[Critique Group 1] Marcia's August submission

[Marcia Wick]

Back to the book.

1036 words

 

 

Chapter 16

Mother Dear

 

After meeting with Robbie, I rushed to the airport only to discover my
flight to LaGuardia was delayed by three hours. A winter storm was hammering
the northeast with temperatures as cold as steel and cement-like snow
clogging the roads. To kill time, I visited a news stand inside the Grand
Rapids terminal. My mistake. Hoping for a distraction, I encountered the
last person I wanted to see. Plastered larger than life on the cover of
Variety and The Hollywood Reporter was the face of my dear mother. 

 

"Glamorous Soap Opera Diva Marries Again," the headline declared. "Daytime
television actress, Mia Castle from "Hollywood Hills" rivals Elizabeth
Taylor and Zsa Zsa Gabor for the highest Hollywood husband count." 

 

The tabloids took pleasure recounting my mother's multiple marriages. Mom's
stage name, Mia Castle, had been chosen by her agent because it eluded to
her being a princess. I didn't mind that our surnames were different. Her
pseudonym allowed me to preserve my anonymity. I noted the rumor rags failed
to mention Mom's numerous neglected offspring. Multiple babies weren't as
romantic for their readers as multiple spouses, I knew. The first of many
children, I'd long been accustomed to the press sweeping me and my siblings
under the rug.

 

Relieved, at last I landed at LaGuardia hours later than planned. Navigating
the crowded terminal, I retrieved my luggage and ventured into the snowy
outdoors to search for a taxi. Jumping a snow bank in my knee-high leather
boots, I snagged a Yellow Cab ahead of a man too timid to leap ahead in his
leather oxfords.

 

"The Waldorf-Astoria on Park Avenue," I instructed the driver.

 

Through the dirt smudged taxi window, I viewed New York's Iconic skyline.
The Chrysler Building's crown glowed like a promising beacon against the
stormy clouds. Under the Empire Building spire, lights twinkled on and off
like fireflies. Arriving at the Waldorf-Astoria, the city's glamourous art
deco hotel, I asked myself, "What am I doing here?"

 

Passing a 10 dollar bill to the driver, I said, "Keep the change." 

 

Unaware that I was the wayward daughter of that day's most famous daytime
television darling, I was greeted coolly by the valet. I strode unescorted
into the hotel's luxurious lobby. Stepping up to the highly polished
registration desk, I presented Millwood's American Express card to cover the
extravagant thirty dollar per day room rate.

 

"Are there any messages for me?" I asked the clerk. It was too soon to hope
that Robbie would have any news for me, but a message to "call your mother"
was unexpected. Someone at Millwood must have shared my itinerary with my
dear mom. 

 

I tucked Mom's phone number into my clasp purse and turned to the elevators.
Not a notable patron at the posh hotel, I was nonetheless escorted to my
room with deference by a white-gloved bellman. Along the marble corridor
embellished with bronze fixtures, my escort called my attention to the
hotel's stunning crystal chandelier and the trademark Waldorf clock. 

 

"You must return later to peruse the hotel's exclusive shopping arcade," he
insisted.

 

Tipped and dismissed, the bellman tiptoed from my room, the door
satisfactorily clicked after his exit. I retrieved my leather suitcase from
its rack and released its contents onto the opulent bed. Shaking out my
dresses, a tailored suit, blouses and skirts, I attempted to sort out my
situation. After arranging the garments in an antique wardrobe, I arranged
my cosmetics on the marble vanity. I placed a new bottle of Gloria
Vanderbilt perfume in front of the gilt-framed mirror. Disappointed when I
glanced at the dark circles under my eyes, I switched off the overhead
light.

 

Reluctant, I dialed the front desk and asked for the international telephone
operator. After a two-minute delay, I was connected to an operator in France
who placed me on another hold while she attempted to ring my mother's hotel
in Monaco. Did Mom intend to introduce me to my newest step-daddy long
distance? I'd already learned all I needed to know about mother's new man
from the gossip pages. 

 

"Darling, how are you?" my mom exclaimed when our call was connected.
Without waiting for an answer, she charged on like a race horse. 

 

"It's a good thing that you reached me today. Tomorrow, John and I, my new
husband you know, are boarding a cruise ship to tour the French Riviera.
What a wonderful location for a honeymoon," she cooed like a dove.

 

Mom's monologue only distanced me from her further. 

 

"And the best part is that "Hollywood Hills" has written a script around my
lavish honeymoon with my television husband, Mike." Mom rattled on like an
incessant lawn mower. "That means we'll be filming the next six episodes on
location for the first time outside the U.S.  Isn't that wonderful?" Without
a pause, my mother added, "I might be up for the Daytime Emmy this year." 

 

As a daytime soap opera star, Mother's melodramatic life mirrored her
scripted one. Proving my point, she said, "I can't wait for you to meet my
new husband Mike, I mean John." 

 

Hopefully, static on the line covered my guffaw. I recalled that Mom had
been married to Mike on the television soap opera, but her TV star husband
had been killed off the prior season when the actor couldn't reach a
contract agreement with the network. This season, he'd miraculously been
revived from a coma, presumably after new contract terms had been reached.
Mother's real life husbands disappeared and resurfaced year-to-year in a
similar manner. 

 

Noise on the line interfered with Mom's monologue. I said, "Sorry, Mother.
I'm having difficulty with the connection. Why don't you tell me more when
you're back in the states?" 

 

Eerily, my words echoed back like I was shouting into a void.  Contrary to
the advertisement, the transatlantic call was not "the next best thing to
being there." The call was costing me six dollars a minutes, and I'd heard
enough. 

 

Thankfully, Mom said, "Darling, you're fading out. I'm signing off now."

 

The international operator came on the line to inform me the call had been
disconnected. Like a television drama, the story was to be continued.

 

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