No Ordinary Life (13 page)

28

M
olly looks as ridiculous as E.T. did when Drew Barrymore dressed the alien up like a girl. Her skin is painted orange, a makeup trick that keeps the cast from looking sallow, and the dress Ingrid put her in is red-and-white gingham with lace trim. Molly has never worn a dress in her life, and she's certainly never worn frills.

We stand at the edge of the law office set as the crew makes a few last-minute changes to the lights. Chris sits a few feet away directing them. I wait for him to notice my hair. I know I shouldn't be waiting. After all, I've made a solemn vow to no longer be attracted to Chris Cantor, director of stars, the out-of-my-league, most eligible bachelor in Hollywood. Yet my breath catches in anticipation each time he looks my way.

Finally he glances over but only to say, “Two-Bits, you're on.”

The words stop my narcissism cold. This is the moment of truth. Molly's first scene. Molly steps from my side and onto the set, and the stand-in walks off.

Beth lifts her fist in the air, and the studio grows quiet. Her fingers pop open: one, two, three, four, five. “Action.”

Molly and Miles walk into the law office with their pretend dad, a burly man with a barrel chest and a wide face. The receptionist greets them, then Mr. Foster walks from his office.

“Paul, nice to see you. Who have we here?” he says.

“The two best investments of my life,” the dad says. “This is my son, Miles, and my daughter, Molly. Kids, meet Mr. Foster.”

“Miles,” Mr. Foster says, shaking Miles's hand. Then he bends at the waist and says, “Molly, a pleasure.”

I hold my breath. Molly's first line.
Nice to meet you as well.

“A pwleasuwre I'll twreasuwre fowrevewr,” she says, stopping my pulse, her curls whipping as she gives the line proper sass the way Bo taught her.

“Cut,” Beth squawks, running onto the set and glowering at Molly, who shifts to hide behind Jules, who is smirking at Molly's improvisation.

“Beth…” Chris's voice smothers the assistant director's screech of “Your line is, ‘nice to meet you as well.'”

Beth's mouth snaps shut as she turns red-faced to Chris, who says, “Last I checked, ‘cut' was
my
line. Remember that or get off my set.”

“I'm sorry, Chris. I was just…”

His scathing look stops her protest, and she slinks away, and though I'm not a big fan of Beth's, I feel bad for her. She was just doing what she thought was her job. Molly's the one who messed up.

“Ingrid,” Chris bellows in the general direction of backstage.

The wardrobe woman steps from the shadows.

“What the hell is this?” He gestures to Molly's outfit.

“You said she was wealthy.”

“Exactly. I said wealthy, not from the 1950s. We chose her because she's spunky, and you have her dressed like Little Miss Muffet. Fix it. Now.”

Ingrid's jaw clenches as she takes Molly by the hand and leads her away.

I'm about to follow, but Chris stops me, causing my heart to halt as well. In the last thirty seconds, he has torn two women to shreds, and now his attention is on me. Molly missed her first line, the line I was responsible for teaching her.

Every eye in the room watches as I turn to face him.

“Does she always do that?” he says, his voice returned to civilized.

“Do what?” I croak.

“Rhyme, rap, give attitude, singsong her lines. She did it at the audition, and she just did it now. Is that something she does?”

I nod. That's Molly.

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes focused on a point on the ground in front of him.

The set is so quiet that I can hear my breath, and I'm fairly certain this is the point where we get fired.

He lifts his head to look at Griff. “When she comes back, we shoot it from the top and keep rolling. Jules, improvise and try to keep it on point. Let's see how it goes.”

Griff nods then speaks quietly into his headset to relay the instructions to his crew.

Five minutes later, Molly is back, her outfit a thousand times better—a teal sleeveless shirt over black capri leggings, purple socks, and white Keds—still not totally Molly but cute.

Chris nods his approval, and a minute later, Beth counts down again… “Action.”

“Molly, a pleasure,” Mr. Foster says.

“A twreat to meet you too,” Molly says with a big smile, changing her line again and pleased as punch with her new rhyme.

A genuine smile crosses Mr. Foster's face, and he pokes her on the nose. Molly pokes him back, causing him to straighten in surprise and chuckle.

“Let's go into my office and see if we can wrap up this deal for your dad so you can be on your way.”

The four of them take two steps, then the dad stumbles, clutches his heart, and collapses to the floor.

“911 now,” Mr. Foster says to the receptionist as he drops beside the dad who is now gasping for air.

Molly stumbles back against Miles, both kids doing an amazing job of looking terrified.

“And cut,” Chris yells. He looks at Griff, and Molly looks with him.

Griff gives a thumbs-up, and I exhale.

“Molly and Miles, off set,” Chris says. “And, Two-Bits.” Molly turns. “That was good, but don't ever look directly at the camera. Even when the shot is done, you need to pretend it's not there.”

Molly nods, taking his advice very seriously, her brow crinkled.

When she gets to me, she says, “Why do I have to pwretend the camewra's not thewre?”

“Because he's afraid if you don't pretend all the time that you might accidentally look at it when you're shooting.”

Her brow crinkles again as she considers this logic.

I thought they did the scene perfectly, but they run through it again and again, Molly improvising her line each time and Jules somehow making it work.

I feel like I should thank him. He's doing a wonderful job keeping Molly out of trouble.

“Again,” Chris says. Molly yawns, and Miles rubs his eyes. Shooting this two-minute scene has taken nearly two hours, the same lines over and over dozens of times.

Griff speaks up. “It's good, Chris. We got it.”

Chris considers Griff's opinion then says, “Okay, that's a wrap.”

Molly steps forward, looks directly into the lens of the main camera, and with total attitude announces, “Cwlap, cwlap, that's a wrwap.” Then she skips over to Chris, sets her hands on his knee, and looks up at him. “See, I wlooked wright at the camewra, and it didn't huwrt anything. I only need to pwretend they'wre not thewre when I'm acting.”

Jules and Griff snicker. She's probably the only one in the entire cast or crew who could put Chris Cantor in his place without getting her heinie handed to her.

Chris smirks, shakes his head in defeat, and pats her on the butt. “Off my set, Two-Bits.”

Molly skips toward me.

“Beth, how much time does Molly have left?”

Beth shakes her head. “Under the lights she's fine, still over an hour, but she's been here since eight.”

It's a lie. We've been here since seven.

Griff turns from what he's doing, his eyes locking on mine. He also knows it's a lie, and his expression challenges me. I offer a small smile and a shrug, sending the message
It's only an hour
, but before my lips finish curling, he turns away.

I rile at his judgment of me. He should mind his own business. He doesn't know my life, Molly's life. It's one stinking hour!

Chris calculates Molly's workday quickly then explodes, “Are you kidding me? Half an hour! We have half a fucking hour left! Please tell me you are
not
saying that the shoot we've been rehearsing all fucking week is going to end at two o'clock in the goddamn afternoon because you can't count to four.”

His words spit like daggers, Beth recoiling with each one.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize…”

“Get your shit together or I'll find someone who can.”

My sympathy for Beth grows, and I decide to take more responsibility for Molly's work time, to realize when we have time to leave the lot and to take advantage of it.

Like right now, I hustle Molly from the set, not wanting to waste another minute.

We walk through the parking lot toward the car, and Molly says, “Home?”

“Sorry, Love Bug, we still have one more scene.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know, baby, me too.”

I lift her in my arms to carry her the rest of the way. The past few days have been exhausting and not nearly as much fun as I thought they would be. Molly's job is hard work—long hours that require endurance, patience, and focus far beyond the call of a four-year-old.

“I want to go home,” Molly says again into my neck, her arms draped over my shoulders.

My mind spins with how I can pacify her so we can make it through the end of the day, and I hate myself a little when I say, “How about some ice cream?”

“I awlwready had ice cwream.”

Crap.
I forgot about the ice cream escapade she and Henry went on this morning while I was under the hair dryer. It seems like a week has passed since my reincarnation—that's how long this day has been.

“Okay, Bug, then how about we just drive around and listen to the radio?”

“No. I want to go home.”

I don't answer, praying she'll drop it, which is just wishful thinking because one thing Molly is not is forgetful. Her legs kick against me, making it difficult to hold her. “I want to go home,” she says louder, her fists joining in on the action and pounding against my back. No longer able to keep her in my arms, I let her slither to the ground, where she collapses with her face in her hands, her heels pounding on the pavement as she screams, “I want to go home. Take me home. I want to go home…”

A passerby looks at her with pity then at me with blame. He must not have children. Someday he will, and someday his child will have a tantrum, and when that happens, I hope he remembers this moment.

“Baby…Bug…Come on. Let's at least get to the car.”

“No…no, no, no.” Her head shakes back and forth violently. “Home. I want to go home.”

“Bug, we can't go home. You know that. I wish we could, but we can't. We still have one more scene.”

“I done,” she screams. “I want to go home. Home, home, home.”

We now have an audience. Two women have stopped beside the man, the three of them watching the spectacle from the sidewalk.

“How about a cupcake?” I say. “One of those fancy ones with the melted frosting?”

This is terrible, outright bribery, the Supernanny and Dr. Spock and every other authority on parenting would frown, but unable to think of an alternative, I resort to the age-old, ever-reliable barter system, a long-standing tradition of motherhood in which parents promise something irresistible in exchange for getting their children to do something they need them to do, a payment extracted through blackmail—toys, treats, a pony traded for compliance.

“A Spwrinkles cupcake?” Molly asks between sobs.

Sprinkles cupcakes are the Rolls-Royce of confectionary delights and cost accordingly, outrageously priced little cakes that I could bake at home for pennies.

“Yes, a Sprinkles cupcake. Any flavor you want.”

She nods sleepily.

SOLD!

Her makeup streaked with her tears, she stands, and when I lift her into my arms, I feel our audience suppress their desire to applaud. She slumps against me, worn out, completely unhappy and done but resolved to having no choice but to continue on. And as I carry her to the car, I wonder what I'll negotiate with when cupcakes aren't enough, and then wonder, as Molly gets older, how she'll feel about it, whether she'll resent the idea of having traded her childhood for a few ounces of sugar, an iPhone, a car, or a pony.

29

T
he rest of the family is enviously asleep, Molly's snores keeping rhythm with my knife as I stand at the cutting board chopping pecans for Henry's pie. As I work, I sip a glass of wine, my thoughts vacillating between Chris and Sean. Cooking always makes me think of Sean, but I don't want to think about Sean, so each time he pops in my mind, I replace him with Chris.

Chris would probably love my cooking. It's one of the few skills I'm sure of, a craft handed down by my dad and honed over the past dozen years with my family. I smile at how many experiments I inflicted on Sean in the early days of our marriage, my brief foray into Asian fusion then my many ill-fated attempts at soufflés. I shake away the rogue nostalgia, my short hair whipping back and forth. Sexy. That's what Chris called it when we left the studio today.

He started with,
Thank you
.

For what?
I asked.

For bringing this amazing little person into my very dull life
, he answered, his hand on Molly's shoulder.

Ha
, I said.
Dull as a circus.

Wink.
Well, back to the freak show. By the way I like the hair. Sexy.

Sexy. Chris Cantor thinks my hair is sexy.

I whip it back and forth again, confirming its sexiness, then set my focus back on the pies. Pulling the four balls of dough from the fridge, I roll them out then spread them into the tins. If you are baking one pie, you might as well bake four; the work is nearly the same. One will be for Henry, two will be for the cast and crew, the last will be for us.

Wred wrover, wred wrover, thank goodness that's ovewr
, Molly said directly into the lens after Chris announced the last take was a wrap.

I chuckle at Chris's mock anger.
Two-Bits, don't look at the camera.

Bossy, bossy, Chwrissy Cwrossy.

She is something. I wish Sean could see her—our girl, a star. He and I would laugh over it, do a jig in the kitchen, toast a pair of Heinekens, celebrating the fact that we could afford such premium beer because our daughter is, in fact, amazing. He would dance with me, then with each of the kids, perhaps all three at once—Molly slung over his shoulder, Tom and Emily being whipped around in his hands.

I try to insert Chris into the scene. He and I in the kitchen celebrating something wonderful. I see him lifting Molly, his face lit up, but I can't quite bring Emily and Tom into focus.

Putting the pies in the oven, I set the timer and carry my wine to the table. My head falls onto my folded arms, and I close my eyes.
Could it work? Me, Chris, them?
Exhaustion and the wine create a dangerous state of slightly inebriated, delusional possibility. Mixed with the smell of pecans and sugar, the idea has a seductive quality about it, and I like the way it flits in and out of my mind.

Would they take his name? Would I? Faye Cantor, Molly Cantor, Emily…

A knock at the door startles me from the foolish thoughts.

I look at the clock. 10:12. It's probably our neighbor. I owe her money for watching Emily and Tom on Wednesday when my mom needed to go to the
Star Gazer
offices. Hoping not to wake the others, I hurry to the door, yank it open, and find myself staring at Sean.

“Hey,” he says.

My eyes blink, and I stumble back in order to stop myself from falling forward into his arms, which I inexplicably yet undeniably want to do.

He steps toward me, and I stumble back again, then realizing I'm stepping farther into the condo and that he is following, I reverse momentum and push him into the hallway, closing the door behind us.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, my indignation catching up with my surprise.

He doesn't answer. He can't. His Adam's apple is lodged in his throat as his eyes run me up and down, scanning from my newly cropped hair to my bare feet and back again, the scrutiny so intense and warm that, despite my determination to hate him, the ice on my heart begins to melt.

It doesn't help that he looks terrible. Three days of beard shadows his face, his hair is in need of a cut and stands up on end, and his eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion—telltale signs that he's been on a long haul and sleeping in his truck. And as if I'm one of Pavlov's damn dogs, the sight of him looking so wretched causes instant worry and concern, the emotions well trained after twelve years of caring.

Finally his eyes come to rest on mine and he manages, “You cut your hair.”

You got a new life
, I almost retaliate, but instead, say again, “What are you doing here?”

He swallows, runs his hand through his hair, rubs the rough stubble on his chin, looks at the ground then back at me, and says, “Christ, Faye, why didn't you tell me you were leaving?”

I wrap my arms across my chest. “Because it wasn't any of your business. You left, and we couldn't afford to stay. I have three kids…”

“We have three kids,” he corrects.

“Right.
We
have three kids, but
I
was the one left taking care of them.”

“I called to see if you needed anything, but you hung up.”

To this I say nothing because there's nothing to be said. What I needed was for him not to have left in the first place.

“I thought you were doing okay. I heard you picked up more shifts at the diner.”

“I did pick up more shifts,” I snap. “And if that's why you came back, to tell me I didn't work hard enough…”

“That's not why I came back,” he says quickly. “I don't want to upset you. That's the last thing I want to do, but I couldn't…I hate…I went to see you, to settle things between us and explain things to the kids, and when I found out you were gone…” His voice catches, and he stops, looks away, closes his eyes, opens them, and tries again. “I hate that you're…that we're…Yucaipa is our…” A deep breath and a frustrated shake of the head, then finally, “You hate LA.”

All I can manage is a nod, my tears on the brink of detonation, the pain of his abandonment returning like a jolt of thousand-watt electricity and decimating me with the same force it did eight months ago.

Since Sean left, I have envisioned this scenario a thousand times, imagining him showing up and what I would do, the various ways I would kill him, smashing him over the head with a skillet or sending his rig, with him in it, over a cliff. But now, with him standing in front of me, looking wretched, completely distraught, and so pitifully like himself, shamefully, all I really want to do is take him by the hand, lead him inside, and wait with him until the timer rings so I can offer him a slice of pie.

“I screwed up,” he mumbles. “I shouldn't have left. It was the worst mistake of my life. I knew it as soon as I did, but I didn't know how to come back. You hated me, wouldn't even talk to me.”

He's right. I hated him. “Well, you did leave. And we hit a rough patch, so we needed to move, but now we're okay. So you can go, go back to Albuquerque.”

His eyes are on the ground, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his head shaking back and forth. “I don't want to go,” he says. “I want to come home.”

My heart hiccups then freezes then bursts into flames, a swirl of deadly emotions erupting with his words. My nose pinches against them as I say, “This isn't home. This is my mom's condo. Home was the place you left, and it doesn't exist anymore.”

He nods, accepting my fury without protest, knowing this is what he deserves.

Which he does
, I remind myself harshly when I feel the bitterness softening.

“Can I at least see them?” he asks.

“They're sleeping.”

“Not tonight. I mean at some point? I'm in the middle of a trip, but I can come back when it's done. Maybe we could spend the day together.”

He looks like Tom does when he desperately wants something he doesn't think he's going to get, his eyes looking at me through his brow, his body tense with anticipation.

I toe the ground. “I don't know. They're getting used to life without you. I don't think they can handle having you come back then leaving again. Especially Em—this has been really hard on her.”

“I won't leave again,” he says, his voice lit up with hope. “I mean, I will. I have to work, but I won't desert them…you…again.”

My heart pounds so hard that I hear its pulse between my ears.

“Faye, look at me,” he says.

I force my eyes to meet his. A mistake. I've always had a weakness for his eyes—swirling green disks that pierce with intense sincerity, a veracity that has proven false but that fools me every time.

“I screwed up,” he says. “I know it. But if you give me another chance, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you and to them. But even if you never forgive me, I promise, if you let me see them, I won't hurt them. I won't ever do that again.”

And like a fool, I believe him.