Faking Life Page 11

  “You're sure about that? There isn't another Chen you're confusing? Maybe it's Chan, not Chen.”

  “Only Chen or Chan is Phillip.”

  “There must be some mistake, hold on.” John pulled out his phone and dialed his father's cell number. After five rings, John caught his breath as he heard a voice answer. A voice that sounded like it had been woken from deep sleep.

  “John?” He sounded surprised. What the fuck was going on? “John, it's five in the morning, what's going on?”

  John cupped a hand over his forehead. “Dad, what do you…where's mom?”

  “She's right here, do you need her? What happened, John?” How could she be…

  “You mean she's there, at home, with you? But…” He heard a groggy voice ask who was on the phone. His mother's voice. What the fuck?

  “John?” His mother's voice, tired but clean and healthy. “Is everything alright sweetie? Howcome the only time you call us is so late?”

  “Mom, you're not in the hospital?”

  “Good God no! Don't say such things. What's the matter? Is someone sick?”

  “Nothing, Mom. Go back to bed. I'll call you tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure dear? I can…”

  “Goodnight, Mom.” He clicked the phone off. The desk clerk was shaking his head. John stood there, his legs like rubber. He heard the clerk snort.

  “What's funny?” The man leaned back, sipped his coffee.

  “I'm not laughing, my man. But it sounds like somebody's having a little fun at your expense.”

  Chapter Ten

  When Esther was sixteen, she informed her parents that she'd be eloping with her boyfriend Gerry Runyon and moving to Fairbanks, Alaska. She'd been dating Gerry for what she believed to be a High School record two and a half years, and was convinced they were destined to live in a quiet suburb with a blue picket fence (white was far too boring), a dog named Skip and four children (she preferred to round upwards from 2.4). She wasn't sure if all this was possible in Alaska—she knew little about the terrain other than what she read in each year's Iditarod roundup—but getting away was most important. She didn't care about semantics.

  By that age her parents were used to such outrageous proclamations, her father having worked in psychiatric hospital for twenty-five years and her mother being a beautician at a local department store with years of hyperbolic gossip under her belt. When Esther informed them of her plans over Thursday meatloaf, she expected yelling, screaming, and maybe even revocation of her curfew. That outcome was exactly what she wanted, and expected. Another reason to defy them, another reason spend the rest of her life abroad with a boy she'd never let see her completely naked.

  She'd wanted to sleep with Gerry, but preferred to wait until the night of their elopement. She'd saved almost six hundred dollars from various babysitting jobs, and Gerry's band, a good 'ol Rock N' Roll quartet named Funk Contusion, looked like they had a chance to make it big, having placed third out of fifteen high school bands in a local talent competition. Gerry hadn't really considered the ramifications of living outside the continental U.S. would have on his music, but hey, love hurts, and if they fulfilled their dreams by moving far away from their respective parents (without having to have their passports stamped), they knew they'd have to make a few sacrifices. Esther figured Gerry could write songs while she baby-sat Eskimo children, and by the time things blew over and they saved some money, they could return stateside and resume their lives. Happily. Ever. After.

  On paper it was a great plan. Just like in It Happened One Night, one of Esther's favorite movies, starring the gorgeous Clark Gable. They'd hitchhike home and fall deeper in love on their way to a better life.

  Yet Esther's drama didn't make it past the first turn when, after that fateful dinner, she decided to call the whole thing off.

  Less than a week later she broke up with Gerry who, in turn, quit his band and subsequently raised his GPA to 3.7. Years later, upon his acceptance to Stanford law, he gave up the guitar altogether. Last Esther heard he was an assistant district attorney in Los Angeles. And he was married. Four kids.

  To Esther's surprise, her parents barely batted an eyelash when she unabashedly announced (making sure they were mid-chew to stifle any sudden outbursts of profanity), “I'm moving to Alaska with Gerry and we're gonna get married and have kids. I hope you're not mad at me.”

  Rather than spit out his Stouffers—the reaction Esther anticipated—her father finished chewing, daintily wiped a spot of ketchup from the corner of his mouth, and said, “Well dear, if you think that's what's best, I hope it works out.” Her mother nodded.

  At first she was shocked by their lack of emotion. She'd expected heavy yelling and screaming about her stunning lack of responsibility. They were supposed to rant and rave about how Gerry was a no-goodnik who wouldn't make a cent and they'd end up living in a cardboard box in the middle of a snowy tundra. Deep down, that was the response she'd been hoping for.

  Esther knew they'd noticed her late night phone calls. She made sure of it, leaving her door cracked open so her mother would see her lying face up on the bed, her head dangling off the end, her feet kicking in the air as she whispered sweet nothings to her boyfriend she wasn't sure she was truly in love with.

  When dinner was over and the dishes had been washed, Esther retreated to her room, smothered her face in a lacy throw pillow, and cried. She thought she'd locked the door, but her mother entered soon after. She sat down on the edge of the bed, stroking Esther's hair as though it were made from threads of fine silk. Esther's scalp tingled and her tears slowly dried up.

  “Hon, do you want to talk about what you said at the table?” she'd asked. Esther kept her face buried in the pillow, but shook her head violently. Her mother sighed, kept stroking her hair, and gently kissed her cheek. “Are you unhappy with us, or is it something else?” She didn't reply.

  Finally Esther lifted the pillow. Her mother took a tissue and wiped her face. She felt ashamed, a child so in need of acceptance by her family that she threatened to abandon them. She could only imagine the heartbreaking look in her own eyes as her mother gathered her up into her soft bosom and squeezed until all of Esther's tears were flushed out.

  “I know we don't always see eye to eye,” she said. Esther looked into her mother's eyes. They were startlingly blue and made her want to cry all over again. She pressed a finger softly against Esther's lips, cooing gently. “But you don't run away when you disagree with someone, especially when it's someone you love. You stay with them and make things right. Your father and I love you with all our hearts and we're always open to anything you have to say, even if it is about a boyfriend. I know you don't really open up to us, but someday you will. And we'll be here when you do.”

  “Mom,” Esther choked. “I don't want to talk to you about boys.” She laughed and kissed Esther again, her warm lips melting away Esther's paper-thin façade.

  “Est, don't you know I had boyfriends too? You think I've been with your father since I was born? I can't say I know much about this…Gerry…but I was sixteen once too. You have your whole life ahead, with or without this Gerry. But when you find yourself in love with something or someone, whether it's your parents, a boy, or even your favorite doll, you hold onto it as long as you can and you never run away from it. That's what true love is sweetie, never running away, even when you feel you should. Because just when you think your love isn't there for you, it is there, loving you right back, just as strong.”

  Her mother's words, vivid as an afternoon daydream, played in Esther's head as she entered the offices of Vanetti Literati. Last night she was horrified to see the amused face of Frank Menegaro, wearing a dusty old Yankees hat, grinning over John Gillis's prone body. A wave of nausea had coursed through her as Frank stared. Right away, she knew Nico had put him up to it.

  It had kept her up half the night. She would storm into the office first thing on Monday and give notice. Yet as she thought about John, after he'd left
with barely a word, Esther began to have doubts. Her mother's words rang in her ears. You don't abandon the ones you love.

  Esther loved his memoir. She loved what it was and loved what it could be. She knew there were thousands, maybe millions of people just like John, questioning their place in the grand scheme of things, waiting for a lamp to light the way. He was so real, so authentic, as though every word was spoken for her ears alone. And from a business perspective, she knew she wouldn't be the only one who felt that way. John's story was something so many people could identify with. They would read it and know they weren't alone, that they had stories too.

  You don't quit on the ones you love. You love them until you have no more love to give. You see them through and guide them to the light.

  If Nico couldn't properly guide John Gillis, then it was Esther's duty to. She would take the reigns on the project. She'd done it on several others that had fallen off Nico's radar. The only question was whether she could pull it off at the proper level. She didn't have the contacts and personal relationships he did, and this was the type of book where it was imperative to get the right people talking.

  When Esther walked into the office, Nico was buried in a manuscript, hunched over his desk and scribbling on a notepad. Interruption was forbidden when he was concentrating. Esther knew this, but she plopped down in the chair across from him and simply waited to be acknowledged. She didn't see Frank on her way in. Nico probably gave him Monday off. Probably for the best. If she saw him right now, she'd be tempted to throw a lamp at his head. She looked at the bare wall where Clarence Watters's contract used to hang. One evening it was there, luminous as ever, then the next morning gone. No explanation. Esther asked him once, and Nico merely said it doesn't fit there anymore.

  “Do you need something to read?” Nico asked, pointing to a stack of manuscripts towering behind his desk. “If you can take any of these off my hands I'd appreciate it.” Esther said nothing. Finally he looked up. “Well, what is it?”

  “You could have hurt someone last night, Nic.”

  “Beg your pardon?” Her blood began to boil.

  “Please. Don't pretend you had nothing to do with Frank showing up at John Gillis's bar last night. Please don't lie to me, because I saw what happened and you're getting too involved.”

  Nico leaned back, removed his reading glasses, and carefully folded them on top of the manuscript. He wiped his eyes and spoke in a careful tone.

  “Frank and I had a chat the other day about the future of this project. We both feel it has outstanding potential, and as its representatives our job is not only to see it receives proper attention, but to ensure the material is of peak quality. I've had numerous conversations with people in acquisitions, and I can sense worth of mouth beginning to spread. I've gotten four calls asking when I'll be sending the material out and just this morning I rejected a six-figure preempt. I like where John's story is going, and I'm confident it's the best one for the project and for the agency.”

  “But you're manipulating him, Nic. Your job is to help John, not to mess with his life.” Nico shook his head and made a tsk tsk noise, as though ashamed Esther would insinuate such a thing.

  “Esther, let me ask you something. Have I, or Frank, in any way, rewritten Gillis's manuscript? Have we ever told Gillis what we wanted to be in it? Every word on the page is his, written by him, based on his experiences. It's one hundred percent his story. All we're doing is coaxing it out of him.”

  She wasn't sure whether or not to believe him. He was so coercive, but she couldn't figure out what his underlying motivations were. Did he truly believe he was doing the right thing, or was he simply out of options?

  “I don't understand Nic. What do you need to 'coax out of him'?”

  “The story, Esther, the story. Right now all we have is a compilation of pieces about a twenty-something who wants to put his life on track. That story might sell for a reasonable amount. But if we want this thing to hit, and hit big, we need to see a character arc. Right now I have almost two hundred pages of manuscript, but Gillis still has the same job, makes the same salary, and has all the hang-ups and limitations as eight million other New Yorkers. I don't want to hear about limitations. I want to hear about extraordinary. It's all well and good that he wants to do something with his life, but if I don't see it then I'm going to make him see it.”

  “So where does Frank throwing chicken wings and tripping him play in all that? Does 'making him see it' involve hurting him? Embarrassing him?” Nico laughed and folded his hands in his lap.

  “Don't get melodramatic; nobody got hurt. So he got a little bump on the leg.” Nico gestured towards the door. Esther got up and closed it. “Personally, I think Frank means well. That's why I asked him to help out. He understands the situation.” Nico paused, waiting to see if Esther would respond. When she didn't, he continued. “But one thing Frank doesn't have is your intuition, your vision. Esther, you have what can't be taught, and that's what drew you to John in the first place. Frank might need a little more, well, direction, but the idea itself is right. To knock some sense into him, so to speak. And while physical interaction wasn't my intended goal, the idea is correct. It added some spontaneity to John's night that might not have been there otherwise.”

  “What if he doesn't want to have some sense knocked into him?” Nico shook his head and replied, his eyes gentle, his tone soothing.

  “Esther, this isn't something he has a say in. It's going to happen around him, not to him. We create the idea, we set it in motion, and he reacts. That's all. None of it's really real. People don't want real. They want to be entertained. And while Gillis's book is real, it could be a heck of a lot more entertaining.” Esther took a deep breath and melted into her seat. She didn't know what else to say. The energy she'd amassed on the commute had been sucked out of her. Yet she couldn't help but wonder what if Nico was right?

  “I still don't understand,” she said softly, looking up at him. “Where do I fit in?”

  “You fit in the same way you have been. But try picking things up a notch. You like this Gillis?” Nico extended his hands. “Show him you like him. You're a smart, pretty girl Esther. You're exactly what he's been looking for. If anyone can coax a story out of him, you can.”

  Frank showed up at the office at quarter past noon. He strode in wearing a custom gray pinstripe suit with white athletic socks under spiffy Bruno Maglis. He didn't say a word to Esther, just went his desk, sat down, then got back up and poured a cup of water from the cooler. He gargled, then returned and put his feet up on the desk. After twiddling his thumbs for five minutes, he stood up and went back to the cooler.

  As he passed her desk, Esther muttered just loud enough, “Yankees, Frank?”

  He stopped next to her, a little too close for comfort. He put the cup down and placed his hands on his hips. “What's wrong with the Yankees?”

  “You're from Boston, Frank.”

  “Yeah, and as a Bostonian I'm smart enough to know that if I walk into a New York bar wearing a Red Sox hat I'll leave with a fractured skull and an empty wallet.”

  “That's not the point.”

  “So what is the point?”

  “Why were you at the bar last night?” Frank shrugged and sipped his water.

  “Felt like a drink. Is that wrong?”

  “You could have hurt him. And you saw the owner, he was really pissed.”

  “Maybe so. Whatever. I didn't tell him to call me an asshole. And let me ask you this, Esther,” he said condescendingly. “Why were you there?”

  “That's none of your business.”

  “Come on. I was there doing research. But why were you there? Curiosity? Please.” He sipped the water and gargled.

  “I had my reasons,” she said, now sorry she'd gotten called attention to herself. She didn't want to see Frank today, last night, or as a matter of fact, ever again.

  “What reasons are those?” Frank seemed to realize he'd touched a nerve. Though Esther
didn't care one bit what he thought—Frank could assume she was stalking John and it wouldn't bother her—she began to wonder why exactly she was there Saturday night.

  “I have my reasons,” she said, avoiding eye contact in the hope that he'd realize how terribly unwanted he was at that moment. Of course, he didn't.

  “Well, should we chalk it up to, ahem, professional curiosity then?”

  “Chalk it up to whatever you want, I don't care,” she said, glaring at him. She tapped her fingernails against the desk. “Don't you have work to do?”

  “Yes, I do. Just got a proposal from a Times columnist who's writing a book about how the U.S. can lower unemployment by banning self-help books. I think it could work.”

  “Yeah, well good luck with that.”

  When Frank left, Esther plowed through the queries with reckless abandon. Two dozen went right to Nico, who signed rejection slips that Esther sealed and sent out immediately.

  When she left at six-fifteen, the sun was still peeking through the evening shade, the golden hues keeping watch behind the emerging dullness. She crossed Broadway and took the E train to West 4th. When she emerged from the dank tunnels the sky had filled with gray mist. The moon was hidden behind angry clouds. She buttoned up her coat and trudged on.

  Esther walked west until she arrived at Slappy's Slop House, the blue awning flapping gently in the faint breeze. She needed to know why John left so abruptly the other night. And she needed to know why she was risking her conscience to help him.

  She pushed the door inward and glanced around. There was no sign of John. The only person behind the bar was a pudgy albino with straggly blond hair, a t-shirt barely concealing a stomach that spilled over his jeans like pancake batter. She set her coat on a hanger and took a stool, hoping John might be on a break or in the bathroom. The bartender didn't pay her any mind, just kept patting his belly as though the contact alone might melt off the flab.

  “Excuse me,” Esther said, after rapping on the bar and playing with her hair had garnered no attention. He came over, seemingly irked that she'd interrupted his daydream of one day appearing in an ad for Gold's Gym.