Lucky Stars by Jane Heller Page B

it. They told me to be myself, so I was myself. I said how shocked I was about finding the bone. I lashed out at companies that don’t take their quality control seriously. I spoke up for all us faceless consumers, mothers in particular. But then I recounted how Fin’s invited me to inspect their cannery and how I met their employees and how I was so impressed with their operation that I agreed to come and work for them. The commercial ends with a close-up on me saying, ‘Fin’s is the name you can trust—for taste, for freshness, for honesty.’ And then I wag my finger at the camera and say, ‘And if they slip up, they’ll have me to answer to. Make no bones about it! ’ ”
    “Hey, that sounds very cute,” I enthused, remembering what Maura had said—that the commercial would probably air during times of the day when no one would see it and that life would return to normal. My mother would go back to being my mother, and I would go back to being the actress in the family.
    “Cute? It’s a possible award-winner, according to Peter at W and W. Everybody’s so thrilled with it that they’re considering putting me in a whole series of commercials. They’re waiting for the focus groups to weigh in, then for the commercial to run. If there’s a big bump in sales, your mother could become a household name, Stacey. What do you think of that?”
    “I think you shouldn’t get your hopes up,” I said gently. “I’m a veteran of this business, Mom. One day you’re hot. The next day you can’t get arrested. That’s just how it is.”
    She laughed. “Such a pessimist, my daughter.”
    Wait. She was always the pessimist. I was always the one who said anyone could be a star if they were persistent enough. “I’m only trying to protect you,” I said, as further evidence of how we appeared to have traded places.
     
     
    T he feedback on the commercial was overwhelmingly positive, according to my mother. Focus groups said they loved her authenticity, her credibility, her realness. They said she was a refreshing change from all the phonies on television. They even remarked about her Cleveland accent, how her wide vowels made her seem more trustworthy. They also responded to her age—that she wasn’t a kid but a straight-talking sixtysomething, nor was she a model on loan from a cosmetics commercial. And they got a kick out of the fact that she was grumpy. “Helen Reiser is Everywoman,” one of them wrote on her comment card. “Helen Reiser is Everymother,” wrote another. “Helen Reiser speaks for me,” wrote a third, who also wrote that she thought my mother should run for Congress.
    The commercial aired in prime time as well as in day time, and the reaction was sensational. Sales of Fin’s Premium Tuna increased by some ridiculously high percentage, and W&W promptly ordered up three more spots starring my mother.
    How did I feel about that? Proud, truly I did. After all, it’s not everyone’s mother who becomes a successful pitchwoman for a tuna fish company, right? Besides, I had pretty much come to terms with the jealousy I’d felt in the beginning, made peace with the fact that she had landed a terrific gig on television. It wasn’t as if we’d ever be competing for the same job, so what was the big deal, I decided.
    And then it became a big deal. A huge deal. A monster deal that sent me running to Maura’s house on a Friday night—without calling first. Yup, I just showed up without an invitation, which was not the sort of thing I’d ever done before but was the sort of thing my mother used to do all the time. Without meaning to, I was turning into the very person whose behavior had driven me crazy.
    “Oh. Stacey,” said Maura, looking startled. She was wearing a bathrobe and clutching it tightly around her, her cranberry hair sticking up in all directions, her lipstick smeared across her left cheek. Clearly, I had interrupted something.
    “Whoops. You’re not alone,” I said. “I’ll