What a Mother Knows (19 page)

“That's for the final cut of the song—not outtakes of an unpaid extra who happened to be my daughter,” Michelle said, picking up the wrapper. “But I'll take the compliment. Because we both know that without me you'd be a washed-up alcoholic on the verge of bankruptcy.”

“God grant me the serenity,” he muttered. “It's my work that made them famous.”

“Not according to
Rolling
Stone
,” Michelle said.

“You agree with that scumbag reporter?” he asked. “
You
made Roadhouse famous by creating a martyr?”

“That's not what I meant,” Michelle said, backpedaling. “I haven't actually read the article. I heard about it from Noah Butler's girlfriend.”

Victor's eyes widened in surprise, then he noticed the crew watching. “Let's get the boys some souvenirs, shall we?”

“Let's get some for Celeste, too,” Michelle said. “You've met her, right? The bartender at the Venice Bistro where the band played on Sundays? Or don't you bother with that kind of research? You know, the factual kind?”

Victor shoved the box back to Fletch. He leaned his face close. “Noah Butler died in your car, doll. What the hell happened in there?”

Michelle blinked.
She
was
strapped
in
the
car, trapped by the steering wheel. Her vision clouded until she heard those raindrops thrumming just as they did against the windshield. She heard the tick-tick-tick of a clock and waited for the scream.
But there was nothing. Just the prickle of tiny hairs rising on the back of her neck.

A whooshing noise brought Michelle's attention back to the soundstage. She looked back beyond the wardrobe rack to the real hair and makeup area where the actress playing Sasha was taking off her hair extensions. She spotted the real stylist working a hair dryer on an older woman in a black suit. When she flipped her brown hair back, it was like looking in the mirror. She was the actress playing Michelle, overwhelmed and under pressure.

“Are we done here?” Victor asked.

“No,” Michelle said, pulling her gaze from the actress. She didn't feel that way anymore. She had been through hell and come out stronger. “We're just getting started.”

“You really want to profit from Noah Butler's death?” Victor asked.

“That's more your style, isn't it? But you have no idea what happened to Noah Butler—you can't just make it up. I'm the only witness. And one day, I'll remember and sue your ass. I want a thousand dollars for the Harley—or I'll call my lawyer and shut you down.”

The color drained from Victor's face. “Could you do that?”

Michelle wasn't sure, but she pulled out her phone. “Two thousand.”

***

There was a shift in the air as a side door opened and a sea of suits drifted in. Michelle was tall enough to spot a familiar head of red hair bobbing like a Man o' War in the center. She looked at Victor, who crossed his arms.

“You've got to be kidding me. This is Becca's project?”

“Oh, did I leave out that little detail?”

Michelle stormed across the soundstage until the sea parted for her.

The two women stared each other down. “I wanted to tell you,” Becca said.

“Really?” Michelle scoffed. “Because you had plenty of chances. How dare you exploit this for your own interest! No wonder you got a studio deal, you lazy opportunist.”

“Nothing lazy about it, Chelle. It's called business.” She looked at Victor, who had just reached them. “Anything I should know?”

“She's holding us for ransom.”

“Oh, phooey,” Becca said, relaxing. “We're shutting down for rewrites. And look at you. I see the Wizard hasn't lost her touch.” She reached in for a hug.

Michelle backed away. “Don't you kiss up to me, you traitor!”

Becca hustled Michelle away from Victor and the rest of the studio executives. “Chelle, you're taking this the wrong way. I meant it as a tribute to you. As much as I've seen of your long road to recovery, I'm still amazed you got out of that car alive. What was left was smashed like an accordion.”

Michelle remembered how blurry the newspaper photographs looked. “You've seen the car?”

“Haven't you?” Becca waved two men out of their tall director's chairs so the women could speak privately.

“No. But why did you? Was this ever a documentary, like Victor said?”

“Studio funding for a documentary? No,” Becca said, running her bitten nails through her hair. “Not that much has changed since you left the business. It's a biopic. We can tell a better story with dramatic license—and believe me, it's a better story now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The tragedy of Noah Butler is practically Shakespearean. He's already a rock and roll legend being compared to his hero, Jim Morrison.” She helped Michelle up to the canvas seat. Michelle sat, too angry to find the words to respond. “Look, somebody is going to make this movie. You should be glad it's me.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, stories are subjective. You can be the hero in this. Tires slipping on the slick road, nearly dying trying to save your young star—you're the one who discovered him, right?”

Michelle shook her head. “I never wanted to be a hero, Becca, or I'd have gone to save that mess of a movie in Turkey instead of sending you. I wanted to have my baby. Now I just want to find her!”

“I get it,” Becca said, opening her alligator messenger bag. “Look, there's something I need to show you.” She pulled out her iPad and tapped the corner until a picture filled the screen. Twin babies covered with bubbles were giggling in a bathtub.

“You're expanding into soap commercials? Is that why you hired Victor?”

Becca laughed. “I'd never exploit them like that.” She slid the image aside to show a closer shot of the girls. One reached for the photographer.

Michelle was dizzy with confusion. “Yours?”

Becca nodded. “Remember when I was trying in vitro?”

“Vaguely.”

“Maybe because I gave up after two rounds. I was so moody from the hormone therapy—let alone broke—that it was starting to affect my work. Then, when I was wrapping a job in Guatemala, opportunity knocked.” Becca rubbed her finger against their sweet faces.

“What are their names?”

“That's the thing,” Becca said, sitting back. “The one biting her rubber duck is Milly.”

“For your mom?”

Becca nodded. “She'd have been a wonderful granny.”

Michelle pointed at the one with the bubble beard. “Who's this?”

Becca hesitated. “She goes by Chellie. Short for…Michelle.”

Michelle burst into tears.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I started to, in the hospital, but you were so messed up. What was I going to say: I named my baby after you because I didn't think you'd make it? Oh, Chelle, I missed you before you were even gone.”

Michelle wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “I don't know what to say.” She spotted Victor speaking quietly to the actress playing Nikki. She was in full makeup now, a slutty Goth. Becca was an opportunist, but Michelle had created the opportunity. She should never have brought Nikki to the set.

“Why did you come, Michelle? Sounded to me like you need some money.”

Michelle bit her lip.

Becca stood up and smoothed her leather pants back into her boots. Then she waved Fletch over. “How much cash do we have?”

“We haven't paid the caterer yet, or the stage, so…a little over eight thousand dollars.” Becca held her hand out for the whole envelope. Fletch glanced back at Victor before offering a petty cash receipt and a pen to Michelle. “Can you make an
X
?”

“I can make more than an
X
, but I'm not signing a thing.”

“I am,” Becca said, grabbing the slip from Fletch. She signed it, then took the envelope and waved Fletch away. She put the money in Michelle's palm and let her hand linger. “I hope you do find Nikki. You deserve a happy ending.”

She stepped down from the chair, then looked over to the set where the crew awaited direction for the next setup. She nodded at Victor.

“Thank you, people, that's a wrap!” he called.

The crew members looked around, then began breaking down the equipment. The stage went dark. The camera was shuttered, cables were coiled, and wardrobe was packed. “Don't forget your time cards,” Fletch called. “We'll be in touch.”

Michelle put her hand on the armrest to stand up. “After the rewrite?”

Becca helped her. “After the trial.”

Four days later, Michelle was studying the postcards filling the wire stand by the Maui Charter Center desk. Similar shots graced every kiosk in Maalaea Harbor and she wasn't sure which one she'd seen in Dr. Braunstein's drawer. She was only sure of the words: We chased our pleasures here, dug our treasures there…But can you still recall, the time we cried…Was Nikki having fun here when she wrote that? Or thinking of the funeral where she had last seen Noah's mother? Michelle spun the rack so hard it wobbled. Nikki was here, or had been, but where?

Michelle scanned the boat slips, bustling with weekend activity. Suntanned crews were washing down fiberglass boat decks, rigging colorful sails, and fueling engines for today's excursions. She wished Tyler was here with her, enjoying the soft tropical air. But he was already in school back east, where the spring pollen was brutal.

Alone, Michelle was all business. Since Nikki's savings account was empty, surely she needed a job. When she showed Nikki's picture at personnel offices, Michelle learned that none of the hotels hired underage staff. So here she was, wearing an itchy straw hat and a long-sleeved cover-up, continuing her search outside.

Michelle joined the sleepy tourists clustered around the sales desk. She'd refused to waste time buying coffee, but now she salivated at the aroma of the Kona blend rising from their cups. A bell clanged and the crowd splintered into groups rushing toward the docks. Michelle turned to see the jumble of excited families on the boardwalk choosing between charters. Pale honeymooners strolled hand in hand to the sparkling white catamaran in the center berth. Michelle envisioned Nikki as one of the clean-cut tour guides in preppy shirts who welcomed the couple on board.

A jovial Hawaiian man waved a free postcard of the Maui sunset to Michelle from behind the desk. “Aloha, pretty lady! How can we make your holiday more enjoyable? Whale watching? Sunset cruise?”

She took the postcard to practice her signature for Wes and noted the tour manager's nametag. “Those do sound appealing, Reuben. I'll take whichever my daughter chooses, as soon as I find the boat she's crewing. I forgot the name—probably a snorkel cruise with a stop at Turtle Town.”

Reuben reached stiffly for his thermos cup of coffee. “We have eight snorkel excursions in Maalaea Harbor.”

“If I give you her social security number, can you look up her payroll and steer me in the right direction? I know that's bad to do, but—her name is Nicole Mason.” Michelle flashed her sweetest smile.

He shook his head. “There's no one named Mason working for us.” He beckoned the family in matching Hawaiian shirts behind Michelle. “Aloha!”

Michelle realized her mistake. “Excuse me, could you please try Deveraux?”

He dropped the smile. “Like I told your
Haole
friend, that
wahine
not here.”

Michelle dropped the act, too.
Wahine
meant “woman” and
Haole
meant “someone from the mainland,” but
frien
d
? That didn't translate. A chill rose up her spine.

“
Pau
—all set?” When Michelle didn't answer, Reuben welcomed a group of men in golf shirts. “Aloha! How can I make your holiday more enjoyable?”

A camera flashed. Michelle clutched the counter with her good hand and snuck a look behind her. She relaxed at the sight of tourists snapping pictures in every direction. The paparazzi hadn't followed her, but someone else had. Michelle felt someone's eyes on her and turned to see a pasty man in dark shades and a creased Maui Hilton T-shirt turn to a map of the islands posted on the parking lot fence. Michelle turned away and perused the postcards again. She picked one up, but her hand shook too much to hold it.

She ducked a few inches, leaning against the side counter to get her phone from the drawstring bag. “Husband,” she commanded. The phone dialed and Drew picked up. Michelle panicked and clicked it shut. He'd ordered her not to be here. As if he could do that.

When the phone rang back, she snapped it open and rushed to explain. “I don't care if you're angry, Drew. I'm not the only one in Hawaii looking for Nikki. If money is the problem, get over it, because I got a loan from Becca, who, as it turns out, is working on a movie about Roadhouse. And don't be mad at Becca, because you know someone is bound to make this movie and I'd rather it be a friend, and she shut down production anyway, which means that Victor's audio engineer is out of work, so he's available to replace you in New York and you can meet me here in Maui.” There was quiet on the other end as she caught her breath. “Okay?”

“Not okay,” the man said. “This is your lawyer. Remember me? The one who advised you to stay home?”

Michelle swore to herself. “Hello, Kenny.”

“Michelle, this case was hard enough without you sabotaging it. I was calling about Tyler's letter jacket. I found it in the truck. If I didn't have so much time invested in this case already, I'd quit right now.”

“I'm sorry, Kenny. I'll send you some money.”

“From the producer of a movie that will be influenced by the case? Not a good idea.”

Michelle spotted the man in the windbreaker a few slips away. The advantage of being tall was that she could spot him easily. The disadvantage was that he could spot her as well. “Kenny, I think someone's following me. Tell me I'm being paranoid.”

“Paranoia is just a heightened state of awareness, Michelle. Any number of people could be following you. My bet is on the car company. They want to find your daughter as much as you do.”

“That's not possible.”

“Maybe not, but they'll pay more. They think her testimony about seeing the recall notice will absolve them of potential liability. I thought I'd explained this to you.”

“I was a little foggy.”

“But not too foggy to fly off to Hawaii?” Kenny covered the receiver and spoke to someone in his office far across the Pacific Ocean. She scanned the tourists until his voice returned. “Hang on, Michelle, that's Drew on the other line.” He clicked off.

So did Michelle. She turned the ringer off her phone and buried it in her purse. For a moment, she wondered if she should work with the person following her, doubling their chances of finding Nikki. No, she decided, they might pull some legal shenanigans to keep them apart. She had to find Nikki first, even if it meant riding every boat in the harbor. She ran back to the Maui activity hut.

Reuben fanned several brochures. “What kind of boat for the pretty lady?”

“You pick,” Michelle said. She looked behind her. The pasty man was gone.

Reuben tapped each brochure. “Tradewinds II is most popular. Five hours, pupu, mai tai, and BBQ. I offer special, one hundred twenty-five dollars, today only.”

Michelle couldn't waste the day on one boat. She needed to check out all the crews. “Anything shorter?” She balanced herself against the counter to flip the brochure open. Her sleeve fell, exposing her forearm.

Reuben dropped the sales ploy. “My brah has an arm like that, from a sugar cane thresher.”

“Nothing so exciting for me, I'm afraid. Car accident. That's why I'm a little fuzzy about which boat my daughter is working on. I've been in the hospital awhile. She's young, not an experienced sailor.”

Reuben leaned close and lowered his voice. “There's one captain hires kids, pays cash.” He pointed to a weathered gray fishing boat casting off from the dock at the far curve of the small harbor. “They snorkel at Molokini Crater, then make a quick stop for turtles. Maybe try that, yah? Only fifty bucks. All the poi rice you can eat. But you better hurry.”

Michelle gave him three twenties and didn't wait for the change. What was an extra ten bucks in the scheme of things? She would pay anything to see her daughter's smile. Her flip-flops slapped against the wooden boardwalk as she hurried around the small harbor toward the last slip.

A red bandana waved at the end of the dock, where young families heeded the last call for the
Jolly
Roger
. Despite the dented hull of the tour boat, the ragtag crew collecting tickets on the entry ramp was enthusiastic. They lacked proper deck shoes and pristine haircuts, but were easily identified by matching skull and bone T-shirts in assorted fades of black. Michelle slowed to study their faces.

“Ahoy there!” shouted a gravelly voice from above. High-pitched squeals were deafening as children spotted the spindly old man with an eye patch leaning over the crow's nest with a parrot on his shoulder. “Ahoy there,” the parrot squawked as parents shoved past Michelle to secure spots at the railing.

A pretty Hawaiian girl passed out soiled orange life jackets. Michelle pushed up her gift shop sunglasses and peered into the portholes at the rest of the pirate crew setting up below. Once the first mate cast off, she would interrogate them one by one.

By the time the hotels lining the Kaanapali coast disappeared in the morning mist, Michelle was quelling her nausea with a macadamia nut muffin. Vomiting wouldn't endear her to anyone, so she was stuck outside on the deck until she could stand up between swells. The hearty couple sitting next to her clutched their coffees and pointed at the Hawaiian girl balancing the breakfast tray. They grinned at each other as their brood rushed to the rail where the girl flung crumbs to shrieking gulls. Michelle smiled at their matching yellow shirts. She and her kids had worn matching flowered prints when they were last here. Drew declined, but she didn't care how dorky they looked, they would never get lost. If only Nikki was wearing hers now.

When the seagulls flapped their wings and flew off in formation, the Hawaiian girl led the children back to the bench like baby ducklings. Michelle found the photo she had cropped of Nikki in her birthday crown and stood up. “Miss? Or should I say, Matey?”

The Hawaiian girl looked up. “Leilani. Can I help you?”

The boat lurched. Michelle grabbed the nearest pole and dropped the picture. She crouched to rescue it from water as dingy as Leilani's sneakers. Then she noticed a spot of color peeking through the grime. It was purple, dotted with tiny black skulls—like the Converse high tops Michelle had given Nikki for her birthday. Michelle hated the skulls, but Nikki had insisted. Michelle said a silent prayer and peered around Leilani's heel, but whatever name had been embroidered there had been blacked out. “Yes. You can tell me where you got these shoes.”

“Lost and found,” Leilani said, reaching to help Michelle up.

“When?” Michelle tried to keep the excitement out of her voice.

“Long time ago.”

Michelle held up the sodden picture. “Ever seen this girl?”

Leilani's eyes glazed over like sea glass. “No. Is she in trouble?”

The music stopped and a voice called out on the tinny speakers. “Ahoy, me hearties! Time for snorkel orientation below deck. All landlubbers walk the plank!”

“No trouble,” Michelle said, not sure what to reveal. A real friend would help a teenager hide, even from her mother. Especially from her mother.

Kimo, the buff first mate, approached, waving the crowd inside with his bullhorn. “Let's go!” He raked his blond locks and ripped off his shirt, like a Coppertone ad. There was something sad about the softening belly at the base of his V-shaped build, the tan line at the top of his board shorts, and the barest hint of ganja trailing him on the salty breeze.

“I'm not snorkeling,” Michelle said.

“Bar's open,” Kimo replied, pulling a tube of Chapstick from his pocket. Several tweens circled him like a sweet-smelling lei.

Michelle held her breath from the girls' cheap perfume as they asked for the loo. When Kimo corrected them and called it the “head,” they giggled at the hint of sexual innuendo. Michelle watched them skip off. Tonight they would go to Cheeseburger in Paradise and sit at a picnic table on the top deck, giggling about this over milkshakes and fries. Nikki was never so silly. If only she had been, then maybe she'd have been on this boat for fun instead of food money.

Kimo waved them off then turned back to Michelle. “Piña colada?”

“Sold,” Michelle said. She followed him down to the bar.

Halfway through her watery drink, Michelle heard her daughter's voice. At first she thought she was imagining it, or that she was already drunk, but no. That was Nikki. She dropped the plastic glass. She craned her neck over the sunhats and rose, oblivious to the complaints of tourists wiping sticky liquid from their shins. Michelle pushed through the crowd. Then she saw her, larger than life, an image of light projected on the fiberglass wall.

This suntanned young woman in the pirate hat was nothing like the gawky girl wearing disco earrings and a birthday crown, nor the blushing teenager in love. This was a stranger. Her cheeks were full and her eyes sparkled. She belonged more to the crowd of tourists than to Michelle.

And yet, none of them understood the irony of Nikki's beaded blond braids. They didn't recognize defiance in the way she tied her T-shirt above her black sarong. Nor could they translate the pierced navel into a message as clear as Morse code. Nikki had once prided herself on being intact, natural—she refused to pierce her ears. But at some point, she had severed the umbilical bond. Now, Michelle worried they might never be whole again.

“Pay now,” Nikki was saying, “to appreciate the next two hours for the rest of your life.” When she waved a henna-painted hand, Michelle caught her breath until her throat was so constricted that barely a speck of air flowed through. She swallowed hard and moved closer, one painful step at a time, until she was only inches away. She reached to touch her daughter's face. A hideous pain shot up her right arm. She bent over and cradled it tightly with her left hand, ignoring the crowd of witnesses who surely thought that she was crazy. But Michelle wasn't crazy for reaching out. She'd be crazy to ignore the heart heaving against her rib cage.