Chapter 35 #2
Hours later I rummaged through my mom’s fridge when it became apparent I was on my own for dinner.
My choices were some sad stalks of celery, a half-used package of tempeh, or leftover mystery soup.
Grabbing my keys, I went in search of comfort food, which of course took me to the Cheeseboard Collective.
I was sitting in the parking lot, chowing down on my half pizza, because I hadn’t had enough cheese already today, when my phone dinged with a text.
Probably my mom wondering where I was, or intuiting my poor food choices.
I looked around for a napkin but when I couldn’t find one, I reached into my purse anyway and pulled out my phone.
It was definitely not my mom.
From an unknown number came the first text: Hey Thea. It’s Zach. Actually I’m going by Max Keene as my stage name now. So I guess it’s Max.
The very act of reading his name made my hands go clammy. Although that could have been the pizza grease.
As I was staring at the phone, a second text followed: I wanted to see how you’ve been doing.
I’m sure this whole thing has been really brutal for you and Lucy.
Unlike you, I’m not a writer, so it’s hard to express how badly I still feel about everything.
It was a mistake. Probably the biggest of my life. And also, I really miss you. For real.
My hand shook. I’d been such a moron. Then the phone pinged again: One last thing.
Please do not let this take away from anything I just said, but I also have some mind-blowing news that I want you to hear from me first. I’ve been offered the starring role of Zach in the movie adaptation of your book.
Excuse me? WTAF? And then I thought, Of course he’s been offered the part. After all, was there a better way for the producers to capitalize on all the publicity than to cast the actual bad actor of my life story as the star of my book’s film adaptation?
But why was he telling me this? Was he looking for congratulations? A blessing? Fat chance I’d ever give him either one. In fact, I’d do him one better. I deleted the conversation without answering. And then I blocked his number.
I immediately texted Frannie to tell her what had happened and to see if her dad could intervene.
Absentmindedly, I sucked down my chocolate shake waiting for her answer, which came a few minutes later in the form of several sad-face emojis.
Then she added: My dad said no chance. It’s too good of a marketing hook.
Also, and please don’t freak out, but it seems my dad represents the douchebag now.
And one more thing, they’re fast-tracking development.
They’ve attached a hot young director. And the other lead.
Oh no. Who’s playing me? I typed. And then I erased it and wrote, Who’s playing Tallulah?
Hollywood It girl Caitlin Cabot, she texted.
Not exactly who I had in mind when I created the character. She’s gorgeous. They’ll totally end up a couple IRL. I added a facepalm emoji that didn’t begin to capture my mortification.
Not that you care, right? Frannie sent back.
Obviously, I shot back. He’s all hers.
When I finally emerged from the guest room the next morning—or rather, midday—my mom was back in her usual seat at the kitchen table, bent over her laptop.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said, looking up and peering at me over her glasses. “There’s some coffee left, but it might be sludge by now. It’s noon already. I’ve been up for a while.”
I poured a cup, tasted it, and dumped it down the drain.
My mom shut her laptop and removed her glasses. “I read your book.”
I’d wanted to believe my own mother had already done that. As a novelist, that fraught moment before a valued friend or family member passed judgment on my work never got easier—or felt less personal. I waited and tried not to appear overinvested in her impending verdict.
“Oh, Thea, I absolutely loved it,” she gushed. “I stayed up practically all night reading it.”
“Really?” was all I could manage. I’d always figured that if she ever did read it, she’d struggle to say something polite after holding her nose through the whole thing because it was a romance—the opposite of serious.
“Yes, really. Even without factoring in what I know about the author’s life,” she said with a knowing smile, “it was an objectively beautiful story. But after our conversation yesterday . . . and then thinking about the similarities between your first novel and Sam’s death .
. . I get it now. I understand why your unresolved grief might have led you to believe you could write a book that would bring Sam back to you.
If I hadn’t withheld so much from you over the years, maybe you wouldn’t have blamed yourself for what happened to Sam.
You could have seen it for the random act it was. ”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. While I had to admit the evidence was tilting in favor of Sam’s death as a random accident, a key part of me still resisted that conclusion.
“Reading your book also made me feel thankful that you were blessed with a great love, even if it couldn’t last forever.
” She blinked hard. “I loved your dad at some point a long time ago. But it was never what you and Sam had. I think I was a little jealous of that, if I’m being honest. And it didn’t help that your dad remarried so quickly.
I ended up with a grand career and some special students who have come and gone over the years, but I think the probability is high that I’ll never experience that kind of love firsthand.
Your book at least allowed me to enjoy it vicariously for a few hours, and it was glorious. ”
I’d assumed throwing herself into her career had been a choice.
As if she couldn’t wait to be free of me and my dad so she could focus on her true passion—math.
Romantic love almost seemed beneath her.
Too pedantic. I was stunned that she loved my book, but rendered truly speechless by the naked yearning in her voice.
How could it be that I’d never thought of her as a whole person before now, someone shaped by her own unique set of regrets, traumas, and desires?
“Can I ask you for a small favor?” My mom heaved a Berkeley Bowl canvas bag up onto the table.
“Sure,” I said uncertainly.
She pushed the bag toward me. “Will you sign these?”
I peered into the bag. “Mom, there must be more than a dozen books in here.”
“In fact, there are twenty. I had to go to four different bookstores this morning. None of them would sell me more than five copies because they didn’t want to be out of stock.”
“What are you going to do with all of these?”
“Have I mentioned that my daughter is a New York Times bestseller?” She grinned. “This proud mama is going to hand them out to everyone she knows.”
“Even after everything that happened?”
“Of course,” my mom said. “That doesn’t change anything.”
I’d expected judgment and disdain for my poor life choices. Definitely not support and acceptance. It was such an unfamiliar feeling that I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Honey, you’re up to number two on the New York Times bestseller list.”
I’d been stunned when Harper had texted the news to me a few days earlier.
I’d been so sure my career was going to implode, given the statements’ less-than-positive reception on social media and by the mainstream outlets.
But all that attention was driving massive interest in the book.
In fact, I’d woken up to an email from the bookstore hosting a signing for me on Monday night.
They were moving the event to a larger venue to accommodate the demand.
I could only hope people weren’t coming solely to gawk at the circus freak.
I smiled and grabbed my special book-signing pen from my purse.
You never know when you’re going to run into an adoring fan.
When I finished signing, I packed up my belongings and rolled my suitcase to the door.
Usually by the end of my mom’s short LA visits, I was idling in the car, impatient to whisk her back to the airport.
So it was weird that all I wanted now was to throw my arms around her and ask if I could stay here a little while longer, even though I needed to get home for Lucy and my book event.
As if I had spoken my wish aloud, my mom turned and opened her arms. I fell into them and she whispered in my ear, “I love you so much.”
We were always more of a love-is-implied kind of family, so hearing her say I love you, with so much emotion behind the words, felt about as natural as a cat walking on its hind legs.
But here I was. A grown-ass woman who had yet to outgrow her need for her mother’s love and approval.
After chasing it for so long, I’d all but given up, believing it was something I would never have because it was something I didn’t deserve.
Now I felt something shift deep inside me: not a full-blown earthquake, exactly, but definitely a perceptible seismic wave.
I hoped it was a good omen. “I love you, too, Mom.”
During the long car ride home, I forced myself to face the stone-cold truth that ever since Sam died in a surreal echo of my writing, I had struggled to separate reality from the fictional worlds of my creation.
Would I ever find a way to accept that coincidence and causation were not one and the same?
Selling Call of the Void had become my litmus test for that question the last few years.
Of course the idea of a $750,000 payday was tantalizing.
With Dr. Field’s help and my mom’s revelations, I was inching my way toward saying yes to Harper, but as I cruised down the 101, my mind searched for certainty that publishing this story would not put Lucy’s safety at risk.
And then it hit me. I grabbed my phone and dictated a text to Harper: “Hey driving home from Berkeley and thinking about some new ideas for Call of the Void. Hear me out. What if, instead of the child never returning to her parents and them being stuck in purgatory forever, what if the story had a happy ending? I’m spitballing here, but maybe the kidnapper starts to care about the little girl and lets her go?
Or he tires of living in the shadows and turns himself in?
Or maybe he gets sloppy and the investigator seizes on a tiny overlooked detail and discovers the child?
Just a few ideas. Let me know what you think. ”
I spent the final hours of the drive trying to rework the ending and making peace with the notion of giving Harper permission to sell this new version.
As I pulled into the Packers’ driveway, I checked my phone and clicked on Harper’s text anticipating her incredible relief that I was finally coming around.
These are terrible ideas, she wrote. Do not waste your time editing the manuscript. Or even thinking about editing it. I will not be able to sell that.