Story Girl (35 page)

We said our goodbyes and I leapt out of bed and wrapped myself in a sheet. I walked out onto the deck and looked down at the creek. Moonlight had transformed the green water into a shimmering silver spectacle; I wondered if my father saw it too. He was probably passed out by now.

The door slammed and I walked back into the room. I sat on the bed beside him, “Are you mad at me?”

He turned on the television, “No.”

I put my head on his shoulder and drew a heart on his back with my index finger.

“When I left the spa, Tan told me I had a golden spoon lodged in my throat. And until I removed it, I would have no true voice.”

I giggled and rubbed his knee with my thumb.

“When are we going home, Tracy?”

“Soon.”

“And you want to keep going with this thing?”

I wasn’t exactly sure what thing he was referring to, but I knew the answer anyway.

“Yes, most definitely.”

He looked at me with uncertain eyes, “And you think we’ll make it?”

I nodded my head.

“Why do you think so?”

“Because there’s really nothing left to do.”

chapter
52

T
HE PLANE WAS
chasing the sun when he’d said it.

“You’re going to have to give the money back too.”

It was the last thing I wanted to hear, but much like a season or a subway, I knew it was coming. Still, I was extremely proud of him.

“I know.”

“If we’re really serious about this, Tracy.”

“I know.”

“We’re in this together. Students enrolled in the school of tough shit. Because your car wasn’t worth twenty-five thousand.”

“I know!”

“We’ll get real jobs and it will force us to write our guts out – every spare second that we find. No squandering time on television or video games.”

“Sex?” I asked.

“Very necessary to keep all the juices flowing.”

“And then all the forces of the universe will join us in our efforts?”

“Yes.”

“I also think that we should keep our separate places – at least for now.”

“That may change,” he said.

“It may.”

We were thirty thousand feet above Colorado. My parents were in seats behind us, although Mary had insisted on buying their flights as a belated anniversary present. And given the choice between Alaskan freedom or familiar mayhem, my father chose the latter. But my parents were quick to point out that just because they were coming to Hollywood did not mean they were back together – although the fact that the old shed was still standing bode well for their continuation as a couple.

“What are you thinking?” I asked him.

“We’ll keep writing because we love it, because we are worthy of it. We’re already worthy, and that’s why. We won’t do it because we’re empty, but because we’re full. We’ll write as an expression of love – something we want to share with the world.”

“Right. And we’ll need wine.”

We landed at LAX and took a shuttle bus to James’ one bedroom apartment in Woodland Hills. The four of us found seats in the center of his bachelor pad and stared at the old movie posters that were tacked to his walls.

“What’s your all-time favorite film, James?” my father asked.

“Star Wars.”

“You know, I haven’t even seen that one yet.” My father said this like it had just been released three weeks ago.

James looked at me as though a major crime had been committed.

“Why is it your favorite?” my mother asked.

“So many reasons. But I actually really like the effects. Everyone talks about how dated certain effects look these days – with all this new and perfect digital technology. But you know what, some of the new stuff looks pretty damn phony too – the computer graphics can really look goofy behind the live action stuff.”

My mother nodded her head politely.

“I mean, I’ll take old-fashioned models over any modern day action film where the invading armies are – very obviously – millions of little digital people.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“And what’s your favorite film?” he asked her.

“Let me see – I’d have to say Giant. You’re never going to see three better looking people on a screen. I mean, James and Elizabeth.”

“And Rock,” I said.

“Yes, of course. Rock. My eyes twitch just thinking about it.”

As my mother and boyfriend chatted about movies, the invisible weight that had long ago crash-landed on my chest seemed to be dissolving.

“So what would everyone like to do tomorrow?” my father asked.

“James was thinking you might like to see the big car museum. And then we can all meet for a drink at Bar Marmont, and then maybe a quirky indie over at the Laemmle.”

“You lost me at bar, Tracy.”

“I’m suggesting a movie.”

“That sounds alright,” my mother said.

“And I was thinking I might take you for a spa treatment, Mom. We can get a facial and a massage – whatever you want.”

“I’ve never been to an actual spa.”

“Then it’s high time. Plus, there’s someone who works there that I’d like you to meet.”

James announced that he was going to make pancakes for dinner. He insisted that no one was allowed to help him in the kitchen, which meant my mother was left to steal peeks as he cracked eggs and stirred batter.

“Your boyfriend’s really cute.”

“I know.”

“And you were brought together by a car crash?”

“A mild one.”

“There’s a lesson in there, sweetie.”

We watched James study his syrup supply.

“Sometimes crappy events can alter the entire course of a life,” she said. “Like a bump in the road.”

“Or a junk heap.”

“Yes,” she said. “Especially a junk heap.”

I looked between my father and mother.

“What?” she whispered.

“What’s happening with you and Dad?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Any ideas?”

“We’re just going to hang out and see how we feel.”

“Hang out?”

“Yes, sweetheart – hang out.”

“So you don’t really have a plan for your life?”

Before she could defend herself, I was snickering, “I’m just teasing you.”

We ended up insisting that my parents take the bed with the good sheets, while James and I struggled with his old lumpy college pullout – but even as I tossed and turned, I knew that I wouldn’t have traded a second of it.

I listened to the rhythmic snoring of my father, hoping to subdue the excitement in my gut – but some feelings were just too rare to sleep through. I wondered if my parents were glad to be sleeping side by side – like finding a trusty old slipper that had long since disappeared behind the fridge.

In this little block of space on a non-descript street in the Valley, something beautiful had happened – a beneficial sort of give and take. And I knew it was possible to compromise in a way that didn’t mean slipping into oblivion.

chapter
53

I
STARED LONG
and hard at my bank account balance.

I’d asked the teller to print it out for me one last time. Part of me was skeptical that I’d ever see a figure like that again – at least one belonging to me.

Damnit. I could’ve kicked myself for inspiring James into such drastic measures. I’d asked him to at least wait until we received word from Mitch, but he said that would be playing it way too safe.

“Anything else?”

I looked at her as though she were speaking Swahili.

“Oh yes, I’d like to take my balance and put it all in one big money order.”

“The whole thing?”

“Everything less a thousand.”

James and I agreed that finishing the script had earned us some grocery money.

“And who would you like to make it out to?”

“Paulette Wilson.”

“Could you write that down for me?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“The name.”

I inhaled deeply, checking every corner of my interior for the hives.

“Certainly.”

I left the bank, walked to the nearest coffee shop, and pulled the money order out of my purse. There was something else in there too. Mary had sent me a package, but I hadn’t been ready to open it.

It was wrapped in simple brown paper and sealed with a string. I slowly untied the book and stared at the cover. A woman was sitting in a chair. Her back was turned and she was looking out an open window, but I instantly knew that she
knew
things. Perhaps she knew that she’d been thwarted somehow. And perhaps she was going to do something about it.

Mary had sent me
A Room of One’s Own
– the extended essay by Virginia Woolf. I opened up the front cover:

To my tenacious granddaughter,

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”

V. Woolf

(Use it if you need to; the universe loves to help those who try… and then try again).

At the back of the book was a blank check folded into a tiny square. I put it on the table next to the money order, and pondered the synchronicity of it all. It was as if some powerful force wanted me to keep writing without worrying about anything else in the process.

I stared out at the busy street and thought about Virginia Woolf. No matter what happened, I wouldn’t fill my pockets with heavy rocks. I’d keep going and going until I either succeeded or my time simply ran out.

James and I had already started a series about a child who can see the repressed thoughts of other people. We’d started it the same day my mother had called to tell us once again how much she’d enjoyed Los Angeles – especially the spa.

I closed my eyes and remembered that day – Tan hadn’t been around but that didn’t stop my mother from reaching an important conclusion on her own.

“He
should
have a license plate upstairs.”

We were lounging together after hot stone therapy treatments, and I had to turn and make sure it was she who had said it, and not some super-relaxed voice in my own head.

“At least one.”

“I think he’s earned it,” I said.

“Me too.”

“Which state?”

She carefully slurped up the remnants of her pineapple smoothie, “How about the state of recovery?”

“Dad should have taken you to one of these joints earlier.”

She turned serious, almost sad.

“What is it, Mom?”

“Do you remember being a baby?”

“Not really.”

“Then you’ll never know how much I cared for you – changing your diapers, spoon feeding you mash – wiping up your milky puke.”

I nibbled at a large piece of mango.

“You were so easily the most precious thing in existence.”

She looked as though something of meaning had simply disappeared right before her eyes, and there was nothing she could ever do to get it back.

“But somewhere deep inside I do remember, Mom – it’s probably what allowed me to come here in the first place. To have the audacity to think that anyone would give a shit about what I thought about anything.”

“Really?”

“Deep inside me there is a tiny little girl who can still feel the warm fingers on her belly and the gentle whispers on the crown of her head.”

I didn’t mean to make my mother cry, but it happened anyway. And it was probably a good thing – a long overdue thank you that I’d needed to extend.

“I know which one I want to read,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I want to read the one about that ambitious little boy. The one who makes it all the way to the Pinwheel Galaxy only to discover that he misses his family – but can never return to them again.”

“Space Boy.”

“Yes – the one you guys keep talking about.”

“That’s the one.”

“It sounds sad, Tracy.”

“It is.”

“Why?”

I reached for my mother’s moisturized hand and squeezed, grateful that we’d both returned, “A cautionary tale.”

I handed her my bowl of mango slices and a small warm stone fell out of my ponytail. We started laughing – mild at first, but soon tears were running like rivulets. And it was hard to imagine that my life could get much better than this.

I closed my eyes and whispered a thank you to my grandmother – the one person in the universe who was able to whip us into something as light as a mousse.