Here Without You

‘He is mine.’ I pull out my phone and pull up the photo.

He takes my phone, unaware what I’m showing him. Glancing at the screen, he stops and blinks. Looks at me. And back at the display in his hand.

‘His name is River,’ I say.

‘How old is he?’ My father’s voice catches and he clears his throat.

‘Four and a half.’

He scribbles on the pad. ‘We’ll have to get a blood test –’ He holds up a hand when I start to object. ‘I’m an attorney, Reid. You’re going to have to trust me. No legal entity or governmental agency is going to take the fact that he’s the spitting image of you at his age as evidence of paternity – as well they shouldn’t.’

‘So we can’t just sign the papers?’

Sitting back, he shakes his head. ‘Signing relinquishment papers does one thing – it takes away your parental rights to the child. It does not remove the state’s right to hold you financially responsible and accountable. It’s highly unlikely that they’ll cross that line, but not unheard of – especially if her bid to adopt fails. Now – where is he? I know people in LA County Family Court, of course …’

‘He’s … in Texas. He was born there.’

My father does something I’ve seen him do only once before – during one of Mom’s relapses. He puts his face in his hands and he says, ‘Oh, God.’

15

BROOKE

Production wants me on hand and looking hot to hype media interest at the Ziegfeld Theatre opening of Hearts Over Manhattan, along with my co-star, Chandler Beckett. Tonight. To that end, I’m at LAX before dawn with a front row seat at the gate, facing a boarding agent who’s clearly trying to place who I am. If box office predictions are correct, I may be less likely to encounter that expression soon. Critics are calling Hearts ‘a heartwarming little romance’ – perfect for Valentine’s weekend.

I ignore the boarding agent and hunch over my laptop to keep what I’m doing private from my fellow travellers, who are beginning to fill in behind me. I’m taking required parenting classes online. Having worked through seven sections, I’ve got twenty-three to go. I plan to polish off at least two more on the long flight from Los Angeles to New York. The current unit concerns disciplining your child in public. While reading a section about not employing the use of public shaming for behaviour motivation, I reflect that my mother clearly never took a parenting class.

Chandler is bringing his tediously insecure girlfriend, Nan. At the premiere’s after-party on Tuesday, I warned him to clip her claws or I was going to point her at the wardrobe girl, whom she has far better reason to hate according to on-set gossip – which is generally accurate. The guy has ample acting talent, but I should have demanded a bonus for every love scene. He’s one of those guys who kisses like he’s gasping for breath every second – no concentration, no finesse, no aim. How any girl, even Nan, would worry over losing that is beyond me. I’d be kicking it to the kerb at the first opportunity.

It slipped my mind to line up a plus-one for tonight. Janelle said, ‘Don’t you know anyone in New York? You can’t just show up at your first opening night in a lead role alone.’

First, yeah, I do know someone in New York, but I can’t exactly phone him up and ask him to be my escort. Thanks for reminding me. And second –

‘Why the hell not? I don’t need an escort, by the way. I can walk from the car into the theatre – and probably even back again! – without being led by the elbow, thank-you-very-much.’

‘That’s not what I –’

‘Whatever, Janelle, let’s just drop it. I’m going alone, and I’ll hit the after-party for a bit, and then I’m coming home tomorrow. And next week, you and I have some things to discuss.’

There’s an apprehensive pause. ‘Oh? Like … what?’

‘Next week.’

‘Fine.’ She’s not genuinely angry, just exasperated. I’ve had that effect on her for a while, especially three years ago, when our relationship took a not-so-subtle turn. She woke up to find me in the driver’s seat of my career the day I turned eighteen and fired the manager Mom had hired years earlier. The way Janelle accepted instead of power-tripped that day is why she’s still my agent.

We hang up, and I concentrate on the multiple-choice questions for the Public Discipline section I’ve just completed. Question number four: Your child throws a screaming tantrum because you won’t buy him a candy bar at the grocery store. Do you: (a) explain that a candy bar will ruin his dinner, (b) plead with him to stop, (c) swat him on the bottom, (d) ignore him.

I guess Roll my eyes and wonder what the hell I was thinking would most closely resemble (d). Click.

‘Whatcha doin’?’ a voice says, and I snap the laptop closed, which probably means I’ll have to start that section over again. I turn and glare – at Reid, who’s relocated my shoulder bag from the adjacent seat and plopped down next to me.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I whisper much too loudly.

‘Looks as though I’m joining you for opening night. Different movies, of course.’

‘What?’ I shake my head, cobwebs clearing. ‘You’re going to New York. Today. On my flight.’

He smirks. ‘Or – you’re going to New York on my flight.’ Pulling his boarding pass from his back pocket, he asks, ‘So what seat are you? We might as well get this over with.’

I know for a fact that Reid prefers the aisle, while I insist on the window. And of course we’re both flying first class, alone … I turn my ticket over next to his.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ 3A, 3B.

‘What are the chances that I’ll make it to New York alive?’ Reid has never, ever been a morning person, and yet he is alarmingly wide awake for someone who should be sleeping off a hangover with one or more idiot girls and missing his flight.

If only.

‘Better, if you shut up and stay that way,’ I mumble.

I want to get back to my end-of-section quiz while the material is fresh, but I don’t particularly want to do it with him looking over my shoulder. And now the expectation that I can intimidate my rowmate into muteness like I always do is shot to hell.

‘I don’t suppose you can just pretend you don’t know me for the next six –’ I glance at my phone display – ‘or oh-my-God seven hours?’

He smiles, picking at a fingernail. Without turning to look at me, he asks softly, ‘Why do you still hate me?’

I falter before hissing, ‘Like you’re all good with me?’

Hands moving to grip the seat on either side of him, his shoulders taut and facing straight ahead, he angles his head just enough to look at me. His hair falls forward, hiding his focused expression from everyone but me. ‘I don’t hate you, Brooke.’

The gate agent announces the impending boarding process, and Reid breaks our staring stand-off, turning to get my bag and his own from the seat next to him. I shove my laptop into the rolling bag, stand and pull the handle as he shoulders his only bag and hands mine over.

‘Will our first class passengers please begin boarding at this time,’ the agent intones robotically, and I march forward to present my boarding pass, Reid right behind me.

When we reach our seats, he automatically takes my bags and heaves them into the overhead bin, placing his in beside them as I take my seat. As he slides into the seat next to me, each of us pulls a drink menu from the seat pocket, avoiding eye contact with our fellow passengers as they trudge by sluggishly.

It occurs to me that to these strangers, we look, to all intents and purposes, as though we’re travelling together.

Half an hour later, we’ve each downed a coffee, and Reid has requested and eaten a bag of caramel popcorn. The plane taxis down the runway, finally, and judders into the air at a worrisome angle, but we haven’t exchanged another word.

An hour later, I clear my throat. ‘Are you … going to sign the paper?’ My question is barely audible over the droning of the plane engine.

Leaning closer, but without turning to look at me, he says, ‘I talked to Dad. We’re requesting a confidential paternity test first.’

A blaze of resentment rips through me like a flash fire. And then I recall that Reid’s father is, of course, an attorney. Like Norman Rogers, he’s bound to proceed cautiously – more so in matters pertaining to his son. Proof is a required starting point. And I know better than anyone that the proof will be conclusive.

Checking my resentment, I ask, ‘How long will it take to get the results?’

‘I don’t think it will take long. I already did my part of it.’

‘Oh?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s not that complicated, I guess. Once they have his, it shouldn’t be more than a day or two.’ After another drink service, during which I order a club soda and Reid orders (and is given) a scotch on the rocks, he ventures, ‘I’m not sure what happens after that. Everything is complicated by the fact that you went to Texas,’ he lowers his voice to a whisper, ‘to have him. The relinquishment does no more than take my rights away –’

‘You don’t have any rights –’ I hiss.

‘Think of the title of the form, Brooke. If no rights existed, I wouldn’t have anything to relinquish.’

Oh, God.

REID

This after-party is the most over-the-top event I’ve ever attended. The hotel ballroom looks as though someone took a slice of Vancouver’s Gastown district and airlifted it to New York. One wall boasts an animated projection of Burrard Inlet, while the remaining three walls are covered in convincing replicas of storefront façades. Bistro tables line the bricked ‘streets’ while globed street lamps cast spheres of light on squares of real grass and paths dotted with light-strung trees. In the centre of it all is the Gastown Steam Clock, which – through the magic of CGI – is blown to smithereens in the next-to-final scene of Mercy Killing.

I snap a few photos and text them to Dori.

Me: Isn’t this ridonkulous? I wish you were here.

Dori: I wish I was in LA. Mom just called. Esther isn’t doing well.

Me: She’s sick?

Dori: I don’t want to interrupt your night. I’m a mess. Maybe we could just talk tomorrow, please?

‘Talk to me.’ I’ve found a private niche outside the ballroom. People are milling around in the hallway, and the band from inside the party is audible, but this is as discreet as it will get until I get back to my hotel and in my room.

Dori is crying. No. She’s bawling. The sound squeezes my heart like someone has reached inside my chest cavity and seized it, and all I know is I would do anything – anything, to stop her anguish.

‘Reid.’ Her voice is already hoarse. God knows how long she’s been distressed over this while I viewed my stupid film and accepted accolades from the audience and the crowd waiting outside. The sound of her sobs turns me inside out. ‘I don’t … I don’t want to ruin your big night. Can we please talk tomorrow?’ She’s covering the phone so I won’t hear the sobs between the sentences. As if I can’t feel it anyway when she speaks.