48. Martha
Martha
Back at home, Emmy shrugs off her hoodie and shuffles into the living room, the plastic bag of greasy fare swinging from one hand.
She settles in, and Scotch leaps into her lap, baring his teeth at me as I sit down.
Emmy shushes him, and with a click of the remote, the TV is on—some entertainment show with a flashy announcer who has what Emmy tells me are called veneers now.
Her too-white teeth and royal blue top look luminous against the earthy tones of the set around her.
I sit beside Emmy and turn up the volume as the host switches gears to cover the latest in Hollywood.
“And now, turning our attention to the Redfern LaMonte saga. ET caught up with Jason Redfern’s co-star Lauren LaMonte’s spokesperson, who says LaMonte is distraught over what happened and has filed charges against her long-time co-star and Hollywood’s most prized leading man.”
A red-haired woman pops into frame, a microphone in her hand, eyes pinched like she should be wearing sunglasses, even though the shot is at night.
“We know what happened,” she says, her voice gruff with overuse.
“Miss LaMonte is telling the truth, and all I have to say is Jason Redfern needs to be exposed. She isn’t the first to suffer these abuses, and unless something is done, she won’t be the last.”
“What about her film with Jason, The Hurting Game, recently shot in LA? Has production ceased? Will it still be released?”
Emmy sits forward, the greasy Chinese takeout container balanced above Scotch’s head. Her hands absently lift the pair of chopsticks and noodles to her mouth. She chews stoically, watching.
“I have no comment on their recent film or what the plans are for that.” She pauses to clear her throat. “Miss LaMonte wants everyone to respect her privacy. This is not an easy time for her. Thank you.”
“Was LaMonte romantically involved with Redfern prior to the alleged rape?”
“I have no further comments at this time.” With a wave of her hand, she gestures for the camera to move and heads off. The shot whips around to the journalist, another woman, with olive skin and dark, frizzy hair.
Emmy mutes the television as it goes to a commercial.
“Wow, he’s a total piece of shit.”
“He’s worse than that,” I tell her.
Emmy uses chopsticks professionally, spooning little kernels of rice and sweet-and-sour pork toward her mouth. I’m watching her when the phone at my side rings. She glances at me and then back at the TV.
“Is it them?”
I glance at the number. ID blocked. Just like Bambi’s. Green button. Slide to answer. “Hello?”
“Did you get it?” Bambi’s voice sounds oddly calm for this time of night.
I sit forward, letting the takeout container slip from my lap. Rice kernels fall onto the couch and the floor. I brush them off and stand up. “Yeah. I got it. Why?”
Heavy breaths and the sound of Bambi somewhere small and enclosed make me realize she’s hiding from him. My skin prickles with chill bumps.
“Tomorrow.”
I swallow the last of the greasy fried rice. “Are you sure?”
“It has to be.” She pauses, her breaths mounting. “They’ve canceled everything. His agent dropped him. He’s unstable, Martha. You don’t understand. I can’t … I just can’t anymore.”
My mind races. We’ve been over this, but it bears repeating. Everything must happen in a very specific sequence. “I’m coming over.”
“No!” Her voice rises, then immediately quiets. “I’ll meet you.”
“Where?”
“Your house?”
I step into the kitchen, aware Emmy is listening. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Fine. The café on Third, then. The little French one.”
“It will be shut. It’s almost 9 p.m.”
I hear Bambi thinking, a low noise in the background, like the TV is on. I realize she is hiding from him in one of the spare rooms.
“Where then?”
The spot. Our spot. It’s perfect, in an ironic kind of way.
“Go to the corner of Beverly and Oakhurst.”
A breathy pause. “Okay. Fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hang up and spot Emmy behind me, staring. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I need to go out for a bit.”
“You’re meeting her at the spot. Why?” She shifts her weight and crosses her arms.
“Because Bambi needs me.”
She goes to the kitchen barstool and grabs her hoodie, Scotch trotting after her curiously. “I’m coming with you.”
An exasperated sigh releases from my lips. “No, Emmy.”
She grabs her black hoodie and throws it on, a defiance as she dresses. “You can’t make me stay here.”
I pull up a car’s length behind the stop sign and turn off the engine. Emmy rolls down her window so that the night air whips in and, with it, the smell of exhaust and fast food from across the street.
Emmy exhales and puts her seat back, her hoodie up. I can just see the side of her face.
In the backseat, the bottle of Macallan sits upright in a paper bag, buckled into the seat like a child. I reach back and unhook it.
“I don’t understand why it has to be now,” Emmy whispers.
I stare straight ahead, watching the cars swipe back and forth across the intersection, each one a blur of light and color.
“Ever hear the expression ‘It’s now or never’?”
She gives me a look. “Yeah? So?”
“Well, it’s now or never.”
Emmy smirks. “You know you’re technically endangering a minor right now, right?”
“Very funny. The only person who should be scared of me is Jason Redfern.”
Emmy kicks her feet onto the dashboard, her striped socks faded gray where they should be white. “I didn’t think it mattered to me so much,” she mumbles. “But when I think about it, I feel better.”
“Think about what?”
“You know. Making him pay.”
A smile creeps across my mouth. Several minutes pass, and we sit in silence, waiting. Soon, from across the street, a white Porsche turns toward us. “Showtime.”
Bottle in hand, I get out and head across the dark street to where Bambi is parked, Emmy following me. Bambi rolls her window down halfway, her eyes flick to Emmy, to me, and back again.
“This is Emmy, my sister’s kid,” I tell her preemptively. “She wanted to come along.”
Bambi gives a tired half smile. “Hi. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Here.” I thrust the bottle in the paper bag to her through the window. She takes it, surprised.
“This is it?”
I nod. “I marked the side with a tiny blue dot so that you’d know, in case he has another bottle at home.”
“He does,” Bambi says, her voice distant and unsure.
“Empty it. Throw it out. Whatever you have to do. Just make his drink with this. And only this.”
Bambi nods obediently. Her eyes drift toward her abdomen and the invisible life inside her. “What if it doesn’t work?”
I turn to Emmy, who’s listening to every word.
“It will. After the interview, you make him the drink. Your bags will be in the car.”
“Your car.”
I nod assuredly. “Yes, my car. I’m changing the plates, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So, you will take my car and head to this address.” I pull out the piece of paper from my pocket with the name and address written in Sharpie. It wasn’t hard to find in Nicola’s phone, along with all her personal info, even her bank accounts. Those will come in handy.
Bambi unfolds the paper, exposing the oversized handwriting. “Where is this?”
“Nubia Ramos. She’s a friend nearby. Remember, get out of the city as fast as you can. You can’t stay in LA.”
Bambi nods. “Right.”
“Give him the drink. Get in the car and get out of there. Understand?”
“Yes. I get it.”
She swallows, her throat thin like a bird’s neck. “What if it’s too much?”
“Jason will be fine,” I tell her, trying to make my voice sound certain. “The house is full of EpiPens. This is just a distraction. Something to buy you time.”
She eyes me, frantic, unsure.
“You wanted a way out, Bambi. This is it.”
“I know, I know,” she says. Bambi starts winding up her window when Emmy reaches out and leans in.
“Don’t let him open the bottle himself,” she says, and I smile inside because she’s thinking ahead.
Bambi’s head arches back in surprise. “What? Why not?” She looks at the bottle.
“It’s already been opened. He’ll notice.”
Smart kid. “She’s right,” I add. “If he suspects anything …”
“I get it,” Bambi says. “You don’t have to explain.”
Hands up, I step back from her car. She winds up the window, and the engine purrs.
“See you tomorrow,” I call through the glass, but Bambi doesn’t hear me. She’s already pulling out and reversing up the street so she can cross the busy intersection and head back into the hills.