Bruce Wagner - Still Holding

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TALKING WITH THE Barbra made her want to call her own mother in the worst way. She had a sudden, overwhelming need for Dixie to come to L.A. — it was primal, and Becca felt that if she didn’t make contact, now, she would surely die.

She had actually thought of phoning all week because she was short on rent. She hadn’t gotten a paycheck yet, even though SAG rules said that everyone was supposed to be compensated for rehearsal time. She wasn’t complaining. But here she was with a Spike Jonze gig and not only was she broke but she still couldn’t get theatrical representation. (Her so-called hip-pocketed commercial agent had done diddly-squat.) She told Elaine she was available for bookings, but ironically, the real look-alike work had pretty much dried up. She thought she should probably call Sharon but didn’t feel like submitting herself to the seduction thing either.

Mom wasn’t home. She hung up and played back messages.

“Becca? It’s Gingher Wyatt. Larry Levine’s friend? Remember me? Larry gave me your number. Listen, I’m moving back East — which means I’m quitting my lovely job! Which means I need to find someone to replace me and thought maybe you would be interested. She doesn’t pay much because Viv Wembley’s a cheap cunt — ha! — and of course you would have to interview, which is always fun depending on what mood the lovely and talented Ms. Wembley is in — but I have a feeling she would really like you. Anyway, I already talked you up with her and she thought the look-alike thing was a crack-up. (I hope it’s OK I said that’s what you sometimes do.) She was laughin it up, which means she was probably completely loaded. Hey, were you at a birthday party at the Colony once? Cause Viv said something about a Drew look-alike being there a while back or whenever. I think it really got her nipples hard. I’m kidding. Anyway, I don’t want to use up your entire machine for this message, so if you’re interested in gainful employment call my cell, 892-3311. Three-ten. The good part is, if she likes you she’ll just hire you cause she’s weird that way. But really good —I mean, the part of her that’s trusting is good. Oh my God, it is so like the best part! Call me! Ciao for now!”

Out of Hospital

SHE NAMED THE boy Siddhama Kitchener McCadden. He was in the neonatal ICU for a month. Once he was able to breast-feed, Lisanne gave him her teat every two and a half hours. She did that for ten weeks.

Reggie said she could come back whenever she felt strong and that it’d be fun having a newborn around the office (he had one of his own). The man was a saint. She was even visited by Wendy, Reggie’s wife. Mrs. Marck was on the board of a home for unwed moms, and suddenly, after all these years, she reached out. They sent flowers and sweet-tooth care packages and messenger-delivered all kinds of handy sundries. Wendy even sent her reflexologist to give Lisanne a foot massage.

The Loewensteins became unofficial godparents. Roslynn arranged for a cleaning lady and a nanny too so that Lisanne wouldn’t be entirely housebound. They got her an amazing stroller and a $2,500 gift certificate at Fred Segal Baby. The studio sent over a ton of crazy reality shows and DVDs, and Tiff wrote Lisanne notes urging her to heal quickly so that he could exploit her natural-born talent as an award-show “walker.” “So many tributes,” he wrote, in surprisingly elegant cursive, “so little time.”

She finally got the gumption to invite Philip to her apartment (that’s what she called him once the baby was born, as if to formalize and atone). Lisanne was generally mortified at having concealed her condition: in retrospect, she felt duplicitous even though the word wasn’t accurate. If the pregnancy had been unreal to her, how could she have made it real enough to have shared with Philip? She fruitlessly wondered if she might somehow have been forced to tell him the truth if only she had started to show. Maybe she’d have told him it was a fibroid tumor or just cut him off and fled. All she knew was that by hiding it from him, she had caused Philip tremendous pain. If she’d simply been honest (Lisanne used the word simply in her head and had to laugh), it probably wouldn’t have been that big a deal. She had become pregnant as the result of a fling with an old boyfriend — in the wake of her father’s death, no less, which actually, among excuses, was pretty much close to perfection — and couldn’t imagine Philip not being understanding. And if he wasn’t , so be it. Lisanne was frankly surprised that he still wanted her in his life at all. (He did, according to Roslynn.) She genuinely liked him, even if the physical attraction wasn’t there, though a selfish concupiscence lay in Lisanne’s suspicions that he got off on her obesity. She really did like the part of him that seemed damaged, the part that forced him to remain a goofy bachelor, the murky part he kept hidden — not so much that he was afraid to reveal himself but that he didn’t possess the language. She also enjoyed the part that was kind and inquisitive and gentlemanly, too.

“I should have told you a long time ago,” she said.

“It really doesn’t matter.”

He hadn’t been able to look in her eyes. He watched Sidd nurse instead. Philip’s glance furtively darted from suckling teat to Supreme Bliss-Wheel Integration Wheel and back; from suckling teat to plastic hangie thing above the crib; from suckling teat to the proximity of Lisanne’s pale, implacable brow.

“But it does. It does matter. And I’m sorry for that.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I do. I guess that I was, just, really confused .” Pause. “I’ve been confused about a lot of things lately. When I got pregnant, everything, just, kicked into overdrive. It’s probably a cliché to blame it on hormones, but I think maybe it’s true. Or partially. Maybe totally! I kind of ‘unhinged.’ I’m glad I’m not one of those women who drown their kids in the tub! I could be, but — anyway, I’m not, and I’m just, I’m just really sorry, Philip — that I didn’t talk to you. I mean, about it. And I think another issue is that I really kind of really like you. Being with you. Maybe more than like. Which is unusual for me. I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable because I know it’s crazy what I did. Not talking about it with anyone, especially you. (But it wasn’t just you.) And I’m not trying to justify it. I think part of me was in shock. Disbelief. At the timing. You know? And it’s weird because I think I knew that I would never carry it to term. Which I ultimately didn’t. And maybe part of me thought that if I told you, you would have just run. I know that sounds like bullshit because I’m the one who was running. And I probably would have too if I were you. But you didn’t — or you haven’t. Yet. And that shocks me! Scares me but in a good way. I think. I mean, I’m just really kind of impressed. By that. Is any of this making sense?”

“Are you still involved with the father?”

“No,” she said, emphatically. “I never was! That’s what’s so ludicrous. He doesn’t even know. I haven’t told him—”

“You haven’t told him?”

“I called a few months ago to say I was pregnant. When I knew I was going to keep it.” She got tearful. “Philip… I’m going to be thirty-eight. I think that was definitely part of why I decided to go ahead and have it, knowing there wouldn’t be a dad. Because Robbie Sarsgaard is not dad material. Then you came along—”