one-hit wonder Read online

  “Yes.” Bee nodded more forcefully. “Yes. All the way. That’s what I want. Definitely.”

  Dr. Chan smiled. “Good. That’s good. So”‌—she started getting to her feet‌—“shall we go?”

  “Yes.” Bee grabbed her bag and crash helmet. “Can I leave these here?”

  “Sure.”

  They walked down a long wood-paneled corridor. Bee tried not to catch the eye of any of the children they passed. Bee found disability absolutely terrifying. And then, as they turned a corner, she saw something even more worrying to her. A pile of aluminum boxes. Some cables. A stand-mounted light. A young girl wearing headphones and carrying a clipboard. A camera.

  She stopped in her tracks. “Er‌—Dr. Chan. What exactly is going on here?”

  “Oh,” smiled the doctor, “nothing to be alarmed about. Just a TV crew. They’re making a documentary.”

  “A documentary? About what?”

  “About High Cedars. About us. It’s for daytime TV‌—heartwarming stories and such. It’s not something I would have wanted, but it’s great publicity. The directors insisted. Shareholders and all that.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to be filmed. I mean, I really, really don’t want to be filmed.”

  “Don’t worry.” Dr. Chan smiled warmly. “Everything’s already been approved in advance. They can’t film anyone who hasn’t given their written permission. And Zander has his own room‌—you’ll be perfectly private‌—I promise you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She smiled again and continued. Bee followed her down the corridor toward a lift. The second floor was more modernized than the ground floor, looked more like a hospital and less like a boarding school.

  “OK. This is it.” They stopped outside a door. “This is Zander’s room. Ready?”

  Bee tugged at her turtleneck and smoothed her hair and wiped her sweaty palms against her gabardine trousers. Her heart was racing so fast, she thought she might be having one of her panic attacks.

  After twelve years of guilt and thinking and imagining and planning and hoping, this was it. Finally. She was going to meet Zander. Jesus. She was going to meet Zander. In a few seconds she’d be in a room with Zander, looking into his eyes.

  What was she going to see in them?

  She was terrified.

  She took a deep breath.

  “Yes,” she said, “yes. I’m ready.”

  twenty-three

  The room was small and sunny and modern. There was a TV in one corner, a PlayStation, and a computer, and posters on the wall. It was the bedroom of a normal young boy. Except for the hydraulic bed and the smell of disinfectant in the air.

  “Zander. Good morning,” Dr. Chan said breezily.

  A very small boy turned to face them from the computer he’d been working at. He had dead-straight brown hair cut in an unflattering style that covered half of his face. He was wearing glasses and a too-large checked shirt. But he had a delicate face, a finely sculpted nose sprinkled with freckles, and wide-set, piercing blue eyes.

  “Good morning, Dr. Chan,” he said, glancing at Bee momentarily before turning back to his computer.

  “You’ve got a visitor, Zander.”

  Bee arranged her face into what she hoped might look like a nonthreatening expression, but all her facial muscles felt tight and unyielding.

  “This is Belinda, your auntie,” continued Dr. Chan, “remember? We’ve talked about Belinda?”

  “Yes, Dr. Chan. I remember talking about Belinda.”

  “Belinda’s come all the way from London just to see you. Don’t you think it would be polite to at least say hello?”

  He turned slowly in his chair and eyed Bee up and down.

  Bee’s heart missed a beat and then started racing again. She’d been expecting him to be fragile, vulnerable, sad. But this boy looked so . . . strong. So assured. So cold. He didn’t look like a child. He looked like an adult.

  “Hello, Belinda,” he said sarcastically, and then turned away again.

  “Zander . . .” Dr. Chan began.

  Bee put her hand out and touched her arm. “Don’t worry,” she mouthed. And then she walked toward Zander and sat on the edge of his bed, within his range of vision. There was a slick of sweat on her upper lip and she could feel a dampness under her arms. “Hi, Zander,” she began, “what are you doing?” She indicated the screen with her eyes.

  “I’m researching Robert K. Meyer’s inconsistent arithmetical theory.”

  “Aaah,” said Bee, “right.”

  “Yes, you see, Meyer was more interested in the fate of a consistent theory, but there proved to be a whole class of inconsistent arithmetical theories; Meyer and Mortensen in 1984, for example. Meyer argued that these theories provide the basis for a revived Hilbert Program.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes. Hilbert’s program was widely held to have been seriously damaged by Gödel’s Second Incompleteness Theorem, according to which the consistency of arithmetic was unprovable within arithmetic itself. But a consequence of Meyer’s construction was that within his arithmetic‌—”

  “That’s enough, Zander. You’re just showing off. And turn that computer off.” Dr. Chan strode toward him and put a finger out toward the power switch.

  “No!” he exclaimed. “Don’t. I haven’t backed up my spreadsheets. I’ll do it.” He hit a few buttons sulkily. “There. It’s off. Are you happy now?”

  “Yes, thank you, Zander. Now I’m going to leave you and your aunt alone together to chat. OK? I’ll be back in an hour or so and we can all go and get some lunch. All right?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. You don’t have a choice.”

  “Well, then why bother asking me?”

  “Fine,” said Dr. Chan tersely, throwing Bee a look. “I’ll see you in an hour, then. And if you need anything, just hit that bell.” She pointed at a buzzer on the wall.

  “Who are you talking to‌—her or me?”

  Dr. Chan raised her eyebrows and left the room.

  Bee wanted the earth to open up and swallow her. Dr. Chan’s presence had given the situation a layer of insulation. Now it was raw and unprotected.

  Zander wheeled toward her and then came to an abrupt halt a few inches from her feet. The room was entirely silent. He stared at her, his head on one side, rubbing the top of one of his ears between his fingertips.

  “So,” said Bee in an attempt to soften the malevolent atmosphere, “this is a nice room you’ve got here.”

  “I don’t believe you’re my aunt,” he said.

  Bee blanched and gulped. “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s bullshit that you’re my aunt.”

  “And what exactly makes you say that?”

  “Well‌—everyone in my family was pig ugly. You’re far too good-looking to be related to me.”

  Bee tried to control her facial muscles, to look unfazed. Stick to the story, Bee, she told herself, just stick to the fucking story. “Yes. Well. We had different mothers, your mother and me. I never even met your mother.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I didn’t. I mean, I only just found out that she existed and‌—”

  “Bull. Shit. Big steaming pile of it.” He wiggled his fingers to demonstrate the steam coming off the shit.

  Bee forced her fingers into the roll of her turtleneck, trying to relieve her claustrophobia. “Look. I don’t know what else to say. I mean . . .”

  “Huge, vast mountains of hot steaming rancid fly-infested bullshit . . . Tons of it. Piles as big as the Himalayas. Everywhere. Urgh . . . urgh . . . urgh”‌—he put his hand to his throat and pretended to choke‌—“the ammonia, the poisonous, noxious, choking gases coming off those piles of shit . . . Help me, I’m choking, choking to death on it . . . urgh . . .”

  And as Bee looked at this puny, disabled little boy with his withered legs and his too-big shirt and his stupid glasses, this little boy whom she owed so much to, whom she�
��d taken so much from and whom she’d spent the past twelve years fantasizing about, she stopped feeling nervous and started feeling, irritated, and suddenly and overpoweringly wanted to punch him in the face. Really hard.

  “OK, then, Mr. Know-It-All,” she snapped, getting to her feet, “if I’m not your aunt, then who the fuck am I?”

  “Well, that’s a very good question. An excellent question. Maybe you could answer it? My guess, though, is that you’re either a) an undercover reporter‌—something to do with all those TV airheads hanging around the place‌—but I have to concede that it’s unlikely you’d have undertaken such a sophisticated ruse just to talk to little old me. Or b) that you’re a sick sexual pervert who wants to put her hand in my knickers and feel my impotent little willy.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Bee. “That’s disgusting! How old are you?”

  “I’m twelve years old, thirteen in July. But I have the intellect and vocabulary of a thirty-year-old. If that’s what you were asking . . . So? Was I right? Are you a sick pervert?” He threw her a lascivious look. “Because I really don’t have a problem with it if you are‌—sexy legs . . .”

  “Oh. Jesus. You are disgusting.” Bee folded her arms and eyed him with contempt. “Do you talk to the doctors and nurses like this?”

  “No. I’m just rude to them. But then, they’re not as good-looking as you‌—and they don’t lie to me.”

  “I am not lying to you, how can I prove it to you? I mean, how‌—” She broke off halfway through a sentence when she heard a knocking at the door.

  “Enter,” said Zander, wheeling himself toward the door.

  “Oh. Hi. Sorry,” said a smallish man with close-cropped gray hair, “I’m looking for Tiffany Rabbett’s room.”

  “Two doors down. You can’t miss it. It’s very pink. It’s Tiffany’s life ambition to one day be a Barbie doll. Not to actually walk or live a long and healthy life or anything. Just to be a doll.”

  The man looked at Zander in amazement. “Er, right. Yup. OK. Thanks.” He started to back out of the room.

  “Hey, hey, hold on. Wait a minute,” Zander called after the man’s receding back.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you with the TV crew?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m the producer.”

  “D’you want a really good story for your show?”

  He smiled and edged into the room. “I’m always interested in hearing a good story.”

  “Well then. Get this. This woman”‌—he pointed at Bee‌—“she’s my mother.”

  “You what!” cried Bee, jumping to her feet.

  “Yes,” said Zander, “but she’s too ashamed to admit it, because she hasn’t been a very good mother.”

  “He’s lying,” said Bee, turning to face the producer, “I’m his aunt, actually.”

  Zander tutted extravagantly. “Yes, well, that’s the story she’s concocted. Because it’s a hard thing to admit, isn’t it? That you gave your baby away because he wasn’t perfect, because his little legs didn’t work properly.”

  “He’s lying. He is. Honestly. Lying. You can ask the doctors. They’ll tell you. He was paralyzed in an accident. . . .”

  “And so this woman gives away her imperfect little baby boy and he goes into a home and nobody wants him. Nobody wants a baby that can’t walk, that can’t be potty trained, do they? And then one day, say, oooh, twelve years later, that woman finds herself all alone and getting old and decides to find her baby. And here we are. Our first meeting. Our first reunion. Isn’t it joyful to behold? Aren’t you moved? Don’t you think your viewers would just love this little scene?”

  “I am not his mother. I’m his aunt. Why are you lying like this, you little shit?” Bee hissed.

  “Aw,” said Zander. “See? Isn’t this sweet?”

  “Look. I’m sorry,” muttered the producer. “I’ve obviously interrupted something. I’ll just go to Tiffany’s room now.”

  “No. Don’t go,” said Zander, “I want to be on TV. Can’t I? Please? Please Mr. Hotshot TV Producer‌—I want you to make me a star.” He crossed his arms over his chest and fluttered his eyelashes at the man.

  “Sorry, son. No can do. We’re doing Tiffany and that’s that. Besides, I think you and your mother have got some talking to do, haven’t you?”

  “I am not his mother,” shouted Bee, “I am not his fucking mother.”

  “Hey,” said the man, suddenly stopping in his tracks and giving Bee a strange look. “Aren’t you Bee Bearhorn?”

  “Who’s Bee Bearhorn?” said Zander.

  Bee’s jaw dropped. This was getting worse and worse. Worse than she could ever possibly have imagined. She stared at the man in horror. “No,” snapped Bee, “I am not Bee Bearhorn. And I am not this little monster’s mother either. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some fresh air.”

  “Who’s Bee Bearhorn?” said Zander again.

  Bee stormed past Zander and the man and stomped out into the corridor.

  “I said, ‘Who’s Bee Bearhorn?’ ” Zander’s voice followed her down the corridor.

  “You are, aren’t you?” said the man, hotfooting it after her, “you are Bee Bearhorn?”

  “Please‌—leave me alone.”

  “I was a fan. Please‌—stop. . . .”

  Bee ignored him and kept on striding.

  She needed a cigarette. Now.

  Her cigarettes were in her bag. In Dr. Chan’s office.

  Fuck.

  “D’you smoke?” she said, spinning around on her heel to face him.

  “Er‌—yeah.”

  “Can I have one?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “sure.” He began feeling his shirt pockets. “You can’t smoke in here though. You’ll have to go outside. There’s a balcony just through here.” He steered her down another corridor.

  On the balcony he passed her a cigarette and watched her closely while he lit it for her. Her hands were shaking as she took the cigarette from her lips to exhale.

  “Fuck,” she exclaimed, leaning against the railings of the balcony and staring out into the distance. “Fuck. That was a nightmare. What a cunt that kid is.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? He’s only a child.”

  “No he’s not. He’s a demon. He’s Rosemary’s fucking baby.”

  “And who are you, then‌—Rosemary?”

  “No I am not. I am not that little fucker’s mother, all right?”

  The man put his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Right. Not another word. But you are Bee Bearhorn, right? I’d recognize you anywhere. I was a great fan, really. I even bought your third single.”

  Bee exhaled and turned to smile at him. “Ah,” she said, “so it was you, was it?”

  He grinned and shrugged. “What can I say? I was a huge fan. I wanted to single-handedly revive your career.”

  “What a mug,” she said, grinning at him.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I guess. I’m Ed, by the way. Ed Tewkesbury.”

  “Hi, Ed.” She turned and shook his hand. He had small, cool hands.

  “Hi, Bee. Wow,” he grinned, “I’m a bit starstruck. This is amazing, I mean . . .”

  “Look. Ed. All that stuff in there just now”‌—she indicated the general direction of Zander’s room‌—“you won’t, you know? . . . I mean, that was all really personal stuff and I don’t want‌—”

  Ed put a finger to his lips. “It will go no farther than this balcony. I swear.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. Do you honestly think that I would drop Bee Bearhorn in it? No way. Nuh-huh. My lips are superglued.” He sealed them with his fingers. “And just to prove it,” he said, reaching into his pockets and fishing out a small card which he passed to her, “here’s my number. And my address. And if you ever see any evidence anywhere that I’ve spilled a word of this to anyone, you have my express permission to come and chop out some of my vital organs. OK?”

  She took it from him and smiled again. “OK. A
nd I would, you know? I’d enjoy it, too.”

  “Oh, no doubt . . . no doubt. Look. I’d better get back in there. I’m here for only a day and my team’s waiting for me. Good luck, Bee Bearhorn. With everything. It’s been an absolute honor meeting you.”

  “Likewise. And thank you, for, you know . . .” She sealed her lips with her fingers.

  “And look‌—if you’re ever in London and want to be taken out for a really good meal, you know, no strings, just grub‌—you’ve got my number. Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she said as he turned to leave, and she listened to his squeaky footsteps on the vinyl-floored corridor until the sound disappeared.

  She turned back to the railings and stared across the landscaped grounds and out toward the countryside for a while. Ashford’s town center was a small clump of gray and brown buildings in the farthest distance. She watched a Eurostar train speeding toward the station while she smoked her cigarette deeply and slowly, savoring every moment of not having to go back to Zander’s room. Yes, she’d been warned in advance. Yes, she’d been told he was difficult, precocious, and angry. But still she hadn’t been prepared for that. She’d fantasized about this moment for so long that it had become almost romantic. She’d been expecting to get inside his angry shell, to break down his defenses. She’d been expecting tenderness, deep emotion, tears maybe. She’d been expecting one of the most moving, monumental days of her life. She most certainly had not been expecting to feel this‌—this annoyance and plain old-fashioned dislike.

  She wasn’t going to give up, though‌—no way. She was going to see this through to its conclusion‌—whatever that might be. She stubbed out her cigarette on the metal railing and straightened herself up. She was going to deal with this little boy. She wasn’t going to let him‌—excuse the expression‌—walk all over her. Although it often didn’t feel like it, she was an adult. And Zander was a child. She could do this.

  She walked back to his room, took a deep, deep breath, and opened the door.

  twenty-four

  Zander was sitting at his computer, and spun around in his chair when he heard the door open. He grinned at her. He looked quite sweet when he smiled.