Not Quite A Mom. Kirsten Sawyer
his eyes off the little blue device.
After I hear the water being turned on, I again remove the robe and toss it into a white wicker hamper in the corner. I stop to examine my body in the full-length mirror on the wall. I am so skinny…not good skinny, like thin and petite…I am bony and undernourished skinny. And believe me, I’m not undernourished; it’s just how I am. I have ribs that stick out, angular hips, and birdlike legs. I look okay in clothes because it can all be camouflaged, but naked it is not so flattering. I quickly dress for work in the secondhand Seven jeans I got on eBay and a shirt from Target. I once read that if you have one expensive piece of clothing on, people assume everything you wear is designer. Every day I count on this being true.
I am filling my travel mug with coffee by the time Dan emerges from the bathroom, which now resembles a sauna.
“What time do you have to be in court?” I ask, as I add raw sugar and organic milk to my drink.
“Not until the afternoon,” he says, pouring himself a cup in a ceramic mug and drinking it black.
“I’m sorry, I have to run. We’re shooting two shows today,” I explain as I kiss him good-bye and collect my bag.
I struggle out the door, careful not to spill coffee on myself, and down to my car, hoping that there wasn’t any middle-of-the-night rain, since the car’s convertible top has a tendency to leak and I have forgotten to bring a towel down with me. The car gives me plenty of trouble, but I always dreamed of driving a BMW and I absolutely adore it. I set the metal container in the center console’s cupholder and put my bag on the seat next to me. I take a deep breath before starting the engine and placing my hands on the black steering wheel. My engagement ring catches my eye and I can’t help but smile…things are still going according to plan…for the most part.
10
The walls of my office are glass, and before I even enter the room I can already see the pile of work waiting for me. It’s a two-show day, which means it will be nonstop. I’ve been working at The Renee Foster Show! for all of the show’s eight seasons. I’ll admit, it’s not exactly what I thought it would be. After graduation, I got my first big (mid-size) break in journalism as a runner at the Los Angeles ABC affiliate, KABC. Renee was coanchor of the 7 p.m. and 11 p.m. newscasts and, obviously, she was my idol. Not only did she hold one of the most coveted positions at KABC, she is happily married to her college sweetheart and has two adorable little boys. Her life is perfect, and following in her footsteps would be ideal. After two years I’d worked my way from glorified go-fer to second assistant to the news director. I still wasn’t exactly putting my education to good use, but I was getting closer. Then Renee made her big announcement: she was leaving the news desk behind to host her own daytime news magazine show. When she offered me the chance to come with her as a junior fact checker, I jumped on it.
At the time, I was under the impression that a daytime news magazine show would be what it sounded like…like 60 Minutes or 20/20, just during the day. The show turned out to be much more like The View, with more celebrity gossip than actual news, but eight years later I am the head fact checker and am generally able to convince myself that I am working in journalism and that someday this job could lead to my dream job as a news anchor…plus as head fact checker I get to do a brief on-air segment called “That’s the Facts.” For approximately sixty seconds, the camera pans over to me, seated behind a desk, and I give Renee a rundown on celebrity facts. I supply her with bullets of information on celebrity comings and goings, and then I say, “I’m Elizabeth Castle, and That’s the Facts, Renee.” Everybody’s got to start somewhere.
I take a deep breath as I set my bag under my desk. I don’t bother to sit down, though. I grab the pile of manila folders on my desk and head down to the stage, looking through them and passing out assignments to the group of junior fact checkers who work in cubicles surrounding my glass office. The junior fact checkers are a peppy bunch of recent graduates with degrees in a host of liberal arts subjects. I both love and hate them because none of them is jaded yet and none of them thinks that eight years later they will still be working on this show.
By the time I have made my way through the department, my arms are empty except for the red plastic clipboard that accompanies me wherever I go. I slip a headset over my mousey brown hair, which would be pathetic if not for a ridiculous amount spent on highlights every six weeks, and struggle to attach the transmitter to my waistband. The headset is a direct connection to my assistant, Hope. From the stage, I keep in constant communication with her, and she farms out all fact-checking requests on my behalf.
“Hope, are you there?” I ask as I clunk my way down the metal staircase that connects our offices with the show’s stage. As I wait for a reply, I enter the cold soundstage and see that the audience for the first show is already seated. I cross through the show’s set, a space that is part home living room and part home office. The home office part houses the desk I sit behind for my on-air segment (seconds).
“Good morning Elizabeth,” Hope chimes through the headset.
“Good morning. Do we have any messages?”
Hope rattles off a list of calls, most of which need returning but none of which are pressing enough to send me back up to my office this close to show time or even inspire me to have Hope connect me through my headset. In fact, most of the messages don’t even get my attention, except for one.
“A Buck Platner called asking for our address here. Do you know who that is, Elizabeth? Can I give him the address?”
A sick feeling shoots into my stomach as I answer, “That’s fine, Hope. Call him back whenever you get a chance and give him the address. No rush,” I add hoping that she won’t get around to it for days or even weeks, but knowing that Hope is far too responsible to wait any length of time. Part of me had hoped that perhaps my out-of-sight, out-of-mind approach might rub off on everyone else involved, causing them to forget about the whole guardianship issue; then it would all just disappear as if it had never existed.
“Wishful thinking,” I mutter to myself as I approach the hair and makeup area where I see the back of Renee Foster’s head in big rollers. “Good morning, Renee,” I say and make eye contact with her unmade-up face in the light-framed vanity mirror.
“Oh, Elizabeth, thank God you’re here,” she says, as she says every morning. “It says here that Halle Berry’s dog is a Lhasa Apso,” Renee says holding up the thick stack of papers that are her show notes, “but I saw it in the hallway and it looks more like a Shih Tzu to me.”
“Lemme find out for you, Renee,” I say calmly as the show’s makeup person starts applying a thick coat of foundation to her face. In need of the day’s second cup of coffee, I walk over to the craft services table. “Hope?” I say into my headset.
A few seconds pass before she says, “Sorry, Elizabeth. Buck Platner called again and I was just giving him our address.”
“Crap,” I think to myself, but I say, “Can you confirm what breed Halle’s dog is?” “Crap,” but this time I say it out loud and Guadalupe, our caterer, thinks I am referring to the coffee. After reassuring her that my crude behavior has nothing to do with her, I take a big sip of the coffee; it is crappy and it burns my tongue.
I’m thinking about the papers that will soon be on their way to me when Hope’s voice booms in my right ear, “Halle’s dog is a maltese.” I’m picturing Buck Platner, exactly as he looked in high school, wearing a letterman jacket, laughing as he puts the papers in a manila envelope and telling the postman to rush them to me. “Elizabeth!” Hope calls, and it jerks me back to reality. “Did you hear me? The dog’s a maltese.”
“A maltese? Are you sure?”
“Positive. I just got off with her manager’s assistant who conferenced me in with Halle’s dog trainer. The dog is a purebred maltese.”
“Who was on that?” I ask, needing to know which member of my staff ineptly supplied Renee with the wrong dog breed.
“Christy,” Hope answers
“I