Adventures with Max and Louise (20 page)

I kiss him on the cheek and walk to the door. “You didn’t wait up for me, did you?”

He grins as he stretches. “Oh, you know. Old habits die hard. Never could get a wink until all my chicks were in and the barn doors locked. Good night, sweetheart. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

Entering my room, I am struck by how strange it is, coming home from an adult date to the same room where I stuffed my baby teeth under the pillow, checking and rechecking to see if the tooth fairy had come before I fell asleep. I carefully hang up my new dress and brush my teeth, marveling again at the size of my breasts under my comfy T-shirt. I put the toothbrush away, hefting my breasts like melons until I have high, tight mounds of cleavage rising from the frayed collar of my shirt.

I hang out at the sink, striking poses like a goofy teenager. In my mind is Chas, gazing back at me with lovesick awe. We’re perched on stools at the bar in the Oceanaire. Witty repartee flies from my mouth. Chas is laughing, shaking his head, clearly having a fantastic time. After a few seconds, the bar vanishes. There’s little old me plopped on the bathroom counter in a ratty old T-shirt holding my breasts. Feeling appropriately juvenile and ridiculous, I scuff back into my room hoping Max and Louise won’t tease me. How long will it take to become blasé about my breasts?

I am snuggled into bed with the covers up to my chin, drifting off, when Dad’s last words sneak up on me, pouncing: “Tomorrow’s the big day.” Tomorrow I am scheduled to appear on
Good Morning Seattle
to chat up my cookbook. Me. On television. Tomorrow. The more I worry about it, the less sleepy I feel. Pretty soon my mind is whirling in obsessive circles. I can’t remember the host’s name.

“Marianne, ’er name’s Marianne, luv. Liz told you yesterday,” Max says.

“I’ve never even seen her show,” I wail. “What if I forget the recipes or burn the food or trip and fall?”

“You’ll just laugh and tell Marianne a funny story about improvising when you forget the recipe, scraping off the burned parts right before a dinner party, or how you fell that time in the kitchen carrying the roast, and your dog ate it up so fast he threw up in the dining room right in front of your guests,” says Louise.

I sit up in bed, balanced on one elbow. “How do you know about that?”

“Never you mind how I know things. What you gotta know is how to get up on a television stage with confidence and pride, sister woman. Get outta bed; we’re gonna practice,” Louise orders smartly.

I drag myself up and turn on the light. “Hang on a second, it’s cold.” After I tug on a bathrobe, I follow Louise’s directions. Tiptoeing into Denise’s old room, I borrow a bedroom chair, setting it beside mine. Then I dig out one of my old American Girl dolls from the closet and prop it up in the chair. It’s waxy blue eyes give me the chills.

“There you got your Marianne,” Louise says and laughs. “Now, sit down next to her, and I’ll be Marianne asking you questions.”

I sit in my room as Louise, enjoying playing a chipper white woman to the hilt, peppers me with every conceivable question. When did I start cooking? What is my favorite kind of cuisine? What do I cook for my own family? Am I married? Max coaches me, encouraging me to visualize how I want the audience to perceive me. Louise teaches me to guide questions to my comfort zones: family, my favorite restaurants, recipes, my best and worst reviews, and my role as a critic. Finally, at three o’clock in the morning, just as the milkman’s truck rumbles down our street, I beg them to let me fall asleep.

“Do you feel ready?” Louise asks.

“Ready to get some sleep,” I say and yawn.

“Not good enough. You’re not sleeping till you feel ready to knock this audience on their sides laughing, reaching in their purses for pencils to write down the name of your book,” she insists. “You are not leaving till you can sell yourself like Mr. P. T. Barnum and Hillary Clinton combined.”

I pick up the American Girl doll, staring at her dolefully. “Do I have to be married to Bill Clinton?”

She’s not amused. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“All right, all right, I’m ready. I’m totally ready to set the world on fire.” I don’t really believe it, but I desperately need sleep.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Louise says happily. “That’s my girl.”

“Get some sleep, luv,” Max says kindly. “You deserve it.”

My alarm is set to go off in two hours.

Chapter Twenty-One

T
HE MORNING OF
my appearance on
Good Morning Seattle,
Dad’s car is dead. Accustomed to driving a police car maintained by the city of Seattle, he loathes paying mechanics to service his own vehicle. Inevitably, we’ve spent many a morning in this exact situation. As I pace in the driveway, he’s under the hood, muttering darkly about the crooked mechanic down the block. My borrowed skis and bags are stored in the trunk. We’re all ready to go except for the stupid car. We’ve been out here for ten long minutes while Dad, who isn’t the least bit mechanical, bangs on various pieces of metal with a screwdriver. He lifts his head, banging himself on the hood.

“Get in the car, honey. You’re gonna freeze.” He rubs his head.

I clutch my stainless steel cup full of bitter, strong coffee, the only thing keeping me alive. “Should I call Trina? Maybe she could pick us up, or maybe a cab?”

Never one to admit defeat, he ducks his head back under the hood. “No, no. I got this.” He lowers his head and reaches deep into the engine.

“See that muck on the battery? That whitish stuff?” Max asks. “Clean ’er up a bit.”

I do as he says, knocking the faint corroded crust off the battery terminals.

Dad finishes whatever he’s messing with and lifts his head. “Now try it.”

I slide into the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition. By some miracle, the old Chevy roars to life.

“It were me. Clear and simple. Bit o’ muck was stoppin’ the starter current,” Max says.

Dad slams down the hood and blows on his hands.

“What a morning, huh?” he says, getting in beside me. He twists around, checking behind himself as he reverses. “My kid’s gonna be on TV, and the damn car conks out. I got lucky there; it was the clutch. How we doin’ for time?”

“The clutch, my arse!” Max howls.

I check my watch. “Fine,” I say, trying to calm my jittery stomach. The toast I managed to choke down is doing flips in my stomach. A sleep deprivation−induced headache lurks in the background.

As we drive downtown in the predawn darkness, I go over what Max and Louise have grilled into my head.

“So you got a whole section in your book about cooking to seduce. Say my man is one of them vegan health freaks; what am I gonna make?” Louise asked.

“Vegetarian chili,” I replied.

“Chili con carne without the carne? Seems a bit suspect,” Max added.

As we drive exit I-5, curving along the south end of Lake Union, close to the television station, I imagine Chas sitting in the audience, waiting to take me skiing.

“You just keep your mind on what you’re gonna say on television, young lady,” Louise nags as the car makes its way down Boren Avenue. I try to picture myself in front of the camera, sharing one of the recipes. Two days ago I faxed the recipes to a production assistant at the television station. She called me once, asking me where to find the best Pecorino cheese.

“Repeat after me,” Max orders. “I am cool. I am calm. And I’m the best thing since Martha Flippin’ Stewart.”

“I am cool. I am calm. And I am the best thing since Martha Flippin’ Stewart,” I whisper.

My dad looks over at me. “You nervous?” he asks.

“Yep,” I admit.

He gives my arm a squeeze. “You just pretend you’re at home cooking me dinner, and I want to know how you’re doing it, okay?”

“Okay.” Despite his quirky attitude toward car maintenance, I’m grateful that he’s the one driving.

Dad takes an exit off I-5 that deposits us north of Lake Union. “Your mom would be so proud of you, Molls. She’s probably looking down, telling all her friends up there to turn on channel 5 and watch her daughter show folks how it’s done.”

“Dad, do you really think they have television in heaven?”

He laughs as he circles the studio looking for the parking entrance. “Your mom couldn’t very well get by without watching The View now, could she?”

“Don’t talk about Mom,” I bark hoarsely. “The last thing I need is a puffy face when we get there.”

We arrive in the lobby of KING-TV at 5:40. At the front entrance, a security guard checks our names against a list before unlocking the door. Liz meets us in the cavernous lobby, levitating off her heels with anxiety. She’s wearing a fitted slate blue suit and cream satin shirt. Her heels must be at least four inches high.

“Look, I know this is an ungodly awful time of day, but you can’t be late. They’ll screw up your makeup if you don’t give them enough time. Trust me; I’ve had clients who went out looking like Groucho Marx. I’ve got your outfit upstairs.” She hurries off down one of the dimly lit hallways toward a bank of elevators.

My poor dad, loaded down with the skis and boots I’ve borrowed from Trina, struggles to keep up.

“Liz, this is my dad, Richard.”

Without stopping, Liz offers him her hand and a slight incline of her head. “It’s a pleasure. What’s with the skis?”

“They’re mine. Chas and I are going skiing right after this.” I can’t resist. Maybe I imagine it, but her face goes slightly sour with jealousy.

In a closet-size dressing room, I change into the outfit Liz has brought, a tight black suit (zipped, but I couldn’t button the pants) with a lacy red blouse. An assistant with a headset on knocks on the door, telling me it’s time for makeup. She leads me into a narrow room that smells of baby powder and sweat, then tells me to have a seat in one of the three high director chairs. I choose the middle chair, facing a long mirror on top of a counter littered with makeup, hairspray, and brushes. The makeup artist asks if I’m allergic to anything and goes to work on my face, warning me that she’s going to use more dramatic colors so they’ll pop on camera.

As the makeup artist dots my face with foundation, Liz peppers me with instructions. “Any chance you get, mention the title of the book. We want people to hear it at least ten times. Keep your eyes wide, sentences short. Stick your chest out. Forty percent of cookbook sales are men. Laugh a lot. The message we’re sending is that your cookbook is sexy, young, and fun. That means you are sexy, young, and fun.”

“How about just young?” I ask. “Young I can do.”

Liz frowns. “Young, sexy, and fun,” she insists.

A redhead wearing a head set knocks lightly on the door frame. “Okay, we’re ready,” she says and smiles.

I stand up, and the makeup artist grabs my arm. “Hang on,” she says, applying a coat of gloss to my lips with a brush. “Break a leg.”

Until this point, the reality of live television, appearing before an audience of thousands, hasn’t hit. As I hurry down the dark corridor toward the television studio, flanked by Liz and the production assistant, the unseen audience politely claps as if on cue. The host, Marianne Moran, introduces me.

“. . . otherwise known as Diner X, a woman who has had us all laughing and salivating at the breakfast table with her weekly column. Her first cookbook,
The Evolution of Eating,
offers different menus for the different stages in life: from simple meals for harried new parents to elegant casseroles to entice Grandma into eating. Won’t you please welcome Molly Gallagher.”

The applause swells as the assistant opens a space in the backstage curtain. It’s time for me to literally step into the spotlight. A sea of faces swims before me, craning their necks expectantly toward the corner of the stage where I hide. My feet freeze on the spot. My heart is a frantic squirrel ready to jump out of my chest. The pounding blood thuds like a drum. For a moment, my pulse is the only thing I can hear. I pray to God I am not experiencing my first full-blown panic attack.

“It’s all right, luv,” says Max in the most gentle, sincere tone I have ever heard. “They’re only middle-aged housemums, as nice a lot as you’d expect. Everybody loves a local hero. Go on then.”

“Just be yourself. They’ll love you,” Louise adds. “We’ll be right here with you.” Max and Louise are with me. I’m not alone. My hearing returns. The little squirrel in my chest quiets, and the saliva runs back into my dry mouth. I swallow.
I can do this. We can.

I take a deep breath and stride into the spotlight.

The first ten minutes of the segment are a dream. Marianne Moran, a flamboyant redhead with vermilion lips and a high, giggly laugh, chats with the easy candor of a favorite aunt. “Okay, so you get paid to eat in fancy restaurants. How in the world do you score a gig like that?” She has the enthusiasm of a curious puppy.

I blink under the hot studio lights, focusing on a kind-faced woman in pink sweats in the front row. She leans forward, waiting for my answer. Marianne smiles encouragingly.

“Nepotism,” Louise whispers. I shoot out the answer with a big grin. Everyone laughs. It feels great. The audience’s laughter shoots into my veins like a drug. I calm down. I can do this. Things smooth out after that. I easily recount my dining experiences as Diner X.

The audience roars as I recount a review when a sous chef came running out of the kitchen. “Jesus Christ!” he screamed. “Did you see the size of that fucking rat?” To Marianne I said “bleeping.” I called the piece “Check, Please.”

“What was your favorite review, or do you have one?”

“Oh, definitely, I have one. One time I was at this very nice French bistro when the pastry chef, a woman, came running out of the kitchen with a rolling pin, chasing the owner and screaming at the top of her lungs. He was French, and she called him every bad name she could come up with for a Frenchman, including Gallic twit and foppish frog. She was very athletic, chasing him all over the dining room, hitting him every chance she got, screaming about how he’d lied to her and his wife and every waitress in the restaurant, and they were all sick of his macho games. By the time she ran out of steam and realized what she’d done, everyone in the place was in complete shock, including her.”