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Then he releases the script, and I get to reading. And with each passing line, my stomach drops. Then I look up to Cory and say, “We can’t let Lizzie come to the studio today.”
“She can’t stay here. The moving company will be here any minute. I could ask Sarah if she can just head over to her place.”
I shake my head. “I think I’m going to need Sarah with me for this. And I don’t want Lizzie to be alone. Not after what…. Besides, I doubt she’s going to feel in tip-top shape after last night. Can you go without your assistant for the day?”
“Done,” Cory says. “I’ll call Joan and explain the situation. But what about you? This isn’t like jumping into the deep end of a pool. This is more of a nose dive straight into arctic waters.”
He’s right. And the more I imagine myself in the scene spelled out in front of me, the more I’m doubting my plan is going to mean anything in the end. But I also know that the longer I wait to film this, the more Jeb’s shadowy tendrils are going to dig deeper and deeper into my brain.
Chapter 25
I don’t eat breakfast. Or lunch. It’s not even that I’m not hungry, because I’ve definitely got some pangs growling for attention. But Cory hinted that I might regret having anything on my stomach for what’s about to come next.
Before I can get to this watershed moment, though, I have another problem to deal with.
“But you’re going to have so much fun with Joan. She’s taking you to Universal Studios! It’s like Disneyland, but with more movies,” I plead with Lizzie, but she’s not having any of it.
Ever since she woke up, she’s been clingy. Almost like she’s reverted back to being four years old. From the way she devoured two bowls of sugary cereal, I’m pretty sure she’s not feeling the effects of last night. At least not physically. This is something else.
“We’ve barely spent any time together since we got here,” she whines.
“Disneyland was only a couple of days ago.”
“But I want to go to the beach. You said we could get surfing lessons. When are we going to do that?”
What I want sometimes is to sit Lizzie down and talk to her like a rational adult. And while she can definitely be reasonable—and she’s entirely too mature for her age—I have to remind myself that she’s only ten.
That’s when I piece it together.
I’m no therapist, but if I were to put on my Freudian hat, I’d say that she’s regressing because, in her eyes, her father has rejected her. She’s finally found the man who’s been missing all her life, and he’s been busy since Lizzie woke up this morning.
When Lizzie walked into the kitchen, rubbing at her eyes and asking what was for breakfast, Cory disappeared. Each time I’ve checked on him, he’s been on the phone. It’s not even his fault. I forgot about the revelation I let slip, because this monumental event was over-shined only an hour later.
So, like I’ve done for the past decade, I play the single-parent game. I’m a winner on good days, but at times like these, I have to be the bad guy. To soften the blow, I break the news with as many promises as I can.
“Remember why we came here?” I ask, rubbing my hand through her hair. We’re sitting on the sofa, Lizzie curled up against my side.
“It’s not a vacation. You said that.”
“It’s not entirely a vacation. I’m here to make a movie. If I don’t go to set, I don’t get paid. Then when we go back, we’ll have to live in our car.”
“You’re kidding around,” Lizzie says, her voice half annoyance and half playing into my little joke.
“No, I’m serious. We’ll live in the car, which will be pretty good for you, because we can just park at your school. So you can just run to class every day. But I’m the bigger one, so I’m going to take the backseat. Which means you can have the front seat or the trunk.”
“Why do you get the back seat?” she asks, and even though her little face is pressed into my arm, I can hear her smiling.
“I told you. Because I’m bigger. And at night, we’ll go through the school dumpsters and get whatever food they threw away. But we might have to fight the raccoons for it. Like this!”
At this, I unleash a fury of tickles, poking Lizzie in the sides until she’s screaming with laughter, her legs kicking furiously to get out of my reach.
When out tickle session peters out, we’re both gasping for breath.
“Do you really want to sleep in the trunk?” I ask.
“I thought I could have the front seat?”
“I changed my mind,” I say and go to tickle her again, but she dodges, her mouth wide in a predatory smile. “So what’s it going to be? Can mommy go to work and make money so we don’t have to start the next great raccoon war?”
