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October
“Over there!”
“No, further that way!”
“Up! Up!”
I rolled my eyes, “Guys, the pinata was supposed to be for the kids.”
Beside me, Viggo snorted, “Don’t worry, October. Their aim isn’t any better now than it was back– do you know how many shots it would take doing fight scenes with them? Especially that one. Couldn’t ever hit his mark.” He was pointing to Orlando for the last bit, though Orlando wasn’t among the three hobbits attempting to beat open the pinata. Viggo was right, however, that there would still be plenty of pinata left for the kids and cousins, who all stood around the sidelines cheering blind-folded Elijah on like he was just another one of them. Ben snickered some comment about, “Good thing the One Ring wasn’t hidden in a pinata or Middle-Earth would have been doomed” that only Viggo, Sydney, and I heard.
Elijah was still swinging away, and I left the walking disaster, laughing as Viggo called out, “Lower! Lower! To the left!” Anything to contradict the shouts of Dom, Billy, and the kids.
It had been an hour now since the party officially started, and things had been going far more smoothly than I had dared to hope. Sure, the hobbits had hijacked the pinata, Chloe had poured red kool-aid all down the front of her brand new playdress, and rain the night before meant Cove and Dad had to replace all the charcoal in the grill before it would fire up. But Cameron and Chloe were in cheerful, social moods; my stomach virus had finally cleared; everyone had made it to the house just fine. Gifts for Cameron were stacking up on the patio and it worried me a little. I knew he and Chloe would probably grow up taking the lavish gifts from world-famous celebrities for granted, and I certainly didn’t like the idea at all. And granted, most of the gifts would be donated to shelters and toy drives and whatnot. But the idea of my children growing up as spoiled brats made me sick.
But then, I had turned into somewhat of a worry-wart, as Nonni used to say.
With the pinata game in the capable hands of Viggo, and Dad and Cove in the kitchen getting the food ready for grilling, I sidled up beside Orlando, who was involved in a deep and highly animated conversation with Liam Neeson and Johnny Depp. The former happened to be in the area and so I had sent an invitation along, and the latter was of course keeping a similar schedule with Orlando for the Pirates of the Caribbean premieres. I had extended invitations to a good majority of the traveling company involved with the current premieres, but different agents had different cast doing different interviews and television shows. Keira Knightley had stopped by for a few hours earlier to chat and help set up a bit, but she and Orlando were originally scheduled for the same flight to Paris, and she had not been able to reschedule. Only a few minutes before, she had made her departure, but we had managed some good catching up. Our friendship consisted of lunch dates and frequent e-mails, but I appreciated the casualness of it. Orlando’s agent Kathleen, likewise, had stopped by for a short while, but then scuttled off to take care of some quick business at the agency before her flight to Paris. I was surprised she hadn’t changed her flight to the same one as Orlando the next day, but it seemed the older Orlando got, the less he had to worry about being mauled in the streets by rabid fans or paparazzi. Run-ins with incessant flashing cameras had dwindled to only a few times a month, he’d bragged – a true blessing. As a result, Kathleen tagged along for even fewer of his interviews and photoshoots; Orlando was finally an adult in the film industry.
Without even stopping his conversation, Orlando slipped his arm around my waist; when Johnny turned to say something to the kid that had just run blindly into his backside, Orlando nibbled Cameron’s ear and inquired, “All right, birthday boy?” Cameron scrunched up his face and battled playfully at Orlando’s nose, chanting, “Dada-dada-dada-dada.” He managed to get a pretty good punch in, knocking Orlando in the chin. Fortunately, “Dada” just laughed and pulled him from me, sitting him in his arms so that my baby boy looked like he was chatting it up with the big boys.
I left them to their conversation, smiling at how comfortable Orlando looked holding babies now. It had been an nightmare with Chloe. Even once she started walking and talking and had proven she could handle a few bumps here and there, Orlando never felt completely safe with her in his arms. Cameron was certainly the second baby, though; Orlando swung him around like a little monkey, holding him upside down by the ankles, flinging him over his shoulder like a sack of flour, tossing him into the air and catching him with confidence in his own parenting abilities. I, however, was doubting myself more than ever – but that was not something to think about while celebrating that Cameron had somehow managed to survive his first year despite me.
It would be such a relief just to have the party over with, even if I was enjoying myself immensely. It felt so good to have Orlando home, for the kids to have their dad, to be surrounded by all the wonderful friends we had made through the years. I drifted from group to group for a while, chatting, relaxing. I played with the kids a bit. Things were going smoothly even without my guidance, though. The two dozen kids running around were for the most part happy, only occasionally letting out squawks of protest before forgetting what their problem had been and forging on with the games. The adults were happy to meet new connections or catch up with old ones.
At Mom’s suggestion, I agreed we should do cake and ice cream and then presents while Dad and Cove started grilling the fleet of hamburgers. As happy as the party was, it felt disconnected. Time to bring everyone together to focus on the star of the party: Cameron.
“Here, Toby, why don’t you go get the cake. I’ll tell Orlando to go clean up Cameron for the pictures,” Nonni laughed. She had grown up in a time when birthdays weren’t for playing, they were for dressing to the nines. Even I had spent my earlier birthdays in frilly frocks with bows twice the size of my own face. “Sonia can help me clear off the table . . .”
The laughter and shrieks from outside floated in behind me as I bounced into the kitchen, the atmosphere lifting my own chest. What was I so worried and cranky about lately, anyways? Things were great! I had two beautiful children, a wonderful husband, no financial worries, all the friends, luxuries, and free time one could ask for. It was a beautiful day that not even Orlando’s oftentimes obnoxious career had gotten in the way for.
But then I saw Orlando’s phone vibrating towards the edge of the counter, about ready to plummet over the edge. Stevie Wonder’s Superstition blasted tinnily from the small speakers; I had jokingly given the ringtone to Kathleen and either Orlando didn’t know how to change it (more than likely) or he thought it funny, too (maybe both).
I hated answering Orlando’s cell. Even though he insisted it was fine, and maybe had once even gotten a small thrill out of his girlfriend/fiance/wife answering his phone, I still felt weird about it. Looking at his phone bill showed that really, the only people that called his cell were me, Kathleen, and Sam. Sometimes another director or producer, or one of the few friends that still called Orlando; he had made it clear he preferred meeting in person than talking on the phone. Still, though. I guess I partly felt like I was invading what little privacy he had from me. Or maybe a small part of me feared – even though I had nothing but faith in Orlando and his loyalty to me! – that someday I would answer the phone when I wasn’t supposed to.
But hearing Superstition, I felt like I had a pretty good idea who it was. I caught the cell just as it plunged over the edge of the counter.
Orlando
I knew the second I walked into the kitchen that something had gone wrong and that it was my fault and that October was pissed. She had my mobile to her ear and a scowl on her face, her blue eyes narrowed to a degree that few live to tell about.
“That was Kathleen,” she offered when I failed to say anything. When she gets that look on her face, it’s best not to talk.
“Oh? Did she . . . leave something here?”
October’s mouth opened and shut several times before she quipped, “Yes. Her client, who has a scheduled interview tonight. In Paris. Where he is supposed to arrive after boarding an airplane in approximately forty-five minutes.” As she said it, I recalled talking to her on the phone . . . thinking I needed to re-schedule my flight . . . and then going straight to bed. Never calling Kathleen or the airline. Perhaps I had dreamed that I changed the flight. Because clearly, I hadn’t flat out lied to October and Kathleen and the numerous other people that had asked when my flight to Paris was. I had seriously thought it was . . . well, I had never given anyone a definite answer. I had just said, “I rescheduled to the next day.” Except I had never rescheduled. Why was I convinced I had?
“Shit, I forgot to reschedule my flight!”
“Don’t say that word in front of Cameron!” she hissed, diving forward and pulling my own son from my arms. It didn’t even bother me at the time; I was mentally berating myself for having stupidly forgotten such a simple task. Of course, it shouldn’t have mattered except–
“Wait, an interview?”
“Yes. Kathleen expected you at the airport thirty minutes ago and has been calling to find out where the hell you are. She thought you were just planning on leaving Cameron’s party early, which explains why she was so confused earlier when I said we weren’t eating and doing cake until later.”
“Shit . . .” I sighed again, running my fingers through my hair and frowning at the ceiling. “I . . . fuck–“
”Orlando, stop! Cameron’s going to start repeating you!”
“Sorry.” I honest to God didn’t know what to do. “It’s fine. I’ll just miss the flight, eat the seat, and get a new one tomorrow.”
October never was a fan of my casual solutions to big problems, though. She gave me a horrified expression as though I was the stupidest ass to ever walk the planet, as if she had just told me she had cancer and I had pulled a rabbit out of a hat to comfort her.
“What?! Orlando, what if there aren’t any seats?”
“There will always be seats, Oct–“
”Remember last summer? Remember we were trying to get to Paris and there weren’t any seats?” Cameron was beginning to fuss, agitated by our raising voices and October’s frantic body motions.
“Then I’ll take the train.”
“And what, just skip out on your interview tonight? They’ll sue you, Orlando.”
“They won’t sue me. We’ll let them know there was a scheduling–“
”God, you can be so stupid, Orlando!” she sighed. Turning with a huff, she gave my mobile a harsh shove across the counter and yanked a drawer open. Realizing she didn’t need anything from it, though, she slammed it shut. The force knocked it back out and she slammed her hip on it. “Shit!”
“Don’t swear in front of Cameron, October.”
God, was that ever the wrong thing to say. With just that single sentence, the gates of hell were thrust open, Pandora’s box was shattered into a million tiny splinters, and all the rage of the devil’s wife came surging toward me.
“As if you have any right to be scolding me right now, Orlando, when you are a grown adult fully incapable of doing something so simple as calling your babysitter and having her reschedule your flight.”
“Kathleen is not my–“
”Orlando, you didn’t even have to reschedule the flight yourself. All you had to do was call Kathleen and have her do it! You told me you took care of this!” Cameron began to wail and his cries only made us louder.
“Just relax, all right?” I insisted. Her voice was crawling up my spine; her scolding was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and all the blood rush to my face. I hated when she got like this. She never had, not until recently. She interrupted and fumed and blew things out of proportion and acted like I was some stupid, helpless little piece of shit.
“Don’t tell me to relax, Orlando? You lied to me and now–”
“I didn’t lie, I just–“
”And so what, now you’re going to go skipping out on your son’s first birthday–“
”– no, I’m going to –“
”– all you had to do was –“
”October–“
”–I can’t believe you –“
”Just SHUT UP!”
She froze. Her eyes widened and her mouth clamped shut. Her gaze locked on me in a stare of sheer surprise until suddenly shifting to the door behind me. I turned just in time to watch Sam quickly flee back where she had come from.
With a frustrated sigh – I would deal with my sister later – I turned back and insisted, “Just listen to me once, will ya? Stop nagging and let me talk!”
October’s eyes had taken on a glassy sheen. Flushed, she turned and began bouncing Cameron and patting his back, making his cries waver in pitch. She shushed him and kissed his forehead. I could see she was listening, but, immaturely trying to get the last word, refused to look at me as I spoke.
“ I’ll call Kathleen and have her reschedule the interview for tomorrow. Either she can find me a new flight or I’ll buy an emergency seat myself or I’ll take the train. Hell, I’ll drive if I have to.”
She was boring holes in the floor with her eyes and biting a hole in her lip. She was trying not to question my answer. She didn’t trust my answer.
“It’s not going to be a problem. Don’t act like you understand the industry better than I do, October.” It was an unnecessary jab, I admit. I just hated her constantly questioning the legalities when she didn’t know! It wasn’t her name on the contracts. It wasn’t her face in the films. It wasn’t her bank account growing and shrinking and growing again.
“Fine,” she finally responded. Her lips were tight. The hurt look had disappeared and she was just pissed again. “You take care of your industry; I’ll just go take care of my son’s birthday.” She stomped out of the kitchen and I was severely disappointed the door didn’t slam behind her. And knock her in the back of the head.
I called Kathleen and explained the situation. Usually she would have lectured me too, but maybe something in my voice clued her in that this was not the time. Instead, she made some calls and got the interview rescheduled with no problem – as I had told October. They even wished my son a happy birthday. I returned to the party just in time to see them setting Cameron up with his cake; five minutes later and I would have missed it.
We both put on smiles, standing behind Cameron and cheering him on as he tried to blow his solitary candle out. After a complete lack of interest on his part, we let Chloe hop up and show him how it was done. Her pigtail dipped in the frosting and he thought her licking her own hair was the funniest thing; it was hard to get him back to the cake. Once he had realized this exciting new toy in front of him, however, he proceeded to rub the sweet all over his face. His hair. His stomach and legs. When October took him in to clean him up afterwards, I could even see crumbs trailing down his back.
Chloe attempted to sit in my lap while Cameron opened his presents, though she hopped up and down so much to “help” him that my role was basically shifted to “guy who pulls the wrapping paper out of the way so the baby’s face can be seen in the pictures.” October cooed and smiled and made a big fuss out of every gift. She played the perfect little hostess, the perfectly patient mother of the birthday boy. I was playful and chatty with my mates. The pair of us were perfectly normal on our own, but I could see Sam watching us. Maybe Mum, too, and Nonni were observant enough to notice that October and I hardly said a word to each other. When the necessity to talk arose, as few words as possible were said. Once you knew we had just had a blow out in the kitchen, it became painfully obvious.
Fortunately, few knew. The cook out continued and the burgers were delicious. The evening wore on, and even once night had fallen, adults lingered to sit out in the backyard, talking and drinking the last few beers or else stumbling around to clean what could be cleaned in the dark. Those that were staying at the house crawled into bed while October and I walked guests to the curb, doling out hugs and thanks for gifts and appearances and all that. The party had been a success, everyone told us. Everyone had so much fun; the kids were so adorable and so well behaved; we had to get together again like this soon. We stood side by side but miles apart, watching a parade of red taillights disappear down the street.
Cameron had long since fallen asleep and been tucked into his crib. I carried Chloe from her crashsite in the living room with the Cuscpaco kids to her own bedroom. The house was dark and eerily lonely after bustling with so many of our friends throughout the day. Mum was still messing around in the kitchen and probably would until everyone had fallen asleep. Then she would recharge her batteries and be at it again before anyone woke up.
I stepped into the bedroom to see October already in her night clothes, pulling her hair into a ponytail and looking out the window at the empty backyard. Only the bedside table lights were on, making the room dim. I crossed to my chest of drawers . . . then suddenly stopped to ask myself a question that made my stomach knot up.
Should I sleep on the couch?
Almost as soon as my brain had formulated the thought, though, I dashed it away. Of course not. This was my bed. Mine and October’s. Even when we were pissed at each other – as we most certainly were right now – it was still our bed. Maybe she had thought the same terrible thought, because the look she sent me before crawling across the mattress was anything but pissed. Surprised, anxious, confused.
To my back, as I pulled off my jeans and shirt, she asked as lightly as the thick atmosphere allowed, “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“Early. I’ll leave here probably around five.” The digital clock on the bedside teased: 1:03 AM. We both saw it, and I could see the words she wanted to say as clearly on her forehead as though I had taken the marker and written them there myself: You’re going to be too tired to enjoy yourself; you should have gone to bed earlier.
Instead of saying them, though, she suggested, “If you don’t have time to write a note to the kids, you can call the house phone and leave a message on the voicemail. It’ll mean the same to them.” Perhaps it was one final jab at my forgetfulness with rescheduling the flight. If so, I simply didn’t have the energy to shoot something back. She wouldn’t have heard it anyways; as soon as that was said, she rolled over, turned her light off, and went to sleep.
I sighed, didn’t bother brushing my teeth, and crawled into bed beside her, turning off my own light. For a moment, I remembered the old saying: never go to bed angry. In the face of sheer exhaustion, I almost wasn’t angry with her anymore. With the faint reminder that I wouldn’t see her again for a week, I almost snuggled in close to whisper into her neck, “I’m sorry.”
But then I remembered everything she had said and done, the looks she had given me, and the fact that she had just gone to sleep still angry at me. She hadn’t apologized, so why should I? I wasn’t always going to be the one apologizing, groveling at her feet like she was some goddess that could do no wrong. She did do wrong! A lot! And I’d be damned if I gave in once again, just because. I was every bit as strong as her – maybe stronger!
With a deep sigh that came out more a growl, I pulled the covers up higher and twisted, facing the door. I would leave my usual note for Chloe and Cameron in the morning, one of the notes I always wrote for them when I traveled. Just silly little things: a funny poem or simply a reminder of how much I loved them and would miss them. Maybe I would leave the note and a voicemail. But I wouldn’t say goodbye to October, not when she owed me an apology. It was time I be the man of the family, take back the pants, remind her who was the father.
My alarm went off before I even fell asleep.
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