Claire Voyant (12 page)

“W
AIT, WAIT, WAIT.”
I
SAT UP IN BED TO ARGUE AT EYE LEVEL WITH THE
ER nurse. “You just told me my vital signs are back to normal. Blood pressure is good. Nothing fishy in my urine…
no more hallucinations
…why can't I leave?”

“Because I'm recommending that you be seen by Dr. Hanley. She's an excellent neurologist on staff. She'll probably order a head CT scan.”

“Sounds fun…but it will have to wait until tomorrow. No, wait. I have a funeral. How's Thursday? Is she here on Thursdays?”

“Miss Greene, please. I understand that you want to go home, believe me. No one wants to spend the day in an emergency room. But now that you're here, you really should be throughly examined. We're very concerned about—”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know. Internal injuries. But I'm fine. I'm not even dizzy anymore.”

“You can't wait another ten minutes to see Dr. Hanley? She's on her way down from surgery.”

“I have no insurance.”
That will scare her!

“Don't worry. Your parents are in the waiting room. They said they'd take care of everything.”

“My parents are here? Damn!”

“They seem very concerned.”

“Of course. That's their specialty! Acting concerned…. Look, I know you're just doing your job, and I respect that. But there is someplace I really, really have to be in a little while.”

“What time?” The nurse checked her watch.

Lovely! This was going to be like bear-wrestling, minus the beer. “I'm getting picked up around five-thirty. But you know the drill. First I have to shower, get dressed, do my makeup, my hair…”

“And this date is more important than your safety and well-being?”

Now I get it. You used to teach sixth-grade health
. “It's not a date. It's a meeting. And yes, as a matter of fact, it's very important to me on both a personal and a professional level. See how smart I sound? How brain-impaired could I be?”

“Okay,” she sighed. “You win. I'll sign your discharge papers, but you have to promise to call Dr. Hanley's office first thing tomorrow to set up an appointment.” She scribbled a number on a pad. “And have these two prescriptions filled right away.” She tore two more sheets off the pad. “And call us immediately if you experience any symptoms. Fever, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, dry mouth, fatigue, blurred vision…I'm giving you my private number here.” She wrote it down on the same paper. “So don't give me any BS about not being able to get through the switchboard.”

“Yes, ma'am!” I saluted. “Thank you so much, Nurse. I really appreciate your support.”

“And go easy on your parents.” She patted my arm. “They seem genuinely concerned.”

“Absolutely…. Is there like a back-door exit, or some other way out of here?”

“Not unless you're being rolled out on a gurney with a tag around your toe.”

 

Yes, I'm an actress. And a damn good one. I'm versatile, quick on my feet, and if I do say so, very intuitive. I “get” the subtle nuances the writer intended. But no matter how many times I'd read Uta Hagen's
A Challenge for the Actor,
no matter how many actors' studios I'd attended, I didn't think I could walk out there and maintain the kind of
subversive cool needed to greet my parents and not unleash a torrent of angry words.

For at that moment I felt so numb and disconnected, I was sure this unscripted, unrehearsed scene could easily turn into a final curtain. And if I deserved anything, it was a chance to have more than twenty coherent seconds to absorb all that had happened to me.

One day I was humming along as Claire Greene, actress/failure, and next thing I knew, this macabre chain of events completely knocked me off my not-shapely-enough-to-be-in-a-movie ass, and I was suddenly Alice in Disasterland. Somehow I had slid down the wrong hole, because I recognized nothing and no one. This was NOT MY LIFE.

My life was in L.A., and I wanted to be back there. Speed dating in Westwood. Shopping for booby dresses on Melrose with Sydney. Having a romantic dinner in one of those huge hideaway booths at the Bungalow Club. Or, the best indulgence, splurging on a $350 haircut at José Eber, just 'cause.

That's where I belonged. Not in some emergency room in Miami. And yet, that's where I was. Praying that I survived the ordeals to come after walking out of the ER. Almost immediately I heard the sound of my mother's voice. That whiny, high-pitched tone that always signaled some level of disapproval.

I took a deep breath.
Claire,
I told myself,
it's too soon to fold. You are great Kate Hepburn in
The Philadelphia Story.
Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca.
Penny Nichol in
Don't Do as I Do.
On second thought, scratch that
.

“Claire. We're over here.” My mother waved as if I were a sailor coming ashore after years at sea. “Don't move. We'll come to you.”

“Hi.” I stiffened as the Greene/Moss family trio hugged me.

“Oh my God, Claire. You look terrible,” she gasped. “Pale as a ghost.”

“Thanks.”

“What did they tell you?” my father, Mr. Cut-to-the-Chase, asked. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need any surgery? Physical therapy?”

“I'm fine.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

“I just have to call this neurologist in a few days.”

“
Oy,
here we go with the specialists,” my mother groaned. “First they make you crazy with getting the referrals, then they tell you there's no co-pay, but a month later they send a bill for five dollars…. Let's just make sure this doctor is on our plan.”

“Yeah,” my father said. “And what about the billing department? Do we need to stop in before you leave?”

“No, Dad. That's why they call it billing. Because they bill you.”

“Okay, good, then.” My mother clapped. “How about we all go out for a nice dinner?”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Almost three,” my father said. “Too early for dinner.”

“Fine.” My mother agreed. “Then we'll drive down to South Beach and have a nice lunch.”

“What's the matter?” My father sneered. “Afraid of missing a meal?”

“No. Afraid of thinking of someone other than yourself? Claire hasn't eaten all day.”

“Oh. Right. Sure. Yeah. Fine. Let's go for lunch. But I'm not
schlepping
all the way down to the beach to pay twelve dollars for a lousy chicken Caesar salad that's got three little pieces of chicken.”

“Ha! Since when do you order a salad? You'll get a cheeseburger deluxe platter like always.”

Just keep breathing, Claire. In. Out. In. Out
. “Can we please go back to Grams' now?”

“Don't you want to stop for a bite?” My mother pleaded. “You really have to start taking better care of yourself.”

“This had nothing to do with how I take care of myself, Mommy.” I choked on the
M
word.

“Yeah,” Grams said. “It's because the son-of-bitch cleaning girl made the tub so slippery. Every week I tell her, rinse it good. You want me to fall and break my neck? And see what happened?”

“So you'll find a new girl.” My father shrugged, as if the answer to
all his mother-in-law's problems were a better class of household help.

“Can we please leave now?” I said. “I have something to do later, and I need to get ready.”

“Where are you rushing?” my mother whined. “You just got out of the hospital.”

“No, I just got out of the ER. It's not the same thing…and I have a business meeting.”

“What kind of business meeting?” My father looked at his watch again. “You don't even have a job. Which reminds me. I do have a job…and Marvin is probably tearing his hair out trying to juggle my appointments and his. I'd better call the office…. Okay. Let's get the hell out of here…. I can't even make a lousy cell phone callin this place.”

“Nobody can,” I sniffed. “It's a hospital…hello?”

“Well, whatever…. Hey. This will cheer you up, Claire. I picked up a convertible at the airport. I had to pay through the nose, but I figured, what the hell? How often do you get to ride with the top down?”

“Yeah, because nobody drives a convertible in California.”

“Well, you don't live there anymore…. I just thought—”

“Cut the crapola, missy.” Grams gave me the eye.

“That was very sweet of you,” I sighed. “Nothing better than a convertible ride.”

 

“Please tell me you didn't tell them you told me,” I whispered to Grams as we walked through the parking lot. “'Cause I am not ready to deal with any of this shit right now. You got it?”

“What do you mean, me tell 'em? You should be the one to tell 'em.”

“Me? Why should I do it? You're the one who opened this whole can of worms.”

“What are you girls whispering about?” My mother caught up to us. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I replied. “Never been better. You?”

But before I could say another word, my father was demanding details on this so-called business meeting I was attending. What was so important that I had to drop everything and run? If he had to cancel
all his appointments, the least I could do was stick around to explain what the hell was going on with Grams' apartment and the gun.

And what about my plane ride?
I thought.
Don't you want to hear all about my Close Encounter of the Third Grandfather? After all, he was the real reason you two rushed down here
.

“I'll explain everything in the car.” I resisted the urge to get nasty. “But I'm leaving at five.”

“Well, if you ask me, I think you should cancel,” Grams said when we reached the car. “Whadaya gotta go and start trouble for?”

“I'm not starting trouble, and nobody asked you.”

“
Oy
. You call this an automobile?” Grams suddenly focused on the silver convertible. “How we all gonna fit in there? It looks like one of them little cars at the circus. The ones the midgets go in.”

“There's plenty of room, Gert,” my father snapped. “It's a five-passenger vehicle.”

“Yeah, but have you looked in the mirror lately? You and Roberta got so fat, you're like two people each.”

“WE'LL ALL FIT, GERT!” He enunciated each word. “Get in!”

“Ma. Enough already. You sit in front. I'll go in the back with Claire.”

Just keep breathing, Claire. In. Out. In. Out
.

Grams belted herself in, then gave me her famous look. The one that meant,
Don't say nothin' about nothin', you hear?
Then she barked an order at my father. “Watch your speed, sonny boy. My luck, you'll hit a tree and I'll fly out.”

“Oh,” I said. “Then maybe we should switch.”

 

Wow, wow, wow. Say what you would about Marly having been born Couture, Princess of Entitlement. The girl could shop! I gasped when the doorman handed me three large shopping bags and a note that said,
Hope you love everything. See you tonight
. She signed her name starting with a big, loopy
M,
and ended with a chain of
X
's and
O
's.

When I peeked inside, there was an assortment of T-shirts, skirts, slacks, a jacket, and the most amazing black patent mules I'd ever
seen. Good Lord. How much had she spent? Easily a few thousand dollars. And was she suggesting it was all mine to keep? I swear, if I didn't know all too well the repercussions of fainting, I would have passed out again.

“What is all that
chazeray
?” My father saw the Versace logo on one of the bags and immediately assumed that the contents had somehow cost him.

“A friend did me a favor,” I said matter-of-factly.

“What friend? You've been here less than two days. And besides, you don't know anyone down here.”

“Lenny, stop badgering her,” my mother yelled. “If she says she has friends, she has friends. Why do you always have to question her? Not everything is your business.”

“Yeah!” he snorted. “Until she needs money. Then it's suddenly my business!”

 

I frankly thought I'd done a decent job preparing them for seeing Grams' empty apartment. In fact, I know I had specifically said that all the furniture was gone, and that there were packed boxes everywhere. And yet, from the way they reacted when they walked through the door, you would have thought it was coming as a complete surprise.

My mother shrieked, my father cursed, and Grams started yelling at both of them to keep their goddamn voices down before nosy-neighbor Lillian called the cops again.

“You've done it, Gert. You've completely lost your mind!” My father's temples pulsed.

“Mother, this is so insulting. How could you get rid of all your good pieces and not even ask me if I wanted any of them? You know how much Iris loved your dressing table, and I would have gladly taken the dining room set.”

“Mommy, stop it,” I said. “This is not about you.”
This is a recording
.

“Exactly,” my father agreed. “It's not about you, Roberta…. But no matter what, Gert, you have to get it all back. Call José, or Jesús, or whoever the hell you gave it to, and tell him you made a big mistake, and you need everything back right away.”

“No!” Grams cried. “I can't do that. He don't live around here.”

“Well, how far away could he live? He didn't ship the stuff to Cuba! He probably strapped it to the back of a pickup and drove it somewhere. So call him up and tell him to get the hell back here.”

“Lives near Stewart someplace….”