The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) (2 page)

“Thanks, Stan. Franny probably wants to talk to me about a project I auditioned for.”

Stan raised his thick, black, wiry unibrow and said, “You’re leaving the show?”

I kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry, Stan. I could never leave you or
St. Joe’s
. Well, I could never leave
you
.” We both laughed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere!” He rubbed his cheek.

“It’s a hiatus project,” I explained. I have to be extremely careful, because our contracts are up for renewal, and I don’t want to feed the rumor mill and muddy up the negotiations.

Stan smiled. “Gotta get back on set. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

After he left, I threw myself on the couch, took another deep breath to try to alleviate the Jamie Pain, and picked up my Blackberry.

Eight missed calls, six from Franny and two from a New York number I didn’t recognize. I dialed Franny first and got her assistant, Amy.

“Hi, Amy, it’s Lily, Fra—”

Amy cut me off. “Oh, Lily, thank God, Fran really needs to talk to you. I’ll get her.”

That was beyond strange. Amy is known to be
the
number-one chatterbox west of La Cienega Boulevard. I often dread calling because I end up hearing her gush about her latest love or complain about how hard her job is or what a shit Franny can be at times.

I got off lucky that day—so I knew something earth- shaking must be happening. Was it that role? Did I get the job? Was she calling about a screen test? The Jamie Pain was temporarily replaced by a shitload of butterflies, flapping viciously against one another.

“Lily, oh honey.” Franny’s raspy, smoker’s voice sounded more breathless than usual.

“Franny, what the—”

“Lily, listen! It’s your mother. She’s been in a really bad car accident.”

At that moment, everything in the room got very far away, and that was the moment I entered into what I can only now describe as a big, blurry bubble.

Something about my mother driving westbound on the Long Island Expressway… it was raining…hit the divider…car flipped over…

My mind was racing. I’d the words but couldn’t fully comprehend what Franny was telling me. I finally willed myself out of the bubble and managed to pull myself together.

“What happened to her? Where is she?”

“She was airlifted to University Hospital.”

“Airlifted??” I screamed. Chills traveled up my spine and I started to sweat. “What’s the number to the hospital? I have to speak to her now.”

“Lily, listen to me! I have a car waiting outside to take you to LAX. The driver has all the information. You must leave now to get on the 4:30 p.m. flight to JFK.”

“But…but I have two scenes left today. I don’t have any clothes. I have my toothbrush.” I bent over and held my stomach. “I feel sick.”

“Take a few deep breaths.” She was trying hard to sound calm, probably so I wouldn’t dive head first into the deep end— which I was warming up to do.

“Everything’s being taken care of. Amy’s on the phone with the production office right now, telling them what’s going on. All you have to do is grab a couple of things from your dressing room and leave. Call me from the car.”

I couldn’t move or speak. I stared at a painting on the opposite wall.

“Lily, hang up the phone. The driver is right outside the stage door—Go!” Franny commanded.

I hung up, ran to the sink, grabbed my toothbrush and my makeup, and then started circling the room. What the hell did I need? Then it hit me! My mother, my wonderful mother—my crazy lunatic of a mother—my staunchest supporter and sometimes my harshest critic—had been airlifted to a hospital!

I’d forgotten to ask Franny how badly hurt my mother was. I was still in wardrobe, so I took off the dress, kicked off my shoes, and practically ripped off my pantyhose. Someone knocked on the dressing room door.

“Lily, it’s Bob.”

“One minute, I’m just getting changed.” I threw on my jeans and a tee and opened the door. Bob Goldsmith, the show’s director, walked in and gave me a bear hug.

“Oh, baby, I just heard—this is terrible, Lil. Are you okay?” I shook my head and started crying.

“Christ, this is some shock.” He looked into my eyes. “But you and I both know Daisy is one tough lady—she’ll pull through okay. And while she’s on the mend, she’ll totally restructure the hospital so that it runs more efficiently. And she’ll be her charming, wonderful self so they won’t know what hit ‘em. Take it from me, I know firsthand!”

We both smiled, thinking of all the hours of negotiations to which Mom had subjected the producers and Bob, until finally my contract was acceptable to her. In the end, she managed to get them all to respect and even adore her.

“Put your shoes on, I’ll walk you out,” he said. He accompanied me to the town car and kissed me on the cheek. “Tell Daisy we send our love. Our prayers are with you and your mother, honey.” Bob stood there as we pulled away, wiping tears from his eyes, just as I had suspected he would.

Our prayers are with you and your mother
. No one had ever said those words to me or to my mother—and certainly not
about
my mother.

Oh God, I wished Jamie were there. Just to hold me, so I could lean into him and let him take over and get me where I needed to be. The phone rang.

“Lily.” It was Franny. “How’re you doing, honey? Are you in the car?”

“Uh-huh.” I looked out the window. We were leaving Warner Brothers Studio and passing the security gate. Vinnie, the guard, waved at me.

“Franny, tell me again what happened.”

“Well, I don’t know much,” she replied. “I got a call from your mother’s doctor in the hospital. She wasn’t conscious when they brought her in.”

“Oh God.” I felt another rush of nausea.

“They went through her wallet and you were listed as an emergency contact. I was listed as a backup, in case they couldn’t get through to you. They left you a few messages while you were on set. From what he said, I gathered that she was driving west on the Long Island Expressway and—”

“She must’ve been going from Southold to the apartment in the city,” I interrupted.

“Could be, I don’t know.” I heard Amy in the background. Franny held her hand over the receiver and I heard her say, “Tell him I can’t talk now. I’ll call him back. Sorry, so they said she had a bad accident, hit a stanchion or something, and the car flipped over. They had to cut her out.” I started crying.

“Honey, please listen. A Mrs. White from American Airlines will meet you at the airport; ask for her in the First- Class check-in area. She’ll take you to the VIP section of the Admiral’s Club and will stay with you until you board. Please call me when you get on the plane—before you take off. Lily, do you hear me?”

“Yes.” I looked out the car window and wasn’t surprised to see that U.S. Route 101 was back-to-back traffic.

“Shit, the 101’s a parking lot,” I said.

“You’ll get there in time, don’t worry,” she assured me. “Now, Lily, what’s the name of the woman you’re going to ask for?”

“Mrs. White.”

“That’s right, honey. Put your sunglasses on. Do you have a baseball cap or something?”

“A cap… why?” I asked, amazed. Why would she give a shit about what I was wearing at a time like this?

“In case there are paparazzi at the airport,” she explained. “Remember to call me. Don’t forget your sunglasses. We’ll be praying, honey.”

We’ll be praying. Damn, there it was again. Never had anyone ever said that to me before. Now, I’d heard it twice in thirty minutes. I was exhausted. I looked out the car window, glad we were moving again.

When we got onto the 405 Freeway, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was no absolutely no traffic. There was
always
traffic on the 405. But I guess it made perfect sense: With all the praying everyone was doing, God was clearing the
way so I could get to the airport on time. Airport, damn it! There was no way I could fly without Xanax! I burst into tears and cried for my mother, who was in a hospital three thousand miles away, and for myself, so alone, helpless and Xanaxless…

The first class cabin was relatively empty when the plane finally took off. We had been delayed on the tarmac for what seemed to be hours, yet when I checked my watch, I saw that only ten minutes had passed.

I white-knuckled it during takeoff. As soon as we were cruising high enough for them to serve alcohol, I relaxed my death grip on the armrests long enough to reach for and down a rum and Coke.

Shit, I’d forgotten to call Franny to let her know I had arrived at the airport on time. I hoped she had a driver set up to meet me at the gate. Usually my assistant Jody takes care of all that. I’d given her the week off so that she could be a bridesmaid at her friend’s wedding in Hawaii. What was her name? Laura or Laurie—something like that. They’d been best friends for years, and for the last three weeks, Jodi has gabbed nonstop about her friend and the wedding. I got pretty good at keeping a smile on my face, feigning intense interest while thinking of other things. Frankly, I was relieved when she left. If I had to hear one more thing about bridesmaids’ dresses or shoes dyed to match, I would have jumped out of the fucking dressing-room window.

How was I going to maneuver through the airport without Jodi or my mother’s help? Thank God I didn’t have suitcases to lug—but that meant I didn’t have any clothes. This was becoming even more of a nightmare. No clothes, no Jodi, no Mom!

Before I hired Jodi, my mother did everything for me. She was my manager, lawyer, personal assistant, bodyguard, protector of all things big and small, my tutor, fashion coordinator, and acting coach on and off the set. She was not just good at all of it—she was
great
at it. Maybe it was because she had a knack for sizing things up quickly and listening to her instincts. Most of the time she was spot-on. That’s something I could never do, but I didn’t have to. She did it all for me. I mean all. And she did it seamlessly and gracefully. People love my mother. She has an adorable openness that people are drawn to.

Within a few minutes, she has anyone she meets eating out of her hand. It could be a director, an agent, a studio boss, or a taxi driver. It doesn’t matter who they are or what their status in life—they all love her. Many times she has shared her approach to life. with me: “Lily, if you treat people honestly and are open and fair with them, more often than not, they’ll do the same for you.”

I looked around first class. Seated a few rows in front of me, on the opposite side of the plane, was an actress with whom I’d worked with on a film when I was about fifteen years old. Shit, what was her name? Sandy something…. Please, Dear Lord, don’t let her see me and decide it’s a great time to chat. Already I’d finished my second drink in two gulps, put on my night-shades, and leaned my seat back. Shit! What was the name of that movie? I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I remembered. Recalling names and events—that’s another one of Mom’s strong points.

“Quick, Mom,” I’d say. “I recognize that guy coming toward us. Who is he?”

Without skipping a beat, she’d say, “Oh, that’s Eli Brodsky. He’s a producer we met at such-and-such movie premiere.” Just like that, matter-of-fact, like everyone can do that —pull that kind of info out of their ass.

It was really bugging me. I couldn’t rest until I remembered which film we worked on together. I thought of all the movies I’d shot since I was a kid. One by one I discarded them—until, hallelujah, I remembered it. Sandy had played the role of my mother in the movie
Time for Fools
.

I relaxed and thought about that movie and another plane ride I’d taken during the production. It was during the spring of April 1992. I was twelve and we were in LA shooting on a lot in Culver Studios. A buzz spread through the crew and then the actors—something about a verdict. It seemed that a month before, at the beginning of March, an African-American man—Rodney King—had been stopped by the police, pulled out of his truck, and beaten. What the cops didn’t know at the time was that someone in that neighborhood was videotaping the whole thing from his nearby balcony.

The incendiary verdict was announced on one of the days we were shooting the movie: The officers had been acquitted.

Shooting on the set abruptly stopped while we watched in disbelief, on TV sets in our dressing rooms and in the makeup room, the reaction to that bogus decision. We saw huge groups of African Americans screaming into the
cameras in protest, torching vehicles, and looting stores. One camera captured a white guy being pulled out of his car and beaten by four black men. It was horrible and it was happening only a few blocks away. We were stunned and, like every other American citizen, watched with horror as the real-life drama unfolded on television.

I remember sitting in the makeup chair. All the grownups were watching the news, some crying—but mostly all anyone could say was, “oh shit—oh shit.”

Whenever I was working on a set, there was always a strict no cursing and no smoking rule, which Mom created and enforced strictly. On that day, I remember thinking, it must be really bad, because Mom’s letting everyone curse—and not even raising her eyebrow or giving them
that look
.