Chapter 6 #2
James had been too gorgeous for his own good, and was discovered at seventeen, thrust into fame, but then forced to hide his sexuality.
When twenty-year-old Jackie Quinn had been in Los Angeles for four years trying to make it as an actress, she met James and they became fast and best friends.
Then, later, when James needed a beard to accompany him to various events, he asked my mom and she said yes.
When he died tragically five years after that, Mom was twenty-five and had just found out she was pregnant with me, wondering what the hell she was going to do, living in a dingy Hollywood apartment with four roommates.
She got a call from an estate lawyer that James had miraculously left her one of his properties: the tucked-away bungalow in Topanga Canyon, a place that Jackie loved and had spent many evenings in with musicians, artists, actors, and all sorts of wildly creative and interesting people.
In that living room, she’d listened to early acoustic versions of songs that later became worldwide sensations.
She’d talked to actresses who lamented the fact that they were still waiting to hear back from auditions and then she’d seen their faces on billboards on Sunset Boulevard the next year.
She kept hope alive that her dreams would come true in the same way.
They hadn’t.
They still hadn’t.
But she was out there, trying, even now, at age fifty-five.
If you weren’t her daughter, you may have been inspired.
But if you were her daughter, you may have wanted stability and a mom that was around, not chasing auditions and then devolving into misery whenever she didn’t get a part.
Jackie Quinn wanted to be our best friend a lot more than she wanted to be our mother.
And when I was fourteen years old and charmed by no bedtimes and “jam sessions” in the living room until midnight on a random Wednesday, I wanted to be her best friend, too.
And then I grew up and realized it’s much better to have a mother than a friend.
The James Carlyle experience defined Jackie Quinn’s life.
At the eleventh hour, she was taken care of.
When I’d remind her it was luck, she’d swoop her arm around the bungalow and say, “If it’s only luck, how did I end up here?
” “One stroke of luck!” I’d say, exasperated.
“Well, it sure hasn’t run out yet!” she’d scream back.
And I’d storm off petulantly. She lived on a dangerous edge.
She called it her intuition. I called it madness.
And guess who would have to be there when her “luck” ran out?
Me. I was always her backup plan. She just didn’t realize it.
The infamous living room had gathered more kitsch since I’d been there, but all the furniture was the same.
There was a large worn-in dark green sectional couch and four deep-set chairs facing it.
Behind the chairs was a window that stretched the length of the room and overlooked the canyon, all greenery and mountain in the distance.
On the wall facing the front of the house was a massive collection of books and records that James had left behind in built-in wooden shelves.
My mom had added to this collection over the years and it now spilled over to the dining room.
There was an acoustic guitar on a stand next to a brown leather pouf.
The style was so ’70s bohemian that it really did feel like time had stood still.
Which is exactly what my mom wanted. It was such a far cry from my place in San Francisco.
When Mom had first seen my minimalist apartment, she’d gasped and said, “Charlie, how do you live like this? It’s so sad! ” It had infuriated me.
The long entryway next to the staircase had a worn Persian rug over the original hardwood floors and the walls were filled with more books and records.
When I finally got to the kitchen, the place that used to be my favorite room of the house, Benny looked up while holding a mint-green teakettle in her hand and said, “Marshmallows or no?”
“Sure,” I said. I felt a little bewildered and out of sorts, beaten down by an assault of memories I’d long repressed.
It took me a moment to realize I’d held back the good parts, too.
Suddenly, a flood of happy memories in this kitchen came over me.
I used to love cooking, and I’d baked so much good bread in here.
I had a special touch with the dough and I’d serve it with butter I made myself to my mom’s friends.
They always requested full loaves. Baking was the only time my mind felt still. Why did I ever stop?
Never mind, I remembered why I stopped.
The kitchen was a collection of different types of wood.
The same high-beamed ceilings as the rest of the house.
Two tall windows overlooking greenery in the corner.
Dark cabinets and a wooden island in the middle.
Red clay floors with another massive rug to cover the area.
The stove had been updated to a stainless steel, and so had the refrigerator.
There were intricate pots with an array of plants above the wood cabinetry.
Herbs sat in the windowsill. There was nothing sterile about the space.
Nothing minimalist. It was alive . My hands suddenly itched to knead something, just for the hell of it.
It was a strange feeling; I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted to do anything other than work.
I sat down on the stool and Benny placed a heavy handmade mug in front of me. The top of the hot chocolate was covered in little floating marshmallows. When I took a sip, I heard the front door open. My heart leaped, and I kicked the stool out from under me and stood up.
Mom was home.