No Ordinary Life (20 page)

He turns to Tom. “Well, young man, that was quite a performance. Are you an actor?”

My heart locks up, all of us looking expectantly at Tom to see if he'll answer.

He nods.

“Well, welcome to the show,” Chris says, then turns back to me. “Beth will work it out with SAG to get him his actor's card. I assume she should call Monique to deal with the contract?”

He's all business, and I'm a little stung by the brusqueness.

I nod, and he walks away, then turns back. “And you, Two-Bits, stop changing the script.”

“But I would nevewr wlet someone cawll me stupid, and I'm not shy,” Molly says.

He smirks and shakes his head. “Fine. I'll talk to the writers, but stop changing the script without talking to me first.”

“Bossy, bossy, Chwrissy Cwrossy.”

A look of pure adoration crosses Chris's face, then he turns to me and gives a smile bright as the sun. “Maybe we can all have lunch together?”

My heart warms and chills at the same time, unsure if his renewed attention is because of me or my daughter.

Without waiting for my answer, he gives his signature wink then pivots and walks away.

I kneel down so I'm eye level with Tom. “Buddy, that was awesome.”

He nods, and the crooked smile I love so much fills his face. He's as amazed as I am, relief flooding from his small body and straight into my heart.

43

T
om and Molly shoot one more scene together, Tom's voice miraculously continuing to show up as Grant. Like Molly, he's a natural-born actor, and I'm stunned by how comfortable he is in front of the camera.

Chris is a no-show for lunch, which while a little disappointing is also a relief. I want to revel in Tom's breakthrough, and I can't do that with Chris Cantor around.

We eat as a family beneath the shade of an oak tree, and when we finish, Beth tells us that Molly and Tom are done for the day, which is especially good news because Emily and I have some shopping to do. Emily needs a new outfit to wear to the barbeque tonight where she is going to see Caleb, and I need a new bra.

I've made a decision. Regardless of whether Chris Cantor is a good idea, having sex with him is a good idea—a very good, very needed idea. I'm thirty-two years old and have not had sex in over eight months. It doesn't need to be meaningful. I can do meaningless. I can.

I've got three kids. Prince Charming is not going to ride in on a white horse or drive up in his black Porsche and whisk me away to his castle in Beverly Hills. Nice as that sounds, that's probably not in the cards. So unless I'm ready to commit to a life of celibacy, I need to loosen up and have a little fun.

I can do this. I want to do this. I can. I do.

I'm going to do this. Damn it, get over yourself, just do it!

44

T
he plum lace bra I bought itches and is digging into my flesh. The matching panties are equally uncomfortable. I try to convince myself that they are thrilling reminders of what I have to look forward to, but most of my focus is spent on resisting the urge to rip them off right here at the dinner table.

We are at the barbeque, Molly and Tom on either side of me, Jeremy across from us.

Emily left us before we even got in line for our food. Caleb waved her over to his group, which included Miles's two older sisters and Gabby.

Chris has yet to make an appearance, and I'm starting to wonder if my suffering is for naught. Everyone else is here, nearly two hundred people chowing on tri-tip, corn on the cob, potato salad, and baked beans. It feels like a celebration, which I suppose it is. This week marks the end of shooting the first three episodes of the season.

Jeremy's a great kid and seems to have adopted us as his surrogate family for the week. His own family lives in Minneapolis, and it sounds like he misses them something fierce.

Though he's twenty, he doesn't seem it; there's a guilelessness about him that makes him seem younger. He was seventeen when he got the part and still in high school. He dropped out to take the job, and his good looks and golden voice missiled him to instant superstardom.

At the moment, he is telling Tom about the perils of being famous. “Crazy stuff,” he says. “You wouldn't believe the things girls'll do to get your attention. You're in it now, so you better watch out.”

Tom shakes his head like Jeremy is nuts. Until this morning, Tom was a social outcast, a mute. He was not a person girls even noticed, let alone did crazy things to get the attention of.

“I'm telling you. Good-looking kid like you, the little ones, they're going to be all over it.” He looks at me. “Mom, you better go through his fan mail before he does, make sure it's G-rated, if you know what I mean.”

“Actually I have no idea what you mean,” I say, thinking about the roses and locket sent to Molly and wondering if it gets worse. “What have people sent you?”

“You don't want to know. What they send, what they do. Some fans are serious, section-eight certifiable. Makes you kind of feel bad for them but also kind of freaks you out. This one fan, she's got thirteen tattoos dedicated to me—my face, my name, quotes I've said. She's like nineteen years old. What's her future husband going to think of that? The guy's going to need to change his name to Jeremy.”

“What else?” Tom says, forgetting that normally he doesn't talk to Jeremy, his excitement trouncing his inhibition. This day just keeps getting better.

“Well, let's see. There's this one crazy bit…broad who changed her last name to my last name, then she had plastic surgery to alter her nose so it looks like mine, got a spray tan so she looks black instead of white, and got green contact lenses so our eyes match. It's totally freaky. You can Google her. She's posted all sorts of photos of herself on the internet. Her name is Jenny Schwinger. It's like looking at myself in drag.”

“What's dwrag?” Molly asks.

“It's when a dude dresses up like a girl,” Jeremy says. “Then there's this other girl who tweeted me over eighteen thousand times this year. That's like fifty tweets a day.”

“So what do they send you?” Tom asks, clearly excited at the prospect of such devoted fans and by the idea of receiving swag in the mail.

“Oh, you don't even want to know. Love letters by the troves, gold watches, cologne, bras, panties. I even once got a love note written in menstrual blood.”

“Yuck!” I squeal.

“What's that?” Molly asks.

“Men's blood,” I say quickly. “Someone wrote him a note in blood.”

“That's awesome,” Tom says.

Jeremy shrugs. “You kind of get used to it. But you've got to remember: it's not real. Those girls, they're not really in love with you—they're in love with your character. I'm nothing like Jeremy from the show. No one's as awesome as that guy. He's badass and charming, gets all the girls, and never has a zit. Meanwhile, I'm a half-Jewish, half-black scrawny band geek from Minneapolis who never had a date before I got this gig, and if any of those girls really knew me, they wouldn't send me squat.”

“You're hardly scrawny,” I say.

“I was scrawny,” he corrects. “But the script called for buff, so after they hired me, they whipped my body into compliance with a personal trainer who kicked the shit out of my nerd genes. I hate it and love it. I love looking good, but I hate working out.”

“Well they made you gorgeous,” I say.

And he is. Unlike some of the others in the cast, Jeremy looks as good in person as he does on the show. Six foot two, skin the color of molasses, moss-green eyes, and hair sheared to within a centimeter of his perfectly shaped head.

“I cheat every chance I get,” he says. “Speaking of which, Molly, Tom, want to join me for some s'mores?”

I watch them go and, when I'm certain no one's watching, sneak off toward the cabins.

Chris's cabin is a row from our own. The front window flickers with orange light, and I picture him relaxing in front of a fire, enjoying a few minutes to himself.

I will knock, and he will be surprised. He will pull me through the door, and we will resume where we left off. My nerves buzz with anticipation as I climb the steps.

When I reach the porch, I stop to push my boobs up in my uncomfortable bra to give my small breasts as much boost as possible. Tiptoeing forward, I peek through the glowing window, hoping to catch a glimpse of where he is before I knock.

My face blanches in shock as I rear up, then burns in horror as I stumble back, whirl, and race toward the woods, trying to erase the image from my mind. But Rhonda riding Chris like a horse is seared on my brain like a branding iron, her blond hair whipping around, her silicone breasts bouncing—an indelible image that will be impossible to forget.

Lungs heaving, I stop, collapse to the ground, rip the ridiculous bra from my body, and hurl it into the river beside me. Then pulling my knees to my chest, I bury my face against them.

It's amazing how bad my taste is in men. If there was a competition for worst intuition when it comes to the opposite sex, I'd be the Grand Poobah.

Rhonda! Really?

At least the waitress was young and beautiful and not someone I knew. Rhonda's a beast, a forty-something, silicone-infused, brainless bitch. We work together every day. He was going to screw her then screw me. Or vice versa. I shiver with disgust, unsure if my abhorrence is from insult or hurt. I think about kissing him yesterday and desperately want to rinse my mouth out with soap.

“You lost something.”

I lift my head to see a large, dark figure walking toward me. The moon is behind him, and because my eyes were buried against my knees, my vision is blurry.

He steps closer, and I tense, then when I recognize who it is, my eyes bulge.
Griff. Crap.
The last man…other than Chris or Sean…I want to see. Naked except for his shorts, his body beaded with water, he stands confident and unshy, my ridiculous plum bra dangling from his outstretched arm.

I snatch the embarrassment from him. “Thank you,” I say, unable to meet his eyes, both from humiliation over him finding my slingshotted purple undergarment and because the apology I owe him is now so overdue that there's absolutely no excuse.

“You're welcome,” he says, the words a declaration, letting me know my gratitude is accepted for more than his chivalrous return of my bra.

“Fine,” I snap, my eyes whipping up to meet his. “Thank you. You were right, and I was wrong. Molly got hurt because of me. I'm a terrible mother and a terrible person and I shouldn't be allowed to parent anyone or make decisions regarding my welfare or anyone else's because I obviously lack all judgment regarding whether someone should be trusted or if they're just a lying jerk telling me what I want to hear so they can get what they want. So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was rude to you, I'm sorry I suck, I'm sorry you have to put up with me at all.”

His head tilts, and my own head collapses back to my knees, and I pray he will leave.

He doesn't. Infuriatingly he continues to stand there.

“Do you need something?” I mumble.

“You're right,” he says. “You do have terrible judgment, but you're also all she has, and you're the one who got her into this, so somehow you're going to need to figure it out and start protecting her.”

I nod my head against my jeans because he's right. But he's also wrong. I'm not the one to protect her; I've already proven that. A good mom is a lioness who roars, bares her teeth, extends her razor-sharp claws, and bristles to twice her size to defend her cubs. I, on the other hand, buy cheap purple bras and jump into bed with the reaper.

45

I
'm put to the test before dawn.

Because the weather is expected to shift this afternoon with a chance of rain, the shooting schedule has been changed again, and the river scene that was originally scheduled for tomorrow is now being shot today.

Thanks to Molly's sassy improvisation outside the corral, the writers rewrote the entire episode, inserting Molly into this scene that previously only involved Grant. Originally the plan was for Grant to sneak across the river to the neighbor's shed to steal two cases of fireworks that are stored there. Now the plan is to have Molly tag after him.

“Chris,” I say, charging up to him after reading the revised script. “Molly can't do this.”

It's difficult to look him in the eye.

“Faye, good morning,” he says cheerily. “I looked for you last night. Where'd you run off to? I was looking forward to picking up where we left off.” Wink.

My stomach turns. How was I ever attracted to this man? His nose is too big for his face, his hair thinning, his chin too small. And he sleeps with women like Rhonda!

I swallow back the acid and ignore the innuendo. “Chris, Molly can't do this. She doesn't know how to swim.”

“She doesn't have to swim,” he says, distracted by something behind me. He walks past, and I follow. “She just needs to wade across, and Tom will be holding her hand. Beth, move camera one downstream and tell him to start wide so we see the whole river.” Beth, who is now beside us, repeats the direction into her headset.

“What if she slips or he lets go?” I say.

“It's only knee-deep. Beth, that's good. Stop right there.”

“Knee-deep on you is hip-deep on Molly.” Then, propelled by the lingering shame of my conversation with Griff, with great courage, I add, “She can't do it. Molly doesn't know how to swim. She's not going in the river. I won't let her.”

He turns and tilts his head. “Faye, no offense, but you really don't have any say in the matter.”

I'm struck speechless then, a second later, manage, “Of course I do. I'm her mom.”

“Exactly,” Chris says. “You're her mom, and I'm her boss. The scene requires her to cross the river, so that's what she needs to do.”

“What if I say no? If I refuse to let her do it?”

His lips curl into an amused smile. “Well, my goodness, what have we here? That kiss empowered you, did it? Turned me on too, but I didn't lose my head about it.”

I blanch at the implication. “This has nothing to do with that. This is about Molly. Molly doesn't know how to swim.”

“Settle down.” Then he leans in close, his mouth next to my ear. “You keep going like this and I might have to call for a break so we can work off some of my excitement.”

I feel my hand tensing to strike him. Instead I step back, my fury barely contained. “Molly's not doing this.”

The smile drops from his face as he realizes I'm serious. “She is doing it. You signed a contract.”

“I'm sure I didn't sign a contract that says I'm going to endanger my daughter's life.”

“She'll be fine. You're overreacting.”

“I'm not. Look at the river, there's a current.” I'm painfully aware that my voice has become high-pitched and squeaky and that people are watching us.

His focus shifts to look past me but not to look at the river, his eyes on the shore as he yells over my shoulder, “Camera two, I need you focused on the shed. I want a reverse shot from Grant's perspective.”

“Chris,” I say, irritated beyond belief that he's ignoring me.

He turns back to me. “Look, Faye, here's the deal. I like you and I like Molly, but I have a show to produce. So either Molly does the scene like a good little actress or you pull your high-and-mighty mom act and she doesn't, and tomorrow I find another little girl who will, and the studio sues you for breach of contract. Molly's cute, but she's not irreplaceable. Your choice.”

The wind goes out of me like I've been sucker punched. In the blink of an eye, Chris has gone from friend to enemy, making it clear that we are dispensable, his loyalty as thin as the hair on his head.

“Exactly,” he says. “Door number one as I presumed.” He walks away. “Places, people.”

I stand frozen, the decision paralyzing me—stop the scene and it's over or let Molly walk across the river.

“I going in the watewr?” Molly says, walking up with Tom. A clear plastic bandage has been taped over her stitches and makeup painted on top of it that perfectly matches Molly's skin, her wound now protected and invisible.

“No. I mean, they want you to, but you don't need to. We don't have to do this. We don't have to do any of this. We can just leave. I can get another job, and we can go back to the way it was. If we stay living with Grandma, maybe I can still afford to pay for Emily to go to private school next year, or maybe they'll give us a scholarship. They really like her, and the soccer coach is excited about her joining his team. Maybe they'll offer us a discount so we can make it work.” My words tumble out, and both kids are looking at me like I've lost it, which I have. I don't want to do this, and I don't want to not do this. I want to do this, but I don't want Molly to go into the river. That's what I want. “We'll be fine. I can return the car and get something less expensive. Namaka might take me back, but even if they don't, there are other restaurants…”

“You towld me not to go neawr the wrivewr,” Molly says, interrupting my rambling.

“Exactly. You shouldn't go near the river because you don't know how to swim. So yes, you need to stay away from the river.”

“But we're just going to walk across,” Tom pipes in, his voice tight. “And I'm going to be holding her hand, and
I
know how to swim. We don't need to leave. We just need to walk across the river. Nothing's going to happen to her. I'm going to be holding on.”

I feel his desperation. Unlike Molly, who can take acting or leave it, Tom is already crazy about his job. He rehearsed his part a dozen times last night and read through the scripts of the last three episodes so he would be up to speed on what's going on.

“Tom, yes, baby, you're just walking across, but the river is moving. What if you slip?”

“I won't. I won't slip, and I won't let go.”

“I'wll howld on wreal tight,” Molly offers, clearly not wanting to let her brother down.

“Places, everyone,” Beth yells.

“One take,” Chris says. “Drying everyone down and reshooting will take forever, so let's get it right the first time.”

Tom looks at me anxiously. He wants this so bad.

My head shakes. This isn't a good idea.

“Come on, Tom,” Molly says, making the decision for me and pulling Tom away before I can react.

My small lioness voice screams at me to stop them, but it's drowned out by the rushing water and the blood pounding in my ears, and I watch paralyzed as Beth's hand rises, her fingers counting down. “Action.”

Tom's and Molly's sneakers are draped around their necks as they slide on their butts down the embankment—my eight-year-old son leading my four-year-old daughter, who doesn't know how to swim, into a river. And I know, regardless of how this turns out, this moment will not be forgotten, the moment I was too much of a coward to stand up for my kid and stop this from happening.

Their feet hit the water, and they shudder from the cold. I shudder with them.
Stop this. Stop them.
Still, I do not move. They move deeper, each step tentative as they measure their footing on the rocky bottom.
I am the worst mother on the planet.
Steadily they move forward, Tom being very careful, his face intent, his hand gripping Molly's wrist tightly. Even Molly looks serious, her brow puckered in concentration as she follows, checking her balance each time before lifting her foot to take another step.

The current is five feet away.

Four.

Three.

I lunge, my feet tripping on the uneven dirt. But before my sneakers touch the water, I know I am too late, my eyes fixed on the crosscurrent that I could not see from the shore. My mouth opens to warn Tom at the exact moment it pulls him unexpectedly sideways, his momentum yanking Molly forward and off her feet.

A dozen people race with me into the water, Chris among them, all of us splashing and tripping over rocks. A cameraman is in front of me, one of Griff's guys. Young and strong, he moves faster than the rest of us, covering the distance quickly and making me believe it is going to be all right.

Tom clings to Molly's wrist, holding on with both hands as the current pulls at her. She flounders face down, the water running over her. Tom's face is twisted with effort and panic, his muscles trembling. The man sees it as well and throws himself toward Molly at the exact moment her thrashing breaks Tom's hold, sweeping her out of reach and carrying her away.

I stumble after her, slipping and falling hard against a rock. Scrabbling to my feet, I lunge forward again, but Chris grabs me and yanks me toward shore. “Faye, stop.”

I writhe and kick against him.

“She's okay,” he says, but I don't hear him. My hand flies across his face, snapping his head sideways.

“She's okay,” he says again, tying me up in his arms to keep me from slapping him again. “Griff has her.”

The words make no sense.

I turn my head in the direction Molly was carried.
Griff has her.
Twenty feet downstream, Griff walks from the water, his thick arms wrapped around Molly as she clings to him, her face nuzzled against his neck.

Chris releases me, and I limp down the bank, my hip bruised from when I fell.

“I'm sorry, baby,” I say as I take her from Griff's arms. “I'm so sorry.”

Softly she sobs against my shoulder, her body trembling.

Chris walks up beside us. “Hey, Two-Bits.”

“Leave us alone,” I scream. “Don't you come near us.”

Carrying Molly, I hobble away.

Tom catches up. “I'm sorry, Mom,” he says. “I tried to hold on.”

“It's not your fault, baby,” I say. “It's mine. Molly had no business going in that river. It's my fault, nobody else's, just mine.”

I stumble into the cabin, straight into the bathroom, and turn on the spigot to the tub.

“Hang in there, Bug. A warm bath will take away the chill.”

She continues to cry quietly, and her tears destroy me. Never have I hated myself more.

“Can I do something?” Tom asks, and I look over to see his face white with guilt nearly as decimating as my own. I hold out my arm, and he walks into my embrace, and for a moment, the three of us sit on the bathroom floor clinging to each other.

When he pulls away, I say, “Go to the food truck and ask if they have chocolate ice cream and bring back a bowl.”

“But we haven't even had bwreakfast,” Molly says.

“I know, baby, but your mom got real scared, and the only thing that makes me feel better when I get that scared is chocolate ice cream. Would you like some as well?”

“Yeah, I do,” she says, her tears drying.

“I'm on it. Two bowls of chocolate ice cream coming up,” Tom says, sprinting away, desperate to help.

As I put Molly in the tub, there's a knock at the door, but I ignore it.

A moment later the door opens, causing me to turn.

Silhouetted in the opening is Chris. “Hey, Two-Bits,” he says. “Ready to try again?”