Mommy May I Page 2

  “Ms. Shea?”

  Goosebumps crawled across her flesh. The voice on the other end sounded muffled, mechanical, demonic. “Yes?”

  “You really should be more careful when you cross the street.”

  Helena slumped against the wall. “Who is this?”

  “The important question is, who are you? I am the one you will never forget. I know how this began and how it will end. As they say, revenge is sweet, Ms. Shea.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Your worst nightmare, come to life. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll wish you were never born.” His voice rose an octave. “You’re such a stupid bi . . .”

  Helena flipped shut the phone. It took a lot to shake her, but this scum had achieved it. She steadied herself against the sink, feeling nauseous. She was startled by her reflection in the mirror. The green eyes that helped make her famous were wide-eyed with fright. She wiped sweat from her face, smearing her make-up.

  A woman walked in, smelling of body odor and beer. Helena glanced up. The lady asked, “Aren’t you . . .” She snapped her fingers, then pointed at her, “ . . . that model?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you are. I’ve seen you on the cover of The Scene. You got a drinking problem and gave up your kid when you was what, seventeen? That ain’t right. You sure don’t look so pretty right now. Been on a bender? Why’d you dye your hair brown? You look better as a blonde, except them roots you had.”

  Helena walked out. Instead of following old patterns and finding the nearest bar, she opted for the safety of her home. Shaken, she took a cab back to the Sober Living House where her Suburban was parked. Once behind the wheel, she broke all speed limits to get to her comforting sanctuary. Trying to urge more speed from the huge vehicle, she found it was no match for the Mercedes she’d recently traded in for the older, bigger car. She’d done so with the knowledge that she’d be transporting new moms and babies around before long.

  Who had called her? Who’d tried to run her over? The paparazzi were crazy enough. Everyone knew that. Maybe there was nothing new about Britney or Angelina and Brad. Maybe they were back to dig up more dirt on her. Nothing like making her look crazy to sell a few magazines, which is exactly what would happen if she called the police. Word would get out, and before long every trashbloid around would have the story, and God knew that was the last thing she wanted.

  Locking the doors of her Malibu beach cottage behind her, Helena breathed easier. Ella, her Siberian Husky, greeted her with several yaps.

  “Well, Ms. Fitzgerald, did you miss me?” The overgrown puppy jumped up to lick her face, almost making her forget the evening’s frightening events. She was glad she’d bought the dog after announcing her sobriety to the world. Ella eased the loneliness at home that could come with a sober lifestyle. No more friendships with a bottle.

  “Okay, give me a sec, and I’ll take you for a walk. Let me check the messages real quick.” Helena went into the kitchen and replayed the answering machine. There was a message from Tim. Maybe Frankie had called, but decided not to leave a message. Teenagers were like that.

  “Call me when you get home from the meeting, lovey. I want to hear how it went. I’m so proud of you.” Tim sneezed before hanging up.

  Tim was Helena’s friend and assistant. He had a cold, preventing him from attending the meeting. Should she tell him that she hadn’t made it either? She knew she had to; if she didn’t, someone else would. Besides, the backbone to the AA program was honesty.

  While changing from her street clothes, the anonymous caller’s threat again echoed through her mind. Would a paparazzo go that far to get a story? Weren’t they tired of her yet? Whoever it was had really tried to scare the shit out of her. Was he caller and driver, one and the same? Why hadn’t she looked at the plates?

  Comfortable and dry in a pair of sweats, she lay back against her pillow, softly scented with lavender, and dialed Tim’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “You sitting on top of that thing or what?” she asked.

  “Funny. I haven’t been out of bed for three days now, and you hit me with a smart-ass remark. Hey, what time is it?”

  “Around 8:45.”

  “Aren’t you home a bit early? What’s the deal, Ms. Shea? Didn’t you go? Tell me you didn’t blow it off because you were over rocking babies again at the center. I can understand your need there, lovey, but you’ve also got to continue working your own program.”

  Helena reached for her cigarettes on the nightstand and lit up before telling Tim about the evening. Then the story came out in one breath.

  “Oh my God! Shouldn’t you call the police?”

  “Come on, Tim, and have my face spread across all the rags for everyone to have another shot at me? I can see it now: Drunk model swears she’s being stalked! I can’t do it. I don’t need that kind of publicity now, or ever again. Shea House will be opening soon, and I’m sure there’ll be little quips here and there about my past, but I want to make this about the moms and their kids and showing them that there is a better life out there. I’ve already put my family and friends through enough, especially Frankie.”

  “No, dear, Leeza put y’all through that. That little hussy didn’t need to show your dirty laundry to the world.”

  “If she hadn’t, someone else would’ve.” Helena stubbed out the cigarette, reminding herself that she was trying to quit.

  “Go to the cops.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “You’ve got the flu.”

  “Are you afraid of my big bad germies?”

  “Really, I’m okay. And, yes you know I’m a big germaphobe. I don’t need a babysitter, and I certainly don’t need the flu. It’s probably just some weirdo with my picture posted in his room, or a wannabe paparazzo. You know those freaks. I’m going to put it out of my mind and not worry about it.”

  “Good Lord, someone nearly runs you over and has your private cell phone number, and you’re not going to worry? Sounds a little worse than a lovesick puppy with a hard-on over your picture. You’re not being practical.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Always the tough cookie. Always gotta play it like everything is a-okay. What about the liquid factor? Not thinking of falling off the wagon, are you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind a shot of tequila right now. But I won’t.”

  “Jeez, maybe I really should be with you.”

  “No! I’m tired and achy. I want to lay low.”

  “Obstinate child, that’s what you are! Promise you’ll call if you reach that shaky point where the demons are telling you “just one” is all right. I wish you’d call the police, or at the very least, let me come by. I’ve taken enough Sudafed to clear out the nasal passages of everyone in this godforsaken city. I’ll come over for some decaf, and we can watch the late show. Come on,” he pleaded.

  “I’ve got Ella. You stay in bed. I’ll call if there’s a problem.”

  “Oh yeah, Ella, the guard dog who’d show the guy where the good stuff is as long as he’d give her a doggy bone. If you had to have a dog, I wish you’d gotten a Doberman.”

  “Don’t go knocking my puppy. She comes from great show lines.”

  “Helluva lot of wonderful that’ll do you with some stalker dude around.”

  “I doubt anyone’s stalking me. This stuff happens all the time to people in my line of work.” Helena knew she was trying to convince herself as much as Tim.

  “Then why did you call me? I mean, if you’re not bothered?”

  “I’m bothered, but maybe the best thing to do is just to be careful and start carrying some Mace. Besides, I took that self-defense class. And I called to hear your voice, not because I’m scared.” She picked up a throw pillow next to her and fiddled with the tassels.

  “Tsk, tsk, you’re such a poor liar. You’re scared, but I’m getting nowhere with you, so please call me first thing in th
e morning. I worry about you. I’ll try to make it in tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  Helena hung up the phone. Tim always made her feel better. His flamboyance and energy could lift her spirits. He understood the deal. He’d been in recovery for five years himself after losing his lover to AIDS. He was a loyal friend and her personal assistant at Shea Models, the agency she’d started barely after she turned twenty-five. That was when she’d discovered that fourteen-year-olds on the covers of magazines sold more Vogues than she did.

  She may have felt better about not drinking, but the idea of a stalker still haunted her. Maybe she should go to the cops. But any more malicious gossip to hit the papers could prevent Shea House from receiving the continued funding that it needed. Plus, it might drive another wedge between her and Frankie. That business article had it right when it reported that Frankie and Helena had been visiting more often. They were making real progress. Her daughter was her number one priority.

  Helena looked over at Ella and said, “Want that walk now, girl?” The dog bounced up and twirled in circles for her mistress. “Okay, okay.” Helena zipped up her jacket as she opened the door. She shivered as the cool night breezed through her anyway. She breathed in the salty ocean air, apprehensive about taking the walk, but knowing that her poor dog deserved their nightly ritual. It made her feel better to see lights on in several of the beach houses along the Pacific Coast Highway.

  As she and Ella approached their turnaround point, the dog became rigid and alert, the ruff of her neck bristling. “What’s wrong, girl?” The dog whined, glancing back at her. Helena had never seen this behavior in Ella, and it flooded her already edgy nerves with adrenaline. Ella growled while lunging forward, pulling on her leash. Helena couldn’t see anything, but decided to turn around instead of walking the extra quarter mile to their usual turnaround point.

  “Come on, puppy, let’s go.” Helena tugged on the leash. The dog reluctantly followed her.

  Helena broke into a jog, and they made it home in minutes. As she took her shoes off, she laughed. “We’re paranoid,” she said to the dog, thinking about the caller and angered that he’d frightened her so badly. “You’re a silly dog, and I’ve got an overactive imagination.” Ella wagged her tail.

  Once they were back inside the cottage, Helena double-checked all the doors and windows. She noticed that the curtain rod in her living room was askew, and half the drapes on the oceanfront window drooped. Part of the pull cord was missing. Ella must’ve gotten a hold of the drapes, as she had once before. Nothing else was missing or out of place, and everything had been locked.

  Helena rechecked the house, this time carrying a carving knife as she opened closets and peered inside the bathroom. When she thought she saw movement behind the shower curtain, she raised the knife, tore open the curtain and saw that the washcloth had gotten soaked and fallen off the rack.

  “Jesus, I feel like Norman Bates,” she said aloud. She laid the knife on the back of the toilet, her hands shaking. When she finally settled down enough, she finished checking the house. No signs that anyone had been inside. She decided she simply hadn’t noticed the damage to the drapes before.

  Helena collapsed on her bed, and Ella curled up next to her. She patted the puppy’s head. “Normally, I’d say get your butt off, 'cuz you need a bath and you sure got some stinky breath. Besides, you were obviously naughty when I had my back turned. But tonight, either I’m going crazy, or the bogeyman is after me.” She laughed aloud hearing how stupid that sounded.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the back issue of Vogue spread out on her bed, Frances Kiley, nicknamed Frankie, studied the photograph of her mother’s face. Bono singing about a beautiful day boomed through the stereo speakers. Frankie’s fingers traced the outline of the picture thinking about all the times she’d admired Helena, not knowing the famous model was her real mother.

  The photo was taken three years ago, before Helena had retired from modeling and started her own agency. Their resemblance was huge—both had green eyes, raven hair, and skin as pale as a geisha girl’s.

  She choked back her sobs. She had known that this woman was her mother for over a year, but Frankie still couldn’t figure out how she felt about such startling news. At first, she’d been furious that her parents had lied to her and that Helena had abandoned her. Then that rage turned to sadness mixed with love for a woman she was just getting to know. Shrinks, her father, Helena, even people whose business it wasn’t, told her, “Don’t worry. It will all sort itself out.” Yeah, right.

  Life had thrown her some curves during the past year. At least her dad had enough sense to move them out of LA away from the jet set, who talked trash about others because their own lives were so mundane.

  But the media maggots—Frankie’s name for the ever-present paparazzi—followed them no matter where they went. To her, the media were people paid to dig up good gossip, lay a few poisoned eggs, spread garbage around, and voila—deliver the kind of sensationalism craved by bored, overweight, undersexed, Hollywood-worshipping wannabes. Everywhere she’d gone in the last year, the media maggots were always in her face, popping flashbulbs and begging for any morsel of dirt they could use. Her family’s scandal had been headlined in detail, and in most instances, fabricated for every gullible moron to accept as gospel.

  True, there were many things Frankie had finally come to understand. She remembered when she was much younger, having shown the woman she’d always thought was her mother a picture of Helena in a magazine. Frankie had wanted to get her hair cut like the woman in the photograph. Leeza had smacked her across the face, taken the magazine, and burned it. This made perfect sense now, but there had been several nights she’d cried herself to sleep, wondering why her mother didn’t love her.

  When she was twelve, watching The Exorcist at a friend’s house, she wondered if she might be possessed. Why else wouldn’t a mother love her only child? She’d dreamed that her head would twist around and she’d vomit green slime, like Linda Blair did in the movie.

  A knock at the door caused her to wipe the tears away. “Frankie?”

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  He cracked the door and peered in. “You want to turn that down?” She reached across her bed and flipped off her stereo. “How was your day?”

  “Fine.” She closed the magazine and reached for Stuart, the stuffed puppy-doll he’d given her one Christmas long ago. He was soft as down, smelling like Spaghettios, Frankie’s favorite as a little girl. At least Stuart remained her faithful companion.

  “Can I come in?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  Patrick Kiley sat down at the edge of his daughter’s bed. “Did you talk to Helena today?”

  “I called, but she must’ve been out.”

  “Did you leave a message?” She shook her head. “Honey,” he said, scooting closer to where she sat, Indian-style, hunched over Stuart. “I thought we all agreed that you’d start making a real effort. I know she wants to see you this weekend.”

  “I did call. But I hate answering machines.”

  “Since when? I hear you leave messages for your friends all the time. Don’t you want to go see her?”

  Frankie flipped her hair back behind her shoulders. “Actually, I do want to see her.”

  “Good. I think that’s good.” Her dad was a bit too emphatic for Frankie not to notice.

  “I called her Mom the other day.”

  Her dad grimaced, which he quickly forced into a smile. “Really?” He touched the ends of her hair and sighed. “Terrific. Look, kiddo, I know all the secrecy and confusion has hurt you, and that was the last thing we wanted to do.”

  Frankie tossed Stuart aside. “But it does hurt. You’ve lied to me since I was a baby. And you let Mom, Leeza—whatever she was—treat me like crap. You were too busy to notice how mean she was. I never understood why.” She pulled her knees up underneath her chin. “God, Dad, she’d spank me or scream at me if she didn’t like somet
hing I’d said or done. I never knew what would set her off.”

  Her dad looked as if she’d slapped him. They’d had this same discussion several times before, and Frankie hated guilting him like this. She was aware that it had become a manipulation.

  “I’m sorry, honey. She’ll never hurt you again. If I could change what happened, I would. I thought Leeza would get over my affair with your mother and love you because you were an innocent child. But she won’t ever hurt you again.”

  “Are you kidding? She didn’t have to do what she did. You have no idea what it’s like to go to school and hear kids call me ‘the drama queen.’ It really sucked.”

  “That’s why I moved us up here to the ranch,” he said. They’d moved to their new place in Santa Barbara soon after the story broke, hoping that getting out of Los Angeles would help heal the wounds.

  Frankie studied her father for a moment. He was so old-guy handsome, like Robert Redford in “The Horse Whisperer”—one of her favorite movies of all time. Because she loved her dad so much, she’d never reveal how rotten Leeza had really been to her. Frankie wanted to be a part of a family and always had. The only stability she’d had growing up was from her dad and her nannies.

  “Helena would call me if she wanted to.” Frankie hugged her knees tighter.

  “Giving you up wasn’t her fault. I convinced her, and so did Leeza, that you would be better off with us. She didn’t want to give you up. It broke her heart. But she was very young, and I was married to Leeza. Helena’s modeling career was beginning to take off, and we persuaded her that it would be best for everyone. Now, I know that separating you and your mom was wrong. Leeza lied to me about loving you. She didn’t want a scandal, and she didn’t want another woman to have me, even if that meant pretending to accept you.”

  “Scandal? She’s the one who’s told everyone!”

  “She was paid a lot of money for those stories. I guess that years of anger and a chance to finally get even with me and your mom was what spurred her on.”