What You Wish For (30 page)

Dimple Helps Out

T
he wrist was surprisingly tiny. The woman was suspended like a jellyfish, surrounded by the flashes, whirs, and shouted questions from a paparazzi mob. She hung there, wide eyed, transfixed. I split the horde like a needle, gripped her, and popped her from the locus of the storm back into the clinic. The reporters bayed at the door, as I dragged her down a hallway, out of sight. There was a ladies’ room. I flipped the lock, bolting the door against others.

The woman sagged against the basin.

“Are you all right?” Arguably, being locked in a bathroom with a stranger was more alarming than rabid reporters.

She focused on me. “You have a cut.”

A welt was swelling around a smear of blood on my wrist. “It’s just a scratch.” I dismissed. “I’m prone to rescue wounds. Are
you
hurt?”

She shook her head no.

“This will make you feel better.” I pressed a wet towel to her forehead, positioning her hand over it like arranging a life-size Barbie. “Why don’t you sit?” The bathroom had a chaise catering to pregos.

I knew who she was. She was the one suing her ex-husband for custody of frozen embryos. Mary something. She nodded, but didn’t move. I supported her to the lounger. I knew the shaky legs a paparazzi maelstrom brought.

“Thank you.” She brushed her hair back with a trembling hand. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

I surprised myself by enveloping her in a tight hug. She tensed, but instinct kept me holding on. A second later she started to sob. I absorbed this stranger’s surprise, pain, fear, and rage.

“I . . . wasn’t . . . expecting . . . it,” she heaved. “There’ve been . . . a few . . . on the lawn but never . . . anything like that.”

“You don’t have to justify being freaked out,” I said. “Those vultures are horrendous.”

I held her until her crying slowed. She drew deep breaths, forehead on my shoulder. Then she pulled herself up.

“I’m a hot mess.” She wiped her eyes.

“A good bath and a firm hairbrush, maybe a little Nutella, and you’ll be right as rain. I know.”

“That?” She gestured generally, outside the restroom.

“Unfortunately. It goes with my job.”

She shuddered. “I don’t envy you.”

“The legitimate ones aren’t bad. It’s the ones who get paid by the picture you have to watch out for. They attack, hoping to rattle you.”

“It worked. You were heroic diving in there.”

“Chicks gotta look out for each other,” I dismissed. “It’s a form of violence.”

“It’s ripping me apart, all this Proposition 11 nightmare.” She nodded. “Are you doing IVF?”

I was startled. “Oh. No. Checkup.” It was sort of true.

“Oh.” She blew her nose. “Well, it’s awful what they’re doing, trying to put IVF out of reach. Can you imagine what this would mean? Not just for single women, but couples too? Not everyone is lucky enough to have kids without help.”

I made a noncommittal noise.

“People would be afraid of IVF because you’d have to give birth to, like, seven children, or give them to total strangers. Can you imagine running into a kid at In-N-Out who looked like yours? Six of them?”

It made me angry thinking about it.

“The craziest thing is that abortions would probably rise if that was the only way people could terminate frozen embryos, which is the opposite of what they want.” She looked at me. “Do you have kids?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m pregnant.” She spoke as if Santa Monica didn’t know. “My case is over. I thought that was the end of it. But I’ve caused this . . .
thing
. I can destroy the rest of my embryos before any laws change, but what about everyone else? How awful would it be if Prop 11 passed and it was all my fault?”

“It’s not your fault. It’s that Garner guy and fanatics. People won’t vote for anything that extreme.”

“That’s what I tell myself, but what if I didn’t do anything and it passed? I’d feel so guilty that I left this mess in the laps of people after me.”

I was struck by the contrast of this woman to Julian.

“You’re doing a lot.”

“I feel puny in the face of it,” was her uncanny reply.

“Puny acts can make a difference.”

“Yours sure did. Thanks for saving me. I was shark bait.”

“I was in the right place at the right time with the right amount of outrage.”

“I was missing the outrage.”

As I watched, exhaustion wiped her face like a wave.

There’s a loading dock,” I said. “I can show you how to slip out without being seen.”

“You either like your privacy or find heavy lifting a turn on.” She laughed. “You a spy?”

“No,” I smiled. “An actress.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s harder.”

I held out a hand. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Dimple, what the hell?” Freya barked into the phone.

I jumped. I minimized the Single Mothers by Choice chat room, knowing it was ridiculous because Freya couldn’t see through the phone. But she had scary Nordic prescience, so it never hurt to be careful.

“What did I do?”

“Rile up the religious right.”

“What? Roxy’s most controversial act this year has been changing lipstick.”

“Not Roxy,
you
. On the news with Maryn Windsor, to be precise. What are you doing getting involved in that Proposition 11 mess?”

Uh-oh.

“Hold on.” I navigated to YouTube. There I was, a determined Amazon extracting Maryn Windsor from a throng of reporters.

“Since when are you political? You’ve never used your name for so much as a puppy adoption, and now, of all the issues, you jump into an abortion fight?”

“It’s not abortion, it’s the right to use her frozen embryos. Her husband—”

“What it
is
, is a mess.” Freya didn’t pause this time. “The studio called and wants to know how far you’re going to go with this.”

Normally I’d fold. “I don’t see why the studio has a right to tell me what I can do off the lot,” was what came out.

“I . . .” Freya was momentarily derailed. “You want to get involved in this?” I could hear the gears whirring as she calculated how to make this benefit my career.

“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to go too far. “I think she’s right. What they want is crazy and would hurt a lot of nice people who want children.”

“I didn’t know you thought at all about fertility rights.” Freya wasn’t trying to be unkind.

“It’s sad. She can’t have kids because of chemotherapy.”

“She can always adopt.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Children are children.”

“Do Norwegian children come down an ice chute directly from God?”

“Odin, darling.”

“Adopting puts you at the mercy of others. If you have the cash for fertility treatments, nothing stops you but science or God. Fragile Voices is trying to get in there where they don’t belong.”

“So you have an opinion.”

“Those are only my thoughts. It’s not like I took a stand or anything.”

“According to Channel 9, local actress Dimple Bledsoe stood by Maryn Windsor in opposition to Proposition 11 today.”

“That’s nonsense. I pulled her out of the mob.”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t fair. She’s an ordinary person going about her life.”

“Darling, she filed the lawsuit. She’s not an innocent victim in all this.”

“Since when did everyone cosign to filleting our private lives for the public?”

“Since when don’t we? We watch celebrity marriage, cheating, and divorce. We watch teen moms do homework, narcissists buy wedding dresses, and strangers give birth on handheld video cameras. People’s obsession with the private lives of others keeps you in a job.”

“It should be different when you’re ordinary. Remember when that family was snowbound in their car? They found the mom and kids, but the father had set out for help. We watched for days, hoping, until they found his body.”

“I remember.”

“CNN nailed its fortunes to that story, and rode it into the ground. It was at the gym, it was at work, it was even at Hama Sushi at dinner. That guy was the first guy I kissed in college and I couldn’t escape that damn story.”

“The coverage was sympathetic.”

“It doesn’t matter. I got to feel what it’s like to be on the other side, when the story’s personal but you didn’t choose to be news. It’s like being jabbed in the eye.”

“So what are you saying, Dimple?” Freya was impatient. “Do you want to get involved in this Proposition 11 thing? If so, we need to do it properly. It’s blowing up, with Fragile Voices jousting with placards against Lisa Edelstein and Sheryl Crow wielding microphones. We need to control your message.”

“No.” I wasn’t ready for that. “I just wanted to help Maryn. She looked so small.”

“Maybe getting involved isn’t a bad thing. You looked alive again on the news. What were you doing at that clinic anyway?”

“Checkup.” It wasn’t a lie. Meeting with a social worker was a required prerequisite before insemination. I recalled the Pastor Martin Niemöller poem I’d quoted to Julian,
“Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak out for me.”

“Maybe,” I said, correcting my position. “Maybe I’ll get involved. Proposition 11 is nuts.”

“There’s a big Prop 11/Andrew Knox fund-raising gala for Hollywood types this week. I’ll get you on the list. If you want to go bigger, I’ll make some calls and see what’s there.”

“I’ll think about it.” Look at what happened to Maryn.

“Dimple,” Freya rebuked.

“I’m in,” I said. “Sign me the uppest.”

When Julian asked how my day had gone, I felt furtive. I didn’t mention Maryn. Our fight about Proposition 11 had stayed with me.

“You seem distracted,” he observed.

He spoke casually, but was focused intently on my face.

“I’m tired,” I apologized.

“Finished?” He’d cooked linguini with clam sauce, and was clearing the plates. “I can tell you hated it.” My plate was shining clean.

I said, “We don’t go out much. Are we a secret?”

He was startled. “I don’t know. Are we?”

My irritation dissipated. I’d been ready to accuse him, but when he bounced it back at me, I reconsidered.

“It’s complicated.” I took a cheap seat.

“I want to protect us both professionally,” he said. “I also want to parade you everywhere.”

“You do?”

His brow furrowed. “Who doesn’t want the hottest chick on his arm?”

“You think I’m as hot as Estelle Getty?” I teased.

“Almost.”

We were quiet.

“You’re my date to the Directors Guild of America Awards Ceremony,” he reminded me. “That’s a coming out.”

“What if I want you to be my date to something before that?”

“Willing prisoner.” He held out his wrists.

I declined to mention that it was a gala for Proposition 11. The whole conversation made me anxious—going public was complicated by the ongoing
Cora
negotiations. What would exposure of our relationship do to my reputation? I didn’t have the guts to ask him how to distinguish between audition and relationship. The lead in
Cora
was still dangling. I rubbed my temples.

“I can help you with that.” Julian caressed my cheek.

I absolutely loved sex with Julian, but my skull was splitting. I wanted to plead
I have a headache
, but that made me want to kill myself. Instead of reaching for me, Julian turned to the refrigerator.

“I can’t bake, but I wanted to give you oatmeal cookies and milk.” He held out a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk ice cream.

My headache evaporated. All I could say was, “Oh.”

“Let’s take dessert into the den,” He waggled two spoons at me. “I’ve been saving the
Twister
DVD for when you needed a blockbuster night.”

As I followed Julian into the den, I couldn’t describe my feelings, but they were intense and warm and scared the hell out of me.

Wyatt Has Nun of It

T
he call was so garbled it took Wyatt a moment to realize what he was hearing.

“. . . mnaycouldnhuhh(sniff)dnsee(garble) . . . andthenand(sob) . . .”

“Maryn?”

“Wyatt . . .” Her wail wrapped a spiky blanket around his heart. The baby.

“Are you hurt? What’s the matter?”

“I’m . . . not hurt. I’m . . . (deep breath) . . . God, I thought I was done crying. I was leaving my appointment and I was . . .
attacked
.”

“Did you call the police?” Wyatt was sweating. “Go right to the emergency room. Do you know who attacked you?” He looked for his keys.

“Not . . . that . . . kind of attack.” He couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying or both. She blew her nose. “It was reporters. Right in my face . . . showing everything . . . I couldn’t breathe. I’m hiding. You have to come get me.” She paused. “I couldn’t breathe,” she repeated, on a hiccup.

“Where are you?” Wyatt needed her to focus. He’d worry later about what her face was showing.

“The loading dock.”

“I’m on my way.”

Rush-hour traffic didn’t do Wyatt any favors, but Maryn seemed calm when he found her perched on a filthy leveler. She slid into the passenger seat.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry I overreacted. I thought I’d pulled it together, but when I heard your voice, I lost it again. You’re like a human neti pot.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You had the response of a normal human being.”

She rested her head, eyes closed. “I should’ve remembered how porous medical buildings are. It was one of the things that surprised me the most when I was sick, these warrens of hallways and exit doors and subterranean passages to loading docks. If you have balls and a reasonable sense of direction, there’s no such thing as visiting hours. You can have the run of the hospital.”

“Except where the babies are. Those parts are strict.”

Maryn looked at him.

“What? I wouldn’t steal a baby!” He faced the road. “That would
definitely
cost me my job.” He was pleased to see a wan smile. “I should’ve gone with you. When you’re ready, I want to hear what the doctor said.” Wyatt cared for this woman and child as if they were his.

“Thank you, Wyatt.”

“Do you want to get your car?”

She turned tired eyes toward him. “Can we get it tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

After a moment, “My cancer is back.”

Wyatt felt his heart freeze.

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” she said, head on the headrest, eyes closed. “Speaking of cancer, Webb Garner tipped off the reporters.”

Wyatt gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands were bloodless. “What makes you say that?”

“My secretary said someone claiming to be from Hope Clinic called to straighten out schedule confusion. She confirmed my appointment time. After the ambush she did a reverse lookup on the caller ID and it was Garner’s office. She feels terrible. He’s such an asshole.”

Wyatt controlled his rage and his voice. “What do you say to a nap, followed by Wyatt’s special London broil?” Conversational. “Let me worry about Webb Garner.”

Wyatt entered Garner’s office with distinctly more glee than the last time.

“Ozols.” A dismissive nod. “I don’t see why we couldn’t do this on the phone.”

“I knew I’d enjoy seeing you.” Wyatt’s mood was buoyant.

“What’s so all-fired important?” Garner looked at his watch. “I’ve got an appointment tonight, have to leave at seven o’clock sharp.”

“Another speech?”

“What? Yeah. Always another campaign speech.”

“It’s diligent of you to whip the voters.”

“What?” He squinted at Wyatt.

“Like in Congress, where the Whip gets out the vote.”

Garner exhaled. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. Why are you here?”

“Thought I’d whip by for a chat.”

Garner’s eyes bugged. “What?”

“Should we ask the secretary to whip up some cappuccinos?”

“What the hell are you going on about? I don’t have time for foolery, Ozols.”

“I want you to stop bothering Maryn Windsor. She’s ill.” Wyatt got right to it.

“I don’t know what you mean.” The piggishness that crept into Garner’s eyes made the bile rise in Wyatt’s throat. “The crazy lady who sued Knox? Never met her.”

Wyatt bent low, shoving his face into Garner’s. “You will not call her, you will not talk about her on television, you will not incite others to talk about her, and you will not alert reporters to her location. You will not speak her name out loud. You will not even think about her.”

Garner got angry. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

“A friend of the lady.”

“She must suck chrome off a bumper to get your dandy up to stupid like this. You know what happens to a knight on horseback coming at me with a lance? I shoot him with my Colt 45.” Garner was smug. “Though I’ve had no contact with the woman, I’ll decline your request. Now get out of my office. You’re wasting my time.”

“I wasn’t asking. I was telling.”

Garner’s face went red. “No one tells Webb Garner what to do, especially a gay little cocksucker like you.”

“I am rubber, you are glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you,” Wyatt said. Garner looked at him like Wyatt had lost his mind. “Oh, wait.” Wyatt furrowed his brow. “That’s not right.” He tossed a brown envelope on Garner’s desk. “You’re rubber.”

Unsure whether to buzz security, Garner slid the eight-by-ten photographs out of the envelope. The play of emotions across his face was like a
Wild Kingdom
mash up. He lost color like an albino mole; squawked like a macaque; shifted like a sidewinder; puffed up like a bearded dragon; and, finally, snorted, a cornered wild boar pawing the ground with rage.

“What the hell kind of game are you playing, Ozols?”

“Nothing as fun as those games, I can assure you.” He tapped a photo. “Though that one looks like it might smart a bit.”

Garner’s mouth opened, then closed, now a fish.

The trick with being invisible wasn’t to smear dirt across your cheekbones or wear head-to-toe camouflage. It was to look exactly like everyone else. At a wedding, wear a little black dress and walk without hesitation to the bar. At a golf club, a sports jacket from Brooks Brothers is your costume. Loud madras pants can make you look as anonymous as a stocking over the face if you’re on Nantucket. You want people to remember medium height, medium brown hair, kind of like Bob here. Wyatt had the advantage of having started out that way.

It was more difficult when you didn’t know where you were going, but generic was generic. Wyatt donned dark jeans, brown shoes, black button-down, knockoff Oliver Peoples sunglasses, venti Starbucks. He
was
L.A. Man.

It wasn’t particularly pleasant sitting in his car. Between clinic visits, board meetings, and outings with Maryn, Wyatt had been in his car more than he liked. The afternoon was hot and there was no breeze this far off the beach. He watched a softball game on the field next to where he was parked, but the coaching was angry and it irritated him so he had to stop. His assistant, Steff, called.

“I couldn’t find that information,” she said.

“Did you call his secretary?”

“I checked the School Board’s online calendar; I called his secretary; I called the political reporters at the
Santa Monica Daily Press
and the
Santa Monica Mirror
; I spoke to his campaign; I spoke to the city clerk, who knows everything; I Googled. Nothing. Doughnuts. Webb Garner did not give a speech last Wednesday.”

Wyatt had his Kindle, but it was hard to concentrate because he was hyperalert. A jogger, a mother picking up her softball player, a secretary leaving the School Board offices, all pulled him out of his reading.

He’d parked at four o’clock, opting to be mind-bogglingly early than risk missing it. Other men might have questioned themselves around the three-hour mark, but not Wyatt. Garner had lied and Wyatt was going to find out why. He hadn’t been overseer of a self-contained population of the world’s most conniving and devious social elements without learning a trick or two. When Wyatt was on his game, he felt himself equal to outwitting Dr. No, never mind a walk-in-the-park villain like Webb Garner.

At 7:14, Webb Garner exited the building and got into his Honda Odyssey. Wyatt worried he’d be a clumsy tail, but Garner kept driving, oblivious. They crawled along I-10 so slowly they could have conversed if they’d rolled down the windows. Garner exited at La Brea, driving north along the eastern border of West Hollywood, passing Pink’s hot dogs, with its ever-twisting line, and the clumps of tourists stam-peding Hollywood Boulevard to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.

Wyatt concentrated as the road became La Brea Terrace with its gated entry. At the guardhouse, he gestured to Garner’s taillights. “Same.” The trick was not to overplay it. The guard waved him through.

He followed Garner from a greater distance through a series of twists and turns. The cloistered setting increased Wyatt’s confidence that “something was up.” If Garner had had a legitimate invitation to quaff from the golden teat of a La Brea Terrace address, he’d have blared it to the world.

The house was unlike others on the block. Most were completely shielded by cypress, the dwelling equivalent of a mink coat. This address had a wide cobbled drive like an Italian square, and a central fountain surrounded by eight or so parked cars. The structure was a replica of an old rectory, but the construction was new. It didn’t look right to Wyatt somehow. It wasn’t the shiny BMWs and Hummers in the Old World setting. The whole image was conceptually askew. Like a Grecian goddess in Kate Spade flip-flops.

The front door opened as Garner parked, and a robed gentleman ushered him inside. Wyatt eased into the driveway. It could be trouble if this was one of those Skull and Bones societies, but Wyatt decided that (a) there was only one way to find out, and (b) he doubted Garner would be invited to a power-elite gathering. There‘d be no Honda Odysseys in that parking lot. Wyatt’s Prius would also be absent.

A suited concierge materialized to open Wyatt’s car door.

“Welcome.” The man swept his hand to the entrance. “Absolution awaits.”

Wyatt felt a stab of panic. He hadn’t considered a religious cult. He wished he’d told Eva where he was going. He appreciated the value of the buddy system.

He nodded at the attendant and approached the front door, where the robed man, a monk, awaited.

“Welcome, my son.”

Wyatt nodded again, appreciating the currency of nonverbal answers.

“How can we assist your repentance and salvation this evening?”

A woman wearing a rubber nun’s habit crossed behind the monk. It was shiny black, ended well above the knee, and squeaked when she walked. She had to have been born wearing it, or been poured in.

Ah.

“This is my first time seeking absolution here, Brother,” Wyatt said. “Is there a shepherd to guide me? Perhaps one of your Sisters?” Wyatt wanted a woman.

“Follow me.”

Another nun walked by, this one’s rubber habit even shorter and squeakier, and she was wearing a World War II gas mask. When she saw Wyatt, she folded her hands in prayer, and bowed.

The “monk” led Wyatt down a richly carpeted hallway, its walls of stone decorated with a hodgepodge of religious iconography, as well as whips and other torture devices. Wyatt noticed that a few displays were empty, the contents presumably in use, and admired the building’s soundproofing. They stopped at an arched doorway with an ornate iron handle, which opened to an office occupied by grey metal filing cabinets and a woman dressed in a black suit that, if Wyatt didn’t know better, was Armani. There was that dissonance again, the glimpse of a jogging bra under a Renaissance costume.

“I’m Sister Heavenly Body.” The woman of about fifty held out an elegant hand. She wore no jewelry or nail polish. Her hair was in a chic coil, not a single strand abandoning the effort. Her body was heavenly. “Please have a seat. What brings you to the Temple?”

“I’m looking for some redemption, Sister, and I have difficulty finding the specific kind of absolution I seek”—he gestured—“out there.”

“I am sure we can help you on your quest.” She handed him a folder. “Here’s a little information on our services, as well as the offering we request in return.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“We are no religion and every religion. We specialize in helping lost souls who seek a direct relationship with God through forgiving and accommodating women of the veil. Our Sisters can be tutored by you, as you offer them specific instruction, or they are happy to take command and be firm in leading you to your salvation. We aim to please you, and discretion is paramount. The tithes we request vary according to the demands of the service.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t heard of the opportunities here before.”

“I assure you that we are licensed and bonded for the entertainment we provide, completely in compliance with the law. I’m very strict with my girls on personal health and hygiene. Cleanliness is next to godliness.” A glint of humor in her perfectly made-up eyes. “Taking the veil is a serious decision, so I require all my girls to be at least twenty-one, with documentation.”