No Ordinary Life (33 page)

78

T
hanksgiving was spent divided, and when Sean came Friday night to get Molly and Tom, I refused to give them up. In turn, he kept Emily. He continues to threaten filing for full custody, and I threaten the same. He's bluffing. I'm not. Taking care of three kids full time would crimp his style; I would like nothing more than to have Sean out of my life for good.

I called my lawyer, and she is looking into what grounds we might have to petition for full custody, but she has yet to come up with anything. The health, safety, and welfare of the kids is all that matters, and Sean's not a danger to them, at least the court won't see him as one.

The stress of everything that happened this week and Emily's absence is battering Molly emotionally, and for the past two days, she's had a tough time sleeping and has reverted to sucking her thumb, a habit she gave up when she was two.

Tom is weathering things better. He might have even been relieved that he didn't need to spend the weekend with his dad. Unlike the girls, Tom's relationship with Sean has not been fully repaired since Sean's return. Tom internalizes things more than Molly and Emily and has always been more aware, and despite my efforts to protect the kids from Sean's deceit, I think Tom sees it and doesn't fully trust him.

The best part of our time off was Griff. Three of the past five nights my mom volunteered to watch the kids, and every blissful moment of that time was spent in his arms.

Now our time off is over and we're on our way to the studio, my stomach in knots. Molly hasn't run her lines and lies listless on the seat beside me, her thumb in her mouth. We've had ten days to rehearse, and yet she's completely unprepared, and I'm worried she might be coming down with the flu.

The media frenzy over the incident at the airport has died down and been replaced by an equally disturbing outpouring of support, our social media sites and fan mail blowing up with an outcry of anger, sympathy, and dismay over either the injustice of the accusations or in advocacy of corporal punishment for children. In the past week, so many stuffed animals, flowers, and gifts have been sent to Monique Braxton's office that we could open our own store. Molly knows about none of this—the letters and goods dispensed to either the trash or the Salvation Army, without Molly being the wiser. The intimacy of it all is very disturbing, so many people who have never met us weighing in with an opinion about our life, as if they have a say.

And of course, the new attention has rustled the “creepers,” adding several unsettling letters and gifts to Molly's stalker file with the police.

“Bug, we need to read the script,” I say.

She doesn't answer.

I smooth her hair and look out the window. We are stopped at a red light, and in the lane beside us is a bright blue BMW convertible. My eyes fix on the three girls in the backseat with their made-up faces, crop tops, and diamond belly button rings.

Emily is going to be one of them.
The thought pops in my head before I can stop it.

The car squeals away, and the girl on the right stands on the backseat and lifts her shirt to flash the truck beside them. The driver honks in appreciation, and the girl falls back against her friends, the three of them cracking up as if that was the funniest thing in the world.

The day is going about as bad as I expected, everyone irritated with Molly because she doesn't know her part. The scene, which should have been done in an hour, has already taken twice that, and she still hasn't gotten it right.

Chris calls cut again then marches across the set to lean in close to her. “Two-Bits, did you not memorize your lines?”

Molly looks at the ground, her shoulders slumped, then she loses it, tears running down her cheeks as she stammers and searches for an explanation, nothing coming out but a grief-stricken sob.

“She's tired,” I say. “This week was…”

He waves me off and bends down, his hands on his knees. “Okay, Two-Bits, calm down. Take a deep breath.” He looks over his shoulder to the crew. “Break for fifteen.”

The crew scampers off, Griff leading the way, literally racing off the set without even a glance at me. This morning has been hell, not just for us but for him—his revealed identity as an ex-superstar wreaking havoc on his life.

After getting pummeled by Sean, he left my mom's condo to find a swarm of press lying in wait beside his truck, his freshly swollen eye adding fuel to the feeding frenzy and inciting all sorts of new speculation on the juicy soap opera of our lives that is unfolding in the news for the whole world to see.

Then this morning, he arrived to a hostile crew, his guys pissed off by what they see as a betrayal. Us versus them, crew versus cast, the camps as divided as union versus nonunion. You're one or the other; you can't be both. They thought he was one of them, when in fact, he's an imposter who belongs to the enemy camp.

To top it off, Chris was awful to him when he showed up this morning for the first scene.
Well, well, look who's joining us. Griffin fucking Wade, gracing us with his legendary presence after making us all look like idiots for not having a fucking clue that Griffin fucking Wade was our director of photography.

Heat crept up Griff's face, but he said nothing, just took his usual place to wait for the shoot to begin, and his expression has remained blank since, making it hard for me to breathe, a tanker of guilt rolling over my chest and parking there.

“Okay, Two-Bits, let's learn this,” Chris says, taking Molly by the hand and leading her to his director's chair. “Beth, I need a Red Bull.”

Beth scurries off, and I watch with appreciation as Chris patiently goes over the scene with Molly line by line.

Beth returns a minute later and holds out the can to Chris.

“It's not for me,” Chris says. “It's for Molly.”

I leap from my seat and snatch it away. “Thanks, but that's okay. We don't drink energy drinks.”

“You said she was tired,” Chris says.

“Yeah. She's tired because she's not feeling well.”

“And this will pep her up.”

“I'm not drugging my kid.”

“It's not a drug. It's caffeine.”

“She's tired, Chris. She needs rest, not caffeine.”

He frowns at me. “Fine.” Then he turns back to Molly. “Okay, Two-Bits, you've got it now?”

Molly nods and starts to walk back onto the set, but Chris grabs her arm before she takes her first step and spins her to look at him, his eyes locking on hers. “Two-Bits, this can't happen again.”

Molly bites her lip to hold off another downpour and nods.

We finally got through the scene and are now eating lunch in our limo with Helen. She picks at her undressed salad—hold the croutons, hold the cheese, hold the calories and taste. Staying immaculately starved is grueling work.

Molly and Tom are in the front seat with Mack eating Happy Meals from McDonald's as he teaches them how to play poker. Every once in a while we hear giggles and yelps of excitement through the glass.

“It's just so much pressure,” I say. “Molly's not going to be perfect every day. You should have heard Chris this morning. He was so harsh, and his opinion means so much to her. With everything that's going on with Sean, I just wish he would be a little more understanding, like he actually cares instead of pretending he does.”

“Chris does care,” she says. “Don't confuse what happened on the set this morning with not caring. He was seriously upset about what happened at the airport. Did you know he fired the whole publicity company, not just Ham-Face?”

My stomach knots with more guilt. What happened wasn't Patrick's fault. Zero tolerance is exactly my point. Chris might care, but he expects too much.

Helen continues, “I've known Chris a long time. He's a good guy. Outside the show, a very good guy. But it's tough. He's responsible for keeping
The Foster Band
on top, and that requires a bit of brutality. His hubris versus his humanity, it's a constant struggle for him. But make no mistake, he cares. He lives, eats, and breathes this show. Sometimes his temper blows and he doesn't use kid gloves, but he does it because he cares, not just about the show but about us. He does it so we will all still have jobs to wake up to in the morning.”

My phone buzzes. Though we've already logged six hours, we're needed at the music studio for a recording session that will probably last the entire afternoon.

79

I
t wasn't planned. It wasn't like I dropped Molly at the music studio then walked back to the soundstage thinking this was what I was going to do. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I found myself knocking on Chris's door.

Now I'm in front of him, my heart pounding as I take the seat across from him.

Stay calm and explain the situation rationally. There's no need for emotion.

“Chris, we're done,” I blurt. “Molly…me…we can't take it anymore. My family is falling apart. My older daughter, Emily…”

“Whoa,” he says, holding up his hand. “Calm down. Start again.”

I take a deep breath, fold my hands in my lap to quell the shake, chew the inside of my cheek until the panic passes, and when I'm in control say, “Chris, we can't do this anymore.”

He smiles, and relief washes over me. Helen was right. Chris isn't a bad guy, and I remember the first time I stood in this office on our first day when Molly and I were late and lost and he showed us to the wardrobe room.

“That's better,” he says. “Now tell me what's going on.”

I explain as best I can about how overwhelming everything has become, how difficult this week was, how unhappy we are and that I just want to go back to being a normal family, and how I want Molly to have a normal childhood without so much pressure. I tell him about Emily deciding to live with Sean and how little time I've been able to spend with her.

When I finish, he rocks back in his chair and sighs. “I understand,” he says. “Being a stage mom is tough. It can be extremely demanding and sometimes overwhelming, and you're right, it takes its toll. And you have both Molly and Tom to deal with, plus Emily at home. I can see where it could get to be too much.”

I nod, so glad he understands.

“Sean and I talked about it,” he continues, bristling the hair on my neck. “He was concerned you were reaching your breaking point.”

“I'm not breaking,” I squeal. “I'm telling you we don't want to do this anymore, that it's too much for Molly. She's not having a normal childhood.”

“No, she's having a childhood most girls dream about. I admit the New York trip should have been handled better. Damn incompetence, that fool leaving you alone. It makes me furious every time I think about it. Does that idiot have a clue how fucking dangerous that was? Maybe a bodyguard.”

“I don't want a bodyguard! That's exactly what I don't want. More separation between us and the real world. What I want is to go back to being normal.”

Chris blinks several times in confusion as if I'm speaking a foreign language, so I clarify. “We quit.”

He laughs. “Faye, I like you. As a matter of fact, for a time I
really
liked you, and you know how I feel about Molly, but you realize that's not how this works, right? You can't just quit. That's cute though, very cute.”

Heat floods into my cheeks. “I'm not being cute. I'm being serious. We're done. Write us off the show.”

He shakes his head. “First of all, it's not up to me. Second, even if it was, I wouldn't do that because Molly's the greatest thing that's happened to the show since it started. And third, like I said, I like you, so I want to stop you from doing something you'll regret. Your daughter is a commodity, at the moment, a hot commodity. There's no telling how long that will last, but at the moment, it's a gold mine.”

“She's not an it.”

“That's where you're wrong. Molly is an it. Gap has invested in her as well as Mattel and Hershey's. Fox, RCA Records. This is bigger than you and me. It's not about Molly the person but Molly the brand, a brand worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

“She's a kid,” I roar. “My kid, and everyone seems to be forgetting that. She's my kid, and I decide what she does and what she doesn't do.”

The smile drops from his face, and he shakes his head. “Faye, she is your kid, and you do make the decisions, but your choices are more limited than you seem to understand. One, you can buck up, get back to work, and reap the rewards, or two, you can continue to go postal, and someone else will step in to take over managing Molly's career, and they will reap the rewards.”

“I'm not going postal,” I scream like a lunatic. “I'm trying to save my family!”

“Then I suggest you choose option one,” he answers calmly. Then he stands, walks around me, and opens the door, showing me the way out.