Find Her, Keep Her (16 page)

For the first time ever, I take a moment to look into my mom’s light green eyes. She’s not at ease because I’ve put her on guard. Is that the effect I have on her?
 

“I apologize,” I say. “That was rude of me. Truly, Mom”—my voice cracks—“I’m really happy to see you.”

She opens her arms. I accept the gesture and go in for the hug. My mom always smells like gardenias. She’s two inches taller than me, and I always liked that. Her height made her extra powerful in my eyes. I used to warn the kids in grade school that my mom could beat up their mom. She is an Amazon-gladiator–feminine, yet strong.
 

“I can make us coffee,” I say, still in her embrace.

“I will make it,” she replies and kisses me on both cheeks. “You are still
ma fleur
, Daisy.”

I smile, realizing that I haven’t heard her say that to me in years. I run her bag up to the room I slept in last night. I wouldn’t dare usher my mother into a smaller bedroom than mine. When I enter the kitchen, she’s already found a coffeemaker, coffee, and filters and is measuring out the grains.
 

“Go sit,” she instructs as she moves around the kitchen, opening and taking things out of the cabinets and refrigerator.

I follow her command and sit at the end of a long table set in front of a big dark window. As soon as the coffee’s done she serves me a hot cup of it. I sip the brew and watch as she whips up salmon and egg scrambles and a kale salad with pomegranate seeds, sliced apples, pears, and oranges.
 

“I see you cook now,” I remark.

She sets the chef-styled plate in front of me and then sits down beside me with her own plate. “I had to learn someday.”
 

I take a bite of eggs. “Um, this is good, Mom!” I’m pleasantly surprised.

“The truth is I take a cooking class on Sunday mornings to help with the stress.”

“I thought you mastered the art of living happily with stress.”

“Me too, until I fainted in a meeting.”

I freeze with a forkful of salad near my lips. “You fainted? Did you go to the doctor?”

“Yes, I did, and she told me I was stressed. I told her, that’s nothing new. She told me, neither is death.”

I try to picture what my life would be like without my mom in the world. Suddenly I feel the loss in my heart. I clear my throat. “Are the classes working?”

She smiles a little, sensing that I’m choked up. “They are,
ma fleur
,” she assures me. “So… let’s talk about the man with the private airplane?” She’s purposefully changing the subject.

“Belmont.” I simper and look bashfully into my coffee cup.

When I lift my eyes, my mother is regarding me shrewdly. “You like him?” she asks.

I nod. “I kind of do.”

“He is rich,” she concludes with lifted eyebrows. “But is he on the up and up?”

“He is,” I assure her, although I wonder what made her ask that question.

“And you know this?”

“I think I do,” I mutter indecisively. After I think about it, I amend my statement. “No, I know he’s good.”
 

She calmly takes another sip of coffee. I sort of feel like she’s the Don and I’m asking her permission to be in love with someone.
 

“Hollywood is small, Daisy.” She lifts her eyebrows as if she’s hinting at something.

“Is it?” I’m confused.

“It is. And I once met a man named Jack,” she hints.

I expel a long sigh of dread. “You know, don’t you?”

“And he knows that I know,” she replies.

“And?” I wait on pins and needles.

She shrugs in dramatic fashion, slowly and elegantly raising one shoulder with a slight twist. “Who cares, Daisy? I didn’t think you would.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”
 

“Then that is good,” she sings optimistically. “Jack Lord was a beautiful boy with a fool’s dream. He was smart enough to get the hell out of the shark’s tank so that he could make something out of himself.”

“But did you and him…” I’ve stopped breathing, waiting to hear the verdict.

“Absolutely not,” she replies. “Now”—she shimmies her back against the suede high-back chair—“tell me everything.”

And that’s exactly what I do. I start with my dinner with Adrian three months ago and work my way up to this moment. Before I know it, three hours have passed. We’ve cleaned our plates and switched from coffee to burgundy that’s so fine even my mom approves.

“Why haven’t we ever done this before?” I ask after my second glass of the red.
 

“Because you chose to stay away.”

“But you never want me around.” I sigh, feeling sorry for myself.

“You are so wrong,
ma fleur
,” my mother says as she squeezes my hand. Her fingers are nimble and soft. She withdraws her hand and downs half a glass of wine. “I don’t get an award for Mother of the Year. Not from you, Elita, or Iva”—she sighs and pauses as a veil of sadness covers her eyes—“or Daniel.”

I flinch, surprised to hear her say that. I feel so bad about her self-criticism that I say, “You were fine, Mom.”

She snickers first and then studies me for a short while. “It is easier, isn’t it?”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“To speak the lie. You tell me what you think I want to hear, and then you’re miserable and I’m happy. You get that from your father, Jacques. Daisy,
ma fleur
, I did not want to be a mother. Ever. I love all of you because you are mine, but I liked you more when you could wipe your own ass and come and go as you please. Only, by then, I’d screwed it all up. You’re not much different from your sisters. If anything, you can help them. You survived me. They’re not doing so well.”

Dear God, my mother is tipsy. She slouches in the chair and closes her eyes. “Fuck them. That pansy you called a boyfriend and that cock-sucking whore you called a friend.” She opens one eye to study me. “Did you know she offered to blow my Joseph?”

“What? No!” I’m more shocked to hear that than I am to hear Heloise speak to me as if she’s one of my fouler-mouthed girlfriends. Joseph is my stepfather, an executive producer and creator of three hit network dramas.

“You brought that filthy tramp to my anniversary party, and she cornered him and offered him a blowjob in exchange for an audition.”
 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mom,” I say sincerely.

She snorts. “Oh, don’t be.” She pats my shoulder. “Joseph informed her that I have an exclusive contract with him in all matters of fucking and blowing.”

I let out a loud, unrestrained laugh. That was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Strangely, I can picture my mom doing it. She’s that attractive. I once asked her why she doesn’t color her hair. I’m thirty-five and inherited the gray gene. I color my hair twice a month every month. She said she would color her hair when she gets enough wrinkles. She’d paid her dues and taken her lashes, and the gray is a reminder of that. Each strand says, “Don’t fuck with me because I’ve been around a long time.”
 

Heloise Blanchard—Heloise Krantz after divorcing my father and marrying Joseph Krantz—worked her way up from a gofer to President of Pygmy Park Studios. She resigned to head a smaller operation where she produces my stepfather’s hit shows. Needless to say, they do pretty well for themselves.
 

“And Andrew…” she continues.

“You mean Adrian?” She never gets his name right.

“Whatever.” She flips her hand dismissively. “He calls your father too much”—she also calls Joseph my father—“kissing his ass by giving us reports on you. The only reason I don’t tell him to go straight to hell is because you never call or stop by. If you were dead, I wouldn’t know.”

I feel like shrinking into my chair. I didn’t know Mom felt that way. But I don’t apologize because she’s right; I should say what I think and not what will make her feel better.
 

“I didn’t think you cared. After Daniel died, you and Dad checked out. I thought without him, you didn’t want me.”

She reaches over and strokes my hair. I’m stiff. I can’t believe I said that, but it’s the nucleus of everything that’s wrong with our relationship.

“We were going to divorce before Daniel died,” she finally says. “I could be nothing but a shitty mother and Jacques could be nothing but a shitty father. We did the best we could. I’m always doing the best I can,
ma fleur
.
 

“You and Daniel were easy. You had each other, and Jacques and I, we retreated like cowards. The first time I knew we had it too easy as parents is when you were four and Daniel was six. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was taking calls and panicking over deliverables. Finally, I remembered I had two little children. I said, ‘Fuck, I haven’t fed them all day!’
 

“But when I found the both of you, you were in the backyard building a dog house.” She chuckles at the memory. “Daniel dug all the tools out of the garage and then dragged you door to door to ask the neighbors for any spare wood they had lying around. You also made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches–lots of them.”

I’ve never seen my mom smile like that. It’s refreshing. “I don’t remember that.”
 

“You were too young. And there are too many similar memories buried on top of it.”

“Like the tree house debacle.” Now I’m wearing the same smile, remembering my brother, my hero. “And the fifth dog house debacle.”

“He also tried to dig a second swimming pool in the front lawn. Five times. Build a house for only you and him to live in. Screw us…” She chuckles. “That’s what he said. He was mad at me for forgetting your birthday.”
 

I lift a finger. “I remember that.”

“You both used to get your skateboards, and we wouldn’t see you until dinner.” She narrows her eyes inquisitively. “Where did you go?”

“To the park to jump the benches. Once we skateboarded all the way to Hollywood Boulevard and Long Beach.” I pause. “And Malibu and Santa Monica. We tried Pasadena, but I wimped out at the 10 Freeway.”

“Is that so?” Mom asks, half impressed, half amazed. “I would’ve never let you do that if I knew.”

I shrug and joke, “Well, you were too busy being a shitty mother.”

She laughs in the way one does when they’ve had too much to drink. “I hope you let me make it up to you.”
 

I kiss her on the cheek. “You’ve already started. But, Mom, if you didn’t want children, then why did you marry Joseph and have two more?”
 

She sighs, getting cozier with the chair cushions. “Because he wanted them. You know these goddamn people; they have their ideals. He’s a good father though. Thank God for that.” She falls silent, and I study her beautiful face as she becomes more and more human to me. “Listen,
ma fleur
, when you get home, call Jacques. Go see him and say to him what you said to me. He would like to hear it.” My eyes grow wide, and she catches it. “You’re not coming home?”
 

“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t sound convincing.
 

“Is it that serious between you and Jack Lord?”

I shrug and mutter, “Maybe.”
 

“And you met him on Saturday?” Her tone is colored by doubt.

I nod continuously, grinning. “Yeah.”

She studies me with narrowed eyes. “Humph.”
 

“What is it, Mom?”

“I never thought you’d fall in love with anyone other than Daniel.” She massages my shoulder. “It’s quick, but hell, I believe it. I knew this is how it would have to happen for you. Joseph and I used to talk it about it all the time. We knew you didn’t love Andy—”

“Adrian,” I quickly correct her.

“Andy, Andrew, Adrian, who cares? I’m glad I don’t have to take any more of his phone calls. But we knew it would have to sneak up on you.”

“What would have to sneak up on me?”

“True love.”

“Oh…”

“This is good. I’m happy for you.” She smiles at me and strokes my cheek. “
Ma belle fleur
.”

Our conversation turns, and we talk about everything under the sun. She wants to know about my job—where I’ve been and where I’m going. She vents about all the imbeciles she has to deal with on a daily basis, including tomorrow. She has to fly out first thing in the morning.
 

“First I let them take my accent, next they’ll take my life,” she complains.

But I accused her of loving every second of it, and she had to agree.
 

We fall asleep on the sofa in the enclosed patio, watching the ocean and finishing off the bottle of wine. At five o’clock in the morning, the alarm on Mom’s cell phone rings.

Mom darts upstairs to shower and brush her teeth. When she comes back downstairs, she’s wearing a tight pair of boot-cut jeans and a sheer, button-down white blouse with a silk camisole under it. She emigrated from France to California when she was ten years old and never looked back. My mother puts the California in California girl.
 

I offer to drive her to the airport, but she insists on taking a taxi.
 

“Get some real sleep, Daisy. You have a man to make up with today,” she says and hugs me good-bye.

She’s now gone. And I can’t wait to properly thank Belmont Lord for bringing her to me.

***

I take my mom’s suggestion and set the alarm on my phone for ten a.m. before climbing into bed. When the alarm sounds, it’s loud and imposing. I groan as I climb out from under the sheets. I had four glasses of burgundy too many. If it weren’t for my aching head, I would doubt that my mother was actually here last night. We’ve never spoken to each other like that. Ever.
 

 
That’s because I had an epiphany recently. Leaving things the way they are is merely my way of maintaining emotional and spatial distance. So much of my life has been lived already, but in the last three days, I realized I want more. I simply want more.
 

According to the list, the first wedding was scheduled for nine a.m. this morning at Blue Meadow Ranch in Chilmark. According to the map, the estate is only six miles away from where I am. I hate that I missed it. I mark the next six weddings and two receptions I plan to crash. The brides and grooms are all from big cities like Baltimore, Manhattan, Chicago, and Alexandria, Virginia. I should be able to fit in easily.