American Babe (19 page)

“This place is wayyyy less disgusting than I thought it would be. No offense at all. I just always imagined assisted-living homes to be more like hospitals. This is, like—”

“Miss?” scowled our Royal Mulletessa de la Front Desk.

“Yes, Queen?” I shot back.

“I have work to do, so you talkin' me up like we're in line at Starbucks waitin' to order our Pumpkin Spice Lattes ain't gonna work, hon.”

“I totally understand, and you
are
being heard. But before I walk away and sit over there to wait for my aunt Veronica, I'm going to need confirmation that you understand one thing about me.”

“What's that?”

“I have never and will never order a Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks.”

She looked at me for a long, awkward amount of time. I felt imprisoned by her blank stare. It was odd. Then she simply pointed to an empty row of chairs against the far wall. I put my bag over my arm and walked over. I called her a whore in my mind.

As I sat down it occurred to me that at one point in my life, not too long prior, I would've just called her a whore out loud, caused a scene, slapped someone, and I probably would've just left without talking to Vee. I wasn't sure if containing my emotions and exhibiting some restraint for the sake of the greater good made me a better person or a more boring person. On one hand—

“Babe?” I heard Vee's voice say.

“Heyyyyyy . . .” I said, my voice trailing off slowly into a low “ehhhhyyyy.” Not cute.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“What do we have to talk about?”

“A lot,” I said, standing my ground. I wasn't going anywhere. Knox needed us to have this conversation, so have this conversation we would.

“Okay. Give me, like, fifteen, and we can talk outside. I've gotta wrap something up.”

“Love it. Go save some people. You're an inspiration,” I offered, trying to be nice.

She rolled her eyes and walked away. Without turning back to face me she just said, “Outside by the garden in fifteen,” and the saloon doors flapped closed behind her.

I wasn't going to wait outside and be sweaty for our meeting so I decided just to wait here and meditate a little bit. I shut my eyes and positioned my hands in an open lotus mudra (that's Sanskrit for “hand pose”) and just let my mind run wild. I found myself atop a Himalayan mountain peak, standing stark naked at the edge of a sheer cliff, weathering the blustering winds with grace and fortitude. Floating past me, or swimming, rather, were extremely small pigs. And when I say small I mean they were like fit-in-the-palm-of-your-hand small. Thousands of them swimming through the air. Some pink, some black, some a marbly mix of pig skin tones, all kicking their little feet through the icy textures of the storm. It was a wonder to see, really. The color story was gorgeous. It was reminiscent of Chanel's aviation/airport-themed Spring/Summer 2016 show. (Not
clear on that show or that collection, BTW.) I felt so connected to the airborne swine that I had the urge to step off the cliff and join their migration. As I shifted my weight to step off, I felt a tap on my knee.

The tap wasn't in my meditation.

I opened my eyes and saw an old woman was sitting next to me. She was tapping my knee. We were now looking right at each other. I was clearly responding to her, yet she was still tap-tap-tapping on my li'l knee.

“Can I help you?” I asked, glancing at the clock on the wall across from us in hopes that I'd been meditating for almost fifteen minutes, meaning I could excuse myself for my meeting with Veronica. It had been one minute.

“You know,” she said in old-lady voice that might've been slightly southern, “I don't want to bother you.”

“You're not,” I lied.

“But I was on my way outside to have a check on my lilies and I couldn't help but see you settin' here all alone lookin' so damn pretty with your little eyes closed and all this gorgeous hair.”

I decided I liked her.

“And I know he doesn't like me doing this,” she continued, “but my grandson . . . Here, let me show you a picture.”

She pulled an iPhone 6 Plus out from a pocket in her polar fleece jacket and before I even go on I want to acknowledge
two insane things: 1) This lovely old bitty was wearing a fleece jacket to walk outside into an unusually humid May day, and 2) She was at least 112 years old and had the same phone as me.

As if she wasn't senile, she slid her phone unlocked and searched through her photos, by date and location, mind you, to find a photo of her grandson. Maybe she wasn't senile? But she looked so old. And she said “settin' ” instead of “sitting.” But it was possible that she was totally with it like my Tai Tai had been, may she rest in peace. Loved that for her.

“Here he is. Jimmy,” she said, presenting her phone to me. On the screen was a photo of an average white male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He did have gorgeous eyes. They were eyes with a secret—I could tell he was a freak. He was sweating and wearing a running outfit with some sort of piece of paper clipped to his chest. It looked like he'd just finished running a marathon. I wondered if his nipples bled during the run; I've heard that can happen.

“Oh, wow,” I said, feigning excitement. “That's great that he's, like, in shape and stuff.”

“Quite handsome, isn't he? He's the sweetest boy in the world, I'm tellin' ya.”

“And what? He's single?”

“He is single! Can you even believe it?”

“No. I'm shocked.”

“We're all shocked. And Jesus, is he a catch! He's an accountant and he's very, very good with money. You live around here?” she asked.

“No. I'm not from here. I honestly don't even know where I am right now.”

She just smiled and nodded, confused.

“And besides, I just kinda started seeing someone. I'm not in the best place to be sleeping with new people right now, to be completely fucking honest. And you're sweet for asking, really. But—”

I stopped talking. It occurred to me what I'd just said to her. The fuck? Did I just refer to Scott as someone I'd kinda started seeing? Where did that come from? I guess I liked him. But, like . . . what? No.

“I'm sorry,” I said, getting up from my seat. “You're an angel and I love that you want me to marry into your wonderfully normal family, but I need to go.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, sure. I'm sorry if I bothered you.”

“You didn't. I'm just a bitch and when I get uncomfortable I stand up and leave.”

Smiles, nods, confusion. I smiled back and went to wait for Vee on the bench outside. One Marlboro Light later, Vee was sitting with me. I hadn't noticed before, but she was wearing scrubs with little animals printed all over. I
refrained from telling her how I felt about this entire concept. I had the foresight to know that that wasn't the best way to start this particular convo.

“I've only got about ten minutes. We had two major tumbles today so a couple of very fragile ladies are in need of extra care and we're understaffed, as per usual.”

“I'll be quick.”

“Okay. What's up?”

“I guess if you don't have much time then I should just get right to it.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Vee said, not really putting up with one minute of my shit.

“Okay, I know you're upset with me for taking Knox to LA, but I need you to know that I fucking love that kid, Vee. I only want what's best for him. I've never cared about anyone like this, I swear. So I'm figuring out how to be a good role model and it's weird and I get carried away and get drunk and fly to LA sometimes, but I'm learning, I swear.”

“You know what, Babe? I get it. You think you can come in and be a hero for Knox or whatever, but he is a kid. He's a ten-year-old boy with a perfectly happy and safe life here. Do you not understand that? And he's been acting differently since you got here.”

“Yeah, he's been happy. He's been so extremely happy and driven that he took it upon himself to make it to that
audition and follow his dream of being a MasterChef! That's a big deal, Veronica.”

She shook her head like I was only pissing her off the more I said.

“I won't sit here and have you talk about my son like you're his mother.”

“I know I'm not his mother, you psycho! But I'm his sister, and that's worth something.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, please, I've known since the birthday party. Your dad told me, and I confirmed it from another extremely reliable source in California.”

“Did you tell him?” she asked, terrified.

“I would never. But keeping this pot of boiling-hot truth-tea from him has literally been making me sick. I can't do it. I can't.”

“You think it's been hard for you? I've lived with this for ten years.”

“And honestly, Vee, I think you are probably the world's most amaze mom for how you've raised him. I don't wanna fuck that up. I just want him to know the truth and honestly I think he can handle it. He's literally a grown woman in his head. He's not really a ten-year-old boy, you get that, right? He's Padma Lakshmi. He's Grace Coddington. He can handle the truth!”

“Who are they?”

“The point is I think we need to tell him.”

Vee put her head in her hands and smoothed her hair back.

“You want to know why I've never told him? Why I've kept the truth about his birth mother from him for so long?” she asked, but I didn't get the sense she wanted me to answer. “Because I wanted to protect him from Donna. I saw what she did with you and I know you ended up doing okay for yourself and your dad has you all set up out there in California, but it got to a point where he was too sweet and too smart and too special for me to then tell him that this horrible, selfish woman was the person who brought him into this world and not me. I know if I open up that door then she'll find ways to hurt him. She'll either deny all of it and run away again or pretend like she's gonna be a part of his life and just end up disappointing him. I won't let her hurt him. I won't do it.”

I didn't realize right away, but by the time Veronica stopped talking, I was crying. She pulled a pack of tissues out of her scrubs and gave me one.

“Thanks,” I said, barely getting it out. “Fuck me. This is intense. You're right. I hadn't even thought about the Donna of it all.”

“I know you hadn't. Donna is a deeply unhappy person.
Like, she is fucked up and she leaves a path of destruction everywhere she goes. I've known her longer than you. I know who she really is, not the person she takes photos as. I've always told my dad that.”

“What?”

“That she wouldn't be a good model if she knew how to be a decent, loving, or even kind person. She wouldn't be so cutthroat. She'd make time for people. She'd care about others and their time. It took a lot of fucking people over and being a shark to get where she did. She wasn't plucked off a horse as a ten-year-old like Christy Turlington. Donna made her
self
.”

“First of all, obsessed that you know how Christy Turlington's career started, and also, I know what you're saying. Like, I hate it and it's weird and a little sad for me because she is my mom at the end of the day, but I get it. I totally get it.”

“Good.”

“And I wouldn't want Knox to have to have some of the thoughts I've had about her. I mean, I normally don't give a fuck about what she's doing/saying/snorting, but the dark truth is, I'd be better off if I grew up with a real mom. I know that.”

“And when you took Knox from me—”

“I didn't take him from you.”

“Babe, you literally kidnapped him. But you know what I mean. It scared the living shit out of me. I don't know you, Babe. I don't know what you're actually like, what you stand for, what matters to you, if you know how to handle kids. All I really know about you are the things I've heard on the news and that you're Donna's kid. And if you're anything like my sister, if you see the world like she does . . .”

Vee started to cry too. Now it was fucking ridiculous. Such a CW show.

“I get it,” I said and I took her hand and just held it for a few seconds. I have NEVER in my life. I don't console, I just don't, but I wasn't me. “I'm not my mom. Well, really Mabinty Jones is my mom, and I kind of am hers, but that's beside the point. I won't abandon Knox like she did. I swear on Isabella Blow's grave.”

“Who?” Vee said between sniffles.

“Forget it.”

She laughed. I lit a cigarette. She asked for a drag, and I gladly gave her one.

“I don't smoke,” she said after a long, professional pull and exhale.

“Of course you don't. Then you'll probably want to finish that one.”

“Thanks,” she said. I gave it a few minutes and let her enjoy her cigarette, which she smoked like it was her last day on earth.

“Veronica?”

“What? I should go back inside. I gotta get back.”

“We're gonna talk to him before I leave. Like, it has to happen.”

“I know.”

“I'll come over tonight when your shift is over. Will Knox be home or does he have a lesson or something annoying?”

“Sure. Come by at six. I'll make some food for us, and we can talk to him.”

“Okay, chic. I'm not gonna eat, but great, sounds perf.”

“Is this really the best thing for him?” she asked me with real despair in her voice.

“One trillion percent,” I confirmed.

“Can you believe I'm asking you for advice?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Of course you can.”

“And while we're on the subject of me knowing what to do: you gotta let him do the show. He's a fucking star. You didn't need to be there at that audition to know how ecstatic he was. I know you know how much he wanted that.”