Chapter Twelve #2
Memories of being on locations as a kid come flooding back. The waiting. The boredom. Parsing out trips to the craft service table for Hershey’s kisses to pass the time. Making myself invisible when anyone important-looking passed by, worrying they’d fire my mom for bringing me to work.
“And there’s your mom!” Oliver looks genuinely excited. I rest my hands on Emmy’s shoulders and try my best to draft off Oliver’s good mood.
My mother has hardly aged. She looks spry if maybe a bit overheated. Still easily the most beautiful woman onset with her golden-brown eyes and auburn hair, falling in easy curls to her shoulders.
“Diana! God, it’s been too long. I barely recognize you.” The dig is so slight it’s almost imperceptible.
Her embrace is quick, then she turns to Oliver. “Just as handsome as ever.” She makes a big show of hugging him close in front of the crew.
“What are you shooting?” he asks. “It looks like quite a production.”
“No, not really. But I enjoy doing these student films. Supporting young artists. And they appreciate getting to work with a more seasoned actress like me. That’s what we say, Oliver, ‘ seasoned ’…” She winks. She’s one of the rare few who can get away with it.
“Well, it looks like a fun day’s work.”
“The director’s got a ton to learn. He keeps flashing me a V symbol.”
“What’s that?”
“Exactly. Vulnerable, he tells me it means. He’s an international director. From Canada, I think. And these young guns are so used to emojis and texting that they forget how to give simple, actionable direction. So I’m getting hand gestures. What am I supposed to do with V ? Right, Emmy?”
For the first time, she acknowledges Emmy, who has been smiling up at her this entire time.
“Hello.” Emmy holds out her hand.
“Manners! I love it.” She kisses Emmy’s hand like she’s royalty. Emmy beams. “You look exactly like me when I was little. Does your mom ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“I bet she doesn’t,” she says with a tight smile.
“You look great.” I play nice. “Like the heat doesn’t bother you one bit.”
“I have to set an example, right? When the budget is scant, you only have the passion.”
One of the stressed-out crew members waves in our direction.
“Emmy, you want to sit by the monitor? And see Nona Ava in action?”
As they walk away, my mom takes Emmy by the hand and stage-whispers, loud enough for me to hear, “I’ve been wanting to spend more time with you but your mother barely answers her phone.”
When she leaves, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“Nona Ava?” Oliver asks. “Is she Italian now?”
“Anything to avoid ‘Grandma.’?”
We follow Ava to the monitor, where she coos to the director. “Derek, sweetheart. You don’t mind if my friend Emmy sits next to you and watches my big scene, do you?”
“Fine. But we’re running out of light, gotta move.” He turns up the speed on his neck fan.
“Noted. Anything else you want from me? Anything different this time?”
“Run faster.”
“That I can do. Where’s makeup? Makeup girl? Last looks. That’s what you should be saying, dear,” she instructs the young brunette with a fanny pack full of brushes. “Next time you’ll get an AD, Derek. Makes life so much easier.”
The bored brunette dabs at my mom’s forehead with some translucent powder, soaking up beads of sweat, then shuffles away.
“That’s all I need?” Ava smiles. “I must look better than I thought!”
Emmy sits next to the monitor as Derek yells “Action!” over the whir of his fan.
On cue, my mom runs through the dark cave with admirable commitment, screaming as she looks over her shoulder and back again.
But she’s not fast enough—a masked man grabs hold of her waist, spins her toward him, and plunges a knife directly into her chest. Fake blood blooms across her shirt, then drips down her skinny arms.
Emmy’s eyes widen, and Oliver takes her by the shoulders, shifting her small body toward the craft service table. “Are those M she’d have a margarita and I’d order a Coke and we’d tell each other, we’re just here for the ambiance.
If she had just booked a part, we’d both order entrées.
But we never, ever valet parked, no matter how flush Ava felt and no matter how far we had to walk.
Valet parking was for losers who were missing out on the fresh air.
Oliver pulls up directly in front of the low-slung building, white with a red tiled roof.
Without a thought, he hands the valet his keys.
For a moment, a familiar chasm opens between us—Oliver has never walked eight blocks to avoid paying for valet parking or lived with a mom who makes you walk eight blocks because she’s too embarrassed to let the valet guy inside her old car, with its permanent “check engine” light and mysterious rattle, the way it doesn’t so much stop when you put it in park but shudder then die.
There’s a familiar, annoying ache in my chest—the part of me that sympathizes with my single mom and how hard it must have been on her, a softening of my armor that will remain until another of her tiny knives finds its way in.
Inside, our eyes adjust to the dim, romantic lighting, and I immediately spot Ava, ensconced in a red leather booth beneath a framed portrait of a triumphant bullfighter.
Beside her a tall, skinny man in his early seventies with a remarkably thick head of gray hair takes a long pull off his beer.
“This is Stevie,” Ava says, beaming. They are planted in the middle of the booth and I’m relieved to take one of the two ends and not be trapped in the middle.
Over our first round of drinks, Ava announces, “Diana and I did a few yoga retreats together. You remember those, Diana?”
“Me?” is all I can think to say.
“Yes, you. With DeeDee and Maria. I would drive you up the coast to…what’s that town called…Bolinas!”
“Love Bolinas, man.” Stevie whistles, low and soft. “Magical place.”