Not Quite A Mom. Kirsten Sawyer
I sit down in the empty salon chair next to Renee and go over all the information for the entire show, including everything I will be sharing with her during “That’s the Facts, Renee.” When I share them with her on-air, she will act interested and surprised, but in fact not a single item will actually be news to her. We have spent the past week deciding together exactly which facts will be announced in today’s rundown.
“Okay, Elizabeth, sounds good,” Renee says as she rises from her chair with flawless hair and makeup and removes the black drape that had covered her from the neck down, revealing a black velour Juicy warm-up suit. “I’ll see you out there,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads to her dressing room.
I watch her for a second and then look back down at my clipboard as a loud voice booms overhead, “FIVE MINUTES TILL SHOW TIME.”
“Okay, Elizabeth, let’s touch you up,” Marcela, the makeup artist, says to me.
I nod appreciatively, and she dabs powder on my T-zone. I receive only a fraction of the makeup that Renee does, but Marcela is so talented that it does wonders for my appearance. When she is finished, the voice booms, “ONE MINUTE TILL SHOW TIME.”
As I head back to craft services for another cup of coffee, I hear the audience-warmer introducing Renee and the audience going wild with excitement. With another crappy although now not as hot cup of coffee in hand, I head to the wardrobe room, where I have my choice of the items from Renee’s last-season wardrobe that she didn’t like enough to take home with her. I select a black-and-white tweed Moschino jacket with silver buttons and put it on over my T-shirt. Since I sit behind a desk, there is no need to change anything from the waist down.
From the wardrobe room, I can hear Renee’s opening monologue and the enthusiastic laughter of the audience. I know that I have about five minutes while she banters with the show’s DJ, Karl, until I need to be in my seat behind the desk. I grab another cup of coffee from the craft services table and test it against my lip to be certain it has cooled down considerably before chugging the entire cup, while awkwardly bending forward in order to avoid dripping on the jacket. Caffeine is my lifeblood, especially on two-show days. As I swish cold water from the Arrowhead cooler in my mouth to remove any coffee from my teeth I hear Renee.
“And now let’s check in with the Fact Mistress, Elizabeth Castle.”
“Shit,” I say wondering how the ridiculous banter session was over so quickly, spilling water out of my mouth while ripping my headset off. Hoping my hair doesn’t look too horrible, I dart to my desk while the audience is maniacally laughing at Renee’s stupid “fact mistress” joke. Before the gigglefest has ended I am seated in the black Aeron chair that lives behind my stage desk, which is covered with charming prop-desk trinkets and looks nothing like a desk that anybody would actually use. Camera three rotates around, and before I have totally caught my breath it is staring me in the face with a brightly burning red light.
“Well, Elizabeth, what’s new and exciting?” Renee asks before taking a sip from The Renee Foster Show! coffee mug that I know contains room-temperature water (people have been fired over water that is too cold or too hot).
“So much is going on in Hollywood, Renee. Everyone is all abuzz over Jack Flight and Auburn Smith’s recent engagement. Not to mention the drama on the set of Desperate Housewives!” I enthusiastically reel off a handful of information about Hollywood’s hottest stars before ending with, “and that’s the facts, Renee. Back to you.”
“Wow!” Renee responds, and I am quite certain that she did not listen to a single syllable I have spoken. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”
I smile once more and watch as camera three moves away from my desk before I stand up and head back to the wardrobe room to hang up the blazer and retrieve my headset. I replace it over my head and reattach the transmitter to my belt.
“Hope,” I say into the headset, since I can tell by the audience warm-up guy’s voice on the stage’s PA system that the show is on a commercial break. “I’m off-air now and if you need me, I’ll be in the producer’s booth for the rest of the show.”
A split second goes by before Hope replies, “Actually, Elizabeth, I need you up here now. Buck Platner is waiting for you in your office.”
11
While he waits for Tiffany to collect her belongings, Buck sits in his truck and fiddles with the stereo preset buttons until he finds a station without idiotic DJ banter or an annoyingly long commercial break. He had offered to accompany the teenager inside and would have graciously done so, but he was more than a little relieved that she preferred to go alone. Buck had laid out a plan for Tiffany that culminated in their arrival in Los Angeles. She had gone along with the plan, and now he had some major thinking to do.
First, he has to figure out his professional and legal responsibility. His father’s instructions had been to summon Elizabeth Castle to Victory to sign papers and take custody of Tiffany. Buck’s conversations with her had clearly not gone according to plan, and Lizzie’s homecoming wasn’t happening. Instead, Buck’s new plan was to show up at Lizzie’s door with Tiffany in tow. He knew he was going to be blindsiding her and he hated to do it, but he really had no choice. The second thing to figure out was how he was going to handle himself when he saw Lizzie for the first time in so many years. His demeanor during their phone calls was never what he hoped it would be, and Buck was acutely aware of the risk that he would once again come off like an oaf when he was face to face with Lizzie.
“Elizabeth…not Lizzie,” he reminded himself under his breath and then closed his eyes and laid his head back against the truck’s black leather headrest, listening to Billie Joe Armstrong’s voice.
A split second later, the passenger door to the truck opened, startling Buck. He jumped to attention, turning down the radio volume and wondering if it was disrespectful of him to listen to music while Tiffany retrieved her things from her dead parents’ house. Too late to do anything about it, Buck confirmed that Tiffany was okay and she was polite enough to lie to him. He turned over the truck’s powerful engine and backed out of the driveway, being careful not to crush any of the Tathams’ dying plants under his tires.
It was Sunday afternoon now and Buck suddenly saw a flaw in his plan. He and Tiffany weren’t scheduled to go to Los Angeles until the next day, and aside from avoiding his father, Buck didn’t have a clue what to do the rest of the day.
“Are you hungry?” Buck asked Tiffany, who was gazing mindlessly out the window.
“No, not really,” she answered without turning away from the window.
“Me neither,” Buck confessed, still feeling the parts of the Mug’s breakfast he was able to get down sitting in his stomach in a pool of grease. “What about a movie?” he offered, seeing the benefits of sitting in darkness and not having to talk.
“Nothing good is playing,” Tiffany informed him.
Feeling at a loss, Buck tried again, “Is there anything you want or need to get done?”
“Nope, not really,” she answered and then sat silently once more.
Buck nodded slowly, racking his brain for ideas and coming up dry. They drove a few minutes in silence before Buck realized that the truck was heading back to his house. Not having any reason to fight it, they completed the route without exchanging a single word and too soon were sitting in Buck’s driveway under the huge oak tree whose roots caused his sinks to back up twice a year.
Buck sighed to himself as he unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out. Tiffany followed him, without a word, onto the front porch and into the house. It was going to be a long, quiet night.
Of course, as has always been the case for Buck, when he is unprepared for something, time flies at an alarming rate. If he has nothing to do on a weekend, the time drags on while he sits alone and watches ESPN. If he has something, like a court appearance to prepare for, Monday morning arrives before he has even had a chance to crack a file. So, the long, quiet night he