Unscripted (37 page)

“Faith,” he said around a mouthful of Mexican leftovers, “’s just me.”

“Yeah, well, that goes double for you.”

“You met the crew, yeah?”

“I’m hoping you rushed back here to keep me from killing them all.”

“Exactly right.”

“Well, you’re too late. I’ve got ’em all buried in the back yard. Saved a space for you too.”

“Faith, I was
going
to tell you. I was!”

“
When
were you going to tell me? You’ve had plenty of time. But I guess you were too busy cleaning out my bank account, right? So, what, you were going to come clean when you needed to hit me up for more money? After all, I’ve got some investments you haven’t gotten your grubby little paws on yet.”

“You do?”

“Don’t even think about it,” I growled.

“Nah, nah—don’t have to, do we? Now that we’re on MTV and all.”

“I heard. From the crew of strangers making themselves at home in my house!”

“So—free sailing from now on. All gravy!”

“Then I’ll thank you to sign over those checks MTV writes Random Shit Productions: ‘Pay to the order of Faith Freakin’ Sinclair.’ Might take quite a few of them, come to think of it.”

Jamie approached me cautiously. When I didn’t rip his head from his neck, he gingerly put an arm around me. “I’ve got an even better idea.”

“Oh God.”

“Producer credit.”

“Oh
God
.” I rolled my eyes and ducked out from under his arm.

“What? ’S a brilliant idea. Loads of cash in it, and you don’t have to do a thing. Just sit back and watch the money roll in.”

“As easily as I watched the money go out?”

“Faith, it was an
investment
.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Tompkins. I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone’s shoveling it.”

Jamie actually smiled around a mouthful of taquito.

“What are you grinning at?”

“You sound just like Mona.”

“And there’s strike three.”

“She’s been talking about you, you know. This afternoon, while you were out.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Nah. She’s chuffed you came to see her. Never seen her so happy.”

“Shut up.”

“Truth. I think she’s going to get better faster if you’re going to stay around.”

“Well, the bad news for you is that I
am
going to stay around. And that means no more shooting in my house.”

“But—”

“No buts. If you’re going to be an L.A. resident for a while, it’s time you got your own place. Make MTV pay for it.”

“That’s a good idea . . .”

“Experience, my dear stepbrother. It goes a long way.”

“And that’s why we need you as a producer.”

I thought about it a minute. There was no way I was going to get my money back in a lump sum, no matter what. This might be the only way I’d get reimbursed at all. “Who’s your contact at the network? I want to negotiate my terms.” That was something else I had a lot of experience with, and I was about to work it, big time.

* * *

I spent the next couple of days at the hospital, then stayed up all night, each night, writing new scripts and talking with Mason. I filled him in on all the details of Mona’s illness, Jamie’s follies, and plans for
Modern Women.
He told me how the students were doing—especially Kaylie, who was having trouble recovering from her addiction to Alex—and expressed how hard the faculty and kids were taking the news of the dissolution of IECC’s theater department. He wanted to visit me, but he felt he should be around to help get the students transitioned over to UCR or whatever college they ended up choosing, so we settled for lots of promises, future plans, and a little bit of smutty talk late at night.

Although I didn’t mind making the hospital my second home, I had to admit I was a bit relieved to walk into my mother’s room one day after making a coffee run to find my most recent stepfather, Dominic, by her bedside as she napped.

“Rossmerry,” he crooned in his thick accent, holding out his arms.

“Hi, Dominic.” I gave the rotund man a brief but warm hug. “How was Australia?”

“Very nice. Wait. I have something for you.” He rummaged around in a plastic grocery bag on the floor and brought out a brown and yellow jar. “Is Vegemite,” he said, holding it out to me. “Is good. Fix your wagon.”

“My wagon is fine the way it is, Dominic.”

“You take. You eat. Is good. Yes?”

He looked so eager, I couldn’t say no. “Thank you.”

Then he looked over at Mona, and his face fell. “This crazy,” he whispered. “I told her she no need this. She beautiful. So beautiful.” His pouchy eyes filled with tears. “I love her the way she was.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Mona mumbled. “I’m not dead yet.”

Dominic immediately grabbed her hand. “She tell me to go home. But no. I stay here.”

“I have Rosemary,” Mona protested.

“I stay,” her husband insisted.

“You irritate me, old man,” she muttered, but with a smile. Dominic brought her hand to his lips.

“Have you slept, Dominic?” I asked, banishing the jar of brown goo to a far table.

“Pah. Sleep.”

“Did you at least get some rest on the plane?”

“No, I too worried. Before that.”

“Good grief, you must have been up almost twenty-four hours by now. Look, at least stay at the beach house Mom rented.”

That got his attention. “Beach house, eh? How surf? Any ‘tasty waves’?”

I tried not to laugh, failed. “I have no idea, Dominic.”

“Wait! I have surf report app.” And he pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Of course you do.”

“Maybe I go, I surf, I come back here, then surf more later?”

“A fabulous idea.”

“You want me to open Vegemite for you before I go?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

* * *

When Alex rolled back into town, I was too busy with Mona to think about dealing with him. So I left him to Jaya without a second thought; I found I’d rather help Mona out, and keep her company, than babysit the ol’ prodigal star. I trusted Jaya.
So this must be what it’s like to delegate,
I thought.
Not bad.

Mona was recovering nicely—and ahead of schedule. The doctors were impressed, but I took it as a matter of course. This was Mona Urquhart, after all—she wasn’t about to let a touch of sepsis slow her down. She was going to vanquish it out of sheer bullheadedness.

Her improved health was paralleled by her increasing number of demands for everything from stocking her hospital bathroom with special organic towels and handmade soap to exactly what she wanted for her meals, three times a day—and sure as shootin’ it wasn’t going to be anything from the hospital kitchen. The finest of fine dining establishments all over Los Angeles were put on high alert that Mona Urquhart needed meals. I suspected bookies were making a small fortune taking bets on which one she’d choose for each meal, each day. At least Mona wasn’t demanding linens, bone china, and silver service to eat it with. Yet. Right now she was tickled to be eating out of plastic containers—her version of slumming.

When she wasn’t selecting which restaurant was going to serve her next, Mona was holding court—once the bruising eased and the swelling went down a bit. She wouldn’t have been caught dead looking too ill and puffy, after all. Every big name in Hollywood managed to come see her—and some smaller names too—until Jamie and I got a talking-to by the charge nurse because of all the traffic. With Mona’s visitors limited to three at a time, it eventually quieted down, and there were even times when I was the only one with her. And what was interesting was I didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would.

One day, when I was unpacking some delicate gnocchi and a serving of greens and beans from one of her favorite Italian bistros in Beverly Hills, I decided to ask her something that had been bugging me for a while.

“Mona?”

She sighed. “You know, dear, I’m actually disappointed that we’re back to the ‘Mona’ thing. I rather enjoyed you calling me Mom. Or is that reserved only for when I’m well and truly ill? Should I use that as a bellwether for my impending passing, when I’m in my dotage?”

“Force of habit, I guess. I’ve been calling you Mona for so long it’d be pretty hard to change now.”

“I suppose.” And she took a tiny mouthful of the greens and beans. “Now, what did you want to say, dear?”

“Right. I . . . well, I happened to see the interview you did for your latest boxed set—”

“Did you?” She sounded thrilled. “How did that happen? I thought you didn’t, er, partake of my offerings.”

“You mean I don’t usually watch your movies? That’s true. But lately I’ve realized that there’s something to be learned there.”

“Ah, my little girl grows up. How nice.” And she nibbled on a gnocchi.

“Any
way.”

“Yes?”

“In the interview, you, uh, said some stuff about me.”

“I did, yes.”

“Was that . . . was it true? Or did you just say it because, you know, it sounded good?”

Mona put down her fork. “To what are you referring, exactly, Rosemary?”

Oh God, she was going to make me say it out loud. “The part about your being proud of me.”

My mother smiled patiently. “Yes, Rosemary,” she said slowly, as though she were talking to a child. “That was true. It’s still true, in fact.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Why wouldn’t I be proud of my successful daughter?”

“But it’s not my success.”

Mona started to tuck into her food again, stopped. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“I didn’t get the show off the ground. You did. By telling Randy to order the pilot.”

“Oh, that. How did you hear about it? Did he tell you? I told him not to.”

“No, you did. The first day you were here in the hospital.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were pretty out of it.”

She shrugged. “Well, I wanted to help.”

“Why couldn’t you just let me do it by myself?”

Mona actually laughed. “Oh, Rosemary, some things never change with you. You used to say that all the time when you were a toddler. ‘I want to do it myself!’ I heard that day and night. You never wanted anyone’s help.”

“Well? Why couldn’t you just let me do it?”

“Oh, my darling daughter.” Mona put down her fork again and, smiling, cradled my face. “I did it solely because you never, ever asked me to do anything for you. When I saw the opportunity to help, I jumped at it, even if I had to do it secretly. It gave me the greatest satisfaction, finally being able to give you something, even if you didn’t know it. I did it out of love for you, simple as that.”

I was mortified to find tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “I thought—” I started in a choked voice, “I thought I was just . . . a complication. Like you just barely put up with me because I existed, but wished I didn’t, because you’d rather be making movies instead.”

“Rosemary,” my mother declared, “that is the most ridiculous statement I have
ever
heard issued from your lips. I made movies
and
had you. It was never an either/or situation.”

“You weren’t very affectionate when I was little.”

She sighed. “I know. I simply didn’t know how. My parents weren’t demonstrative with me, and unfortunately I picked up the same bad trait. But I was more affectionate with you than they were with me, if you can believe it, so I expect you to be even more affectionate with your children, and we’ll break this cycle of chilly parentage. How does that sound?”

Swiping at the corners of my eyes, I actually laughed. “What children? I’m too old for children.”

She gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Not yet, dear. Not yet.”

“I don’t have time for kids. I’ve got a show to run.”

“I did it; so can you. I have
faith
in you.” She winked at me, pleased with her little joke. “Have you been in contact with Jaya? Has Randy approved your return yet? If not, I could make another phone call—”

“Mother!”

“I’d accept ‘Mother.’ That would do nicely, thank you dear.”

* * *

Soon enough Mona decamped to the beach house to continue healing, and she forced me to go to the studio as soon as Randy officially reinstated me. Being back on the set of
Modern Women
was the most incredible homecoming I could possibly have imagined. I loved signing my new contract in front of Randy—and giving him a dazzling smile and daring an air kiss—and yes, he flinched, afraid I was going to grab him again (as if). I enjoyed the extended round of applause from everyone when I walked onto the soundstage, the hugs and good wishes, and Jaya turning over the director’s chair to me once again. But best by far were the everyday things: Randy staying the hell away from the set and letting us get on with it (for which Jaya was eternally grateful). Settling back into the tiny corner I called my office—and bringing back my “personal stuff” that I’d had to tote home with me months before. Going over the new scripts with Jaya—and Elizabeth, whom I promoted to full-time writer. Retaining our fall premiere date instead of being shunted to midseason. And best of all, what happened later in the week . . .