“Realistically, what are you thinking?” Fern asks, and it really hits me that I’m canceling LA. My publicist is efficient and organized and very good at her job. I hired her to defuse the Tony chapter, and I’ve kept her ever since. I trust her, too.
“Realistically?” I switch the phone to my other hand. No matter how tempting the prospect, I can’t leave my mother right now. “I can’t make LA.” My chest feels tight, and my heart pounds at the same time. “This has never happened to me.” I stretch out on my back so I can breathe. I’ve always made every deadline and event. Like the women I hire, I’m on top of everything. I get it done. I’m in control.
Not this time. I control nothing and I hate it.
“Realistically,” Margie says, “we should think about canceling the rest of the tour and rescheduling.”
“All of it?” I wheeze.
“That’s my thought, too,” Fern says, and I can’t believe this is actually happening. “It’s better to make one decisive announcement than to issue four more over the next few weeks. We’ll put out a statement that you need time to deal with family issues. Your fans will understand, and they’ll be grateful you didn’t draw this out.”
Even after the decision is made and I hang up the phone, none of this feels real to me. I don’t pull out of commitments, and
I can’t wrap my head around what will happen next. The only thing that does feel real is the knot in my stomach.
This is not my life. I started Lulu in a lonely dorm room my freshman year at Gonzaga, where I’d hoped to graduate with a degree in journalism. Why journalism? Why not?
I hadn’t known anyone when I arrived there, but that wasn’t unusual. Mom and I moved around a lot when I was a kid. I’d gone to fifteen different schools by the time I graduated high school. I was always the new kid. Often invisible and insignificant—the kid who fell through the cracks.
I worked two jobs to put myself through school and, by my sophomore year at Gonzaga, I’d saved enough money to buy my own computer: a used iBook G3 clamshell—indigo—that allowed me to create my first blog, Lulu’s Life, on WordPress. I carried that iBook everywhere, writing about my life as a lonely girl and commenting on the people I saw around me. Several hundred people joined my page. We chatted and laughed and commiserated, but the blog really took off when I transferred to the University of Washington my junior year and linked Lulu’s Life with Friendster and Myspace. To my surprise, I started dating instead of hiding. I began writing more about relationships and heartbreaks and less about loneliness.
The doorbell rings and two men arrive with a cart of Mom’s belongings. I show them to her room, and she smiles and flirts because she just can’t help herself. She compliments their muscles and calls them handsome. While I’m used to Mom’s behavior, it’s still embarrassing. Of course, she keeps it up until they leave.
“Here’s your Booty,” I say, and hand her a bag of her favorite cheesy popcorn. As I take down the irises print, my thoughts return to my old blogs and the summer Margie first contacted me and changed my life forever.
The Diary of Bridget Jones had been a phenomenal success, and The Edge of Reason was about to be released in theaters. She’d said New York publishers were looking for the sort of “single girl” stuff I was blogging about, and she wanted to fly to Seattle and talk to me in person. At first I thought she was pranking me, but she actually met with me, and A Girl’s Guide to Kissing Toads, my first book, was published eighteen months later.
Within just a few short years, Lulu’s Life became Lulu the Love Guru, and I outgrew my simple WordPress website. I’ve worked my ass off and my fingers to the bone to make Lulu my own personal empire. The brand is recognized worldwide, and millions subscribe to Lulu’s YouTube channel and follow me on Twitter and Instagram. Millions listen to my downloads and podcasts, buy my books, and attend my events. I can’t see myself stopping for years to come.
3
I SMELL LIKE roses,” Mom says as I lean over the side of the tub and wash her back. She is nude from the tips of her toes to her cheetah-print bath cap. I haven’t seen my mother buck naked in a long time, and it’s equal parts disturbing and scary. Back in the day, Mom was a babe, a real bombshell, and she worked hard to maintain that status, too. I remember her lunging around the house while lifting five-pound dumbbells overhead to keep her figure. Mom wasn’t just beautiful; she was witty and charming, and people were drawn to her. I was drawn to her, too. It’s sad and frightening to see just how far she’s fallen, both physically and mentally.
“Earl likes me to smell good. He likes to smell my neck, and—”
“I’ve never heard you mention Earl before today,” I say, cutting her short before she can mention other places Earl likes to put his nose.
“He’s my boyfriend. He says I put a spring in his step.”
“Uh-huh.” I wonder if her boyfriend knows that she put a spring in Mr. Shone’s pants.
“He gave me a Christmas card with a cactus on it.” She looks over her shoulder at me and smiles. “He loves me.”
Yeah, because nothing says love like a cactus. “You never did say what kind of car Earl drives.”
“Earl has a car?”
My hand falls to the side of the tub and the corner of my eye twitches. “You said it laid rubber.”
“I never said that. Why on earth would you say I said that?”
The twitching is not good for my health. Maybe I’m about to have a stroke. I turn on the shower wand and drown out the sound of Mom’s voice. I can see her lips moving but I can’t hear her. Maybe it’s not the nicest move, but I don’t want to have a stroke. Who would take care of Mom? I reason.
Not long after I’d ended my conversation with Margie and Fern, Mom walked into the living room, wringing her hands above a wet spot in the crotch of her pants. “I need underwear,” she said.
She’d wet through her Attends and needed more than underwear. A warm shower—not a full-service bath—seemed the easiest solution for both of us, but Mom’s rarely chosen easy.
“My dress was blue organza.” I wash her neck and armpits, and she sighs. “I was fifteen, and Daddy said I was the prettiest girl in Nashville.” She chatters as if she is still a debutante in blue organza, seemingly oblivious of our mother-child role reversal. I turn off the water and pull the drain plug. I’m glad she’s oblivious and can slip into her girlhood memories while she still has them.