Chapter 16
Taylor’s longtime Los Angeles-based driver, Murray, met them at the airport.
Seeing a friendly face from Taylor’s old life both startled her and brought a smile to her face.
“Hello, Miss Charron,” he said brightly, slipping her suitcases into the trunk.
“It’s been a while. I was sorry to hear about your mother. How are you holding up?”
Taylor fought the urge to throw her arms around him, as though they were old friends.
“I’m all right, Murray. Really. Time away has been good for me. But I’m glad to have my friend Lindsey here,” Taylor said.
Murray shook Lindsey’s hand. “It’s a pleasure. Welcome to Los Angeles.”
Lindsey squinted at the bright blue sky. Taylor slipped her sunglasses on, then found a spare pair in her purse and handed them over. As soon as Lindsey put them on, she looked much less small-town island girl and much more LA It-girl.
In the back seat, Lindsey and Taylor sat and gazed out the window as Los Angeles sprawled around them. Taylor tried to gauge how Lindsey was feeling, especially after telling her story about her poor daughter and her ex-husband. Her face seemed peaceful, if tired.
It had been a very long time since anyone had trusted Taylor enough to tell them a personal story like that.
After Taylor had become famous, people had fallen all over themselves to protect her, or make her comfortable, or make sure that she wasn’t annoyed.
(Everyone except the paparazzi, at least.) Now, against all odds, Lindsey had treated her the way a friend would—with respect, while also asking for her own time to speak. It filled Taylor’s heart.
Because that happy and tech-friendly family was currently renting Taylor’s Beverly Hills place, Taylor rented another house, not far from where her parents had lived, and only a ten-minute drive from the funeral home where her mother’s funeral was to be held tomorrow.
She wanted to be in proximity to the disaster, if only so she could return to bed soon after.
The rental house was cozy, with two bedrooms and two bathrooms, and a living room with a television, upon which Taylor hoped she and Lindsey could watch bad movies while eating snacks.
It had been a long time since she did something like that with a girlfriend.
In the kitchen of the rental house, they opened all the cabinets and the fridge to assess what they had.
Taylor had ordered groceries, enough for a few days at least, and the people who’d delivered them had been smart enough to put the white wine in the fridge.
She pulled it out and poured them two glasses, then led Lindsey to the sofa, where they sprawled.
Taylor felt as though they were eighteen years old, lazing around after a hard day at high school. She imagined them complaining about boys, or about their teachers, or about how difficult their college applications were.
She said this to Lindsey, and Lindsey laughed.
“I’ve never felt old,” Lindsey explained. “I’ve always felt about eighteen years old.”
“It’s strange, isn’t it? When I got news of Jason’s affair, I felt about a thousand. But I’ve had many, many other moments when I felt no older than twenty-two.”
“The brain plays tricks,” Lindsey said.
“It does.” Taylor closed her eyes and thought again of her mother, Veronica Charron, the woman whose life they were in LA to celebrate.
Lindsey sat up slightly, jostling the couch. “Are you thinking about her?”
Taylor groaned. “You can read my mind now, can’t you?”
“That’s what high school best friends do, Taylor,” Lindsey said, laughing gently. “How are you feeling about tomorrow?”
“Exhausted. Ready for it to be over,” Taylor said.
“The thing is, I know I should call my dad. But he’s like a stranger to me, even more than my mom was.
He didn’t come out to LA with us immediately, which meant my mom and I developed this really intense, otherworldly relationship.
Sometimes I was closer to her than to anyone else.
It meant that when I didn’t get a job, and she rejected me, I plunged straight into the darkest times of my life. ”
Lindsey was quiet for a moment. “Why did you stop speaking?”
Taylor threw her mind back to 2009, which was the last time she’d spoken to her mother.
It must have been sometime after Taylor’s birthday.
She remembered having dinner, just the four of them—Veronica, Greg, Jason, and Taylor.
They’d gone to that French place off Sunset.
Taylor had eaten something decadent, as she’d been coming off a film where she’d had to be extra skinny.
Her mother had said something stupid, something sort of inane about fat content and calories, and something inside Taylor had split in two.
She’d started shaking. She’d gone outside, bummed a cigarette from a server, and refused to go back inside until her mother apologized.
“I mean, she should have apologized!” Lindsey cried.
“Yes, but it was really such a small comment,” Taylor said, blinking away tears. “Everything she’d done up till then was much worse.”
“It was your breaking point,” Lindsey said. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Taylor sighed. “That was, what? Seventeen years ago? For all those years, I was too proud to pick up the phone and call my mother. And now, she’s gone.”
“She was too proud to pick up the phone and apologize,” Lindsey corrected. “She was living off your money. She built you as her empire, and then she didn’t treat you right.”
Taylor was quiet for a moment, letting Lindsey’s words settle on her chest.
“It’s hard to hear these things aloud,” Lindsey said. “It’s hard to challenge our own belief systems. We’ve told ourselves these stories over and over again. What if they’re not true?”
Taylor thought she might start sobbing. Embarrassed, she got up to fetch more wine and some snacks from the kitchen: more black licorice, red Twizzlers, chocolate, bags of popcorn and chips, and plenty of French cheeses and crackers. It was a strange and funny spread.
“Now we’re eating like we’re in high school, sort of,” Lindsey said, laughing.
Together, they flicked through one of the streaming services and found a movie they’d both loved when they were younger: Save the Last Dance.
It wasn’t till they started it that they remembered the mother dies in the film.
Lindsey reached for the remote to change it, but Taylor told her to keep it on. “It’s okay. It’s just a story.”
Together, they sat and drank wine and watched the tragedy play out, all the way to the end. It was beautiful.
The funeral of Veronica Charron was held at the Smith-Jones Funeral Home, a ten-minute drive from Taylor’s rental and a fifteen-minute drive from the home where Veronica and Greg had lived out the past few decades.
En route to the funeral home, Taylor asked Murray to drive them past her parents’ place.
On the front porch were several bouquets, all honoring Veronica and a life cut short.
At the funeral home, Murray drove Taylor and Lindsey to the front door, where he opened the door for them both and said goodbye. “Call me when you need to be picked up,” he said to Taylor under his breath. “I can be back in a second.” He snapped his fingers.
Taylor thanked him, then turned to Lindsey.
They were both in simple black dresses, Lindsey with her blond hair glowing beneath a California sun, Taylor with too much makeup on.
She fought the urge to go immediately to the bathroom and take it off.
She imagined her mother would say, “Really, Taylor? That shade of lipstick is all wrong on you.”
The funeral was set to begin in a half hour, but the home was already full of mourners.
When Taylor and Lindsey walked in, Taylor heard her name whispered all over the foyer and into the next room.
This was her first “public” appearance in a long time.
She knew there would be countless photographs taken of her.
There would be write-ups in gossip columns, wondering if she looked good or bad, if she looked tragically chic or just tragic.
Taylor spotted her father, sitting with his brothers and one of her mother’s sisters in the front row, near the coffin.
Taylor knew that her mother hadn’t wanted the coffin to be open.
She hadn’t wanted people to see her like that.
But Veronica had died of natural causes—a surprise heart attack that nobody had seen coming.
She was in her mid-sixties. She should have had many more years left.
Taylor tried to weigh up whether or not she wanted to approach her father. The reality was, she had nothing to say to him. She didn’t feel any amount of love for him, either. The strange thing was that she felt waves of love for her mother flowing through her. Maybe it was grief, too.
Taylor turned to look at Lindsey, preparing to ask her where she wanted to sit. But Lindsey’s eyes were enormous, watchful. Taylor turned to follow her gaze and discovered—with a sharp ache in her gut—that Jason was here.
Here he was, moving through the crowd, wearing a suit that made him look dark and brooding and terribly handsome.
His eyes were black, and his face was shaved, and he was looking at Taylor the way he’d always looked at her, previously—with love, with promise, as though they were sharing secrets they’d never tell anyone else.
Taylor’s knees wobbled. She told herself to keep it together.
The last thing she wanted to do was fall into her ex-husband’s arms and weep.
But it was true, too, that she hadn’t seen Jason since she’d “surprised” him in Paris.
What a disaster that had been.
Suddenly, Jason was standing before her. “Hi,” he said.
Lindsey stepped away, giving them space. Jason seemed not to notice.
“Hey,” Taylor said, her voice shaking.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m here,” Jason said. “I was in town when I heard, and I just lost it. But you know how it was. Veronica was more my mother than my own mother. She was always around, always on set. Always taking care of me.”
“I remember. She really loved you.” Taylor swallowed the lump in her throat and tried and failed not to think of those long-ago days, when Veronica had teased Jason, calling him the son she’d never had. When Taylor and Jason officially started dating, her mother was overjoyed.
“I know things were complicated between you,” Jason said gently.
“Understatement of the century,” she said.
Jason laughed. “Yes. I’d say so.”
“Did you talk to her through the years?” Taylor asked. She remembered that Jason had always been good about not bringing her mother up in conversation, but it was possible that they’d maintained a relationship.
“She always called me on my birthday,” Jason admitted, dropping his gaze.
“I see.”
“I told her to call you,” Jason said.
“Well, she didn’t.” Taylor sighed. “I didn’t, either.”
Jason crossed and uncrossed his arms. Taylor could smell his cologne, the same brand she’d discovered for him during a trip to Barcelona. She’d told him to buy it, and he still wore it. Tears filled her eyes.
“Is, um, is she here?” Taylor asked. She wanted to yank the rug out from her own nostalgia. She wanted to remind herself what he’d done.
Jason didn’t flinch. “She’s back at the apartment,” he said.
“Makes sense. How is that going?” Taylor took a small step backward.
“It’s all right.” Jason’s eyes were cloudy, as though he wanted to get into all the ways his new girlfriend was failing him, or disappointing him, or not Taylor.
But Taylor wasn’t prepared to get into all that.
“I’d better find my friend and get a seat,” Taylor said. “Good seeing you.”
“Maybe catch you after?” Jason asked.
Taylor hesitated. For a beautiful moment, she allowed herself to skate down this avenue.
She allowed herself to dream of spending all evening with Jason, laughing about old times, talking about her mother and the sitcoms they’d done together.
She allowed herself to think, Maybe we could try again. Why couldn’t we try again?
But a voice in the back of her mind screamed, Don’t.
He’d betrayed her. He’d made her out to be a fool. It wasn’t something she could ever forgive.
“I’m sorry, Jason,” Taylor said, squeezing her body so tight with her arms that she thought she might pop.
Jason bowed his head. Music started up from the speakers, her mother’s favorite Beach Boys’ song.
“I’m sorry, too,” Jason said, raising his shoulders.
Taylor touched his wrist. “We’re going to be okay,” she said.
“I know you’re right,” Jason said. “I mean, I hope you are.”
Taylor turned and hurried over to Lindsey, who’d grabbed a seat in the second row, not far from Greg Charron. Taylor sat, and Lindsey wrapped her arms around her, hugging her and whispering, “Are you all right?”
Taylor nodded. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”
A few minutes later, a pastor who, apparently, had been a big part of Veronica’s life over the past few years, approached the front and began to speak. He was eloquent and charming in a way that, Taylor knew, her mother had probably liked.
“Our Veronica was a spitfire,” the pastor said. “She went into the world and made something of it. She was a loving wife and a fierce supporter of her child.” The pastor’s eyes flickered up toward Taylor, then dropped again.
Taylor thought, He knows exactly what Veronica did. He knows she took advantage of me.
And then an idea hit her like a ton of bricks. What if he knew because Veronica herself had told him? What if she’d confessed that she hadn’t been tremendously kind to Taylor? What if she’d confessed that she hadn’t been the very best mother?
The pastor went on, talking of Veronica’s life back in Ohio, her love of theater and movies, her love of music, and the story of how she’d met her husband, Greg.
Taylor knew all of this the way she knew the back of her own hand.
She was surprised at how the stories tugged at her heartstrings.
She was surprised, too, to hear herself laugh at some of the stories.
Grieving was a funny thing. Taylor hadn’t anticipated half of the feeling she was now experiencing.
But after the funeral was over, as she walked up to the photograph of her mother to say her final goodbye, she felt a lightness in her chest. “I do love you, Mom,” she whispered, both to the photograph and to the closed coffin, shining before her.
“Maybe I’ll never understand you, and maybe I’ll never get over some of it.
But I do love you. I guess I always will. ”