LimeLight (17 page)

I felt hopeful. I also felt special because I got to sit next to my father and he’d even put his arm around me during the film. I’m sure Violet felt jealous—that would be like her. Then, later that night, after Violet had gone to bed with her silly horse book, I stayed up and talked to my father.

I liked the way he was treating me more and more like a grownup, telling me things about his job and his life…things that he didn’t tell my mother. And when he complained about being tired from working underneath the hood of a car all day and asked me to rub his sore back, I didn’t hesitate.

“It’ll be easier if I lie down,” he told me. So I followed him to the bedroom and began to massage his back.

The memory gets blurry at this juncture. I remember my
father saying that he should repay my kindness by rubbing my back too, and I didn’t argue since my arms were getting tired. At first it felt good. But then I realized he was rubbing more than my back. His fingers began creeping around to the front, fondling me in places I knew should be private. I felt confused and embarrassed, and I didn’t know what to do. Finally I stood up and told him to stop it.

He acted as if he didn’t understand. And then he seemed hurt. But I didn’t care. I straightened my mussed-up clothes and walked out of there. I stormed into the bedroom, where Violet was still reading her stupid book.

“What’s wrong?” she asked me. But I didn’t tell her. That would’ve been too humiliating. Instead, I acted as if nothing whatsoever was wrong. I acted as if I’d just had a very enjoyable time visiting with our father. And I never told anyone, not even my mother, about what happened that night.

I suppose I didn’t fully understand it myself. Except that I felt it was wrong. My father stepped over a line, and he knew it. I knew it too. And that’s when hope died.

Not surprisingly, my father got fired the following week. And this sent him on another binge. He stayed away from home longer than usual this time. I heard that a slutty woman named Gloria was harboring him. She lived on the bad side of town, and I secretly hoped he would stay with her for good. I think perhaps we all did.

But, like always, he eventually came back. And as usual, he acted very sorry for being gone, for having hurt us. He begged
us to forgive him, promised that he was changing his ways. He even tried to explain what had derailed him this time, blaming everything on the fact that he’d been “unfairly fired” from his job. Although I’d already heard that he was drunk at work and had botched Mayor Fenwick’s tune-up and oil change so badly that the mayor nearly blew up in his car while driving to Fresno.

After that, I kept a safe distance from my father. And I partially blamed my mother for our convoluted problems. If only she could handle things differently…if she fixed herself up more…made him happier…made him toe the line…then life might’ve gone better for everyone. But I think I knew it would never happen.

In my teen years, I began to devise a plan of my own. As soon as I was old enough, I would leave this horrible place. I would never come back. Never.

Y
oo-hoo?” A male voice pries me back into a partially awakened state. I open my eyes, but other than a crack of light coming from what must be a slightly opened door, the room is dark, and I am disoriented.

“What?” I sit up in bed, trying to get my bearings.

“It’s just me, darling. Did you have a good nap?”

“Oh, Michael.” I reach for the light switch on the lamp and turn it on, blinking into the brightness. “What time is it anyway?”

“It’s almost seven.” He steps into the room. “You slept for quite a while. Are you feeling all right?”

“Under the circumstances, you mean?” I put my feet on the floor and slowly stand, stretching a bit to loosen my stiff joints.

Michael peers curiously at me. “Your eyes are red and your makeup is smeared. Have you been crying?”

I touch my hand to my face, then turn to look in the mirror. My face does seem slightly ravaged. I reach for a tissue and face cream, doing some minor repairs as Michael looks on from behind. Finally I turn to face him again. “Better?”

“I know this is hard on you,” he says with compassionate eyes.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Well, good.” He presses the palms of his hands together. “And I am ready for the unveiling.”

I am not ready for anything…except perhaps crawling back into bed. “Yes. Let me put on my shoes first.”

“Oh, I just can’t wait to see your reaction, Claudette.”

I wish I could muster up more enthusiasm, but it feels as if I am climbing a mountain just now. Oh, I do appreciate Michael’s effort, but how can it possibly be worthwhile? Really, what difference will this all make if I am unable to stick around and make this thing work? I shove my feet into my loafers and even attempt to fluff up my hair in the back since I’m sure it must be flat as a pancake after my nap.

“Are you ready?”

I nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good.” He takes my hand and leads me out. “We’ll start with the other bedroom.”

“Fine.” We go down the hallway, which is now painted sort of a golden beige, perhaps the color of sand. Light enough that it feels brighter than the previous “dead salmon” color, but not so light that it’s harsh. “I like this color. And I like the selection of art you’ve put up here.”

“I’m so glad. I was really challenged with some of your pieces. Wall space is rather minimal in this house.”

“Wall space as well as square footage.”

“Well, yes, that’s true.” He points down. “Do you like the runner?”

I look at the carpet that runs down the wood floor in the hallway. It has an interesting geometric design in desert tones. It’s vaguely familiar. “It’s nice. Was it from my things?”

“Yes. I almost didn’t bring it, but I’m glad I did. It’s perfect in here, such a nice contrast to the wood floors, and it lightens it up a bit, don’t you think?” He stops by what used to be Violet’s and my bedroom, his hand on the doorknob. “I was rather bewildered about this room, how it should be used. At first I thought a small office or library, but then I realized you might need a guest room as well.” He opens the door. “So I tried to make both.”

I take in the full-size bed, which is flush to the wall with lots of colorful pillows piled along one side so it resembles a comfortable sofa or lounge. And on the other side of the room, nestled into the corner adjacent to the window, sits a leather chair with ottoman. A small antique desk and matching credenza are attractively placed as well. The walls are painted a soft sage color and adorned with several pieces of well-chosen art, including what was once Gavin’s favorite, an unusual piece by Julian Schnabel. He always thought it looked like a swan, but I never could see it. Today, as I look at it in this new location, I can almost see the swan.

“I would never have imagined this room could hold so much furniture,” I tell him.

“That’s because those two twin beds used up a lot of space. This room is only a foot narrower than the other bedroom.” He turns to me. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re a magician.”

“See, it’s both a guest room and an office.”

“Clever.” I’m feeling a twinge of hope.

“On with our tour.”

Next we go to the bathroom, which isn’t greatly changed but is still refreshingly different. Now painted a celadon green, the feeling is soothing and peaceful, providing a clean contrast against the white-tiled floor, claw-foot tub, and bathroom fixtures. He’s put what used to be a lawyer’s bookcase in here, only now it’s outfitted with linens and bath things and topped with a pleasant little lamp that used to be in my bedroom.

“Very nice,” I say.

“I know it’s a bit Pottery Barn-ish, but I think it works.”

“This carpet is a nice touch,” I say when I notice the silk Oriental rug alongside the tub. As I recall, Edouard picked that out to occupy one of the more formal guest rooms. He warned me that it was very expensive and needed to be cleaned carefully. I consider mentioning this, but why bother? It looks right in here.

The kitchen is next on the tour, and it’s truly transformed with a warm and welcoming buttery yellow paint. Again the art is arranged attractively on the walls, adding just the right touches of color. But it’s the new stainless-steel appliances that take me by surprise. I just stare at the stove, refrigerator, and microwave in amazement. “How did you get these?”

“As you know, that nasty fridge had to go the way of the wicked. And the Goodwill boys told me about an appliance store that’s only about an hour away. I got a salesman on the
phone and told him what I wanted and the sizes. They were delivered late this afternoon while you were napping.”

I open the refrigerator and peer in. Clean and neat at the moment, but will I be able to keep it that way for long? I turn back to Michael. “How did you pay for these? Aren’t appliances expensive?”

“Like I told you. Alex Granville is sending me a check for the things in the storage unit. It should cover everything I’ve put out and then some.”

“You really are amazing, Michael.” I look at my Limoges china and sparkling crystal glassware, so prettily arranged behind the glass doors of the dark cherry cupboards, giving the cabinets an unexpected touch of elegance. “I had no idea this kitchen was this nice.”

“I wish we could’ve put in a dishwasher. Unfortunately, that would’ve required some major remodeling.”

“Oh…”

“Which means you’ll be washing dishes by hand, darling. Can you manage?”

I try to shrug this off. “I don’t know why not. I used to wash dishes by hand all the time when I was a kid. Right here in this very same sink.”

“It’s a good sink,” he assures me. “Soapstone.”

I run my finger over the smooth surface. “I always did like the feel of this sink. Although I remember how the dark color bothered me. I wanted a shining white enamel sink like my friend Caroline had in her house.”

“This sink is actually much more valuable.”

I look over to the small dining area, where a square oak table and four matching chairs are arranged. In the center of the table is a gold ceramic vase from Tuscany, complete with fresh flowers in shades of orange, yellow, and red. “Is that table from my old breakfast nook?” I try to remember the padded banquette seating and the bay window that looked out over the beautifully landscaped backyard and pool. Sometimes I had my morning coffee there, usually around noon.

“Yes. I took the leaves out and removed the padded cushions from the chairs. I think it works.”

“And that rug is interesting.” I point to the antique Kilim that used to be in Gavin’s den.

“Don’t you just
love
those harvest colors in here?”

“It really is nice,” I admit. “But I never would’ve dreamed of putting that rug in a kitchen.”

“Well, Kilims are made to last. And if you ever decide you don’t want it, just toss it my way. I’m sure I can find a home for it.”

“You really are good at this, Michael.” I stare at the kitchen and try to remember what it looked like before. “Everything has come together so well…and I know that couldn’t be easy in such a small house. But you’ve managed to make it look bigger and better. I am impressed.”

“Thank you, darling. That means a lot coming from you.” He rubs his hands together. “But we’re not finished.”

Michael leads me out into the living room, and I actually
have to take in a quick breath—the transformation is so incredible I’m stunned. “Is this really the same room?”

He nods and actually giggles.

“Michael…” I just shake my head as I walk around the surprisingly spacious room. The walls are painted a very rich yet mellow color that reminds me of pumpkins or squash, a comforting golden-orange shade. I’m sure I would’ve instantly balked at this color if he had asked me first or shown me a swatch, but it is perfect in here. It brings the dark wooden window trim, baseboards, and crown molding to life.

He’s arranged an interesting mix of furniture too, pieces that were previously in different rooms of my house. I recognize the sofa, a dearly loved piece that had been in my bedroom; its rich, golden chenille with goose-down pillows has always been perfect for napping. There’s also a pair of Italian leather chairs that once flanked the desk in Gavin’s office, arranged nicely by the small fireplace that I’d nearly forgotten was here. I think my mother must’ve had a chair or something blocking it. An oversized ottoman with autumn-toned tapestry that came from our formal living room now serves as a coffee table. The art Michael selected for this room is unexpected, but perfect.

“I never would’ve dreamed of putting these things together,” I tell him. “And that Scully abstract over the couch”—I study a painting I’ve taken for granted for years—“is absolutely lovely in here.”

“Isn’t it? I think of this room as eclectic. Do you really like it?”

“I do.” I nod as I walk around the room, trying to take it in. The familiar lamps, end tables, pillows, furniture… It’s as if I’m seeing it all for the first time. Then I notice an arrangement of old photos on the wall by the front door. Candid shots of Gavin and me with various Hollywood friends taken over the years. I just stare at the pictures in wonder and amazement. I almost feel at home now. Finally I turn to Michael, with real tears in my eyes. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”