Disjunction
"After all our time together
You'd think we'd never met
But ever since the day we separated
There's been too much heartsick feelin' to forget"
(Too Much Heartsick Feeling, the Turtles
Nichol, Volman, Barbata, Kaylan, Pons)
"How much longer?" That once so familiar voice could be heard whining through the speakerphone as Deborah moved around her kitchen. Whether that voice had become familiar again or was merely a mirage of familiarity remained undetermined.
"We have discussed this, Ava," Deborah wasn't upset, in fact she didn't even expend the energy of a heavy sigh. The relentless sadness and disappointment had slowly left her tone some weeks back after resuming speaking to Ava. Had they really been talking for weeks? Deborah reflected on this fact. She said nothing about it to the woman on the line who was assuredly thinking up something to get Deb to change her mind.
"What if I get fired?" A dud. She offered up the same question the night before when they had this conversation. The Deborah Vance that had met first met Ava Daniels would have been disappointed in the lack of creativity, vocally so. She was no longer that woman in many ways, some recognized, some ignored, some neatly stacked away in a secure container in her mind.
"How exactly will that accomplish gaining career experience?" Deborah knew that refuting Ava's offer would continue the conversation and the only truth she allowed herself to admit was that she did want them to continue talking.
Having removed her dinner from the oven, Deb took it to the island and sat down on a stool. From the outside it would appear she was allowing the food to cool before digging in, however what she was really doing was preparing for the emotional hit that would come with what she knew Ava would inevitably say next.
"I miss you."
She felt the tears pricking her eyes, her heart had risen to her throat and this time she could do nothing but sigh. Crying would weaken her argument, surely.
"Ava…"
"I know, I know," Ava deflated. She was still quick to give in. She, too, wanted the conversations to continue and there was no way in hell that would happen if she pissed Deborah off. "Nothing I can say will change your mind."
There was something that Ava could say that would make Deborah change her mind about this career-focused banishment, but that something happened to be something they had both, separately, refused to speak of to one another. Over time, Ava had somewhat admitted she was having feelings for Deborah to Kiki. But only Kiki. She had adamantly denied anything but professional respect and admiration when her mother asked if something was going on (sometime between their strange girls' night in Memphis and Ava wallowing in Los Angeles after being let go by the comedian). They hadn't spoken of it since, thankfully.
Deborah had admitted her feelings to nobody, including herself. She recognized that she had a fondness for the young woman and pretended the heartache she was feeling was merely that of someone who had become accustomed to having another person around. Marcus had once pointed out that Ava made her act foolishly. Whether he believed that or not and why was something she tried not to dissect. Perhaps he had a point. Kiki had recently told Deborah, in response to no admission of any kind by her employer and friend, that she shouldn't ignore the things that make her happy. And Damien, bless his heart, was oblivious. Oddly, the one person who seemed to know the feelings of both women and remained stoically silent on the topic was DJ.
"Tell me about the other writers," Deborah changed the subject, a natural pivot.
"You would have murdered Dan on day one. He is constantly talking about how they do things in New York. Apparently, Los Angeles is only for castoffs."
"What did he do to get kicked out of New York?" Deb asked with a lilt in her voice that begged Ava for banter. It was when they were deep in a volley of banter that everything felt right with them. If they could heal from the heartache that came when Deborah had decided to separate them, it would be banter that acted as salve and absolution.
"Right? That's what we don't know. He was a writer for SNL for less than a season and had only one on-air sketch to show for it. Until now IMDB says he's been a ghost."
Deborah continued with her meal, fully expecting Ava to carry on.
"Vegas would eviscerate him," she hummed.
"It's not a temporary punch up gig, which is nice," Ava remarked and Deborah could see in her mind's eye the sullen shrug that would accompany such an admission.
"Why Ms. Daniels, that is the first positive thing I've heard you say since the day you called me in tears about having no clean bras because you hadn't packed everything when we left for L.A."
"Speaking of my wardrobe," Ava started, stopping without completing the sentence.
"I know you left things here," Deborah understood why the girl was hesitating. It was painful. It was pain Deborah herself had caused. Perhaps she could ease some of that pain somehow. "I promise to not anything to Goodwill. It will all be here for you whenever you visit."
The word 'visit' hung heavily on that invisible line between them. Deborah kicked herself for being soft. She shouldn't have mentioned a visit because dangling the idea only complicated the healing process. That's what this was—a healing process. Ava was still heartbroken over the unilateral decision that separated them. And Deborah remained conflicted as well as guilt-ridden. Part of her wanted to say 'when you come home' and that part had been sent to the darkest corner of her mind for the time being.
"Yeah, okay. I should probably leave you to your dinner. I'll talk to you later, Deb," Ava's voice was tinged with the sadness that Deborah could only match with regret.
"Goodnight, Ava."
She had lost her appetite. Clearing her plate and cutlery, Deborah walked over to the sink and stood there thinking about the many times she had been in this kitchen with Ava. Not on speakerphone, but physically in the room. They had laughed, argued, sat in companionable silence and even teased one another in a way that had made Deborah feel totally hopeless. The kitchen would never be quite the same after witnessing such life. Neither would Deborah.
…
"Where do things stand with the new residency?" Ava's voice emerged from the speaker of the phone where it sat Deborah's bathroom. One was removing makeup after a long day meeting with agents, managers, lawyers and producers, the other was on her back on her couch, vaping.
"MGM set off a bidding war or so Marcus tells me."
"Why do you say that as if you aren't pleased, didn't spend the day with people talking about the possibilities, or are not the least bit interested, Deb? What gives?"
Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Deborah recognized the lack of passion, but also the regret that was keeping her awake at night. Both had lined her face since she insisted Ava spread her wings or be a shark, whatever the metaphor. She hadn't been the same since the rooftop in L.A. when she singlehandedly broke Ava's heart. She broke her own that night, too, doing what she honestly thought best for the writer.
"I'd rather leave the details to Marcus," she sidestepped what Ava was hearing and finding unusual.
"Hey, it's me. You can tell me. What's the worst that could happen? I spill your secrets in a drunken stupor to Hollywood producers who use the info in an Emmy-winning television series starring Helen Mirren?"
This does elicit a trademark Deborah Vance cackle. Just as the writer knew it would.
"Is doing another residency going to be enough of a challenge?" Deborah found herself revealing the fear she had been harboring since they set off on the tour that was designed to secure her another residency.
"It would kill lesser men, are you kidding?" Ava was serious and she set out to prove her point. "How many shows did you do last year? 160? How many hours did you put into each show? 6, including hair and makeup? That is a massive undertaking. Now add to that the fact that you wrote every single joke, tested each on one tour or another over the years and put it altogether in a coherent show that sold out nearly every night of a historic residency. Plus, all the bullshit Marty required you show up for. Top that off with press. That's more than most humans with a decent work ethic can survive. And they don't have their own product line with QVC! Never mind the appearances Marcus books you all over Vegas."
"Thank you for the reading of my résumé," Deborah deadpanned.
"I'm fucking serious. How is a residency not a challenge?" Ava truly wanted to know. Deborah heard the faint sounds of the microwave in use and cringed at the thought of whatever the writer had resorted to eating since being on her own. She may be a grown woman, but she possessed infamously lousy coping skills.
"I was on cruise control for the last ten years at the Palmetto, Ava."
Deborah stood from her vanity and turned out the bathroom light. Making her way to the couch in the bedroom, she settled into the cushions and instinctively reached for the remote. Turning on her television and silently clicking through the channels, she listened as Ava droned on about how comedy can be like that, if you have enough opportunities to perform. You can get too comfortable. Deborah thought that what Ava was describing sounded an awful lot like their relationship—the other thing that had become too comfortable recently.
"This is none of my business—" Ava said and stalled at the sound of Deb's wry chuckle.
"Not that it has ever stopped you."
"Hey, not true. But seriously, I scoff at Chez Vance, the p.j. and your ridiculously expensive face creams, yet I have never asked you if you have any financial reason to continue doing standup," Ava avoided directly asking how loaded Deborah was.
Deborah arched an eyebrow at the question.
"What would I do in retirement? DJ and I would kill each other," she retorted, her mind more interested in selecting a channel, muted as it were, than going down this road with Ava.
"That's not the point."
"And remind me what the point was?" she rolled her eyes.
"I know you are rolling your eyes and I don't appreciate it!" Ava knew her too well. Again, their relationship had become too comfortable. "The point is that maybe a residency isn't needed at all."
"Please don't say that to Marcus," Deborah grimaced.
"Yeah. Right, totally."
"Are you ready to watch the episode now or what?" Deborah was done talking about her career or whatever was left of it.
The two women settled in to an episode of Law & Order, both adding their commentary. The first time they had done this via speakerphone, they made it ten minutes into the episode before Deborah was forced to address the fact that Ava was crying. That night was the first time she had actively sat with Ava's pain and learned that apologizing doesn't always fix problems. It was unbearable and she deserved every second of it. Now, as the episode was nearing its end Deborah realized Ava hadn't made a snarky comment for at least a full minute.
"Ava?" she spoke quietly. Picking the phone up and putting it to her ear, faintly over the speaker she heard the soft breathing of sleep. While it made her happy to know that Ava was actually sleeping, something she had done little of lately, she felt a familiar melancholy settling into her chest and prepared to hang up the phone. Before ending the call, Deborah whispered: "Goodnight, honey."
…
The text had been typical Ava—impulsive and short-sighted.
"Dammit, Ava," Deborah grumbled.
Marcus instantly paid attention at the mention of the now absent comedy writer.
"What has she done?" He looked over his phone at his boss who was sitting at her desk, tapping a pen against her bottom lip.
"Bought a plane ticket."
Reading glasses perched on her nose, still looking at her phone, Deborah didn't notice the dread as it crossed her CEO's face. He rolled his shoulders and took a steadying breath before speaking to her from his perch on the couch—and his high horse, truth be told.
"She didn't get fired, did she?" He was being smug in the worst way.
"If you'd like to read it, you're welcome to. Then you would know as much as I do. She bought a plane ticket, Marcus."
Deborah flipped her phone face down where it lay on the desk and rid herself of her glasses. She continued tapping her lip with the pen. There was a selective portion of the text she chose not to share with him because she wasn't sure she could answer the questions that would follow, assuming he had the mettle to ask them.
The text read: bought ticket. be in Vegas this time 2morrow. missing…you.
The three dots were an odd choice and one Deborah refused to waste effort attempting to understand. Was Ava missing something else and she arrived at 'you' as the safe choice? At least they weren't emojis. God, that girl and her emojis, she groaned internally.
Ava wouldn't receive a response to her text then or at all that day and when her call went unanswered that evening, a first since she had finally worked up the courage to call Deborah one night three weeks ago, she could only assume that Deb was angry.
…
Deborah had been lying in bed for over an hour, fighting her brain at every turn as she tried desperately to fall asleep.
When she could no longer wait for the one answer that kept rattling around in her mind, she sent off a one-word text to Ava: Why?
She doesn't bother with worry that Ava would be sleeping. It was one of the things the two of them could never see eye-to-eye on. Deborah was a morning person and Ava was a night owl.
Missing you isn't enough? the answer read. Deborah looked at it the second the phone sounded.
We have talked about this, Deborah responded.
You have talked about this. It's just for a night.
Deb fought that she had some fight left in her because she was fighting the desire to tell Ava to come over as soon as she landed. The desire was there to pull her close and never let her go again. But that wouldn't give Ava the chance to build her career. It also wouldn't give Deborah time to snuff out the candle she held for the writer.
Meet us for dinner tomorrow night. And I'll crash on Kiki's couch. You don't have to see me alone.
The implication broke what was left of Deborah's heart. Does Ava really believe this? That I am somehow incapable of being in her presence? she fumed. They had been on the road together for months and Deb had been capable of that level of intimacy. Leaving Ava in L.A. had nothing to do with not wanting to be near her.
Send Damien the details, she typed and sent the text and then quickly surrendered her phone to her nightstand drawer.
Sleep wasn't about to come any easier.
To be continued…