Chapter 6
T he bungalow surrounded by trees where I grew up looked exactly as I’d left it. Driving here had been rote and automatic. I hadn’t even thought about it and suddenly I was on the curved road up into Topanga Canyon and outside the wood-paneled two-story home with the large brick chimney.
Once you got up here into the Canyon, the homes were much more spread out and it felt like you were removed from whatever madness was happening down there in the sprawl of Los Angeles.
The house was surrounded by towering oak trees, nestled into a lush hillside, tucked away off the road, and overlooking so much forestry it felt like you were pitched on the cliff itself.
Which, in a way, you were, because on one side of the house it was held up by stilts of wood planted directly into the earth.
I parked at the rocky driveway and looked up toward the wooden staircase that would take me to “Quinn Canyon,” the name Mom gave the house and the land when Benny and I were kids.
The house was still deeper into the trees and there was a large river rock landing that overlooked the sweeping canyon.
I stopped and took in a sharp breath. There was a circle of Adirondack chairs placed around a firepit filled with ash.
All through my childhood, we’d spent as much time out here as we did inside the house, a rotating cast of characters telling interesting stories or playing songs they had just written, some future big star on the cusp right here at the bonfire of Quinn Canyon.
It had been both thrilling and painful. People with big audacious, creative dreams that my mom nurtured, while she always told me to chill out, take a break, stop worrying so much about school.
Her excitement over my accomplishments never quite reached her glee over some new actress making it big or a director about to get their break.
She so obviously wanted me to follow in her artistic footsteps in some way, and I often wished she could have been able to hide that better. It would have been nice to not feel like I was disappointing her by being studious and then paying my way at Stanford.
As I walked on, I took notice of some changes, like the multiple strings of fairy lights cast across the trees, lit up and twinkling even though it was still the afternoon.
The trees never allowed too much sunlight into the house, so there was always a dimness about the space, an intimacy.
It felt as though you were shrouded and concealed. The quiet here was... quieter.
Other minor improvements had been made to the house.
It looked like all the non-wood surfaces had been painted somewhat recently and the roof had been redone.
The shabbiness that I’d always associated with the house seemed to be gone, the carelessness that had been a result of not having enough money to keep it up properly.
This house was Mom’s only asset and it had been a gift from an actor—and Mom’s best friend—who had died seven months before I was born.
A part of me wanted to slink away, not go inside.
There was a pounding in my chest, and when I lifted my hands, they were noticeably trembling.
My mind was thundering at me to run , run , run , and I might have—I really might have got back in my car—if right at that moment, the heavy wood door with its arched and intricate peekaboo window hadn’t swung open.
Benny, unflappable and gorgeous, stood in the doorway with the widest, most genuine smile on her face.
“You’re here,” she squealed and ran to me, practically tackling me to the ground with a fierce hug. All the frustration I’d felt with her before vanished and I hugged her back, hard.
As she released me, I placed my hands on her shoulders and said, “Okay, let me get a good look at my beautiful little sister.”
She beamed and tipped her chin up. The least self-conscious person I’d ever known, Benny was so wholly herself.
She changed her hair constantly and somehow looked good with every variation, style, length, and color her adventurous hair stylist threw her way.
Right now, it was cut to her shoulders, wavy and thick.
Her messy bangs were electric blue and the rest of it was onyx black.
Skin was pale, freckled, offset by the same ethereal golden-brown eyes we both shared with my mom—a distinctly Quinn women feature.
She wore an oversized gray sweatshirt over jean shorts and white bunched crew socks, and she smelled like cinnamon and vanilla.
As much as she could get under my skin, she was my favorite person in the world.
“She’s gorgeous,” I said, after assessing her.
She smiled and nodded, like she knew she was.
Which was probably true. She didn’t have an ounce of doubt in her body.
Benny grew up with a love for herself that was something rare to witness.
She never counted calories or tried to lose weight or keep up with trends.
I’d never heard her say a single bad word against herself.
I had to admit Mom had taught us both well.
Anybody who stepped into Quinn Canyon was not allowed to harshly criticize themselves.
They were especially not allowed to bond over hating their bodies.
It was a Jackie Quinn rule. One time when I was fifteen, she literally kicked an aspiring actress out of the house for ten minutes because she refused to eat bread and kept lamenting about turning thirty-nine, declaring she lied about her age to casting directors.
Jackie threw her out until her “energy” could be cleared from the space.
That actress said those ten minutes changed her life.
She went on to win an Emmy and thanked Jackie Quinn in her acceptance speech, never lied about her age again, and still works to this day.
I may have had problems with Mom, but other people did not.
They flocked to her like she was their safe haven in a harsh world.
Maybe if I had been more like them, Mom could have been my safe haven, too.
“You’re gorgeous back,” Benny said, and snuck in another squeeze.
“Well, I don’t have blue bangs.”
Her eyebrow peaked. “We could arrange that...”
“No, we definitely could not.”
She slung her arm over my shoulder and led me toward the door.
“Just one teeny-tiny makeover,” she pleaded.
“Oh, wow, so I need a makeover?” I quipped. “I thought you said I was soooo gorgeous.”
“You are gorgeous always and forever, but makeovers are fun.”
“For who...?”
“For me.”
I smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take it. It’s hope!”
We walked through the doorway and as soon as the smell of sage and pine hit me, I traveled back in time.
I was five years old again and I had a dad.
He was crouched in front of me, placing a packed lunch in my little backpack, humming a Beatles song, telling me to have a great first day at school, and that Mom would be happy again soon, that she’d lost the role she wanted, that she wished she could have been there to see me off.
I’d asked him, in my little kid voice, if I should go up there and make her feel better.
He shook his head, told me she’d be okay.
That was when I was still feeling responsible for my mom, when all I wanted was for her to be okay.
My dad always brought home trinkets from his travels, and even though being a dad was a very inconsistent part-time role for him, it never mattered to me.
It was only when I got older that those memories turned bittersweet, when I realized that he wasn’t just some fun uncle that was allowed to come and go.
He was never around for long. And then, he was gone for good.
“Is Mom—”
“Mom’s on her way,” Benny finished. Then, she grinned conspiratorially. “I didn’t tell her you were coming.”
“Benadette Ruby Quinn.” Yes, we had the same middle name. The same as Mom’s. Jacqueline Ruby Quinn. All my little gems , she used to say.
“I wanted to surprise her,” Benny whined.
I shook my head and stopped in the entryway, now even more uncertain that I wanted to be here.
I knew Benny meant well, but surprising Mom meant surprising me, too. What if she was angry that I’d stayed away for so long?
Before I moved out, we had been Triple Quinn, known throughout Mom’s eclectic group of friends and wider acquaintance circle.
There was never one of us without the other, not after Benny was born.
It was the kind of childhood that seemed idyllic when you’re a kid, but then you become an adult yourself and your memories shift.
You realize maybe being your mom’s life coach and confidante and shoulder to cry on wasn’t very healthy.
“Come on,” Benny said. “It’ll be fine. Come into the kitchen.
I’ll make hot chocolate.” She walked forward down the entryway and disappeared beyond it, but I continued on slowly, seeing my childhood home through fresh eyes.
Everything almost looked the same. High dark wood beam ceilings, crisscrossed to a peak at the top.
The staircase to my right would lead to three bedrooms, and lining the wall all the way up was an array of bohemian artwork, meticulously placed so there was hardly any space left for anything else.
The staircase was intricate and the stairs were lined with Moroccan-style carpeting.
The living room had always been the focal point and in true canyon style, it was about half of the first floor of the house, perfect for entertaining a large group of people, which this house had done all throughout the years since it had been built in the ’70s by a young movie star named James Carlyle who wanted a haven for other outsiders like himself.