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“Right, because I came all the way to New Jersey to bring my mother drugs in rehab,” I say dryly. Still, I reach into my pockets, pull out the contents, and set them in a pile on the deskanyway.
The attendant shoots me a harsh look beforeleaving.
“I would’ve sent someone and smuggled them in the window,” I mutter as shegoes.
My mom laughs, and I turn around. I survey my mother, a practiced study. Her eyes are bright, but the skin beneath is too smooth, concealed withmakeup.
“I thought you wanted to marry Kirk Douglas,” Isay.
“I changed my mind. Clark Gable would’ve been theone.”
“You were born thirty years too late for that,” I informher.
“You were born right ontime.”
That’s debatable. My mom got pregnant with me while she was still struggling to become an actress. She got her break when she was pregnant with Tris. Some casting agent wanted someone for the soap opera that made her famous and fell in love with Mom’s look. After years of bussing tables, her star was on therise.
In some ways, that made itharder.
My dad was in sales and would come around for a few weeks at atime.
Mom did everything she could to look after us as a single mom in Hollywood. I never questioned her love. And from the time I was old enough to know how, I tried to fix whatever was wrong with her that week. I felt as if it was my job to do it. Tris never saw how things were before, never saw how strong and resilient shewas.
Until what she called love broke her down, again andagain.
“You were supposed to send money for the investment we talked about,” I remind her. “I wasworried.”
“I’ve been looking into some other options. Your father sent along someideas.”
The mention of him has my jaw clenching. “He’s not worth going on abender."
At least, not enough of one that she felt the need to check herself into a facility instead of staying in her Upper East Sidecondo.
Tris thinks she uses drugs and lands herself in rehab for attention. I know it's not thatsimple.
I pace the room and pull open the closet door to reveal a half-dozen tidy outfits on hangers. Seems she’s planning to stickaround.
“He doesn’t need another dime of your money,” I state. I’ve managed her money since I was old enough to knowhow.
“Neither do you. I heard about your award,” shecomments.
I shake my head. "I haven't won yet. The committee is considering new information and referral letters right up until the awards gala." Still, guilt flares in my stomach that she learned about the news from someone else. “How’d you findout?”
I turn to see Mom scoot gracefully to the edge of the bed and retrieve her phone from the desk drawer. “Someone I worked with on the show whose daughter runs events, including this awards gala, called to congratulate me once the nominees were announced. I didn’t even know you were underconsideration.”
“You’re not supposed to have phones inhere.”
“You think I haven’t figured out how to get my cell phone in after all these years?” She purses her lips. “This woman’s daughter is getting married at twenty-five.” Mom retrieves a picture of a smiling young woman and a man I assume is the fiancé. “I told her you were unmarried at thirty-one.”
Christ.“I own a four-thousand-square-footcondo.”
She sinks into the desk chair, draping an arm over the back. “All I wanted was for you to have the kind of family I never made foryou.”
“Mom… I’mfine.”
“Well. I’m not going to burden you with more money to manage until you get your life inorder.”
I want to tell her it’s not a burden, that I manage hundreds of millions, that I don’t take a cut on any funds she sendsme.
