Everything Leads to You (12 page)

~

Ava appears in the doorway of the Marmont bar, scanning the room for us, clearly relieved when she sees me wave.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says as she steps down into the bright, sunken seating area where we’ve claimed a table. “I had no idea what door to go through! And I kept thinking I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be and that someone was going to know and throw me out. What
is
this place?”

She drops her purse on the red worn carpet and pulls out a velvet upholstered, high-back chair. Her hair is up today, bobby-pinned and messy, and she’s dressed in the same shorts and belt as last time, today with a white shirt loosely buttoned and rolled up at the sleeves.

“It’s a hotel,” I say.

“A ridiculously overpriced hotel,” Charlotte adds. “For celebrities and people desperate to see celebrities.” She catches sight of something in the courtyard. “And for women who make me terrified of growing old.”

We follow her gaze to where two elderly ladies are rising from their table, wobbly on their matchstick legs and high heels, their breasts huge and fake, the skin on their overly made-up faces pulled tight by many surgeries. Their lips are so swollen they must hurt. I look away.

“The Marmont is more than that,” I say. “It has a lot of history. Clyde Jones used to hang out here, so I thought it would be the perfect place to meet up with his granddaughter.”

“He did?”

“All the stars at that time did. And sure, lots of people come here just to be seen, but people do serious work here, too. Like Annie Leibovitz? She’s taken some of her most famous portraits here. People have written novels here. Sofia Coppola filmed an entire movie here. And there have been a lot of tragedies, too.”

Charlotte says, “Emi loves tragedy.”

“That’s because all the best stories are tragic.”

“Tragedies like what?” Ava asks.

“So many of them. Have you heard of John Belushi?”

She shakes her head no.

“He was a comedian, part of the original cast of
Saturday Night Live
. He died here in 1982. He was only thirty-three, and that night he was partying with all these other celebrities—Robin Williams and Robert De Niro and lots of other people—and then he OD’d. They found him in his room. Bungalow Three.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, so sad,” I say. “Are you hungry?”

She nods and I hand her a menu. Almost immediately, her brow furrows, and I know that it must be because everything costs way more than it should. You can’t even get a cup of soup for a decent price. So when the waiter comes I jump in and order a bunch of things.

“Does this sound okay?” I ask them. “I thought I’d order stuff to share.”

Ava nods but she looks worried.

“Our treat,” Charlotte adds.

When the waiter leaves, Ava says, “I’ll at least get the tip.”

Char and I try to shrug it off.

“No. I insist,” she says.

“So you had something you wanted to show us?” Charlotte asks.

I hadn’t even remembered that part of why we were here, but now, as Ava nods and reaches into her purse, I’m dying to know what it is.

“It’s just a photograph,” she says. “I realized after I texted that I should have told you that. You might have thought it was something really big, but . . .”

I reach out my hand and she places the photo in my palm. Charlotte leans closer to me to look.

“It’s my mother,” Ava says.

“Caroline,” I say.

Looking at the photograph, Caroline becomes real in a way she wasn’t when she was just a name on a letter found in a dead man’s mansion. She’s wearing her hair similarly to the way Ava is now, one wisp of it falling over her face. Her style is perfect, effortless nineties grunge: ripped-up jeans and a flannel shirt unbuttoned over a camisole, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Her arm is a blur of motion, as if she’s about to push the strands of hair out of her face. She’s outside in the sun on what looks like a street in Long Beach. She is fair and red haired and green eyed, caught in an everyday moment, casual and happy.

“She’s gorgeous,” Charlotte says, and it’s true.

“It’s amazing how much you guys resemble one another,” I say. “You and Caroline and Clyde. Those are some strong genes.”

I stop there. I don’t ask the thing I want to, which is how it feels to see such a strong biological connection when none of them really knew one another. I wonder what Ava feels when she looks at this photograph, whether there is any recognition, anything nestled in a faraway memory that registers this woman as more than someone who shares Ava’s features. If the declaration
It’s my mother
is only factual, or if, somehow, she can still feel it.

“I’ve been wondering,” Ava says. “When you met the old people at the apartment . . .” She reaches out for the photograph and I hand it back to her. She studies it and then takes a breath. “Did they happen to tell you how she died?”

“No,” I say. “They didn’t.”

Charlotte adds, “Just that they found her in the apartment.”

Ava nods. She puts the photograph back into an envelope, places the envelope inside a book, and then zips the book up into her purse.

“I went through this phase when I was five,” she says. “That’s when I remember Tracey really changing, pulling away from me. I felt like my life was suddenly all wrong. I spent a lot of time thinking about how Caroline might have died.”

The waiter arrives with another guy behind him, placing fries and deviled eggs and bruschetta onto the table. He asks if we need anything else and we say no and I hope that Ava will continue when he leaves.

Charlotte and I don’t say anything, and Ava resumes her story.

“For some reason, I always pictured her in a lavender dress, even though I’ve only seen this one photo of her. Sometimes I imagined pill bottles near her. Sometimes a bullet wound. Sometimes there was no kind of evidence, and it was like she just curled up on the carpet and went to sleep.”

She takes her napkin and spreads it out onto her lap. She looks out the window.

“I always imagined it with carpet,” she says. “I guess I wanted it to be softer for her.”

“I still think it’s strange that Tracey wouldn’t tell you things,” I say. “It seems so wrong to make you guess.”

“We got in so many fights over it. For a while I thought it might be because she felt like
she
was my mother, and maybe I was hurting her feelings by bringing up Caroline.”

“Maybe that’s true,” Charlotte says.

“No. I mean, maybe it was when I was really little. She used to say this thing all the time: ‘Don’t do this to us.’ She’d say it to motel clerks or landlords when they tried to kick us out, or to her bosses when they told her she couldn’t bring me with her to work anymore.”

Charlotte frowns. “What a terrible thing to have to say.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t feel terrible. I guess I just focused on the ‘us’ part. It was never scary when I was little, even when we had to spend the night in the car or something, because we were always together. Even when she had boyfriends, she took me on all their dates. If the guys weren’t nice to me we just left.”

She reaches out and takes a french fry between her slender fingers. Before putting it in her mouth, she says, “One of them gave me one of those small trampolines. The kind where only one person jumps at a time? We kept it in the living room. Tracey could touch the ceiling when she jumped.”

She smiles, remembering this, and I can almost see it: A girl in her mid-twenties in a sparsely furnished apartment at night. The glow of a Goodwill lamp, of streetlights through a curtainless window. A four-year-old redhead, lying on the carpet, watching as the girl jumps again and again, amazed at the contact of hands against ceiling, filled with the wonder of someday growing big, the promise of someday growing up.

But the story takes a turn, of course. Ava tells us that it was around the time she started kindergarten. She could see the way Tracey looked at the other parents. They were a little older; they were so confident; they gathered in bright clusters on the playground at the end of the school day, their wedding rings glinting in the sun. They offered one another advice and commiserated and laughed with their heads thrown back and their mouths open, hoisting babies onto their hips, praising and consoling and disciplining one another’s kids as though they were their own.

“Suddenly Tracey started acting differently. She left me at home alone. She complained about dropping me off and picking me up from school and making dinner. I didn’t understand it at all then, but I think she was just realizing that this wasn’t a life that she had chosen for herself, you know? It’s not like she really wanted a kid when she was twenty. She never told me how it all happened, but my guess is that it was impulsive, that Caroline died—her
best friend
—and there I was, all that was left of her, and I’m sure that Tracey loved me and couldn’t imagine losing me, too. But that doesn’t mean that she really wanted to be a parent. Or that she was ready to be one.”

I find myself leaning forward across the table, too eager for this story, so I make myself sit back and drink my iced tea and swallow all my follow-up questions. I let Ava eat in peace for a minute as a minor celebrity walks past us to the patio and people try not to notice, as a hush falls and then, gradually, conversations resume around us.

The truth is I don’t know anyone who has led Ava’s kind of life. I divide my time between a world of relatively well-adjusted families and private school and the world of filmmaking, where the stories are often filled with all of this—young, troubled women, rejection and death and love—but they are so clearly constructed and controlled, the fate of everyone already determined.

“Charlotte isn’t totally right about me,” I say. “I love tragedy, but what I love the most is redemption.”

“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” Charlotte asks with a smirk.

Ava cocks her head and studies me. I find myself not knowing what to say next, because what I’m thinking about is how movies are written in scenes, and how those scenes are shot out of order. You don’t start filming at the beginning and end at the end. It all has to do with locations and schedules. Sometimes, the last scenes are shot first, so you know that the couple reconciles, or the hero kills the aliens, or the addict gets clean. You already know that everything will turn out okay, so when it’s time for the earlier, harrowing scenes, you can get swept up in them safely. You can let them wreck you and allow the wrecking to feel good.

I want a happy ending for Ava. I want to have that sense of peace so all the sad details of her life become just parts of a journey that ends well. Sitting here in the Marmont is a good start, even if she doesn’t know that she belongs here yet. But it can’t just be about who her grandfather was and the money she is hopefully going to get. Fame by association is the emptiest kind.

I reach into my bag and take out
Yes & Yes
.

“I just got a new job working on this film. It has a beautiful ending,” I say. “And this is a
huge
long shot, but I think you should audition for one of the parts.”

Ava’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise but she doesn’t say no. Instead, she reaches out and takes it.

“I know that acting in high school plays isn’t at all the same as acting in a movie, but you said that you really liked it, and I figured it would be worth a try. Something about the character makes me think of you.”

I don’t go on, because if I had to identify what it is about Juniper that reminds me of Ava, my answer would be that they both seem lonely, both seem a little bit lost in the world.

I can feel Charlotte watching me as I show Ava the scene she would need to read from for the audition, and I can’t tell if she approves or not. She checks her watch, tells us she’ll be right back. While she’s gone, Ava reads the scene to herself and I scoot my chair closer to read it with her, and I am struck again by how much I love this script, how proud I am of the project.

She smiles when she’s finished, green eyes bright.

She asks, “When would we do this?”

“We have to submit the audition tape soon. Like, the day after tomorrow, probably. We can film it at my brother’s apartment.”

She nods. “I have to work tonight but I have tomorrow off so I can practice during the day.”

Charlotte appears at the table.

“Are we forming a plan?” she asks, which is a relief because I know that if she disapproved she wouldn’t say anything encouraging.

“Audition two nights from now,” Ava says. “I have lots of work to do.”

“We’d better let you get started then.”

“What about the check?”

“Oh, I took care of it while I was up there. The service here is terrible. They would have kept us waiting forever and Emi and I have a meeting to get to.”

Ava pulls out her wallet. “At least let me give you a few dollars.”

“When you get your money from Clyde you can take us out to celebrate,” Charlotte tells her.

Ava hesitates. “You’re assuming the money is still waiting for me. There might not be anything left.”

“I think it’ll be there,” I say. Because how could it not be? Who else would have retrieved it?

“Can I borrow this?” Ava asks, still holding the screenplay. “I want to read the whole thing. It would help me understand Juniper better.”

I grin at her because it’s exactly what she should be doing. And I have to temper the lilt in my step, try not to smile quite so wide as we’re leaving.

Ava is in my life for at least a few more days.

Chapter Nine

An hour later, Charlotte and I are sitting on the floor of Rebecca and Theo’s living room with the rest of the crew, all of us together for the first time. There’s Charlie, the director of photography, quiet, in thick-rimmed glasses; the sound guy, Michael, with his little brother/assistant who doesn’t seem too much older than me; the stylists, Grant and Vicki, who are both decked out in feathers and fringe. All of us are doing what entire teams would do on a studio production, like Grant and Vicki, who usually only do wardrobe, will also be in charge of hair and makeup. As Rebecca hands us copies of the production schedule and I see how quickly this needs to come together, I start to realize the enormity of the job I have just accepted. Everyone is overextended on this project, but even with Charlotte’s help, I’ll be doing the jobs of at least seven people. I’m the production designer and the set decorator, the buyer and the leadman, the set dresser and the swing gang, the prop master and the PA. Charlotte’s my art director, but apart from her I’m on my own.