25
REID
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Cantrell – this is Reid. Alexander.’
‘Yes, Mr Alexander?’ Her tone is somehow accusatory – and what’s with the Mister Alexander crap?
Ten seconds in and I’m already pacing the length of this f*cking trailer, wondering what sway her parents have with her, still. Wondering if I can fault them for her withdrawal. Knowing, after that meeting two months ago, how elated they would be to see this relationship collapse, which makes me furious.
One. Two. Three. Deep breath. Four. Five. Six.
‘I haven’t heard from Dori in several days. I just want to make sure she’s all right.’
She pauses before answering. ‘Dori is fine. I appreciate your concern – but she’s fine.’ Without you – that’s what I hear. She’s fine without you.
‘You’re aware, then, that she’s not returning my texts or calls. And clearly, you also know why.’ One hand at the back of my neck, I’m fighting every innate compulsion I have to keep from demanding that she tell me what the f*ck she knows that I don’t. ‘Would you mind, very much, sharing that information with me? Because I don’t have a clue what’s going on.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Do you read the celebrity gossip sites, Mr Alexander?’
I huff a breath. ‘Not if I can help it. I ignore them as much as possible, in fact, because they’re mostly lies and misconstrued half-truths, or unabashed invasions of privacy. Dori knows what’s true or what isn’t. At least, I thought she did. I thought she trusted me.’
‘And what is the truth? That you’ve been photographed numerous times with another young lady – one you used to … date?’
‘Dori knows why –’
‘Yes. She told me about the child you fathered, and what you and your ex-girlfriend are doing now – which, for the record, is admirable of you both. But it’s also not something my daughter needs to find herself caught up in or distracted by –’
‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not something Dori should have to deal with. Maybe it’s even more than she can handle.’ Christ. Speaking that sentence makes me feel as though I just stabbed myself in the chest. I can’t accept that it’s true. ‘But why isn’t she talking to me about it? Why does she think that dropping off the face of the earth is the way to resolve this?’
Her answer is quietly devastating. ‘I imagine she’s protecting herself from being further hurt by you.’
When I recover my breath, I blurt, ‘Further? What do you mean further hurt by me? I love her. I don’t intend to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt her. I almost relinquished rights to my son because I don’t want to lose her – because I was afraid of this reaction.’ I can’t tell her what may actually be behind Dori’s reaction – the needless guilt she feels over a choice she made years ago – a choice that, at the time, was right for her. ‘Even so, I never imagined her doing … this. She’s not a coward, and this is the most cowardly thing I’ve ever known her to do.’
‘So you believe that shielding herself from certain emotional damage is cowardly?’
‘Certain emotional damage? You make it sound as if this outcome was inevitable. Like there wasn’t any other possible result of a relationship between us, and we were doomed from the start. But that deduction isn’t something you based on the knowledge of my son or anything to do with Brooke Cameron – it comes from your prejudice against me. Against my lifestyle, or my career, or my previous reputation –’
‘Isn’t that how we all assess people and predict outcomes, Mr Alexander? By their previous reputations? Let’s say you’re correct. What about your lifestyle or reputation would benefit my daughter? What about your career would ever make her feel safe? Standing aside and watching while you’re physically involved on-screen and constantly rumoured to be off-screen – whether it’s true or not – with other women? Why would I want that for her?
‘And then, let’s add the existence of a son with one of those rumoured other women. What will happen to her once that secret comes to light? What will people say? Of course I don’t want that for her. Why in the world would I?’
I’m shredded by the recognition of how right she is. Even if her daughter is the only person I’ve ever met who didn’t ultimately judge me by my reputation, but by what she saw in me – and God knows how she managed that. I have only one truth to stand on.
‘I. Love. Her.’
‘If that’s true,’ she answers evenly, ‘you’ll want what’s best for her. Not for yourself.’
Brooke’s words about Graham slam into me and I fall to my knees in the middle of the trailer. I feel like my heart is imploding. Every scrap of anger or righteous indignation evaporates. Every argument turns to ash. Because, of course, she’s right. If I love Dori, I’ll want what’s best for her. And only Dori can know what that is.
Brooke: I saw the judge this morning. The case is being accelerated. We’re getting an overnight. First, here, tomorrow night. (If you come to Austin, Kathryn says you can stay here. A hotel would blow our cover.) If that goes well, each of us will get him in LA for a few days. His caseworker will travel with him.
Me: DAMMIT. I can’t get away right now. I am LITERALLY in the middle of the desert. They had to set up a special tower just so we could all get cell service. If I could leave this set, I’d be in CA. Call me in a couple of hours? I’ve got a scene to shoot.
Brooke: K
Two hours later on the dot, my phone rings. Brooke.
‘Hey. So he’s going to stay at Kathryn’s with you overnight? Will the fact that I’m not there be a problem?’
‘No,’ she answers. ‘I explained that I’m not working right now, but you are, and that if we get him, we intend to trade off projects. That one of us will always be with him.’ Brooke always did think fast on her feet. ‘Reid?’ A new hesitation creeps into her voice. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘About River? Yeah. I’m sure.’ I don’t have to ask if she is.
She releases an audible breath at my answer – as though she’s still expecting me to back out any minute. It’s so difficult for her to count on anyone. To trust when someone says they’ll be there for her. With our history, it’s a damned miracle for her to have confidence in anything I promise. I can’t blame her for asking.
‘Wendy is having surgery two weeks from Monday, so that’s when the overnights in LA will take place. One of the little boys she’s been keeping will be moving to a new foster home, and the other is moving towards a family reunification that might be too early. She couldn’t say much about either one, but it sounded like she was freaking out over both of them. I think we’ve suddenly become the best-case scenario.’
That seems like a wrong sort of thing to feel fortunate about, but I’m a dick, so I’ll take it. ‘Yay for other people f*cking up?’
She laughs shortly. ‘I guess. Will you be back in LA by then?’
‘Yeah. We’re wrapping up here in the middle of bumf*ck nowhere. Probably fourteen, fifteen days left, and we’ll be doing the studio sections next, at Universal. I should be back in town right before he arrives.’
‘And you’ll have the home study and parenting course stuff by then?’ she presses.
I roll my eyes, but tell myself she’s just making sure of essential details. No need to snap back. I set my jaw. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay.’ She takes a deep breath and launches into part two of this call. ‘I think it’s time to call Rowena.’ I curse and start to object – again – but she barrels on. ‘I know you have a preconceived perception of her after last spring – but, Reid, she’s our best shot at maintaining any control over how this news breaks. The public will want photos of our child. You know they will.’
She’s right – River is going to be top photo-stalker material. The only way to neutralize that is to provide the pics ourselves. With a jolt of comprehension, I realize I’ve got to trust her. And this Rowena person. Ugh. My opposition dissolves unsaid.
‘What did you mean before, when you said you’d be in California now if you could?’ she asks, undoubtedly to change the subject before I can build a case against her sycophantic paparazza.
‘Dori. She stopped talking to me about a week ago.’
‘A week? What happened?’
‘I have no idea. That’s a major component of the “stopped talking to me” bit.’
‘Don’t be an asshat. Did you two have a fight? Did you do something stupid like screw some girl who took photos of your naked backside and leaked it online?’
I would take exception if that exact thing hadn’t transpired a couple of years ago.
‘No fight. No girls. The photos of you and me in Austin are all over, of course, though she hasn’t said a thing about them. But she knows about River. I guess she just decided she couldn’t deal.’
‘That sucks. She should know not to pay attention to the crap online … although it’s occasionally true. If she can’t handle it, though, maybe you’re better off without her.’
I couldn’t have asked for a better time to film a withdrawn, brooding character. My Darcy role was a bit brooding, but he was mostly sarcastic and arrogant.
With the amount of time I spend alone – either in my trailer or walking at a barely visible distance from the huddle of trailers and sets, I think my co-stars have decided I’m one of those method actors who insists on remaining in character on and off-screen. I’ve caught insinuations that indicate as much, but I’ve no need to artificially immerse myself in the moody temperament of my current character.
I get him. Jesus Christ, do I get him.
And though I’m certainly drawing on my personal thoughts and emotions during filming to portray him (aka actual method acting) I’m not drawing on painful experiences from my past. All I have to do is conjure Dori, and the agony blazes through me, on cue.
BROOKE
It’s been six days since I’ve seen him.
Kathryn has been the voice of reason at every turn. ‘Don’t overwhelm him with things, Brooke,’ she says, when I want to buy him every Lego set I can find online. We choose a half-dozen, and put four of them away for later. It takes me almost an hour to narrow to a couple of plush animals – a teddy, of course, and a floppy-eared puppy (to compensate for the fact that Kathryn urges me not to buy him the real thing).
One wall of his room at Kathryn’s has been painted green – his favourite colour, according to Wendy. His room at my condo will include lots of green – I’ve hired a trompe l’oeil artist to paint a roadway with colourful cars and background scenery all the way around at eye level. The ceiling will be baby blue, with fluffy clouds scattered from one corner to the other. His closets will be painted with chalkboard paint, so he can draw all over them.
It appears that I can’t help but overdo.
I worry over this, too, but Kathryn laughs and shakes her head. ‘This is you, Brooke. Just try to pull back a little. Remember, what he needs is your love. That’s why poverty-stricken parents can still do a wonderful job of raising a child.’
What she doesn’t say: That’s why wealthy parents often fail at it. They substitute things for affection.
‘I’ll remember.’
One thing we agree on is half-filling his built-in bookcase with books – dozens of picture books – favourites from my childhood, and anything new that catches my eye. Their spines are multi-hued and inviting when we line them up on the shelves – a miniature library. Wendy says River likes to be read to before bed, and I wonder to myself if he’d like to be read to on the flat rock by the creek, in the middle of the day, for no reason.
I buy Matchbox cars and a track with a double loop in the middle that Reid assures me every boy ever born would like, and authentic-looking construction trucks that will look even more realistic with their working parts encrusted with dirt.
I choose a green toothbrush and three kinds of toothpaste. A nightlight shaped like a racing car that switches on and off. A pair of galoshes in John Deere green, even though the forecast calls for a cool, sunny day.
River’s caseworker is picking him up from Wendy’s after his afternoon nap, and bringing him here. Kris has been here several times during the home study, so she’s already familiar with the place. She and Kathryn hit it off immediately – lucky for me. It took Kris longer to warm to me, but that’s the upshot of being a woman and having a blunt personality.
Sometimes people just don’t like me. Go figure.
Glenn is planning a barbecue for dinner. He’s one of those guys with the manly black canvas apron boasting, Licensed to GRILL! and all the long-handled accessories you can shake a stick at. On the way home from work last night, he stocked up on supplies: sirloin patties and beef hot dogs, buns, pickles, sweet relish and shoestring potatoes.
Kathryn’s charged me with assembling a fruit salad to keep me occupied (read: I’m driving her up the wall with my anxious patrolling around the house). One minute I’m happy and ridiculously domestic, and the next I’m positive someone will call to tell me they’ve made a mistake. I never should have been considered to be River’s mother. It was a court error – haha, so sorry.
When the phone rings, my hands jerk reflexively from the task of chopping the heads off strawberries, and I feel the sharp sting of the blade cutting through layers of skin.
‘Ouchgoddammit! I mean – darn it!’ In a matter of seconds, my index finger develops a streaming red gash.
‘Maybe handing you a paring knife wasn’t the best decision …’ Kathryn observes, turning to grab first-aid supplies from the pantry while I cleanse the cut and press a paper towel to it to stop the bleeding.
Glenn snags the phone on the third ring. ‘Y’ello?’ His expression appears concerned, which makes my heart flip over – until he says, ‘And it’s only making that noise when you’re coming to a stop, but not when you’re idling? Uh-huh. Do the noise one more time for me.’
I’m an idiot. This call is on the landline, not my cell. And it’s obviously Kelley or Kylie with some sort of car trouble, rather than the State of Texas calling to stamp out my delusions of motherhood.
‘Let’s see that grisly wound.’ Kathryn takes my hand and examines the cut. Light green eyes sparkling, she says, ‘I think we’ll be able to save the finger. Let’s bandage that up and then give you something less disaster-prone to do while we wait.’
As though I’m six again, my stepmother seats me on the corner barstool, applies ointment to the gash and covers it with a neon-pink bandage.
‘Reid told me that you’re my role model, instead of Sharla,’ I say, and her worried gaze flashes to mine. ‘I must have known that, deep down, for years. But I never really acknowledged it. I always thought who I was – who I’d become – came down to blood, but that’s just not true. I don’t know who I’d be without you. Which seems pretty damned unfair, given the fact that my existence ruined your life.’
Pressing a kiss to my forehead, she sighs. ‘Oh, honey – take a look around. Does my life look ruined to you? I have three very beautiful, talented daughters, a loving –’ We hear Glenn outside, preparing the patio cooking area and belting out his own version of an eighties pop song, in which grills are crazy about sharp-dressed men. ‘– slightly insane husband, and I’m preparing to become a grandmother twice in the next few months! I have a wonderful life, Brooke, and I’m happy you’re part of it.’
When the doorbell chimes, I freeze in place. I can’t breathe.
‘Go and answer the door, honey,’ Kathryn urges, slipping outside with Glenn so River won’t be overwhelmed with new faces, everyone hovering, before he even gets in the door.
I walk to the door, shaking, and pull it open, hoping my smile looks friendly instead of panic-stricken. There he stands, gripping Kris’s hand as securely as I’d held Reid’s on Wendy’s front porch just a week ago. Next to him is a miniature rolling case shaped like a rather squared-off frog. Green, of course. He makes no move to enter, and his unsmiling expression doesn’t waver.
According to Wendy, River is forty inches tall and weighs thirty-four pounds, putting him in the sixteenth centile for both height and weight. The medical consensus: nutritional deprivation for some portion of his first few years; with proper nourishment, he may be able to make up for some of it. In our pre-visit call last night, she notified me about his food hoarding, and the psychological causes of it. ‘Also, he sometimes experiences nightmares – and occasionally, night terrors. Most nights, now, he sleeps just fine. But these are a possibility since he’ll be in an unfamiliar environment.’
I calmly accepted everything Wendy said, asking pertinent questions and taking meticulous notes, and when I got off the phone, I walked to the creek, sat on my rock and cried until my throat was raw.
I squat down to his level and fix a careful smile on my face. I’m an actor. I can do this.
Years ago, I found a skittish litter of kittens living under Glenn’s tool shed. They were lightning-fast balls of fluff, and I wanted to hold one of them more than life itself. So I sat in the grass all afternoon, as close to motionless as I could manage, cooing and sweet-talking as though I was the safest girl who ever lived.
Moderating my voice in that same way, I speak to my son, to whom I am still a stranger.
‘Hello, River. I’m glad you’ve come to visit. Would you like to come inside?’
Like those kittens, his dark blue eyes regard me warily, assessing whether I can be trusted. An eternity passes before he nods, once.
Standing, I welcome Kris as well and offer to take River’s case. His soft little fingers brush mine as he passes the handle to me, and I turn and lead the way through the living room and down the wide hallways, biting my lip.
‘Your room is right next to mine. Here we are.’
Pausing in the doorway, he angles his head and scans the room – eyes moving deliberately over each individual object. I place his case on the bed and wait. When his gaze reaches me, he doesn’t skip past. I’m given the same careful regard as everything else. The thing that finally lures him into the room is the golden-coated stuffed puppy. Drifting closer, he comes to the opposite side of the twin bed, chewing his bottom lip. Kris remains in the doorway.
‘I think that puppy needs to be held.’ My voice is still whisper-soft. ‘Know why?’
His eyes flick to mine.
‘Because we’re having hot dogs for dinner, so he’s a little worried.’
One eyebrow quirks up, and I suppress a gasp – for the beat of two seconds, he is Reid, and I know in that moment that he’s going to be fine. I’ve never known anyone as stubborn and indomitable as this child’s father … unless it’s his mother. He’s survived the hand he was dealt because he’s tough as nails, as small and breakable as he appears.
I quirk a brow back at him. ‘We’re going to eat outside. You can bring him along if you want. He doesn’t have a name yet. I was thinking about calling him Hot Dog, but maybe that’s why he’s worried about what’s for dinner.’
His mouth twists on one side this time, his eyes shifting back to the puppy.
‘Kris, would you like to stay for dinner?’ I offer.
She shakes her head, smiling. ‘I think you’ve got this. Let me know if you need me – you have my numbers?’
I nod. ‘Programmed into every phone we’ve got, and your card is on the fridge.’
‘Awesome.’ She turns her smile to him. ‘Goodnight, River. I’ll see you tomorrow after lunch, okay?’
When I turn back, he has the puppy clutched to his chest. He looks at me one more time before nodding to her, giving her permission to leave him here with me. Alone.