“I’ve made it clear to Owen you’re to be treated with professionalism and respect, byeveryone. I don’t care how big a star any particular guy might be, if someone hits on you and makes you feel uncomfortable, then you’re to go straight to Owen or to me, and we’ll set the brute straight, without a moment’s hesitation. You understand?”
“I do. Perfectly. Thank you so much for looking out for me. But don’t worry. I was a bartender, remember? And a waitress before that. I’ve handled ‘animals at the zoo’ many times, and still managed to walk away with great tips.”
“You see? I told you bartending was a perfect training ground.” She picks up a pen and fidgets with it. “Any questions, my love? I’ve got to run off to a meeting in five.”
I bite my lip, weighing the pros and cons of asking the question on the tip of my tongue, and finally decide it’s going to bea long summer, if I don’t ask it. “Yeah, just one question.” I clear my throat. “What if I’m partying with someone and having a blast and befriending them, like you’ve told me is smart to do... and what if someone flirts with me, or hits on me... and I actuallylikeit?A lot.What happens then?” My cheeks bloom with embarrassment. “I mean, I don’t want to do anything unprofessional. Or cross any forbidden lines. It’s just that... if I find someone insanely attractive, and I’m single, and so are they, am I allowed to make it clear Ilikebeing hit on by this particular person, or would that be considered unprofessional and a big no-no?”
Thankfully, CeeCee doesn’t look the least bit shocked or appalled by my question. Only amused. Indeed, so much so, she’s smiling from ear to ear. “Have I mentioned I really like you, Georgina?” She laughs heartily. “Sweetie, go for it. Insanely hot men grow on trees in the music industry, and you can always do whatever the hell you want with them, just as long as it’s whatyouwant to do, foryou, and not because you think it’s required for the job.” She smiles slyly. “To be honest, I can’t even count the number of times I’ve slept with a musician I met on the job. And some of them were huge household names, too.” She winks. “This was all long before I met my beloved Francois, of course. But, whew! I’ve definitely had my fun out in the field. And I don’t regret a single minute of it.” CeeCee makes a big show of looking right, and then left, as if she’s about to tell me a secret in a crowded room. She leans forward, a naughty expression on her face. “In fact, I’ve conducted some of my most ‘probing’ interviews while lying buck naked next to my interview subject... in bed.”
My jaw hangs open, practically clanking onto CeeCee’s glass desk, and she giggles uproariously at my expression.
“Have fun, Georgie,” she says, smiling brightly. “As long as you never lose sight of the fact that you’re there to get me lots of compelling and fresh content forRock ‘n’ Roll—and, perhaps, something spectacular forDig a Little Deeper,too, if the stars are aligned. As long as you do that, then whatever else you might do along the way, simply because you’re young and gorgeous and you only live once, is your own goddamned business.”
18
REED
As my driver takes us down the long, tree-lined driveway of my mother’s facility, I look out the car window and let my mind drift. Not surprisingly, it lands on Georgina.Again. The same way it’s been doing this entire past week. Once again, I find myself thinking about Georgina’s flushed cheeks as she told me off in front of my house. And then her flashing hazel eyes, and raised middle fingers, as she drove away in that Uber.
I can’t believe that crazy woman ditched my ass, even though sheknewit was in her stepsister’s best interest for her to stay and kiss it. Not to mention, for her to come inside and suck my dick. And yet, hotheaded, sassy, glorious Georgina Ricci got into the backseat of that car and left me in her dust, her two middle fingers riding sky-high, and her integrity firmly intact.And I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.
“Mr. Rivers?”
I blink and realize we’ve arrived at the front of the mental facility—a posh place in Scarsdale, an affluent town about forty-five minutes outside the City, that boasts a “bed and breakfast”-type vibe for its patients. I check my watch while unlatching my seatbelt. “This is going to be a quick visit this time, Tony. So don’t drive offto buy a pack of cigs or anything. I want you here when I come out, ready to haul ass to La Guardia.”
“I’ll be here.”
Inside the lobby, I show my identification to the attendant, per protocol, even though everyone knows me. After signing the log, I leaf through the past few weeks of signatures, making sure my mother’s best friend since childhood, Roseanne, has visited as frequently as our contract requires. With relief, I discern Roseanne has, indeed, held up her end of our bargain. And also that my saint of a little sister visited yesterday with my little nephew in tow, exactly as she told me she was planning to do as the three of us strolled through the Central Park Zoo earlier this week.
“You don’t have to visit my mother,” I said to my sister in front of the elephant enclosure. “She’s never even acknowledged your existence. Fuck her.”
“Reed,” Violet chastised. “Don’t say that about your mother.”
“I’m just saying you owe her nothing.”
“It’s not about meowingsomething to her. It’s about me doing something nice for a lonely lady in a mental hospital. I often do what I can to brighten the day of a perfect stranger, so why not your mother? You’ve mentioned several times she doesn’t get a lot of visitors,only you and that ‘friend’ of hers you have to pay. And you’ve also mentioned she never stopped loving our prick-ass father, despite their nasty divorce and everything else.”
“She was always his doormat. I don’t know if you can rightly call that ‘love.’”
“Well, either way, I think it might be nice for a lonely lady to get to see a cute little baby who has her ex-husband’s DNA inside him. The same DNA as her own beloved son. Maybe seeing my baby will remind her of happier times in her own life.”
I felt a mix of emotions right then, during that conversation with my sister in front of the elephants. First off, I felt shame at my secret knowledge that the words “beloved son” probably didn’t apply to me, at least if you were to ask my mother. But, mostly, I felt awed by my sister’s selflessness. Not that I should have been surprised, really, since compassion is her defining characteristic. But, still, as I stood there with Violet and my sweet little nephew, watching an elephant dunk its thick trunk into atrough of water, I had this distinct thought:How the hell does this girl have Terrence Rivers’ DNA inside her, the same as me, and yet, unlike me, she doesn’t have a single asshole bone in her body?
I close the facility’s logbook, having finished my inspection of it, and return it to the attendant at the front desk. And then, I make my way down the familiar hallway toward Mom’s room—the biggest one at the facility, with the best view of the garden. But when I poke my head inside Mom’s room, she isn’t there.
I turn to leave, figuring Mom must be at yoga, or perhaps painting in a hidden corner of the garden, when a canvas by the window catches my eye. I walk toward the easel, bracing myself for my inevitable exasperation when I survey it, and audibly groan when I make out the details of the scene depicted.Fuck.It’s yet another happy family portrait.And I want to smash it against the fucking wall.
To an outside observer, this painting, like all the others, would likely seem like nothing but a pleasant idyll. A lovely tribute to family. And if it were a one-off, or a two-off, or even a hundred-off, I’d probably agree. In reality, though, as I know too well, this painting is actually anything but a pleasant idyll. No, it’s a physical manifestation of my mother’s unwell, hyper-fixated mind. Evidence of what doctors call my mother’s “perseveration.”
In short, my mother’s got an obsessive compulsion that prompts her to pick up a paintbrush, every week of her life, and paint yet another iteration of this exact scene, with only a few small variations and variables, over and over andoveragain.
Indeed, no matter how many times her doctors, therapists, “best friend,” or I encourage my mother to, please,please, paint something else—anything else, for the love of fuck—Eleanor Rivers always paints the same thing. An idyllic depiction of her family at rest or play, enjoying some pleasant sunshine without a care in the world.
This time, Mom’s portrait depicts a late-afternoon family picnic in a park surrounded by gorgeous cherry blossoms. As usual, Mom’s painted herself as a young mother. This time, Mom’s avatar is seated on a red blanket with her two small sons: my older brother, Oliver, who’s holding an ice cream cone and looks to be about seven or eight, and me, holding a lollipop, looking to be around five or six.
Mom always paints Oliver the same way—looking likehe’s around eight years old—even though, in reality, he drowned in our backyard swimming pool at age four, when I was two. Mom also gives Oliver some sort of treat in every painting. An ice cream cone, as with this one. A piece of candy. A shiny new toy. A puppy. A kite. A kitten. A butterfly net. Apparently, one of Mom’s greatest pleasures is showering her ill-fated older son, in paintings, with all the little gifts she never got to give him in real life.
Scattered around Mom and her two happy sons are Mom’s three younger sisters and mother, all of them clad in merry, pastel dresses, and all of them gaily spinning cartwheels and jumping rope... even though, in real life, tragically, all four of them died in a horrific house fire when Mom was barely sixteen.
