Chapter Nineteen: “The Reconciliation”
Chapter Nineteen
“The Reconciliation”
SEWANEE LANDED AT LAX AND MADE ONE STOP BEFORE GOING TO THE
hospital, where she showed her ID at three different desks, and was admitted to Adaku’s private room. When she tentatively stepped inside, her breath caught at the sight of Adaku sitting up in bed, alone, looking out the window. It was as if she’d booked a tragic role in some medical drama. But the room, the smell, the monitors, the gauze patch on her right eyebrow, the IV drip taped to her hand made it all too real.
Sewanee wasn’t sure what to do. Approach her silently? Announce herself? She swallowed and, with a voice that sounded like placing a hand gently on her friend’s back, said, “Adaku?”
Her head turned slowly to the door. She blinked. “Swan. What are you doing here?”
Sewanee held up the small, white cardboard box. “Just thought you might want some In-N-Out.”
The smile was not Adaku’s usual blindingly bright one. It was more a bleed of sunlight in an overcast day. “You always could make an entrance.” Sewanee crossed to her and handed over the box. “How did you–”
She wanted so badly to talk, she answered before the question
was finished. “Manse called me. I’m your emergency contact, remember? I would have been here sooner, but I was in Venice.”
“Traffic is terrible on the West side,” Adaku said automatically.
Sewanee chuckled. “Not Venice Beach. Italy. I was in Venice, Italy.”
“What? What are you–how long have I been here?”
Sewanee took in Adaku’s bloodshot, watery eyes and understood this was worse than she’d been told. On the first call, Manse had said they didn’t know what was wrong, just that she’d been admitted. That was enough. Sewanee had thrown her things together and rushed to the airport, Nick in tow, doing his best to calm her. He offered to go, too, but she thought it better he stick to his plan to see Tom in Dublin and he agreed. By the time she’d landed at her layover, Manse had left a voicemail: actually, Adaku was only a little dehydrated, and anything Swan could do to get her back to Georgia as quickly as possible would be super appreciated.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s been about eighteen hours. The nurse said you’ve been asleep for most of it.” She opened the box. “Double-Double, fries extra crispy.”
Adaku slid her hand under the paper-wrapped burger and lifted it from the box like an Oscar. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and moaned. She grabbed some fries and stuffed them into her burger-filled mouth. Sewanee enjoyed watching this as much as Adaku enjoyed doing it. She rested her hand by Adaku’s hip, purposefully not touching her even though she wanted nothing more than to do just that.
“Oh my God, cheese. Grease. Bread. So good.” At least Sewanee thought that’s what she said. “And the way the burger mixes with the fries in your mouth?” She swallowed and opened
her eyes. “Thank you.” The pleasure that had lit her face a minute before slid away. “Swan, I don’t know what to say–”
Sewanee interrupted again. “I’ll talk, you eat.”
Adaku smiled weakly but wryly. “You know how to shut me up.” She picked the burger back up and took another eager bite.
Sewanee breathed. “First the easy part. I’m so sorry, A. And those words don’t come close to describing how badly I feel about everything I said. I was in a horrible place. For a much longer time than I even knew. And when that role came along, I . . . it was like throwing a drowning person a life preserver. It was going to save me. Save us. We could be us again.”
“I want that so bad.” Adaku swallowed. “When I watched that propeller . . . I couldn’t do anything to stop it. This was how I could finally do something. Go back in time and make it go away,” Adaku whispered and Sewanee’s heart broke.
She moved her hand from its careful position on the bed and gently settled it on Adaku’s thigh. “But that’s not possible. And I made you feel terrible for failing to do the impossible.” Sewanee smiled sadly. “As much as your relentless optimism drives me nuts, I wanted it. And you certainly have enough to go around. So I pretended to have it, too. But it wasn’t what I needed.”
Adaku nudged the box toward Sewanee. “What you need is some of these fries.”
Sewanee put a few in her mouth, chewed. “When I saw Mom, she said–”
“When did you see your mom?”
“In Venice. That’s why I went. We talked and there was one thing she said that I so wish you could have been there for. She said that you’ve all been waiting for me to be okay with what happened, to accept myself as I am now, so
you
could be okay with it. But I’ve been waiting for all of you to tell me it’s okay,
that . . .” Her throat squeezed. “That
I’m
okay. And it was so unfair of me to put that on everyone else. I wanted you to throw me a life preserver because I didn’t want to save myself. I didn’t want to learn how to swim.”
Adaku chewed thoughtfully, silent.
“And then Nick said–”
Her eyes bugged. “You’re talking to Nick?”
“Yeah, he was there, too.”
“What?” She swallowed her food. “When did you call this summit and why wasn’t I invited?”
“He said I need to stop thinking I’m nothing more than the damaged version of myself. That who I was
is
who I am.” She looked down at the blanket. “And it made me think: we break, in many different ways. But it doesn’t mean we’re broken. Do you get what I mean?”
Adaku waved a weak hand around the hospital room, her gown, her busted head. “Not in the slightest.” She tossed the now empty box aside, and held up her arms, begging Sewanee into a hug. “Can you put all that into my drip and directly into my vein?”
They fell into each other and held on as if they were floating. Neither needing the other for saving, both able to swim, but resting on each other for a moment, catching their breath.
When they separated, Sewanee pointed at her eye patch, then at her friend’s bandage. “Twinsies!”
Adaku blurted a laugh.
Sewanee took a moment. “So, what happened?”
Adaku sighed, looked down, picked the salt from under her nails. “It’s so embarrassing. When I left your place–I wasn’t a hundred percent from the London trip. Tired, nauseous, muscle aches, running on adrenaline. Got to Georgia and they immediately took us to the woods. Camping, hunting . . . bonding.” She
rolled her eyes. “But two days in a storm hit and we went back to civilization. Where I got an e-mail. The Angela Davis people wanted to have a meeting–”
“No.”
“Yes. So I got on a red-eye back to L.A.” Adaku continued, sarcastically, “Because it was meant to be! And I can handle it. I handle everything. No sleep, no problem. Train six hours a day, seven days a week, sure. Years without a single day to myself, bring it. All this time busting my ass and I still feel like we’re back in Washington Heights, me with one audition for every ten of yours. Twice as hard to go half as far, right? That shit never ends. So of course I’ll kill myself to make that meeting happen. Kill myself to be the unimpeachable picture of the strong Black woman manifesting her success, and–” She abruptly sobbed. Tears poured from her eyes and she turned toward the window, as if she could grab oxygen from it. Sewanee clutched her hand and stroked her leg through the blanket, swallowing back her own tears. Adaku wrested control and continued, in a strained voice, “I didn’t make the meeting.”
“What happened?”
“I guess a panic attack? But I pushed through it. Then I got off the plane and stepped out to the arrivals curb, and . . . splat. On the sidewalk.” She pointed at the gauze. “Crack.”
Sewanee winced. “God, A.”
“Exhaustion,” Adaku mumbled. “What a cliché.”
Sewanee picked up a cup of water on the tray table next to the bed and gave it to Adaku. “Drink.”
She took a sip, handed it back to Sewanee. Took a moment. “This is a fucked business, Swan. Nobody cares. It’s about nothing but money, power, the special treatment. We didn’t get it at the time, but remember our big goal? Make a million before we’re thirty-five? It wasn’t about art, or talent, or being someone in
this world. It was about being something. A commodity. Something that would one day be worth a million dollars.” She closed her eyes, tipped her head back. “You don’t know how lucky you are. This never stops being hard. Every time I win, I don’t dare think about what that win cost me. I’m just on to the next one.” She opened her eyes, gestured harshly at the bed. “I mean, what does it take for us to wake the fuck up?”
Sewanee squeezed her hand. “I don’t know.”
“This better be it.” She sighed roughly. “I don’t even know what I’m doing this for anymore. Serving a system that doesn’t serve me? Forgoing happiness to maybe be happy eventually?” She shook her head, bewildered.
Sewanee wasn’t prepared to help her through this the way she wanted to be able to. All she could do right now was give her water and hold her hand and be there, finally be there, for
her
. When Adaku had calmed a bit, Sewanee said, “Do you think we could find a two-for-one deal on a therapist?”
Adaku chuckled. “You and I would break a Groupon shrink. We need the Cadillac package.”
“I’m in if you are.”
Adaku held up a pinky. “Deal.”
Sewanee hooked hers into Adaku’s and then Adaku took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “How about some Nick details for your girl?”
“Later. You should sleep.”
“No, I’m good.” But she sounded like she was already half-gone.
Sewanee stood. “I’m gonna go take care of some stuff. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Can you . . .” She really was almost out.
Sewanee smiled. “What?”
“Bring me a black and white . . . you know. The milk shake . . . with the . . . ?”
And then she was asleep.
SEWANEE EXITED THE
hospital, stepped over to a sitting area, took out her phone, and called BlahBlah. She’d been told to give it time and she had. Surely it had been long enough.
Instead of her grandmother’s voice, she got a recording. The number had been disconnected.
Her panic was instantaneous. She called Seasons’ general number and attempted to calmly ask the right questions in the right order. She got as far as “Barbara Chester” and the harried receptionist told her to please hold.
The next thing she heard was, “Hellooo?”
Sewanee let out a ragged sigh, dropped onto a bench. “BlahBlah. It’s Sewanee.”
“Who?”
She’d expected this. “Dollface?”
Three full seconds and then: “Dollface! How’s my favorite girl?”
That refrain had never sounded better. The best refrain in the history of refrains. “I’m fine,” she said shakily, “but how are you? Is everything okay?”
“Oh, heavens yes! Everyone is so nice here. This lovely young man is reading to me.” Blah lowered her voice. “I think he’s a bit of a flirt, if you ask me. You should say hello to him.”
“No, BlahBlah, that’s okay. I just wanted to–”
“Hi, Swan.”
The unmistakable voice of her father. “Dad.” She tightened right back up. “What are you doing there? What’s going on? Is she okay?”
“Relax, Sewanee. The world is still turning on its axis.”
“Dad, please, tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m getting her settled in her new room.”
“What?”
He adopted a more serious tone. “Amanda called. The time had come, there was an opening. So I moved her into memory care.”
Sewanee’s mouth opened. “Oh. Wow. Okay. How is it?”
“It’s nice. Very nice. She’s very happy here.” There was the slightest pause before he said, “I’m glad you listened to me.”
Sewanee’s mouth opened wider. But then he chuckled. Rueful. Conciliatory. She decided to play along. “Well, you do know best.”
“Sometimes.” That was as close as Henry would get to an apology.
She’d take it.
She paused. “Are you really reading to her?”
“I’m a sorry substitute for the professional in the family, but she doesn’t seem to mind.”
“What are you reading?”
“Hemingway.”
“Trying to put her to sleep?”
“Funny.”
“Thank you.”
They ran out of banter. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt comfortable during a silence with her father. She wasn’t thinking of something smart or sarcastic to say. She wasn’t thinking three steps ahead. Instead, she repeated the two words, this time with a different tone. “Thank you.”
Now Henry paused. “You shouldn’t be thanking me.”
“I disagree.” Sewanee chose her next words carefully. “You’re so hard to listen to because you don’t listen. But this time you did. And you changed your mind. So, thank you. I appreciate that, Dad. Appreciate you for doing that.”
“That’s not necessary, you don’t have to . . .” but he went quiet and his breath hitched. After a moment, he broke through. “Thank you. Here’s your grandmother.”
Sewanee heard him tell Blah her granddaughter was on the phone. Then she heard Blah tell him she didn’t have a granddaughter. Then Henry said, “Swan, Mom, Sewanee.”
And Blah said, “Who?”
And Henry tried once more. “Dollface?”
She was about to tell her dad to forget it. She would call Blah another time. But before she could, a sweetly lyrical voice on the other end of the line said, “Dollface! How’s my favorite girl?”
By the end of the call, Sewanee felt–it astounded her–content. She leaned her head back, closed her eye, and took a restorative breath. As she basked in the new state of things, her phone rang.
“What!” she shouted to the world, but it wasn’t listening. She looked at the number. Of course. She grudgingly picked it up. “Hello?”
“Manse here. How is she?”
“Resting.”
“Excellent! So listen, I’ve been trying to get an update from the doctor but that’s been a nonstarter. And her phone keeps going to voicemail.”
“Yeah, I don’t think she’s taking calls, Manse.”
“Totally, totally. But production’s getting antsy. Any ballpark on when she’ll be able to get back to Georgia, sweetie?”
Sewanee took a moment before responding. She thought about herself. About her passion for acting. About how it had always been challenged by the realities of the business. About the vagaries and rejections and frustrations. About how most of her prodigious talent went not to the actual work, but to acting as if she liked people like Manse. About what Adaku had said: how lucky Sewanee was.
“Sweetie, you there?”
She’d wanted to keep the anger out of her voice but decided now that, actually, she didn’t. Her voice, after all, was her superpower. “First, it’s Sewanee, not sweetie. I know, easy mistake. Second, do you know why this happened?”
There was a small beat. “Because she’s a gladiator! She’s a–”
“You. You and the clown car of assholes around her who pretend to care. She’ll call you when–”
“Hey, easy, k? Just because Adaku–”
“Don’t interrupt me or I’ll hang up. She’ll call you when she’s ready. Meanwhile, if production is antsy, so be it. It’s a movie. It doesn’t matter. Adaku matters. And if
you’re
antsy, I suggest you take some time to reflect on how your actions contributed to this situation. For instance: You keep pronouncing her name AH-duh-koo. It’s ah-DAH-koo. You’re her manager, all these other people take their cues from you, and if you can’t even–”
“Whoa, don’t spin this like I don’t care, you don’t know me–”
“Manse, you interrupted. Bye.”
She hung up. And felt like a million dollars
before
taxes and commissions. She stood, stretched, and decided she’d get herself a milk shake, too.
SEWANEE WALKED THROUGH
her front door around midnight, after having been kicked out at the end of visiting hours, stopping by Seasons to retrieve her abandoned car, and attempting to sneak into Mark’s to appropriate some snacks for the next morning only to have the man himself bar her exit until she told him absolutely everything.
She turned on the light and was greeted by the shattered Tea-For-One service still scattered across the kitchen counter and floor.
Ah, yes.
She swept up all the pieces, then took a shower and was falling into bed when her phone rang. Her exhaustion took a backseat to her happiness at the name that appeared on her screen.
“Look at me picking up when Brock McNight calls.”
She heard his husky chuckle. “How far we’ve come.”
“Good . . . morning?” She was beyond the ability to do time zone math.
“It is. Good evening to you?” He sounded equally unsure.
“It’s dark, so maybe? I exist outside of time now. I’ve transcended . . . the . . . thing.”
He laughed. “How’s it going there?”
She caught him up briefly, promised to tell him more tomorrow, and sighed. “I’m so sorry we didn’t get to . . . you know.”
“That’ll teach you to play games, Sandy.”
“Lesson learned. That is not how I wanted our trip to end.”
“Well, if you want to
you know
–and here I thought you didn’t like euphemisms–I’m currently looking at flights to L.A. in a couple weeks’ time.”
They locked in a date and it made Sewanee so happy, that date, so anticipatory, that she wasn’t sure how she would get through all the other dates before it. “How’s Dublin? How’s Tom?” she asked.
“Good. Better. And his pub’s doing fantastic. The lads and I jammed last night.”
“That’s great.”
“So, listen. I found something here.”
“Okay?” Her tone took a sharp left into tentative.
He chuckled. “Why do you always expect the worst?”
She huffed. “Have you met me?”
He chuckled again. “So, this is . . . well, you’ll decide what it is. It’s yours.”
“Again, okay?”
“Tom had a box of June’s old books. Early ones, out of print now. No idea if any of them hold up, but I was thinking . . . you said the other day you might want to do more Romance and, well, none of these books have audio versions.”
“Oh my God.”
“So, the box is yours.”
“Oh, Nick, no–”
“Tom’s got a lawyer here, so I’ll get something drawn up that gives you the copyrights.” The silence was too long. “You still there?”
“Nick. That’s . . . you can’t.”
“I can. I am.”
“But it’s–it’s too much. A whole box of June French IP, that’s a gold mine for you. I can’t–”
“You can and you will. I want you to. Please. She’d want you to.”
Sewanee flopped back on the bed. What she could do with this. The projects she could make, the people she could employ, the possibilities–
“They might be good for nothing but kindling. According to the flap copy, one of them is about a video store clerk and a pager salesman. But you’ll read them and decide. Do with them as you will.”
She swallowed. “Nick?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m happy. Right now. In this moment. In this very real life of ours.”
He sighed. She heard his smile. “Me too.”
She was so happy that even after they hung up she couldn’t stop smiling. She had been exhausted thirty minutes ago and now she was wired. She wanted to do something. Put on some music and dance? Watch an old movie? And then it came to her.
She knew exactly what she wanted to do. She had been thinking about doing it ever since Nick had mentioned it.
She went online and found her demo reel.
Just seeing the thumbnail of her old face . . . could she really do this?
She took a breath and pressed play. Once she was looking, she couldn’t stop. It was weird. It was sad. It hurt. It was great.
Glued to the screen, she could not recall a time when so many emotions colored her, as if she had all 120 Crayola crayons at her disposal. She had thought watching this would make her feel so much less of herself, but the opposite was true.
She had been good. She belonged there. She was captivating. She had thought it would be like watching someone else. Except it wasn’t. It was, undeniably, her. A part of her that had come home. Was welcomed home. A part of her that would live with her now. A part of her to be proud of.
The reel ended and the feeling that lingered when all the other colors faded was contentment. Similar to how she’d felt sweeping up the Tea-For-One: regretful but accepting.
It was a past she no longer wanted back. It was simply a part of her present and she was free to pursue her future. Heart full, Sewanee pressed play and watched it again.
She loved it.
THREE DAYS LATER
, she picked Adaku up from the hospital in a garage under the back alley most people didn’t know existed. The “High Roller Exit,” Adaku snarked. They’d waited until 1
A.M
., but it hadn’t made any difference. Adaku sat in the passenger seat looking at her phone. “My neighbor says there’s five or six of them camped out in front of my house.”
“Well,” Sewanee sighed. “You feeling strong enough to tackle sixty-four steps?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
So they went back to Sewanee’s. And they spent the next few days reading, watching movies, and sitting outside talking and talking and talking. Adaku eventually called Manse back–he’d never called Sewanee again–and told him she wasn’t returning to Georgia. And then she told him that she was done jumping through hoops for the Angela Davis project but that he should feel free to do his job and get her an offer for it and, oh, she wanted a producer credit on the film, too. When she hung up, they high-fived.
The night before Adaku had decided to go home, Sewanee went to the store and bought sour cream and taco seasoning. It was comically delicious.
They sat out on the porch dipping carrots, celery, chips, and anything else they found in Sewanee’s cabinets. They game-planned their next steps as the sun went down. Adaku asked her what she might do with the June French books and Sewanee told her some initial thoughts she’d had. “You know what Nick said to me after we recorded together in Venice? He said, ‘You’re a director.’”
“Really. Who would’ve thunk? I’ve only been saying that for a
decade
.”
“You have not,” Sewanee said like a third grader.
Adaku gave it right back. “Have, too! Have, too!” She dipped a carrot into the bowl of Birdie’s Delight and tossed it into her mouth. “I even said it a couple weeks ago! When we did that self-tape.”
“Nuh-unh!”
“Yeah-hunh!” She held a celery stalk up to Sewanee. “All seriousness: Can we sell this shit? Clooney has tequila; I could have dip.”
“Do you still have the recipe?”
They laughed and Sewanee’s phone dinged. The way her mouth went all smiley when she checked it prompted Adaku to say, “Let me guess.”
“He sent a cut of the final episode.”
“Ohh!” Adaku clapped. “Play it!”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
The absolute
face
Adaku threw her had Sewanee raising her hands in laughing surrender. She went inside, retrieved her Bluetooth speaker, and connected her phone. She sat back down next to Adaku, right where, three months ago, she’d listened to Brock’s voice for the first time.
“–THIS HAS BEEN
Casanova, LLC
, episode eight. Written by June French. Performed by Sarah Westholme and Brock McNight. Thank you for listening.”
Adaku jumped to her feet and applauded.
Sewanee’s face lit up. “Yeah?”
“Oh my
God
! Babe, that was–what did you
do
to him?! Send it to me immediately, I gotta listen again.” Sewanee laughed. “At home, by myself, in the–”
“And now,” Brock’s voice said from the speaker, “an original song written and performed by Nick Sullivan.” Adaku and Sewanee’s mirthful eyes collided. “It’s called ‘Swan Song.’”
Sewanee grabbed the phone and pressed pause. Startled, all playfulness gone, she looked back up at Adaku. “You heard that, too, right?”
“Oh, I heard it.” Adaku crossed her arms. “You gonna press play, or do I have to?”
Sewanee stilled. She’d known Nick was writing, but she hadn’t expected anything so soon. And she especially hadn’t expected to
be
the song.
At the look on her friend’s face, Adaku uncrossed her arms
and stepped gently over to her. “Actually. I’m going to put the kettle on, make us some more tea.” She dropped a hand on Sewanee’s shoulder. Squeezed. “You go ahead.” She went inside and closed the sliding door firmly behind her.
Sewanee sat back, took a breath, and looked out over the railing at the last beads of light being washed from the sky. She pressed play.
A lone guitar. Slow. Rhythmic. Lulling. Like the silky drift of a gondola. An effortless chord progression, masterfully played.
Then a voice. Rich. Caramelized. The pace and cadence of a sensual lullaby. Lyrics, poetic yet plain. A stealth hit to the heart.
For all its simplicity, it was deceptively deep, as if she’d stepped boldly into shallows and found herself over her head.
Even as it beckoned her forward, she missed where she’d been. It was far from over, but it took every ounce of willpower to not stop it and start over.
It felt soulfully Irish and yearningly American. It felt like Nick.
And his voice. What did he mean he only sang “a bit”? Good God.
Then it changed. A build began. A driving, forceful purpose accelerating toward some ethereal summit.
The tingle began in her scalp. It traveled down to her jaw. To her throat. Another tingle began in her toes and rose to her hips, her stomach. They met deep in the hollow of her chest. They mingled and vibrated together as he sang the song’s final note and his voice, to Sewanee, felt like a call to God. A prayer. An offering. A promise.
It felt like something to believe in.