Stars Collide

  Obviously not Candy, who still remained in the stall, crying.

  “They say he’s her father and he has a legal right to be here. Well, no one asked my opinion on that. Some father he’s been. A deadbeat one, if anything.”

  Bianca rambled on, her anger growing in miles, not inches. As she progressed in emotion, so did Candy, who now wailed unceasingly.

  “Mom. Please. Go. Away!”

  Bianca leaned down and looked at her daughter’s shoes, then shook her head. “I’m giving you five minutes to get your act together and come out of there, Candace Renee. We’ve talked about this a thousand times. Hold your head up high and keep going. No pain, no gain.”

  No pain, no gain? What were we talking about here, a Jane Fonda workout video or a child’s life?

  As Bianca stormed out of the restroom, I drew in a couple of deep breaths, trying to stay calm. For a minute there, I couldn’t figure out who made me madder—the deadbeat dad or the irrational mother. One thing was glaringly obvious, though. Candy was a victim. A little girl who had somehow ended up stuck in the middle between two parents who couldn’t seem to see past themselves. And though her situation was completely different from my own, I could relate.

  A rush of emotions flooded over me as images of my father crept in. The few times I’d thought about contacting him, I worried he might react like Candy’s dad did today. Would I come to him only to be rejected? Ugh. A sick feeling took root as I pondered the unknown.

  I will never leave you nor forsake you.

  The Scripture washed over me like a flood, and I drew in a deep breath, whispering, “Thank you, Lord, for that reminder.” I brushed my tears aside, remembering my mission. Candy. She needed me.

  From the other side of the bathroom door, she called my name. “Kat?”

  “I’m here, honey,” I whispered in response. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I hate them, Kat,” she whispered back. “I really do.”

  I wanted to say, “I don’t blame you,” but stopped short. No point in adding fuel to the fire.

  “Why doesn’t my daddy love me?” she whispered. “Is it my fault?”

  Pushing back the lump in my throat, I tried to respond. However, I never got the chance. The dam broke and the flood hit. Candy began to pour out her story, one ugly detail after another. As I listened, my heart began to beat in sync with hers. I got it. All of her angst. The temper. The spoiled nature. All of it pointed directly to a lack of relationship with her father and a strained relationship with her mother.

  “Mom says he only wants to see me because I’m famous and I make a lot of money. She’s scared he wants to take it.”

  “He can’t do that.” Could he? I wasn’t quite sure. I knew there were laws to protect children in the industry, but I wasn’t up on them.

  “This is so stupid,” Candy whispered.

  Ugh. How awful to be eight years old and this depressed. What this child needed, more than anything else, was for someone to point her to the love of her real Father, the one who would never abandon her on any level. And I would do just that.

  Ashamed that I’d never seen her as anything other than a spoiled child, I began to restrategize, to think of ways I could pour into her life. And I might just have to confront a few demons of my own. This deadbeat dad thing was a tough one, even for us big girls.

  After a few minutes, her cries dissipated and she began to blow her nose. I remained silent and still. If she wanted to talk, I would talk. If not, I would be here for her when she came out of that stall.

  Minutes later, the door eased open. Her poor, swollen eyes broke my heart. Instead of the usual brusque demeanor, she looked like a wilted flower. Like someone had drained every ounce of energy out of her.

  I reached to grab a couple of paper towels and dampened them with water from the sink. Then I knelt down in front of her and began to wipe her little face. Funny, I’d never noticed the freckles before. For a second I thought I was looking at a picture of myself from elementary school.

  In that moment I was transported to a time years ago in my grandmother’s bedroom. I’d been crying. She’d reached for a cloth hankie and dried my tears, then reached into her trunk—the one at the foot of her bed—and came out with a wonderful, soft hairbrush, which she began to run through my hair. Her motions had calmed me.

  I continued to wipe Candy’s face until all of the tears were gone. She looked stunned at my gesture but didn’t stop me. In fact, she didn’t do much of anything. Just stood there sniffling.

  After wiping her eyes, I decided more therapy was in order. Drawing a deep breath, I reached for my purse and came out with my hairbrush. I began to run it through her hair, using careful, gentle strokes. The movements were steady, repetitive. Hopefully she would find them reassuring as well. Closing my eyes, I saw myself in her place once again, my grandmother seated on the edge of that trunk, me standing directly in front of her. Oh, how the Lord had used her that day. Her actions had spoken far louder than any words ever could.

  “You know, you have the prettiest hair, Candy,” I said at last.

  “I—I do?”

  “Well, sure.” I dove into a soothing conversation about her many attributes, careful not to go too far. Flattery wasn’t the goal. Making her feel better was. And letting her know that I was here, willing to touch, willing to soothe, seemed critical to the equation.

  After a few moments, I grew silent. The two of us now stood side by side, staring in the mirror. The double image caused my heart to twist. We were one and the same, Candy and me. Only, I’d never really realized it until today.

  The beautiful little girl spoke to my reflection. “Did he leave because of me?”

  Her words caught me off guard, and the catch in my throat nearly prevented me from responding. Oh, how many times I’d asked the same question as a little girl. How many times I’d wished someone had just said, “Honey, this has nothing to do with you. Grown-ups sometimes do stupid things and it’s not your fault.”

  And so I said those very words to her now.

  She looked stunned but didn’t respond. Neither did she turn around to face me. Instead she continued to stare at our double reflection in the mirror.

  “Do . . . do you think I’m pretty, Kat?” she asked finally.

  Some people might not make the connection between her father leaving and her perceived ugliness, but I got it. In a strange and twisted way, I got it. Those of us who saw ourselves as fatally flawed often wondered if we could change things by working on our outward appearance. Maybe in doing so, we could salvage the relationship. Or maybe if we’d just been prettier, that person wouldn’t have left in the first place.

  “Candy, you’re a beautiful little girl,” I said. “But can I tell you a secret?”

  Curiosity was etched on her face. “A secret?”

  “Yes.” I nodded and continued to look at her reflection. “You’re a beautiful girl, but even if you weren’t, God would still love you. He would still think you were gorgeous because he created you.”

  She turned and looked at me. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” I forged ahead, telling her that she was created in the image of God and that he didn’t make mistakes. “He won’t ever leave you, honey,” I whispered.

  She turned to me, tears tumbling. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Turning back, she nodded, and continued to stare at her reflection.

  I could certainly relate to her tears. After all, it had taken me years to believe that God wouldn’t abandon me like my father had.

  As I continued to share my heart, I gently ran the brush through her hair, hoping she would see it as a sign of tenderness and caring. Before long, she calmed down and we both fell into a peaceful silence. My prayers, though silent, were some of the strongest of my life.

  A few seconds later, Bianca appeared again, this time with Athena and Grandma trailing her.

  “We were getting worried about you two,” Athena said
, looking back and forth between Candy and me. “Everything okay?”

  “Better.” I nodded and gave them what I hoped would be a reassuring look.

  Candy looked at her mother and shrugged.

  “Let’s get you into the dressing room, Candace,” Bianca said. She took her daughter by the arm and pulled her out into the hallway. I couldn’t help but notice the youngster glance back at me with a wistful look on her face. I gave her a smile and she nodded.

  As soon as they disappeared from view, Athena turned to me, her brow knotted. “What was all of that about?”

  “It’s pretty complicated. Let’s just say I saw a side of Candy that I’ve never seen before.”

  “Wow. I’m assuming you don’t mean worse than usual.”

  “No. I actually feel sorry for her.”

  “Poor kid.” Grandma sighed. “It always upsets me to see children caught between the parents. And that mother . . .” She shook her head.

  “I know.” I gazed into the mirror at my reflection, noticing how tired I suddenly looked. All of this emotion was draining me. Grandma stepped beside me, and we were now two peas in a pod.

  “See what I mean, KK?” She pointed to the wrinkles around her face. “Time to have a little work done.”

  “But Gran . . .” I thought again of how those of us who’d faced rejection or pain often saw ourselves as physically flawed. If Grandma wanted to go on believing plastic surgery would fix whatever was really bothering her, I would not argue. Not this time, anyway. I would back away and let the Lord do his work.

  To my surprise, she chose to go a different direction. Instead of complaining about her looks, she threw her hand up in dramatic fashion and said, “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up!”

  I cracked up, more relieved than anything.

  “Ooh, I know that one!” Athena clasped her hands together and attempted to look glamorous. Not easy in the ladies’ room. “Gloria Swanson . . . Sunset Boulevard?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Grandma Lenora said as she turned away from the mirror. “1950.”

  “1950?” Athena frowned. “Wow. My mom wasn’t even born then.”

  Grandma swatted her on the backside before responding. “Sassy girl. And I’ll bet your mama isn’t wrinkled either.” She sashayed out of the bathroom, talking about the call she needed to make to the plastic surgeon. Athena followed along behind her, giving me a second glance to make sure I was coming too.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said.

  Turning away from my reflection, I was struck by something rather odd. I’d seen three faces in the mirror today—mine, Candy’s, and Grandma’s. And though the conversation had drifted to plastic surgery, I couldn’t help but think there was a different type of surgery needed here . . . for each of us. We all needed a little nip/tuck of the heart.

  But which of the three faces in the mirror needed it most? Candy, with her shattered dreams? Grandma, with her fading memories? Me, with any unresolved issues I had concerning my MIA father?

  The idea that the Lord still had work to do in my heart caused a moment of reflection. We’d come so far already, he and I.

  Turning back to the mirror, I stared at my freckled face. As I did, one lingering question remained: could I really lay down my insecurities and move forward in a relationship with Scott, unscathed by the pain in my own past?

  Man. If only I had a copy of tomorrow’s script.

  13

  Hart to Hart

  On Saturday morning I called Scott and asked him to come by the house, offering the promise of Carolina’s sweet rolls and hot coffee. He arrived in record time. I greeted him at the door with a kiss, which brought an immediate smile to his face.

  “That was worth the drive.”

  I gave him another kiss then whispered, “That’s to make up for the fact that you’ll have a long drive home later. And then the drive back again to bring your parents over for dinner tonight.”

  Scott chuckled. “Thanks. I needed that.” Then he gave me a curious look. “So what’s up? Just a breakfast invitation, or do you have something up your sleeve? You sounded a little suspicious on the phone.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am up to something. A covert operation, if you will.” I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to make myself look mysterious. Not that I really needed to pretend. I did have something up my sleeve.

  He quirked a brow. “Covert operation? Intriguing. Have you been watching CSI again, by any chance?”

  I laughed. “No. But I do need your help with something while Grandma’s shopping with Carolina.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I want to do a little snooping while they’re gone. They’ll be back in less than an hour, so we’ve got to hurry.”

  “Okay, but what do you mean by snooping?” He shrugged. “Your grandmother’s life is an open book. Just look at the walls and you’ll find out everything you need to know about Lenora Worth.” He gestured to the many photos. “And what you can’t find on the walls, you’ll find on the web. When you’re in the public eye, it’s all out there for everyone to see.”

  “Not always.” I shook my head. “There’s something else going on here, Scott. I’ve known for days there’s more to her story, and I’ve got a suspicion she’s hiding something.”

  “Hiding something?” He leaned down and whispered, “Like . . . in a safe? In the wall? Are we going to blow something up?”

  “Hope not.” I laughed. “But something my grandmother said triggered a memory. She keeps this trunk in her bedroom. It’s one of those old steamer trunks. Probably came over from Europe in the 1700s.”

  “Wow. She really does hang on to things from the past.”

  “Well, don’t be too impressed. I think she bought it at an auction when she was my age. Anyway, it sits at the foot of her bed. I tried to open it once as a kid and she came unglued.”

  “Probably just stuff she didn’t want you to break.”

  “No, it’s got to be more than that. A few days ago, I heard her say something about the key.”

  “The key?”

  “Yes, she keeps it locked. But I know where the key is.” I walked over to the buffet and opened the smallest drawer. Reaching inside, I came out with a tiny skeleton key. “Right here.”

  “Ah.” He pursed his lips. “And you’ve got your mind made up to do a little breaking and entering?”

  For a moment I paused to think about how this must look to him. Just as quickly I released my concerns. My actions would be taken out of love for her. Nothing more and nothing less.

  “Scott, I’m worried about her. Something’s not right. She’s not herself lately. It’s not just the memory loss. She’s actually saying and doing things to raise red flags. It’s like she can’t tell fiction from reality anymore. And I can’t help but think the answer is hidden away in that trunk. Otherwise she would never have brought it up the other morning.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.”

  “I’ve been dying to open it ever since she mentioned it, but I didn’t feel like it was my place.”

  “And now you do?”

  How could I explain this in a way that made sense? “I’m her caregiver, Scott. And it’s obvious she’s struggling to maintain her memory and possibly her sanity. If I can find any clues whatsoever, it will be worth the embarrassment of getting caught going through her things. I honestly think this is for her own good.”

  “I understand.”

  In my heart, I knew he really did. He cared a great deal about my grandmother. So did I. And together we would figure this out.

  We made our way into her room, and Scott whistled when he saw the large four-poster canopy bed. “Wow. Looks like something out of the Civil War era. What is that? Mosquito netting?”

  “Well, I suppose you could call it that. It’s really just for decoration. She said the bed came from a movie she did in the ’50s.”

  “There was a bed scene?” Scott looked more than a little surprised.
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  “Not the kind you’re thinking,” I said. “It was just a scene of her as a young widow, grieving the loss of her husband. Very dramatic stuff. I’ve always said it was one of her most realistic scenes. Anyway, the doctor came to her room to give her something for the pain. Or the grief. Or whatever you call it.”

  “I see.” He gazed at the bed. “Hey, speaking of doctors, how did her doctor visit go?”

  I pursed my lips, unsure of how to respond. “I guess it went okay. He visited with Grandma then took me in another room to chat. They’ve upped her meds. He seems to think it will slow down the progression of the memory loss.” Shaking my head, I added, “I hope he’s right. She didn’t even realize we were in a regular doctor’s office. She thought he was a plastic surgeon.”

  “Funny.”

  “I don’t know. It’s getting to the point where none of this is funny anymore. I’m having trouble making light of it, though that’s certainly a better option than getting depressed.”

  Scott pulled me close and placed a tender kiss on my forehead. “It’s going to be okay, Kat,” he whispered. “You don’t have to walk through this by yourself. I’m here.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled at him, feeling the weight lift. “It feels good to have someone to talk to about all of this. My grandmother is like a puzzle to me, one I have to solve while she’s still with me.” I stepped away from him and walked to the foot of the bed, scooting Fat Cat off of the large trunk. I removed the afghan that always sat on top, tossing it onto the bed, then stuck the key in the lock. “You ready?”

  “Yes.” He gazed into my eyes with such tenderness that my tears arose. “The question is, are you?”

  “I think so.” Turning the key in the lock, I eased the lid up. It creaked its displeasure at being moved.

  “Sounds like it hasn’t been opened in years,” Scott observed.

  “Right.” With the lid fully upright, I peered inside. Most of the items on top were things I’d expected to see. A couple of movie posters rolled up. A stash of old movie contracts. A pair of lace gloves. Some dried flowers.