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I get up and begin to pace. When your agent starts to sell you, it’s trouble. “How much, George?”
“Remember, Tully—”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars. ”
I stop. “Did you say fifty thousand?”
“I did. In advance. Against royalties. ”
I sit down so quickly it is almost like collapsing. Fortunately, there’s a chair beneath me. “Oh. ” I know it is a lot of money in the ordinary world. I was hardly born with a silver spoon in my mouth. But I have spent so many years in an extraordinary world that it hits me hard, this proof that I have lost so much of my fame. You work like a dog for thirty years and think what you’ve built will last.
“It is what it is, Tully. But it can be your comeback. Yours is a Cinderella story. Make the world yours again. ”
I am feeling unsteady. My breathing is bottoming out. I want to scream or cry or snap or yell at the unfairness of everything. But I have only one choice and I know it. “I’ll take it,” I say.
* * *
That night, I am too wired to sleep. At eleven o’clock, I give up on the pretense of it. For at least ten minutes I roam through my darkened condo. Once, I almost go to Marah’s room and waken her, but I know that would be selfish of me, so I resist the urge to open her door. Finally, at about 11:20, I decide to work. Maybe writing will help.
I crawl back into bed and pull my computer into my lap, opening my most recent document. There it is: Second Act. And a blue screen. I stare at it, concentrating so intently I begin to imagine things. I think I hear footsteps in the hallway, a door opening and closing, but then it’s quiet again.
Research. That’s what I need. I have to go through the boxes in my storage unit.
I can’t put it off anymore. After pouring myself a glass of wine, I go downstairs. Kneeling in front of the box, I tell myself to be strong. I remind myself that Random House has bought this memoir and paid for it. All I need to do is write down my life story. Certainly I can find the words.
I go to the Queen Anne box and open it. I pull the scrapbook out and place it on the floor beside me. I am not ready for it yet. I will work up to that collection of my dreams and heartaches.
I lean over and peer into the dark interior. The first thing I see is a ratty-looking stuffed rabbit.
Mathilda.
She is missing one shiny black eye and her whiskers look as if they’ve been cut off. This gift from my grandmother had been my best friend growing up.
I put Mathilda aside and reach in again. This time, I feel something soft and pull out a small gray Magilla Gorilla T-shirt.
My hand trembles just a little.
Why did I keep this?
But even as I ask the question, I know the answer. My mom bought it for me. It’s the only thing I remember her giving to me.
A memory sears away everything else.
I am young—maybe four or five. I am in my chair at the kitchen table, playing with my spoon instead of eating my breakfast, when she comes in. A stranger.
My Tallulah, she says, lurching unsteadily toward me. She smells funny. Like sweet smoke. Did you miss your mommy?
Upstairs, a bell rings. That’s Grandpa, I say.
The next thing I know, I am in the stranger’s arms and she is running out of the house.
Gran is behind us, yelling, “Stop! Dorothy—”
The woman says something about him and adds a bunch of words I don’t understand. Then she stumbles. I fall out of her arms and crack my head on the floor. My grandmother screams; I cry; the woman scoops me back into her arms. After that, the memory darkens, turns murky.
I remember her asking me to call her Mom. And I remember how hard the seat was in her car and how I was supposed to pee by the side of the road. I remember the smell of smoke in the car and her friends. They scared me.
