What a Mother Knows (26 page)

Michelle spied the Welcome to Malibu sign up ahead. If she was going to be blamed for having celebrity connections, she might as well try to come up with one.

The last rays of light ran across the cresting waves, glowing like the stained glass window of a church. The sky was lavender now, pierced with starlight and a rising moon. Michelle tried to relax as Julie turned right on Topanga Canyon Boulevard and headed through to the Valley. There was no way to avoid driving past the wooden cross marking Noah's grave. Michelle raised her ring like an offering to the heavens.

Michelle wasn't kidding about how much she hated New York, but if braving the big city helped get her marriage back on track, it would be worth it. Yet, after four hours in the studio jet, agonizing over what to say, all she had to show was a Paramount Pictures notepad smeared with lobster salad. She recalled neither the plot of the film Becca had screened, nor the names of the stars Victor had gossiped about. When she heard the unmistakable explosion of a champagne cork, she flipped her pad over on the mahogany tray table and gave up.

Bubbles fizzed so close to Michelle's nose that she sneezed.

“Bless you,” Becca sang from the aisle, where she was holding a flute of champagne out over the empty seat.

“Thanks.” Michelle reached across the leather armrest for it. “And thanks for letting me stow away. Here's to your success at the Tribeca Film Festival.”

“I don't have anything in competition this year, it's too soon.” Becca shook her spiky red hair and took another flute from the assistant in the Ivy League tie. “The champagne is in honor of you.” She clinked her crystal flute against Michelle's. Victor came up from behind her to join in the toast with his bottle of vitamin water.

“Why? It wasn't enough that you named your daughter after me?”

“Did you see the necklace she made me for Mother's Day?” Becca lifted the yarn strung with painted macaroni out from the collar of her red suede jacket. “Of course the nanny did most of the work, and I'm sure both girls will hate me when they're teenagers, but for now…” Becca took the bottle of Dom Pérignon and shooed her assistant away. He returned to the lounge area, where several executives spooned caviar from martini glasses. “Victor is presenting his trailer of
The
Noah
Butler
Story
tomorrow—and we have a great offer for you.”

Michelle tried not to burp. “What do you mean?”

“How does a million dollars sound? For story rights?”

“Good.” Almost too good, she realized. She set the champagne down. After getting loaded on two shots of Kahlua in that bar on the beach in Venice, she knew better than to negotiate drunk. Or at all. “I'd better talk to an agent.”

Victor pointed his fancy water bottle at Becca. “Told you.”

Becca turned to Michelle. “You don't need an agent. I put my ass on the line for this number to cut out that bullshit. You've been in the business forever, Michelle. You know how this works. Why waste months haggling over a price then pay some hotshot fifteen percent to justify his existence and a lawyer another fifteen to play with the punctuation? By that time you could have donated ten percent of your earnings to charity and become a legend.” She snapped her fingers and held her hand out. Her assistant appeared and slapped a check in it. Becca held it up.

Michelle counted the zeroes. A million dollars was tempting, all right. She could take the cash and run. But how far would she get? She imagined paying off her attorney, her medical bills, creating a college fund for Tyler, and getting Drew to stop working out of town. Then, if Orrin Motors offered a settlement…Oops.

Michelle shook her head. “I don't think this will look good at the trial. It might not even be legal. And if I'm found liable, there may be another trial—an even bigger one. I doubt I could keep the money then—even for charity.”

Becca scoffed and poured more champagne. “You're not guilty. And you'll be the best real-life hero we've seen on the big screen in years. First, you give a scrawny kid from a broken home a break in the business, then you try to save his life in a rainstorm and you nearly lose your own life in the process. It's an Oscar-winning role. Actresses will fight over it. Who do you like?”

Michelle blushed. The bubbles burst like miniature fireworks. “I don't know.”

“Come on, we used to play this game all the time.”

“But it's not a game anymore, is it?” Michelle said.

Victor pointed his glass at her. “An actress with attitude.”

“And humor,” Becca argued.

Michelle looked up. “Then be sure to write a scene in a private jet, where she's offered a million bucks.”

Becca laughed as a slick-haired executive joined them and chimed in. “Maybe an unknown blond, so she doesn't play guilty.”

“Blonds played guilty for Hitchcock,” Victor said.

Michelle pointed her flute at Victor's bowling shirt. “The actress would have to play what you write, wouldn't she, Victor? And you have to abide by my testimony?”

“Of course, doll. ‘The truth and nothing but.'”

“Still, casting an unknown might be best,” Becca said. “An A-list actress would pull focus from Noah—and it is his story. With a softer look, we sell a morality tale: the sensitive artist, the love story, the wounded mother against the man. Corporate greed and all that. Tate, have you met our leading lady? Michelle Mason, Tate Collins, vice president of distribution.”

“Pleasure,” he said, studying Michelle. “You're pretty enough to play yourself.” He toasted her with his tumbler of scotch just as the plane hit an air pocket.

Becca used Tate's silk pocket square to dab at the wet spot on his Armani jacket. “Excuse my maternal instinct.” She winked at Michelle. “That's what inspires our hero, right? A universal theme.”

The plane hit another air pocket, and they all clung to the closest seat back. Michelle held her notepad to keep it from sliding off the tray table.

“I'll leave you a festival pass for tomorrow so you can see the trailer on a big screen,” Becca continued. “You know how most videos either cut the song to a story or the live concert? Not Victor. He cross-cut the concert footage with a close-up of tires on a rain-slicked road. It's genius. We're sure to lock financing.”

Tate nodded at Michelle. “You know the real casting challenge? The daughter.”

Michelle's giddy mood popped like the bubbles in her flute. With a million dollars on the line for story rights alone, this was no art house film. Nikki's part would be cast with an eye on Best Supporting Actress. And if they didn't know the true story, Victor would make it up. Michelle could run from the accident, but she couldn't hide from the movie. She had forgotten how slick these people were, how seductive the spotlight could be, how she had used it herself to close deals. Friends or not, the moment Michelle gave in, she gave up her power. She looked up from the bubbles. “Becca? Tell you what—I'll sell you exclusive rights if you make me a producer.”

Becca toyed with her macaroni necklace. “You want producer credit?”

“No, I want the job: script approval, casting approval, and a veto on ancillary rights so there's never a Nikki doll sold at Target.” She looked sideways at Victor. “And Victor gets final cut.”

Victor stood up a little straighter.

“Stop kidding around,” Becca said. “This is business. You know I can't get a green light with all that. Think about it, Michelle. Most people sell their rights for fifty grand. This is a very generous offer.” Her voice rose until you could hear the concern in it. “And it might be your only chance to make a deal.”

“You mean, before the judge finds me guilty?” Michelle put her flute down. “I'll take that chance. Because if I'm not guilty, I can sell my soul to the highest bidder.”

“But we're friends,” Becca protested. “I'll protect you.”

Michelle laughed. “You said it yourself: this is business. All you have now is a two-minute trailer. And without the juicy details from my side of the story, all you'll ever have is a making-of-the-band video.”

The call buttons dinged, signaling the initial descent. Becca glanced back at all the eavesdropping executives. She leaned forward and dangled the check in front of Michelle. “C'mon, Chelle. Take the money and run.”

Michelle took it. Then she stuffed it in her flute and thrust the soggy mess at Becca.

When Becca stomped away, Victor slumped in his seat. He stared into his bottle of vitamin water as if he could see the future.

Michelle's skin prickled as she realized that they had never spoken about the accident. Something was wrong. “Is there anything you know—something I said in the office, maybe—that makes you think I was responsible?”

“That's not it,” Victor said, sipping his drink. “That took a lot of balls.”

“Balls?” Michelle repeated. That's what Becca once said she lacked.

“Thing is, if you don't do this thing, I'm screwed. I already spent the advance. Now I'm stuck with the bitch.”

“She's not a bitch. That's just what it takes to get a studio deal.”

“Ha. This movie is how she got her deal. Without it, she won't let me direct traffic.” He finally looked up. “But no, doll, I don't think you're guilty of anything. It would be more fun to write the script if you were, but you're a good person.”

Michelle smiled. “Would you say that under oath?”

“Sure,” he said. “But you're practically a fugitive. I've helped transport you across state lines, and I've colluded to buy you off for a million bucks. You want to go to jail, I'm your man.”

“Nevermind,” Michelle said. She lifted the window shade to check out the vast metropolis. Drew was down there somewhere. The thought parched her mouth, so she reached for the call button to ask for a drink of water. Her arm knocked her notepad to the carpet. “Can you help me with something else?”

Victor retrieved the pad.

“Thanks,” Michelle said, “but there's more. How are you at love scenes? I'm working on a romantic reunion between a handicapped woman and the estranged husband who served divorce papers via their teenage son.”

Victor shook his head. “Fucking asshole. He doesn't deserve you.”

“Don't be petty. I know you and Drew don't always get along, but that's my fault. I spent more time with you than with him, so of course he didn't kiss your ass like the rest of your crew. But he's an upright guy. I don't want to get divorced.”

When the seat belt light dinged, the uniformed steward hurried over and asked them to put up their tray tables. He pointed at Victor's near-empty glass. “All done?”

“Wait,” Michelle said. She reached for his glass and took a slug before he could stop her. The taste was bitter. Michelle spit it out. She mopped up the spill with the towel the steward handed her, then she shook her head at Victor.

“Wake up and smell the vodka, doll.” He stood to go back to his seat.

“See you at the trial?” she asked, her throat constricting.

“Wouldn't miss it,” he said. “Can't.”

Michelle nodded and watched him amble off. She appreciated his frankness. He did have to write the script, but the story was in Michelle's hands now.

The pilot's voice oozed from the cabin speakers, announcing their initial descent into New York. When he advised the passengers to fasten their seat belts, Michelle couldn't help but look at her lap. Sure enough, hers was already fastened.

She unbuckled it and stood up. Peering out over Victor, she could see the lights of the city. Spotlights scanned the sky, as if searching for remorse. And Michelle had plenty. She looked closer, guessing which lights were from the film festival, where the trailer would be shown to promote a movie that might never get made, not without her blessing. Michelle considered her options, not just for now, but for her future. She spotted Becca's red hair, like a stop sign, a few rows up. She took a few tentative steps, tagging the seat backs for balance, until she towered over her old friend.

Becca looked up. “Shouldn't you be in your seat? You could fall.”

Michelle chuckled—how much lower could she go? “I wanted to let you know that you were right. I trust you more than I would a stranger.”

“That's great news,” Becca said, smiling.

“Here's the thing. If I win—proven not liable—I can write my own check. But since your friendship means so much to me, I'll offer you a preemptive deal. I don't want anything now. But if I do win…it's double or nothing.”

“Two million?” The plane lurched. Michelle held her ground as Becca tightened her seat belt. “You've become quite the gambler.”

“Take it or leave it, my friend.”

Becca fiddled with her necklace until it broke. Macaroni chips spilled to her lap. She picked up a few colored pieces, then looked up. “Deal.”

The pilot's warning light dinged.

Michelle made her way back to her seat and buckled in for the descent. She closed her eyes until the whispering of studio executives turned to white noise. Then she looked out the window past the flashing red light on the shuddering wing. As the jet made a slow turn, she caught a glimpse of dark water. She imagined herself floating on the smooth surface, out to the sea. Oh, to dive under, into a world where she was a mermaid with long flowing hair and a neck ringed with pearls. She rubbed the anniversary pearls around her neck and thought about her husband.

Budding trees grew between the apartment buildings in Drew's Upper West Side neighborhood. Michelle had heard how lovely springtime was in New York, but until her taxi circled Central Park, she thought that was only in comparison to winter. Today, she appreciated the delicate scent of the dogwood trees and the laughter of families strolling slowly to brunch. And who knew the locals were so friendly! The concierge at her midtown hotel pinned a corsage to her silk sweater and promised to mail her postcard to Wes without even asking her room number. Had she not been so eager to see Drew, she would have strolled through Central Park, or splurged on a horse-drawn carriage.

Michelle signaled for the taxi to stop a few blocks shy of Drew's apartment. She wanted to walk the last few blocks and pin down her opening words. When her cell phone rang and she saw Elyse's number, she was tempted to look for a hidden camera. Michelle shrugged off the impeccable timing to mother's intuition. “Happy Mother's Day.”

“The same to you,
ma
chérie.
What are we doing to celebrate?”

“Taking a little walk,” Michelle said, “
a
vous
?”

“We are dancing, of course.”

“Of course,” Michelle said. She heard the hesitation in her mother's breath and spoke quickly to cut her off. “Do you mind if I call you back when I get home?”

“Not at all,” Elyse said and hung up.

Michelle smiled, pleased that her excuse had been honest. She had said
home
automatically, but if Drew kept working here, she might as well give it a shot. The film industry was here, too, and the women appreciated stylish shoes. She put her phone away and bought an I ♥ NY pennant from the newsstand on the corner. Elyse might not approve of her black dress and bare legs, or traveling when she was ordered to stay put, but she would certainly agree with this mission to win back her husband.

Michelle spied Drew's address on a small stone building and took a deep breath. She smoothed her hair in the reflection of the glass walled lobby, then circled her smile with red lipstick. She practiced posing with the pennant, until the doorman opened the door. Then she took a breath big enough to fly into the future. At that moment, with her life waiting seven floors above, it was true. She could live here. She loved New York!

When the elevator doors groaned open, Michelle's mouth went dry from nerves. She recognized the muffled music of Coldplay seeping from apartment 7B and gave herself a pep talk. If Drew's taste in music hadn't changed, maybe nothing else had either. Their problem was circumstantial, she decided, like the grounds for any manslaughter charge that might be brought against her. Marriage was like religion: a matter of faith. Michelle gathered her courage and knocked.

A deadbolt clicked, then Drew's face appeared in the crack. His eyes widened.

Michelle waved her pennant. “Happy Mother's Day.”

His eyes fell to her corsage. “We sent you flowers.”

“Thanks. Missed you in Key West.”

Bella's muzzle pushed through the crack. Drew slipped past the dog into the hall and shut the door, ignoring the barking that followed. He wiped his hands on the dishtowel tucked in his jeans and pounded the door to quiet Bella. The scent of cinnamon clung to him, or maybe she was just giddy from the sight of his gray T-shirt spilling over his beloved rodeo belt. The bandana on his head added a hip touch.

Michelle smiled. “What's for brunch? I'm starving.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I love you,” she said. It had just occurred to her—the perfect start. She waited for him to respond, feeling the weight of the world hang from her aching shoulder: the legal documents, the lipstick, the long nights alone.

Drew nodded to the couple passing behind her to the elevator, then locked his eyes on hers. But he didn't say “I love you” back.

“Please, Drew. I don't want a divorce. I'll move here.”

“Does Kenny know you're here?”

She shook her head.

“Your mother sent you, right? You wouldn't just show up here after—”

“After what?” Michelle cried. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Making a living!” he said, and the years rewound as if not a day had passed, as if he'd hit Play on the tape recorder in her head.

“Right, there are no TV shows in LA, no movies, no union jobs—”

“You don't need me. You never needed me.”

“That's not true!” Michelle said.

“You look beautiful,” he said, like a swear word.

Michelle followed his gaze down from her red lipstick to her chic sundress and high-heeled sandals, and finally she understood. Once, he had been attracted to her strength. Now, he held it against her. Yet it was all a glittering lie, a sparkling facade. How could he not recognize her Oscar-worthy act? She stared at the straps pinching her toes. Her head ached, and her body throbbed from exhaustion. She felt tears on her cheeks, but if she looked up he would see them. He had never seen them.

“I couldn't let myself need you,” she said quietly. “How would I have endured all the months you were gone if I did?” She took a deep breath and looked up. He saw her tears and looked away.

“The batter's going to burn.”

“Since when do you cook?” Michelle asked.

An old woman reeking of roses faltered by on a cane. “Morning, Mr. Mason.”

Drew saluted. “Happy Mother's Day, Mrs. Gottfried.”

Michelle wiped her tears and smiled at the old woman. “Yes, have a wonderful day. So sorry we haven't met. I'm Mrs. Mason.”

The woman sniffed, then shuffled past to the elevator.

“For chrissakes, Drew, aren't you going to invite me in?”

He held the door open and Bella barreled at her. At least someone missed me, Michelle thought, squatting to pet the slobbery beast as she looked around. The wooden floors were scratched from Bella's nails, and Drew's John Wayne movie posters hung above their old leather couch. But a knit blanket was crumpled on the end, and on the coffee table were pictures of people Michelle didn't recognize, a life she knew nothing about. To the right, a round table was set for two. Michelle felt a flutter of relief. She stood up and called out. “Tyler?”

“He's at school.”

Then she heard a woman's voice. “Honey?”

Michelle froze. She was tempted to take a swing at him with her purse. “You fucking liar!”

“Michelle?” The voice was familiar now, and not just from the phone call.

“Is that Sasha?” She let her purse slip to the floor. “My friend? Who used to do my hair? And taught me to knit? Did you know she's the one who made Nikki up like a slut for the video? Is this revenge for me firing her? Or do you just like fucking my boss's old girlfriend?” Michelle looked around. “Sasha! Come out from wherever you're hiding.”

“Michelle, it's not like that. We're not just sleeping together.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better.” Michelle tried to make sense of it all. No wonder her husband couldn't make love to her. He didn't love her anymore. “Nevermind, I was supposed to die, right? Sorry to disappoint you.”

Sasha tiptoed out from the other direction in a cotton bathrobe. A knit cap hugged her head. Then Michelle's rage dissolved like smoke and she could see more clearly. Sasha's slow approach wasn't fearful; it was feverish. Her pallor was gray, and her frame was skeletal. There were no blond tufts peeking from the cap, no silken strands hanging below. Sasha began sobbing. “I'm so, so sorry.”

Michelle started crying, too. The tears were so close, they came easily. Only the breathing was hard. Michelle leaned to embrace the fragile woman, but she could only raise the one arm. Then Drew stepped between them, and Michelle remembered where they were. And why. He stood a few inches in front of Sasha, blocking her like human armor. He turned and took Sasha's bony hand. He was best at playing the hero, and from the way Sasha winced as he steered her away, Michelle could see that she needed one. She wondered how much time he got to enjoy when Sasha was a stunner. Where was the line between hero and martyr?

“Goddamn it, Drew!” Michelle punched his arm as he passed, but he caught it easily. His eyes noted her gleaming gold band, newly repaired for the occasion. He let go.

Michelle tiptoed after them until she saw the dark bedroom and spied the side table laden with medicine and magazines and a mess of Kleenex. Pillows were piled against the headboard above the wrinkled sheets. The plaid bedspread was smooth on the other side, balancing a lap table with knitting needles and burgundy yarn. A book titled
Meditations
for
Cancer
lay beside it.

Michelle ran back to the living room, past the tiny kitchen, searching for a place to cry. The first door opened to a bedroom with a Yankees pennant pinned to the wall above rumpled twin beds. Michelle backed out and found the bathroom, with towels on the floor and toothpaste on the sink. She looked at herself in the mirror, at her perfect mask of makeup. Then she turned on the faucet and scrubbed it all off.

Her head was pounding, so she opened the medicine cabinet. She recognized Drew's silver razor and Tyler's can of Axe. An asthma inhaler stood next to a near-empty prescription bottle, and she couldn't help but check the label to see if her son still took the same allergy pills. Without her glasses, she had to hold it close to read the patient's name. Antianxiety pills. For Drew. She wondered if Drew's anxiety was better or worse now, whether he could sleep at night. Then she saw the physician's name:
Dr. Braunstein.

“Drew!” Michelle stormed out. “How do you know Noah Butler's mother?”

“We met at his funeral. Nikki introduced us.”

“Did she prescribe drugs to Nikki, too?”

“Michelle, please. She was doing me a favor. We didn't get a chance to speak that morning, as you can imagine, but she called a few months later as a courtesy, to see how you were doing and—she was nice enough to help me out. She was taking a leave of absence, so she gave me a few refills.”

“Ever notice a bottle missing?” That would explain the drugs that Nikki had sold in Hawaii. Drew's dope kit had to be Nikki's source. Why had Michelle not thought of that when she remembered the fight over that pretty piece of foil? Instead, she'd thought the worst. Nikki had called Michelle a hypocrite. She was right.

The smoke detector sounded. Michelle followed Drew to the cramped kitchen, where he chucked a burnt pancake and heaved the window open. The smell was overwhelming, so she went to the open window where she could breathe. The traffic reminded her of Drew's recordings of city sounds: rumbling engines and honking horns and screeching brakes. But there were no crickets calling out to lovers in the night.

He spooned a few small circles of batter onto the frying pan. Michelle watched the bubbles rise. No wonder Tyler liked boarding school. There were fewer secrets to keep. Then she realized how awful that must have been. “I can't believe you made our son lie to his own mother! Why didn't you just tell me?”

“You had enough to worry about,” Drew said. “It didn't seem fair.”

“Fair?” She watched him flip the pancakes and called up his oldest line. “The fair comes once a year.” They smiled at each other, not because the line was so funny, but because it was such a relief to do something—anything—together.

“I'm sorry, Michelle.”

She tried not to cry. “Is she the reason you're in such a hurry to get rid of me?”

Drew put the pancakes on a plate. “You and I were drifting apart well before the accident. Sasha hasn't worked in months, Michelle, and she just started chemo. I wouldn't have rushed this, but a divorce takes six months, minimum. If I marry Sasha, she can be added to my insurance policy. You'll be fine after the trial.”

He meant the settlement. Michelle didn't tell him about her deal with the redheaded devil. She rubbed her temple. “Not if I go to jail.”

Drew looked up. “Why would you?”

“If I'm found guilty—or liable for negligence—whatever they call it. What if the jury hates me?” She felt a pang and hurried on. “You'll probably come off like a saint: hardworking dad, wife in a coma, falls for a sick friend. Fuck you, Drew.”

Michelle turned to leave, but her eyes caught on Tyler's report card clipped to the refrigerator door. Drew put the plate down to yank a photo from beneath it. But Michelle was quick with her left hand now. She snatched it back.

In the photo, Tyler and Nikki were bundled up on a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park. The harness was adorned with Christmas holly. Nikki was red-cheeked and healthy in her sheepskin coat and her purple scarf, with snowflakes dotting her eyelashes as she hugged her little brother.

Michelle looked up at Drew. “You made Tyler lie about his sister, too? He said she ran away after being suspended.”

“She did—just not right away,” Drew protested. “We already had airline tickets, remember? You wanted us to have a white Christmas? I thought you'd still want that.”

“Of course, but…I thought Tyler meant it was just the two of you.” Michelle looked up. “Nikki's school records show that she didn't return after Thanksgiving. You let her stay home? Did you give her the Vicodin, too?”

Drew shook his head. “She was a mess, Michelle. We had to keep the blinds closed from reporters. A bootleg video went viral even before Victor's cut was on VH1.” He cocked his head at her. “I never pressed Tyler about it, but I suspect he uploaded the video after getting it from you.” Michelle shrugged, so he continued. “Noah had already recorded a dozen songs with the band and leaked them as downloads. His father formed Butler Music to release the first album and cut a distribution deal with Sanddollar Records.
Rolling
Stone
did a cover, the album went platinum, and fans started loitering on the sidewalk and pounding on the door all night.”