Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir (24 page)

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Authors: Melissa Francis

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs, #Entertainment & Performing Arts

BOOK: Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter: A Memoir
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“Well, I don’t know about that,” Mom laughed lightly. “But I’m sure I can find the money somehow.”
She was about to tick off her demands in exchange for letting me enroll, then it would be impossible to thank her enough. I’d owe her for the rest of my life. Again.
“I’ve saved some money in an account at the bank. From tutoring the neighbors, and that Frosted Flakes commercial. Now I’ve got about twelve thousand. Maybe thirteen.”
Electricity gripped the table. I’d done the unthinkable. I’d moved the pea before she could palm it. No one had ever dared to screw with her shell game before.
“You
what
?” she said. They were both looking directly into my eyes, the three of us suddenly wide awake and connected.
“My paychecks, some residuals. And the money from tutoring Kiera. For the SAT. And then I saw the latest cycle check from the Frosted Flakes commercial in the mailbox and I just put that in too.” I said it like I’d just found a discarded piece of paper on the ground and picked it up.
“You stole a check from the mailbox?” Mom demanded, her voice so sharp it could have shaved ice.
“It was made out to me,” I continued. “What difference does it make which account it goes into?” If we weren’t sitting in a public restaurant, she would have grabbed me.
“Right,” she said slowly. Ever the shell man, she wouldn’t admit she’d lost control of the game even for a minute.
“I mean, I will write the check to Stanford. Isn’t that great? I’ve got enough set aside. You both just said it’s a great idea but we don’t have the cash. Now we do. Problem solved. I planned ahead,” I said.
“Set aside? You’ve got it
set aside
. Well, why don’t you take care of
all
of it then? There’s a tuition check due at Chaminade. You’re welcome to pay that. And there’s your car payment. Go ahead and write that one too. And the car insurance. I’ve got a bill from Allstate in my purse. How’s the balance now?”
“What about all the rest of the money?” I asked, picking the shell she’d led me to.
“What
rest
of the money?” she said, laughing that I’d fallen into the trap. “You have more than spent every dime you have
ever
made, and don’t you dare kid yourself otherwise. Don’t you ever say,
I
spent it.
You
spent it, my dear. Every single penny. You don’t see
me
in jewels and furs, do you? You’re the one driving the expensive sports car. You’re the one attending the private schools, you’re the one dressed to the nines. Not me. Not him. Certainly not your sister. She has never had half of what you’ve had. And you know it. You’ve worked hard, and you’ve spent hard, and don’t you dare ever say otherwise.”
She pushed out of the booth and got up, knocking over an empty glass which rolled across the table. She dragged her oversized leather purse with her, and sniffed as she strode to the door and threw it open, letting it slam behind her with another slap of the shades.
Dad and I just silently watched. It was the millionth time she’d shot up and stormed out during a meal, leaving only a cloud of dust and drama in her wake. One time she made a production of departing in a huff, and walked all the way home, which took an hour. The problem was that she had forgotten that she’d driven herself. She had to get a ride back to the restaurant the next day to pick up her car. Sometimes she’d speed off in the only car we’d brought, stranding the rest of us in the process. Dad had taken to driving separately and keeping his keys in his pockets to be safe.
“Well, you’ve done it now.” Dad laughed, a little gleeful. “Did you really open an account and siphon off money as it came in?”
“Yep.”
“It is yours, I guess. You’ve got a right to it. But everything else she said is true too. You earned it. And you’ve spent almost all of it. There’s enough left for college, and if there isn’t, we’ll find a way to pay for that. But that’ll be a stretch. Beyond that, you’ll have to go out and get a job. But that won’t be a problem for you. You’re a smart girl. You can do anything you want.”
He smiled to himself and took a sip of wine. “She does like to control every last nickel that rolls in, no matter how it arrived in the mailbox. You’ve really done it this time.” He laughed ruefully.
We both knew we were on borrowed time until we had to go home and face the music.
 
 
When we got home, the house was dark, except for the glow from the television set that constantly hummed on Mom’s side of the bed. I crept past her door, quickly and quietly, trying to get the floorboards to keep the secret of our arrival to themselves. Then I changed rapidly in the dark into my pajamas and slid under the blankets almost without disturbing them, stealing off to sleep before anything more could transpire. I’d had enough excitement for one day.
 
 
The next day, Mom went down to the bank and closed the account, getting a cashier’s check for the full amount. She read the teller the riot act for letting a child open an account alone without a parent on it. And somehow, even though mine was the only name on the record, they let her walk out with the balance. And she didn’t even bring a gun.
CHAPTER TWELVE
 
B
y the time the airport came into view, I’d nearly lost hope. The flight would take off in about thirty minutes, with or without us.
“Look, you guys get out and check in,” Dad said. “Dump the bags. I will park the car and meet you at the gate.”
We’d all gone silent amid the tension, although Mom had spent a good part of the trip berating Dad as he dodged in and out of cars in the heavy traffic that clogged the length of the 405 freeway.
In truth, he deserved the abuse. Mom and I had been ready to go for hours. Our destination: Boston. Harvard was holding a weekend of spirited events for prospective freshmen who had already been accepted, and I was one of them.
Stanford summer school had been even more fantastic than I’d imagined. Not only did I have total freedom and control over my life and my time, but I was introduced to a whole world beyond Hollywood, where intellectual curiosity and the ability to reason were the main values, not body type and how convincingly I could pretend to be someone else. I hadn’t realized that school could be more than figuring out how to crush a test. I had just seen school as a competition and a means to an end. I had a lot more in common with this group of people than the kids I saw on auditions. I hungrily consumed the opportunity to find my own way without Mom steering me toward what
she
valued.
Now I couldn’t wait to see what it would be like if I were to move all the way across the country pursuing the same dream on my own. I’d never been to Boston, and it was hard to believe that the ivy-covered old buildings depicted in the catalog really existed. The pictures of the campus looked like Paul Revere might canter through one of the courtyards on a snorting bay stallion just in time for lunch.
I’d packed for any weather possibility, from flurries to subtropical heat. I didn’t want to take any chances. Mom, insecure about having gained more weight, packed a wardrobe of black pants, tops, and sweaters. She threatened not to go on the trip, since she had failed at another crash diet, but we convinced her no one cared, which was the truth.
Dad on the other hand had waited until the morning to pack. Then as we rushed around him in a buzz of activity, he calmly drank his coffee and watched the morning news. Slower than the grass grew out front, he’d climbed the stairs to their bathroom and started his morning ritual, which included a twenty-minute shower, complete with multiple verses of multiple songs, and a thirty-plus-minute tour of the sink area, where he’d polish every tooth individually, shave, and then slowly blow his hair dry with a fifteen-year-old hair dryer that had a comb attached to the vent so he could smooth his hair as it dried.
By the time he came downstairs with his bag, Mom and I were sweating with panic.
“Dad, seriously. We have to go,” I pushed.
We hadn’t waited for him to load our bags into the car. Now we rushed out and threw ourselves into our seats, slamming the doors, while he slowly circled the house, closing the wrought iron gate and tugging on each individual sliding glass door and entry to make sure it was locked. He worked slowly and deliberately while we lost our minds waiting.
By the time we hit the highway, I realized we’d have to be the only car on the road in order to speed down to LAX in time, and in L.A., gridlock was the norm. Indeed lines of cars inched forward like endless armies of crawling ants, as frustrated drivers tried to push into the next lane, which wasn’t moving any faster anyway.
At the curb in front of the terminal, Mom jumped out and waved frantically to a United skycap, who wheeled a cart over and started unloading. I headed to the outdoor counter to speed things along before the bags could be wheeled over.
“We’re on the three PM to Boston. The last name is Francis,” I said.
“Oh, boy. You guys are cutting it close. You better run,” the second skycap said as he pulled the plastic off the back of our baggage labels and slapped them onto the bags. He checked his watch and confirmed that we were screwed.
“You hear that!” Mom shouted at Dad breathlessly.
“I will just go park the car,” Dad said, still calm, as if the pilot would simply wait.
“Don’t go to some bargain lot. We don’t have time! Just park nearby and come right back. We’ll wait for you inside,” Mom said.
“Dad.
Hurry
,” I begged.
“Don’t worry.” He laughed nervously, finally realizing the gravity of the situation.
Mom and I went inside the terminal and rushed to the gate. We swam upstream through a school of travelers who’d just gotten off a long flight from overseas. They all looked tired and rumpled, speaking an Asian language I didn’t recognize. I envied them because they’d arrived at their destination, while we were still struggling so mightily to get off the ground.
We pushed our way through the crowd to gate 71. A tall woman stood at the gate in a blue uniform. She wore a tight smile as she scanned the waiting area. Her eyes landed on us, and she smiled through her irritation.
“You must be my stragglers,” she said as we approached.
“We’re on this flight, but we’re waiting for one more person. My dad,” I said. My heart pounded in my chest and I could feel my blood pressure rising.
“Oh, sweetie. There’s no time to wait. I suggest you board. We’re closing the door,” she said as if she’d seen this scene before.
“Not without my dad. We’re visiting Harvard. He’s parking the car. He’s right behind us,” I said, panting from our rush to the gate.
“Please,” Mom begged. “He’s coming.”
“You two should wait for him on board,” she warned.
“We can’t. We’re all together,” I said. “We can’t go without him.”
“Does he have his boarding pass?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mom said.
“Then you should definitely get on,” she said.
I looked at Mom. “Let’s just run back and tell him to run. I’m sure he’s coming.”
The flight attendant shook her head, washing her hands of the matter, as we rushed back to the main artery of the terminal, which was still flooded with hundreds of people moving in every direction. I stood on my toes, trying to see over the crowd, and I realized we didn’t even know for sure what direction he was coming from. I picked up the pace and broke into a run, heading back toward the door to the street, weaving in and out of the crowd, while Mom tried to hurry behind me.
I reached the doors and pushed through to the curb. My eyes swept the long line of cars pulling up to drop off passengers. I looked through the crowds, face by face, and came up empty.
“Let’s go back to the gate and see if he passed us somehow,” I said when Mom caught up.
“You go. I’ll come as quickly as I can behind you,” she huffed, breathing hard from the stress and exertion.
I ran back to the gate now, darting through the families pushing carts piled high with luggage ready to topple at the slightest bump. Children trailed their families, dragging backpacks and dolls. A pack of teenagers sat cross-legged at another gate area, passing magazines back and forth.
I raced all the way back to the gate without encountering Dad. When I reached the door to our flight, it was closed. They’d finished boarding without us. I had no idea if Dad had gotten on without us, or never made it inside. But our luggage was taking off for Harvard without us.
Defeated, I collapsed into a seat and watched Mom slowly amble up. The corners of her mouth turned down into a frown.
“What do we do now?” I asked, trying not to cry.
“I wish I knew what happened to your father. For all we know, he had a heart attack in the parking lot,” she said.
I hadn’t even thought about that possibility. The new dimension of worry was more than I could take. Tears rolled down my cheeks as Mom looked around the terminal, searching.
After a minute or two, we rose to our feet and walked back to the ticket counter, combing the masses that came toward us, still looking for any sign of Dad. By then, searching felt hopeless.

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