Imogen screamed, a ragged, empty sound. Erika, Greta, and Zara fought to keep her from slipping away, tears streaking their faces. She had seconds left…
I desperately scanned the crew above, seeking one thing among those faces, those mouths advising how to hit the water, those useless warnings. The film equipment had been abandoned except for a single dazed cameraman, his lens aimlessly pointed at me. I found that black portal to the future, offering one last gift after having taken so much. The words left me so fast I’m not sure anything was distinguishable beyond the intent. They each needed to know I said their name. “Andie, Wallace, we love you…”
And my thumb pressed down on the carabiner.
Imogen soared above me, her body raised heavenward by the women. As I somersaulted unpinioned through the air, it occurred to me that Imogen would have gotten drunk on French 75s if she had attended my wedding to Barnes, the ceremony I wished we’d actually had. She and Jenny would have been cackling in a corner, absently shredding the monogrammed cocktail napkins, making fun of Greta in her pink bandage dress. I’d beg them to get on the dance floor before the band finished, and because it was “Sweet Caroline,” which had been Mitch’s favorite song at parties, they would relent, joining us in the center of the circle, Imogen tucked under my arm, still laughing. And with Imogen on my left and Barnes on my right, we would have sung at the top of our lungs until they turned the lights out on us, until the darkness came.
V
CONSTANTS
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise?
Can we not make another?
LORD BYRON,CAIN
50
2015
SEASON 20, EPISODE 12:
“Reunion”
The limousine arrives at 3:00, the December sun already low. It’s been two months since I got off the crutches. Recovery has been more unforgiving than in my twenties. But I’m certainly more thankful. Thankful I can walk, thankful my children can see me stand.
I shuffle into the kitchen, where Andie does her homework, sulking because she’s not allowed to come tonight. I wave to Hetty, our new housekeeper, who’s folding laundry by the dryer. “Wow,” Andie remarks, surprised to see me dressed up, a lifetime since the DC fundraisers when her fathers rushed off into the muggy night, cologne wafting behind us.
“I look okay?” The suit’s tighter than I’d prefer, but outside powers prevailed.
She nods, before the desultory gaze returns. “You really won’t bring us?”
“Are you still on that business?” Imogen teases as she emerges from the hallway bathroom, her sleek lilac dress grazing the floor. She’d wanted to get ready together.
“I already know what happens,” Andie complains. It’s true. She saw her parents come home in a thousand pieces, but admittedly the entire world did too thanks to the paparazzi, who blew the network’s usual protocol for “spoilers” to smithereens.
“Just because we let you watch a couple Trials doesn’t mean you’re watching this.”
“Your dad’s right,” Imogen says. “Besides, none of us have seen the final episode yet.”
“At leastyouget to watch,” Wallace spouts from the pantry. Even he is starting to have opinions, perhaps a consequence of being around the crew members so regularly now.
When the new show started, I never expected the kids would want to be on camera, but once the trucks showed up, they were both invading every shot to mug for the crew. By the time Wallace burst out of a closet to scare me and Imogen during a staged conversation about the garden club she’d joined, I knew my battle was lost, defeated by my children themselves. I’m hoping the seductive novelty will wear off by making the cameras boringly familiar, and thankfully our contract guarantees I have final cut and full approval on any footage of the kids. I never fathomed I’d allow this, but the last eight months have been nothing but surprises.
“People I love!” Barnes calls through the front door as he arrives, striding past the Christmas tree to enter the kitchen. He’d insisted on carpooling so we can work the press line in unison before the taping. “Well, don’t you two look dashing?”
Andie instantly accosts him. “Baba, can I—”
“Don’t even try it, sweet pea.” He turns to me. “Did I hold the party line?”
“Yes, you win a cookie,” I say dryly.
He offers Imogen his arm as we depart. I’m still not used to them being so consistently civil. Perhaps it’s the California climate. Regardless, it’s all documented onAlone Together, coming Thursdays at 8:00 p.m. in January. If nothing else, they both love Andie and Wallace. And I supposethey both love me, and that’s not something they hate about each other anymore.
“Be good for Hetty,” I tell the kids. “And can Daddy get two smooches for luck?”
Wallace dutifully obliges before Andie follows, still glum. I give her a tight squeeze, kissing her on the forehead for good measure. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”
