Authors: Kerry Reichs
T
he television news announcer droned while Andy flopped on the couch. He loosened his tie before cracking a can of Miller Lite. Even though Garner had withdrawn and his case with Maryn was over, the Prop 11 frenzy had a bloodsucking life of its own. He was drained from keeping up appearances at work, last night’s gala, and the four or more “important dinners” Summer scheduled every week. He didn’t have time to exercise, which made him cranky.
“Don’t you want a Dogfish Head IPA?” Summer always tried converting him to fancy microbrewed beers.
“No.”
“You look like my uncle Kenny, who drank cheap beer right from the can at the dinner table,” Summer snipped.
Andy ignored her. He didn’t feel like pouring his beer into a glass when he was in his living room. Summer knew how he felt, so he guessed she was in a bad mood too. Normally he’d try to make her feel better but tonight he didn’t feel like it.
“. . . a three-alarm fire at a popular Mexican eatery on Lincoln . . .”
Andy didn’t like local news. They delivered trite and irrelevant regional stories instead of actual news. He liked his daily news quotient from CNN. Summer wanted to watch KCAL Channel 9 News for Santa Monica election coverage. They watched KCAL, of course.
“We have to leave in twenty minutes for the Starlight reception. Mayor Villaraigosa will be there.”
“He’ll be there when we get there.” Andy didn’t want to go anywhere near the Starlight reception. He didn’t want to meet the Mayor of Los Angeles. He wanted to stay home in his socks and drink beer from the can.
“Andrew, people spend all year in agony over whether they’ll get an invite to this gala.”
“. . . sunny and clear tomorrow, with temperatures dropping in the afternoon . . .”
Andy ignored her. Summer opened her mouth, then closed it. She knew the limits of pushing when he was in this kind of mood. She’d win, of course. But not until after this beer.
“. . . and in sad news today, local businesswoman Maryn Windsor has suffered a relapse of breast cancer.”
The beer can slipped from Andy’s nerveless fingers as he sat upright, but neither he nor Summer paid attention to it emptying its foamy contents onto the carpet.
“Windsor achieved notoriety suing for her right to use embryos that were contested marital property following her divorce. Infertile after treatment for breast cancer, Windsor petitioned for the right to implant embryos fertilized by her ex-husband, local attorney and city council candidate Andrew Knox. Knox countersued to have the eggs destroyed.”
The pretty, bland newscaster delivered the pain of his life as coolly and remotely as if she was reporting on a shamrock shortage.
“The case sparked national attention, and conflict over controversial Proposition 11, which would legally prohibit the destruction of fertilized eggs in Santa Monica and require the treatment of such eggs as children under the custody laws of California. Windsor ultimately resolved her case out of court, and became pregnant as a result of implanting the embryos. KCAL has learned that Windsor has suffered a recurrence of her breast cancer. Her prognosis at this time is unknown.”
The newscaster paused, glancing at her papers. Memory refreshed, she concluded with,
“We all wish her the best. In other news, one Santa Monica beauty salon has gone to the dogs. Literally, that is. Nails ’N Tails on Main Street is offering simultaneous beauty treatments for pet owners and their dogs . . .”
Andy could sense Summer staring, but he couldn’t look at her. Shock radiated through his body, and his hands felt numb. It had to be a mistake. If it was true, he would know. Wouldn’t he? He had to talk to Maryn. He got to his feet and shuffled to the hall, up the stairs, to the bedroom. He shut the door. He sat on the bed. One action at a time, carefully measured. He dug out his phone. She would still be at work. He dialed.
“Maryn Windsor.” It startled Andy how fast her voice came on the line. Did he imagine a new tiredness there?
“It’s Andy,” was all he could manage.
She waited, wary. “What’s up?”
“The news . . . I saw . . . the cancer . . . is it true?” His voice cracked.
“It was on the freaking news? Are you kidding me?” Maryn’s voice rose six octaves, and only through familiarity could he detect the distress beneath the outrage.
“Are you really sick?” He could hear adolescent pleading in his tone, begging her to refute the story, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I don’t know what they said, but it is true that my doctor has detected some cancerous cells. What do you want, Andy?” Her voice was hard. Andy was confused. Why was she angry with him?
“I wanted to hear it from you. I want you to be okay.” He felt helpless trying to find the right words because he didn’t really know what words he wanted.
Her tone softened some, but not a lot. “The baby and I are both fine. I’ve met with several specialists and am considering treatment options.”
Andy had forgotten all about the baby.
“Can you still have the baby?”
“There are numerous options that won’t hurt her.”
Her. Andy’s fumbling brain absorbed the fact that the baby was a girl, but all he could think of was the smell and the sick of Maryn’s previous treatments. It had seemed violent. Not anything that would leave room for a baby.
“But . . .”
“It’s not really your concern, Andy.” The defensive edge returned to her voice. Andy felt slapped. She was right, of course. But wasn’t she wrong too? Weren’t they irrevocably connected since the day they’d said their vows? Wasn’t he central in everything major, even long after the divorce?
“I’ll figure it out and the baby and I will both be fine. I said I would handle this completely on my own, and that remains true even under the current circumstances. You needn’t concern yourself.”
Andy realized where the crispness was coming from. “Maryn, I’m not trying to take over any part of your baby.” Andy meant it. He wondered if it should be hard for him not to say “our” baby, but it wasn’t. It didn’t feel like his baby at all. “I’m only concerned about you.”
She hesitated. “Thank you.” Her voice was more kind. Then she sighed. “I mean it, Andy. I appreciate the call.”
“I’m sorry that—well,
everything—
made you feel that I’m a threat to you, Maryn,” Andy said. “Please don’t think that. Whatever you decide about you and the baby, I’ll support you. I just want you to get better.”
“From a distance,” Maryn teased.
“From a distance,” Andy promised.
They were quiet.
“Will you promise to call if you need anything?” Andy asked.
“Okay,” Maryn agreed after a moment.
“And keep me posted?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
They hung up, leaving Andy wondering how the conversation had concluded with him once again thanking Maryn for taking care of things.
He stretched out on the bed, mind surprisingly empty. He probed, searching for fear, sorrow. There was a quiet tap at the door before Summer peeked in.
“Andy?” Her voice was hesitant as she edged into the room.
“I don’t want to go out tonight.” Andy said the first thing he thought of.
“What?” Summer was startled. “Of course not. Don’t even think about it.”
He didn’t stir. She crawled across him, and he stretched out his arm so she could tuck her head into the crook of his shoulder as she lay beside him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded.
They were quiet for a few minutes, when inexplicably Summer began to cry.
“Hey,” Andy turned toward her. “What’s that about?”
“I’m sorry,” Summer sniffled. “I’m sorry. It’s so sad and I know you’re sad, and I wish I could feel sad, but I can’t. I’m so sorry, Andy, but I didn’t know her. I don’t know her at all. And I want to feel bad, I really want to, because it’s cancer and it sucks, but I can’t! I don’t feel anything!” She was crying harder now, and Andy squeezed her closer, gazing at the ceiling again.
“It’s okay, pigeon,” he shushed.
His own thoughts tumbled. At least Summer knew what she felt. Andy kept searching for his feelings. He didn’t like the one that kept sneaking in.
Andy wasn’t a religious man. He understood that original sin meant everyone was born in depravity, but he didn’t believe that. How could anyone look at a baby and think that? Some evil must come from original sin, though, because how else could an uncontrollable part of him whisper terribly,
It would be nice if Maryn died
.
If Maryn died of cancer, Andy’s pain would have an end. It wouldn’t live down the street, raising a child, marrying someone else, walking around connected to tiny unbreakable fishhooks embedded in Andy. He could take all his pain at once, and be released from the coils of regret and guilt. He would be free.
W
hen you create, it’s your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condomless sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at the time,” Julian said.
“That’s deep.”
“Lady Gaga said it first.”
We were having dinner at Julian’s. I was at home in the embedded flying saucer now.
“When you act, it’s sublimation and control in equal parts,” I said. “You want to get into the character but not lose control of the performance.”
“What do you do with the other two-thirds of your brain when you’re shooting
Pulse
?” he joked.
“Are you insulting sweet Roxy?” My voice was light, but his jibe stung.
“Three things make me a drag.” Julian held up three fingers. “I feel superior to anything with background music in it. I mock things I don’t understand. I have disproportionate guilt about these things. I’m sorry if I was rude to Roxy. I’m slightly in envy of the popularity of
Pulse
.”
“How can you not like background music?”
“Background music tells you how to feel. It’s a cheap shortcut.”
“If you took the background music out of
The Shining
, it would be a movie about watching Jack Nicholson type.”
“All lo mein and no ice cream makes Dimple a dull girl.” He stood, taking my empty plate. “Dessert in the living room?”
Julian clicked a remote and the room swelled with Debussy.
“Background music?” I was arch.
“How else can I get to the mind-blowing condomless sex?” He pulled me onto the couch.
Any damn way he wants
, I thought.
After a bit and all the buttons on my blouse, I pulled back, panting. “About that condom . . .”
“Right,” he murmured. “Good idea.” The only move he made was down my chest.
“Julian,” I gasped.
“Hm?” His tongue was exploring my naval.
“You want to keep that belly button, don’t you?”
“Ffngtmly.” His response was muffled.
I fought for focus. “It disappears when I’m knocked up.”
“Worst ever.”
“What?” I was startled.
“What?” He looked up at me.
“What are we talking about?”
“Bad movies?” He was confused.
“Getting pregnant,” I corrected. He nipped my belly and unfolded himself from the couch.
“Definitely don’t want that.”
I felt exposed with my nipples open to the vacant air. “Not now at least.”
“You don’t want kids.” He looked surprised as he returned from the bathroom.
“Of course I do.” I matched his surprise. “Why would you think I didn’t?” An earthworm of worry squiggled within me.
“Well . . . you’re an actress, and you’re . . . not thirty. And you’ve never talked about it.” He was befuddled. “I assumed you’d chosen not to.”
“That’s a big assumption.”
“At your age, most women who want them already have them.”
“I still have time.” My voice was too loud. “I could have a baby tomorrow.”
“Do you really want that?”
“I . . .” I floundered. I
did
want that. I also wanted
Cora
. And I wanted Julian. I wanted them all together in a tidy teenybopper dream with a pink pom-pom on top. I was sick at my own stupidity. “Don’t you want kids?” The answer was obvious.
“No.” He shook his head for double good measure.
I buttoned my blouse. “I see.” I saw that I’d been carried away by fantasy. Julian was right about the prefabricated imagery left me by the movies of my youth. Would I have been wiser without the swell of Simple Minds cuing a happy ending?
“It would ruin your career.”
“You don’t know that.” I was angry. “And if I decided not to have a family based on my career, I’d feel pretty stupid at forty-five when work was over and I was scrapbooking about my cat.”
“I never saw this side of you before.”
“This side of me? I’m not a frenzied, walking ovary, Julian. I’d consider myself averagely maternal, at best. I reject your implication that the compulsion to reproduce has lurked like a shadowy lever puller behind every decision.”
“Maybe the fact that you’ve waited means you really don’t want children? Your id is battling social programming.” He was like a child, grabbing at straws.
“I’m not a movie plot, Julian. I’m a mature woman who wants to have a child before she can’t.” His resistance was cooling molten flow into solid decisions for me. “I was giving myself time for things to happen organically before I had to make difficult decisions.”
I stood and put on my shoes.
“You’re leaving?” Disbelief.
“I think so.” My gut was torn.
“You’re walking out on this relationship the first time we disagree?”
“This isn’t a ‘disagreement’ and this isn’t a relationship. It’s some weird hybrid audition-date.” I was frustrated.
“I’m giving
Cora
to Daisy.” He was abrupt.
I was stunned. “There’s more raw emotion resonating off that empty Chinese food carton than Daisy Carmichael.”
“I can’t remain objective around you. You’ve invaded my brain. I smell you when you’re not there. You’re the woman a director wants to have on his side of the lens.”
“For a guy who claims he’s bad at grammar, the complex architecture of your sentences makes it impossible to tell if I’m included in your future.”
“How the hell do I know anymore? I thought we were looking at a future together, but I don’t want kids.”
“I do.” There. I’d said it, plain and simple, strong pairing of noun and verb.
“You know why I don’t want to talk about dogs?” he asked.
I was thrown by the resumption of a conversation we’d begun months ago.
“I love dogs. I’ve always loved dogs. When I was young I pictured a life surrounded by dogs.” I was startled by the stark pain in his eyes. “My mom said I wasn’t responsible enough. My goldfish floated, I accidentally stepped on my hamster, I left the cat out one night and a coyote got it. My mom said I didn’t think about anything but what was on my mind at the moment. I thought weaker animals had bad luck. I was meant to be a dog owner. So I waited. As soon as I was out of college, I got the fanciest dogs I could.
“Wilder and Welles were the most beautiful German shepherds you’ve ever seen. Their bloodlines were perfect, their proportions a golden mean.” He was looking somewhere inside as he spoke.
“I took them everywhere. I only parted with them for three months of training camp, and I couldn’t sleep, I missed them so much. I was off balance without them. God, I loved those dogs.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“My first movie was
Fallow
. It was a low-dollar flick—no dollar, really—about a family farm. We were shooting in Sand Canyon in August and having all this trouble because there was a record heat wave baking Los Angeles.” He looked at me intensely. “I
knew
it. I knew it was hot as hell. I was dealing with the problems it was causing on location daily.”
My throat closed. I didn’t want to hear this story.
“On Saturday, one of my producers called. There was an issue with a vendor contract and I needed to sign a new one. I was driving home from hiking in Temescal Canyon, so I swung by the production office.”
He swallowed, his story hard fought.
“I was only going to be a minute.” His eyes were pleading. “Sixty seconds to sign the paper, so I cracked the windows and ran in. But there was a problem. People were calling, and there was arguing, and we were trying to solve the issue so we could film Monday . . .” He broke down. I waited as he drew jagged breaths, face buried in his hands.
“I’ll never forget the moment I remembered. It felt like a second, but it had been an hour. I didn’t believe the clock. I ran.” His eyes moist, Julian looked past me. “I never prayed so hard in my life. I bargained with God. I’d do anything if he’d let them be okay. They’d be the most spoiled dogs on earth. I’d give all my money to shelters. I’d dedicate my life to animal protection.” He swallowed. “But God doesn’t coddle fools.”
I couldn’t look at him.
His voice was bleak. “They didn’t go easy.”
The mental image of shredded upholstery, protruding tongues, and smeared windows would never leave my mind. I was nauseous.
“Innocent creatures died the most horrible way imaginable, and it was my fault. I was distracted by shit I don’t even remember while they roasted.”
Neither of us said anything for a long time. When he spoke again his voice was flat.
“I can’t forget, and I don’t want to. My mother was right. All my life I’ve been selfish, and what happened to Wilder and Welles set me straight. I can’t be responsible for anything. I’m worthless at it.”
Emotions warred in me. Sorrow. Horror. Exhaustion.
“I’m sorry about your dogs.” He looked broken. I didn’t lay a soothing hand on his nape. I stood and picked up my sweater.
“You’re leaving?” he asked in disbelief.
“Not because you killed your dogs,” I said as gently as I could.
“Why?”
“Did you tell me that story to explain why you don’t want children?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
I faced him. “Your dogs died and you think you ruin everything you touch.”
“It’s not as if I had a sudden revelation when Wilder and Welles died that I couldn’t be trusted with children. The veneer popped off what was already there. I’d
always
been careless with others. Their death made me look backward and see an inattentive son, an offhand boyfriend, a cavalier friend. It didn’t transform me, it exposed me.”
“That’s narcissistic and crazy.”
My reaction was not what he expected.
“I’m truly sorry about your dogs. That must have been horrible. I’m ill hearing about it, and I can’t imagine what you went through. But causing the death of your dogs doesn’t expose you as deficient. Using it as a shield against future responsibility does. It’s bullshit.”
I started to walk out the door.
“Wait.” Julian was stunned. “I’m telling you this because I care about you, about us. I want you to understand.”
“Understand what? That every time something important happens you’ll dodge accountability? That your house, your car, your jokes are elaborate sets? You aren’t a grown-up accepting responsibility for your actions. You’re a kid hiding behind a romantic story.”
“You think it’s romantic?” he roared. I flinched.
“I don’t. I think it’s awful. I’ll never get those animals out of my head, and there’s a liquor drink in my future so I can sleep tonight. You’re courageous for telling me. But I don’t think one event can permanently cauterize your emotional ability. You’re choosing not to make even puny efforts.”
“Women may not hit harder, but they sure hit lower.” He sneered.
“What do you want me to say, Julian?”
“You live in denial. You won’t go to the emergency room when there’s a fishhook embedded in your skin. Do you really see yourself as Mother Hale? Are you going to hand your children a splint when they break an arm? The shiny celluloid fantasy you’ve built around the idea of kids won’t match your life.”
My skin was hot. “Are you done?”
“Guess you don’t want rescuing from that cult after all.”
“We’re all one small adjustment from making our lives work,” I said. “I intend to keep making them until I get it right.”
He dropped his bravado. “Did anything I said mean something to you?” He looked lost.
“Past failures aren’t going to hold me back from what I want, Julian,” I said. “And that includes this one.” I walked out the door.
“It’s a shame.” Justine was sad when I told her. Work was over and we were sitting in the salon truck. Justine was brushing my hair out of reflex. “He could have been on the receiving end of your cakes.”
“That’s not me,” I reminded her. “That’s Roxy.”
I was feeling less like Roxy and more like myself than I had in years. Whatever Julian’s faults, he was on to something with the extreme sports. Floundering out of my comfort zone acted like a kiln, hardening a core out of something soft. I counted our relationship as one of our extreme-sport outings.
“He’s a good person, but he isn’t ready to grow up. He’s break dancing through his fifteen minutes, which will probably be fifteen million minutes, because he’s really talented. He should enjoy himself. We want different things.”
I was lying. I missed him like a puncture. But he didn’t have a clue about what he wanted, and I didn’t want to go backward. His dogs had moved into my head too, the images haunting, but my reaction was the opposite.
I felt something akin to relief. No more Julian, no more
Cora
. My choices were simplified. It was swinging without a net, and I had no idea if I was equipped, but I had to try. We don’t leave ourselves only one option if we aren’t prepared to take it. My subconscious had shown faith in my future self all along.