Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 80
“Thanks, Mom. I feel pretty lousy, too.”
“Let’s get you home. Did you check a bag?”
“Nope, just this,” Brooke said, motioning to her wheel-aboard. “When you have to give back your dress, shoes, bag, jewelry, and underwear, there’s not much left to pack.”
Her mother began weaving through people toward the elevator. “I promised myself I wouldn’t ask a single question until you’re ready to talk about it.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
“So . . .”
“So what?” Brooke asked. They stepped off the elevator. The cold Philly air hit her hard, as though she needed a reminder that she was no longer in California.
“So . . . I’ll be there, waiting, should you want to talk. About anything.”
“Great, thanks.”
Her mother threw her hands in the air before pulling open the car door. “Brooke! You’re torturing me.”
“Torturing you?” Brooke feigned incredulousness. “I’m taking you up on your very kind offer of a little breathing room.”
“You know perfectly well that offer wasn’t genuine!”
Brooke hoisted her suitcase into the trunk and settled into the passenger seat. “Can I just have the car ride to relax before the interrogation begins? Trust me, once you get me started, you’re not going to be able to shut me up.”
She was relieved when her mother chatted the entire car ride to her Center City apartment, telling Brooke all about the people she’d met in her new jogging club. Even once they parked the car in the building’s underground garage and took the elevator to her mother’s two-bedroom on the fifth floor, Mrs. Greene maintained a steady, upbeat soliloquy. It was only once they stepped inside and shut the door that she turned to Brooke, who braced herself.
Her mother, in a rare moment of intimacy, cupped Brooke’s cheek in her palm.
“First, you shower. There are clean towels in the bathroom and I put out some of this new lavender shampoo I’m in love with. After that, you eat. I’m going to make you an omelet—whites only, I know—and some toast. And then you sleep. Red-eyes are hell, and I’m guessing you didn’t sleep all that much on the plane. The second bedroom is all made up and I’ve already got the AC jacked up as high as it will go.” She took her hand away and began walking toward the kitchen.
Brooke exhaled, rolled her suitcase to the bedroom, and collapsed on the bed. She was asleep before she could take off her shoes.
When she finally woke with a need to pee so strong she couldn’t ignore it any longer, the sun had moved to its late afternoon position behind the building. The clock read four forty-five and she could hear her mother emptying the dishwasher. It took only about ten seconds for the night to come rushing back. She grabbed her cell phone and was both dismayed and satisfied to see twelve missed calls and as many text messages, each and every one from Julian, beginning at about eleven last night California time and continuing straight through the night and next morning.
She pulled herself off the bed and headed first to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, where her mother was standing in front of the dishwasher, staring at the small television mounted underneath a cabinet. Oprah was hugging an unidentifiable guest as Brooke’s mother shook her head.
“Hey,” Brooke said, wondering for the umpteenth time what her mother would do when Oprah finally went off the air. “Who’s on?”
Mrs. Greene didn’t even turn around. “It’s Mackenzie Phillips,” she said. “Again. Can you believe it? Oprah’s checking in with her to see how she’s faring after the initial announcement.”
“And how’s she faring?”
“She’s a recovering heroin addict who had a ten-year sexual relationship with her father. You know, I’m not a shrink, but I wouldn’t say her prognosis for long-term happiness is terrific.”
“Fair enough.” Brooke grabbed a hundred-calorie pack of Oreos from the pantry and ripped it open. She popped a couple pieces in her mouth. “My god, these are good. How can they only be a hundred calories?”
Her mother snorted. “Because they only give you a few lousy crumbs. You have to eat five packs to feel even remotely satisfied. The whole thing is such a scam.”
Brooke smiled.
Her mother clicked the television off. She turned to face Brooke. “Let me make you those eggs and toast now, what do you say?”
“Sure. Sounds good. I’m actually starving,” she said as she emptied the remainder of the Oreos directly into her mouth.
“Remember when you kids were little and I’d make breakfast for dinner a couple times a month? You both loved it.” She pulled a frying pan from a sliding drawer and sprayed it so heavily with Pam that it looked like it had been dunked in water.
“Mmm, I sure do. Only I’m pretty sure you made it two or three times a week, not a month, and I’m positive I was the only one who liked it. Randy and Dad used to order a pizza every time you made eggs at night.”
“Oh come on, Brooke, it wasn’t that often. I cooked all the time!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I made a huge pot of turkey chili every week. You all loved that.” She cracked a half-dozen eggs into a bowl and began to whisk them. Brooke opened her mouth to object when her mother added her self-proclaimed “special sauce” into the mix—a splash of vanilla soy milk that gave the eggs a nauseatingly sweet taste—but thought better of it. She would just drown them in ketchup and choke them down, as usual.
“It was from a mix!” Brooke said, cracking open another packet of Oreos. “All you did was add turkey and a jar of tomato sauce.”
“It was delicious and you know it.”
Brooke smiled. Her mother knew she was an atrocious cook, never claimed to be anything but horrible, and they both enjoyed this little back-and-forth.
Mrs. Greene scraped the vanilla soy eggs from the nonstick pan using a metal fork and divided them up between two plates. She pulled four slices of bread from the toaster and divided those up too, failing to notice that she’d never pressed the Toast button. She handed a plate to Brooke and motioned toward the little table right outside the kitchen.
They took their plates to the table and claimed their usual seats. Her mom darted back to the kitchen and returned with two cans of Diet Coke, two forks, one knife, an ancient jar of grape Smucker’s, and a spray bottle of butter flavoring, all of which she unceremoniously dumped on the table. “Bon appétit!” she trilled.
“Let’s get you home. Did you check a bag?”
“Nope, just this,” Brooke said, motioning to her wheel-aboard. “When you have to give back your dress, shoes, bag, jewelry, and underwear, there’s not much left to pack.”
Her mother began weaving through people toward the elevator. “I promised myself I wouldn’t ask a single question until you’re ready to talk about it.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that.”
“So . . .”
“So what?” Brooke asked. They stepped off the elevator. The cold Philly air hit her hard, as though she needed a reminder that she was no longer in California.
“So . . . I’ll be there, waiting, should you want to talk. About anything.”
“Great, thanks.”
Her mother threw her hands in the air before pulling open the car door. “Brooke! You’re torturing me.”
“Torturing you?” Brooke feigned incredulousness. “I’m taking you up on your very kind offer of a little breathing room.”
“You know perfectly well that offer wasn’t genuine!”
Brooke hoisted her suitcase into the trunk and settled into the passenger seat. “Can I just have the car ride to relax before the interrogation begins? Trust me, once you get me started, you’re not going to be able to shut me up.”
She was relieved when her mother chatted the entire car ride to her Center City apartment, telling Brooke all about the people she’d met in her new jogging club. Even once they parked the car in the building’s underground garage and took the elevator to her mother’s two-bedroom on the fifth floor, Mrs. Greene maintained a steady, upbeat soliloquy. It was only once they stepped inside and shut the door that she turned to Brooke, who braced herself.
Her mother, in a rare moment of intimacy, cupped Brooke’s cheek in her palm.
“First, you shower. There are clean towels in the bathroom and I put out some of this new lavender shampoo I’m in love with. After that, you eat. I’m going to make you an omelet—whites only, I know—and some toast. And then you sleep. Red-eyes are hell, and I’m guessing you didn’t sleep all that much on the plane. The second bedroom is all made up and I’ve already got the AC jacked up as high as it will go.” She took her hand away and began walking toward the kitchen.
Brooke exhaled, rolled her suitcase to the bedroom, and collapsed on the bed. She was asleep before she could take off her shoes.
When she finally woke with a need to pee so strong she couldn’t ignore it any longer, the sun had moved to its late afternoon position behind the building. The clock read four forty-five and she could hear her mother emptying the dishwasher. It took only about ten seconds for the night to come rushing back. She grabbed her cell phone and was both dismayed and satisfied to see twelve missed calls and as many text messages, each and every one from Julian, beginning at about eleven last night California time and continuing straight through the night and next morning.
She pulled herself off the bed and headed first to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, where her mother was standing in front of the dishwasher, staring at the small television mounted underneath a cabinet. Oprah was hugging an unidentifiable guest as Brooke’s mother shook her head.
“Hey,” Brooke said, wondering for the umpteenth time what her mother would do when Oprah finally went off the air. “Who’s on?”
Mrs. Greene didn’t even turn around. “It’s Mackenzie Phillips,” she said. “Again. Can you believe it? Oprah’s checking in with her to see how she’s faring after the initial announcement.”
“And how’s she faring?”
“She’s a recovering heroin addict who had a ten-year sexual relationship with her father. You know, I’m not a shrink, but I wouldn’t say her prognosis for long-term happiness is terrific.”
“Fair enough.” Brooke grabbed a hundred-calorie pack of Oreos from the pantry and ripped it open. She popped a couple pieces in her mouth. “My god, these are good. How can they only be a hundred calories?”
Her mother snorted. “Because they only give you a few lousy crumbs. You have to eat five packs to feel even remotely satisfied. The whole thing is such a scam.”
Brooke smiled.
Her mother clicked the television off. She turned to face Brooke. “Let me make you those eggs and toast now, what do you say?”
“Sure. Sounds good. I’m actually starving,” she said as she emptied the remainder of the Oreos directly into her mouth.
“Remember when you kids were little and I’d make breakfast for dinner a couple times a month? You both loved it.” She pulled a frying pan from a sliding drawer and sprayed it so heavily with Pam that it looked like it had been dunked in water.
“Mmm, I sure do. Only I’m pretty sure you made it two or three times a week, not a month, and I’m positive I was the only one who liked it. Randy and Dad used to order a pizza every time you made eggs at night.”
“Oh come on, Brooke, it wasn’t that often. I cooked all the time!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I made a huge pot of turkey chili every week. You all loved that.” She cracked a half-dozen eggs into a bowl and began to whisk them. Brooke opened her mouth to object when her mother added her self-proclaimed “special sauce” into the mix—a splash of vanilla soy milk that gave the eggs a nauseatingly sweet taste—but thought better of it. She would just drown them in ketchup and choke them down, as usual.
“It was from a mix!” Brooke said, cracking open another packet of Oreos. “All you did was add turkey and a jar of tomato sauce.”
“It was delicious and you know it.”
Brooke smiled. Her mother knew she was an atrocious cook, never claimed to be anything but horrible, and they both enjoyed this little back-and-forth.
Mrs. Greene scraped the vanilla soy eggs from the nonstick pan using a metal fork and divided them up between two plates. She pulled four slices of bread from the toaster and divided those up too, failing to notice that she’d never pressed the Toast button. She handed a plate to Brooke and motioned toward the little table right outside the kitchen.
They took their plates to the table and claimed their usual seats. Her mom darted back to the kitchen and returned with two cans of Diet Coke, two forks, one knife, an ancient jar of grape Smucker’s, and a spray bottle of butter flavoring, all of which she unceremoniously dumped on the table. “Bon appétit!” she trilled.
