“I’m going to need everyone else to stay back.”
I study Barb in awe, instantly ten years younger, commanding in a way I haven’t seen her before. There’s so much I don’t know about Barb.
The actress stands a few feet away from the table, primping her hair and staring at Jasper. “Do you want me to play opposite him in a scene?”
Barb’s attention shifts between the woman and Jasper. “No, he’s not—we don’t want you to read anything. We just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay.” The woman tucks her hair behind her ears, clearly uncomfortable. This isn’t what she was expecting. I don’t know what she was expecting. I’ve never been to an audition before.
“Tell me what you know about the part,” Barb says.
“Only what I read on the audition call.” She slips her hands into her armpits, and I want to tell her to stand up, be proud. She’s beautiful. Every woman in this room is beautiful. “About a mom who deals oxy to get her son lifesaving medicine.”
Barb studies her, and the actress does her best to puff out her chest and present confidence. Finally, Barb thanks her for comingand says we’ll be in touch. The woman is about to protest, confused at how abruptly Barb has dismissed her. Instead, she hands Barb her résumé and headshot before despondently ambling away. Her name is Astrid Mailer. I repeat it several times, hoping to one day see it across a marquee.
As Barb calls over another actress, Jasper’s interest quickly fades. He kicks his legs, shouting, “Ow, ow.” He can’t pronounce thetat the end ofout, so it sounds like he’s in physical agony instead of everyday toddler distress. He rubs his eyes, eager for a nap, but he’ll settle for a meltdown instead.
“I’m going to take Jasper for air,” I tell Barb. For her part, Barb is thriving. She says she’ll talk to a few more of the women, then meet me outside. Everyone watches me as I push Jasper toward the door. One of the actresses holds it open for me. There’s something about her, her large doe eyes, her luminescent skin, a magnetism that these other beautiful women don’t quite have. I’m certain she’s the one, even if I know nothing about casting, about this movie Regina must have been involved in.
As I push Jasper down that dingy hall, my mind drifts to the artist’s eternal dilemma. Who paid for all this? Of course. Dan Huntsman. He’s a producer. He must be funding the movie, must have hired Regina. Rather, Claire did. Oh, that asshole. First earrings, now a casting job. He was using his wife’s money to keep his mistress happy—until she wanted too much, money or attention or both, and he killed her. It’s so mind-bogglingly perverse, I know it’s true.
The elevator door starts to close as we approach, then judders open. As soon as I step inside, I wish I’d lingered longer, not giving her a chance to hold it for me. Astrid is inside, disappointment wafting from her in waves. She focuses on the numbers above the door as the elevator descends. I want to tell her this isn’t a rejection; we have no authority. There’s something freeing about living in LA outside of Hollywood. Although I’ve designed for several actresses, crafted the occasional piecefor a period film, and Gabe has had plenty of famous patients, we could do our work anywhere. I don’t know what it’s like to come here for a purpose, one you may never fulfill.
Jasper and I wait outside for Barb. Two more actresses wander out, one remarking, “Well, that was a total waste of time.” I wonder if they know each other from auditioning, from constantly competing for the same roles.
My phone buzzes. A text from Gabe.Stuck in the office. Can’t make it today. Don’t hate me? Let me know how it goes.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about my checkup with my OB scheduled for this afternoon. I’m always telling Gabe he doesn’t need to come to every appointment. I did want him with me today, though, for my thirty-seven-week visit, when I’ll find out whether the baby is still breech. If she is, I’ll need to schedule either an ECV to turn her or a cesarean to cut her out of my body. Both procedures involve pain. Both are my decision. Still, I’d hoped Gabe would be with me. I don’t text him back. Instead I text Claire, asking if we can do nanny share at our house for the foreseeable future, claiming that with the baby coming, Jasper’s been regressing, that he’ll be better in his own home. It sounds plausible enough, even though I’m pretty sure Jasper has zero understanding of how drastically his life is about to change. When we sayJasper, where’s your sister?he points to my stomach. When I poke my own belly and sayWho’s here?he shouts,Baby.Those are memorized responses from weeks of trying to prepare him. Claire wouldn’t know this, though. She only has Summer.
More of the women stream onto the street, unlocking cars, disappearing around corners, on to other rooms where they will blend into other crowds. We’re going to have to find our own nanny. Jasper can’t share a nanny with a murderer’s daughter. I can’t be friends with a murderer’s wife either. I’m not prepared to face that fact any more than I am the nanny share or how exactly we’re going to live across the canal from a killer. Claire texts back a thumbs-up, no questions or protests. For now, I don’t need any long-term solutions. I just need to keep my son away from Dan Huntsman.
A few minutes later, Barb struts out, high off her performance. As soon as we’re back at my car, she collapses into the passenger seat, drained. For his part, Jasper drifts to sleep before I’ve even started the engine.
“Do you mind if we call it a day? That was a lot,” Barb says.
“Sure. I have a doctor’s appointment anyway.” I drive toward the serpentine highways that will take us back to the Westside. “Did you learn anything else from the other actresses?”
Barb shakes her head no. “That’s all they knew. A movie about a mother who dealt drugs to save her son. I think Regina must have written the script too. There’s no way she would have cast someone else’s movie when she wanted to write her own.” There’s a smugness to Barb’s assessment, a relief that she can speak confidently about her daughter’s motivations.
“But a movie about an oxy dealer?” For some reason, the little I know about Regina, this doesn’t seem right.
“Regina always worked through things by writing about them,” Barb says.
I think back to Regina’s essay I found online, the one about their complicated relationship. Has Barb read it? Does she know her daughter worked through their struggles by writing about them too?
“And she was always interested in how it’s not just the addict that makes an addiction.” The assuredness fades from Barb’s face as her words hit too close. Whether or not she’s read the essay, Barb knows her daughter found her triggering. “I can see her wanting to understand the perspective of a drug dealer.”
She says this last part so stoically, I can’t tell if she views this as a form of empathy or blame.
I press down on the gas pedal, trying to decide how I can be a comfort to her. The car propels us up the ramp to the highway. The only thing I can think to do is inch her toward the truth.
“Dan Huntsman, my neighbor—”
“I remember,” she interrupts. Of course she does.
“He’s a producer. A movie producer, I mean.”
“You think he had something to do with that audition?”
