All day, no matter what else I happened to be doing or thinking about, at the back of my mind the film project kept percolating. I saw Pisces as the focal point. Not as a prostitute, but as a child who had somehow lost her family. The title I thought I would use was one of her tough lines, “I remember mothers.” Almost as good was something the pretty little preschooler in Encino had said: “Make an appointment with my nanny.”
I had to redo the working outline and schedule new locations to shoot. The small crew that would help me do the actual filming needed to be booked. The grant people had to be dealt with.
I went back downstairs to my workroom on the first floor and got out my primary resource book, the Metro telephone directory.
In the Yellow Pages I found baby-sitters: live-in, live-out, court-order monitors, nannies. Then I looked under child care: before and after school, latch-key program, swing-shift hours, early mornings, overtime available, vacation day camp, in-home care for sick children, drop-off center for sick children, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Bible stories.
I had a fair list of numbers to work with before I closed the book.
By then it was just after three o’clock, time to start watching for Casey. I pulled a camera battery off the recharges, slipped it into a videocam, and went down to the sidewalk in front of my house. I searched around a bit for the right background, and played with angles to get the light just right. Then I waited.
The primary-grades children in our neighborhood school get out about half an hour before the older ones. At three-fifteen, the parade of children heading home began.
There are many young families on the block. Lots of kids. As real estate in the neighborhood comes dear, there aren’t many single-wage-earner families. When both parents work, someone still has to raise the kids.
The women escorting the predominantly towheaded tots home from school were a fair representation of solid peasant stock from both Asia and Latin America. Now and then a Nordic-looking au pair came into view with a little charge held firmly by the hand.
Visually, the scene was good – happy little faces, crisp hair bows, and thick-soled sneakers coming into view over the crest of the steep hill. The sound was also wonderful. I had the volume input control on my camera turned all the way up:
“Maria,” I heard a little redheaded boy say to the tiny dark woman who carried his Ninja Turtles lunch box and Benetton school bag, “I’m real thirsty. Quiero lemonade.”
“No, mi hijo,” Maria responded, “only leche.”
I was still chuckling when my Casey came into view. The little ones were cute, but Casey stole my eye. She strode down the hill, swinging her jacket from one hand and her book bag from the other, a magnificent, graceful creature. I have a whole wall of tapes and films I have made of Casey, because I love to watch her. Casey is singular. Maybe every mother feels that way. In my case, it’s true.
My sister Emily is six feet tall. There’s a good possibility that my daughter will top her. I kept telling Casey, who had just turned fourteen, that one day she would love her height. Casey wasn’t ready to accept it.
Her one true passion since she was old enough to walk had been ballet. She had indeed become a beautiful, long-legged ballerina with real career potential. The sad thing was, there were rarely boys in the City Ballet tall enough to partner her. Odds are, no matter where she might go, there never would be.
Casey saw me following her with my camera. Ever the ham, performing for her most adoring audience, with a big smile on her face she executed a series of gazellelike leaps for me, incredible legs fully extended, toes like arrows, book bag and jacket whipping through the air as she flung her skinny arms. It was a good show. I am always relieved when I come home to find her intact.
She ended with a showy jete at the base of our front steps, where she dropped her things. She took the camera from my shoulder and turned it on my face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, grinning so wide I could see all of the bands on her teeth.
“I live here,” I said, grinning back. I reached out and switched off the camera. “Aren’t you home early?”
“I’m ditching study hall. Mr. Stemm isn’t there today. No one will notice.”
“I noticed,” I said, failing to sound stern. I picked up her things as we walked up the steps to go inside. “I’m going to call the school right now.”
“Yeah, sure,” she laughed. She set the camera on the parson’s bench in the entry and took her heavy book bag from me. I had so much to talk to her about. But she pulled out a small paper sack and yelled up the stairs:
“Lyle, Lyle, crocodile!”
“He isn’t home yet,” I said.
“Rats. I brought him a treat. He helped me with my English paper and I got an A.”
“Good girl,” I said, stretching up to kiss her cheek. My voice sounded forced. I admit I was a little jealous. Casey hadn’t brought me a treat. She turned a bright smile on me, though.
“Where’s Bowse?” she asked.
“Getting a flea bath.” I was beginning to feel pouty. I was happy to see her. “Isn’t it time for you to say ‘Hi, Mom, I missed you’?”
“Hi, Mom, I missed you.”
“That’s better. Want to go do something together?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Exploratorium? Ghirardelli Square?”
She curled her lip. “With the tourists? I don’t think so. Anyway, I told Madame Semanova I would tutor some little girl this afternoon. She’s getting ready to audition for a mouse part in Cinderella.”
Casey bounded off toward the kitchen.
“Let’s drive up to Squaw over the weekend,” I called after her, still trying. I felt dashed. Rejected. Fully pouty. “We haven’t been skiing all season.”
She turned and looked back at me as if I had lost my mind. “I’m flying to Denver this weekend. Remember?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“Oh.” Her attitude deescalated quickly. “Didn’t I tell you? Dad and Linda are baptizing the baby Sunday. I’m the godmother.”
“You are your baby brother’s godmother?”
“Weird, huh?” She headed off again, talking with her back to me. “Maybe you can get someone else to go skiing with you. Janet or Grandma or someone.”
“Maybe.” I followed her to the kitchen and leaned against the counter while she poured herself a glass of juice and slathered cream cheese on a bagel.
“What are you doing home, anyway?” she asked. “You said you’d be in La-La Land till Monday.”
“I missed you. I worry about you when I’m away.” She had her mouth full, so she could only nod.
“I have a new direction for my project,” I said, filling airtime. “It took me a long time to figure out what was missing. But I have it now.”
Casey looked as if she had something to contribute, so I waited for her to wash down a mouthful of bagel with juice. “Did you and Mike have a fight?” she asked.
“Of course not. I didn’t even see Mike.”
She seemed dubious. “I thought that’s why you went down to L.A.”
“I went down to work.”
“So why are you back?”
I sighed.
Casey dumped her dishes into the dishwasher and wiped off the counter. She kissed me as she sped past.
“Glad you’re back, Mom. I gotta go.”
That was Thursday.
Friday I hardly saw Casey. In the morning I kissed her goodbye and saw her off to school as on any other weekday.
I spent most of Friday talking to the staff at a drop-off center for sick kids. It was a nice place. They served chicken noodle soup and soda crackers for lunch. It was probably better than some of the alternatives: staying home alone, Mom staying home and therefore not earning the rent money, going to school sick.
Several anxious mothers and fathers dropped in during their lunch hours. I talked to them, too. They seemed to be far more upset than the children, who by all appearances were generally accepting of the arrangements. I would have preferred being sick in a quieter place, that is, in my own bed with my own TV remote. With the Beaver’s mother bringing me milk and cookies.