Chapter 43 Four Days till New Year’s Eve
43.
Four days till New Year’s Eve
New York Post: “Love is Sweet! Showrunner Liz Belvedere canoodles with rising star Violet Grace—WATCH THE VIDEO.”
The Cut: “Absolutely Everything We Know About Violet Grace and Liz Belvedere.”
BuzzFeed: “The Look of Love: A body expert breaks down every #Violez red carpet moment.”
Liz slammed her laptop shut, breathless, despite still being in bed.
When Liz had typed Violet’s name into Google, it autocorrected to add Liz Belvedere, kiss, sex, and girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Liz couldn’t think about how that made her feel—equal parts panicked and ecstatic.
Cat told Liz it would all pass if they didn’t “feed the beast.” Their publicist’s instruction was clear: “Don’t give them anything to talk about.”
Liz wasn’t planning on it. The last text Violet had sent drew a decisive boundary. I need some time, too. Liz would respect that.
It was the morning of Friday, December 27, and her mother had MS. That was the only reality Liz could focus on. Starting with a sibling call to Jin-soo, scheduled first thing.
—
When Liz came downstairs, Birdie was already on the sofa in the family room, nursing a coffee. Liz double-took at her sister’s dark circles. “Hungover?”
Birdie sighed. “I wish. Withdrawal is rough, dude.”
Night two of her sister not drinking. Liz was surprised and impressed. “How are you handling it?”
“Minute by minute. A lot of Diet Coke. And work, apparently,” Birdie said, adding that she’d spent the evening slogging through her new show. “Maybe you’re not the only workaholic in the family.”
“Welcome to the dark side,” Liz said, as Rafi joined them. Liz addressed them both. “Okay, Black Hearts. Let’s face the music.”
Even over FaceTime, Jin-soo’s disapproving glare was excruciating. “I told you to keep an eye on her.”
“I am sorry,” Liz said, “but I’m not the only one responsible for my mother.”
“We all are,” Rafi said, and Birdie nodded in enthusiastic agreement, giving a thumbs-up.
“I’ll be back at the Inn for New Year’s Eve,” Jin-soo said. “Your mom invited me for roast chicken and Champagne, so I’ll be there to portion control. In the meantime, make sure she gets plenty of water, plenty of rest. And try to avoid trips to the ER.”
The trio exchanged guilty sheesh faces.
Babs was instantly on the receiving end of Birdie’s brand-new extra-healthy breakfast in bed, delivered with plenty of wisecracks that had their mother chuckling. This was followed by a “stretching and sharing session” led by Rafi, heavy on the sharing.
The siblings organized for Babs’s doctor to make a house call that afternoon. They were all gathered around their mother’s bed when he gave his diagnosis. Given the severity of her attack, and the test results he’d received from their local hospital, it was clear her MS had worsened to secondary progressive. It was his strong recommendation that Babs retire.
Babs’s expression was a mix of horror, offense, and sheer disbelief. “I can talk to my team about scaling back….”
Her physician shook his head. Not scaling back. Rest. Deep rest. “You’ve been incredibly fortunate not to have received this diagnosis sooner,” he said. “Most people with relapsing-remitting MS develop secondary progressive within ten years. That you’ve made it to almost twenty is honestly astounding.”
As always, Babs Belvedere was an anomaly.
But her face remained closed at the recommendation, lips pressing into the hard, familiar line that simply said no.
“What do you think?” Rafi asked gently, after the doctor left.
Babs fussed for a minute, listing obstacles—the signed contracts, the already written scripts. The paycheck. The fans. One by one, they worked through her concerns—they were impediments, but they didn’t make it impossible. Finally, she was out of excuses.
“You’ve had a killer career, Ma,” Birdie said. “You’re gonna be remembered as a star.”
“I don’t want to be remembered. ” Babs mocked the term. “I want to be known. Now. Here. Who am I if I’m not a performer?” Babs’s question was plaintive. “Who am I if I’m not Babs Belvedere ?”
For Liz, the answer had never been simpler. “You’re our mother.”