What Remains of Me Page 14

  The rain drummed on the roof.

  “You said you loved me, Bellamy.”

  No response. Kelly listened to the rain until it eased to a dull patter. It took her several seconds to realize Bellamy had hung up a while ago, that she’d poured out her soul to a dead line. “At least she wasn’t taping me,” Kelly whispered, her voice choked. Broken.

  She started to cry—for Shane and for her parents, for Sterling Marshall and for Catherine, for the friends she used to think she had, for all the things she used to believe. She cried for everything she’d lost with John McFadden’s death—and for those few small things that still remained.

  She cried like she never had, not since she was a child, wailing loud, since no one could hear her, the one good thing about being completely alone.

  When she finally calmed down enough to wipe the tears from her face, to slow her breathing back to normal, Kelly realized that the rain had stopped. She touched the kitchen window, moonlight soaking in, making the drops glisten. When was the last time it rained here? Kelly couldn’t remember. She couldn’t get herself to believe it would ever rain here again.

  Kelly heard a pounding on the front door. Her gaze shot to the clock over the stove. 12:55 A.M. Shane was passed out, according to Bellamy. Who else would be knocking? She thought of the reporters on her voice mail, the detective this morning, all the people out there who had hated her in the past, probably hated her still and all the more now, what with Sterling Marshall, with what they all would soon believe . . .

  Shaking, she went for the wooden block at the end of the counter, yanked out the butcher knife. She moved to the door, pressed her face against the glass . . .

  It was hard to see through, but she saw his shape. The moon backlit him like a movie villain. But even by moonlight, even through fogged glass she could see his face, his tattoos. She dropped the knife and threw open the door.

  “Rocky,” she said, falling on him, burying her face in his neck, breathing him in like a memory.

  CHAPTER 14

  In many ways, McFadden is cut from the same cloth as Stanley Kubrick and Hal Ashby—that rare brand of director who breathes, eats, and sleeps his work. “I approach a film contract in the same way you’d approach a marriage contract,” he says. “I will only sign if I’m completely in love with the project, and throughout its duration, I will give it my all.” McFadden smiles, warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m as faithful as they come.”

  McFadden’s all-consuming devotion to his craft has meant sacrificing other aspects of his life. His one and only marriage, to model Leilani Valle in his early twenties, proved briefer than some of his film projects, lasting barely two years. “It’s amazing she put up with me for as long as she did.” He laughs. “But I don’t regret my time with Leilani. It helped me to grow in significant ways.” Most significant of all, the short union produced Vincent,14, who—in a McFadden family version of a father-son fishing trip—appeared in Dad’s film Defiance as an eleven-year-old. “It brought us closer.” McFadden smiles. “The work always does.”

  And the work always takes precedence. Though McFadden’s circle of industry friends includes legendary bad boys Jack Nicholson and Robert Evans, the handsome 38-year-old is largely absent from the Hollywood party scene. Squeaky clean (especially by Tinseltown standards) McFadden doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks—and hardly ever even goes out on dates. “Johnny is a bit of a monk,” jokes his close friend, legendary actor Sterling Marshall. “I keep saying to him, ‘Why let those good looks go to waste?’ But he won’t listen to me. All he wants to do is, ‘create.’”

  It makes McFadden about as rare in the New Hollywood as Brylcreem, undershirts, or “saving it for marriage.” But with his eyes firmly on the prize, he doesn’t mind. “I may be boring, but I know what I want out of life,” laughs the director, whose easygoing charm, coupled with intense attention to detail has brought out stunning turns from such greats as Marshall, Nicholson, and Henry Fonda. “I want to tell stories,” he says. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  FROM

  “John McFadden: Portrait of an Artist”

  People

  April 15, 1978

  CHAPTER 15

  APRIL 14, 1980

  What’s that?” Bellamy said.

  “It’s a sandwich,” said Kelly. “I think.”

  Bellamy laughed, but Kelly felt kind of bad about it. Her dad tried so hard.

  They were sitting on the zebra rug in Bellamy’s bedroom, just as they did most days when they were supposed to be at school, getting stoned, Kelly unwrapping her lunch, the two of them mining it for anything edible.

  Kelly’s dad, whose name was Jimmy Lund, got up in the morning and packed her lunch every day. He did this no matter how strung out he was feeling, no matter how sick. Kelly hadn’t been speaking to Jimmy that much lately—they passed each other in the hallway, ate dinner mostly in silence. When she’d first moved into his apartment, he warned her that sometimes it hurt him to talk. “It’s not you, it’s me,” he’d said. And this was one of those times. But whether or not they were engaged in regular conversation, she could always tell how bad off Jimmy was from one day to the next by the quality of the lunch. She looked at the sandwich—a curling piece of American cheese between two Wonder Bread heels. Pretty bad, she thought.

  “Anything else in there?” said Bellamy.

  Kelly pulled out a small bag of Lays potato chips that looked like it had been run over by a truck.

  Bellamy sighed. “You know what? I’m going to brave the kitchen.” She handed Kelly the joint. “Want any more?”

  Kelly took a long hit, held it in like she knew how to do now, easing it out through parted lips so that it rose up and into her nose like vapor. French style, Bellamy called it. She closed her eyes and soon she felt smooth, elastic. She was good at getting stoned.

  This morning, after making Kelly’s lunch, Jimmy had stood over the kitchen sink with the hot water running for a good ten, fifteen minutes, the whole room filling with steam. Dishes had been piling up in the sink for a few days now, and so Kelly had assumed he was finally washing them. Maybe he’s feeling a little better, she had thought. But then she’d looked at him, really looked at her dad standing there, so perfectly still, his body tilted at that strange angle, and it hit her: He’d nodded off.

  Kelly had turned off the water and left him there, sleeping on his feet. She’d headed straight out the door, to Bellamy’s waiting car. Why wake him, she’d reasoned. But maybe she should have.

  In some ways, Kelly’s dad was exactly how she’d expected he’d be, but in others he was surprising. She’d expected druggy. Her mother had told her long ago that after being severely burned as a stuntman on a low-budget horror movie, Jimmy had gotten hooked on booze and pain pills in order to keep working. “Your father numbs himself with a regular diet of Percocet and Jack,” she’d said.

  So that wasn’t a surprise—the sleepiness, the confusion, the nods and the sweats and the crying bouts in the middle of the night when the pills wore off and Kelly should have been asleep. All of that, she’d expected.

  When she’d shown up at his door, in fact, she’d figured she had maybe fifty-fifty odds of his being awake enough to answer it. She’d knocked tentatively, her heart beating fast, her face still sticky from the tears she’d cried in the cab.

  She’d thought about knocking harder, but then he’d answered it—this skinny guy with big, swimmy eyes like fried eggs. He was smaller than she’d remembered. But then again, she was bigger than she’d been the last time she’d seen him.

  “Hi. I’m . . . Um . . .”

  His eyes had lit up right away. He’d thrown his arms around her. “I know who you are!” He had clapped her on the back with a strength she hadn’t expected and asked after her mother (“Is Rosie okay?”). He’d carried her bag into his house and boiled water for tea and said, “I can’t believe it! My little girl!” over and over, like he’d won the lottery. That was what had sur
prised her about Jimmy.

  Kelly looked at the clock on Bellamy’s nightstand, still thinking about Jimmy at the sink. It was around ten-thirty. It had happened three hours ago. She’d never seen him nod off on his feet before and for a moment, she thought maybe she should ask Bellamy to drive her home, just to check on him. But when she tried to stand up, the room swirled. She couldn’t go anywhere, not like this.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror—the dark circles under her eyes, the sloppy platinum blond streak that Bellamy had put in her hair a week ago . . . She wore a T-shirt of Bellamy’s too—skimpy and sleeveless, an unflattering shade of green and a size too small. Bellamy had told her it looked cute, but in Kelly’s opinion, the shirt seemed angry to be on her.

  She had to fix herself. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—especially Bellamy’s parents, who might come home any minute. She’d only seen them once, when Bellamy had asked her to stay for dinner, but they’d both made her so uncomfortable, the sheen on them, the perfection. Mrs. Marshall with her perfect haircut and her pearls and her voice that never rose above a polite whisper. And Mr. Marshall . . . Sterling Marshall, like he’d been peeled off an old movie still, the Sterling Marshall sitting across the table from her . . . She didn’t think he liked her very much.

  Kelly had longed to say something witty to the Marshalls, something that might make them smile. But she may as well have been in one of her classes, shyness overtaking her, words darting out of her grasp, the blood rushing in her ears as she felt every bead of sweat on her body, the way her clothes bit into her and her hair hung lank down the sides of her face . . . It had been all she could do to give them “yes” and “no” answers to their questions, all she could do to pass the peas without spilling them everywhere. And Bellamy’s little brother hadn’t helped either, the way he kept staring at her. There was something wrong with that kid.

  Bellamy had to have some lip gloss, blush, something. Kelly pulled open one of her vanity table drawers, started rummaging around inside. She found a few lighters, some perfume, a set of pens. You’d think Bellamy’s drawers would be perfectly organized, but they were actually all over the place. The next drawer was more promising—nail polish, mascara, a few blushes. She chose one—a nice coral. She brushed it onto her cheeks, examining herself in the mirror. Just the slightest hint. Any more than that, it looks tacky . . .

  Kelly heard footsteps landing on the staircase and threw the blush back in the drawer. She was about to slam it shut when she noticed something, wedged up against the back corner—a Baggie. Kelly slipped it out of the drawer—she couldn’t help herself. If there was one thing the past two months with Bellamy and Vee had taught her, it was that good things came in Baggies.

  This one held a single razor blade. Nothing else. It looked rusty, but when Kelly held it up to the light, she saw that the blade was crusted with . . . blood?

  “What are you doing?” Bellamy was standing in the doorway, a bag of Cheetos in one hand, videotape in the other.

  “I’m sorry. I was looking for blush.”

  Bellamy’s face flushed. But what could she say? She couldn’t get angry at Kelly. She had to understand, didn’t she? A few days earlier, Bellamy’s little brother Shane had some friends over, and since Jimmy was off at a shoot anyway, they’d driven over to her place to escape the noise. At one point, Kelly had gone to the bathroom and returned to find Bellamy rooting through her dresser. She’d glanced up at her and grinned as though she’d every right. “Checking for secrets,” she had said.

  “Can you put it back, please?” Bellamy said.

  Kelly stared at her, the Baggie dangling, a million questions running through her mind. But the look in Bellamy’s eyes shut her up. She put the Baggie back in. She closed the drawer. Nobody’s perfect. Everybody’s got a drawer somewhere, with something hidden in it.

  “Checking for secrets?” she tried.

  Bellamy smiled—a forced smile, that didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess you found one.”

  Kelly felt as though something had shattered, but she wasn’t exactly sure what the shattered thing was. “I’m really sorry.”

  Bellamy moved closer. “I haven’t done it for a long time.”

  “Done what?”

  Bellamy dropped the video and the Cheetos on her bed and kneeled down next to Kelly. She pushed her silver bangle bracelets back and showed Kelly the inside of her wrist. There were six even slashes on it—healed over but still visible. “See how faint they are?”

  Kelly gaped at them. She didn’t know what to say.

  “You have to promise me something,” Bellamy said, that look in her eyes fading, confidence coming back.

  “Anything.”

  “Never talk about this again.”

  She replied quickly. “Okay.”

  “Don’t tell anybody—especially Vee.”

  “I promise,” she said, wondering, Why Vee? But saying nothing. Bellamy looked at her for a long time. Her eyes were pinkish, but Kelly wasn’t sure whether it was emotion or just pot. They were both stoned, after all.

  “I’ll never talk about it.”

  Bellamy kissed her—so lightly and gently, their lips barely touching, that it was nearly as though it hadn’t happened at all. “We’re sisters now,” she said. “We keep each other’s secrets.”

  “GO GET THE BUTTER.” BELLAMY SAID IT IN MARLON BRANDO’S RASPY old man voice—a perfect imitation. Had to be the tenth time she’d done it since the movie ended—Last Tango in Paris, a real X-rated movie that Bellamy had stolen from her parents’ private screening room while Kelly was rooting through her drawers. They’d watched it on Bellamy’s VCR, Kelly nervous the entire time that Sterling Marshall might show up and catch them. Nervous, and also queasy. She hadn’t thought an X-rated movie could be that gross and depressing. And Marlon Brando . . . what did that young girl see in him, all flabby and wheezy and . . .

  “Maria Schneider was just two years older than us when she made that movie,” Bellamy had told her as the credits rolled. Something Kelly, especially stoned Kelly, hadn’t needed to know.

  “I’d better sneak that movie back,” Bellamy was saying now. “I’m scared Flora saw me swipe it. She was vacuuming in my dad’s study.”

  Bellamy slipped out of the room. Kelly crumpled up the Cheetos bag and threw it in Bellamy’s trash. Her buzz was wearing off. She thought of Jimmy again, Jimmy this morning, standing by the sink, and made for the phone by Bellamy’s bed. She had her dad’s number memorized now, and so she dialed it, listened to it ring once, twice, three times.

  “Hello?” It was Jimmy’s voice.

  Relief washed through her. He’s alive. He’s answering the phone. She was going to just hang up, but that felt mean to her, confused as Jimmy was. He said it again. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

  “Hi.”

  “Kelly? Are you okay?”

  “I’m . . . I’m fine.”

  “Are you calling from school?”

  “Yeah. I’m . . . uh . . . I just had lunch and I just . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wanted to thank you,” she said, “for making my lunch every day.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “You’re welcome, Kelly.”

  “Bye, Dad.” It wasn’t until Kelly hung up that she realized what she’d called him. Dad. She’d been calling him Jimmy since she moved in.

  “Go get the buttuh.”

  Bellamy was back. Kelly turned toward her, standing in the doorway. “Stop saying that!” she said, before she realized Bellamy wasn’t alone.

  “Look who the cat dragged in.” She took a step to the side, turned out her arms like a Price Is Right model.

  “Hi, Kelly,” said Vee, the game show prize.

  He wore tight jeans, a black T-shirt, a glossy leather jacket that matched his black hair. His smile was kind and his eyes glowed the warmest blue she’d ever seen.

  “What are you girls doing out of school?” He s
aid it deep and mock-angry. Kelly laughed, a lightness coming over her. Vee always had that effect on her, and not because he was stone-cold mint or even because he was nice. It was more in the way he looked at her. She’d still yet to meet Vee’s dad, the director, but she figured that was where he got it from. Someone who looked at you in that way . . . Someone who could make you feel like that could convince you to do anything in front of a camera. Anything.

  “Vee,” Kelly said, “let’s all, like . . . I don’t know.”

  “Took the words right out of my mouth,” said Bellamy.

  Vee smiled, in that slow sly way of his that promised things. “You ready for an adventure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Duh,” Bellamy said.

  “Well, good,” he said. “Because I brought something.”

  “You did?” Kelly and Bellamy said it together as he reached for his jacket pocket, both excited for the Baggie to come out, aching to sample whatever pill, plant, or powder that Vee had brought with him this time.

  But it wasn’t a Baggie. It was a gun. Vee held it out to them like an offering, on careful, plattered hands.

  “Holy shit,” said Bellamy.

  “Where did you get it?”

  He grinned at Kelly. “It’s my dad’s. He collects them.”

  Kelly’s eyes felt dry and salty—she’d forgotten to blink. “Did he give it to you?”

  Vee just laughed.

  She wanted to say something more. “Why?” or “Come on.” Or “Are you kidding?” But Bellamy beat her to the punch, clapping her hands together, jumping up and down like a kid. “What are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s try it out!”

  THEY TOOK THE GUN AND GOT IN VEE’S CAR, HIS DAD’S JAGUAR. IT was a deep sapphire blue, with cream leather seats that were better than anything Kelly had ever known. She wound up in front, Bellamy slipping into the back. “You haven’t lived until you’ve rode shotgun in the Jag,” she said.