A Week at the Lake (10 page)

“And when you're older”—presumably past the hellishly ugly teenage years that lie ahead of me—“why then we can look at finding you some more suitable parts.”

I know what she means by this. She means “suitable for a Michaels.” The kind of roles that always come to Regan.

M
y mother squeezes my hand. Her lips brush my forehead. A drop of moisture hits my cheek. Wet and confusing. Eve only cries onstage. The hums and beeps grow
louder. More urgent. The door flings open. I hear footsteps. Eve drops my hand. Shrinks away.

The dark gets darker. Bigger. It smothers and swallows me.

Gran?

“Everybody out.” The voice is calm but urgent. Not Gran's. “Her intracranial pressure's spiking out of control.” The hums and beeps escalate. Sounding an alarm.

“Page Dr. Markham and Dr. Brennan! Call anesthesiology! We are going to have a code blue here!”

T
he surgery to remove the blood clot in Emma's brain took two and a half hours, but felt, Serena thought, more like twenty.

They spent those hours in the waiting room off the surgical wing too frightened to eat or drink or crack even the smallest of jokes. In opposite camps the four Michaels spread out along one wall; Serena, Mackenzie, and Zoe huddled along the other.

While her husband and children texted, stared at their phones and occasionally excused themselves to take calls, Eve paced and fretted, her green eyes glittering like shards of colored glass. Occasionally that pacing brought her close enough to the non-Michaels faction to communicate her views. “You should have gotten another opinion. We could have flown in the best neurosurgeon in the country.”

“Dr. Brennan assured us that Dr. Markham is one of the top five in the country,” Serena replied.

“That means there are four others who could be better than him,” Eve observed with a sniff.

“I'm pretty sure a blood clot isn't something you leave in someone's brain while you try to decide if your surgeon is number one or number two,” Serena shot back.

“Second best is never acceptable.” Regan looked up from her phone, pitching her voice so it could be heard. “There are no statuettes for second place.” She cocked her head, sending a spill of silky red-gold hair down one slim shoulder and raised
one perfectly arched brow. “Unless you count best supporting actor. After all, their entire purpose is to support the lead.”

Nash's head snapped up. His moss green eyes shed their soulfulness. “Actually, their purpose is to enhance, deepen, and expand the plot, not prop up the lead.” His square jaw jutted. He had after all won a best supporting actor Oscar not once but twice. “Best supporting actor means
best
in an entirely separate category. They're not runner-up to ‘best lead actor.' They are the best at what they set out to do. It's not the same thing at all.”

“Whatever gets you through the night, little brother,” Regan said with a shrug.

“Nash is technically correct,” said Rex, stroking his chin with one long-fingered hand. “Though I would have to agree that best actor does carry a bit more cachet than best supporting.”

Regan smiled triumphantly as Nash gritted his very white, very capped teeth.

“Regan. Really.” Eve's voice dripped reproach. “Must you tease your brother at a time like this?”

Tease?
Serena thought there was way too much venom in Regan's observations to qualify as teasing, but then “warm” and “fuzzy” were not adjectives she'd ever heard applied to members of this family. She turned and moved to the window where Zoe and Mackenzie stood looking down at the crowd of paparazzi that seemed to be growing larger by the moment.

Tears slid down Zoe's cheeks. “If my mother dies it will be an even bigger story, won't it?”

“They've already got a big story whatever happens,” Mackenzie said, sliding her arm around the girl's shoulders. “But there's no point in thinking that way.”

“Your mother is strong. And Dr. Markham knows what he's doing,” Serena added.

“But she could die.” Zoe's voice broke on the word. She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand.

“She could,” Serena agreed. “But that could happen to any of us in any given moment.”

Mackenzie pulled Zoe closer and shot Serena a look. “I don't think that's the kind of reassurance any of us are looking for at the moment.”

“Sorry. It's all I've got.” Serena folded her arms across her chest and turned her back on the plate glass window. “But I refuse to believe Em survived that accident only to die now.” She tried to sound calm and certain though she was neither.

By the time Dr. Markham came to speak to them, they were all once again slumped in their respective chairs staring at the pale green walls, their hands, the floor, or nothingness.

The surgeon looked tired but not alarmed. Which, given how often he peered into people's damaged brains, didn't necessarily mean there was nothing to be alarmed about.

“The clot's been removed, and the intracranial pressure relieved,” Dr. Markham said.

“How is she?” Mackenzie asked.

“She's stable neurologically, her vital signs are now normal, and she's still recovering from the effects of the anesthesia,” he said carefully.

“Is she conscious?” Eve asked.

“No.”

“Will she ever be?” It was Zoe who asked what they were all afraid to.

“I can't really answer that question,” Dr. Markham said.

“But you must have some idea of the odds,” Mackenzie said. “Some sense of what's likely to happen.”

After a brief hesitation Dr. Markham took pity on them. “There are, of course, no guarantees. But the fact that the injury was primarily localized to the right frontal and temporal lobes is a good sign.”

They waited for more. It was Rex who finally asked, “How so?”

The surgeon hesitated again. Serena wondered if he was weighing the advisability of giving hope that he might be held accountable for. “It's possible to function normally even
without the front part of your temporal lobe,” Dr. Markham said. “So injuries there tend to be less . . . devastating.” He smiled kindly at Zoe. “If you have to have a brain injury that's a ‘better' place to have it.”

Serena swallowed thickly but kept her mouth tightly closed. She would not be the one to bring up the worst-case scenario that hung over all of them—Emma living but never waking up.

The doctor nodded and turned to go.

“But . . . what do we do now?” Eve asked.

“We watch and wait,” Dr. Markham said.

“For?” Serena and Eve asked simultaneously.

“Any changes. Or signs of change.”

The doctor left. No one spoke until he'd disappeared down the hall.

“Well, I'm relieved the surgery went well.” Regan glanced down at her watch as she spoke. “Does anyone need a ride to the airport? My car's arrived.” She reached for a Prada carryall. “I was supposed to report to set outside of Paris this morning. I've already kept everyone waiting a day.”

All four Michaels looked at each other.

“I do have a preproduction meeting out on the West Coast tomorrow,” Nash said. “I guess I'll take a ride.”

“All right. I'm going to go touch up my makeup. We can make an announcement to the press out front on our way,” Regan said.

“We'll make the announcement together.” Rex straightened. “As a family.” None of them seemed to be considering the irony that the family Emma had divorced would be speaking on her behalf. Rex looked to Eve. “Coming, darling?”

“You go ahead. I'll join you in just a moment.”

Eve Michaels moved to Zoe after the rest of her family had left. “You're welcome to come with us, Zoe. We have an apartment at the Sherry-Netherland,” she said, naming an iconic Fifth Avenue co-op, “and we have plenty of room.”

Eve looked and sounded completely sincere, and the hug she gave Zoe appeared genuine. But when her grandmother
released her, Zoe stepped back. “Thanks. That's really nice of you.” She turned to Serena and Mackenzie. “But I want to . . . I mean, I can still stay with you guys, right?”

“Of course.” Their assurances were automatic and virtually simultaneous. Eve made no comment, but her face registered what looked like real disappointment before she smiled and departed.

“Can we spend the night here?” Zoe asked when they were alone.

“Absolutely,” Mackenzie said. “I'd feel better being here, too. Just in case.”

“All right,” Serena said. “But I'm starting to get hungry. How do you feel about a corned beef on rye? I can call the deli around the corner and see if they'll deliver.”

“Sounds good,” Mackenzie said. “I'm going to run down to the gift shop and pick up some playing cards. So we're not staring at the walls all night.”

“Yeah,” Serena said. “I think I've got a couple of the DVDs Ethan sent in my bag. Which is a good thing. Those walls are way too bare. If we're here much longer I'm going to be picking out wallpaper and paint. Do you think anyone would mind if I redecorated?”

She got the laugh she'd been angling for. But as she placed their dinner order, Serena couldn't help thinking how quickly the members of the Michaels family had dispersed. That the planes they'd had to catch and the scenes they were eager to steal seemed more important to them than Emma. Who was currently playing the most serious role of her life. A role Serena hoped would soon turn into a speaking part.

Mackenzie stared at the glow of her laptop screen in the darkened room. It was still blank except for the
Married Without Children
blog post heading “When disaster strikes,” a post in which she'd intended to write about the freedom to be away from home for extended periods of time when emergency struck, the strength that came from knowing that your
significant other, your partner, was there for you completely in ways a parent responsible for running the family in your absence might not be. But which now seemed little more than an admission that she could be gone as long as she liked because she had no life to go back to.

That's not true
.
If Adam were at home you wouldn't feel this way.
But Adam wasn't home. And he definitely wasn't “there for her.” Or possibly
there
at all.

It was four a.m. Beside her Zoe was folded around her pillow, her breathing even. A few seats away Serena snored lightly, having finally conked out after the third episode of
I Love Lucy
and her second box of Jujubes. Their things were once again strewn across the table, the floor, and pretty much every chair in the family lounge. She didn't know if things were slow at the hospital or if the word was out that this lounge was uninhabitable, but she was relieved that they once again had the space to themselves.

She'd wandered the halls on and off for hours, stopping periodically to check Emma for signs of improvement, but it was hard to see beyond the bandaged head and the frightening stillness of her face and body.

A check of email showed no response from Adam. Her phone showed no return text. She stared again at the cursor and the blog post title then carefully deleted it. This was not the time to write. Not when her thoughts and emotions were in such turmoil. Not when Emma was fighting for her life. Not when Adam seemed so absent.

Closing the laptop, she picked up her cell phone and headed back into the hall then downstairs to the lobby, which was empty and only semi-lit. A janitor moved down a nearby hall, buffing the floor, his head bobbing to whatever music played on his headphones.

It was one a.m. out in California. Adam could still be up.

She hit the speed-dial key for his number and sat in the darkened hospital listening to the phone ring. Once again there was no answer. No voice mail message. No Adam.

E
mma:

Eve is here. Cool. Contained. With lightning strikes of emotion. Her scent surrounds me. Pulls at me.

You surprised her. You surprised them both.

It's Gran's voice in my ear. But Eve takes my hand. Flesh on flesh. And in that instant I'm fourteen and entering a wood-paneled office in Los Angeles where I have to tell District Judge Horace Mann why I want to divorce my parents.

The office is large with one bookcase-lined wall and another covered in framed photos of the judge posing with famous actors and politicians. Through a bank of windows I can see the Hollywood sign in the distance. Judge Mann looks like he was called up from central casting: silver mane of hair, Roman nose, firm jaw. He is clearly impressed by Eve and Rex. But it's Gran he can't seem to take his eyes off. As I rub my sweaty palms down the sides of my skirt, I wonder if we will end up on his wall of fame.

We're offered seats at a small conference table—Gran and me on one side, Eve and Rex on the other. The judge sits at the head. I stare down at my hands, which are folded on the table's mahogany surface, but watch my mother through my lashes. She's careful not to appear impressed or cowed by Gran, but you never really know what Eve is thinking or feeling unless she wants you to. Right now she's letting me feel her anger, which simmers even closer to the surface than usual. I've learned to look for the warning signs. But
I'm pretty sure she won't unleash it in front of the judge. Or Gran.

“I do hate to see such a fine family torn apart,” the judge says as he opens my file. “I'd like to see us consider ways in which we might satisfy everyone.” The man is clearly an optimist, but then he's never dealt with a Michaels. Or gotten in the way of something a Michaels might want. We didn't become famous simply because we can act. We're programmed to seek success in the same way salmon are programmed to swim upstream. My desire to walk away from a highly rated television series is an aberration my parents cannot condone. A serious flaw in my character. An indication of stupidity and/or mental illness, which they are duty bound to snuff out.

The judge looks at Rex and Eve. It's my mother who speaks.

“We are, of course, hurt and stunned by Emma's wish to divorce herself from our family.” She is the ice queen. Cool. Clear. “We are prepared to allow Emma to stay at the lake with her grandmother for the summer as planned. But she must be back at the beginning of September when
Daddy's Girl
goes back into production.” Eve says this calmly with no sign of the molten lava I can practically hear running through her veins.

The judge turns to me. “Emma?”

I shake my head, not yet able to find my voice. My bags are already packed, but I would fly to New York with Gran today even if I had to leave with just the clothes on my back. “No.”

My mother looks surprised. This is the first time we've been in the same room since the papers were filed, yet for some reason she allowed herself to believe that I'd crumble as soon as they objected. My father just looks hurt.

I keep my hands folded so that they won't shake. Because I had a meeting with Gran and her attorney yesterday, and I know what's coming. Because the thing is, even though the judge is here, I can be emancipated only if my parents agree.

“Emma,” the judge says kindly. “Please tell us why you've
taken this step. Emancipation is not a small thing. There are other options. You could simply live with your grandmother for a time. Or even with one of your siblings.”

I swallow and sit up straighter in my chair. I don't know if he read all the paperwork I had to file or not. So I keep my eyes on him and tell him everything I wrote. How my parents are almost never home. How my brother and sister are older and don't want to have anything to do with me. That I don't go to school, but only get tutored on the set. That I don't have any friends. That I want desperately to quit the show but my parents, who are signees on my contract, won't let me. That I never get to use any of the money I've made. I go on and on even though I'm humiliated by how pathetic I sound. How pathetic I am. The tears I shed are real, although I could have produced them if I'd had to.

Finally I run out of words. My eyes go to my mother's face. Despite the scrim of tears, I can see that her jaw is clenched. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. Her eyes are like shards of glass. “I cannot bear this ingratitude,” she says slowly and distinctly. “I cannot believe we are required to listen to this ludicrous litany of complaints from this outrageously ungrateful child.”

Rex places a cautionary hand on hers. If Eve shrugs him off and slaps me like I can see she wants to or spews any more venom, she will make my case for me.

“I don't see why we need to go to extremes here, kitten.” Rex looks at me as if he really doesn't understand what the fuss is about. But then I don't think I cross his mind often enough for him to have any idea of how I feel or what I think. “If you really don't want to do the show anymore, I'm sure a compromise can be negotiated. You think you don't care now, but quitting this way is a huge mistake you're too young to understand. You'll forever be tainted with a reputation for unprofessionalism. It's nothing less than professional suicide. Maybe we agree to one more season during which you can be slowly written out. Or . . .”

“This is ridiculous,” Eve interrupts. “I will never agree to ‘emancipate' our child. The word itself is appalling and insulting. She has no appreciation for everything we've done for her. And no understanding whatsoever of how a Michaels is expected to behave. Regan and Nash were on camera even younger than Emma and were thrilled at the opportunity.”

Gran silences her with a raised eyebrow. That's all it takes for everyone, including Eve, to be reminded that Eve is not a Michaels by birth. That she may have changed her eye and hair color and even some of her features, but only became a Michaels by marrying my father and managing to hold on to him.

“I will not allow my granddaughter to live this life a moment longer,” Gran says.

“It's not up to you to allow or disallow anything.” Eve's voice is sharp. Something that rarely happens around my grandmother and the public at large. “
You
are not her parent. We will never agree to this. Never.”

The judge's eyes flicker with surprise. I don't know what he was expecting, but this is not it. “Emma,” he says somewhat tentatively. “I'm sure the contractual obligations for the television show can be dealt with. But emancipation is a very serious thing. Severing a child from her parents, forcing her to for all intents and purposes become an adult, well, it's not to be undertaken or approved lightly.”

I nod to show I understand, but I can't give in. Even if I didn't have to do the show, I'd still be living virtually by myself. With parents who drop in every once in a while. I look at Gran. She nods slightly. Telling me it's time to pull out what she refers to as “the ace up our sleeve.” The one we've been hoping we wouldn't have to use.

I drop my gaze. Swallow. Then make myself begin. “It's just that . . .” I look first at my father and then at the judge. “It's just that ever since Uncle John moved into the guesthouse . . .” I don't have to pretend reluctance. I don't want to hurt my dad any more than Gran wants to hurt her son. But
we're pretty sure that Rex's lifestyle and his current living arrangement are the one thing that my parents will not want made public.

Eve gasps. My father's green eyes darken with shock. It's 1981, not that far from the free love seventies, but most moviegoers aren't ready to accept the idea that their favorite movie star would rather kiss another man than his leading lady. Or his movie star wife.

I'm hoping I'm not actually going to have to tell the judge that when my father is in town he and his current lover, John Clemente, live and sleep together in the casita just beyond the pool on the Hollywood Hills property.

“That's enough.” Eve's eyes are as harsh as her voice. And even at fourteen I know that it's more than their livelihoods she's worried about. It's one thing to let your husband choose a man, actually a string of men, over you; it's another thing for people to know it. “Go live your own life, Emma. One day you'll know what you're throwing away. I have never understood you and I never will.” This is the most sincere thing my mother has ever said to me.

As always my father's silence hurts more than my mother's words. I don't understand my father any more than my mother understands me, but I've always loved him anyway. And when he was there and paying attention, I believed he loved me.
Daddy's Girl
wasn't just the name of my television show to me.

I say nothing as Gran produces the paperwork her attorney has prepared. It spells out the two most important points of our agreement: That my parents agree to my legal emancipation. That none of us will ever discuss or reveal the reasons for our “divorce.”

I hold my mother's gaze. My heart is about to explode, but I make sure my determination is clear. I need her to believe that I'm ready to go out and call a press conference if they refuse. I am a Michaels. Therefore I can act.

I don't say anything while my mother and father sign the papers. And I don't say good-bye when they stand and prepare to leave. The judge remains quiet as we depart. He doesn't ask any of us, not even Gran, to pose with him for a picture.

Two hours later Gran and I are on a flight to New York. Two days later we settle into the lake house for the summer. I'd like to say I never looked back, but that would be a lie.

H
e actually tried to pretend like he wasn't sleeping with her.” Serena looked into her psychiatrist's brown eyes. “He's left several messages trying to make me feel guilty for my behavior.” She settled back in the padded chair, crossed her arms over her chest, one knee over the other.

“You can't choose men who are unavailable and who cheat and then think they'll behave in any other way.” Dr. Grant settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

Serena reached for a Kleenex. Her eyes were completely dry, but she dabbed at them anyway. “Ethan sent me flowers. And funny videos. And Jujubes.”

“That's because Ethan actually knows you. And apparently cares about you.”

“He's a good friend.”

“Who'd clearly like to be more.” Dr. Grant leveled a probing gaze at her.

Serena shrugged. “He's not my type.”

“Do you think you don't deserve a successful, funny, sincere, and talented man?”

“I didn't say that,” Serena said.

“Didn't you?”

Serena bit back a sigh. “You realize you're starting to sound more like my mother than my shrink.”

Dr. Grant didn't respond. Which just went to show Dr. Grant was nothing like her mother.

“I didn't come here to talk about Ethan,” Serena said. “Or my mother.”

“You apparently didn't come here to talk about your friend who's in a coma, either.” He watched her carefully.

Just hearing the reference to Emma made Serena's eyes moisten. Dr. Grant's features swam briefly until she finally got herself under control.

“You've been talking for the past twenty-five minutes about all kinds of things that don't seem to actually matter to you. But it's your time and money,” the psychiatrist said.

Serena sighed and reached for a tissue. “It's too awful to talk about. I can hardly stand to see Em like that. And Zoe . . .” She clutched the crumpled tissue between her fingers. “Oh, God. It's so awful.”

“What does her doctor say?” Dr. Grant asked quietly.

“Not enough. They removed the blood clot two days ago. I don't know if her family being there caused it or if it would have happened anyway. We don't really know anything more than we did when she went in. And I can't bear the pressure. What if I make a wrong decision? What if Emma . . . what if she dies? I don't know how to make this better for Zoe. Neither Mackenzie nor I have children, and I don't have a clue how to handle her. Or the situation. Or . . . anything.”