Читать книгу Coldwater - Diana Gould - Страница 13

The next day, I woke without throwing up. A milestone. But I had a pulsing headache, my skin was clammy, and I ached all over. I thought I was getting the flu and should maybe put off this sobriety business until I felt well enough to handle it. Mike explained that my body was like a toxic waste dump, that while I was using, my liver and kidneys had all but stopped even trying to eliminate poisons, knowing that more was on the way. With sobriety, my body would finally begin to purge itself of years of ingested chemicals. It might be a while before I felt better. But it would happen.

“When? How long will it take?”

He wouldn’t say. The way to do it was to go to a lot of meetings. Everyone there would be sympathetic; they had all gone through it and wouldn’t expect anything of me. He appointed himself my sponsor and suggested I go to the morning meeting at the clubhouse. He was out in the field today, but we exchanged cell phone numbers, and he told me to call him later to tell him how I was doing.

“Today, there’s only one thing you have to do: don’t take the first drink. Or the first drug. That’s it. No matter what.”

I went to the morning meeting, and when it was over, thought I’d better just hang out until the one at noon. I knew I’d have to go back to Gerry’s eventually—I was supposed to be house-sitting, after all—but I was afraid to be alone. I’d gone one whole day without drinking and using, but I had no confidence I could do that again. So I sat in the clubhouse, drinking cup after cup of coffee, allowing myself to be introduced as a newcomer to other sober alcoholics who came and went throughout the day.

After the noon meeting ended, I called Mike, told him I’d been to two meetings that day, and thought I’d better go back to Gerry’s.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“You’d better get yourself something to eat.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I’m serious. You need to keep your blood sugar up. Don’t get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. Those are set-ups for relapse.”

I told him I’d found a meeting in the directory not far from Gerry’s house. I’d get something to eat, drive back to Malibu, take in the mail, and go to another meeting. I thought I could do that much.

“Call me any time. Don’t take the first drink. Or drug. And call me.”

I had to admit I enjoyed being fussed over.

* * *

I drove back to Malibu, stopped at a coffee shop near Gerry’s, and ordered a burger and a Diet Coke. A TV in the corner was tuned to an all-news station, with the sound off. I’d been too consumed with my own suffering to pay attention to anything happening in the outside world, but as I glanced up, I saw footage of Marty and Erika Nussbaum, standing in front of their mansion. Marty was in shirtsleeves, Erika a designer suit. She clung to his arm and looked frightened and fragile, allowing him to do the speaking for both of them.

For once, Marty’s boyish enthusiasm was absent. He appeared haggard and anxious.

I asked the waitress if she could turn the sound up. She pressed a button on a remote.

“I think any parent can understand the anguish my wife and I are experiencing.”

His fist was clenching and unclenching by his side. He looked down at the tiny woman clinging to his arm. Erika looked up at her husband and then vacantly out into space, saying nothing. Her suit, neat and trim, had epaulets on its padded shoulders, as if to lend a military snap to the fragile woman within. I remembered that when I’d met her, she’d reminded me of my mother. Maybe it was the combination of hauteur and sadness.

“If there is anyone who has information that will lead to finding our daughter...we beg them to come forward. There will be a reward. And if anyone thinks they can get away with harming her...” His voice came close to cracking. “...they will find that retribution will be swift and merciless.” His fist opened and closed by his side.

At the news desk, the anchor turned from the screen showing the live feed to face the audience, ruminating, “The very human side of one of the giants of the corporate world.”

He took a moment before continuing.

“To recap, Caleigh Nussbaum, sixteen-year-old daughter of Marty Nussbaum, CEO of Poseidon Entertainment has been reported missing. She was last seen Monday, leaving her cosmetologist’s office in Beverly Hills, wearing her school uniform of tartan plaid pleated skirt and white shirt, with a lime green cashmere sweater over the shoulders. She drives a red Mercedes SL63 with the license plate, MY SL63. Anyone who has seen her, or who has any information about where she is, is advised to call this special hotline.”

The screen showed a still photo of Caleigh dressed for her school prom. A teenager now, I could still recognize the little girl I used to know. She had inherited some of her father’s pudginess, but encased in her strapless sheath, she did not exceed acceptable bounds of beauty. Her hair and make-up had been done with sophistication and style, yet she still had the youthful awkwardness of a newly hatched chick. The professional lighting, accentuating what bones there were beneath chubby cheeks, cast a haunting shadow over her innocent features. It was a portrait of a very young woman striving to be glamorous beyond her years.

The police were looking for Caleigh. Julia would have no need for me now.

I remembered how frightened she’d been when she came to see me.

I looked at my watch. A little after three. I thought maybe I’d just go find her at school and see what she thought about this development.

The next meeting wasn’t until 7:30. What else was I going to do with myself?

The Eastman School was a private school that served both sexes, from kindergarten through twelfth grade. It was harder to get into than Harvard; parents applied after the first ultra-sound. Its students were children of the wealthy; friendships and alliances made here were invaluable assets for later success. Sensibly, the administration required a uniform. The campus consisted of several buildings sprawled over a choice piece of real estate north of Sunset in Brentwood, the former estate of a silent screen star, from the days when there was no income tax, and this was countryside.

As I pulled into the parking lot, parents were shepherding kids towards their SUVs and mini-vans, while the teens with licenses headed for their own cars. Julia had been in middle school the last time I’d dropped her off here. I wondered if I’d recognize any of her friends in the long and leggy teenagers I was watching.

A gaggle of Eastman girls in soccer uniforms came towards me, laughing and razzing each other about the game. One of them stopped to rummage in her bag, while the others chattered on. A tall willowy blonde turned towards the straggler.

“Move it, will you? I’m jonesing for Starbucks.”

Dawn Delaney had been a skinny, bossy twelve-year-old, and she was no less imperious now. Her expression bore that jaded look of haughty nonchalance common to rouged dowagers at the tables in Monte Carlo, and the teenage children of the affluent in Los Angeles. She stood with one hand on her hip, sighing with exasperation. Her straight sun-streaked hair was pulled back loosely in a ponytail; her face glowed from her exertions on the field. She tapped her foot impatiently. The long socks and high shorts of her soccer uniform revealed long lean legs.

“Coming,” said the straggler, a dark-haired girl whose face was hidden from me as she searched her bag.

“I don’t know if I can go to Starbucks. My Dante paper’s due tomorrow,” said a third girl. I recognized Heather O’Connor, whom I remembered as an intense redhead whose mother liked to dress her in plaid. She had grown into a tawny strawberry blonde with pale eyelashes and hazel eyes. She made a face. “The Inferno. Ugh.” Then, “Hannah, come on.”

If I hadn’t heard the name, I never would have recognized the dark-haired beauty who found what she’d been looking for—a pack of cigarettes—and now shook one out and lit it. Hannah Rosen had been a chubby little girl with tight curly hair and glasses; I remembered how cute she looked in her karate class white outfit, roly-poly and serious. Now she was slender and shapely. Her tight curls had grown into a wild nimbus of dark hair; her eyes, no longer hidden by glasses, were long-lashed, dark and soulful. She inhaled the cigarette then blew the smoke out in a long plume.

“Heather. Hannah. Dawn.”

They didn’t recognize me. Dawn’s initial reaction was wary and suspicious, whereas Heather’s smile of curiosity was open and gracious.

“Brett Tanager. I used to live with Julia Weissman’s dad.”

Dawn’s distrust did not relax even as she placed me, but Heather and Hannah broke into smiles.

“You created Murder Will Out. You took us all on the set for Julia’s birthday.” Heather remembered what even I’d forgotten.

“Is that show still on the air?” asked Hannah.

“No,” said Dawn, always the expert. “Kate McKenzie’s on Dallas Central now. Well of course, it’s still on cable in the mornings. I watch it if I’m home sick. The clothes are a riot. You can’t believe the way they used to dress.”

The show had been created six years ago, lasted five seasons, and been off the air a year. But I guess to a sixteen-year-old, that was a generation ago.

“Cool,” said Heather. “What are you working on now?”

The eternal show biz question, even from kids.

“Taking a breather. The show wore me out.”

“My dad says things are the worst he’s ever seen,” Dawn declared. “I mean, if you get an eleven share, you’re lucky. And you can forget about a back end. That’s why he and Jonathan went to Poseidon when they bought Trident. It was the only way they could keep their points.”

“Well, it’s reality. You can’t get points in reality; you can’t even get Guild minimum. That’s why Amy’s dad couldn’t keep her in school; they don’t need writers for reality.”

“Reality’s not going away. The numbers on reality are just too good.”

“If they could just figure out how to monetize content on the Internet.”

“Listen,” I interrupted. Savvy as these girls might be, and much as they could relaunch my career with a word to the right person, that’s not why I had come. “Is Julia around? She came to see me yesterday, and we started a conversation we never got to finish. Have you seen her?”

They looked from one to another with a look that was easy to read: Don’t tell her anything, she’s a grown-up.

“I’m not here to get anyone into trouble, I promise,” I added. “Was she in school today?”

Dawn’s look said, “Executive privilege, get a subpoena.”

We were surrounded by parents and nannies, coming to collect their kids.

“Look, is there somewhere we can talk more privately? Isn’t there a Starbucks nearby?” Maybe I could play on her caffeine needs. I could use some myself. Mike said “don’t take the first drug,” but based on what I’d seen at the clubhouse, I knew caffeine didn’t count. I was feeling sweaty and shaky; maybe coffee might help.

“Across Sunset. We usually go there after practice.”

“Let me buy you a Frappuccino.”

Dawn looked me up and down. I was still wearing the clothes I’d put on to go down to Mike’s yesterday: jeans, sneakers, a white t-shirt, and a suede jacket I’d bought in Florence that never went out of style. My palms were sweating, and my hands were jammed into my pockets because I thought they were probably trembling. My five foot eight frame was cadaverous; I hadn’t bothered to eat much lately. Still, being thin has never been a liability in this town, and evidently, I fell within the range of Dawn’s standards.

“Sure,” she said with a toss of the head, “Why not.”We walked to Sunset and crossed at the intersection to a Starbucks in a mini-mall across the street, catching up on who was how old now, and what we remembered about times we’d shared when I lived with Jonathan and Julia. They remembered the stories I told them at bedtime; I remembered the shows they put on in our living room. The delight I’d felt watching them seemed now as unrecoverable as the eight-year-olds within those teenage girls. I wondered if any of them were doing what Julia had spoken of.

The police had been to school that day, interviewing kids about Caleigh, but I wanted to wait until we were seated before asking them harder questions.

The store had put a few plastic tables and chairs on the sidewalk. It faced Sunset Boulevard, which was heavy with traffic in both directions, and the odor of exhaust fumes was an unpleasant accompaniment to our coffees. But it was private, in the way that sitting on a public street in a neighborhood where nobody walks can be.

We ordered our drinks and settled at a table outside, so that Hannah could smoke. The other two derided her habit but indulged it.

“Was Julia in school at all today?”

They exchanged furtive glances and shook their heads no.

“Do you have any idea where she is? I saw her yesterday. She came to see me at the beach,” I added.

“Did you call her?” Heather was already taking out her cell phone and punching in Julia’s speed dial. She listened for a bit then said, “Hey, it’s me, we’re at Starbucks. Your step-mom’s here, she’s looking for you.” I was signaling for her to leave my number. Instead, she handed me her phone. I spoke into it. “Julia?” It was her voice mail. “Look, call me on my cell.” And I left the number.

I handed the phone back to Heather.

“Julia came to see me because she was worried about Caleigh. And now that the Nussbaums have reported Caleigh missing, I’m worried too. Do you have any idea where Caleigh is?”

“On another planet?” Dawn shook several packets of artificial sweetener into her already sweet Soy Chai Frozen Latte.

“Caleigh’s sort of in her own world,” said Heather. “She acts like she’s better than everybody because of her dad, and a lot of kids humor her because they want to get into the business. But nobody really likes her.”

“Julia does.” Hannah’s voice was soft even when disagreeing. Shimmering beneath the surface, like the reflection of a tree in a pond, I could see traces of the little ninja dumpling in the beauty she’d become.

“Well, right, Julia, because she’s loyal. She’s always sticking up for Caleigh. But nobody else likes her. She’s kind of a bitch.”

“Kind of?” Dawn was dismissive. “She’s worse than her mother.”

Heather laughed. “Caleigh would shit a brick if she heard you say she was like her mother.” She turned to me. “Caleigh hates her mother.”

“How come?

Dawn slurped her drink. “Do you know her mother?”

“Anyway,” said Heather, “the police were here earlier asking about Caleigh. They talked to all of us. I told them I hadn’t seen her since Monday and have no idea where she is.”

She looked to the others; they all agreed that’s what they had said too.

“Did you tell them about ‘enjo kosai’?”

Hannah startled as if a car had backfired. She and Heather exchanged uneasy glances before Hannah looked away. Dawn stared down into her latte, slurping loudly, but not looking at anyone.

“What did Julia tell you?” asked Heather softly.

“She said ‘enjo kosai’ was something Caleigh was into. She called it ‘paid dating.’ She said someone had told Caleigh that it was a fad in Japan but that Caleigh had gotten some kids from Eastman into it.”

“Did she say who?” asked Heather.

I watched Hannah’s hands tremble as she stubbed out one cigarette and lit another. I knew she was listening for my answer.

“No. But she thought it might have something to do with what’s happened to Caleigh.”

“That is so lame,” said Dawn. “Caleigh makes up these stories. I don’t believe any of it.”

“She talked about it,” said Heather. “She said it was a way we could make money. But I don’t think anyone actually did it.”

“Like Caleigh showed up at school one day waving a thousand dollar bill around and bragging about how she got it? Like it’s so hard for Caleigh to come up with a thousand dollar bill? Give me a break. She probably just took it from her dad’s wallet.”

“Did she say who had given it to her?”

“Caleigh lies about everything. Nobody would believe anything she’d say anyway.”

“I’ve got to go,” said Hannah, standing. “I’ve got my Dante paper due tomorrow.”

Dawn looked at her watch, and Heather drained her latte, crumpled her napkin, and stood, looking for a place to throw them.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Before you go.” I dug into my bag to get my notebook and a pen. “Let me get Julia’s phone number. And give you mine.” I started to write my number down on a piece of paper. That just goes to show how laughably retro I am.

“I’ll bump it to you,” said Heather.

Noticing my clueless expression, Heather took my phone away from me, held it in the other hand from hers, bumped the two together, and handed mine back. Julia’s name, number, and photo showed up on my cell phone. And mine on hers.

“How’d you do that?” I asked, marveling.

“It’s easy.” Heather used her phone to take my picture and attach it to my number. She showed it around, and they all laughed at the expression of bewilderment on my face.

“Can I give mine to each of you? And would you please call me if you hear from Julia or find out anything about Caleigh?”

With some mysterious combination of finger taps and gestures they instantly had my contact, and I theirs, as I stood by helpless in the face of technology that came so easily to them.

“Before you go. Even if you think it was a lie. Who did Caleigh say had given her the thousand dollars?”

“Some movie star wasn’t it?” asked Heather.

“Campbell McCauley,” Dawn raised her eyes. “Yeah, right. Like Campbell McCauley, only the sexiest man on the planet, who’s married to Rosalie Bennett, like the biggest box office star in the world, has nothing better to do than pay Caleigh Nussbaum a thousand dollars to have sex with him. Give me a break.”

They tossed their empty cups into the trash, and got ready to leave. I remembered the look of fear in Julia’s eyes as she’d turned from watching the runner on the beach. Coincidence?

I wondered if I’d hear from them again.