What a Mother Knows (14 page)

Michelle
rescued
Nikki
by
leading
her
out
of
the
dance
studio. The car ride with Elyse back across the river and through miles of cornfields was stuffy with anger. Michelle grilled hot dogs and fresh corn cobs out on Elyse's wooden deck while watching the kids trawl the creek for crawdads. Mud spotted Nikki's tutu when she clambered up for dinner. Elyse rocked on the wooden glider without a word. As the sun slipped down and the fireflies lit up and the crickets began to sing, Nikki twirled. She spun across the dandelion-covered yard spreading the fluffy seeds like a fairy. Her smile grew as she twirled, faster and faster until she collapsed in a giggling heap, until even her grandmother laughed.

“She never did anything on demand,” Tyler continued. “Wish I was more like that.”

“You're perfect the way you are,” Michelle said. “Though I think you'd look good in tights.”

Tyler blushed. “Dad said I'd meet girls that way. But then I got into Rutgers Prep.”

Michelle nodded. Drew had obviously never told Tyler that he might not have a choice about where to live. No need to scare him; one lost parent was enough. But it was one thing to lie to your child and another to lie to your wife. Michelle's temple throbbed. She stopped to dig in her purse for some Tylenol and felt the memory card in the pocket. Trust was a two-way street.

“Tyler, let's not tell your dad that I took you to a bar.”

“Are you kidding? He'd kill me.” He smiled at her in solidarity.

“Now all we need is a camera. When you helped your dad pack those boxes, did you see your sister's?”

“No, but that disk looked generic.”

“Is my pocket camera around?”

“It's at school.” Tyler looked outside the exit doors and pointed at the lone paparazzi loitering in the parking lot. “We could borrow his. Just kidding. Seriously, though, Celeste already posted about meeting you.”

“Lovely. Shall we make a run for it?”

Tyler grinned. “You want to be Butch Cassidy or the Sundance Kid?”

“You know neither of them made it out alive, don't you?” She calculated the distance to the car. “Never mind. Besides, if people know I'm out of the hospital, Nikki must know, too. Why won't she come home?”

Tyler shrugged. “Maybe she's afraid.”

“Of what?” she asked.

“Of you. Or of them.” He pointed outside.

Michelle backed into the door until it swung open, ignoring the flash. “I'll drop you off at the kickback, but do me a favor. Tell all your Facebook friends to put the word out.”

“What, a reward?” he asked, as they hurried through the busy parking lot.

“No, that funny phrase you shout during hide-and-seek. The one that means it's safe to come home.”

“Ollie ollie oxen free?”

That was it, she nodded. But was it true?

The curtains of the director's cottage closed with such force that Michelle stopped short, amazed how little had changed in eighteen months. Here, yards from the back entrance of her old office on Sunset Boulevard, the scent of marijuana was so strong that she was afraid she might get high just by breathing. But she needed to borrow a camera and Victor had a closet full of them.

A piece of paper blew across the small courtyard in the wind. She put her boot down on it and saw the cartoon-type drawings that made up a storyboard. She glanced back at the cottage it had come from. They were just smoking weed, right? The cocaine years were long past, with those foil packets of powder fueling the thirty-hour beer shoots that put them so far over budget that only CLIO Awards kept clients coming back. Michelle had always been a “suit,” but she'd done her share of partying before she had children. She wasn't proud of the double standard of her antidrug policy, but things were different now. The drugs were far more potent since they'd become medically prescribed. And those privileged enough to be in Victor's cottage were craftsmen at the top of their games. Old enough to fry a few brain cells, if they so chose.

She studied the illustration of Tarzan swinging over the sand, an image designed by some advertising genius to sell an energy drink. Michelle tried to guess the price, whether shot on location at Zuma Beach or on stage at Raleigh Studios. She used to come within 10 percent of the actual estimate, but after all this time away, she wasn't sure how to adjust for inflation. In the old days, if Victor really wanted the job, she would recommend the live location and cut the greens rental altogether. Executives from Chicago never noticed the lack of plants on the beach until they got there. By then, their director's chairs had been set out, their coconut shells were filled with piña coladas, and they were happy to pay extra for palm trees.

Michelle spied a cluster of nubile young women on the sidewalk adjusting black bustiers and fishnets. They were the same age as the working girls in the police department, the same age as her daughter. Nikki had been to Michelle's office, so it was unlikely she would work this corner even if she had taken to the streets, but Michelle couldn't help but scan their faces.

“Michelle, is that you?” Victor let the door of the cottage slam behind him. He shook his head of too-black hair and buttoned the bowling shirt over the threadbare jeans dragging on his leather flip-flops. Then he crushed her with the embrace of a man whose personal trainer was on speed dial. He smelled of second-hand smoke, but his eyes were bright. He raised his hands as if framing her in a camera lens. “You look even better than before the accident, if that's possible.”

Michelle blushed and handed him the storyboard. “Looking good yourself.”

High-pitched voices called from the curb. “Victor!” “Pick me!”

Michelle was relieved to see the girls waving glossy head shots, but noticed with a start that their costumes weren't far off from Nikki's outfit in the video.

Victor ignored them and popped a stick of gum in his mouth. Cinnamon, by the smell of it. They strolled over to the main office, an architecturally acclaimed mid-century box. Music blasted when he opened the door. “Why didn't you call? I'd have cleared my day.”

“I didn't think I was up to it until last night. No need to bother you and Sasha at home.”

“Sasha? Ancient history. You don't remember doing the honors for me?”

Michelle racked her brain as they stepped inside the bullpen, a room with worktables lined up for the production crew. Victor pointed at the production coordinator, a twentysomething kid in a knit cap banging away on his laptop. “Fletch, call casting. Talent is still showing up.”

Fletch pulled out his phone. The other production assistants, a plain girl in a pink Save the Ta-Ta's T-shirt and a guy in a Stones T-shirt that looked like it could walk home by itself sorted out receipts on the long tables. They all had dark circles under their eyes. Cheap labor, Michelle knew, because she used to cut their checks. Before that, she was one of them. They stole glances at Victor, as if God was opening the mini-fridge. He offered her a bottle of pomegranate-acai water.

Michelle declined the water and followed Victor down the hall to the front entrance. She took in the wall photos that had been moved downstairs from her office. In one of them, Michelle wore a gorgeous gown at the CLIO Awards with Victor; in an autographed shot, a hot young actor kissed her after a car commercial. In the reception area, the classic movie stills Michelle had bought still lined the metal stairway leading up to her old office. She peered up the steep stairs, hoping little had changed there either, especially the existence of cameras hanging in the storage closet.

Victor picked up the new issues of
Ad
Age
and
Variety
from the empty desk. “Did you hear Becca got a studio deal?” Michelle asked.

He nodded. “I have a project there.”

“Wow. Everyone's doing so well, I'm jealous.” Michelle said. “Might be awkward if you run into her at the commissary, though. She always bugged me to quit working with you and hang up my own shingle as an independent producer. What's the project?”

“A documentary.” His eyes skimmed her arm, then he called upstairs. “Asia!” He turned to Michelle. “You're coming up to say hello, right?”

Michelle followed Victor to the stairs. “I already thanked her for the orchids. They're nicer than the ones I sent your girlfriends.”

“You're worth more than any girlfriend,” Victor said. “I saw pictures of the accident, you know.” He shuddered. “Glad you made it out.”

Michelle was touched. The railing was on her bad side, so he held her like a prom date and walked her up. “Did you hear about Nikki?”

He nodded. “Awful. Any word?”

Michelle shook her head and caught her breath at the top. “To be honest, I want to borrow a Nikon to see what's on this memory card.” She pulled it out of her purse. He held the blue disk against his forehead as if trying to read the contents. She laughed. “If you're old enough to mimic Johnny Carson, you might as well stop dying your hair.”

A young woman in a short black dress and a chopstick poking from her glossy bun popped her head out of the first doorway. She clapped a hand over her ruby lips and widened her eyes beneath a black slash of eyeliner. If it weren't for the dragon tattoo on her shoulder, Michelle wouldn't have recognized her old assistant without the combat boots and black nail polish. Asia had obviously taken Michelle's advice about dressing for the job she wanted. And just as Michelle had suspected, that job was hers.

Michelle brushed off the
All
About
Eve
moment as she stepped into her old office. The walls hummed with high-definition monitors, and Asia's assistant, sleek as a seal, murmured into a headset as he filed completed production binders in a cabinet in the corner. Asia shook hands hello, reaching to Michelle's left without hesitation. She was a quick study.

“Have a seat?” Asia straightened the printouts on the table under the window and pointed at the executive chair at her desk.

“No thanks,” Michelle said, flattered by the VIP attention. She was nostalgic for the powerful position, but it was clear from all the clipboards hanging across the wall, one for each commercial job in the works, that she'd been nothing more than another body in that chair. “Looks like you're busier than ever, Victor.”

“What can I say?”

Michelle saw the autographed Roadhouse print from the video shoot on the wall and blinked. Noah had given her that as a gift when his recording deal came through. That's when he had hugged her so tightly. Here was one thing she'd done that made a difference. She pointed at Victor. “You can say: thank you, Michelle, for talking me into doing that video for my reel.”

When the PA looked up, Michelle explained. “He said pigs would fly before it helped him get a movie.”

The PA chuckled on his way out.

“Thanks, doll. Asia, get this woman a camera. I have a meeting.”

“Don't you want to have lunch?” Michelle asked. “I'm dying for sushi.”

Victor tossed out his gum and unwrapped a new piece. “This is a ‘meeting' meeting. Friends of Bill.”

Michelle recognized the code word for AA. “Oh, good for you.”

Asia disappeared into the closet, then emerged with a digital Nikon hanging from a thick shoulder strap. She also had a small Dolce & Gabbana box. She lifted out a pair of glasses with magenta frames. “They arrived after…you left.”

“Thanks for saving them,” Michelle said. She didn't remember ordering them, but when she put them on, voila! “All the better to see what's on Nikki's memory card.”

“Nikki's?” Victor asked.

“I think so,” Michelle said. “It's probably just ten shots of her birthday muffin, but I miss her so much, even that would be worth seeing. If you could give me a hand with the disk, I'll take a peek at the viewfinder and head out.”

“Nonsense,” Victor said, his hand trembling as he inserted the disk into the proper slot. “Asia will screen it on the monitor. Excuse me while I make a phone call. Sushi sounds good. I'll try to reschedule.”

Michelle watched him go. “He seems shaky. How long has he been sober?” Asia shrugged, and connected a USB cable to the camera.

Fletch, the coordinator from downstairs, rapped on the open door, then loped in, his arms piled high with petty cash envelopes and a thick production binder. “This gets us current, except for the reshoot at Chaplin.” When he set them on the desk, his eyes went to Michelle's arm.

She looked down to avoid making him uncomfortable. Her glasses made it easy to read the label on the production binder: “Untitled Noah Butler story.” Michelle's breath caught. Rings of sweat burst through the silk blouse beneath her blazer. “What the hell is that?”

Asia noticed and pushed Fletch out the door. “I thought you knew.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Was there a secret code in the orchids? ‘With Love from Victor,' my ass. The traitor.”

“It's a documentary,” Asia explained. “The making of the video, the singer's tragic end, and the band's phoenix-like rise from the ashes.”

“You're exploiting his death, that's what you're doing. Victor!” She looked at the Nikon. What if Nikki brought her camera to the set before switching this test disk out for one with a bigger memory? If there were any images of Noah here, Victor would want to put them in the documentary. Michelle was not about to take that chance. She yanked the USB cord from the computer.

“What are you doing?'

“Leaving!” Michelle scooped her arm through the strap and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed her purse and raced out of the office.

“You can't take the camera!” Asia lunged for it, but Michelle was already scrambling down the stairs. She took another step down, then stumbled. She held tight to the camera, but her right arm automatically braced for the fall. A familiar arrow of pain shot out from her right shoulder. She struck the railing, righted herself, and kept going.

“Are you okay?” Asia called. “What should I tell Victor?”

“Tell him to go to hell.”

***

Michelle ran across the courtyard, panting as she passed the cottage and headed for the parking lot. A few other people were getting into their cars, so she slowed to a walk until she reached the Volvo. Chest heaving, she unlocked the door and climbed in. She couldn't wait any longer to see what was on the memory card. Maybe it was nothing. But what if it wasn't?

She pulled the camera from her shoulder and hunched over the viewfinder so that her left arm could reach the control button. Then she pressed it.

The first two frames were completely black. The third and forth showed a ceiling light and a blurry thumb. Michelle breathed a sigh of relief. Nikki didn't know how to work the camera. Maybe her fears were unfounded.

She clicked to the next frame and found a picture—the color version of the three-shot that Michelle had found in the kitchen with her obituary on the back. She found the zoom button and looked closer. Michelle and Tyler still flanked the birthday girl, but Nikki's disco ball earrings were sparkling, and the birthday candle on the muffin was purple. Something else was different, as well. The spot on Nikki's cheek was clearly not ink. It was a tear.

Michelle had to swallow hard to not start crying. She forwarded to the next frame, a close-up of a birthday cake with the name Nicole spelled out in purple. Michelle remembered asking Asia to order it. She clicked to the next blurry image, of Sasha posing by her makeup table in all her blond glory, hair cascading down the back of her hand-knit halter dress. This had to be from the set of the music video.

The fifth blurry image showed the band, young and scruffy, in hand-painted T-shirts. Like the one hanging in Nikki's closet.

Michelle clicked to the next shot, of Tyler on the pitcher's mound. He was frowning, the bill of his blue baseball hat shading his eyes. Michelle smiled, pleased that Nikki had not only come to a game, but appreciated her little brother enough to take this shot.

She clicked to the next frame and tilted her head back to focus on something sparkly, with bits of purple. It reminded Michelle of those cardboard toddler books with macro photos of everyday objects. You had to guess what they were. This was…a scarf. Michelle wished she could remember that day, knitting together at the field. She would give anything to go back.

The next picture showed half of Nikki's face—as if art and teenage vanity had collided. Michelle leaned closer. There was something different here than in the breakfast picture. It wasn't just that Nikki's brown hair was brushed and her cheeks were a pink contrast to the purple scarf at her neck. It was as if the cheekbones of a woman had erupted from the flesh of the child. And there were no tears.