FITZGERALD WAS SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW OF THE HOUSE reading an issue of American Theatre magazine when Olivia arrived after school.
“Miss Hayes!” he exclaimed as she approached, tossing the magazine aside and leaping to his feet. “I’ll be delighted to have you at Aspen this summer.”
Olivia tried to keep her mounting excitement under control. “Thank you, Mr. Conroy.”
“It will be a grueling six weeks,” he said, tilting his head toward her, “full of laughter and tears and misery and elation. And you won’t get any special treatment as a high school student.”
Olivia smiled. “I don’t expect any.”
“And it will be lonely,” he said.
“Lonely?”
“Away from your friends.” Fitzgerald glanced at the floor. “And your mother.”
“Lonely” wasn’t the word Olivia would have chosen. More like “vacation.” She opened her mouth to reassure him that she’d be fine, when he interrupted her.
“How are things at home, if I may ask?”
“Fine.” How are things at home? That sounded like something a guidance counselor would ask.
“And your mother? How is she?”
“She’s fine too.”
“Such an odd coincidence. I once directed your mother onstage, and now I’ll direct you.” He laughed nervously, then glanced at his watch. “Shall I drive you home?”
“Um, I thought we were going to discuss my internship?”
Fitzgerald waved his hand dismissively. “Of course, of course. In the car, my dear.” Then he linked his arm through hers and hustled her out to the parking lot.
They pulled onto DuMaine Drive in silence, Olivia’s address programmed into the GPS in Fitzgerald’s rental. After two blocks, Fitzgerald cleared his throat and glanced at Olivia sidelong. “Do you think your mother will be home?”
Olivia tensed. Was he going to demand some kind of sexual payback for offering her the internship at Aspen? He knew she was only sixteen, right?
She clutched her tote bag to her chest and slowly, silently, reached her hand into its depths until her fingers closed around her house keys. When they got to her building, she’d dash out of the car and sprint up the stairs to her apartment. She could be inside with the door locked before he even knew what was happening.
“She’s always there when I get home from school,” Olivia bluffed. There was probably a fifty-fifty chance her mom hadn’t left for work yet.
She eyed Fitzgerald, expecting his face to fall, but instead, his features lit up. “I’d love to see her again.” His eyes sparkled, and for an instant, Fitzgerald looked positively boyish. She’d seen that look on his face once before, in her dressing room before the opening curtain for Twelfth Precinct, when he ran into his former protégé June Hayes.
A smile spread across Olivia’s face as they pulled up in front of her building. It wasn’t her Fitzgerald wanted to spend time with. It was her mother.
“You should come up and say hello,” she said, noticing her mom’s car still in the carport. Cinderella-type fantasies of her mom rescued from poverty by the hottest director on Broadway played out before her eyes. “My mom talks about you all the time. The Twelfth Night you did together is still her favorite production ever.”
Fitzgerald smiled broadly. “Is it?”
“Totally.” Come on, take the bait. “And she was just saying yesterday that she hoped she’d see you again soon,” she lied.
He pulled the parking brake and cut the engine. “In that case, I’d love to say hello.”
Olivia hurried up the stairs ahead of Fitzgerald. She prayed her mom was actually up and ready for work as opposed to hibernating in the daybed after calling in “sick” for her shift. As she burst through the door, she heaved a sigh of relief. The sheets on the daybed were neat and tidy, her mom’s purse and leather jacket laid across the bedspread, all ready for work.
Game on.
“Mom?” she cried. “Mom, someone’s here to see you.”
“What?” her mom called from the bathroom.
Olivia turned back to Fitzgerald, who tentatively entered the living room.
“She’ll be right out,” she said with a nervous laugh.
Fitzgerald nodded. His eyes swept the small interior of their apartment, resting on the peeling paint near the kitchen ceiling, the stained carpet, and the cramped quarters of the living room where Olivia’s mom slept. There was no judgment on his face, only curiosity.
Then curiosity turned to surprise, and Olivia noticed that his gaze lingered on the coffee table. There, amid a haphazard pile of magazines and remote controls, stood an assortment of prescription pill bottles.
Olivia was shocked. She knew her mom was on antidepressants, and had been prescribed anti-anxiety meds to take as needed for the occasional panic attack, but there had to be at least a half-dozen different bottles on the table—three times the normal collection—all neatly labeled from the pharmacy.
“We’re, um, not used to company,” Olivia said, fumbling for a way to draw Fitzgerald’s attention away from the pharmaceutical display.
“Quite all right, my dear.” He smiled warmly. “It’s an artist’s life.”
“Is someone with you?” her mom yelled. The bathroom door opened and her mom walked into the living room, fastening the belt on her skintight black jeans. “If it’s Anthony, tell him I’ll have the rest of the rent by—”
“Hello, June.”
Olivia’s mom froze at the sound of Fitzgerald’s voice, and Olivia was astonished to see the color drain out of her lovely face.
“Fitz,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“How are you?”
“I’m well.” She swallowed slowly. “And you?”
Fitzgerald smiled. “Also well.”
They stood in silence, gazing at each other. Olivia barely knew Fitzgerald Conroy, but she recognized the look in his eyes—he had a crush on her mom.
Olivia half-expected them to fly into each other’s arms and confess their decades-long love for each other. Then he’d carry Olivia’s mom out of the apartment and into his luxury rental car like Richard Gere at the end of almost every Richard Gere movie.
So she was shocked when her mom snatched her purse and jacket from the daybed, and hurried past Fitzgerald to the door.
“Yes,” her mom said, clearly flustered. “Well, I’m off to work and I’m sure you have other places to be. So nice of you to stop by.” She held the door open for him, steadfastly refusing to look Fitzgerald in the eyes.
“Oh!” he said, looking as if she’d just slapped him across the face. “Yes, of course. So sorry to intrude.” He was out the door and down the stairs before Olivia could protest.
“What was that all about?” Olivia said, as soon as her mom closed the door.
Instead of apologizing, her mom whirled on her. “Don’t you ever bring that man to this house again. Do you hear me?”
“Why?”
“Do you hear me?” her mom repeated through clenched teeth.
There was something wild in her mom’s eyes; it wasn’t anger or fear, but a mix of the two that seemed to ignite from nothing.
“Are you okay?” Olivia asked.
“Of course I am,” her mom snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just . . .” Olivia glanced at the pill bottles on the table. “Are those new prescriptions from Dr. Kearns?”
Her mom shrugged. “How am I supposed to know? She phones them in, I pick them up.” She took a step closer to her daughter and gripped Olivia by the arm. “You didn’t answer me. Promise me you’ll never bring Fitzgerald Conroy to this house again.”
Olivia winced as her mom’s fingers dug into her flesh. “Fine. But why not?”
Instead of offering an explanation, her mom spun around and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.
