“It’s not that easy, either.”
He turned his champagne glass around and around in his small well-manicured hands. “Well, if you need someone to talk to now and then, I’m always available.”
“I’ve already burdened you with too much of it over the years.”
“Nonsense. You’ve told me very little. Just the bare bones.”
“Boring stuff,” she said.
“Far from it, I assure you. The story of a family coming apart at the seams, alcoholism, madness, murder, and suicide, an innocent child caught in the middle…. As a screenwriter, you should know that’s the kind of material that never bores.”
She smiled thinly. “I just feel I’ve got to work it out on my own.”
“Usually it helps to talk about–”
“Except that I’ve already talked about it to an analyst, and I’ve talked about it to you, and that’s only done me a little bit of good.”
“But talking has helped.”
“I’ve got as much out of it as I can. What I’ve got to do now is talk to myself about it. I’ve got to confront the past alone, without relying on your support or a doctor’s, which is something I’ve never been able to do.” Her long dark hair had fallen over one eye; she pushed it out of her face and tucked it behind her ears. “Sooner or later, I’ll get my head on straight. It’s only a matter of time.”
Do I really believe that? she wondered.
Wally stared at her for a moment, then said, “Well, I suppose you know best. At least, in the meantime, drink up.” He raised his champagne glass. “Be cheerful and full of laughter so all these important people watching us will envy you and want to work with you.”
She wanted to lean back and drink lots of icy Dom Perignon and let happiness consume her, but she could not totally relax. She was always sharply aware of that spectral darkness at the edges of things, that crouching nightmare waiting to spring and devour her. Earl and Emma, her parents, had jammed her into a tiny box of fear, had slammed the heavy lid and locked it; and since then she had looked out at the world from the dark confines of that box. Earl and Emma had instilled in her a quiet but ever-present and unshakable paranoia that stained everything good, everything that should be right and bright and joyful.
In that instant, her hatred of her mother and father was as hard, cold, and immense as it had ever been. The busy years and the many miles that separated her from those hellish days in Chicago suddenly ceased to act as insulation from the pain.
“What’s wrong?” Wally asked.
“Nothing. I’m okay.”
“You’re so pale.”
With an effort, she pushed down the memories, forced the past back where it belonged. She put one hand on Wally’s cheek, kissed him. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I can be a real pain in the ass. I haven’t even thanked you. I’m happy with the deal, Wally. I really am. It’s wonderful! You’re the best damned agent in the business.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I am. But this time I didn’t have to do a lot of selling. They liked the script so much they were willing to give us almost anything just to be sure they’d get the project. It wasn’t luck. And it wasn’t just having a smart agent. I want you to understand that. Face it, kid, you deserve success. Your work is about the best thing being written for the screen these days. You can go on living in the shadow of your parents, go on expecting the worst, as you always do, but from here on out it’s going to be nothing but the best for you. My advice is, get used to it.”
She desperately wanted to believe him and surrender to optimism, but black weeds of doubt still sprouted from the seeds of Chicago. She saw those familiar lurking monsters at the fuzzy edges of the paradise he described. She was a true believer in Murphy’s Law: If anything can go wrong, it will.
Nevertheless, she found Wally’s earnestness so appealing, his tone so nearly convincing, that she reached down into her bubbling cauldron of confused emotions and found a genuine radiant smile for him.