Stay With Me (20 page)

I am, at least, having a good hair day.

Eamon said to come at around seven, but of course the number nine sits on the track at Forty-second Street for almost twenty minutes, waiting for trains ahead to clear. On top of that, when I get out at Twenty-third, I cross the street instead of heading south. Not dyslexia this time, but habit. Ben lives in the direction I'm going.

I have to do something about Ben. If Da thinks I deserve kindness from someone I love, then it stands to reason that anyone who loves me deserves the same. I haven't been unkind to Ben, at least not yet. Although if he liked someone the way I like Eamon, the word
kind
might not rush to mind. Even if the girl he liked didn't like him back.

I turn around and head west toward Mr. Greyhalle's apartment. The mirror in the lobby tells me that the detour I took in sticky August-in-the-city air has not done wonders for my appearance. My good hair is gone and now my dress looks soggy.

Deep breath.

I'm the last to arrive, but no one seems to mind. Mr. Greyhalle is as nice as possible, as Eamon said he would be. He pretty much does everything Eamon told me he would, including saying that I'm far too lovely to waste any time with his son, who has no taste.

"Thank you, Dad," Eamon says. "Leila, what would you like to drink?"

"Freezing cold water," I say, which makes a woman sitting over by the window laugh.

She has short dark hair and is wearing big, dramatic jewelry. She's striking more than pretty.

"He's actually a wonderful boy," Mr. Greyhalle says when Eamon hands me a glass full of ice water. "I'd be lost without him."

That's unexpected, since Eamon usually makes his father sound like someone he can never please.

I get introduced to everyone and only remember two names. The striking woman is named Brett Collodi. And then there's Isaac Rebinsehn himself, which is oddly thrilling. Even if he's broken Charlotte's heart and written plays I don't love, he has won two Tonys. More than that, he has made a whole life out of providing the play itself. Without it none of the other work can happen. I shake his hand and say how much I enjoyed his last play.

"And what did you enjoy about such a dreary night?"

I remember now—too late—that as Da was explaining what the play was about, he mentioned that it was one of Rebinsehn's few critical failures. We'd gotten tickets at the last minute because it was about to close.

"Well, I thought you really captured the friction between privilege and oppression," I say, dredging up one of my father's comments.

It works. For a second I think Isaac Rebinsehn is going to kiss me, but he just puts his hands on either side of my face, saying, "Delightful! Where did they find you?"

"Be careful, Isaac," Mr. Greyhalle says. "She works for Charlotte."

Isaac drops his hands and steps back like I'm made of toxic waste.

"Leila, come sit here," Brett Collodi says, moving over on the couch. "Let the old men go off and talk business."

"Ouch," Mr. Greyhalle says to her, and to Eamon, "I told you not to invite her."

"You know you love me," Brett says, smiling at him.

As I pass Eamon I hold my empty glass up and mouth the words
More, please.

"I've been ordered to tell you how I love working in film," Brett says to me. "But I'd much rather find out what you're interested in. Then I'll brainwash you."

She has the warmest laugh and an intense gaze that mixes a welcoming air with sharp calculation. She is, I decide, Clare without formality. I tell her that plays have always unfolded easily for me and given up their secrets and, odd as it sounds, invited me to help make them real.

"I never read a play without seeing how it would be in a theater," I say. "I do like movies, of course, but all the work is done for you."

"How about when you see a play?" Brett asks, smiling thanks to Eamon, who has refilled her wineglass and brought me an entire pitcher of water.

"I told you movies," Eamon says. "She's already well informed about theater."

"Go away," Brett says. "You have people to feed."

"Is it too late to ask you not to be quite so bossy?" he asks.

She laughs, saying, "It was too late years ago."

"Brett," he says. "Be good."

"Aren't I always?"

And while they are having this lovely, private moment, I consider the water pitcher with its ice and slices of lemon. I want more than anything to dump it over my head. Or hers. His. Perhaps theirs? I'm not feeling too picky.

I look over at two men and another woman who were described as friends of Eamon's from his last TV show. I don't have to sit here. I could go and ask them all about aliens. As Eamon returns to the kitchen, Brett puts her hand on my wrist.

"We haven't been together for years," she says. "But he can still make me do anything. So be warned. That's what will happen."

I just look at her. If I need a warning, I probably won't take it from someone I hardly know.

"I think the whole TV and film thing is his ploy to get you to California," Brett says. "I figure you have to go to college somewhere, and with Charlotte Strom on your résumé you could easily get work that helps you decide if film interests you."

She goes on in this vein for a while as we all move into the dining room, where Mr. Greyhalle holds out both my chair and Brett's. She is forgiven, I guess, for calling him old. Once everyone starts eating, separate conversations break out around the table. Brett is telling me how it's true that in a film all the work is done for the audience.

"But that's the magic," she says. "That's why people will always love film."

I can't tell if I like or hate the way she uses the
word film
as if every movie ever made was a work of art.

"If you become part of the work which a film demands," Brett says, "then you are the magic."

From underneath her avalanche of information, I pull out what seems most relevant to me.

"Why would he want to get me to California?" I ask, my voice suitably low since Eamon is seated across the table from us.

Brett, who had been leaning in a little too close,
pulls back a little before leaning in again to say, "God, he's a secretive bastard, isn't he?"

"Not really," I say. "He's been pretty clear with me."

"I wonder," she says.

"Well, I don't," I say, wishing I hadn't thought so many nice things about her at the start of the evening.

Under the guise of really being curious about
film,
I manage to get her talking about her most recent job. It was, she says, a brutal shoot in Texas. God help her, Texas. The film's being edited now and maybe that will save it. It's the last time she works with that director. Couldn't keep to a schedule or a budget.

When she is quite done, I listen in on some of the other conversations. Isaac Rebinsehn is saying unpleasant things about Charlotte in response to a question about how the new play is going. I wonder if I should point out that my boss has left him in very good financial shape, which is probably more than he deserves.

"He's gotten so out of control," Brett says to me in a whisper. "But look, even Theodore knows what really happened, so don't stress yourself out."

So I think I like her, but I'm in no hurry to decide.

The talk soon turns to a singer whom even I've seen on television. She's been around for a few years, is hyper-cute, and has one of those
ooohh ooohh
love songs playing on the radio. The woman next to Eamon, whom he introduced as his boss at the cable network, is going on and on about how this singer is destroying
the precious little that is left of American culture.
Mr. Greyhalle laughs, and the man seated next to him asks if American culture is really so fragile. The woman answers by saying, almost rudely, that it's
self-explanatory.

The only self-explanatory thing about this singer is her ability to annoy. That's hardly enough power to destroy American culture.

And now everyone at the table is looking at me. I have, from some mixture of irritation and nerves, actually said this aloud. It would appear that I am the one who has spoken rudely. Oh, joy. I take a sip of water and try explaining.

"What I mean is, whenever I hear her, I think,
Please, God, no, don't let that song get stuck in my head.
"

"Leila's right," Eamon says. "The song does make >> you pray.

"Of course," the woman says. "And if I were as cute as Leila is, you'd agree with me."

"Elizabeth," Eamon says, his voice kinder than she deserves. "That's not true."

I keep in mind that this woman is his boss and that there's a limit to what he can say.

"What's true is you'll never be as cute," Brett says, in a clear attempt to lighten the charged, heavy air.

"Never be as young, you mean," Elizabeth says.

Underneath her words is the implication that there is something wrong with me for being young. And also something seriously wrong with Eamon for being in any way associated with me. In fact, Elizabeth has described me exactly the way she described the singer with the
ooohh ooohh
love song. She has dismissed us both as young and cute. It's hard not to think that this had been her intention from the start. Even before I said anything.

Isaac, with the ease of someone with years of experience in talking about himself, begins a long rambling speech about when he was young. Within minutes, I'm safely out of Elizabeth's firing range. I also have a splitting headache, and for the first time in my life pass up dessert.

Brett and one of the men switch places. He's the production designer Eamon thought I should meet. And he seems nice and interesting and I promise myself to rent DVDs of the movies he's mentioning, but right at this moment I couldn't care less about my future. I look around the table and catch Eamon looking at me. What am I doing here? What does he want?

***

It's in the cab ride home that I remember the only thing about today which has been important. What matters is not why Brett thinks Eamon cares where I go to college. Or why Elizabeth thinks I'm stupid but is only willing to say young and cute. It doesn't even matter that Isaac Rebinsehn is even more disappointing in person than in Charlotte's descriptions.

What matters about tonight is that Adrien Tilden wrote me. Although I do wonder about the wisdom of wanting to uncover my dead sister's secrets more than wanting to understand the people around me. Right now Eamon and his friends seems impossible to decipher. It's easier to focus on Rebecca.

I squash my doubts about the vague note from London and, as the city flashes by too quickly to see clearly, decide that by October I'll have answers.

I
WAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING
with red welts along the inside of my arms and at the base of my neck. They're a little itchy and I think maybe a spider has bitten me, but Clare takes one look and says,

"Stress hives. I used to get them all the time. I thought you said everything went well last night."

"It did," I say.

She finds some antihistamines in her briefcase and tells me to take a cold shower. And not to get too hot (good luck on the subway) or wear anything tight.

"Did you eat anything unusual last night?" she asks. "Shellfish? Strawberries?"

"No," I say. "It was lamb. With rice and salad."

"You'll be okay," she says, and kisses the top of my head before heading out for an early conference call.

Raphael gives me some money before he and I leave.

"Maybe take a cab today," he says.

The hives spread and grow into each other throughout the day. I feel like any second they'll spill out onto my hands and face. They itch like crazy. I don't remember what chickenpox was like, but this must be worse.

Eamon calls before taking his father out to the beach house for the weekend. He wants to apologize for Elizabeth.

"I know she was horrible," he says. "But she's a very useful person to know."

"Yes," I say. "She seemed it."

"Was Brett helpful at least?"

I look down at my arms, which are raging red. "I guess."

"I'll call you when I get back," he says. "Maybe we can go to Acca on Monday. I'll buy cake."

"Maybe," I say.

Charlotte sends me home early.

"It's making me itch to look at you," she says.

We don't go to the mountains and I spend most of the night sitting in cold bath water. Clare remembers that there was a cortisone-based cream that worked when she had hives and, on Saturday, tries to get hold of a doctor. But hers is out of town, as is my pediatrician.

"Dr. Shayle is a pediatrician?" Clare asks. "Do they think you're twelve?"

"I like him," I say. "It never hurts when he takes blood."

"Have you even been to the gynecologist?" Clare asks.

"Do we have to discuss this now?" I ask.

"Clare, it's hardly the pressing issue," Raphael says. "I'm going to call William."

Which is how I come to see him for the first time since Rebecca's service. He makes a house call because he doesn't want to prescribe cortisone over the phone. Clare and Raphael leave us alone as if I'm really having a doctor's appointment. Despite all my itching, I'm happy to see William and his beautiful small hands.

"You have a spectacular case of hives," he says after asking me an endless series of questions about my medical history. "It doesn't seem like it, I know, but the antihistamines are working."

"I look like Queen of the Rash," I say, suddenly feeling silly that we have summoned a surgeon for this.

William phones something into the pharmacy that will help dry out the welts. Raphael goes to pick it up, and before William leaves, Clare asks what he thinks about giving Rebecca's money to a Swedish university.

"She didn't have clear instructions," he says. "So she can hardly complain about her name winding up in a library. Or under a window. Do you, um, well, do you need any extra money?"

"No, no, no," Clare says. "No. I just wanted to check with the people who were important to her."