Between You and Me (12 page)

I unspool the years, realizing, as Andy watches Terrance clap for her third drenched bow, that we have both had to take it for a really, really long time.

We’ve plowed through three more cities in as many days when just past sunup, I stand by the entrance of the Royal Amsterdam Inn, waiting for GM and Andy to help Kelsey stumble off the bus. Bumped, because of a gas leak, from our garage-equipped hotel of choice, Kelsey must now traverse the flashbulb-filled cobblestone holding up her travel pillow to block the shots.

Our new lodging is made up of a series of adjoined seventeenth-century riverhouses, which require us to navigate two claustrophobically narrow staircases before we get to the tiny elevator leading to her suite. Surveying the tight fit, Andy steps back to wait for the next one. “The pillow might have to wait, too,” I mutter as the door slides shut and an ancient pulley creaks into motion.

“Huh?” she asks, dropping her head against the wall of the car.

“Nothing, sorry. Stay asleep.” I scroll my e-mail, seeing one from Rachel about Lauren’s bachelorette party, all of the bridesmaids cc’d. “We were thinking suites for all of us wherever Kelsey’s staying, then a spa day (can Kelsey join?), then dinner wherever she likes (private dining room???), VIP clubbing (she likes to dance, right?), and in-room massages the next day with brunch. So excited! XO, R.”

She forgot to specify if she expects Kelsey to perform the in-room massages. I’m sure she does.

I dump my phone back into my pocket, thinking of switching to Gmail and not telling anyone.

“You feeling okay?” I ask, studying Kelsey’s greenish pallor under the crystal pendant.

“Achy.” She lifts her pajama-sleeve-covered hand over her mouth as she yawns.

“Let’s get you into a bath.”

“I don’t want a bath.” She closes her eyes and grimaces. “I can’t listen to her right now.”

On the landing we wait beneath mildewed wallpaper for the elevator to bring Andy.

“And it was the Limited,” she says.

“Sorry?”

“Not the Gap. When I first heard myself on the radio.” Kelsey smiles. “The rest you got right.”

The Presidential Suite feels a little less Obama than Roosevelt—Teddy. Michelle is already in the bathroom, removing her makeup as the tub fills.

“I’m sorry, this place was listed as a boutique option—” Dust fills my nose, and I sneeze.

“Whatever. It’s fine,” Kelsey says as she goes to tug the shutters closed.

“She’s not feeling great.” I update Michelle. “Maybe we should skip the bath?” I offer. “I could keep you company, and Kelsey can go to sleep?” Kelsey shoots me a grateful look.

“Oh, she just needs a nap and a McFlurry.” Andy clicks on the TV as he drops onto the nearby couch.

Michelle opens the complimentary toiletries and sniffs each one. “It’ll help you unwind, Kel, after all those photographers.”

Andy raises his arm in my direction. “Oh, and Cheryl’s e-mailing you talking points.”

“Thank you.” I tug my phone out of my pocket and see that she’s already sent me the document, subject line
Logan and Kelsey’s History.

“Night, Logan. Happy face in the morning.” Michelle waves me off, and I hear her ask Kelsey, “Now what was that woman saying in your dressing room?”

“Which woman?”

“In the red dress and the funny hat, you remember? What was she saying?”

I let the door shut behind me and traverse another warren of hallways to a dust-mite-caked bed, where I face-plant, clothes still on, and remain motionless for a whopping four hours.

Then it’s time to tug
open the drapes and flip the shutters to an icy rain splattering the canal that sends Michelle hurrying out to track down a camera-friendly raincoat. Andy brings Kelsey a bottle of Coke Light to nurse as Binky blushes her cheeks back to a semblance of health. She chatters about the weather while tearing her toast into bites that don’t make it into her mouth.

“She’ll rally.” Andy waves me off with a strip of bacon when I inquire if we should reconfigure the schedule. Which is a guilty relief, as I wouldn’t begin to know how, given there’s more free space in that tiny elevator than there is in my binder.

And rally she somehow does. While one journalist after another asks her droning questions between puffs of unfiltered Marlboros in the hotel’s windowless library. They weirdly don’t raise their voices at the ends of queries. “You wrote an album.” “You like to sing.” “You are traveling through Europe.” As if they’re listing her offenses.

“Only one more print.” I update her as I click the door closed, leaving us briefly alone. “Thank God.”

“Come on, three hours of smoke is just what the doctor ordered,” she says, allowing herself to indulge in the phlegmy cough she’s been suppressing. She falls forward in her wing chair like a collapsed marionette.

“It’s my privilege to inform you that fresh air is next on the docket.” I grab the coffee and refill her cup. “The costume piece is in a park. I assume it’s tented given the downpour—and the local network wants to show you strolling the streets.”

“That explains why the last guy asked if I was a streetwalker.” She kicks off her heels.

“Yeah.” I drop into the chair across from her. “Something was getting lost there.”

“Or not.” She sits back up, bracing her temples as she pulls her legs in. I flip through today’s FedEx to confirm the tent. Otherwise, Michelle
will need to find a golf umbrella to match the trench she’s currently shaking down Gucci for. The beamed ceiling creaks. Kelsey sneezes and then lets out an involuntary moan. I pass her the tissues.

“Oh, my gosh,” she says. “I keep thinking of what I can fill you in on, but I guess you’ve been with me since I woke up.”

“Mmm,” I say, marking my place in the schedule with my finger. She pulls out an interview smile, and then her face contorts into another sneeze.

“Kel?”

“Yeah?”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Don’t have to what?” she asks, wiping her reddening nose.

“Endear me, entertain me, engage me. If it starts with an ‘e,’ you don’t have to do it. I’m here. I’m in. It’s not your responsibility to make this a good time for me. Consider my presence an off switch.” I was hoping I would remember the producer’s name once I saw it, but the call sheet is in Dutch, and all of these words look the same. “I swear, at some point, Poland and Holland had a language grab, and Poland ran off with all the consonants, and Holland got stuck with the vowels.” There’s a knock on the door. I realize that Kelsey has been staring at me with a strange expression. “You okay?” I put my hand on her knee. She nods slowly.

I open the door to a disappointed man. “You are not Kelsey.”

“And you must be here for the interview! Come on in.”

Then we are out in
that air, which isn’t fresh so much as damp, like being licked with a cold cloth. The canals weave under the streets, between the buildings, releasing an icy vapor that penetrates everything. No wonder people like to take refuge in steamy cafés and imbibe hot smoke. As Kelsey and the interviewer walk, I teeter along beside them, reaching onto my toes to keep the umbrella out of frame. Icy water makes rivulets down my neck and sleeves. Kelsey fights stumbling as the producer keeps gesturing for her to look at the interviewer and not the uneven cobblestones threatening to upend the thin heels of her boots. Michelle waits beneath the tent with the
costumed mannequins. Kelsey waves at the crowd, and I see a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.

“Hey.” I touch the elbow of Andy’s bomber jacket, and he tucks down. “She’s really not feeling well, and the five takes of that hike didn’t help. What’s the protocol when she gets sick?”

He chews the inside of his cheek as Kelsey invokes the mythical sycamore. “Call the office. They’ll have the number for someone who can meet us backstage. A B12 shot in the ass’ll fix her right up.”

“Great, and I’ll cancel lunch with the radio contest winners so she can nap—”

“No, don’t. She’ll never get back up if she stops. She’ll be fine—Rambo, remember?” He pats me on the back as the drizzle increases around us.

I don’t know how she
got through the show. Between songs, we sprayed her throat with numbing solution while she gave in to flu shudders, before bracing herself to go back out and dance her shot-up ass off for forty-two thousand people.

Afterward, on the bus to Belgium, Kelsey sits next to me up front, coughing and staring out the window as I try to doze. Once we cross the border, I realize which of the three thousand niggling thoughts is keeping me from sleeping and send an e-mail. “Hi, Rachel & Co—so excited for the bachelorette! Working on the hotel thing—you guys might have to share.” On my Discover points. “Let me know where you want me to try to get a dinner reservation—of course can’t use K’s name. Clubbing totally. And K was so excited to hear about L’s wedding she wants to treat you guys to the spa day. XO, L.” That
has
to be good enough, right?

For the first time Kelsey is the first one off the bus.

“It’ll take a moment for them to get us checked in,” I inform her, resting my back against the front desk as the stunned clerk fumbles to program our key cards. “I don’t usually wake you for this part.”

“No, that’s good, because I was thinking . . . ” Her scratchy voice momentarily trails off as she sees her parents’ luggage wheeled in.

“Uh-huh?” I yawn as Michelle follows Andy off the elevator. He lifts his cap to give his scalp a thorough agitating.

“Wait!” Kelsey croaks after the bellboy, and he stops. “Mom.” Kelsey waves her over. “Why don’t you take Logan’s room, and Logan’ll be in the suite with me?” Her voice gives out completely, and she swallows. “This way, my cough won’t keep you up. Don’t you think, Logan?”

I am too tired to form an answer that, from the expressions on Andy’s and Michelle’s faces, could possibly satisfy all parties. “Whatever’s good for you guys. Seriously, toss me that throw pillow,” I say, pointing to the nearby settee. “And I’d be happy to curl up right here.”

“Well, Kelsey . . . ” Michelle looks to Andy. “Delia never—”

“Right.” Kelsey’s eyes harden for the briefest second. “Not a second thought.” She wheezes. “You’ll come for breakfast. So!” Without waiting for a response, she directs the bellboy at her baffled parents’ luggage. “These to the room next door. Now, give me a kiss, Momma, or you know I’ll never be able to sleep.” She goes to lower her forehead but is wracked by a hard cough. “Happy face in the morning,” she spits out in breathy bursts.

The next morning, I order
up everyone’s usual breakfast, text Andy to let him know the food is waiting, and then sit with the day’s FedEx packet to get organized.

After thirty minutes, I text him again, and then Michelle, wondering if he forgot to charge his phone.

After opting to let Kelsey sleep in I’m just making her a sandwich for the road when her door opens. “Sorry. It’s so quiet, I overslept.” She blows her chapped nose and looks around the room with watery eyes. “Where are they?”

I shrug.

“What, are they pouting?” She goes out to the hallway, and starts tapping on the door kitty-corner. “Momma, Daddy, come on, now. Do you really want my germs? My germs,” she repeats in a German accent.

There’s no answer.

She raises her fist to pound, but the door falls open at the first strike. I look at her motionless back.

“What is it?” I dart out to see.

The room’s empty. The bed has been slept in, but Andy and Michelle are gone. She immediately starts to shake. “Oh, my God. It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, Kel.”

I cancel the day’s interviews, the photo ops, the VIP reception, pleading flu, pleading exhaustion. But silently to Andy and Michelle, merely pleading.

The next day, I wake
in Munich on the chaise across from Kelsey’s bed. Her nightmares reached me through the suite’s walls at around five while I was staring at the ceiling. Belgium’s front desk informed me that in the time I was watching their breakfasts cool, Andy and Michelle ordered a car to the airport and were seen rolling their wheelies through the lobby of their own volition. So the worst was ruled out, leaving a range of hurtful possibilities.

I roll over on the uncomfortably tufted silk, pushing my hair off my face. Kelsey is passed out on her stomach, reminding me of endless sleepovers. Michelle loved having us stay up, letting us play with her makeup—as long as I removed it before my dad picked me up. That house was such a craved change from the stillness of my own. Now I look at the vestiges of the manicure I chewed off yesterday, to say nothing of Kelsey’s raw cuticles, and I can’t reconcile that they could just leave us.

Amex won’t tell me where their cards are being used, because Andy’s changed the password. The office is at a total loss. The girls promised to call me the
second
Andy checks in. The only person left to reach out to is Terrance—and I can’t bring myself to tell him I lost the Wades. How many days of mother-daughter interviews sans mother can go unnoticed?

Shit.

I blow a steady stream of air to the ceiling.
Shitshitshit. What
is going on?