Forty-Two
To celebrate the joyful news that I for sure wasn’t a murderer, I herded the twins to the Library! to pick out a few books.
As Phoebe sank into a bean bag chair to giggle over Narwhal and Jelly and Alice lay on the kid’s rug devouring Amelia Bedelia, I collapsed into an adult-sized chair nearby and took a moment to consider all I’d learned in the last hour.
The low-low of reading about Mickey Larynx’s comeback followed by the high-high of discovering an alibi for the night Connor
died had been twin electrical shocks to my system. They’d caused the record needle of my brain to bounce out of its familiar
groove. I could suddenly see beyond my recent predicament to a more bird’s-eye view of my life. If Mickey Larynx could rise
from the ashes, why couldn’t I? Was my career really over? Or had I taken myself out of the game? If I’d had a thicker skin
and a more resilient creative well, I might not have let getting dumped by my manager—and deeply heckled by one crowd—stop
me.
After that audience had treated me like a Mickey Larynx apologist, I could’ve gone the DIY route, filming myself doing micro-impersonations
and posting them on social media. And if that felt too overwhelming, I could’ve kept writing down every funny thing the twins
ever did or said, just to keep my creative muscles strong. Just to tell my inner artist child I hadn’t given up. After all,
success wasn’t just doing stand-up to a packed theater of adoring fans. Success was continuing to tend to the little fire
of my creativity, no matter what.
Taking downtime to recalibrate after my mom died made sense—the rawness of my grief demanded a fallow period.
But that time of composting didn’t have to be the end of my creative life.
I could see that now! Even if the gatekeepers of comedy never allowed me to have a stand-up special, I could still make my art.
I could still write jokes. And if jokes weren’t available to me, I could watch great comedy.
I could pay attention to the funny grandpa cliques at Dawson Taylor or hilarious kids at the roller rink.
I could go to pole dancing class. I could fill the well.
And it wasn’t just that I’d let my career go. When I moved to Boise, I dug into isolation. But did my parenting life have
to be so solitary? I could check in with my LA friends—who’d called for months before finally giving up on me. And if I ran
into someone I knew, I could say hello instead of hiding. Maybe the first Stop-and-Chat after I hadn’t seen someone in years
would involve questions about Mickey Larynx and my tanked career, but the second one certainly wouldn’t. Hell, I could even
chat with other moms at soccer practice.
During my big fight with Emmylou, she said my mom wouldn’t’ve wanted me to use grieving as an excuse to quit comedy. That
had made me volcanically furious because Emmylou was right. I’d felt so guilty since my mom died because I’d taken all that
money she’d sent me. Money she’d needed for herself! But she sent it because she believed in me and my dreams. Continuing
to follow those dreams was a way to honor her.
Grief was like a Boise winter. A grayscale, seemingly endless time when the earth and sky looked like concrete. But suddenly
I could hear my mother’s voice saying, “Winter seems like it will last forever, but that spring thaw is coming, girls.”
There would be risks with thawing out, trying again, being vulnerable. But Emmylou was right: It was time. I’d loved my mom—God,
how I loved her. Losing her sucked beyond all imagining. But it didn’t mean I had to lay down in the snowbank and die. I had
to keep slogging toward happiness. The only way to be the sort of woman and mother I wanted to be was to keep reaching for
my creative potential and for the life my kids deserved.
Making things right wouldn’t happen overnight. But I’d start by taking the tiniest, most obvious step. I’d make my first attempt at a comedy comeback. It didn’t matter if it was at an event that wouldn’t register a blip on the coastal comedy scenes. I had to start somewhere.
But I couldn’t start afresh as an extrovert and public performer with Ralphie and Errol cruising the streets of Boise hoping
to dismember me—or worse. Boise was a small enough town that they’d find me eventually. Or, more likely, they’d grab Miranda
on her way out for a grocery run and she’d tell them everything. I had to move fast—and control how and when they came for
me. Ralphie and Errol needed to go to prison for all they’d done. They still had the plans for Day of the Rope and probably
more explosives. They had to be stopped before they and their IDIOT buddies attacked the capitol—in eleven days. I’d never
met Baylee, but I was partially responsible for Errol chopping off her finger—where was she now? She might still need help.
It was time to put this dark chapter of my life behind me. But I couldn’t do it alone. I needed help too. Now that I knew
I was innocent, it might be time to open up to Nate, at least a little bit.
“Hold tight,” I told the girls as I rose to my feet. “I’ll be right back.”
I stood outside the Library!, watching the twins through the glass front window, breath fogging as I dialed. But I wasn’t
calling Nate. Not yet.
“Tilly! My friend!” Miley O’Riley answered, sounding genuinely happy to hear from me.
“Hey, Miley. You know that comedy set you’ve been trying to get me to do?”
“At the festival tomorrow! Of course. I talked to your girl Layna. We’ve got your friend Shade on the books to do a quick
number for us.”
“Oh, awesome!” I said. I’d forgotten all about that. “Is it too late for me to join the lineup?” I was talking fast. “I’d
have to perform as my alter ego, Nikita. I don’t want my real name on the advertising. I’m trying out some new material.”
“We can squeeze you in! This is going to be more epic than your talent show.”
“Don’t remind me.” I laughed. Junior year, I’d done a skit dressed up as Pat from Saturday Night Live. “Though I’m glad Pat’s been reclaimed as an icon. But I have one other request.” Through the window, I could see Alice’s
lips moving to Amelia Bedelia. Meanwhile, Phoebe was rubbing the page as if trying to actually pat the Narwhal. Screw the iPad, I thought.
“For you? Anything,” Miley said.
“Could you make a flyer? One with my photo and stage name on it? One I could blow up to poster size?”
“Tilly, the festival is tomorrow.”
“It’s important. I’d do it myself but I do not have the requisite design skills.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ve got a bored intern here,” Miley said. “I’ll get him right on it. Send me your headshot and stage name now,
okay? He’ll turn it around quick.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much. And not to be pushy, but are there other ways to get the word out this late in the game?”
“I’ll put it on all our socials,” Miley said. “It’ll be tight but I can probably push for my pals at Boise Weekly and the Statesman to add your stage name to morning announcements on their websites too.”
“You’re a rock star,” I gushed. “An MVP. A total she-beast!”
Now I had less than twenty-four hours to get the ATF on board, make sure Ralphie and Errol would know where to find me, and
put together a comeback-worthy comedy set.