Lucid (36 page)

I seal it in an envelope and put it in my desk drawer. After all, the kid is only seven. She’d tear it open in a New York minute.

I catch a cab up to
Elle
. Haven’t been there in a while. Jerome is glad to see me. Everyone’s glad to see me today. I just charge into Mom’s cubicle as she’s sorting through a million photos. I announce that I’m treating her to lunch. I’m completely ready not to take no for an answer when she says, “Great.”

I take her to the Palm Court at the Plaza because she used to take me there for tea so I could hope to spot Eloise and Skipperdee. I think I gave up on Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny way before I let go of Skipperdee.

“Wow,” she says as the maitre d’ seats us. “How big is that pilot fee again?”

I laugh and tell her she’ll have to call my agent for that. I’m an artist and don’t involve myself in such matters.

We eat big sloppy burgers and have the best time. She asks when I’m moving to Los Angeles, and I realize we’ve never actually discussed the specifics of that. She looks quite sad beneath her smile, and I guess I never realized how much she’d miss me.

She tells me that she’s taking all three weeks of her vacation, plus eight days of accumulated sick leave, and instead of Martha’s Vineyard, we’re all going to drive out to California together to get me settled. I remind her that if the show is canceled, I’ll be coming back to New York with my tail between my legs. She says that’s never going to happen. She knows in her heart what I’m destined to be. And that this is the start of all that. I lean over and kiss her.

Then she chokes up a little. She wishes Benjamin were here to see this. I do too. I tell her that I’ve been dreaming of him and that what I know in my heart is that he sees all of this. She nods, trying to pretend she believes this and trying not to cry.

I think of how much Andrew means to me. It makes me think in a new way what it must be like for her to think of my dad. We never know what our parents really have together. It’s funny, but we don’t think of them as real people in that way. I reach over and wrap my fingers around her hand. I debate whether to say that he loved her very much. I decide against it. She knows. She doesn’t need me to tell her.

Our cab drops her at the office. Just before she opens the door, she looks in my eyes.

“Thank you,” she says. “For everything you mean to Jade. It means everything to me to have you as my partner in raising her.”

“Don’t mention it,” I say, trying to keep it light. But I guess my voice betrays me because she gives me this quick, fierce hug before she jumps out.

As the cab rolls on toward Jade’s school, it strikes me as strange that my mom has said this. She never has before, not quite this way. As if she’s saying goodbye. I wonder if it’s because she’s feeling the
weight of me moving to Hollywood, of our impending separation. And just now, I’m feeling it too.

I sit on the curb in front of Jade’s Montessori. I’ve seen this place a million times, but it looks new today as everything does. The kids run out to waiting cars and moms and nannies. They seem particularly adorable today, filled with the promise of after-school snacks and playdates. Bless their hearts.

Tiny hands reach from behind me to cover my eyes. She never says “guess who” during these tests of my intelligence because she fears I’ll recognize her voice. Among the hundreds of people with whom I play this game on a regular basis. I start with the Princess of Wales, as she and I have decided to call Kate Middleton, even though she is a commoner to some. I am wrong. I move along to Lady Gaga. I get a giggle, but I’m wrong again. I think harder. I try Sean Connery since Jade has decided he will always be the only real James Bond. A deep voice with a horrible Scottish accent says, “Getting warmer.” I smile.

“Jade Jameson, of course.”

“Our board of judges,” says the Scottish accent, which has become even horribler, “requires a complete answer.”

“Jade Grace Jameson.” Which is of course correct. I’ve always loved the fact that Grace is also Sloane’s mom’s name.

We walk home holding hands. We pick up Boris, who for some reason looks absolutely semi-acceptable today. We head to the Hudson River Greenery, stopping at the bodega for Japanese donuts, a special treat. They’re made of chewy mochi, filled with sweet red beans, and smothered in powdered sugar.

It is one of the best afternoons of my life. I just lie in the grass
and let New York’s greatest undiscovered comedienne keep me in stitches. Hours pass. Let them. I could stay here forever.

The sun sets. We walk home, arms around each other. Not Boris, of course.

I cook her dinner because Mom won’t be home until eight. I try to re-create the exquisite spaghetti and butter sauce. She tries not to show her disdain, but she refers to them as buttery noodles. As I watch her eat, we are planning big fun in Los Angeles. Disneyland gets mentioned a lot. Maybe too much.

Then to my shock, she tells me that she’s going to move to Los Angeles and live with me. She already asked; there’s a Montessori school there. She wants my help in breaking the news to Mom because it turns out there isn’t an
Elle
there.

This is a tough one. I start with a smile. I tell her that one of us needs to stay in New York and take care of Mom. Mom may be a grown-up, but she needs taking care of too. We’re young—we have our whole lives to live together some other time.

She thinks this over. Holds up one hand.

“Pinky swear,” she says.

So we each kiss our pinkies and lock them together in a solemn promise that one day we will live together again.

Then I look in her eyes. “You know, the way things work out, we won’t always be in the same place.”

“Because you’ll be a famous actress, actressing all over the world, and I’ll be a famous zookeeper.”

“Right. But here’s the thing I need you to really hear. Are you really, really listening right now?”

I’ve never said anything quite like that before, and she responds
by scrunching up her face to show how hard she’s listening.

“Wherever I am, I’m with you. Across whatever distance there is. I send you my love.”

She drinks that in. She really was listening.

“Me too,” she says. And leans across her spaghetti and kisses my face.

I slip on my jacket. My stomach does this flip as I head for the door. I don’t want to leave her tonight. I keep going. At the door, I turn back and she’s there. There’s the strangest look in her eyes. Lost and lonely. She reaches out her arms and I grab her up into mine.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m practicing,” she says. “For when you’re far away and I have to pretend we’re together.”

“When that happens,” I tell her, “if that happens, we both have to work very hard at understanding something. We’re not pretending we’re together. We’re realizing that we actually are together in the ways that count the most.”

She stares in my eyes. Nods once, decisively.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll practice that.”

I told Andrew to meet me outside of City Hall at the corner of Center and Chambers. It’s such a beautiful night. You never see stars like this in the city. Maybe I never looked hard enough. But I can clearly make out Orion and Rooibus and El Delicioso. I feel energy and excitement and love. Definitely love.

There he is. So happy to see me. I run to him, to hold him, to kiss him.

“Thank you for taking care of me last night. It was all I needed. I’ve had the best day.”

I take his hand and lead him onto the Brooklyn Bridge. I tell him we’re going to Grimaldi’s for pizza. And then to the Ice Cream Factory for dessert. My treat.

Crossing the bridge at night is the most romantic thing to do. The views up and down the river of the city, of Brooklyn, make you feel so small. The lights dance on the water so far below until you can’t tell whether they’re city lights or stars. We walk in silence so comfortable, like two people who have forever. Which we do.

It’s warm and cozy in the restaurant. We don’t know anyone, and yet it feels like family. We share a carafe of their best Chianti, which is not too good. We share pizza with extra cheese, extra pepperoni, extra onion. Because he likes the pepperoni and I like onion. Of course we could’ve ordered two pizzas, but it’s more fun to share.

We eat the slices messily, with one hand because we don’t want to let go of each other. He suggests a second carafe. I laugh and ask if he’s trying to get me drunk. I smile and say this shows a lack of confidence on his part. He insists he’s just developed a taste for really shitty wine.

The ice cream is perfect. I have a waffle cone filled with butter pecan. His is vanilla, which he says is proof that he’s no longer trying to impress me. I tell him it’s working.

We walk back across the bridge so slowly. At the midpoint, I stop us. And lean on the rail and stare out at the world. He nestles up beside me and I grab his hand. Too tight. But I can’t help it.

“I have to tell you a story,” I say. “But I have to kiss you first.”

And I do. His eyes are wondering. I’m not a good actress in this moment.

“There was a girl who fell in love with her best friend. And he fell in love with her. It was the deepest kind of love there could be. The kind that most people never find. But they were only fifteen years old. And the girl’s mother, who knew nothing of this secret love, had forbidden her daughter to date before her sixteenth birthday.”

The night and Andrew are very still right now. Both are waiting.

“So the girl and the boy kept their love secret from everyone and satisfied themselves with stolen kisses. For her sixteenth birthday, all she wanted was for them to be together. That became the promise they made to each other.”

I look at him for the first time.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods once.

I look back at the water.

“The night of her sixteenth birthday, she lay in her bed and waited for him to tap on her window. She would let him in so they could make love for the first time and then tell the world they belonged to each other. But as Bill was driving to her, something happened that we will never know, and his car crashed headlong into a tree. In her grief, she had to keep their secret. He had been only her best friend. Instead of the boy she was destined to belong to forever.”

“She’s Sloane,” he says.

“And you’re Bill.”

And when I turn to him, he is.

We look at each other with all the love we feel. We kiss a kiss that will last forever.

“Do you know why I’m here?” he asks.

I don’t.

“Because you think it was all your fault. Because I was coming to be with you. As if it was your love for me that killed me. But it was your love for me that made my life mean something. Did my love do that for you?”

“You know that it did.”

“Then let me go.”

And so I do. And he is gone.

I walk home alone through this city that I love so much.

I enter my darkened bathroom. I flick on the light.

She’s in the mirror. I’m in the mirror.

We don’t need any words.

I want her to smile first. So I can go.

And when she does, I smile back.

And I’m gone.

I
open my eyes. I’m still smiling.

Acknowledgements

The authors would like to acknowledge Marty Bowen for the idea and the opportunity. Isaac Klausner for his countless contributions and kindness. Jenn Joel for being a patient advocate and advisor. Jocelyn Davies for her enthusiasm and thoughtful guidance throughout this process. GB, Mema, and Nessa for their encouragement and sweet support. The staff at the Montage for tolerating us. And of course Mystic, Connecticut, the most idyllic little town a girl could dream to call home.