Joni was saying how she watched from a balcony as her daughter arrived for the first time. “It was like Romeo and Juliet.” In another clip, Kilauren said it felt like she was coming home after being away just a short while. Supportive, famous friends of Joni chimed in, taking note of how the genius’s demeanor, her very face, had changed upon reuniting with her lost child, that she’d finally come full circle in her life and her work, the whole both-sides-now thing — paradise regained. If only I can have that chance, thought Dusty. Please, God, give me that chance! It didn’t matter a whit that Kilauren’s boyfriend sold pictures of the reunion to the tabloids or that Joni and the foundling ended up “divorcing,” with “incompatibility” being cited… didn’t matter that Joni allegedly slapped her daughter in the face during a disagreement at her home in Bel Air, and police had been called—
None of it mattered!
Because, oh! What she would give to bring her own daughter back! And a granddaughter… oh! It astonished her that the very idea of a grandchild hadn’t occurred until now—
What she would give!
What she would give, for a daughter to slap, or be struck by, hard across the face! To break skin and teeth, and draw welts! What she would give for a daughter whose passions commanded the police to be summoned, lights flashing, sirens blaring — SWAT teams, stun grenades, bomb-sniffing dogs!
What she would give, what she would give, what she would give!
—
On Fridays, Dusty had a standing poolside lunch date with her assistant. Their little ritual — savories, gossip, and talk of old/new business:
Jimmy Fallon wanted her for a lip-sync battle. One of the young stars of Bloodthrone was hosting SNL and Lorne called to ask if she’d make a surprise walk-on during his monologue. Did she want to go to an investment conference in New York in November? “Hunh?” she said. The assistant informed that it was at the Met, happened every year, and Sir Paul (“not RuPaul”) was the last musical guest. Dylan was supposed to be doing it — that was the rumor anyway. “If you want, I can reach out to Bono. He usually goes. You could fly on the Google plane.” “I need Bono to fly on the Google plane?” she said impishly. “That’s not what I meant!” he said, laughing. “Then what did you mean? And I’m kidding.” “Google would be totally thrilled to have you—everyone would be thrilled.” “Now you’re digging yourself deeper, bubba.” She liked to goof on him. “Just let me know if you’re interested,” he said. “I mean, whenever. But sometime in the next two weeks!” Moving on, he said there’d been “whispers” she was up for a Kennedy Center Honor. “Whispers!” she said. “Whispers! I love it!” She put on a pixie face and mused, “I wonder who votes on that.”
He turned his attention to the nonsectarian. “I got an email from a very sweet elderly person who said she knows you. Ida Pinkert. Ring a bell?”
“Ida Pinkert, Ida Pinkert…”
“She used to be a neighbor? In Tustin?”
“Ida Pinkert! Oh my God! She must be a hundred and seven!”
“Let me pull it up,” he said, scrolling his phablet.
“She was a ‘friend’ of Reina’s — the neighborhood spinster. Lived catty-corner from us.”
He stared at his screen, muttering, “Why can’t I find it?”
“I’m sure she’s sending condolences.”
“I actually don’t even know how she got my email — oh, here!”
She took it out of his hands to read.
“Okay,” she said, blankly. “I’ll take care of it. Are we done?”
—
The old woman’s email had been sent via library computer, “with the help,” she wrote, “of a very kind young man.” She apologized for the intrusion and expressed sadness at her mother’s passing (“I’m most certain you had mixed emotions”) before inviting Dusty to visit her home (“If you find you may have time in what I am sure is your very hectic schedule”). The caveat IT IS MOST URGENT leapt incongruously from the screen, like a message, both hidden and decoded, meant for Sherlock Holmes. She had probably asked the very kind young man if he could underline the words for emphasis; he would have said we do that in caps these days. Ida wrapped things up with more apologies for not “giving you a ring,” as a phone call was precluded by deafness.
Dusty hit the road again, which seemed to be the theme of the hour — intimate, introspective journeys, far different in flavor from those of the carefree, location-jumping itinerant life of her profession. She thought about the fish they released into the river… and let the freeway carry her like those ineluctable waters. Softly, she began to cry—
And then suddenly, like a dream, she’d arrived:
Home.
The house on Mimosa Lane… listed on the National Register of Hysteric Nightmares — vortex of her wounding, and sacred burial ground too. (Thanks, Snoop!) Sitting in the car, she got infested by a gooey, revenant stillness.
Salutations of the dead—
As she stared out the window, the image-repertoire encroached: her girlhood self on a ten-speed… a smiling, lawn-watering daddy — her Arnold, so handsome, in the silly orange bermudas that she loved… Miranda, on the Fourth of July… the cat that got killed by a pit bull… nursing her little one (her little one! Aurora) in the bedroom upstairs. The house had been redone — spray-stuccoed and generally face-lifted — so she felt less of a charge. Shifting focus to Ida’s ramshackle one-story, she watched herself grow numb. Dusty knew what was happening: the organism was protecting itself. Systems were shutting down. Yet as the blankness receded, she felt a certain exultation, because suddenly she saw herself surviving. (She loved declaiming “I’m a survivor!” during sessions with Ginevra. Hadn’t she earned that right?) She could absolutely visualize herself — one day soon, maybe sooner than she imagined — moving on. Free as fuck. She sensed that coming-to-wisdom place, a complete understanding that she was merely an instrument played by the Universe, a servant of God’s will, a magnificently insignificant player — an actor! — in the great mystery. One needn’t be a guru to have such a revelation; on a good day, albeit a very good one, anybody could see that life was but a dream.