5

can’t believe this!”

I totally can’t believe what I’m reading.

“What’s up?” Laini’s tiny feet pad into the living room at the sound of my outburst. Once again the apartment smells of great baking. Tonight, Laini is trying her hand at apple turnovers, and I’m so glad because I really need something carb-laden to take the edge off after reading the drivel in front of me.

“This script Julie had couriered over,” I say smacking the pages with the back of my hand. “It’s total garbage.”

“What do you mean? I thought Julie was a great writer.”

“She is!” Personality notwithstanding. “She’s got to be doing this on purpose.”

Laini hands me a small plate with a warm turnover. “Here, I’ll trade you. Let me read that while you try the recipe.”

“Deal. I’d rather eat anyway.”

I hand her the script and dive into the warm, fruity sweetness surrounded by baked dough. Laini should really be a baker.

When I look up from the turnover, Laini’s flipping through the pages, a frown creasing her brow. “Okay, where are your lines?”

“I don’t have any,” I say glumly and shove another bite in my mouth.

“You have a week’s worth of script and not one line?” She turns her incredulous gaze to mine. “That stinks.”

“Tell me about it.” I point to the script with my fork. “Look at page six.”

She turns a couple of pages and reads aloud. “Felicia’s eyes roll beneath her closed lids at the sound of her sister’s voice.”

“That’s all the acting I do all week. Otherwise, I just lay there and try not to laugh at the bad dialogue between the nurses.”

“So Felicia’s just been wrapped up in Legacy, Illinois, in the hospital where her sister works for three years?”

“I know…”

“It just seems like when they change the bandages, someone would have recognized her. Or what about her wedding ring?”

“Page ten,” I say around sugary apple filling.

Pages flip and she starts to read. “‘The unknown hospital nurse takes Felicia’s ring from her finger and slips it into her pocket.’ I don’t get it,” Laini says.

“Okay, they created a flashback scene where I am brought into the hospital burned beyond recognition. The assumption is that the no-name nurse pulls my ring off because it’s so big and valuable. She thinks I’m going to die anyway, and we’ll never find out who I am.”

“Haven’t these writers ever heard of DNA testing and fingerprinting?”

“Well, there’s no one to test her DNA against and unless she’s a felon, those tests wouldn’t help figure out her identity anyway.”

Laini shrugs. “I guess. It just seems a little over the top. Don’t you think so?”

“That’s just the way soaps are. Anything can be written to explain anything. They’re not highly based in reality.” I grin. “That’s why they’re so popular. Housewives want that hour of escape.”

Laini hands me the script. “Well, maybe the next week will be better for you.”

“I hope so.” It’s just so disappointing. I mean I’ve been waiting and waiting for them to send me my first scripts. And today I get next week’s script, and I don’t say one darn word all week.

“So how’s the apple turnover?” Laini asks.

Ah, something happy to talk about. “This is fantastic. Did you make this from scratch?”

“Of course!”

“Laini, I swear you should have your own bakery.”

I see interest flicker in Laini’s eyes. “Wouldn’t that be fun? But bakeries don’t make enough. I’d go broke in three months.”

“With food like this? Are you crazy? You’d be a millionaire in three months.”

Laini reaches for my plate and stands up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think I’d better stick with what works.”

“You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t step out in faith, Laini.”

She gives me a grin. “Okay, but right now I have a job that pays my bills. As long as I can bake for my grateful friends, I’m happy.”

“You can bake for me anytime.” If I weren’t so scared of Freddie’s militant torture, I’d ask for another turnover.

Laini turns suddenly and gives me a wide-eyed smile as though she’s had a brilliant thought. “Hey, when I come back, want me to help you run lines like the old days?”

I give the pages in front of me a once-over and stare at the back of her head as she retreats into the kitchen without waiting for my answer. Run lines? Is she kidding me? What lines?

I’m not sure, but I honestly don’t think my mouth is supposed to be covered here. My whole face is wound up in gauze, except my eyes. And staring at myself in the mirror, I’d just as soon they were covered too so I couldn’t see how hideous I look. I know that horrible Julie Foster wrote me into the script this way just to keep me anonymous a little while longer. She’s so vindictive. And if you want to know the truth, I think she’s sort of nervous about me kissing her husband once Rudolph discovers to his surprise and joy that Felicia wasn’t killed, but merely maimed (another fact I’m not so happy about) and suffering from severe amnesia.

And lest anyone forget, let me just insert a little history: Julie divorced the slug husband who made a pass at me three years ago at the Christmas party—right before she killed off my character in a fiery inferno. Then she started dating a sitcom actor from a poorly rated, cancelled-after-six-episodes show that taped in the same building as Legacy of Life. After they broke up, I’m not sure what happened, but apparently, Trey caught her eye, left his wife, and married Julie. So she is now at least three men out from the one who supposedly broke her heart by attempting (but never succeeding) to kiss me.

Now that we’re up to speed, let me just reiterate how unfair it is to bring me back and keep me wrapped up and then scarred up. If I know Julie, she’ll prolong my hideousness as long as she can. So unprofessional. And so not fair. Who wants to kiss a guy with chronic coffee breath anyway? Not to mention the fact that he smokes, and last time we played a romantic scene together, he tried to slip me the tongue and I had to stomp on his foot.

Okay, it’s getting awfully hard to breathe here. I know my mouth isn’t supposed to be covered. I do have some lines as I go in and out of an anesthesia-induced sleep on this first day of shooting since my return to the übersoap. Uh. Makeup ditz, hello? I raise my hand to Tonya, the twenty-year-old makeup “artist.”

“Everything okay?” she asks, looking at me in the mirror.

I point to my mouth and widen my eyes. I’m seriously losing the battle against my fight for air and my head is feeling woozy, then I realize my passive nature isn’t going to help me here. I yank at the wrappings myself just as the girl realizes maybe I’m this close to death. “Oh! Miss Brockman. I’m so sorry.” She makes a leap for my wrappings and relief is forthcoming. I take in a few gulps of air.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she begs. “I’ll for sure lose my job this time.”

Has she killed anyone? Because I was almost done for. “This time?”

She nods miserably. “Last week I used superglue on Joseph Toreno’s fake mustache. I didn’t know it was superglue. But it took a few days for the stuff to loosen enough for him to pull it off. He refuses to allow me to work on him anymore.”

Who can blame him? I give her a nod of sympathy. “Have you considered a different career? You’re pretty enough to be on TV.”

“Thanks, but I’d die if anyone paid that kind of attention to me. Besides, hair and makeup have been my dream all my life. I went to cosmetology school just so I could get this job.” She ducks her head. “I’m not really supposed to tell people this, but Sharon Blankenship is my mom. She pulled strings to get me hired. She’ll kill me if I’m fired.”

Sharon Blankenship. The matriarch of Legacy of Life and diva to put all other divas to shame.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” I say.

She leans over my shoulder, and I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If Sharon’s your mom, I don’t think you have to worry about getting fired.” Her face immediately perks up. I smile. Now that I can breathe again, I’m feeling more generous.

A stage guy shows up just as Tonya puts the last of the gauze in place. I look like a crazed mummy, with fabulous violet eyes. Contacts for the part. But they really are gorgeous. The stagehand ogles the pretty makeup girl and barely notices Mummy-girl. “They’re ready for Miss Brockman.”

“She’s ready to go.” Tonya flashes me a bright smile and I’m charmed. I think I might have found a new friend.

Okay, so what do I have to do all day? Lie in a very uncomfortable hospital bed while “nurses” bustle on and off set, messing with my IV and talking around me.

Old Nurse says to New Nurse, who is unfamiliar with Felicia’s situation: “Oh, isn’t it just a shame? Imagine being so disfigured and in a coma for three years.” (Oh, masterful writing, Julie. I’m awed. Really. Not.)

New Nurse: “Isn’t there any way we can find out who she is?”

Old Nurse: “We’ve exhausted every avenue at our disposal. Until she wakes up… if she ever does, we’ll just have to wait and pray for the best.”

Nurses bow their heads for a moment of silent prayer. Pu-lease.

Oh, oh, my big moment. Time to put all that acting experience into motion. I move my right index finger. The camera is zooming in, but the praying nurses don’t notice that their patient is obviously coming out of her three-year coma.

And cut.

And there we have it. Acting at its most brilliant.

Squeeze those muscles, Tabby. You’re as flabby as old lady Blankenship.”

If I weren’t going ten miles per hour on the elliptical machine and dripping with sweat, I’d take the time to tell Freddie-the-horrible to keep those remarks about our show’s matriarch to himself if he knows what’s good for him.

“I. Am. Squeezing. You jerk.” I can’t breathe, and I know that’s not good.

“Your butt is that squishy even while squeezing? Oh this is so much worse than I expected.”

Okay, the guy has been training me for more than a month, so he knows exactly what my glutes look and feel like. He’s just being mean and trying the tough love approach to get me to work harder.

“Okay, Freddie, who told you to get me to lose more weight?”

Mr. Innocent gives me those eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cupcake Abs, and what are you doing slowing down? Get back up to speed, and for that little ‘break’ I’m adding five more minutes.”

Totally unintimidated, I come to a complete stop. Freddie looks like he’s going to go through the roof. “What do you think you’re doing? Step it up, girlfriend.”

“Not until you tell me.”

“Okay, fine. Jerry.”

“Bull. Jerry couldn’t care less. Have you seen his wife?” Two hundred pounds if she’s an ounce, and Jerry adores the Missus.

“Okay. It was Julie Foster.”

“Julie?”

He gives a nod. “The cow says she’s not writing for an overweight heroine. It’s too hard for audiences to believe the hunky guys like Trey are in love with fat women when there are so many hot women running around.”

“Hunky?” I can’t help but laugh. “If they had to kiss his coffee breath, they wouldn’t think he’s so hot.”

“I just do what I’m told.” He has that eye of the tiger, and I know I’m about to get yelled at so I move my legs and go back to the torture. But I’m definitely having a talk with the powers that be about this.

Jerry, I can’t physically get below a size six, and even a six is pushing it. I’m genetically predisposed to a size eight or above.”

A snort from Julie raises my hackles. I whip around in Jerry’s plush office and face her. “Why can’t you write me in as curvy, not fat?”

She ignores me and stays focused on Jerry. “Jerry, sweetheart, no one is going to believe a man like Rudolph will fall in love with someone with a large behind.”

Oh, she is begging to be tossed out of that chair onto her own boney backside.

“What are you talking about?” He frowns and eyes me up and down. “She looks like she hasn’t had a meal in a week.”

Hello? Remember me? Still in the room here.

Julie turns to me and gives me a once-over without making eye contact. “She’s at least a full size bigger than the last time she was on the show. Trey would never be attracted to… that.”

Jerry scowls and I can see he’s growing impatient with her. “Well, this isn’t about what Trey would be attracted to. It’s about what Rudolph is attracted to, and his love for Felicia has nothing to do with the size of her derrière.”

Oh yeah! My new hero. Jerry Gardner. Who would have ever thought? As much as I hated to be a tattletale, I can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Maybe there are just times when a girl needs to go to the powers that be.

Jerry swings around and shoves his finger toward me. “Next time you have a problem with Julie, go through Zoe. What do I have an associate producer for if people are going to just go over her head?”

Humiliation burns my cheeks, and I can feel Julie’s mocking gaze on me.

I stand and give my ex-hero Jerry a two-fingered salute. “Will do. Thank you for not making me lose more weight than is healthy for me.”

“You’re welcome. Now get out of here. Both of you.”

Julie jerks to her feet and slides around me, avoiding any physical contact. I guess she’s afraid some of my chub might wear off on her and make Trey lose interest. I mean really, given her track record with cheating husbands, who can blame her?

I follow her out and she spins on her stilettos, glaring at me like she needs an exorcist. “Don’t get too comfortable, chickee. You won’t be here long.”

I stand there gaping at her as she sashays away, leaving me slack-jawed and speechless, wishing I had a quippy comeback. But then, I never really do.

So, how are things going now that you’ve been back to work for a while?” Through an uncommon series of events, Dancy, Laini, and I are all three home tonight for dinner, and Laini has cooked us a fabulous shrimp scampi (from a box, but still), a lovely Caesar salad, and she’s baked a cake with the words Break a Leg written on it. Triple-layer chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. I’m in heaven.

We are sitting at our small, neglected kitchen table catching up for the first time in weeks. I relay my day of stardom.

Dancy spears a juicy shrimp and pops it into her mouth. “Do you have any lines yet?” she says around the bite. Her mother would be mortified with her lack of table manners, but Laini and I couldn’t care less. Dancy’s come a long way out of all that snootiness of Fifth Avenue old money.

“Oh yes. Want to hear them?”

They give me an enthusiastic response, so I mold my face into something truly pathetic, I’m sure. “Rudy,” I whisper in a barely audible tone. I open my eyes and look at my friends. “And then the Old Nurse says, ‘Did you hear that? I think she said something. Honey, what did you say?’”

Mold my face back to pathetic. “Wh-where’s Rudy?”

Eyes open. “And New Nurse says, ‘Who’s Rudy?’”

Back to pathetic face. “‘My husband.’ Eyes closed, my head goes to the side as I pass out, camera fades to black, and that’s the way the show will end for the day. Tune in tomorrow for more of Legacy of Life.”

“Brava, brava!” My friends clap and whistle, and I feel like I’ve just won an Emmy.

“Thank you, thank you.” I grin and raise my wineglass filled with Diet Pepsi. “To fulfilling our dreams.”

“Hear, hear,” Dancy responds by lifting her own glass of diet something or other. But… Laini isn’t lifting anything, least of all her head.

Dancy and I give each other a look and set our glasses down. Clearly one of us isn’t in a toasting mood.

“Everything okay, Laini?” I ask, feeling a sudden knot in my stomach.

Her face clouds and sudden tears well up in her eyes.

“What is it?” Dancy’s voice echoes my concern.

But ever self-sacrificing, Laini shakes her head. “Forget it. I don’t want to dampen the evening. This is your night, Tabs.”

Reaching out, I take my friend’s hand. “Are you okay, Laini? You don’t have cancer or anything do you?” I’ll just die if my friend has cancer. Cancer runs in Laini’s family. Or is it lazy eye?

“For crying out loud, she doesn’t have cancer.” Dancy gives me that “shut up and listen” look of hers. So I do.

We both turn our silent attention to Laini who finally caves under our scrutiny.

“Well, it’s just that… ACE Accounting is going out of business.”

“What? That’s absurd.” I’m shocked. How can the accounting firm with the all-time best accountant ever go under? Especially right before tax season. I voice the questions. Laini smiles. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But it’s not about me not being good enough. Thomas Ace, the older brother, has been embezzling. He’s been brought up on charges, but the other brothers have to declare bankruptcy.”

“So essentially,” Dancy says, a frown creasing her brow—another thing her Botox-addicted mother would be appalled to witness, “you and the rest of the underling accountants are out on your rears?”

A miserable nod barely moves my friend’s head. It’s like she’s too depressed to even respond. I can’t believe it! That just stinks for my pal. And I know how she feels, believe me. If anyone can sympathize, it’s me. “Laini, that’s so rotten. What are you planning to do?”

“Well,” Dancy says. “Obviously Laini is going to have to stay rent and all other bills free until she finds another job.” Dancy meets my gaze. “Right?”

“No, you guys,” Laini protests. “I couldn’t. Really. I’ll just,” she gives a huge gulp like she can hardly force out the next words, “move home with my parents for a while.”

“That’s a terrible thing to even think, Laini.” Tragic really. “Of course you’ll stay rent free. You guys saved me from the streets—or worse—moving back in with my mom. Why would you even hesitate to tell us about this? Am I a jerk and don’t know it?”

“Well, you’ve been talking about saving for your own place,” Laini reminds me.

“That was before I knew my friend needed me. And you know darned well I’m way too needy and dependent to wander around all by myself in a condo. I’d rather just stay right here.”

Laini laughs and swipes tears from her cheeks. “You’re a terrible liar.” She squeezes my hand and reaches for Dancy with the other one. “But thank you. Both.”

I smile at my bosom buddies and raise my glass again. “All for one and one for all.”

We let go of each other’s hands and this time, we all raise our glasses.

Apartments are a dime a dozen. Friends are forever.

It’s been about three weeks since I attended church. I’m ashamed to admit that, but my focus has been a bit off since I went back to work. We film about three weeks in advance, so this past Friday was the first episode with my hospital scene where I’m calling for Rudy. Of course once I’m fully awake, viewers will realize that calling for Rudy was subconscious on Felicia’s part and she doesn’t really have any memories of her beloved husband.

So anyway, I feel a bit out of the loop as I step back into the four-hundred-member church. People look at me and give me that “long time no see” look. Some are obviously thrilled to see me. Some seem resentful that I’ve been gone and others ignore me like they couldn’t care less if I’m there or not.

Between Sunday school and church there’s a fellowship time that includes baked goods and coffee. I head to the fellowship hall. And yes, I have ulterior motives. I want to know if anyone saw Legacy of Life on Friday. If they did, will they know I’m the actress in the gauze?

Of course, the problem with looking for validation among church folks is that those who do watch soaps won’t admit it. So even though I have had a few women and one man give me the thumbs-up, I can tell no one wants to talk about it and take a chance on being overheard. So I figure I’d better just let it go.

But, I mean, what’s so taboo about it anyway? I don’t do nude scenes, my character doesn’t cuss, any love scenes are going to be between me and my “husband.” So lighten up, people. I have to believe that God is the one directing my life. After all, we make a deal, and right afterward I get fired from my job and whammo—Legacy decides the answer to their falling ratings is none other than little ol’ me. How can anyone not see how much of a God-thing that is?

I see the worship leader cram a last bite of muffin into her mouth, take a swig of coffee to wash it down, and head out of the fellowship hall so I assume it’s about time for the main service to begin.

I spot my parents and Shelly when I enter the sanctuary. We’ve been sitting in the same pew for fifteen years. And Mom’s been wearing the same outfit for the same amount of time. I mean, sure, she buys new ones when the old ones wear out, but I’ve never seen her wear anything but a black skirt with a black jacket, a white shirt and a pair of black pumps—one-inch heels. I swear I think we’re in a rut. I hesitate, about to duck into a backseat somewhere and escape the Brockman pew, when Mom turns and spots me. How does she always know? I give a tentative half-smile and with resignation striking a sharp chord in my chest, I drag my feet up the aisle and slide past Dad (who sits on the end) and Mom (who of course sits next to Dad) and take my seat (as the first child) by Mom. Shelly barely looks at me. Which is fine with me. What am I supposed to say? “So, Shell, when is the blessed event?”

I’m spared the necessity anyway, because no sooner do I sit, than she springs up, shoves past my knees, Mom’s knees, and Daddy’s knees, then sprints up the aisle.

“Should I go after her?” I ask Mom.

Mom scowls. “What are you going to do about morning sickness?”

Oh . . .

My mother looks downright ready to throw up herself. She has a sick kind of “why is this happening to me?” expression on her face. Like when one of us brought home less than an A on our report card. Or a tattle note from the teacher.

“Michael didn’t show up?” I say, more to change the subject than anything… get Mom’s mind off my sister who we are probably both envisioning hugging the toilet.

I guess mentioning Michael’s absence wasn’t a good thing either. Her face clouds, and I swear if she doesn’t stop frowning so much, no amount of Botox will ever be able to smooth out those lines between her eyes. Not that Mom would ever stoop that low anyway. I’m just saying . . .

She ignores the question and stares stoically ahead.

Shelly returns a minute later, pale, shaky, and looking as though she might need to bolt again any second. And lo and behold Michael stumbles in ten minutes into praise and worship. It’s obvious he just rolled out of bed. I feel Mom heave a sigh of relief and relax a little.

I wonder what people see when they look at our family… a decent set of parents saddled with one daughter pregnant out of wedlock, a twenty-five-year-old career college student for a son, and me, an actress on a soap opera—something many people consider evil or at the very least immoral.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I scarcely notice I’m panning the congregation. That is until my gaze comes to rest on a guy who has special written all over him. And he’s looking back at me. He smiles in a knowing way, like we’ve met or something. But I’m sure I would remember if I’d seen him somewhere before. I don’t know, maybe he’s a fan of the soap. Or—and wouldn’t this just be my luck?—what if his wife is a fan of the show?

I try to catch a glimpse of his left hand, but he’s too far away. Darn it. Just as I’m about to smile back, someone nudges into the row. I look up and there’s Brian staring down at me like he owns me. He stands there making a total spectacle of himself and our family until Shelly scoots over and lets him sit by me. I’m horrified. Truly. And as much as I’m dying to see Mr. McDreamy’s reaction, I’m too humiliated to glance over there again. But then it gets worse. Brian grabs my hand and laces our fingers before I realize what’s happening. Mom smiles and pats my knee.

Okay, this is the last straw. Mom has got to stop trying to get me to marry this guy. Really.

Freddie’s really kicking my butt here. Sweat pours from my head like a cloud burst over me. I’m totally soaked, head to toe. “Give me a break, Freddie!” I gasp as he turns the treadmill up to 6.5 mph.

“You used to run an eight-minute mile, girlfriend,” he says without mercy. “You’re out of shape and flabby as Rosie O’Donnell. I know you’ve been gone for a while, so you have an excuse for being as big as an elephant. But do you want to stay that way?”

“Hey, don’t be mean. In what universe is a size six big as an elephant?”

“In this one, baby girl.” He kicks the treadmill up another notch to 6.6. “It’s brutal. I hear Rachel Savage just made ‘Best Bod’ in Soap Mag.”

“Like I give a flip.”

“She’s gone from a size six to a size two. I mean her ‘before’ photo is the same size as your everyday photo. What do you think of that?”

Oh, it’s on! “Crank it up to seven-point-zero, Freddie.”

Rachel Savage is going down.

No fat, carbs, or chocolate will touch these lips from here on out. I will not be tempted by delicacies and fetching sweets no matter what yummy smells pour out of my own kitchen. If I’m going to compete in this business, I will have to make some sacrifices. There’s too much at stake. Even if I have to be a skeleton, I’m hitting a size four.