The Last Dreamer (13 page)

“I just think it would be awesome to go back there and give it another shot,” he said. “We were these four young guys, all thrown into this crazy situation, and it made us who we are, and to go back now and see how we each turned out and how maybe we can move on and make it even better
 . . .”

He dropped his head. “Listen to me. I’m starting to sound like you. Seeing stories everywhere, huh?” He looked up at her and grinned. “But it does sound like a good story, doesn’t it?”

“It sounds like a great story,” she told him. “Actually, it sounds sort of like that book I wanted to write. I told you about it in the restaurant—about the four people living in New York and how they got there, what became of them, who they thought they could be and what ultimately became of them
 . . .”

Her smile slowly disappeared, as her eyes widened. “It sounds like that book I always wanted to write
 . . .”

God, she wanted to go to California. Driving home, she realized that she wanted to go and start working on that book idea as much as she had ever wanted anything. Even the tiniest muscles in her fingers tensed with excitement when she thought about doing that research and writing. It would be a book about who the Dreamers once were and who they were now, and about all the teenage girls like her, who had loved them. It would be a look back in time, but also a larger story of what it meant to be young and on top of the world. It would be a book about the phenomenon of the teen idol, told through the story of Jeff and his fellow Dreamers. Maybe she would interview some cultural historians or media experts who would comment on the power of TV back in the pre-Internet days. After all, girls back then could only see
Guitar Dreams
once a week, while girls today saw stars anytime they wanted, simply by googling them or going on Instagram or Netflix. Did that change the experience of falling in love with a teen celebrity? And why did preteen girls fall in love with teen idols anyway? Why was that experience so common? Maybe she would speak with an expert in adolescent psychology who could offer some thoughtful perspective.

And along the way, she would be spending time with Jeff Downs, visiting all the places he had talked about that morning. He could take her to that burger joint, Nate’s, if it still existed, and to the boardwalk where the cast took that ocean photo. They could see if those newspaper vending machines were still there. Maybe he would even introduce her to the Dreamers when he found them:
This is my friend Iliana.

It was decades after she had imagined such an experience, but it didn’t matter. It was his chance to make a comeback, but it was her chance too—her chance to make up for those horrible middle school years when Lizzie dumped her and no one cared. Her chance to step out of the self-pity she had been feeling for so long. Forget about Stuart blowing her off, forget about Jodi insisting that her professional life was over, which made Iliana feel discouraged and helpless. Forget about that horrible evening when she had meandered around the Connors’s cocktail party alone, watching Marc converse with women who were actually doing work that had an impact on the world. Now
she
would be putting herself out into the world and creating something that didn’t exist before. Now
she
would be in a position to make an impact.

Just before she had left for home, Jeff again raised the possibility of her meeting him in LA for a day or two to spend some time in the old Dreamers environment and get a closer feel for what his life had been like.

“I don’t know, Jeff,” she said. “I mean, my kids, my family. It’s hard to just pick up and go on a trip like this—”

“But you’re a writer. They know you’re a writer. Think how proud they’ll be when they see your name on a book cover.”

“There’s no guarantee this book will ever get published—”

“But you’re already writing an article about me. And once it’s published, it will be a hop, skip, and a jump to the next step. I bet the book publishers will be pounding at your door.”

“It doesn’t work like that—”

“Don’t you want to write a book?”

“Of course I do.”

“But how can you, if you don’t give yourself a shot?”

She shook her head as she picked up her coffee, and they walked out the door. She lifted the tab on the cup, and the steam rose in a soft, fragile trail.

“Think about it,” he told her as she climbed into her car. “Just do me that favor. Think about it for a little while before you say no. Okay? I think it would be awesome for both of us.”

Turning off the highway back in Scarsdale, Iliana knew she agreed with him. It would be good for her to go, to spend just two little days doing some research. Then she could come home in the best position possible to write a book that could sell. And yet, how could she possibly pull it off? What would she tell Marc—that she was flying to California to spend two days with a married ex-TV star who somehow believed she was a
Times
star reporter? Sure, she told herself sarcastically, that would work. And she hadn’t forgotten the big mess that occurred when she went to lunch with Jeff and missed Dara’s phone call. She could hear all the promises she had made to herself that she would never,
never
put her children second again. She couldn’t go back on that.

And then she remembered something else—March 13 was when that Connors workshop was set to start. She wasn’t free; she had to be in New Jersey that day. She had promised Marc she’d go, and he was annoyed with her already for getting drunk and mouthing off at the cocktail party. And she was still mad at him, too. They had both been walking on eggshells, scared to do or say something that might send the other one out the door. If she changed her plans and went to California instead of participating in the workshop with those flower-arranging women, it could be the last straw.

But going to New Jersey instead of being with Jeff sounded unbearable. Choosing colors and filling vases instead of walking on the beach, having burgers near the ocean, hearing more stories, imagining a fabulous book that couldn’t be written without
her
.
She was a great reporter, according to him. She was the writer he wanted to work with, and his confidence in her made her ego soar. Who knew where this book idea could lead? Who knew how many women might read it and feel that in telling the story of Jeff Downs from her own perspective, she had captured the story of their own lives: the confusion of being an adolescent girl trying to fit in, the sweet escape of a fantasy life with a cute boy whose sweet smile made your problems go away, the eventual ability to look back on those days with insight and affection? Who knew what this could mean for her? How could she say no?

Round and round the arguments went—go, don’t go, go, don’t go—with no resolution, until she got home and made her way to the computer. There in her in-box was an email from Julius Criss of the
Times
magazine. She wasn’t surprised it had come relatively soon—she knew that editors tended to get back to writers quickly when another editor on staff had suggested their name—and she decided right then that his response would be the deciding factor. If he liked the idea and he gave her a green light, she’d be able to truthfully tell Marc that she had a real, paid writing assignment. The prospective publication of her work in the
Times
would add legitimacy to her plans, and she would bow out of the workshop and go to California with a clear conscience. Even though Jeff had no experience in publishing, he was right that her byline in the
New York Times
could possibly open doors for a book deal. It would be a whole new ball game for her.

On the other hand, if Criss turned her down, the trip was off. There was no way she could truthfully make the case to Marc that she needed to withdraw from the Connors program and travel to California instead. She’d have to lie about an assignment, or lie about a possible book deal, or figure out some other fake reason to go, and that was a level of deceit she just couldn’t stomach. Her fate was in Julius Criss’s hands.

Trembling, she opened the email:

Dear Ms. Fisher:

Wish I could say yes, but it’s a little too light for our readership. Still, it’s worth pursuing. Have you thought about one of the women’s magazines—
More
,
Self
, maybe even Oprah’s magazine? Or if you like the business angle, how about
Entrepreneur
,
Fast Company
,
Forbes
? Online maybe—Slate.com or Salon.com? I think there’s a home for it somewhere! Good luck,

Julius

She read the email a second time and ultimately accepted the fact that no matter how nicely it was stated, a no was a no. And a deal was a deal. She had told herself that if the
Times
gave her a thumbs-down, she would abandon any thought of going to California—and sure enough, that was what happened. Enough was enough. It was time to disappear from Jeff’s life and move on to other things. The middle school orchestra concert was a week away and Matthew would be playing, that was something to look forward to. And Dara had upcoming volleyball games and probably needed new hair ribbons. She was always losing them. Plus, Iliana could come up with other article ideas and send some more queries out, and she could take on a few more local writing assignments in the meantime. That was still writing, wasn’t it? And of course, there was Jena Connors’s event to get ready for. She probably could use another outfit.

Sitting at the dining room table, she sank her forehead into her hands. The thing was, she really wanted to go to California. She really wanted just one more chance to explore that life she had yearned to have when she was young. Just one chance to enjoy those dreams for real, out in California with Jeff Downs and not just sitting in front of the TV on a Thursday night. But it was not going to happen. It was finally over. Without getting even the slightest shred of actual interest in her work, that was the only reasonable choice. After all, she had given the idea of writing about Jeff Downs her best shot. Hadn’t she?

Chapter 13

“Hey, stranger!” Jodi waved to her from the back booth. “Staying in town these days, I hope? No more abandoned children?”

It was a week after Iliana’s trip to Mount Kisco. She had tried hard during that time not to think about that day, because it made her feel so discouraged. She had tried hard to convince herself that she was better off forgetting about Jeff and pulling the plug on his whole story. What other choice did she have? She had received no outside endorsement that an article about Jeff Downs had merit, so it seemed unwise to pursue it, let alone begin a book. It would likely be a waste of time, and she’d end up disappointing them both. The fact was, publishing was a tough business. Magazines were shutting down left and right, and book publishers were consolidating all over the place. Traditional media companies were getting rid of staff, and tons of editors were joining the ranks of freelancers. There were too few publishers and too many writers hawking their projects.

Sliding into the booth, she shook off her coat and slid a mug along the table so the waitress could fill it. “No more abandoned children. Actually, I’m giving up the hunt for work.”

“No! You wanted it so much.”

“There’s nothing out there for me. It’s like you said, nobody hires women like us, who’ve been out of the workforce since forever. You were right. I give up.” She looked up at the waitress. “Whole-wheat toast, please.”

“Same for me,” Jodi said, pushing her menu to the edge of the table. She turned back to Iliana. “I’m sorry to hear you say that—”

“No bacon? What’s going on?”

“What I was trying to say is that I’m sorry to hear you say that because—you’ll never believe it—I got a job. Aaaah!” She raised her hands and jiggled her fingers with excitement, then tossed back the hair that cascaded forward.

Iliana felt her upper body collapse. “You got a job? You weren’t even looking!”

“I know, it’s insane! It’s because of Chelsea’s thing. I ended up talking to the lawyer for the landlord who’s renting Chelsea the new space because I had some questions. We got to chatting and the next thing I know, he’s asking me if I’d be interested in talking with him about joining his firm. It’s a great job, not partner, but I’m heading up my own section and I have two other lawyers reporting to me.”

“He’s giving you a
department
? When you haven’t worked anywhere in ten years?”

“He said my experience is strong and I’ll quickly pick up what I don’t know. I start in two weeks, can you believe it? And I still have to hire some help around the house and buy work clothes. More spin classes, too, gotta get back in shape. So I think this is it, pal. Our last breakfast.”

“That’s really something,” Iliana said. “Congratulations, Jo. It’s great news.” She pushed away the plate that the waitress set before her. She no longer had an appetite.

“And I owe it all to you,” Jodi said. “I never would have even considered going back if you hadn’t brought it up. You’ve always been the motivated one, always trying to do something different. And don’t worry; something will come along for you, too.”

“No, I don’t think so. But thanks.”

“And I gotta give up the PTA stuff, too! No more volunteering, I won’t have time. Which reminds me—I said I’d pick up refreshments for the hospitality table at the concert tonight, but there’s no way I’m going to get to it. Can you possibly do it for me?”

Iliana turned away, feeling her breath get heavy. She told herself she was not going to cry right here at the coffee shop. If she had to cry, it would wait until she got home.

“What, you’re upset because I got a job?” Jodi asked.

“No, of course not. I’m happy for you. I’m just tired.”

“Look, the boys are having dinner at the school before their final rehearsal, and doesn’t Dara’s team have an away game today? She won’t get back to the school until right around the time of the concert. You have the whole day. Go home and take a nap and then go back out to the store and do me this little favor. Please?”

Iliana nodded. After all, Jodi had been there for her when Dara got sick. “Fine. I’ll take care of it.”

“Great, Iliana, thanks. You’re the best.”

They paid the check and headed toward their cars, passing by Chelsea’s. Through the window, Iliana could see the corner of the desk that reminded her of her father, the one that Jodi had called a sentimental knockoff.

“See you later, and for God’s sake, cheer up,” Jodi said. “Something will come through for you. You never know what’s coming around the bend.”

The desk beckoned. Iliana turned away.

In the car, she decided to head right over to Super Stop & Shop and get the shopping done. A half hour later, she emerged from the store wheeling a cart holding four bags filled with packages of Chips Ahoy! cookies and six bags with gallon jugs of apple juice. As she started to haul the stash to her trunk, the cart rolled forward, and when she reached out to grab it she lost her grip on one of the bags sending a jug crashing to the ground. It exploded, splashing juice all over her pants, shoes, and coat. She went back into the store to get a replacement, and was just loading it into her trunk when a text from Jodi showed up:
Don’t forget the new allergy policy! You can only get cookies that aren’t made in a factory that processes nuts—read the labels!

So for the third time that morning she went back into the store and began searching for the right type of cookies. It took her nearly forty minutes to examine the packages along the entire cookie aisle, until she finally found a brand of sugar cookies that was safe. Then she had to argue with the store manager, who refused to take back any of the Chips Ahoy! packages because they were all at least slightly wet from the juice spill.

“
It’s your cashier’s fault, for making the bags too heavy,” she told him. “You’re going to lose the PTA as a customer. We’ll never shop from your store again!” He looked over her shoulder and asked to help the next person in line. He wasn’t even listening.

She drove to the school building and parked in the rear near the loading dock, before a custodian came running out to tell her she had to get a pass from security first. Obediently she drove around to the front of the building and parked in the lot, made her way to the security desk, and returned to the loading dock with a big, white “Visitor” sticker affixed to her coat. It took another twenty minutes for the custodian to show up again with a trolley so she could begin to unload.

When she had pulled the last bag out, she discovered Dara’s hair ribbons, squished into a corner of the trunk. She looked at her watch. It was twelve thirty, right in the middle of the sixth grade’s lunch period. She knew Dara wouldn’t be allowed to play in her volleyball game that afternoon without her team hair ribbons, so she decided to go inside and deliver them. No doubt Dara didn’t even yet realize that she didn’t have them.

Making her way through the school hallways and into the cafeteria, she surveyed the round and rectangular tables arranged on the huge floor. All the girls looked practically the same from the back, with their long, straight hair. Then she spotted Dara’s brown sweater, and she walked across the room to where Dara and her friends sat. She heard them talking as she approached the table.

“My cousin in Chicago met Brandon Ryde! Of that new band Amplify!”

“Awesome! How?”

“He was at a mall signing autographs.”

“Oh my God, when is he coming to New York?”

“I love him!” Dara said. “I have to go to their concert, and—
Mom!
” she exclaimed when one of her friends pointed in Iliana’s direction. She climbed off the bench and rushed over, obviously trying to put as much distance between her mother and the girls as possible. “What are you
doing
here?”

“I brought your ribbons,” Iliana said. “You left them in the car.”

“I know! It doesn’t matter. I was going to borrow.”

“Maybe no one has extras.”

“There’s always extras.”

“I thought that maybe—”

“Mom, I’m going to lose my spot if I don’t sit down. I’ll meet you in the lobby after my game, okay?” Dara snatched the ribbons and went back to the table.

Iliana turned and dragged herself back to the car. What was wrong with her, thinking that Dara would be happy to see her? Girls in sixth grade didn’t want their mothers at school. It wasn’t like when Dara was eight and would beg Iliana to help out in the lunchroom, serving pizza, or in the school library, checking out books. Iliana realized that when
she
was in middle school, the one thing that definitely would have made lunch worse would have been if her mother had shown up to give her something. That would have made her even more of an outcast. She was lucky Dara had even gotten up and talked to her at all.

She drove back home and entered the house just as her cell phone rang. The caller ID showed the school’s number. What now?

It was Matthew. “Mom, I forgot my violin again. Can you bring it over?”

Iliana leaned over the kitchen counter, her forehead in her palm, her eyes closed. “Matthew, I can’t. I was just there. I’m not coming back again, you’ll have to borrow.”

“But Mom—”

“I can’t, do you get it? You’ve forgotten that thing too many times.”

“But Mom—”

“I don’t feel well, Matt. I think I’m sick.”

“But Mom—”

“Find a way to borrow one. I’ll see you at the concert tonight.”

She hung up the phone and walked up to her bedroom. She pulled back the covers and climbed into bed.

Later that afternoon, she took a shower, made sandwiches for Marc and Dara since there’d be no time for a real dinner, and went to pick up Marc at the train station. She gave him his sandwich, and he wolfed it down as they headed to the school for the concert. It had been a horrible day. She hoped the evening would be better. She liked Matt’s concerts. It was fun seeing the orchestra improve year after year.

They parked and found Dara in the school lobby, then walked into the auditorium and found seats. Iliana handed Dara her sandwich and then scanned the stage, looking for Matthew. He usually sat on the left side, but tonight he wasn’t there. Had they moved the violins? But no, she saw Jodi’s son, Zach, and the other violin players, right where they always were.

“Where’s Matt?” she asked Dara. “Do you see him?”

Dara pointed to the front row of the auditorium, all the way on the left. Matt was sitting by himself, wearing his concert tuxedo and looking straight ahead at the orchestra onstage.

“Why’s he there?” Marc said, leaning over Iliana. “Why isn’t he playing?”

“Because Mom wouldn’t bring his violin to school. Mr. Finn said anyone without an instrument couldn’t play in the concert.”

“What?”
Iliana turned to Dara. “How do you know that?”

“I saw him when our bus got back from the game.”

“But it can’t be true. When he told me he forgot it, I told him to borrow a school one.”

“They weren’t tuned.”

“Mr. Finn was supposed to have them tuned for concert week.”

“I guess he didn’t. And he’s taking a letter grade off from anyone who wasn’t prepared.”

“Why didn’t Matt call me back, then?”

“Maybe he didn’t have a chance.”

“If you knew all this, why didn’t
you
call?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, I was with my team. Don’t blame me; it’s not my fault.”

Iliana pressed her fingertips to her head. She had put Jeff Downs out of her mind, she had decided to commit herself fully to her kids and her husband—but even then, even after deciding to do just that, she was still screwing up. And her kids were still suffering. Because she was their mom. She turned to Marc, her heart racing, her eyes filling. “Oh my God, what did I do? What did I do to him?”

Marc raised his arms and then dropped them into his lap. “Nothing you can do about it now.”

“I feel terrible. He wanted to play.”

“Then why didn’t you drop off the violin?”

“I didn’t feel well. I had apple juice all over me, and the smell was making me sick. It’s hard for me to be there for all of you all the time. We talk about what I can do to make things easier for you, but we never talk about what you can do for me.”

“What, was I supposed to run home from the city to drop off his violin?”

“Mom, Dad,”
Dara murmured. “Stop already,
please
?”

Iliana looked at her daughter, who had sunk down in her seat. People must have been looking their way. She had once again embarrassed Dara.

Marc reached into her lap and took her hand. “Look, it’s no big deal,” he said. “He’s a big kid, he should be responsible for remembering his own violin. He’ll get over it. Don’t feel so bad.”

“But I
do
feel bad,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I can’t feel better just because you tell me to.”

He shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. “I was only trying to help,” he said.

The lights went down, and the music started, but Iliana didn’t take in any of it. She didn’t hear one note the orchestra played, not one clap of applause from the audience or one whistle of approval at the end of a piece. She didn’t see one bow slide or one finger press, didn’t see one wave of Mr. Finn’s baton. All she saw was Matt, his face visible from the stage lights bouncing off the instruments, as he sat straight up in his seat, watching his friends play.