Chapter 25
25.
The sounds of the party were almost entirely muted in the wine cellar, save for the reverberating bass beat and occasional squeal. Birdie explained this was where she and her siblings hung out—or hid—whenever they were all home, and invited Jecka to choose a bottle. After surveying the shelves, she selected a 1990 Penfolds Grange Shiraz. Australian, expensive, delicious.
“A woman with excellent taste.” Birdie plunged a corkscrew into the cork in a way that struck her as vaguely sexual.
Jecka slipped off spiked ankle boots and sank down to sit, crossing her long legs in front of her, the hem of her dress riding up to reveal smooth, muscular thighs.
Birdie pulled out the cork with Arthurian grace.
“You’re good at that.” Jecka gestured for the corkscrew, twisting off the cork and pocketing Excalibur.
“Lots of practice.” Birdie poured them each a glass, handed one to Jecka, and held her own aloft. “A toast!”
Jecka tipped her head to the side. “Really?”
“I’m a Belvedere, I always make a toast.” Birdie summoned her most earnest self. “To forgiveness, and art, and your art, in particular, and how fucking cool it is, and to our painting, which is my favorite painting of all time. A toast to Christmas, and parties, and Christmas parties, and…to…us?” The last words were offered tentatively.
“To us.” Jecka tapped their glasses together with a plink. “Please be quiet now so we can enjoy the wine.”
Birdie sipped, savored, and swallowed, speaking the flavors as they bloomed on her tongue. “Black Forest cake. Wild strawberries. Ooh, plum.”
“Coffee.” Jecka’s eyes were closed, pleasure softening her face, her mouth turning almost sulky. “Licorice?”
“Definitely licorice.”
“Amazing finish.” Jecka opened her eyes and looked directly at Birdie, gaze sizzling. “Can’t wait to see how it opens up.”
Birdie’s heart did a double take. She willed herself not to start glowing like Rudolph’s goddamn nose. “So, I got a ton of work done this week using the Pomo-doro-moro technique.”
“I think it’s just Pomodoro.” Jecka smiled in amusement. “But that’s great. Did you decide what you want your new show to be about?”
“Only just finished listening back to all my sets.” Birdie frowned, thinking. “I want to come up with something new. Something…meaty.”
“Just keep doing the work.” Jecka rolled the glass’s stem in her fingers, seeming to consider her next words before speaking again. “Hey, is your mom okay? I thought maybe she didn’t recognize me.”
Birdie felt more relieved than uneasy that someone else noticed. “I was wondering that too.” She summarized her mom’s initial lie, then the truth about being bucked off a horse. “She’s getting older. Which is sort of scary.”
“My dad fell off a ladder a few years ago, cleaning out the gutters. It is scary seeing your parents get hurt. But Dad’s a doctor—he usually takes pretty good care of himself.”
Birdie settled back against the racks of wine. “What kind of doctor?”
“Obstetrician. At Mass General. The most senior Black physician on staff.”
“Wow. That’s so impressive. What’s he like?”
“Single-minded. A perfectionist. Very dedicated.” Jecka focused on Birdie. Her gaze had obvious strength, a smooth, strong topside, but it reminded Birdie of glass—forged in fire, resilient and clear, but strike it in the right place and the whole thing might shatter. “Of course I love my parents and I know they love me. I’m just not what they expected.”
“Because you’re more creative?” Birdie guessed.
“Not at first. I was actually a science kid. I wanted to be a doctor, just like my dad. And that’s what I almost became. Before I fell in love with art and gave it all up. Moved here, to paint.”
“Wowsers.” Birdie tried to piece together the timeline. “So, when did you drop out of the Doogie Howser track?”
“A year into my residency—I was twenty-seven. I’m thirty now.” Jecka explained how she’d started messing around with art for stress relief, just on weekends. Then weeknights. Then instead of studying. “I liked medicine. But I loved painting. It turned my entire world inside out. I liked being a beginner. There was freedom in it. I realized I could make anything. Be anyone.”
Birdie could relate. A microphone and an empty stage were just as magical.
Jecka went on. “In the end, I had to choose between pleasing my family and pleasing myself. I chose myself. It wasn’t easy—Dad made me feel pretty guilty. But I just couldn’t live one more day not meeting my own eye in the mirror each morning. I wanted to be someone I admired.”
The sentiment held unexpected weight. Birdie couldn’t say that she admired herself, but wow, she really, really wanted to. How did one feel such a thing? What changes would she have to make that it was even a possibility? “That’s so rad,” Birdie said. “How have your parents handled it?”
“They still haven’t come to my show, if that’s any indication,” Jecka said. “They think I’ve become some sort of anarchic queer deviant determined to sabotage my own success. Which is a shame, because I think Dad would like my work. I think he needs to have a bit more fun. Me too. Maybe that’s why…maybe that’s why I’m here.” Jecka met Birdie’s eyes with a tentative smile.
Birdie smiled back, letting the story settle, like the sediment in the bottom of her wineglass.
“Tell me about your dad.” Jecka recrossed her legs, eyes narrowing in playful curiosity. “I read your Wikipedia page. Stanley, right?”
Birdie chuckled, flattered Jecka had looked her up. “I don’t remember my parents being together; they divorced when I was little.” She’d visit him in L.A., Birdie explained, go on spontaneous adventures. “Just get in the car and drive. He’d do these silly voices that always cracked me up. Dad didn’t care about rules—he was always talking some ma?tre d’ or studio exec into whatever he wanted. He got so many parking tickets.” Birdie recalled the way her dad would pluck them from the windshield, stuff them into his pocket. “I still get way too many.”
Jecka smiled, listening.
“But the older I got, the more I realized Dad’s spontaneity wasn’t a quirky personality trait—he never planned anything around my visits. The silly voices weren’t his goofy side—he was just drunk. I realized other dads didn’t forget their kids’ birthdays or where they went to school.”
Jecka winced in sympathy. “He remarried, right?”
To the actress he left Babs for. “They stayed together, had a couple kids.” The obnoxious half brothers who thought she was weird. “Even then, he slept around. His adultery was the worst-kept secret in town.” Her truth was flowing, unedited, unchecked. “He’s probably why I’ve never had a real relationship. Can’t stand the idea I’d hurt anyone as much as he did—”
Birdie cut herself off, inhaling sharply. What the hell? She’d never admitted that to anyone. She’d barely admitted it to herself.
Jecka was listening closely. “You’re afraid you’ll hurt someone?” she reiterated. “Like your father hurt you?”
Birdie rubbed her sweaty palms on her pants, already feeling the vulnerability hangover. “Um, I don’t know.”
Jecka kept her voice soft. “When did he die?”
“Three years ago.”
“Same year your special came out?” Jecka sounded surprised.
“The month I filmed it.”
The taping fell on Birdie’s thirtieth birthday. Ordinarily, she didn’t invite her famous parents to her performances, but the special was an exception. Despite their differences, she wanted her father to be there for the most important night of her life. He promised he would.
Birdie executed her show flawlessly. Only at the end did her gaze snag on the empty front row seat. A wallop of pain undercut the joy of her standing ovation. Stanley hadn’t come. He never even apologized. Three weeks later, he was dead.
“That’s all so traumatic.” Jecka shook her head in disbelief, eyes glued to Birdie. “How did you process all that?”
“What do you mean?”
“How did it feel to have that happen?”
“I mean, it destroyed me, sort of.” Birdie wasn’t used to investigating her feelings so intensely. The tentative pleasure at sharing herself with Jecka was being replaced by spiky emotion. “But I also don’t want it to destroy me because my dad is a dick— was a dick—and thinking about him is a total waste of time.” She felt herself getting heated, starting to ramble. “Sometimes I still find myself hoping he’ll show up on my doorstep wanting to take me out for drinks. I have to remind myself that we weren’t close. He didn’t choose me. No one ever does.”
The words hung in the air, too honest, too vulnerable, too much.
Jecka’s next words were gentle. “Birdie, have you ever seen a therapist?”
Birdie blinked, taken aback. “Not really.” The urge to run arrived without warning. How long had they been down here? “Um, how did we get into all this? It’s the Christmas party!” Birdie scrambled to her feet, half wishing she could take everything back. “We’re missing stuff. I need to see who else Flo is arm wrestling.”
“Oh…okay.” Following Birdie’s lead, Jecka got to her feet. But as Birdie beelined for the door, Jecka put a hand on her arm. “Can I just say one thing?”
Birdie braced herself, even as she responded with swagger. “If it’s about how good I look, I know.”
Jecka’s expression stayed compassionate, unwavering. “Your dad died three years ago, and from what I’ve gathered, that’s when things stalled for you. From what you just shared, it doesn’t really sound like you’ve processed his death. Made peace with it. Maybe that’s why you’re stuck.”
Birdie stared back, not even bothering to mask her open alarm at this unexpected diagnosis. It took a long moment to stutter a reply. “Um. M-Maybe.”
“It seems like your role in your family is the funny one—the comic relief.” Jecka didn’t break eye contact. “You’re not expected to ever take things too seriously. But everyone needs to take their own life seriously. You deserve that.”
Birdie’s heart bashed in her chest. No one had ever said anything like this to her.
“I hope it’s okay I said all that.” Jecka squeezed Birdie’s arm, her fingers warm, gaze kind. “I care about you.”
Birdie’s mouth opened in surprise. “You do?”
“Yes.” Spoken with a half smile. “Maybe, if you stop flirting with me so much, you’ll see that.”
Upstairs, the party had reached the dancing-on-the-tables stage. Jecka said that was her cue to leave. They hugged goodbye on the Inn’s front step, and Jecka promised they’d speak soon. But instead of heading into the festive fray, Birdie took their half-finished bottle of wine upstairs, slipping into her quiet bedroom and locking the door.
Her father’s box was where she’d left it, underneath a pile of pillows. After a long moment of hesitation, and an even longer gulp of wine, Birdie took a deep breath and tugged the box out.