What a Mother Knows (18 page)

Cody's pickup truck rattled as they waited for the traffic on La Brea Avenue to thin out across from Jim Henson Studios. “Now!” Michelle called. He turned left between a city bus and a taco truck, then squealed to a stop in the driveway at the gate blocking the small lot. Michelle had worked on her first commercials after film school in these brick bungalows built by Charlie Chaplin. Later, she rented the stages for Victor's shoots. Fortunately, the guard watching telenovellas in the booth was a holdover from those busy years. Michelle waved from the open window. “Salvatore, long time no see! How's your grandson doing at Berkeley?”

“Graduates in June,” he said, eyes flickering with recognition. “How's your girl?”

“Working on her application now, I hope,” Michelle said. She leaned back to reveal the boys, who were distracted by the statue of Kermit the Frog dressed as The Little Tramp. “This is my son, Tyler—he has a few years yet. He and his friend are helping me load in a picture vehicle. We're on stage four, right? Golden Hour?”

“Three,” Salvatore said. He looked at the bulky tarp tied to the flatbed, jotted the license number on his clipboard, and stuck a pass inside the windshield. When the gate rose, he waved them past.

The chauffeur of the limo idling by the ramp looked up from his
Daily Racing Form
as Cody pulled into the empty space between a camera truck and a cube van. Once parked, the boys climbed out. Michelle pulled down the mirror and brandished her red lipstick like a sword as she prepped for battle. When Tyler opened the door, she sheathed her lipstick, shook out her glossy hair, and climbed down to the cobblestones. Cody untied the motorcycle from the flatbed.

“Remind Cody that this is top secret: no bragging to Natalie, no blogging online, and especially no telling his parents.”

“Don't worry. His dad would ground him for skipping school and Cathy wouldn't want him chilling in Hollywood. She's even more strict than you are.”

Michelle ignored the irony and pointed to the red light glowing by the stage door. “After you open the door for me, wait for the light to go out. Then roll the bike in. You can get snacks at the craft service table, but remember it's called that because it serves the craftspeople, so don't be greedy. The crew works long hours. They might look lazy, but everyone has a specific job to do at exactly the right moment. Stay out of their way. Got it?”

The boys nodded, eyes so bright with anticipation that Michelle feared they might wet their pants. When was the last time she'd taken Tyler to the set? Maybe never. Then she spotted Victor's Porsche and remembered why. “If you smell anything funny in there, ignore it.”

Michelle heard the hum escaping from beneath the door and smoothed her black linen dress. She felt more comfortable than she had for a long time, as if she was back in her element, at work. Whoever said home was a safe haven had it backward.

Tyler lugged the door open just enough for Michelle to slip through. Before, when she was in charge of payroll, Victor's crew had looked forward to her arrival and parted like the Red Sea. Today, when the door clanked behind her, not one of the thirty people inside looked up. She peered through the haze from smoke machines as the drummer pounded out the last beat.

The barrel-sized Klieg lights clicked off, then the fluorescent house lights flickered on overhead, leaving the small stage in shadow. As the roadies unplugged the amplifiers, Michelle tiptoed past a man checking the lens of a handheld camera mounted inside a boxy image stabilizer. She picked up her heels to stay clear of the burly man coiling cable like a snake.

A clutch of executives in dark suits clapped one another on the back as they waited for playback on the video monitors. The engineer was busy matching digital time code above a mixing board that resembled spaceship control—editing shots together right there. Michelle looked away from the butt crack of the camera grip locking down the 35 mm film camera, the old kind with film reels shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. A scruffy guy with rolls of duct tape hanging from his belt sprayed the pebbly metal with Fantastic, which meant the camera was only a prop. When the dreadlock-haired drummer ran past in his hand-screened Roadhouse T-shirt, Michelle had a sinking feeling of déjà vu
.

She spied the boys rolling the tarp-covered bike inside and parking it next to a forest of silver C-stands. They headed to a table laden with the same bucket of Red Vines and tiny bottles of Perrier she'd ordered for the original shoot. Michelle shook it off, chiding herself for being so sensitive. This was a documentary about the band, after all. She was bound to be reminded of that day. She wanted to be reminded, in fact. She needed to remember. Those missing weeks began right here.

Michelle felt a tug on her blazer and was immediately trapped by arms attached to a chest as hard as a brick wall. Her nose twitched at the scent of cinnamon. “Victor!”

He pulled her to the side of the stage and spoke quietly, as if they were still recording. “What a nice surprise. Asia didn't mention you'd be stopping by today.”

She pulled away. “I didn't tell her.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear about your nasty fall. I ran out to help.”

“Did you? I must have been distracted.”

He nodded. “Then I stopped by to check on you.”

“How thoughtful,” Michelle said. “I did get your messages. I brought you a present.” She led him to the Harley and pulled off the tarp.

“Why would I want an old Roadster?”

Michelle faltered, noticing the cracked saddlebags for the first time. “Because it belonged to Noah Butler?”

“So sell it to Planet Hollywood, or the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

“Thought I'd give you first shot,” Michelle said. “For the documentary. It's been in my garage since…Well, for some time now.”

Victor nodded. “Do you need money?”

“Of course not. I mean, couldn't hurt, but that's not why I'm here.”

Victor looked around before pulling out his money clip. “You should go before anyone recognizes you, doll. Your picture is on a dartboard in the band's dressing room. I'll call you later about your daughter's memory card.”

“I wish I had a memory card,” Michelle joked. “But there's nothing good on hers.”

“You never know what might be helpful,” he said, pressing two hundred dollars into her palm. That wouldn't even get her a red-eye flight to Honolulu. She looked up and saw the boys poking licorice in Perrier bottles like straws.

“Is that Tyler? He must have grown a foot since the last time I saw him.”

Michelle nodded as a prop guy with clothespins on his belt set down a sheet cake that had melted under the lights. The craft service gal yanked out a birthday candle and gave it to Tyler before picking up a knife. Tyler loved cake, but when he turned and held the candle up to show Michelle, he was as pale as the icing.

Michelle dug in her purse for the extra inhaler she brought along. “That's him all right, maybe having an asthma attack.” She hurried toward Tyler and nearly collided with a dark-haired musician deep in conversation with a slick silver-haired man with dual phone headsets. “Pardon me,” she said, rushing past.

Tyler held out a piece of cake.

“No thanks, honey. Is the smoke bothering you?”

He shook his head and raised the cake into her line of sight. Across the white icing, purple letters spelled out
Nicole
. Confused, Michelle looked up at Victor, who had caught up to her side.

“How are you, kid? Look, buttercream, your mom's favorite.” He reached out for a swipe of icing just as Tyler shook his head to disagree. He lost hold of the slice. It fell, smashing on the cement floor. Cody joined them, offering his slice as a replacement. On the top, frosted birthday balloons surrounded the number sixteen.

Michelle froze. Victor's voice was garbled on his walkie-talkie as the buzz in the room rose. A pimpled production assistant ran over to clean up. Michelle didn't move to make room. She didn't care if anyone slipped and fell and got injured. She didn't care about looking good or playing nice. Tyler was staring past her at the musician she had just bumped into, so she turned and took a closer look. He had blue eyes and long lashes, cheekbones slicing shadows across his pale skin. A dead ringer for Noah.

Michelle turned to question Victor, but her shoe slipped on the icing. He caught her just as a commotion rose in the makeup area.

They looked over to see the back of a petite blond with hair trailing to the hem of her knit halter dress. She was laughing with someone as she picked up a black La Knitterie Parisienne bag and jammed two pink knitting needles inside. Behind her, a girl was giggling in the makeup chair.

“Nikki?” Michelle whispered. Her heart pounded so hard it was painful. She rushed toward her daughter, marveling at her beautiful girl. She hadn't aged a day: still lanky and coltish, with dark brown eyes. Michelle took in the Goth costume, the hair gelled into submission between spray-on streaks and the black scrap of a Roadhouse T-shirt pinned together over her pale skin. A rip down from the collar exposed a hint of cleavage faked with a red push-up bra. Black eyeliner made her eyes pop and her lips were that same bloody shade of red she'd worn in the video. Michelle pulled away from Victor and ran toward her.

“Places, people!” the AD called.

Nikki stood up from the makeup chair. But she was tall—too tall. Her face was more oval, her eyes too small. And the purple high-tops she wore didn't have tiny black skulls or her name embroidered on the back.

Michelle slowed down, then stopped. Desire had clouded her vision. Desperation had filled her heart. But the day they shot the video was now clear in her mind. She had only been crunching numbers for a few minutes before she found her daughter in makeup.

“Mom. Say something,” Nikki pleaded.

“Go wash your face!” Michelle pointed toward the restroom at the side of the stage. Stunned, she turned to Sasha. “Pack your kit. You're out of here!”

“Relax, it's just dress-up. Victor said she could be in the video.”

“Victor wants you gone, too,” Michelle said.

Sasha
looked
at
Victor, who put up his collar and turned away. She swore and threw her brushes into the makeup chest. Michelle was halfway across the stage when she heard Sasha call after her. “What are you going to do, lock her up till she's legal?”

“Michelle?” Victor said gently, his hands on her arm. She peered through the fog of memory at his face. She wanted to punch it. She heard Dean Valentine's words in her head.
Every
child
is
at
risk.

Victor grabbed her good arm. “It's a re-shoot. I thought you understood.”

“Oh, I understand, all right,” Michelle said, ripping her arm free. “But when Becca and I were in film school, a documentary meant actual footage of real people. Not actors, you lying piece of shit. Show me what you have so far.”

When Victor hesitated, Michelle marched over to the monitor. The line producer looked up from signing a purchase order and scratched the gut straining from his windbreaker. An A&R executive with a bolo tie spilled a Rock Star drink on the mixing board. A PA scrambled to sop it up. Even the gaffer, the underarm of his T-shirt ringed in sweat, stopped halfway across the catwalk to peer down at her.

“Playback,” she said to the man at the mixing board. “That means you, Carlos.”

He looked up and saw Victor shrug behind her. This was the advantage of Victor's loyalty, of always hiring the same crew. She knew who they were. And vice versa. Carlos hit Play on the mixing board and pushed up a few levers. A heavy metal version of the Beatles's “Birthday Song” blasted from the speakers. “They say it's your birthday. We're gonna have a good time…” The large monitor lit up with the image of a clapboard spelling out the scene and shot number, then there was a close-up of the actress impersonating her daughter. Michelle curled the fingers of her left hand until the nails cut into the flesh of her palm. She felt nauseous, but she had to watch.

Victor tried to explain. “We wanted to be as accurate as possible, but we didn't film Nikki's entrance, so we had to recreate it. You had Asia send over the cake, remember? When you brought her inside, the band played for her.”

Michelle studied the actress on the screen. She sulked convincingly, a grungy kid with blotchy skin and disco ball earrings. Then she pretended to recognize the band. Her face blossomed into a smile, just as Nikki's had.

When the band broke into the birthday song, she twirled her earring, shy, but happy. At least, that's how it played on the video monitor—it was a happy birthday. After the girl pulled a gleaming new camera up to her face, Michelle glared at Victor.

“You were right about one thing. I did fire Sasha, after she painted Nikki and pimped her out. Or was that your idea, Vic? Will you shoot that part? Your producer firing your girlfriend? And where are the purple balloons? And what about Nikki's grandmother calling about her sheepskin coat? Did you get that? How real are you going to make it?”

“That depends on you,” Victor said. “We are missing a few things. Like the kiss.”

Michelle felt goose bumps rise and turned back to the screen. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“We've done the research, Michelle. People saw them hanging out together a week after the shoot. We need to set it up, establish eye contact between them on set.”

“Wait a minute. You can't shoot this without my consent, can you? Or do you think I'm stupid enough to give it to you?”

“Golden Hour Productions owns the copyright for the video. That was your idea, doll, and a brilliant one.” Victor switched to a new stick of gum, dropping the wrapper.