Authors: Liz Fenton
Casey questions her decisions too?
“Look, Brian, we both had a lot to drink and said things we shouldn’t have, especially me. But it doesn’t mean you had the right to fuck with Mother Nature.”
“So you’re saying you want your life back?”
“Of course I want it back. I have a family.” My voice breaks slightly. “They need me. Don’t you understand that? And right now Casey is over there trying to be me . . . doing God only knows what.”
Brian narrows his eyes and frowns. “If you want your life back, you’re going to have to figure out how to do it on your own. But it is possible. In fact, you already have what you need to make it happen.”
“Really? That’s all you’ve got for me? Can’t we just drink two more shots and tomorrow I can wake up in my own flannel sheets with cellulite on my thighs and Casey can wake up with some hot twenty-two-year-old?”
Brian’s mouth contorts into a cocky smirk as if to say,
Like me?
“Rachel, you’re missing the point. It’s not about the shots. It’s about
why
I brought you and Casey the shots,” Brian says, suddenly seeming much older than he did only moments ago.
“Then why did you?”
“That’s something you and Casey will have to figure out on your own.” I start to protest, but he interrupts me.
“But listen, if you guys do figure out how to switch back, tell the real Casey to call me,” he says as he flashes me a crooked
smile. And even though I’m panicked, I can’t help it, my knees buckle beneath me just a little.
I look down at the brightly patterned carpeting, trying to figure out how I’m going to explain to Casey that I failed. When I look back up again, Brian is gone.
CHAPTER 7
casey
Charlotte’s cries wake me from a deep slumber in the middle of the night.
Does this baby ever freakin’ sleep?
I glance resentfully at John snoring next to me. And does he
ever
get up with her?
I stumble into Charlotte’s room. “What’s the problem, girlfriend?” I ask her. “This is the third time you’ve been up.” Rachel assured me the baby slept through the night (one of my first questions for her), but Charlotte has been up every few hours. It was as if she knew there was an imposter in her house. I pull her out of her crib, unsure of what to do next. When Rachel had each of her kids, I was always the first to send the latest in baby couture and a few blinged-out pacifiers. But I was so caught up in my own life that I was never around to actually help her with the everyday things. And I had a strict policy about not babysitting until they were potty trained. As I put my nose up to Charlotte’s diaper to see if she needed a change, I couldn’t help but think karma is a bitch.
I try bouncing her up and down against my chest, something
I could swear I’d seen Rachel do. Or maybe it was Jessica Alba. Either way, it seems to work. Charlotte calms down quickly and eventually falls asleep in my arms. I lean in and inhale her sweet baby smell. Luckily Audrey and Sophie didn’t question me when I asked them to help me give her a bath earlier. At dinner, I told them I wanted to have some bonding time and they reluctantly agreed. As Audrey rubbed the shampoo into Charlotte’s scalp and Sophie turned on the bubble machine, I felt there was something missing. I’d imagined them playing with their baby sister, but instead they bathed her silently, Sophie reaching back to check her phone every few minutes and Audrey braiding the same section of her own hair over and over again—something I’d have to ask Rachel about later. Although I still think they were happier to be in that bathroom than at the dining room table. Never much of a cook, I prepared a meal that was almost inedible. I could barely choke it down. Rachel always made it look so easy whenever I joined them for dinner. For a long time, I’d come every Sunday night without fail, but after I won the Emmy last year and things got busier at work, I hadn’t made it as often. I’d started having Destiny call to cancel because I couldn’t handle Rachel’s disappointed tone; she didn’t understand why I couldn’t leave work on a Sunday night. I think of her having to go to work today, pretending to be me. Maybe she’ll finally get it.
I was terrified to go to bed with John tonight. I couldn’t remember being that scared since I had to interview Charlie Sheen during his warlock phase. What if he wanted to have sex? Rachel assured me there was no way in hell that he’d want to kiss me, let alone have sex with me. But she quickly added that if for some odd reason he did try, to tell him that I had my period. I smile as I remember back in college when he’d cover
his ears like a little kid any time Rachel or I would even say the word
cramps
. Some things never change.
After the girls went to bed, I’d run up the stairs and locked myself in the bathroom. When I came out, John was already asleep or pretending to be. Either way, I was relieved. It gave me a chance to study the document from Rachel. I crawled into bed and pulled out my phone, scanning through the list of instructions she’d emailed, the subject line reading “How to be me.” She’d included everything, down to when trash day was. As I read page after page, I was amazed at the sheer number of things Rachel is responsible for.
You can do this,
I told myself.
• • •
The alarm went off like a fire alarm a few hours later and I hauled myself out of bed. How does Rachel have the energy to get up so early after a sleepless night? I splashed cold water on my face, threw on a T-shirt and jeans, and scrolled through Rachel’s checklist: wake up the girls, prepare Charlotte’s bottle, smile if she shits.
“Audrey, get up!” I push her motionless body. “You’re going to be late for school.”
“Get out of my room!” she yells with a fierceness that startles me.
Is this how she treats Rachel? My protective instinct takes over. “Hey! You do
not
talk to your mother like that. Get your ass up right now, young lady!”
The word
ass
seems to snap her to attention. “Geez, stop freaking out. You’re such a spaz!” But at least she gets out of bed and heads into the bathroom. Mission accomplished. Now I just have to figure out what to put in Sophie’s lunch. But before I can, I hear Charlotte’s cries.
“Rachel!” John calls out from the bedroom. “The baby’s crying!”
Duh.
I run into her room, hoist her out of the crib, and awkwardly change her diaper, resisting every urge to call for someone, anyone, to help me. I think it may be on backward, but decide it will have to do. “Shush, shush, I’m getting your bottle right now,” I mumble as I carry her down the stairs and make a mental note to Google “how to change a diaper” later.
John saunters into the kitchen as I’m trying to make Charlotte’s bottle with my left hand, my right wrapped tightly around her. “Coffee?” he asks, watching me as I spill formula onto the counter.
A little help, please?
I perk up. At least he’s offering to get me the caffeine I desperately need. “Why, yes, thank you. Venti bold with sugar-free vanilla, please,” I answer as I attempt to lower Charlotte into her high chair, her chubby legs refusing to bend.
He starts laughing, still watching me as Charlotte kicks the tray, clearly not wanting to sit in the damn chair. “I’m not offering. I’m asking if you’ve made any. And when did you start drinking Starbucks?”
My patience wears thin. “The other day,” I snap, but collect myself quickly, looking around for the coffeemaker. Clearly Rachel does this for him each morning. Does everything around here, it seems. And when did she become so subservient to him? “And I guess that’s where you’ll be going this morning if you want coffee. I’ve got my hands full here.” I make a wide sweeping gesture with my hands for dramatic effect.
“Fine, but you don’t have to be rude about it.”
I sit down at the kitchen table and look up at him. “I’m sorry, I’m just feeling really overwhelmed. I need help.”
“Well, that’s a first. You never seem to want my help when it comes to the kids.”
“Really? I don’t?” I ask. Why doesn’t Rachel ask for help? Why does she think she can do it all herself ? No wonder she doesn’t have time to get highlights.
John puts his hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You’ve been acting really strange since the reunion. Are you still thinking about that award?”
I stand back up and smile brightly. “No, I’m fine, I promise. Just tired, that’s all.”
We’re standing face-to-face and for a second I wonder if he’ll kiss me. Isn’t that what husbands do when they’re concerned about their wives? But he turns away and grabs his briefcase by the door. “See you tonight.”
“See you tonight,” I echo quietly as he walks out the front door.
“Hey.” Sophie comes bounding down the stairs dressed in a skirt so short it barely covers her butt.
“You’re not thinking of actually wearing that to school, are you?”
When did my sweet little Sophie start dressing like a whore?
I know Rachel warned me about this, but I thought she was just exaggerating.
“What’s the problem? Aunt Casey wears stuff like this on her show all the time.”
“She does not! I mean she may wear a
few short things
that she can totally pull off, by the way. But she’s an adult and you’re a child.” I think back to the minidress I wore to the reunion wondering if I
really did
pull that off.
Sophie rolls her eyes at me. “Mother, I told you, I am
not
a child anymore. I’m fourteen!”
“Well, child or not, you’re not wearing that skirt to school.
Go up and change right now.” I look at the digital clock on the microwave. “You guys need to leave soon or you’re going to be late.”
“You are
so
uncool!” She huffs out of the kitchen. “I wish you were more like Aunt Casey! I want to be just like her one day.”
Oh, if you only knew.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve pushed both girls out the door, wearing semiappropriate clothing, having eaten a somewhat nutritious breakfast, and with only three meltdowns between them. How have I only been awake for an hour?
Charlotte crawls over and pulls up on my legs. I pick her up and scroll through Rachel’s checklist on my phone. “When exactly do I get a shower, Charlotte?” And I swear I hear her laugh at me.
CHAPTER 8
rachel
I stare up at the
GossipTV
offices, petrified to go inside. I begged Casey to let me call in sick, but she told me it was not an option, unless, of course, I wanted to be responsible for getting her fired. With frightening detail, she described to me how cutthroat the television business is, that even though she’s been hosting the show for three years and it brings in the highest ratings for the network, there’s always some twenty-one-year-old with fake boobs waiting to steal her spot. In her case, it’s a bitchy little tart named Fiona. The insecurity in Casey’s voice threw me off as she described how far she’d gone to prove she wasn’t replaceable, once even hosting the show with a stomach flu so bad she had to run to the bathroom between every take.
How can I do this? How do I pretend to be Casey Lee? She does this every day, while I haven’t read from a TelePrompTer since college. What if showing up and trying to do her job is actually worse than if I’d called in sick? Won’t her cohost see right through me? She warned me Dean Anders is a total a-hole with
a short man’s complex who looks for any opportunity he can find to steal her spotlight and bad-mouth her to the executives. It’s rumored he’s sleeping with Fiona too. Just that fact alone makes my stomach hurt.
“What are you doing out here?” I recognize Casey’s assistant, Destiny, a dead ringer for Beyoncé, tapping on my car window. “I’ve been texting you for the last thirty minutes,” she says as she yanks the door open. “Ryan McKnight cheated on his wife with some stripper on their anniversary! They want you to record a couple of teases about the
shocking new details
we’re going to reveal on the show tonight.” She rolls her eyes dramatically.
My head is spinning. What’s a tease? I struggle to think. And who’s Ryan McKnight? Isn’t he in one of those boy bands?
“Why would anyone care if he cheated on his wife? Isn’t he washed up?” I ask.
“Um, yeah, until he wasn’t! Until he got a part in that indie film and won an Oscar and is now an A-list actor who vacations with Clooney.”
I stare at her blankly. I really had been in a sleep-deprived haze since having Charlotte.
“Girl, what’s wrong with you?” Destiny stares at me long and hard.
I take a deep breath as she gives me a once-over. She knows I’m not Casey. I’ve already blown it.
“Oh, I know what it is. You’re not caffeinated, are you?” She shoves a Starbucks coffee cup in my hand and I obediently take a sip. “Come on. We’ve got to get you in hair and makeup and go over the script.”
I reluctantly follow her, my heart pounding in my chest as I think about what lies ahead. Now’s probably not a good time to
reveal I have stage fright. It’s been more than sixteen years since I’ve been in front of a camera, and I’m certain it won’t be just like riding a bike, like Casey promised it would.
• • •
The next hour is a whirlwind as makeup is caked on my face, script after script is shoved at me (there’s a new color for every revision!), and getting my mic pac put on is more invasive than a full-body pat-down at LAX. About ten minutes before I have to go on camera I sneak off to the bathroom to try to calm my nerves. Luckily I’ve been to the offices before so I know my way around.
“I look like a man in drag,” I say to the mirror.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” A tiny blonde walks out of the stall. I know instantly she must be Fiona. “It’s normal for older women like you to have to wear more.”
Women like me.
My heart sinks for Casey. She warned me that Fiona is a bitch, but I had no idea it was so blatant or hurtful.
She smiles, revealing a set of teeth so straight and bright white that they look almost as fake as her boobs.
I stare at Fiona as she fluffs her platinum hair in the mirror and I decide I’m not going to let anyone talk to my best friend like that. I don’t know what Casey would do in this situation, but I know what I would do. “Well, maybe if you’re ever on camera, you’ll know what it feels like,” I hiss, and walk out of the bathroom, momentarily forgetting all about my stage fright.