you look like a celebrity.

I brushed my hair back into a loose ponytail at the base of my neck and pulled a Lakers cap over my head. I grabbed my two cell phones and my keys, shoved them in my new Fendi Spy Bag, and was out the door.

I keep two cell phones with me at all times. A Treo for my business line and a pink Razr for my personal line. The business phone, according to my friends, is the "mind-controlling device that keeps me chained to the evil empire of my overly demanding investment bank." But in actuality, it's linked to the unlisted phone number that is passed around among affluent housewives, mothers, girlfriends, and anyone else who might be in need of my help. The secret network of suspicious women of the world. If they had their own yellow pages I'd be listed under "crucial services."

The number is not published anywhere. I simply will not allow
it. My services are offered by referral only. Grassroots, word-of -mouth...
call it whatever marketing mumbo jumbo you want, that's just the way I work.
The minute you start advertising your number on a local bus stop bench is
the minute right before you lose your credibility, your confidentiality, and
your certain air of mystery. All three very important aspects of this job.

On my way to the restaurant my personal cell phone rang. And just as I was about to shut the damn thing off and ignore the world for a few hours, I saw my niece Hannah's name on the caller ID. My mood instantly changed. Like magic.

"Hi, honey!" I said into the phone.

"You're still coming next Friday, right?"

Hannah was turning twelve next weekend. Her mom (my half sister, Julia) had planned a family dinner with some of Hannah's closest friends on Friday night, and she couldn't have been more excited about it.

"Of course, I'm coming!" My voice was light and animated. It was partially a result of Hannah's uplifting effect on me and partially a creation designed especially to camouflage the nature and harsh reality of my real life. If there was a way I could shield her eyes from everything I've seen in the world, I would. In a heartbeat.

But I knew it was impossible. She was going to come face-to-face with it sooner or later. Even if I never slept, never ate, never watched another minute of TiVo and simply devoted every waking hour of my life to taking down the bad guys, there was still no way I could change the world in time for her to grow up.

"Good," she said with satisfaction. "'Cause I told my best friends that you're coming and that you have like the awesomest clothes in the world."

I looked down at my current ensemble of ripped jeans and a sweatshirt and could immediately picture Hannah's disapproving expression. "Well, I can't wait to meet them. But, actually, I gotta run. I'm on my way to brunch with some friends."

"You're so lucky. I want to come to brunch with you and your friends."

I laughed at her eagerness. It reminded me of myself when I was her age. Well... before the night everything changed, anyway.

"I promise, you'd be bored out of your mind," I assured her.

"Nah-uh." She was determined. "I bet you guys talk about totally cool stuff."

I imagined what our "cool" conversation would be like today. Sophie going on and on about every single tiny detail of her so-called "drama" with Eric the night before, and then me trying desperately to convince her of all the reasons why he
wouldn't
want to leave her, while Zoë tries to keep her composure and John tries to change the subject so we can all talk about him.

"You'd be surprised," I told her.

I ARRIVED at the restaurant to find Sophie sitting alone at a table in the back. She waved me over and I maneuvered my way through the closely laid-out tables and took the chair next to her.

"Okay, so what's the big drama? Textbook case of dysfunctional relationship between man and phone? Or nocturnal activity selection dispute?"

"Not until everyone's here," she insisted.

I tilted my head and studied her face. There was something there I wasn't expecting to see. I had counted on wading into a sea of Kleenexes, tears, and uncertainty, followed by a long sob story about Eric and how things were suddenly completely different between them, and she wasn't sure how their relationship would ever recover.

But that's not what I saw in her eyes as I watched her. She looked...dare I say it? Happy. Almost blissful.

I was about to open my mouth and comment on her unusual air when I was interrupted by a loud, nasally sound coming from the front of the restaurant.

"There they are," John practically yelled to Zoë as they pushed their way to the back.

John was the only guy we ever allowed to infiltrate our close-knit girl circle. Of course, it
did
help that he was gay and could therefore join in on all conversations and offer very valuable advice relating to men, fashion, celebrity gossip, and blow jobs. (Of course, not necessarily in that order.) But personally, I think he prefers hanging out with us. Mostly because he just doesn't like other gay men... except the ones he's sleeping with.

"I'm so hungry, I could eat my own head," he said dramatically as he pulled out his chair and plopped down into it.

"That's ridiculous," Zoë said, visibly irritated. "What would you chew it with?"

John shot her a look and she sneered back. The two of them were almost always in the middle of some type of mock competition over who could be the most clever and the most annoying at the same time. Sometimes it was amusing to watch, but most of the time it just got old... fast.

"There have to be a zillion restaurants in L.A. and we always come here." Zoë opened her menu, completely oblivious to Sophie's unmistakable glow.

"I like it here," Sophie defended herself timidly, her hands tucked under the tabletop, like a shy child eating for the first time at the grown-ups' table.

"Did you know that it would take four-point-five lifetimes to eat at every single restaurant in the city of Los Angeles without ever duplicating," Zoë stated expertly, keeping her eyes locked on her menu. "And
that's
if you start at age five!"

"Did you have a date with the heir to the Zagat fortune last night?" John asked.

Zoë shrugged. "I read it somewhere."

"Yeah, but you'd
need
four-point-five lifetimes because of all the crap you'd be eating. You'd probably only live to be, like, fifty," he retorted. "I mean, places like Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles ain't exactly gonna help keep you alive."

"You guys!" Sophie pleaded loudly, causing Zoë to eye her suspiciously from behind her menu. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Zoë and John exchanged mutually oblivious glances.

"Well, I don't know what
you're
referring to," John began smugly, "but guess who hooked up with the second runner-up from
So You Think You Can Dance
season three last night?" His face beamed with pride, as if he had just announced his acceptance into a secret society of celebrity groupies.

"
Second
runner-up?" Zoë raised her eyebrows.

"Hey, honey, it's better than your lame-ass excuse for a celebrity hookup."

She rolled her eyes. "I didn't hook up with him because he was on the
Real World,
" she argued defensively. "I hooked up with him because I thought we had a very deep connection."

"Anyway!" Sophie interjected again, redirecting the attention of the group back to the issue at hand. "I didn't summon you guys here to talk about John's drunken conquests."

"You didn't?" John feigned confusion.

"Did you all forget that I had something I wanted to talk about?"

Zoë shrugged and took a sip of her water. "No, I didn't forget. You just don't look upset so I assumed you'd gotten over it by the time we got here." Then she reached around the back of my chair and affectionately patted Sophie on the shoulder. "Like you always do."

Sophie nodded in agreement. "I know, I know. I tend to overreact."

John looked away and fake coughed the word "understatement."

"Actually," Sophie started, luring our attention in. "I asked you here today because I have
good
news."

We all looked at her questioningly. My first thought was a promotion. She'd been waiting for one at work for over a year, and it was always being held up because of...

"Eric and I are engaged!"

My thoughts suddenly came to a crashing halt as her words collided with me like a Peterbilt truck. I couldn't compute them, nor comprehend their implication. I stared at her in disbelief, wondering if maybe I had misunderstood. No, actually...
certain
I had.

Then I heard John and Zoë scream, and at least five other tables turned to see if someone had either been murdered or spotted a celebrity. Because in an L.A. restaurant, nothing else is worth interrupting brunch for.