Between Me and You Read online

  She picks up on the first ring.

  “Is everything OK?” She is talking in a British accent.

  “Tate?”

  “Are you OK?” she says again, still in the accent. I sigh. I’d forgotten that she’d caught wind that they were beginning to cast for Pride and Prejudice, and she was honing her accent in the hopes of wedging herself into an audition.

  “Is my wife around?”

  “I’m here.” She drops the pretense.

  I don’t normally mind—the masks that she wears. Sometimes it’s exhilarating, like when I flew out to Scotland and visited her on On the Highlands, and we pretended we weren’t married and didn’t already know each other’s secrets. But today, when we mourned my dad all over again, I can’t stand it for a second; I don’t want to have to expend any more emotional effort than I’ve already put forth, talking to a woman who doesn’t feel like my wife.

  “Hey,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “So you’re OK?”

  “Yeah, I mean. The day has been shit, but yeah.”

  “I didn’t hear from you last night. I stayed up until two, worried.”

  The words are concerned but her tone is sharp. So what she means is: Why didn’t you call because I hate it when you don’t call and I feel forgotten. We argue about this sometimes now: that I grow absentminded when I’m in the middle of a project, that the world I’m inhabiting on set or in my mind takes me from the world in which I’m actually living. I’ll unlatch the door late at night, and she’ll be sitting on the couch with folded arms, or I’ll get three voicemails, each with increasing annoyance. Hey, where are you? Hey, can you call me so I know if you’re home for dinner? Hey, did you die on the 405 on the way to work, and if not can you please call me back to reassure me that you haven’t?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, a little bit because I am, a little bit because we’ve had this conversation before, and there’s no point in doing anything other than smoothing the waters. Tatum is independent to a fault until she’s not, until she’s territorial and a little bit clingy, which is part of the bass note of who she is, and I don’t mind all that much unless she escalates it into something it doesn’t need to be. “Leo and I went out drinking . . . I lost track of time.”

  “It’s OK,” she says, because she knows I mean it sincerely. “I was just worried. How was today?”

  “Horrible.” I tug the knot of my tie looser. “But over.”

  “Your mom?”

  “We’re brunching,” I say. “So I guess as well as I’d expect, better, maybe?”

  “And Leo?” She asks right before she shouts: “Monster, get down! Shit, hang on, Ben. Monster, get off the counter.” There’s a clatter behind her, and she yelps. “Goddamn it! Ben, can I call you back in a second?”

  She clicks off before I can tell her that I wish she were here, that I don’t know what I would do without her, which is why I was calling in the first place. I should have led with that, I think. I need to lead with that more often.

  I splash water on my face, pat it dry, then readjust my tie. I meet my eyes in the mirror and remind myself to tell Tatum this as soon as she calls back. My stomach growls, and I spin back toward the dining room. As I turn the corner from the restroom, I collide with a woman emerging from the ladies’ room.

  My brain does this thing where it takes a minute to catch up with my breath, with my adrenaline, which is flying through my limbs.

  She gapes. “Oh my gosh!”

  “Oh my God,” I say. Then manage: “Hey.”

  “I didn’t . . . what are you doing here? I mean, this is so random.” She blinks quickly, which she always used to do when she was frazzled.

  Her red hair falls atop her shoulders like it always did; her cheeks are pink and spotted with freckles, like they always were. She looks exactly the same as the last time I saw her seven years ago. I broke up with her in the kitchenette of her Greenwich Village apartment when she was leaving for San Francisco, when she made it clear that she could dive into her new reality without me.

  I lean in and kiss Amanda’s cheek. She smells like that honey perfume that she wore way back when too.

  “I’m in for a conference,” she says, swatting her bangs, which are new, from her eyes. “I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” She laughs, then exhales deeply. “Let’s start over. Hey.”

  “Hey. You look great,” I say. Because she does. My phone buzzes in my palm. Tatum calling me back. I start to raise it to my ear, but then, without thinking, drop it into my pocket. I’ll call her back in a minute.

  “You need to get that?” she asks. I shake my head. “Well you look great too. God, it’s been forever. You’re married now.”

  I nod, wave my ring finger. “Off the market for good.”

  I say it in this deep superhero voice, which I don’t think I’ve ever used before. I don’t know why I do. Maybe because I’m standing in front of the last woman I loved before Tatum, and even though I’d never betray Tate, I still want Amanda to find me fuckable; I still want her to consider what she could have had if she hadn’t accepted her residency in Palo Alto and left me behind. It’s not that I want Amanda—I don’t. But it’s not as if I don’t want her to want me. Those are two separate things, after all. Like my dad said when I was applying to college: you want them to offer; that doesn’t mean that you have to accept. (He was, however, deeply disappointed in me when I got waitlisted at Yale.)

  “Married to an actress, right?” Amanda says. “I mean, I’m not keeping tabs.” She laughs self-consciously. “Maybe a little.”

  “Yep,” I affirm and feel my shoulders relax back, my chin raise higher. She keeps tabs. She might kind of want me. I make a note to mentally record this to tell Leo as soon as I get back to the table. “She’s about to audition for Jane Austen. She’s amazing.” Tell Tatum this more often, I remind myself.

  “I get that. You always needed someone who could keep up with you creatively.”

  My forehead furrows. “I don’t know about that. I think I just needed someone who didn’t ditch me for a residency in San Francisco.”

  She laughs again, this time with genuine humor. “Touché. Well.” She shrugs. “You know you broke my heart.”

  “I find that impossible to believe.” And I do, though the signals she is sending—and the words she is using—tell me otherwise.

  “I work too much now to meet someone.” She blinks again rapid-fire. Then, as if just realizing: “Oh my God, your dad. Today . . .” She trails off, her hand covering her mouth. “I e-mailed you a few years ago . . .” She stares at her feet.

  “It’s OK,” I say. “I’m actually here with my mom and Leo. Just came from the memorial.”

  “I should get out of your hair,” she says, though she doesn’t move, doesn’t look like she wants to get out of my hair at all. I remember this about her: that she’d frequently say the opposite of what she meant, that she was often a code in need of breaking. The opposite of Tatum in some ways. Tatum, whose emotions and vulnerabilities are always ripe and available and fully in view. It’s not that Tatum is any less complicated, just complicated in different ways, complicated in ways that allow me to read her, allow me to know her.

  I size Amanda up and realize that she is wrong in her comment from just a moment ago: it’s not that I needed an actress or someone who could keep up with me “creatively”; it’s that I needed someone who let me in. Even when Tatum is needy and irritated because I’ve misplaced my priorities—work first, her second—she lets me in; she tells me; she speaks plainly, and I see her.

  My phone vibrates again against my hip.

  “I should be getting back,” I say. “My mom is with her foundation co-chairs. They’ll want to say some words. I should be there.”

  She nods, drops her chin. “You always were the good guy. The nice one who got away.” She tilts forward, kisses my cheek.

  “Good to see you, Amanda.”

  “Don’t be a stranger,” she says, then shakes her head. “Forg
et it. I don’t even know what I meant by that.”

  I grin, and she grins, and then she kisses me again and offers a little wave and is gone. I watch her all the way until she spins through the revolving glass door, out into the street, out under the perfect blue sky which is little more than an illusion of happiness.

  My phone is still buzzing, and I reach for it on the last ring before it would shoot to voicemail. “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” Tatum says. “Sorry about before. Your dog just ransacked the bread bin.”

  I inhale and smell the scent of Amanda’s honey perfume, which is still thick in the air. It’s familiar and alluring but dissipating quickly, like if I stand there for another few seconds, I won’t be able to recollect the smell at all. But rather than linger and let it fade on me, I stride through the lobby and leave it behind.

  “That dog,” I say. “He is such an asshole.”

  Tatum cackles on the other end of the line. “Well, he’s your son.”

  “Takes one to know one,” I say. I think of my own dad, whom I wouldn’t call an asshole, at least not today, but who was prickly in ways that I’d never now grow to understand, not with him gone.

  She laughs harder.

  “Guess it sucks to be on cleanup duty, right?” I say. Tatum had promised that she’d do all the work with Monster when she brought him home. Mostly, I walk him, clean up, pick up the figurative shit. I don’t mind, but I don’t not mind that she’s getting a taste of it today.

  “I don’t even want to know what’s going to come out of him later.”

  “I can tell you exactly what will come out of him,” I say. “Do you want all the disgusting details, such as what happened when he ate the whole lasagna off the table or when he dug up the garbage and ate the remains of our burritos, and I had to take him out all night, every hour on the hour?”

  “Ugh,” she groans. “I don’t want any of the details.”

  “Works of art,” I laugh. “Those craps were works of art.”

  “Monster!” she says to him. “Why are you such a little asshole? I love you! I love you so much, but you are such an asshole!”

  Leo waves to me from inside the dining room, and I’m beckoned back to my current responsibilities. Tatum can handle the dog’s digestive system for one day.

  “Tell my asshole son to behave himself,” I say. “Tell him his dad will be home soon.”

  22

  TATUM

  AUGUST 2009

  The lobby of Commitments is hushed, with a waterfall fountain nearly the only noise, the receptionist and intake nurse working soundlessly behind the desk. Sunlight from the skylight on the ceiling illuminates the eggshell walls, photographs of the ocean and landscapes adorning them. Fresh flowers spill atop the side tables next to the cozy couches where only a solitary family sits, looking both gray and grave, clutching the arm of a young man who is obviously on his way in.

  Dr. Wallis greets us with a firm handshake that evolves into a bear hug.

  “One of my best success stories,” he says, grabbing my dad’s hand, wrapping him in his arms as well.

  “You guys saved my life,” my dad says, his eyes tearing as they always do now. Some people drink and get emotional. My dad got sober and now has never been more in touch with his softer side.

  “How’s he doing?” I ask.

  “Good, good.” Dr. Wallis nods, ushering us through the glass door, out of the lobby into the facility. “We are making real progress. This extra time was a gift for him.”

  We point ourselves down the silent hall, our heels clicking against the hard wood, toward his office, where my father and I have spent so many hours rehabilitating ourselves, our relationship too. We’re here for Leo today, but when you return to a place that, well, “saved your life,” it’s hard not to be awash in gratitude for much more. My dad wipes his cheeks and shakes his head as Dr. Wallis guides us into the family meeting area.

  Ben doesn’t know we’ve come. His last time down here, two weeks ago, hadn’t gone well, and Leo had requested just me this time. Leo’s thirty days had evolved into sixty, and Ben hadn’t understood why he wasn’t just . . . better. It was surprising coming from my husband, whom I’d fallen in love with at least in part because of his kindness, his expansive heart: his devotion to Monster, his patience with Joey, who favors me. Yet Ben still tries to feed Joey most nights, though the boy mostly throws the food against the wall. Ben doesn’t get angry; he doesn’t flip the high chair tray in frustration like I might. He just points to the wall and tells Monster to start licking, to enjoy the buffet, and then he kisses Joey’s forehead and says: “I get it, Joe. Dads are complicated. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  But with Leo, he is different, clinical. There is none of the patience I’d expect, little of the compassion. Not brotherly like he used to be, but paternal in the way that I imagine his own dad was. Namely, cooler, less affectionate, less tolerant of speed bumps too. We argued about it when Dr. Wallis had first called, explaining that Leo felt too fragile to leave after just a month, explaining that another few weeks would make him less likely to relapse.

  Of course Ben understood that. That we wanted to do everything we could to ensure Leo would stay clean. It wasn’t like Ben was unfeeling, but he seemed to think that you could work your way out of addiction, that if you put in enough effort, like maybe you would on a script, then you’d get the end result you desired. And if you didn’t—if you didn’t commit yourself in the way that was necessary, then of course you’d fail, and you’d have only yourself to blame.

  “He’s been clean, he’s been through the program,” Ben said when he hung up with Dr. Wallis last month. “He should get back to the stability of his life, the structure. It’s what my dad was always saying about him: Leo had too much freedom, too much time on his hands, which never led to anything good.”

  “That’s not how it works,” I said. “He needs to feel ready. They’re giving him the tools there. And you’re selling him short, Ben. He’s done well with his life—it’s not like he’s destitute.”

  Ben sighed, and though his back was to me while he chopped a pepper, I could almost sense him rolling his eyes. I retrieved the chicken breasts from the fridge, dropped them on the counter, grabbed a mallet to pound them. This was our new ritual—cooking dinner together, our way to spend time together. Between my time on set and the time at home when I had to read scripts or run to a junket or prep for a photo shoot, we were losing track of each other. On the rare days I had off, Ben was either in the Alcatraz writers’ room or tweaking Reagan, which he had once asked me to read—I used to read all of his early work—but now said wasn’t ready for review. I knew it was: I knew he’d shown it to Eric, had a draft out to Spencer, and I wondered if, with my success, he somehow wanted something just for himself. But I didn’t ask, I didn’t press him. It was easier not to point out the growing divergence in our power and acclaim, as if not illuminating it meant it wasn’t there in the first place.

  I unwrapped the chicken, laid it on the cutting board. “God, you work in this industry, Ben, you’ve met a million people in recovery, how are you not at least a little more sympathetic?”

  “I am sympathetic, Tatum.” The knife rattled against the counter. “I just think . . . listen, Leo’s never wanted to do the work with anything, and I just think it’s probably the same here.”

  “Do you hear what an asshole you sound like?”

  Ben squeezed the rim of the counter until his knuckles turned white; then he faced me.

  “Yes, I hear what an asshole I sound like, OK? But you didn’t grow up with him, you weren’t there when he was busted for cheating his junior year or when I found his pot stash and covered for him with my parents.” He waved a hand. “I just think he needs to take responsibility for himself. And when he’s in there, he’s not.”

  “You don’t get this at all.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” he snapped. “I don’t ‘get it’ because you and your dad are like, the gu
rus? I’m not saying it’s a fucking vacation in there, Tatum. I’m just saying that you don’t know my brother like I know my brother, and if he can get a helping hand so he doesn’t have to do the really gut-wrenching difficult work, he will.” He shook his head. “And if my dad were here, he’d say the exact same fucking thing.”

  “Ben, your dad’s not here, and you don’t have to act like you are somehow his replacement.”

  He stared at me for too long a beat, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to explode or weep. He did neither.

  “Listen,” he said, his voice rising only to a low tremor because neither one of us wanted to wake Joey. I had an early call time, and Ben wanted to use the evening to write, so these child-free hours were precious, too valuable to wreck even for a fight. “In fact, I did promise my dad that I’d look after him, and God knows even as an adult, Leo needs a minder, a keeper. And my mom has been through e-fucking-nough, so even if I don’t want to be a hard-ass with him, even if I didn’t exactly ask for this, that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Ben—” I interrupted.

  He kept on. “Leo’s not your dad, Tatum, and Leo’s not your blood, and it’s not your responsibility to look after him. It’s mine. So with all due respect, you can’t, like, therapy your way to happiness in this one.”

  “What does that even mean? What are you even talking about?”

  “That you and your dad seem to think that you know everything here, that I can’t do what’s best for my own brother. You go down there, to Commitments, have this cozy relationship with the staff, hell, your dad is practically on their brochures . . .”

  “And that’s a problem for you?”

  He turned back toward the stove, clicked on the burner, rattled the pan on top.

  “No,” he said. “It’s only a problem for me when you try to tell me how to deal with my own brother, when I’ve let you deal with your own father without butting in.”

  “I didn’t realize that you wanted to butt in,” I said.