You Have Seven Messages (2 page)

Your mother is gone and she’s never coming back
.

The words caught in his throat, and it was a voice I had never heard come out of him. I instantly knew he meant
gone
, as in forever. That she hadn’t simply run away or skipped town.

“What?”

“It was an accident. In the city. She got hit.…”

I wanted to slap him across the face. How could he tell me this? How could my mother, so vibrant and alive, just suddenly be
gone
? Accidents happened in Manhattan every day—but not to my mother. Everything suddenly
felt terribly unfair. I looked up at the trees surrounding the lake, the wispy clouds slowly becoming drained of color.

“Do you think she’s in the sky or in the ground?” I asked him.

I thought he said “Both,” but it might have been “Oh.”

I couldn’t cry. I remember looking at my own reflection in the water, thinking of Narcissus, who died falling in love with his own reflection. I could’ve died right there, because the thought of living without someone you love is like a pair of giant hands pressing around your heart, making it smaller and smaller, until you are left with only a memory of warmth. It’s like when the sun comes through a window, moving across the room with each hour, until night falls and all you can do is try to remember the soothing shapes it made.

The whole way back from the zoo I feel like people are whispering about my dad. I want to tell them to mind their own business. When tragedy happens to people who are famous, it is treated more like a scandal—what people don’t realize is yes, my dad made some pretty iconic movies, but deep down he is vulnerable just like everyone else.

My mother once told me that the truth is like my skin, a beautiful, protective covering, and the things people say or think are like clothes that can be easily changed or discarded. She told me truth comes from your heart.

When I was ten, there was a rumor spread about my father and an underage actress he had never even met. School turned into pure hell, and everyone shunned me. It was amazing how much venom people had, like a tabloid was even trustworthy.

One morning my mother marched into my PE class and didn’t even bother telling the teacher she was taking me. She just gave her the Look, as she did into so many cameras all over the world:
Don’t mess with me
. She didn’t tell me where we were going until we got there, two hours later. It was her friend’s old house on the Hudson River, with screened-in porches that had antique beds on them. He was a chef, and he made us macaroni and cheese with shaved truffles. She’d pulled strings with the AV guy at my school, who she knew from a shoot long before, and got him to hunt down and fax all my homework assignments. It was her way of helping me deal with the rumor thing: home school for a week. I loved it, even though I missed Tile. He was so cute at that time, a little nugget.

On our last night there was tons of moonlight and we had ice cream on the porch. It was the kind of moment where you remember every detail. Mint chocolate chip. Three boats, one called
Seas the Day
. It was there, in front of the glassy river so bright it could have been a mirror, that my mother told me about truth.

“But how do you really know what’s true? Is there some big book of truth?”

She laughed. When my mother laughed she looked like an angel, that’s what my father always said. Her big eyes looked up, squinting a little, and she would slightly shake her head, like a happy dog.

“The book is in here.” She placed her hand where my heart is.

“Yes, but why do people just make things up?”

“Usually because they are bored, or insecure. There was this gossip website that used to print all this stuff about me. At first I was really angry, you know, like you probably were with those kids. Then, I remember going to an opening gala, I think it was for a fragrance of some kind … anyway, there were all these celebrities there, and none of them looked at me strange or had even bought into the rumors. And I realized that all of them had lies written about them all the time, but they were above it, you know? They were secure in who they were.”

“What do you mean?”

She turned toward me and ran her fingers down the side of my face.

“Do you remember the time you wanted to wear that green hat, the one that was too big for you, that you found on one of your father’s sets?”

“Yes.”

“We tried to get you to rethink wearing it to school, but when we dropped you off, you owned it. You walked with confidence. That is being secure.”

“Well, more like stupid.”

She laughed again, and the angel came through her. Then she put on her serious face and said, “No choice is stupid if it comes from you. And you, you are … you are the most beautiful girl in the whole world, inside and out. Never let anyone take away the choices in your heart; it’s what makes you one of a kind.”

She had lost me a little, but I got the idea.

“I mean, if you want to look like Kermit the Frog, go for it!”

This time I laughed. Then I heard a car crunching down the gravel driveway. It was our driver. I remember running up with Mom because I thought it might be Tile, but it was my father coming up from the city to surprise us. He had stolen away from his film set to visit for the night. He had a large bouquet of flowers for Mom and a huge lollipop for me. I grabbed the lollipop and went to the hammock.

The stars were like a million fireflies, and I remember feeling so safe, like nothing could ever touch me. I looked inside and all the lights were on. My father was coaxing my mother out of the kitchen chair, and they started to dance. My father looked like a boy, and he had so much hope, so much wonder in his eyes, that I secretly wished someone like him would love me someday.

The zoo is crowded today, and the animals look really bored. But no matter how many people stare at them, they don’t act vain. Kind of like my mother. She was a model, but not really because she liked to be looked at. It was a way for her to make a lot of money in a little time, so she could do what she really wanted to do—write. Her book was optioned by my father, which was how they met. My father claimed she wanted nothing to do with him at first. Even after the movie was made, she barely took his calls. It wasn’t until they ran into each other years later at a party for
Paper
magazine that my dad spotted her across the room, and decided then and there he would stop at nothing to win her over. He sent her flowers every day for a month.

Seeing my father now, spilling his sno-cone while the
depressed lions pace around, I feel a sharp sadness for him. Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way. As Tile runs his fingers through the water fountain that doesn’t turn off, I brush the tiny pieces of crushed blue ice off Dad’s button-down shirt.

After getting home from camp—that horrible day on the dock—my father and I didn’t really know how to grieve. We didn’t talk much, but we took comfort in each other, and we still do, now more than ever.

“It’s been almost a year since Mom died, you know.”

“Really?” he says, pushing up his glasses.

“Don’t you think you should maybe try and date someone?” Saying the words makes me feel horrible, like I’m betraying my own mother. But somehow I know I’m right, and maybe it’s what she would’ve wanted.

“Funny you should mention that.” He holds up a finger and touches my cheek with it. “I have a date on Tuesday.”

“You do?” Now I wish I hadn’t said anything. Now I want to build a brick wall around my father’s heart.

“Not even sure what I’m going to do.”

“Be yourself,” I offer. “What’s her name?”

He tilts the sno-cone up to swallow the last bit, then crumples the paper in his hand. As we walk toward the monkeys, he starts to laugh. “I don’t remember … something with an
E
 … Ella?”

I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard my father laugh in a year. I desperately want him to forget someone else’s name.

“Well, you should maybe figure that out before the date.”

His broad smile gives me hope. Maybe the E-word will be funny and kind and strong like my mother was. Or maybe she’ll just want to be in one of his movies, which would be even sadder than seeing drugged-up lions in a cage.

The bird sanctuary is unimpressive. Underneath the white canopy, they can barely fly. I prefer birds in real life. Once when I was at camp I saw four loons flying across the lake together, and they were so smooth and effortless. The sunset looked like a giant wound in the sky and I could see their reflections, silhouettes on the water’s surface. All at once they landed with a flourish, as if choreographed, perfectly calculated.

My father buys Tile a big paper eagle at the gift store and we leave the zoo and go to a café where the waitresses all have weaves in their hair. The hostess pats my head as she sits us down. My dad orders a beer and I notice something in his eyes, some sort of light that wasn’t there. After the accident his eyes turned gray and cloudy, and now they are blue and clear again. I take a big breath and stretch my legs onto the empty seat. This is the problem, though. Right when I start to feel like everything’s going to be all right, I’m reminded in some way that my mother isn’t here, sitting in this empty seat that my feet rest on. We’re not a complete unit, like the loons.

“Moon, don’t put your feet up on that.”

My father calls me Moon because it was my first word. Apparently they would take me onto the roof when I was a baby to see the moon every night before bed, and if it wasn’t there I’d cry myself to sleep.

I take my feet down and wipe the chair with my napkin. As we eat our meal I keep turning to the empty seat, expecting to see Mom’s long eyelashes, her curvy nose, her fragile hands.

On the subway home, I think about writing a letter to Oliver. If I could write something as beautiful as the music he plays, maybe we’d be destined to be together. Even though I know from experience that life is not a romantic comedy, something about his curly hair, his fluid walk, and his cello playing makes me feel like the girl walking down the street during the opening credits.

On Thursday, garbage day, the trucks sound like distant monsters screaming their terrible sounds. I wake up at the first high-pitched squeal, roll out of bed, and shuffle into the bathroom. There’s no pen or pad, so I write on toilet paper with an eyeliner pencil:

The bathroom door opens, and Tile walks in rubbing his eyes, his hair in disarray. He takes the poem out of my
hand and reads it, then makes a noise that hints of approval. He’s my perfect audience. I grab it back and leave so he can pee in private.

Today’s the day I’ve decided to go to my mother’s studio, which has basically been untouched since she died. I feel like there may be something there that will bring me closer to her. On the way to school I have our driver go past it, to get a picture of it in my mind, so I can mentally prepare throughout the day. It’s on the top floor of a skinny brownstone near the park. Since two of the walls are glass, it resembles an urban greenhouse. It’s small but has a lot of
charm
, as real estate people say. My father went there once a few weeks after she died, but he couldn’t bring himself to move anything. To this day, the place remains as my mother left it, and none of us has gone in there.

It’s “green” week at school, so everyone is acting like they care about our environment. After the week is over most people will go back to using Styrofoam cups, driving massive SUVs to the Hamptons, and letting the water run while they brush their teeth. But it’s nice to raise awareness, and I’m trying to be a half-full instead of a half-empty girl.

My dad’s not there when I get home from school, so I go into his office and search the key drawer. At the bottom is a large key with a piece of masking tape stuck to it, the word
studio
written with a red Sharpie. My heart pinches at the sight of my mother’s wavy handwriting. I
stare at the key in my open hand for a minute and then curl my fingers around it.

My neighbor smiles at me when I walk by. I’m allowed to go out alone as long as it’s light out. It takes me fifteen minutes, and when I get to the front of the brownstone I realize I’m sweating. I take a deep breath and start to climb the steps.

I don’t take the elevator because it’s the size of a phone booth. On the landing of the fourth floor, I pass a cleaning lady who’s listening to one of those old Walkmans that play cassettes.… Does anyone have those anymore? She grins and puts her hand on my shoulder. Even though she seems supernice, I cannot wait for the day when people stop petting me like I’m an animal.

I get to the door, which says 6b but the
b
is broken and hangs down to look like a
q
. I slowly turn the key and push the door open.

The first thing I see is what might have been an apple in a big silver bowl. Now it looks more like a prune with a green blanket of mold wrapped around it, half eaten by bugs. I open the window and then dump the decomposed apple in the garbage, then go to the fridge. I am relieved to find there’s nothing in it except some condiments and a bottle of white wine. I go back down to the cleaning lady and ask her if I can borrow some rags and her Windex. She doesn’t understand English, but I show her what I need, like a charade, and she smiles and hands me the bottle, a rag, and a feather duster. I spend the next
hour cleaning the half inch of dust covering everything. I open Mom’s laptop and am taken aback by the screen saver. It’s a picture of me on the beach in Nantucket. I’m not smiling. I look cold and annoyed, but my gaze is sharp.