What You Wish For (29 page)

“Wait. I’m coming with you.”

Dimple Tries the Casting Couch

O
h my god. I slept with the director,” I said out loud.

“You did not sleep with the director.” Julian rolled over.

I gave him a look. He peeked under the sheet at our naked bodies.

“Okay, technically, you slept with the director, but not in the
sleep with the director
way.” He paused. “At least I hope not. I hope you slept with the man you’d like to see more of.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Literally.”

“Of course I did.” His words thrilled me, but I had to voice my fear. “We’re both Hollywood. What if we don’t know our actual feelings and have fallen into a cliché?”

“I’m not Hollywood. Hollywood is a wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

“Are you kidding me? Look at this place! You have the all-window house perched on a Malibu cliff like you stole it from
Charlie’s Angels II
. You mentioned George Clooney using only his first name. Sleeping with actresses is part of the hot director cliché.”

“I’m not that good a director.”

“Be serious.” I punched him.

“I am serious! With Woody Allen or Jean-Luc Godard, their actress-lover is their muse. Almost all of Allen’s great work starred his lovers, and they inspired his writing. No matter what nonsense Godard is spewing, if Anna Karina is in the frame, he’s expressing something true. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing, Godard’s view of her makes it fascinating, the embodiment of some hard-to-define eternal truth. Their interaction is complex, obsessive, and alive and it punches through the screen.”

“Hmm.” In Godard’s
A Woman Is Woman,
Karina wanted a child but her lover was unwilling so it ended.

“I don’t know how they do it. I need to be detached. I’ve never been able to
see
someone close to me with unfettered clarity.”

“I definitely didn’t sleep with the director to get the part then.”

We were facing each other, heads propped on elbows.

“Don’t think I failed to consider that,” Julian said seriously. “I honestly don’t know how it will go. Intimacy changes everything, especially through the lens. It’s been a barrier for me, but with you . . .” He played with my hair. “I get the feeling I’m on the verge of something great.”

“Few people direct me to such excellent work,” I joked to mask my apprehension. A one-night or one-month stand was a stupid way to lose a part. Professional athletes shouldn’t ride motorcycles on icy roads and professional actresses shouldn’t sleep with their directors.

“I’m being serious,” Julian said, “You move me in ways that are new to me, both personally and professionally. I’ve never been motivated to the challenge of directing someone I cared about before. Intimacy with you may jolt me.”

“But it may not. Godard and Karina broke up. Woody Allen and . . . everyone broke up. It’s a big gamble.” For me, I didn’t say. “Voice mails outlast relationships between actresses and directors.”

“I don’t know how to say it just right, but please trust me that the decision to become involved with you was thoughtful, not a roll of the dice.” He smiled. “And correct.”

“Oh,” was all I could say. He reached for me and we gambled again.

Julian tried to coax me over most nights. LaMimi always said yes, but I was more restrained. It was hard not to get swept away, though. After our adventures, it was nice to hang out in an ordinary way, if a house clinging to the side of a cliff was ordinary. The word “audition” faded from our lexicon, and we didn’t discuss the bog between professional and personal where we lived.

One Saturday, we were slouching into his squishy sofa, Julian channel surfing and me reading
Variety
. I wanted to smuggle it out of the house and trash it because Daisy-
I’m-so-winsome
-Carmichael was all over it for signing on to
Rainy Season
, but I knew it was futile. She and her dumb little dog were everywhere.

“I don’t get people’s fascination with those stupid dogs.” Julian startled me.
Beverly Hills Chihuahua II
was on the screen. “I’m stupefied by the decision to make this movie. Though I feel that way about most of what’s at the box office.”

“If you scorn my weakness for big action flicks, it might be over,” I warned. “I love an asteroid, twister, tidal wave, or the End of the World with the full bombast of a percussion-heavy score.”

“You’ll test the limits of my tolerance.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I have no weaknesses.”

“Pedicure.”

“Animated children’s pictures, then.”

“That’s not a weakness.
Up
and
Toy Story III
were nominated for Best Picture. What freezes your remote thumb on Saturday afternoons?”

“Heartwarming underdog sports movies. Precocious freckled kid a must.”

“Like
The Bad News Bears
?” I teased.

“
Rudy
makes me weep and reach for the double-chocolate Milanos.”

“I can’t fault that.”

He stopped on news coverage of people with signs, clamoring at people entering a clinic.

“This will be next week’s made-for-TV movie,” he predicted.

“What’s that?”

“Proposition 11. Bigoted mobs braying for the erosion of women’s rights and one lone soul standing against the horde, a profile in courage as she changes the tide of history with tearful impassioned speeches.”

“Sounds like good Saturday afternoon fare.”

“It’s clichéd. Real people aren’t heroes or villains. Everyone’s got both. Parts of Proposition 11 aren’t wrong.”

“Proposition 11 is completely unreasonable,” I objected.

“Lots of people are desperate for kids. If embryos are going to waste, why not let others have them?”

“You can’t apply market principles to human beings.”

“Ah-ha.” He held up a finger. “Wouldn’t your side say they weren’t human beings?”

He was tripping me up. “Of course embryos aren’t human beings. But they could become babies.”

“Lots of those babies aren’t wanted. Fragile Voices is saying that good couples would like to have them. Everybody’s happy.”

“Everybody isn’t happy. I wouldn’t want to give my embryo to strangers who would raise it to vote for someone who didn’t believe in
Roe v. Wade
.”

“Your problem is who’s likely to get the embryo?”

“My problem is imposing one religious definition of right, especially when you’re talking about something as intensely personal as children. I don’t have any problem destroying embryos because I don’t believe they’re people. I’m intellectually capable of separating that from the fact that they could
become
people, which triggers my second objection, that you can’t force me to give away what will become my biological child.”

“Even if you have plenty and others have none?”

“That’s like saying I have two hands and he has none, so he gets one of mine. You can’t impose a body part welfare system.”

“We let people donate kidneys.”

“By consent. People are perfectly free to donate embryos, if they choose. The Snowflake folks have a thriving adoption business. To
mandate
adoption unacceptably erodes a woman’s right to choose and chills individual freedom to explore fertility options.” I was getting mad.

“It doesn’t really—if you aren’t comfortable with the consequences, don’t make the embryos.”

“That means no kids for a lot of people.”

“The world is overpopulated.”

“Stop being cavalier! Proposition 11 is scary.” My agitation rose. I tried to get through to him. “You started to make a movie, but it didn’t work out. Another movie came along, or you decided not to make any movies that year, whatever, you abandoned it. Now some other director wants to make the film but doesn’t have any ideas of his own, so you’re forced to give him your reels. He gets to finish the film, take credit, and show it to the world. You have no say.”

He looked uncomfortable. “That’s not the same.”

“It pretty much is.”

“Babies are different.”

“Exactly. Proposition 11 will put a chill on people trying to conceive through IVF. That’s wrong.”

“But it will help a lot of people who can’t afford IVF.”

“Are you saying you’re going to vote for Proposition 11?” I struggled not to scream. “It would hurt a lot of people.” What if I needed IVF?

“Of course not.” Thank god. “I’m not voting.”

“What?”

“I don’t vote in local elections.”

“Julian, this isn’t like electing the clerk of court. You need to vote against Proposition 11.”

“It doesn’t affect me.” He shrugged.

It affects me
.

“Isn’t that what the intellectuals said when they came for the Jews?”

“There are only intellectuals and Jews in Santa Monica.”

“I’m serious! This affects everyone.”

“So am I. Politics isn’t my thing. A small group of people control the fate of the majority, and the majority lets them. My puny acts don’t make a difference.”

“So you don’t do anything?” I asked in disbelief.

“I make movies about puny acts that do make a difference.”

“To do that you need examples.”

His cell phone interrupted our unsatisfying conversation. I tried to calm down. He was playing devil’s advocate. The importance of IVF to me couldn’t be lost on him.

As I stewed over his attitude, his posture drew my attention. It was almost imperceptible, torso hunched slightly, angled a fraction, minute adjustments shielding the conversation from me.

“I need time,” he said. The other end spoke. “No . . . No . . . No,” Julian responded. “It’s not that simple.” He walked to the bedroom and shut the door. I knew it was about
Cora
.

“Julian, I’ve got to go,” I called.

“Hold on,” he called. He remerged, leaving the phone on the bed. “I’m sorry—it’s work. You can’t stay?”

I didn’t think he wanted me to be persuaded. “Dinner with my mother.” I refused.

He walked me to the door. “I’ll call you later.”

He kissed me, a long, thorough good-bye kiss, suitable for a morning after, and stood at the door as I walked to my car, uncomfortable on multiple levels.

I woke gasping, heart racing. The green glow of the clock said 3:49
AM
. I took deep breaths, trying to diffuse my fight-or-flight tension. My mind was a jumble of the darkened shapes in my predawn room and the taunting characters from my dream. I couldn’t remember the details, but the fear was stark.

I slid a hand under the sheet to rest on my abdomen. “Please,” I whispered into the dark. “Please don’t let me have waited too long.” One tear slid from the corner of my eye down to my ear. “Please.”

Maryn Takes Another Test

W
hat’s this?” Dr. Singh frowned as she palpated Maryn’s one real breast.

“Nothing. I drink a lot of caffeine,” Maryn said. “At least I did, before I got pregnant. I’ve always had lumpy breasts.”

“Given your history, I want to be sure. It would be wise to get a mammogram,” said Dr. Singh.

“Is that really necessary?” asked Maryn. Dr. Singh looked surprised. “Lumps are normal during pregnancy. It’s probably milk ducts.” This was true. Maryn didn’t know why she felt sneaky.

“There’s no harm in it,” Dr. Singh answered.

“You can’t actually say that for sure,” Maryn argued. “Scientists can’t be certain of the effect of even a small amount of radiation on an unborn baby.”

“Early detection is an important part of breast health.” Dr. Singh’s reply wasn’t an answer. “It’s rare, but you can find breast cancer during pregnancy.”

“I’d rather wait on the mammogram until there’s a conclusive need. A manual exam is too imprecise to take a risk. You know what I went through to get this baby. How would I feel if I messed it up with unnecessary treatment?”

“It’s your choice of course.”

Maryn knew Dr. Singh disapproved. “It may be illogical, but it’s my choice.”

A play of emotions chased across Dr. Singh’s face for an instant, then detachment. “We can schedule you for an alternative imaging test if you don’t want a mammogram right now. It’s completely noninvasive, like a sonogram. But breast ultrasounds are not as effective, and can be easily confused by the natural changes in breast tissue during pregnancy.”

“It would make me happier.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“The good news is, we can skip the mammogram,” said Dr. Singh. “The bad news is, we need to do a biopsy.”

Maryn opened her mouth but Dr. Singh held up a hand.

“Breast biopsy procedures, even modified radical mastectomy, are safe for the mother and fetus,” Dr. Singh said.

“That’s fine,” said Maryn. “I’ll schedule one for next month.”

Dr. Singh considered her. “Maryn, there may be some urgency here. The ultrasound revealed a growth in your natural breast that is not normal.”

“Unfortunately, I’ll be at the Breeders’ Cup for work. It’s one of the most significant events in my profession. I’ll schedule the biopsy as soon as I return.”

Maryn’s game strategy was clock management. If there was something to worry about, if the cancer was back, she was changing the rules. She wasn’t plotting to defeat it in the war of strength. She just wanted to outwit it long enough to get to the prize. Besides, it was a lot of fuss over what would probably turn out to be pregnancy side effects anyway.

Maryn didn’t want to get up. She was so very tired. She considered blowing off her appointment, luxuriating in a decadent marathon of
Tabitha’s Salon Takeover
or
Real Housewives
. A thought of the nugget tied her shoes and got her out the door.

Now she was on the office couch facing Dr. Singh and Dr. Gavin, the oncologist. When she’d walked into the office and Dr. Singh stepped around her desk, urging them all to the chair and sofa grouping, Maryn knew the news was bad. Good news traveled safely across a desk. Bad news required proximity. The worse the news, the shorter the distance. Dr. Singh sat close to Maryn on the couch.

“Maryn, your biopsy was positive for a local recurrence of your breast cancer. I’ve asked Dr. Gavin to join us to discuss your options.”

Of course she’d known what she would hear. She’d been ignoring the twinges, the fatigue, the lumpiness. She’d told herself it was the pregnancy, but not much got by Maryn’s inner self, including Maryn.

“I thought the correlation between pregnancy hormones and recurrence was refuted,” Maryn said, as if it mattered.

“We don’t know why it came back,” Dr. Singh said. “Your particular strain was HER2 positive, which put you at greater risk because of the increased amount of blood flowing through your body during pregnancy. As an older mother, all these risks increase exponentially.”

“But my breast is gone,” Maryn protested.

“Unfortunately, recurrence can take root where a mastectomy has occurred. It’s not possible to remove a hundred percent of the breast tissue by surgery. If there is any microscopic spread through the lymph system cancer cells will seek, and during pregnancy, find, all the estrogen they need to keep them growing. In your case, there are nodules under the skin near your scar. With the pregnancy it’s hard to tell what we’re dealing with.”

“I’m NED. Full remission. Pregnancy isn’t supposed to increase the risk of occurrence.” Maryn continued to argue.

Dr. Singh’s eyes were sympathetic. “There’s no apparent long-term increased risk of recurrence in pregnant women versus nonpregnant women. It may be a coincidence. In your case, characteristics of your cancer correlate with an increased likelihood of recurrence, independent of pregnancy.”

Dr. Gavin spoke, “The immediate issue is mapping the recurrence. We need staging tests to determine if there is distant disease. Our highest concern is that it has spread into the lymph nodes.”

Dr. Singh said, “Because pregnancy disguises the symptoms of breast cancer, pregnant women often have more advanced cancers at diagnosis. It’s imperative that we move quickly to determine the scope. First, an MRI. Then perhaps a bone scan, chest X-ray, or PET scan.”

“I’ll have the MRI,” Maryn said. “But not the contrast dye. It’s been linked to fetal abnormalities in lab animals.” It didn’t matter what tests they wanted to run. They could do phrenology and leech therapy, so long as it didn’t hurt the nugget, but she wouldn’t budge if there was fetal risk.

“Maryn.” Dr. Singh considered her words. “At this stage, the health of the fetus may be a secondary concern. It’s incredibly immature, and we don’t know how far your disease has advanced.”

“The health of the fetus is the primary concern.” Maryn did not brook any argument. “We can map, but we’re not going to treat. Not until the baby is born.”

The doctors exchanged a look. Dr. Gavin said, “Let’s see what we’re dealing with before we make any decisions.”

Maryn’s decision was made, but she saved the fight for another day.

She thanked them both without seeing them, and left the office. She was so tired. The thought of Sherpa slippers and hot chai propelled her through the lobby. She had to get home before the collapse.

She stepped outside and her world exploded for the second time in one day.