No Ordinary Life (34 page)

80

I
walk from Chris's office back to the music studio and sit on the bench outside the building, my thoughts muddled in confusion over how things got this out of control.

The sun breaks through the thick cover of clouds, and I lift my face to soak up its warmth, looking up through the branches of the oaks that line the courtyard. The trees remind me of the apricot trees in Yucaipa, dark skeletons barren of leaves and fruit, but if you look closely, you can find a small bud, a sprig of green, the promise of spring.

I think of Molly playing with the little girl on the airplane, nothing special, two girls lost in a game of cards, yet it was miraculous. For months, Molly hasn't had a friend, hasn't held hands, run, skipped, or jumped with a kid her age.

Childhood is a fleeting blink, a momentary bridge of time that shapes who you are and your life to come. It's incredibly precious and brief, and you can't get it back. Chris is right. Girls dream of what Molly has but only because they don't really understand it. Ever since we hopped on this crazy ride, it's as if time has sped up, and I'm suddenly horribly aware of the passage of it. Next month Molly will be five, and the month after that, Tom turns nine. Warp speed, Emily leaping right past her youth altogether.

In the distance, a hawk circles, gaming its prey, perhaps a mouse or a squirrel. I watch, my compassion split between the hunger of the bird and the fate of its next meal. There's something beautiful in the simplicity of it, hunt or starve. My life used to be simple like that, difficult but simple. I worked hard to care for my family. We didn't have a lot of money, but we got by. I took pride in holding it all together and making it work, as much pride as I take now in managing Molly and Tom, perhaps more because the challenge was wholly mine and I was more in control.

My ambitions have always been modest. When asked by my third grade teacher what I wanted to be when I grew up, I proudly answered a wife and mother. The snickers that followed taught me not to be so honest again, but those humble aspirations never changed. Is it so shameful to make a life out of caring for those you love?

This wasn't what I signed up for, or maybe it was, but I didn't know what I was signing up for at the time. Ignorance is my defense…and greed. I admit that I saw dollar signs, a chance to be more than just a worker bee struggling at the bottom. And yes, fame. Who doesn't want to be famous? On some level, all of us thirst for acknowledgment, affirmation that we are special in some way—talented, good, worthy. And the power that comes with it. People revering you, wanting to do things to please you. Power to make a difference as well. Our appearance able to raise tens of thousands of dollars for a needy cause. The ability to sway opinion, knowing that if I dress Molly in a particular shirt or if Tom carries a particular book, they will become instant bestsellers. There's a headiness in being so important.

But also a price. We earn money, but we also generate it, so much of it that it is a vital source of income for hundreds, even thousands. So we are expected to work to maximize our output, our lives filled with obligations and demands too much for one person to meet.

Molly's life is no longer her own, and as a result, none of the rest of us have lives either, our world reduced to managing and maintaining her celebrity. Like a parasite, her fame consumes us, invading and devouring everything beyond it.

This is my fault, but I did not see it coming; the glitter and glamour blinded me. In some ways, it still does. Though I'm reluctant to admit it, part of me is relieved we are being forced to stay. Chris's refusal to let us quit lets me off the hook, takes the responsibility out of my hands, and spares me from making a decision I would need to defend to the world and that I might regret.

And I would, in some ways, undoubtedly regret it. Tom is thriving. It's easy to forget about Tom, to not include him in the equation. He doesn't demand attention the way Molly and Emily do. But the truth is, this world suits him, and he is doing better than he's ever done before. Here, in the land of make-believe, he has found his place, his purpose, and his voice.

As have I. The past is not so distant that I have forgotten how difficult my life was before all this. I was husbandless, jobless, and penniless, my prospects dismal. Now I exist in a world where I am important, where my ego is fed daily, where money rolls in like the waves, and where I am in love.

Yes, Molly and Emily are in trouble, but in a sense, Tom and I have been spared.

Our contract is for three seasons. We've made it through half of one, which leaves two and a half to go. I shudder at the math, unable to imagine what six times what we've already been through will do to us—to Molly and Emily.

The clouds close rank, sending shadows across the trees, and I watch as the hawk dives then rises back into the sky with something in its beak, its hunger staved off for another day. And my sympathy is undeniably for its prey, its life over simply because, when it woke today, it chose the wrong path.

Jeremy comes out of the studio with Molly on his back. She bounces up and down and shouts, “Giddy up, gawllop.”

Jeremy does as she asks, rearing up then skipping across the sidewalk to dump her at my feet.

“Good howrsey,” Molly says, patting his head as Jeremy bows to her, then he scampers off to play with people his own age.

Taking Molly by the hand, I lead her to the limo, watching as my feet move in and out of the glimpses of sunlight. We reach the parking lot, and I lift my head, and that's when I see it, parked a row from our waiting limo, red as a candy apple, its black convertible top up.

I whirl around and pull Molly back toward the soundstage.

“Mom, whewre we going?” Molly says, scrambling to keep up.

“Your dad is here,” I say, my panic mounting. “Your dad and Emily.”

“Why awre we wrunning?”

We're running because I'm praying that I'm not too late.

81

W
here is she?” I scream at Sean when I find him behind the living room set engaged in conversation with the woman who plays the social worker. Since Sean decided to settle in LA, he's been working a rotating circuit of women, so I'm thinking Regina of Albuquerque is now out of the picture.

He swivels to look at me. “Hey, Bugabaloo,” he says to Molly, patting his leg for her to hop on board, which she happily does. His eyes narrow as he looks at me, but his face remains a composed mask of coolness for his audience.

“Where's Em?” I ask.

“Mitten called her back for a second audition,” he says triumphantly.

“Where?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know?”

“I mean, I don't know. He said something about needing to record her voice.”

“Molly, stay with your dad,” I say as I race toward the sound lab, a room tucked away at the back of the soundstage that is used for recording voice-overs and mixing sound effects.

I hear Sean attempting to follow with Molly, but I lose him by cutting through two of the sets then doubling back so he's heading the opposite direction of where I'm going.

The red light above the sound lab's door signals “In session.” I ignore it and storm in.

Emily and Mitten are in the soundproof vocal booth, a space with foam walls, a stool, and a microphone. Emily has on a pair of headphones, and Mitten is adjusting a camera so it's directed toward her.

“Stop,” I say as I throw open the door from the recording bay to the booth.

Both turn to look at me.

“Emily, go,” I say.

She stares but doesn't move.

“Now!”

“I'm in the middle of my audition,” she says.

“No, you're not. This is not an audition, and you are not going to get the part of Caleb's girlfriend.”

“Why not? Molly and Tom are doing it.”

“That's because they have talent,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

Her eyes squint, full of fury and hate.

“I'm sorry, Em,” I say.

She pulls off the headphones and flees.

I turn to Mitten. “Stay away from her. Go near her again, and so help me, I'll call a press conference and announce to the world what a sick bastard you are.”

His beady eyes narrow, his pale lips puckering. “If you are referring to the vile rumors about me, there's nothing you can say that has not already been said. I auditioned your daughter as a favor to Chris and called her back again because I didn't want to callously dismiss her as you just did. You're right, she has no talent. My hope was to give her the opportunity to discover that for herself.”

My eyes narrow in distrust, and he returns my glare.

“Just stay away from her,” I say. “I mean it. The press doesn't know about Gabby. Go near Emily again, and I'll tell them exactly why you insisted Gabby get the part.”

His face pinches. “It's probably not the best idea to threaten someone who can destroy you.”

“Destroy me? As in write Molly and Tom off the show? Please, if only I should be so lucky. That's all I want. As a matter of fact, I'll make a deal with you: write us off this show and I promise to never speak your name to anyone ever.”

His mouth curls into a toothless grin. “Tell me, Faye, who do you think is more important, you or me?”

“You,” I acknowledge. “But as important as you are, Molly's got you trumped.”

“We don't need you to keep her.”

82

I
am in Griff's bed in his home.

He does not hate me or blame me for his anonymity being obliterated, which causes me to hate myself and blame myself intensely for the damage I've done to his life. The media is having a field day with his reappearance, and now, like us, he can no longer go anywhere without his presence making news and a horde of reporters slinging questions at him.

He says it's worth it, that I'm worth it, but it does little to lessen my guilt, and I can't help but wonder if he was right, if kissing me was a bad idea indeed, and if he wouldn't have been better off steering clear altogether.

He caresses my shoulder, and I roll toward him to rest my hand on his cheek. My mom offered to watch the kids, so I sent Molly and Tom home in the limo. Like Cinderella, I need to leave by midnight and mutate back into the person I really am, the mother of two child stars who both need to be on the set at dawn. But at the moment, I'm a childless princess lying in the bed of my handsome prince.

“Favorite movie?” I ask.

“
Sleepless in Seattle
,” he says without a blink.

“Nice try.”

“Works on most girls.”

He kisses my nose then readjusts himself so he is on his back, my head on his shoulder. “Let's see, favorite movie? When I was a kid, it was
Jaws
, but now I think I'd have to say
Forrest Gump
. I watched it again a couple nights ago. It's my go-to movie. It's just so damn hopeful in light of so much crap, and Forrest has to be the most brilliant character of all time, not the sharpest tool in the shed but the most chivalrous and romantic character ever.”

And I know I'm done for.
Forrest Gump
is my go-to movie as well, though I never rewatch it. It's too sacred for that. I simply remember it. Forrest asking Jenny to marry him.
I'm not a smart man, but I know what love is.
And even when Jenny doesn't love him back, he continues to love her because that's exactly the point. He
knows
what love is. Thinking about Forrest and his mom and Jenny and Lieutenant Dan and Bubba lights up my heart every time.

I kiss him, and he kisses me back, then we're going at it again, like refugees starved for food, frantic and hungry, limbs bumping and getting tangled. This is how it's been between us, moments of tenderness and moments of panic, both of us terrified that what we have isn't real or that, for some reason, time is running out and it's going to disappear.

After, when we're done and lying beside each other breathless, both of us slightly self-conscious of our clawing, frantic performance, I say, “Tell me what you're thinking.”

“I'm thinking that was insane, and that I need to start going to the gym or running if you're going to be so demanding.”

“Ha ha,” I say. “But really, tell me your thoughts.”

“My thoughts are that I want to recover my breath and do that again.”

“That's your desire not your thoughts.”

“I'm a man. The two are pretty much the same.”

I smile but refuse to let him off so easy. “Just a peek at what's turning inside that brain of yours, please. Today was rough, and I want to know what you think about it.”

It's only a flicker but a realignment of his thoughts just the same as he alters the truth, and I feel a chill of betrayal ice my spine. He feels it too and doesn't allow me to pull away, which I am trying to do, my hands braced against his chest as he holds firm.

“Stop,” he says. “It's just not my place.”

“Your place?” I ask, confused but only for a second. He thinks I'm asking his opinion about my life, when I was actually asking his opinion about his own.

“This business with Emily is between you and Sean.”

I purposely didn't tell Griff about my conversations with Chris or Mitten. He loves me, but he also loves the show and his crew, and it would upset him to hear I tried to quit. Besides, there's no point. Chris made it clear we're stuck, and Mitten made it clear that I have no power over him. But it was silly for me to think Griff wouldn't have heard about Sean chasing me through the set as I searched for Emily.

“But you have an opinion?” I say, while wishing I'd never asked him to tell me what he was thinking and that we could go back to postcoital, conversation-less cuddling.

“My dad used to say there are two kinds of people,” he starts, and already I know I'm going to be lumped into the wrong group. I try to kiss him to shut him up, but he rolls away and looks at the ceiling, his arm behind his head. “Those who lead their lives and those whose lives lead them.” I jerk away from him and stand abruptly as he props himself up on his elbow. “You asked,” he says.

“Shut up.” I pull my shirt over my head. It's inside out, but I don't care. What is it with these people? My mom, Griff? I'm doing the best I can. I'm working my ass off and raising three kids while dealing with a manipulative, asshole ex-husband who, by law, has the right to half parent the aforementioned kids and who has turned my daughter against me while at the same time endangering her. So excuse me if I'm not in total control of the situation.

I pull on my jeans and shove my panties in the pocket.

“Faye, stop,” he says. “Come back and lie down. I'm just saying…”

“I know exactly what you're saying,” I snap. “You're saying I'm a fuck-up who married the wrong guy because she stupidly got pregnant when she was nineteen and has been fucking up ever since. And you're right, look at me now, sleeping with you. Knowing my luck, I'll end up pregnant again. I seem to have a knack for that, not planning for condoms to break. Don't worry, I'll text you in a few months and let you know if you're going to be a daddy.”

I storm off, but after three steps I need to turn back because I left my keys on the table. I pivot, spinning right into his arms, which are reaching for me. I wriggle to free myself, but it's a halfhearted effort.

He whispers into my hair. “I'm sorry.” And the thing is, I know he is, but I also know as I relent and allow him to lead me back to the bed that he believes what he said and that he's right—there are people who lead their lives and those who are yanked around like a yo-yo.

Today I tried to take control. I talked to Chris and tried to quit. I stormed in on Mitten and threatened him if he went near Emily. But as usual, rather than making things better, I feel like I only made them worse.