The After Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer Page A

five or six.” Lorraine is in kindergarten at Carlthorpe, what I jokingly refer to as “the missionary school” on 4th and Montana. The children dressed in uniforms, the boys had Brylcreemed hair, the girls wore headbands. When I’d see them lined up on the street for school, they looked like Latter Day Saints dolls.
    Aimee walked in, bringing a bad chemical peel with her.
    “Did your face get into a fight with a blowtorch?” I asked.
    “My agent’s about to drop me,” she said, opening the freezer and grabbing the ever-diminishing vodka bottle.
    “Didn’t you defriend Stoli?” Jay said, eyeing the bottle.
    “You expect me to quit, now?” Aimee said. “I’m under enormous pressure. You don’t just drop old friends like that.”
    “Aimee, when you were twenty-five, you swore you would never do anything to your face,” I said. “Serious actresses have faces that do face things.”
    “Twenty-five? Oh, right, that was before I got the big role I’ve always wanted—oh, wait, I never got it, remember?” Aimee said.
    “Look at Jodie Foster,” Chloe said, “or Annette Bening.”
    “Jodie has something called a jawline; all the hot lesbians have it,” Aimee said. “Bening is beautiful, but she shouldn’t go on camera with her real face. It just makes people angry. Besides, my skin’s going to look like Drew Barrymore at fourteen in a week.”
    “Oh, back when she was doing blow,” Jay said. “Do they still call it blow? That’s why I can’t keep a man. I’m so outmoded.”
    “Let me repeat. Ellie has been kicked out of Bunny Hill,” I said.
    “Good,” Aimee said, “I hate that place. So pretentious. Reminds me of my own childhood, if I’d actually had one.”
    “They never appreciated her fashion sense,” Jay said. “My God, they should give her a medal!”
    “I’m calling Rhoda right this minute,” Chloe said, punching numbers into her iPhone. “Three years ago, I got them tickets for the Dancing with the Stars finale for their spring auction—they’ll listen to me—”
    “Three years ago, you had money,” Aimee said.
    “Remember the parties?” Jay said, looking wistful. “Who doesn’t love a repressed banker?”
    “Guys,” I said, “focus. Ellie was kicked out because she’s talking to her dad.”
    “Dad John? Dead John?” Jay asked. “What is going on in this house?!”
    “It’s not real. She’s stressed out,” Chloe said. “I saw this coming from a mile away. You know, this would make a really good topic for my blog.”
    “Now you’re just fucking with me, right?” Aimee said to Chloe.
    “She’s scaring the perfect children who have two living parents,” I said.
    “Little intact-family punks,” Jay said.
    “Let’s be practical,” Chloe said. “Ellie needs help. She’s endured a huge loss. Her dad was her anchor. Their worlds revolved around each other.”
    “And Hannah figures into this situation … how?” Aimee said.
    “I’m not saying Hannah isn’t a great mom,” Chloe said, as Lorraine barked. “Down, girl, that’s a good girl.” Lorraine crept from the room.
    “I was a good-enough mom married to Super Dad,” I said. “And that was good enough then. But not anymore.”
    “What do they talk about?” Jay asked. “Has she ever mentioned Uncle Jay?”
    “John reads to her at night. And they sing together,” I said. “Like before, like always.”
    “Usher?” Aimee asked.
    “Oh, wait. Oh my God, R. Kelly again?” Jay asked. “Not that I’m glad John’s dead—I’m not, I adored him, but that I don’t miss.”
    “Bullshit people with their bullshit power trips …,” Aimee said, then, “If I adopt a kid and get him in Bunny Hill, do you think I might find a new agent?”
    “Where’s the cranberry part?” Jay asked, nodding at Aimee’s drink.
    “Shut it, Mother,” Aimee said.
    “What should I do?” I asked. “How do I talk to Ellie … do I talk to her?”
    “Spy on her,” Jay said.
    Chloe squeezed my hand.