The Vanishing Half(83)

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“Reese has surgery.”

The whole time, she’d imagined all that Jude could possibly want. Revenge, after that nasty thing she’d said to her at the cast party. Money, like her mother suggested. Well, good luck with that. One look at her life and anyone could tell that she didn’t have any. She could barely afford her rent. She imagined telling Jude this—a little ashamed, a little proud—but it turned out that she hadn’t resurfaced in New York because of Kennedy at all. Her boyfriend was sick—dying, even—and here Kennedy was, assuming Jude was thinking about her. “You know what your problem is?” a director had told her once. “You consider yourself your most fascinating subject.” She’d always thought everyone felt like a lead character onstage, surrounded by sidekicks and villains and love interests. She still couldn’t tell which bit role Jude was playing in her life, but she wasn’t even registering in Jude’s.

“Is it serious?” she asked. “I mean, is he okay?”

“It’s not like he’s dying,” Jude said. “But it’s serious. Yes, I’d say it’s serious.”

“Then why’d you come all the way out here? There aren’t any more surgeons in Los Angeles?”

Jude paused. “We’re not in Los Angeles anymore,” she said. “And it’s a special sort of surgery. You have to find a certain type of doctor who’ll do it.”

She was being vague, which, of course, only made Kennedy want to know more. But she couldn’t ask outright. It was none of her business, Reese’s life or Jude’s. This time, it seemed, their meeting was just an accident.

“Where do you live, then?” she said.

“Minneapolis.”

“What the hell are you doing out there?”

“I’m in medical school.”

In spite of herself, she felt a little proud. Jude was living the life she said she wanted, years ago. Still loved by the same man, on her way to becoming a doctor. And what did Kennedy have to show for all that time? A basement apartment with a man she barely understood, no college degree, a job serving coffee so that she could belt out songs in a half-empty theater each night.

“I’m glad you called,” Jude said. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Yeah, well, can you blame me?”

“Look, I know things ended sort of strangely—”

Kennedy laughed. “Well, that’s a goddamn understatement.”

“But if you’d just meet me for ten minutes, I have something to show you.”

Her mother had called Jude crazy. Maybe she was. But she was already reeling Kennedy back in. She could have hung up. She could have hung up right then and never spoken to her again. She could have tried to forget about her. But Jude was offering her a key to understanding her mother. How could she say no to that so easily?

“I can’t right now,” she said. “I’m at work.”

“After, then.”

“I have a show after.”

“Where?” Jude said. “Reese and I will come. It’s not sold out already, is it?”

The company hadn’t sold out a single show yet, but still, Kennedy paused, as if she were thinking.

“Maybe not,” she said. “Usually there are a few tickets left.”

“Great,” Jude said. “We’ll come tonight. We’ve been wanting to see a real show while we’re in New York City and all.”

She sounded unbearably innocent, not like the steely, guarded girl Kennedy knew. She was almost charmed by it, but mostly, she felt like she’d found her sure footing again. She gave Jude the name of the theater and told her that she had to go.

“All right,” Jude said. “We’ll see you tonight. And Kennedy?”

“Seriously, I’ve got to go—”

“All right, I’m sorry. I just—well, I’m looking forward to it. Seeing you act again, I mean. I loved your last show.”

She hated how good that made her feel. She hung up without saying good-bye.





Fifteen


In Pacific Cove, Charity Harris was the girl next door, meaning half the fans loved her and the other half found her a total bore. When she disappeared on a cruise ship during her final appearance, Kennedy even received fan letters rejoicing in her misfortune. At the time, it hadn’t bothered her. She didn’t care if fans loved or hated her, it was attention all the same, and nobody had ever felt strongly enough about a character she’d played to write her about it. Still, she’d hoped, driving off the studio lot, that this wouldn’t be Charity’s last scene.

“This is the soaps,” the director told her. “Nothing’s final but a cancellation.”

Charity deserved a better end, she would drunkenly tell friends at bars, well into her forties, far beyond when it was appropriate for her to still care so much. Even if she couldn’t hope for Charity’s miraculous return—a fate that every actor killed off a soap dreamt about—she at least wanted Charity’s story wrapped up neatly, some bullshit chyron about the girl leaving Pacific Cove, moving to Peru to raise llamas, she really didn’t care what.

“But just disappearing?” she said once. “Into the ocean? And that’s it? I mean, what the fuck.”