The Jetsetters Page 3

  “What?” said Giovanni.

  “It’s that I love you,” whispered Cord.

  REGAN SLOWED HER WALMART shopping cart and allowed herself to touch a bag of rat poison. What drink would mask the taste of a RatX pellet? A strong cinnamon latte from Starbucks? She imagined the first sip, the strychnine convulsions beginning…But no: She’d already run that scenario. As appealing as it was, rat poison wasn’t going to play out. And Regan was in for the long game.

  After her Walmart errands, Regan headed to her favorite spot, Monet’s Playhouse at the Oglethorpe Mall. When she had begun painting pottery, Regan had pretended she was waiting for a friend, or creating a gift for a child’s birthday. She’d even dragged her daughters along a few times, enduring their fidgety annoyance to get her fix. But she was beyond the subterfuge now. Kendall, the Monet’s Playhouse manager, knew and accepted Regan, who perhaps kept them afloat.

  “Oh, hey, Mrs. Willingham,” said Kendall, as Regan perused the ceramic figurines.

  “Good morning, Kendall,” said Regan.

  “You doing good?” said Kendall.

  Regan nodded, smiling, not correcting Kendall’s grammar. She picked up a large white dinosaur bank. She could paint it turquoise, or green.

  “There’s a monkey bank, too,” said Kendall. “And one there with two cats snuggled up.”

  Regan nodded. She knew about the monkey bank: she had three of them in her secret pottery cupboard at home. She had four dinosaurs, too, and countess salt and pepper shakers, plates, platters, and ceramic wine goblets. Clearly, her Monet’s Playhouse purchases were not items she’d actually use. But sitting inside the cheerful studio made her calm. In Monet’s Playhouse, Regan could ignore the desperate sense that her life was a car that had hit a wall, crumpled, and remained still and broken, no air bags deploying, no metaphorical ambulance en route. No: Her life had sailed over the guardrail into the air, then landed in an ocean of dread and ennui, sinking slowly, its inhabitant (Regan) running out of time, gasping, her metaphorical seatbelt (a symbol for marriage if ever there was one) jammed and holding her tight against her seat, ensuring her flailing, watery demise.

  Regan listened to Kendall’s boy-band playlist as she squeezed paint onto a clean palette. She selected brushes of various sizes.

  Regan had thought she’d be an artist once. Sometimes, when she opened her secret pottery cupboard, sitting cross-legged on the floor and admiring her glossy creations, she felt as if perhaps she was an artist. Sure, she’d jettisoned her schooling to hold on to Matt, to make a generous, lush life that was the opposite of her penny-pinching childhood. But Regan went to the mall every few days and painted, feeling as if she were under a happy spell, making something from generic molds, something that hadn’t existed before and wouldn’t exist without her careful, constant work. And wasn’t that the point of art? (And, come to think of it, motherhood? Life itself?)

  When Regan had finished painting the dinosaur bank, she gave it to Kendall for firing and set down her credit card.

  After Monet’s Playhouse, Regan walked around the mall, searching for things she could acquire that would make her feel less like a goldfish trapped in a Ziploc bag. She caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window. She was no longer adorable. She hid her formerly size-six body under size-fourteen dresses. Her thighs rubbed together when she walked. She’d had babies, she’d nursed babies, and she tried to be proud of the havoc this had wreaked on her body. Regan loved preparing—and enjoying—good food. Her mother had spent her life on one diet or another and Regan was trying to set a healthier example for her girls. Still, being invisible instead of cute kind of sucked.

  In front of a travel agency, Regan stared at a poster of a chaise longue and sun umbrella. The tagline read Get away…to anywhere but here!

  Regan put her hand to her throat. She felt choked with yearning. “I want to get away,” she said, gazing at the pink chair, the fruity drink beside it. Rat poison, pillow suffocation, cutting the brakes on the Tundra truck…but none of these plans would result in what she most desired, which was to be free.

  Regan made herself walk past the travel agency without going inside. She was due to volunteer in the gymnasium at Savannah Country Day in a half hour. It was an expensive school, but every time Regan drove up to the campus and saw her children in their smart uniforms, she felt a surge of accomplishment. Her father had been a lawyer, but after he died, money was tight. Charlotte had kept them afloat by getting her real estate license.

  Charlotte had been a mediocre realtor. Once in a while, she’d sell a big house to a retiree from somewhere expensive or for a friend from church, and these sales supported them during Regan’s high school years. Regan could remember lean times, too: Charlotte hunched over a stack of bills wearing her CVS reading glasses and pecking at a calculator. There were weekends when Charlotte brought Regan and her homework to her open houses, pasting on a smile when lookie-loos meandered in. At those times, Regan was touched by her mother’s effort, but it was hard to see Charlotte later in these evenings: exhausted, worried, eating a sad McDonald’s cheeseburger for dinner.

  Somehow, Charlotte had found enough money for Cord and Lee to finish up at Savannah Country Day, then hightail it out of town to college. But Regan was sent to public school in her sister’s hand-me-down sweater sets. Her art teacher called her gifted, but there was no money for “extras,” such as art classes at the Telfair or SCAD.

  Regan allowed herself a deep sigh. She’d worked so hard for her big, new home, her big husband, her two delightful daughters. She’d surrendered herself to give her girls the mother she’d always wanted: present, attentive, enthusiastic. But she knew that as soon as she struck the match, her life was going to explode. She was both terrified and so very ready.

  Regan parked her minivan in the visitors’ lot at Savannah Country Day. She grabbed her Tory Burch gym bag, used her volunteer badge to enter the school, and changed into track pants and a pink T-shirt in the teachers’ restroom. It was Volleyball Appreciation Week.

  In the Pledge-scented gym, Regan stood to the left of Coach Randy (What a name! was a joke Regan had told to no one). She mimed his “ready position,” feigning excitement. Regan’s daughters, nine-year-old Isabella and seven-year-old Flora, smiled at her, lit up by her presence. Regan knew there’d be a day when the girls didn’t want their mom roaming the privileged halls of their school. She read blogs titled “I Forgot to Cherish Every Moment” and “The Last Time My Son Wanted a Hug—If Only I’d Known.” So Regan did her best to cherish the damn moment.

  After school, Regan took the girls for ice cream. At home, on She Crab Circle, she made them take a bath and combed out their long blond hair with No More Tangles. She fastened them into sundresses, gave each some bubbles from the dollar bin at Target, and sent them out to play in the backyard. Isabella pretended to think bubbles were babyish, but Regan knew her elder daughter was still darling beneath her eye-rolling and hip-jutting poses. As soon as Flora blew through her bubble wand, Isabella dropped her airs and ran barefoot with her sister.

  By six, Matt was not home. Regan’s calls to his cell went unanswered. She fed the girls pasta with butter and let them watch Finding Nemo. When the movie was over and Matt still wasn’t back, Regan put the girls to bed and took the phone and a mug of tea into the backyard.

  For a few minutes, Regan hesitated. She tried Matt again but the call went to voicemail.

  Get away…to anywhere but here!

  Regan knew she should hold off, just console herself with After Eight mints and her mother’s cast-off romance novels. (They lacked the dirty bits, which Charlotte piously ripped out, causing jarring lapses of continuity.) But she was tired of being patient.

  Regan gazed at her garden, where she’d considered planting deadly oleander or belladonna. She’d even googled “plants that kill no trace” and then erased her search history. Now, she di
aled her oldest friend, Zoë, in Atlanta.

  “Hi, stranger!” said Zoë. “To what honor do I owe an evening phone call?”

  Regan was careful with her words.

  Zoë was silent for a moment, then said, “Hmm. Do you think you should hire a tail?”

  “What?” said Regan, biting her thumbnail.

  “Believe it or not I know a guy in Savannah,” said Zoë, a police officer.

  “I believe it,” said Regan.

  “He’s good. Kind of an investigator slash bounty hunter slash sculptor.”

  “Okay,” said Regan.

  “I’m calling him for you,” said Zoë. “I know you won’t call him yourself.”

  “Oh,” said Regan. “Okay, thank you.”

  “It might be nothing,” said Zoë.

  “Right,” said Regan, pushing against the ground to lift herself into the air. She closed her eyes and imagined everything catching fire: her manicured lawn, her house, every item of clothing in her closets. She would save her girls, and that was all.

  FOR THREE DAYS, LEE drove from Los Angeles to Savannah, where she would take refuge with her mother. Her credit cards maxed out and her bank account empty, she drove all day and curled up in the backseat of her leased Prius at night. Like a child. Or a dog. She paid with Charlotte’s ATM card (given to Lee when she went to college to use “in an emergency”) for gas and snacks. She called Charlotte as she filled the tank in Atlanta, four hours from Skidaway Island. When Charlotte answered her landline, Lee said, “Hi, Mom, it’s me.”

  “Lee Lee!” cried Charlotte. It warmed Lee that every single time she reached her mother, Charlotte said, “Lee Lee!” as if the call were the greatest thing in the world.

  “Mom, I have a surprise,” said Lee, her voice rusty from disuse. How long had it been since she had talked to anyone? A week, maybe ten days?

  “Oh, honey, what is it?” said Charlotte. “Is it a big new movie role?”

  “Not exactly,” said Lee, looking upward at the wires above the Sunoco station, where hundreds of grackles roosted in a horrifying spectacle of urban proliferation.

  “Is it a small new movie role?” ventured Charlotte.

  “No,” said Lee. She decided that after this conversation, she’d treat herself to a Twix or a Snickers bar. Maybe both.

  “Are you and Jason getting married?”

  “Mom…” said Lee. She braced herself. The Perkins family didn’t talk about things, not really. They forged ahead, pretending everything was perfect. Anyone who made note of a problem or insecurity was a troublemaker and/or “dramatic.” Lee had learned long ago to coat her words, no matter how dire, in bulletproof cheer. It was only recently that she was beginning to admit to herself how much it hurt to have to be fine.

  Lee was not fine. She hadn’t really slept in a long time, and her mind felt as it had when she’d snorted Adderall in college—buzzy, sped-up, full of brilliant ideas and insightful connections. She didn’t feel depressed—quite the opposite, in fact: she felt euphoric, driven by a weird, fabulous energy. When her La Quinta key card stopped working on the door to her West Hollywood motel room, she’d realized with a sunlit clarity that she needed a road trip. She wanted to see her mom. And so she gathered her mail (old credit card bills, new credit card offers, a bat mitzvah invitation), gassed up her Prius, and headed east.

  “I’m coming home,” said Lee.

  There was a momentary silence.

  “That’s the surprise,” said Lee.

  Charlotte regained herself. “Well, that’s the best news ever!” she cried.

  “It is,” said Lee. “It sure is.”

  “We’re going to have so much fun!” said Charlotte. “Is Jason with you?”

  “No,” said Lee. She swallowed, and lied. “He’s busy with work. But sends all his love.”

  “By the way,” said Charlotte, “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I entered a contest and I think I might win. It’s an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe! A nine-day cruise from Athens, Greece, to Barcelona, Spain!”

  “Wow, Mom,” said Lee. She worried about Charlotte’s fragility. Ever since Lee had found her father’s body, she’d felt as if she had to protect Charlotte. It was, quite simply, her job. She called Savannah so often that Jason had complained Lee’s “brain space” was so filled with Charlotte that there wasn’t enough “brain space” left for an adult romance with him. When Jason began to make money, Lee had used it to send Charlotte fresh flowers every week. Lee still had a credit card in Jason’s name, but was too proud to use it, now that he was living with Alexandria Fumillini.

  “I can’t wait to all be together on the Mediterranean Sea,” said Charlotte dreamily.

  Lee’s stomach clenched. She knew her mother wouldn’t win the contest—nobody won these things. But she couldn’t bear to see Charlotte disappointed. “Me neither,” said Lee weakly.

  “Will you be here in time for dinner? I’ll make that shrimp stir-fry. The one from Martha Stewart’s Quick Cook,” said Charlotte.

  “That would be so great,” said Lee. She was overwhelmed with gratitude. No one had made her dinner in a long time.

  Lee had subsisted on egg whites and cocaine for years, believing it was just a matter of time before she got the job that would change everything. She’d been so close—called in, called back, singled out, chosen for enough small roles that she could stay afloat—but as Lee grew older and the calls dwindled, she’d begun to recognize that it was entirely possible that everything was never going to change.

  What had Lee even wanted in Los Angeles? She’d been told she was beautiful, more beautiful than other people, since she was four years old. (And maybe even before that, but her first memory is her father looking her dead in the eye and saying, “You think you’re more beautiful than everyone else, don’t you? Well, you’re right.”)

  Throughout high school and college, Lee was cast as the lead in every amateur production from Guys and Dolls to The Seagull. But was she even a good actress? Classes had always bored her: Lee wanted to be famous, not to delve into sad childhood memories. And sometimes being too practiced an actress could work against you. You needed to be relatable, vulnerable. Appealing. You had to be what the casting agent “had in mind.” But Lee suspected that often the casting agent didn’t even know what this meant. It was a gut thing, like love. And you couldn’t train to be beloved. It just happened.

  Or it did not.

  When Lee’s agent, Francine, booked her an audition, Lee prepared by reading the sides, highlighting her lines, stapling her head shot to her résumé. She and Francine would strategize about how she should style her hair, what she should wear, heels or high-tops. The other women in the audition waiting room afforded clues about what the casting director “had in mind”: in Lee’s early days, the other chairs would be filled with buxom stunners. (This observation had led Lee to her first appointment with a well-respected plastic surgeon and her second line of credit.)

  More recently, Lee had found herself in a room of middle-aged character actors. She was up for “MILF” roles for a while, then just regular, nonsexy moms or hot women gone awry. Slowly, calls to Francine stopped coming. Then calls from Francine stopped coming. Then Jason (a psychology major turned actor) threatened that if she wouldn’t go to a psychiatrist to delve into her “fear of long-term commitment, codependency issues, probable serotonin deficiency, and possible manic tendencies,” he would leave her. But Lee had been taught to soldier on, not to delve. Revisiting her father’s death was not going to happen—no fucking way.

  And so, as promised, Jason left.

  Lee had gone to Los Angeles because it was where you went to become rich and famous. For a while, she thought she wasn’t smart enough, that she should try harder, really read the hardcover Stanislavski she kept on her coffee table. But becoming a serious actor, studying how to ch
ange herself into another person, how to inhabit roles—this was not, in the end, very interesting to Lee. She’d curl up with An Actor Prepares and a cup of coffee and her mind would just wander. She tried! But it didn’t matter how long she stared at the page; she just wasn’t into it. She hated it, in fact.

  Jason had gotten the Big Job. It was the role of a robot on a sitcom called Me & My Robot, but still. In short order, Jason bought a house in the hills, emailed Lee that he was “officially breaking free of my own codependency and moving on,” and began dating his costar, a woman in her twenties who was “stable” and “open to having a family.” (The new gal pal was “Me” to Jason’s sickeningly quirky “Robot.”) Her head spinning, Lee vacated their rental apartment at the last hour and checked into a motel.

  In a matter of weeks she had used up every scrap of favor and was persona non grata at the hairdresser, gym, yoga studio, Pilates-yoga studio, Whole Foods, and Whole Earth. And her friends! When you moved into a La Quinta, Lee learned, no one wanted to come over for happy hour.

  Lee Perkins, voted Most Popular and Best Looking at Savannah Country Day, was an official has-been. She’d truly thought leaving Savannah, moving on from her boyfriend, Matt, was the best decision for all of them. She certainly hadn’t thought he’d go and marry her sister!

  Although Lee hadn’t spoken to Regan since what had happened at the wedding, Lee followed her sister obsessively on social media. Seeing her nieces’ bright smiles made Lee feel heartsick. She had never seen Flora and Isabella in person, and longed to meet them.

  Regan had once hung on Lee’s every word, dressed up in her older sister’s clothes. Regan had always been chubby, never a guy magnet like Lee. But she’d been so earnest. A little mother from the start, running to hug Lee after school, offering back scratches and homemade snacks. It made Regan happiest to care for others. Unlike Lee, Regan seemed to have made all the right decisions, and now had grown into the woman she’d been all along inside, her two babies tucked one on either side of her in her Facebook profile photo.