What We Leave Behind (18 page)

“I’m fine.”

“Fine means not fine.”

“No, really, I’m okay. It’s all a bit overwhelming.” Yes, it was; with each bite, each gulp, I was letting someone get close to me. And just as my stomach would feel full and satiated, something was triggered, reminiscent of the hunger I could never abate. Marty felt familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure how much of his familiarity was the reminder of what I’d once felt for someone else.

“I hadn’t expected this,” I said. “Adam continues to surprise, even now.”

“Do you keep in touch with the family?” he asked.

“No,” I said, probably with too much haste. “Not anymore. Last I heard from his son, he was at Harvard; and Amy and his mom, we lost touch a long time ago.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “Adam raved about Jonas. It wasn’t easy for them when they found out Rachel couldn’t have more children. They doted on Jonas, trying to compensate for the loss. They’d always wanted a house full of kids.”

I wanted to turn off the volume so I couldn’t hear, but Marty kept on going.

“When they adopted Amy. I had never seen a happier man than the one who showed me pictures of his new family. He was so full of pride and love for those two kids.”

The news was shocking and hurtful at the same time. Jonas had never shared any of this with me.

“They’re a special family,” I said. “I’d love to know what Amy’s been up to these years. She must be, what, eighteen now?” I pictured the adorable girl watching me hang from a tree.

“She’s probably with Rachel in DC. There was nothing keeping them in LA anymore. They moved east to be closer to Rachel’s parents. I usually get a card from them over the holidays.”

I sat there talking with Marty Tauber about a family I had once been so enmeshed with, I might have considered them my own. I wasn’t sure what Jonas told them. My absence had to have been noted at the funeral. I never expressed my condolences. I never got to tell them how sorry I was, how much Adam had meant to me.

Listening to Marty was upsetting. The Levys were strangers to me now.

The waiter came and cleared our plates. It had been an interesting and informative afternoon, and I stole a glance at my watch, convinced that at least one of us had somewhere else to be.

“Do you have to go?” he asked.

“I’m just thinking about everything I need to do to get ready for tomorrow.”

“Well, there’s only one thing you need to do today,” and there they appeared, an army of waiters carrying a chocolate cake, singing loudly enough for the whole restaurant to stop what they were doing and join in, eyes feasting on us. Marty leaned back in his chair, smiling as if he had just beaten some worthwhile opponent.

“How did you know?” I asked him, but I already knew the answer. Burying my face in my hands, I hid the happiness that found its way across my cheeks. Twenty-three candles on the cake; I counted every one. Marty had made sure I got the one for good luck.

“Make a wish,” he said.

“Maybe it’s already come true.”

“There has to be something else. Now close your eyes and wish.”

I closed my eyes and did as he said, the heat from the flames warming my face, the uncertainty of wishes swelling around me.

When I opened my eyes, I exhaled and watched as the candles were doused with one plume of breath.

“Thank you. It’s very kind of you and very unnecessary.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“You can’t expect me to eat the whole thing.”

“Of course I do,” he laughed.

“You’ll have to help.”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

We dipped our forks into the monstrous cake and didn’t bother with the plates they gave us. Our hands covered in chocolate fudge, we knocked into each other playfully as we licked our fingers and wiped the messes from our faces. We hadn’t even made a dent when he stood up.

“C’mon,” he said, “let’s get out of here.” And he took my messy hand in his and led me through the restaurant, out the door, and into the warm California sun. “I want to show you something.”

I wanted to ask about the check, but something told me it was already taken care of. That was the best way to describe Marty Tauber. He was a man in charge.

The car took us north along the Pacific Coast Highway for several miles before turning into a residential neighborhood and a sprawling home overlooking the ocean.

Marty looked at his watch. “We should be right on time.”

Opening the door, we were met by a group of people, each wanting a piece of Marty. They followed us through the halls of the mansion, and when we reached the dining room, they dispersed amongst video monitors and equipment.  Noise and movement filled the room.  Makeup artists were touching up already-perfect faces. The fast-paced vibe was where I felt very much at home: a video shoot.

Marty led us through the room, introducing me to the director and then the artist. “Rylee, I want you to meet Jessica Parker. Jess, Rylee Matthews.”

I shook the hand of the Grammy-award-winning, number one artist in the country, as if any introduction was necessary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, pretending she was not the artist that topped every conceivable
Billboard
chart.

“You too,” she said, bopping up and down while she spoke. “I hope you’re staying to watch the shoot. The song’s amazing! Marty, you’re staying, right?” Then she leaned in to put an arm around his shoulder, and her lips found his cheek. The bouncing was worse than my mother’s flitting.

“Jessica,” he summoned me, “is it okay if we hang out here a little while?”

When I smiled, he led me to a sofa off to the side of the room, and we watched as sound checks and final preparations were made.

“Tell me what you think,” he said, and the room fell quiet as Rylee began to sing. It was a ballad, her strong, rich voice filling the room. The words described a girl in search of paradise, something she equated to love. Dancers were following around her, slow, rhythmic movements before an ornate dining room table brimming with glasses in golds and chartreuses. Food covered every inch of the table: rich cakes and pies, pastries, fruits, and cheeses. Bunches of hydrangeas were strewn about, deep burgundy wines, and candelabras afire.

“She wrote this?” I asked Marty.

“This part,” he said. “Keep watching.”

After the chorus, she began speaking in a hushed, whisper of a voice.  She was asking about paradise, whether it was a lie, or a fantasy created about people and places as we would like them to be.

The words were recognizable. I’d definitely heard them before, but this was not their original context. “Charlene,” I said. “Charlene Duncan, Motown Records, one hit wonder.”

“Good memory,” he said.

“Steel trap,” I confirmed, pointing to my head. When it came to music, my brain was the most expansive catalog of tunes known to man. Ordinarily, I didn’t like covers, but this was brilliant.

Rylee continued another verse and chorus before finishing on a note that left the audience mesmerized. “It’s a wrap,” the director called out, and his staff joined in a round of applause, while Marty headed his way. They were arguing, and Marty was adamant about what he was saying. I could tell by his posture and the way he pointed his decisive fingers. The director relented, calling over Rylee and someone from the record label. Marty summoned me.

“What did you think? Let’s put that UCLA film school degree to use.”

“I think the song is amazing.”

“And? What else? Don’t be afraid, enlighten them.”

I began. “Forget we’re in the nineties and how commercialized music videos have become,
and
that it’s a moneymaking business. Let’s go back to our roots. A good song is going to sell.
That
song is going to sell. You don’t need all those embellishments. She looks cheap up there with those dancers. I see something more serious.” 

Walking toward the sliding glass doors, I surveyed the view outside.  “That’s paradise right out there.”

Marty joined me at the window. The view was extraordinary.

“I’d plop her golden voice down there on the beach in and out of the water, shoot in black and white, dress her in all white, something loose and sexy, maybe on 35 mm film, giving it a family movie feel, this dream she wants for herself.”

Marty was looking at me with an expression I could not read. “What?” I asked.

“I’m glad to see you didn’t put any thought into that.”

“That’s just what I saw when I heard it.”

“The amazing gift we share, to see things with our ears.  It reminds me of
Butterfly
,” he added. “I told the director the same thing. I told him to shoot outside, black and white, lose the riffraff.”

“Great minds think alike.”

“I’m interested in peering more into that brain of yours and figuring out why you didn’t choose the director’s path.”

“I love music too much.”

“One day, it’ll break your heart,” he said.

I didn’t bother telling him that it already had. Asking, instead, how the director took to his suggestions.

“Bob’s an old friend. He asked me to be here for creative assistance. If he didn’t want my opinion, he shouldn’t have extended the invitation.”

“And Rylee?”

At the mere mention of her name, she appeared, hair flowing loosely down her shoulders and her eye makeup dramatically heavier. She winked at us before saying to me, “Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Uma Thurman?” Then she bounced away from us, heading toward the beach and the final hours of sun, leaving me to question how I’d never seen the resemblance before.

When we got in Marty’s car, it occurred to me that we had just changed music history. The song was sure to go quadruple platinum, the video airing on every notable music channel for years to come, and I’d be driving in my car one late afternoon and hear the words on the radio, and remember this day and remember Adam Levy, the gentle force behind it all.

“I’ve monopolized your whole day, Jessica. What are your big birthday plans?”

“I don’t think anything could top this afternoon.”

“Do you,” he asked again, “have plans?”

“No,” I said. “My birthday usually isn’t a big deal.”

“Have you ever been on a helicopter?” he asked.

I looked at him strangely.

“I thought we’d take a helicopter ride.”

“I know better than to ask if you’re serious.”

“You only turn twenty-two once in your life. Why not make it unforgettable?”

“It’s already been unforgettable.”

“You need to live, Jessica Parker. Forget where you’re going and where you’ve been and concentrate on the now. Enjoy the ride, or you’re going to miss out on the whole experience.”

“You sound like an awful self-help book,” I said, enjoying my sense of humor again. Then I smiled up at him, drinking in those soft blue eyes. “Where do you find all this energy?”

“It keeps me young.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, someone to win over?” I asked.

“I was hoping that would be you.”

It was the fall of 1994.
Pulp Fiction
was released,
Shawshank Redemption
,
Legends of the Fall
, and
Forrest Gump
, all of them strong contenders for the Oscar. The movie we were banking on was our Barcelona jewel,
El Pais
; according to early industry chatter, it had the potential to sweep the awards with its flavorful, foreign luster. The heartbreakingly tragic story followed an orphaned boy in search of his Spanish roots, who discovered that his peaceful, hard-earned life was far superior to the complex dysfunction of the wealthy, political family that abandoned him. The film was already being hailed as a masterpiece.

The music we worked with was mostly in Spanish, something I wasn’t a smidgen experienced in, but rhythm knows no language. That’s what Marty told me and it was true. When I dove headfirst into the Spanish catalog, it didn’t take long for me to match the right music with the right scene. Marty was delighted with my choices. He said I’d become a Chiquita banana in no time.

“How’s work?” my mother asked one afternoon. She had called to alert me of a pending visit. “Is it true what they’re saying about you in the papers?”

“All of it,” I said.

“You’re happy. That makes me happy.”

“It’s amazing,” I told her. “I love every minute of it.” I’d been working with Marty for four months. He had become teacher, mentor, friend, and grueling drill sergeant.

“You sure spend a lot of time with that boss of yours.”

“It’s Marty, Mom. He has a name.” But Mom was right. I had spent a ridiculous amount of time with Marty in the last few months, and it wasn’t just limited to hours in the office. Sometimes our days didn’t end until a new one began, spilling over onto the weekends. My roommates asked if they should find a new housemate. My absences were noted daily.

“Do you find him attractive?”

“Yes, and every day after lunch we go back to his office, climb on his desk, and screw like bunnies.”

“Jessica!” she shouted, and while I was immensely proud that I could still shock the people closest to me, she added, “I hope you don’t speak that way around him.”

I should have told her he loves it when I talk dirty, but then I would have gone too far.

“I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I?” she asked, the insinuation as visible as her flitting. But I was saved from responding when the alarm sounded through the phone, and my mother yelled, “Code blue. I love you and be careful and keep making me proud,” in one, quick, terminal sentence.

I hung up the phone and stared at the piles of paper strewn across my desk. It was late and most of the staff had gone home.
Prince of Tides
was playing on the stereo. I hummed along to the melodious sound, remembering the afternoon Marty dragged me to his house in the hills to watch it. I always knew when one of Marty’s many dalliances ended, because he’d usually call me on a Sunday morning to discuss work, and then it would lead into what I was doing, which was usually nothing exciting except more work, and he’d ask me to go to a movie with him, or rent him some sappy, love story.