Brandon, chipper and concerned, seems to have had a good night’s sleep, if looking like a leading man in a pair of old boxers and a ratty JHU T-shirt is any indication.
He sits at the dinette and pours himself a glass of juice. “Well, I’ve officially turned off my phone. I told my agent and manager that we’re all doing fine, nobody’s dying, and they’d better damn well handle it because I’m not only paying them for the good times.”
“Well done,” says Jack. He offers to make us breakfast but both Brandon and I refuse. I get my weak morning stomach from him.
“So what’s on the agenda for today?” Jack asks Brandon, refreshing my coffee, no space-age crystals included.
“I have the benefit luncheon at noon, a cocktail photo op session at four, a little schmoozing afterward with the really big donors, and then I’ll be back.”
“And I’m useless now,” I say, pointing to my leg, not stating the obvious fact that I’m thrilled I don’t have to appear in public. Terrible way to get there, but since I’m here, might as well appreciate at least one of the outcomes.
Brandon winces. “Never useless, Fia. Think of how much better it will all be knowing I can come back and hang with you.”
I smile. I can’t help it. So does Jack.
“We’ll plan a nice time. Right here,” he says. “Because I have a feeling you won’t be going anywhere today, Fia.”
“I have a feeling you’re right about that.” What in the world am I going to do with myself all day?
An hour later Brandon is off in a rented Saab and Jack has left to run out to the country for some meeting with clients trying to make their next factory as close to zero emissions as possible. Not only do I not have the Schwinn, but even if I did, I only have one usable leg to power it with.
Oh, boo-hoo, Fiona.
I decide the upper deck is still the best option, and so I grab a book—speaking of The Great Gatsby—and a bottle of water and plant my bottom on what now feels like my own lounge chair.
At eleven my phone rings.
Oh joy! Jessica.
I knew it had to happen; I could feel it coming like rain in the tropics, but some spark of hope that it wouldn’t nevertheless had remained ignited. Until this drowning moment.
There’s no help for it. She’ll keep calling over and over until I answer her. That’s her way.
So much for divorce. While Brandon crept away, Jessica still did her best to pounce.
“Hi, Mother.”
“Well, you picked a fine time to have an accident, Fiona. I’ve been doing damage control ever since, but I think you’ll end up looking all right.”
I’m actually stunned. I mean, Jessica, being an utter narcissist, is the queen of the turnaround, and I only know all this due to hours and hours of therapy and reading. But this has got to be her greatest one yet.
“Are you there?” she says. “Did you not hear what I said?”
I bolster myself with one of those cleansing breaths you see on yoga shows. “I think so. But let me repeat it back to you just so I’m sure I’ve got it. I accidently ripped my thigh open on a rusty rake, called a cab and made it to the emergency room, got my picture snapped by a bystander who then sent it to a blogger who got it out on the Internet, and assumptions were made. And since you have a movie set to release, not to mention your little tell-all, you used it to the fullest to get your name out there and garner all kinds of sympathy without calling me once personally to see how I was doing, and I’m supposed to be falling down at your feet in gratitude? Is that right?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I figured you’d have this kind of reaction. You have no idea what I go through because of you. For sixteen years I’ve had to bear the stigma of you divorcing us. I will always be seen as an inept mother because of you. The fact that I care at all, much less call you, is amazing forgiveness on my part, and you just refuse to see it.”
I lost all hope of Jessica ever changing years ago. “Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused you. But I’m in a lot of pain right now.”
“Surely they gave you pain meds, Fiona.”
“Mom, I’m not going to take them. I can’t afford to risk it.”
“Well, at least Brandon is there. Although the timing was nothing more than sheer luck on his part.”
She’s a one-woman show in the theater of the absurd, isn’t she?
As for my dad’s timing, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t a bigger picture of things at play all around us that I’ve never really been aware of before now.
“Whatever the reason, he’s here and it’s going pretty well, so I’m glad.” That should have hit the mark, whatever the mark even is with her. I’ve stopped trying to make so much as a guess at that one. “Anyway, I’d better go. I’m really tired.”
“Well, I’m thinking about coming soon. To help you with your recovery.”
And without waiting for my good-bye, she immediately ends the call.
Oh no! Oh, hell no, she is not coming to Baltimore. She is not coming to my town.
I immediately dial Josia.
“I thought you might want an update,” I say after his greeting washes over me like a fountain of peace. How does he do that?
“You thought right,” he says, his voice coming through more clearly than usual.
“Everything okay at the house?”
“It’s good. Good. Now, are you sure you’re fine about the kitchen?”
“Absolutely. Do whatever you want.”
“Carte blanche? You’re certain?”
“I am. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past twenty-four hours. What you did with your space is more than beautiful, and you work with what you’ve got on hand.”
“I’ve always found that for the most part, what’s on hand is usually enough. Sometimes more than enough. You provided it, Fia. The crib ends, the books, the toys. Don’t you see?”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about, Josia. And I’m sure there’s definitely more than enough at our house.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m in a lot of pain, but I’m just sitting around for the most part so it’s okay.”
“No, Fia. I was talking about the publicity.”
“You know?”
“Of course.”
“But I thought you had no idea.”
“Who you are?” He chuckles. “No. I recognized you right away. You were a fine actress, probably still are if you want to know and accept the truth of the matter. I’m sure it’s like any other innate talent.”
Thankfully there are no paparazzi on this deck to snap a picture of my open mouth. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Your past makes no difference to me.”
The matter-of-factness of his tone implies nothing but sincerity.
“And why should it?” I respond. “I mean, you’re right. It really doesn’t make a difference. You live your life, go about your day, run your forge, fix up the house, and I used to be a pill-head nympho, and never the twain shall meet.”
“Pretty good deduction there. Good.”
“I mean, why should I think I’m that important to the whole damn world?” I gaze out over the harbor, happy that my self-description didn’t shock him one bit. No shock. Not even pity. Just acceptance. This is new.
The late-May temperatures are solidly in the midseventies now, and the lunch crowd is just beginning to tunnel out of the nearby businesses in search of a meal. And boy, do they have choices around here.
My past makes no difference to them either. While there might have been some watercooler chitchat among those who care about the lives of famous entertainers and sports stars, none of them are going to live their lives any differently because I quit my job, went to rehab, and then quit my job for good. The latest round of news regarding Fiona Hume isn’t even going to affect what they put on their forks at dinnertime tonight. I have nothing to do with what shoes they’re choosing to put on their feet or how much they’re willing to pay for a good cup of coffee.
Maybe one day, long ago, I helped people my age foster really bad choices. I can see what a terrible role model I was. But those days are gone, right?
None of it is true anymore. Ten years is a long time. Ten years of obscurity throws the ball firmly in the other person’s court. It’s on their own heads now.
“Why did I think I was that important to people?”
“Oh, you were in the sense that you kept people from thinking about their own lives.”
“Beautiful. So I provided a distraction. What about the role-model thing?” Might as well get his take on it while we’re on a roll.
He laughs. “Fia, it’s okay. Just remember that if it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else. It speaks every bit as much about the people themselves, the people who are just looking for an excuse to do what they wanted to do anyway. It’s not your job to judge them for doing that.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Good. It all comes down to what we choose to do. Now, there are some whose choices are forcefully removed from them, and that breaks our hearts. But you didn’t do that to anybody.”
He’s right about that. “If you say so.”
“Well, I’d better let you go. Don’t want to tire you out. When’s your follow-up appointment?” he asks.
“Day after tomorrow.”
“You need a lift?”
Not knowing either Jack’s or Brandon’s schedule, I say, “I’m not sure.”
“Let me know if you do.”
Ten minutes later I look over the edge of the deck, and somehow, only God could know how, they’ve found me. A group of photographers and reporters stand waiting around their cars, chatting it up, hoping I’ll have to come outside.
Beautiful. Just beautiful.
Jack left me the number for the restaurant next door with instructions to order anything I want for lunch. I inch my way into the kitchen to retrieve the slip of paper from the counter as well as the menu sitting next to it. There in big red letters at the bottom sits my full-fledged relief in the words FREE DELIVERY.
Take that, paparazzi-type people.
Not wanting to take advantage of Jack’s kindness or to give myself a reason to owe him even more than I already do, I go simple. The blood I lost left behind a craving for red meat, so a hamburger will do nicely. And with a side of “secretly seasoned shoestring fries,” how can I go wrong? And how does one “secretly season” something? Is the seasoning a secret or does one of the kitchen staff, and nobody knows who, sneak in during the night and season the fries with no one the wiser? I can’t help it. I laugh out loud at the thought, and man, does that feel good. When I call, I make sure to order the fries just the way they are described. “I’ll take a hamburger, medium-rare, and a large order of secretly seasoned shoestring fries.”
“Fifteen minutes,” the order taker says without hesitation, a very busy kitchen speaking into the phone with him.
“I’ll be waiting.” Especially for those secretly seasoned fries of yours.
“Sorry, but our delivery guy was a no-show today. You’ll have to come pick it up yourself.”
Seriously?
“Do you all have a back entrance?” I ask. I should just cancel the order, but those secretly seasoned fries have quickly become an obsession.
“Yeah, why?”
“Those reporters and all out there? I’ve got a phobia of strangers and—”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure. Come on in through the alley. I’ll just say you’re a friend of mine.”
I love this town of nice people and mysterious fried food.
In the span of a second, I weigh the option of pain and hot food vs. a bowl of cold cereal and a lounge chair. And believe it or not, I feel the weight of all my past decisions come raining down to settle in a set of golden scales that fills my mind-screen like a PowerPoint presentation, and not a very good one at that.
One side is filled with all my poor choices, the other is dangling there with just a few ingots, and only one of those is proactive and not simply reactive in a good way. That decision, LET JOSIA REDO YOUR DWELLING, glows in my picture in shiny gold letters.
So I can continue to let life and people come to me, eat whatever crap happens to be at hand, in both the literal and the figurative, or I can risk a lot of pain for the nutrition I need.
“Tell you what,” I say into the phone. “Scratch that order. I think I’ll just walk down and eat in the dining room.” Secret fries don’t have to be consumed secretly, do they?
“Okay. Sorry about that.” For some reason his voice makes me think of a lot of people on a sofa, all smoking cigarettes.
“No worries. Thanks for your time.”
So, okay. Now that the euphoria of decision making has passed, I need to implement the necessary steps between myself and those fries.
I stand over my suitcase and bemoan my quick-draw packing the day before. Then again, Jack’s closet could be a treasure trove. But even slipping in the back of the restaurant doesn’t mean a photographer won’t go in for lunch all on his own, so the pains are necessary. For truthfully, I just want all this to go away. Maybe I can somehow set the record straight and get some protein all in one go. That would be a nice change of pace from being a hermit.
Oh, who am I kidding? They’ll all find something to make fun of me for. But does that matter? Granted, it shouldn’t, but does it?
In the grand scheme of the universe, not one bit.
I can almost hear the word good coming out of Josia’s mouth and straight to my ear.
The alleyway is the ticket. I don’t need to play this game.
Then again, that attitude is what got me in trouble in the first place.
I stand inside Jack’s closet and am freshly impressed by his shirt collection. I grab one of his tank-top undershirts and a freshly starched spread-collar shirt of cotton so soft I’ll probably just go ahead and sleep in it and wear it again tomorrow. With my gray skirt and black flats, it should look at least slightly planned. And having entered the inevitable menswear phase when I was twenty, that should not come as a big surprise.
By one o’clock, I slowly climb down the steps to the first floor, my bad leg stiffer than a Buckingham Palace guard. I stand in the hallway, the back door of Jack’s house and the front door both visible with a swivel of my head. Something ignites inside of me. I do believe I’ve finally had enough.
Enough of Mother, my father, and myself.
Just like that.
Is that how this really works?
Don’t question it, Fia! Just go with the flow of it. Like you said you would!
So I head straight out the front door and am at once amazed by the bombardment of people yelling my name and snapping pictures. I only expected a few would find this worth their while. My error is both delightful and horrifying at the same time. At least twelve people assemble.
I remember my signature gesture of a peace sign and immediately discard it on the junk heap of tired-out images. Instead, and don’t ask me where this is coming from, I hold my hand up like the Queen of England and smile, thankful I remembered to throw in my makeup bag when I packed.
And in that smile, and the gracious replies to questions being lobbed my way, I tell my mother regarding her meddling about in the world of my publicity, “Thanks but no thanks. Ever again.”
“Is it true you injured yourself due to inebriation?”
I suddenly recall my role as a teenager ridiculed and bullied and how the character overcame it by throwing herself into her ballet. Yeah, I know. A ballet movie. But she was, and still continues to be, an inspiration to anyone who watches the film. I let her embody me for just a split second to remember what it feels like to be empowered enough to be yourself.
“Not true at all.”
“Why were you in the emergency room?”
I can actually tell where this voice is coming from. Tony. The politest one of the bunch, he followed me around for three years.
“Tony!” I shield my eyes against the sun of a zero-humidity afternoon. “How are you?”
Everyone chuckles.
“Long time, no see!” someone shouts.
“Hi, Fiona,” Tony says. “Good to see you again.”
He always did have a nice smile. And he still wears his signature black Jack Purcells, jeans, and a fitted black T-shirt.
“Likewise. Did you fly all the way from LA?”
He grins. “Took the red-eye just for you.”
I laugh and run my fingers along my temple. “You’ve got some gray in there now. Looks good.”
He laughs. “Thanks.”
“Then let me answer your question.”
Two more photographers run up to stand in front of me. My skin prickles underneath my clothing as my face heats up and my leg begins to throb. Mostly men, dressed comfortably but nice, raise their cameras to their faces. Two women, one a redhead with a propensity for denim, the other with a classic bun and black clothing, do the same.
“I’ll pose for pictures in a sec,” I say. “But I really want you to listen to what I have to say.”
The cameras lower as my gravity is raised.
“Do you mind if I sit down? This leg smarts.”
I head over toward a bench by the restaurant’s front door. Tony runs up and offers his arm. “Let me,” he says.
“Thanks.” I curl my fingers around his forearm and pull in close, using his side for support.
“It’s good to see you, Fiona,” he whispers.
“After all these years,” I whisper back. “You were always nice, Tony.”
“I always tried to balance the scales for you.”
It’s true. Nobody took better pictures of me than Tony.
“Why?”
“It’s my way.”
“Well, it’s a nice way.”
We reach the bench. I let go, turn around, and lower myself to the seat. “I hurt my leg, you see,” I say. “Go ahead and take some pictures and then I’ll talk.”
For the next thirty seconds, I smile for the crew, lifting my skirt a tad to show the bottom edge of my bandage.
“All right. I was in my basement looking for a shovel. I’m relandscaping my back garden.”
“By yourself?” the classy woman asks.
“Mostly. A friend is helping me out there.” Pandora’s Box sits in front of them, and they smell the fragrance of a new story coming from within. Whether it’s a stench or not is up to me.
“The man upstairs?” Tony asks.
“Now there’s a hottie,” says a photographer.
I laugh. “No. Not him. A very true friend. Anybody have one of them?”
They laugh.
“Anyway, I lost my balance stepping over something. Yes, my basement is very basementy, and a rusted rake tine split open my thigh.”
“So you weren’t drunk?” asks a younger man dressed in khakis and hiking boots.
“You’re new in following me, aren’t you?” I ask.
The veterans laugh.
“Alcohol wasn’t my problem. And I haven’t touched anything stronger than ibuprofen in ten years.”
“Even for that?” the other woman asks, pointing to my thigh.
“No. I’m not taking any chances. I’m living a very boring life these days, and I find it’s the life for me.”
Really? Is this true? Two months ago I was as miserable as I was ten years ago. But the answer fits.
“Care to tell us more about your present life, Ms. Hume?” Tony asks.
“Not today. I’m in pain and I’m hungry. I’ve got an exclusive interview scheduled in July, so stay tuned. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading into that restaurant right there to eat some secretly seasoned fries.” I struggle to a standing position, trying not to laugh.
“A few more pics?” someone, I can’t quite tell who, asks.
“Sure.”
And I let them take as many as they want. Finally, “Now go make some money off of this.”
We laugh together as the disassembly commences.
That wasn’t so bad, even though I forgot lipstick.
Tony helps me inside. The first members of the lunch crowd take note.
“It’s good to see you doing well,” he says while I wait at the podium for the host to seat me.
“Despite the leg.”
“Yes, there’s that. Do you ever plan on going back into acting?”
“Oh, definitely not!”
“You were good.” He adjusts the shoulder strap of his camera bag. “That’s a real shame.”
“Is it, though? There are a lot of good actors out there.”
The hostess appears. I put out my hand. “Thanks, Tony.”
“For what?” He shakes my hand.
“You’ve always treated me decently.”
“Shouldn’t everybody?”
“Ha!”
He grins, exposing teeth that would have benefited from orthodontia, but not much. “Yeah, I know.”
The hostess steps up to the podium. Her mouth drops open. “Two for lunch?” she stammers.
I look at Tony. “Why not? You hungry?”
He hesitates and I know why. He’ll lose this scoop.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I totally get it.”
“You know what? No. No, I don’t care. Let’s have lunch.”
I turn to the hostess. “Two for lunch, then.”
She slides two menus off of the stack. “Follow me, please.”
Tony offers me his arm. I take it, hearing the click of a camera behind us.
“Would you like to sit outside on the patio?” the hostess asks halfway through the restaurant.
Yes, outside sounds just right.