One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies (3 page)

Then he presses a button on the control panel
and the tinted window floats down.

Across an expanse of strangely duneless sand,
I catch my first glimpse of the Pacific.

A little thrill runs through me.
I've always loved the ocean.

The sound of it, the feel of it…
And I guess this one's pretty enough.

But there's something weird about it.
It doesn't smell right.

In fact, it doesn't smell at all.
That's
what's wrong.

I fill my lungs with what
should
be sea air.
But I might as well be in Nebraska.

I can't pick up even the vaguest whiff
of seaweed
or
salt.

What kind of an ocean
is
this, anyway?

“
You Wanna Stretch Your Legs?
”

Whip asks me,
all boyish and perky
and so deeply upbeat
that I want to slug him.

But he doesn't wait for me to answer.
He just tells the chauffeur
to pull into a beach parking lot.
“Let's take off our shoes,” he says.

He tears off his $200 Nikes,
leaps out of the limo,
then turns and offers me his hand.
Which I pointedly do not take.

I slip out of my Payless sandals
and suddenly find myself sprinting across
the silky heat of the sand
toward the waves.

I might have been able
to enjoy this moment,
if Whip wasn't prancing along
right next to me.

We don't stop
till our toes are in the water.
“I've always loved the ocean,” he says.
“The way it feels, the way it sounds …”

And when I hear these words,
something flickers on and off inside of me,
like a tiny flash of lightning.
And I suddenly feel like sobbing.

The tears surge to my eyes,
swelling and stinging like salty waves.
But I don't cry
I never do anymore.

Not since Mom.
I guess I must have used up
my entire lifetime supply of tears
on the night she died.

Whip Stares Out at the Water

“Maybe we'll spot some dolphins,” he says.
And just then,
I see this sleek fin slice through the waves,

this shining fin attached to the back
of a velvety gray creature
that leaps up through the spray.

Suddenly I'm one big goose bump.
I've never seen a dolphin in the ocean before.
Only the one at the aquarium.

And wow!
There's another one. And another.
It's a whole family of them!

Cresting through the waves.
Spinning on their tails.
Like they're putting on a show just for
us
.

And now they're close enough
for me to see the smiles on their faces.
I'm not kidding—they're actually
smiling
!

And then I notice that Whip is, too.
But at
me
.
So I wrestle the smile off my
own
face

and watch
his
fade.

It's a Very Long Driveway

Curving through a forest
of anorexic palm trees,
waving their scrawny necks around
miles above an unnaturally green lawn.

The house finally rolls into view.
It looks like Walt Disney designed it.
Turrets. Balconies. Gables. Flags.

There's even something
that looks sort of like
a drawbridge.

What?
No moat?
Really, Whip.
You're slipping.

I Wonder What Ray Would Think of This Place

It'd probably make him hurl.
He wants to be an architect someday.

Before I left,
he gave me an amazing drawing of a house.
He said he designed it especially for me.

Called it
Ruby's Slipper
,
and said he wished we could live in it
together
.

I can't believe that I'm going to be living
three thousand miles away
from that guy.

I can't believe it.
And I can't stand it.

Be It Ever So Humble

Whip guides me through the front door
by my elbow.
(
Does he have to keep touching me?
)

And what I see
makes it awfully hard to keep my eyes
from popping out of their sockets.

The front hall alone
is twice the size
of the house Mom and I lived in.

And the floor twinkles
like something straight out of
an old Fred Astaire movie.

There's a gurgling indoor fishpond
right in the middle of it,
a curved marble staircase on the left,

and off to the right,
a living room roughly the size
of a football field.

Okay.
Maybe I'm exaggerating.
Half
a football field.

In the Living Room

I feel like I've just
stumbled through the looking glass
into the Whip Logan Museum.

There's movie posters from all of his films
plastered on the walls,
a framed thank-you letter from the mayor of New York City,
a plaque from the governor of Someplace-or-other,
and an honorary degree from Yale Drama School.

There's a sculpture of Whip,
an etching of Whip,
a caricature of Whip,
and an enormous oil painting of … who else?
Signed by David Hockney.

There's photographs everywhere:
Whip with Madonna.
Whip with Tom Cruise.
Whip with Michael Jordan.
Whip with Steven Spielberg.
Whip with Bill Clinton.

I don't see any
of Whip with the pope,
but I bet there's one around here somewhere.

And in the center of the mantel,
above a fireplace big enough
to rotisserize an elephant,
stands Whip's Oscar,
shimmering,
under the beam of a single spotlight.

Jesus.
If this guy was
any more full of himself,

he'd explode.

He Ushers Me Out of the Room

And up the staircase,
down a hallway
carpeted with a rug so soft
that I sink in past my ankles.

He stops in front of an oak door
and whips it open (pun intended)
to reveal—
my bedroom.

I almost fall over when I see it.
Because it's my dream room.
I mean, I don't think you understand.
It's
literally
the room of my dreams.

And seeing it is this totally
surreal experience because it's the very
same room I described in an essay once
for a contest that won me first prize.

Whoever designed it
must have read my mind.
Because whoever designed it
got it exactly right.

There's the stone fireplace,
the antique stained glass lamps,
and the cozy window seat.
There's even the huge bookcase full of books.

And the canopy bed draped with lace,
heaped so high with comforters and pillows
that you can't even get into it
without stepping up onto a footstool.

Cripes.
It's the room
I've always wanted.
Only I
didn't
want it

here.

A Simple Answer to Simple Question

“How do you like it?”
Whip suddenly asks,
all bright eyed and bushy tailed,

like he figures I'm going to
fling my arms around his neck and squeal,
“Oh my God! I love it, Daddy!”

So I just yawn.
Then I shrug and say,
“It's okay. I guess.”

He's Gone Now

I can finally breathe.

Before he left he said he guessed
I'd probably need some time to settle in
and rest up before dinner.

I need some time all right.
But not to do
what
he
said.

I need some time to call Aunt Duffy
and beg her to send me the money
for a one-way ticket back to Boston.

But when I dial her number,
her phone machine picks up.
And just hearing her voice obliterates me.

I have to hang up fast
to keep myself from leaving her
a truly pathetic message.

Then I call Lizzie.
I call Ray.
But nobody's home.

And neither,
unfortunately,
am I.

Home

I can't believe how much I miss it already.
It wasn't anything like this place.
It was small, but cozy,
overflowing with all kinds of funky stuff
that Mom used to find at flea markets.
And every room was crammed with books.

I guess it was a little bit messy.
Okay. So maybe it was
more
than a little bit messy.
But it was way comfortable.
Which made it the favorite hangout
for all of my friends.

Especially Lizzie.
Lizzie used to say that she'd give
her right arm to have a house like mine.
And her left one
to have a mother like mine.
And I guess I can understand why.

See, Mom wasn't that corny type
who always had milk and cookies waiting for us
when we'd get there after school.
She was a librarian,
so she didn't usually get home
till just before dinnertime.

But she knew how to listen.
She knew how to laugh.

She knew how to be there when you needed her.
And how to disappear when you didn't.
I loved that about her.
I loved a
lot
of things about her.

Man, sometimes I miss her so much
that I feel as if
I'm burning up with missing her,
as if I'm getting ready to break apart,
to just disintegrate—
like the space shuttle did over Texas.

It Mega-stinks

These days, even when I
want
to cry, I can't.
But that doesn't seem to matter to my face.
Even though no tears come out,
the rims of my eyes turn redder than my hair
and my cheeks get hideously splotchy.

Just like they are right now.
I need to splash some cold water on my face.
So I push open the door
to what I assume must be my bathroom—
and get my mind severely blown.

Boy, I wish Lizzie could see this place.
She would
not
believe it.
I mean there's a sunken tub in here.
And a separate glass shower.
And a sauna. And a steam room.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the bidet?
Lizzie would think it was hysterical.
She'd probably be trying it out right now.
God, I wish she was here.
I wish Aunt Duffy and Ray were here.

What's the point of having
a bathroom that could be featured
on
MTV Cribs,
when there's no one around I care about
to show it to?

Dinner

I thought there'd be a butler.
Some guy with an English accent
and white gloves, hovering
with assorted silver trays,

lifting off shining domed lids
to reveal steaming … steaming …
Oh, I don't know.
Steaming crumpets or something.

But it's just Whip.
And me.
Surrounded by
an acre of kitchen.

Just Whip.
And me.
And at least one of every cooking device
known to mankind.

There's even a spatula that automatically
flips pancakes when you press a button.
Which Whip happens to be demonstrating
at this very moment.

He looks like
such
an idiot in that apron,
going on and on about
how his macadamia nut pancakes
are renowned the world over

and about how if he hadn't been an actor
he probably would have been a chef
and about how tangy the oranges from his trees
are at this time of year

and about how he gave his assistant
the weekend off
but I'm going to love him when I meet him
because he's a real hoot

and about how it's fun sometimes
to have breakfast for dinner, isn't it?
And on and on and on and on …
until the doorbell rings.

Whip's Up to His Elbows in Pancake Batter

So he sends me to see who it is.
I swing open the door, and practically fall over—
there, standing right in front of me,
is Cameron Diaz.

She grins when she sees my jaw drop,
and explains that she lives next door.
Cameron Diaz is my next-door neighbor?!

Then she says she's so glad to meet me.
She says Whip's told her all about me.
Cameron Diaz knows things about me?!

She says she hates to be a bother
but she was wondering if Whip
could loan her some vanilla extract
for this birthday cake that she's baking for Drew.
Drew Barrymore?!

Then she breezes right past me straight toward the kitchen,
like she's been here a million times before.
Whip lights up when he sees her
and sweeps her into a hug.
She kisses his cheek.

She only stays a minute,
but it's plenty long enough for me to ask
myself the weirdest question of all time:
Is Cameron Diaz going to be my stepmother?

After She Leaves

I take a bite
of Whip's famous pancakes

And they're delicious.
There's no denying it.

But I'd like to ram the whole perfect plateful
right down his throat.

Mom
was a terrible cook.

In My New Bed

There's a full moon tonight,
drifting through the sky
like a sad ghost

gazing down at me
with these real soft eyes,
as though it understands …

How pathetic is that?
The only person on the entire West Coast
that I can actually relate to

is the Man in the Moon.

She's Trying to Get Out!

I can hear her nails
scratching against the inside of the coffin,
hear her thrashing and kicking
and gasping for air that isn't there.

My mother's not dead!
She's been buried alive!
I've got to get her out!
I claw at the heavy lid till my fingers bleed.

I heave my whole weight
against the smooth-as-skin wood,
over and over again.
I can hear her moaning, “Ruby … Ruby … Ruby …”

Suddenly
her hand bursts a hole through the lid
and grabs on to my wrist
with slimy, rotting, horror-movie fingers.

She starts laughing insanely,
trying to pull me down into the coffin with her,
her black nails slicing into my skin—
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Thank
God
for alarm clocks.