Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
2
THE HARDING ESTATE.
The words are engraved in gold on a slab that’s bolted onto the heavy stone walls that surround all fifty acres of the ranch’s perimeter. The entrance gates are electric, and access appears to be granted via a keypad which I don’t have the code for, so I call the help button and stare up into the security camera, waiting for something to happen.
My personal airport chauffeur has already made his getaway, leaving me abandoned in the middle of nowhere to stand in the sweltering heat with my luggage. It’s eerily silent out here on these country roads – the neighboring ranch is at least a mile down the road – and the lack of noise pollution is jarring. Silence like this simply doesn’t exist in LA.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow, not realizing there’s also a speaker on these gates until I hear a buzz and the sound of someone clearing their throat.
“Mila! You’re here! Just give me one second.”
Aunt Sheri! It’s been ages since I last heard her voice in person – with its comforting, unmistakable twang – so a happy grin spreads across my face.
I wait a minute longer, sweating even more with each second that passes, and continue to study these towering walls.
When I was a kid, the ranch was open to the road – no fencing, no walls, no gates. No security. Just a weather-beaten wooden signpost with the name of the ranch hand-carved into it. There was no need for anything different back then, but once strangers started turning up, there was no other option. Super fans of all ages would come lurking every once in a while because, for some reason, visiting the ranch where Everett Harding grew up is a big deal or something. That’s why Sheri insisted my parents secured the ranch – for safety reasons – and Dad called in a construction crew and took care of all the costs so that any hassle from unwelcome visitors would end. However, I don’t remember the walls being this lavish during our last visit. The gray stone is pristine and looks entirely out of place out here in the open countryside, the ranch more like a fortress than a family home.
There’s a loud shrill of a bell, and the gates slowly open, revealing Aunt Sheri waiting on the other side.
“Mila!” she exclaims, pulling me into the type of hug that I always associate with the friendliness here – a bear hug that’s suffocating, my body pinned beneath her grip while she sways from side to side with me. “Oh, let me look at you!” She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, and examines every inch of me like I’m a rare artifact.
Aunt Sheri, despite being Dad’s sister, looks nothing like him. Dad has dark, intense features, while Sheri’s face is much softer, her cheeks round and rosy, and her blonde hair is a mass of natural curls. She’s the younger of the Harding siblings, and she has the fresh face to prove it.
“Hey, Aunt Sheri,” I say, offering up a goofy grin. It’s been almost four years since we last saw one another in person, and although Sheri looks as though she hasn’t aged a day, I can understand why she’s studying me in fascination. I’m not quite that scrawny kid with the overbite and the pink glasses anymore – dance classes, braces and contact lenses took care of that.
“Aren’t you a sweet grown-up thing?” she says. “So good to see you for real instead of on that laptop screen.” But then she frowns as she pinches my cheek. “There’s no need for all this makeup, especially not here with us . . .”
I know she’s right, so I just lift my shoulders in acceptance.
But at this point in my life, I never know when someone with a camera will spot me, and the need to look picture-perfect at all times is ingrained in me, thanks to Ruben – and also my mom’s immaculate example. I puff out a breath, feeling that makeup melting the longer we stand here.
“It’s so hot out here,” I say.
Sheri chuckles and swings an arm over my shoulders. “Welcome back to Tennessee!”
Fairview, Tennessee, to be exact.
I guess it’s what my father still thinks of as home, and I suppose in a way it is home. I was born out here, and that sort of defines home. But the reality is, I have spent most of my life in California and it’s pretty much all I’ve known, so LA seems more like home than this place does. I don’t have that level of attachment to Tennessee, but how can I expect to feel differently when I left Fairview at the age of six?
That part, I remember.
The leaving part.
I was only halfway through first grade when I packed up my favorite toys into cardboard boxes, hugged my tearful grandparents one last time, and boarded a one-way flight to Los Angeles. I didn’t understand what leaving meant back then, but my parents kept calling it “our little adventure”, and I had no idea how much our lives were about to change. All I cared about was getting to live near a beach.
The reason for our move right across the country was simple – to chase Dad’s dreams.
Dad was always acting up as the class clown in his teen years, but one pesky detention where he had to help out in the drama department altered the course of his life forever. Painting sets for the winter play soon led to the “discovery” of Dad’s natural talents – plus the movie-star looks and charisma that soon became apparent – and, before long, he was a certified drama heartthrob. So much so, he surprised everyone by pursuing this passion in college where he met my mom. By his mid-twenties, he was starring in low-budget independent movies, slowly building up his filmography, his name appearing in more and more credit sequences. And then, out of the blue, he nailed an audition for a movie that was pitched to be the next big Hollywood blockbuster – and it was. Landing that role was Everett Harding’s stepping-stone into a world of stardom and fame.
So off to California we went. Mom quit her job and took on the role of Dad’s personal assistant at first, supporting him every step of the way while readjusting her own career; brilliantly as it turned out, as she’s now a much-in-demand movie makeup artist. To give them credit, my parents have worked really hard over the years to establish themselves.
So, we have lived out in LA for the past decade, moving from one house to the next, each one increasing in size and grandeur. For now, though, we are pretty comfortable in our home within a gated community in Thousand Oaks. My school is there, my friends are there, my life is there.
Long story short, California is home to me, and Tennessee is simply a blip in my distant memory.
Fairview, in my mind, became nothing more than somewhere we used to visit on vacation. The only real memories I have of this place are from the occasional trips we’ve made over the years to see family, and the last time I was here I was twelve.
But this time, it’s not for the weekend. Dad wouldn’t back down, and Ruben agreed it’s best I hang around here for a while, at least until the initial hype of the movie release dies down. Surely, I can’t do any more damage if I’m not in the vicinity of him or the Hollywood press?
“Lucky for you,” Sheri says, “I’ve got the AC cranked up full. Let’s get you settled.” She grabs my suitcase and drags it down the dirt road that weaves a route to the house.
The ranch hasn’t changed much from that last time we all gathered for our Thanksgiving get-together four years ago. It’s just stretching fields that were once home to grazing cattle and sheep many moons ago when my grandparents ran this place, but now the only livestock are the horses. I can see some of those horses now, lingering in their field by the stables just beyond the approaching three-story family home.
I think the security around this ranch is probably its most luxurious, high-end feature.
Everything else is … normal. The grass is a little overgrown, the stables could do with some fresh paint, and the house shows its age with its old-fashioned windowpanes, slightly rusty ironwork, and a wooden porch. It feels humble and charming. No Hollywood glitz. Just a real, down-to-earth southern ranch.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay?” I ask as we near the house. This plan for me to spend the next month or so out here only came into existence two days ago, so it’s last-minute for everyone involved. Sheri most likely hasn’t even had the chance to fully think it through, and already I feel like I might be a nuisance.
She pulls my suitcase to a stop outside the front door. “Sweetheart, you’re family, aren’t you?” she says with a warm smile and a tilt of her head.
“Yeah.”
“Then there’s your answer!” She pushes open the door and gestures for me to head on in first. “Besides, we could use some young company around here.”
I step into the house and the AC blasts cool air against my face, which is a welcome relief from the heat. Sheri drags my suitcase over the welcome mat and into the wide entryway, where a rustic wooden staircase leads upwards. The room ahead of me is mostly open plan, with structural archways separating the space, and I gaze in at the living room and then the kitchen, surprised by the sense of familiarity that warms me. Nothing appears to have changed since my last visit. There’s the same well-loved furniture that’s been here for decades and the walls are lined with family photographs in glass frames that are gathering dust. The kitchen hasn’t been renovated in years, and although one of the cupboard doors is quite literally hanging off its hinges, I actually like that not everything is perfect. It feels real, like actual human beings live here even though there is way too much space for just two people to fill. Plus, there’s that same glorious smell of Sheri’s incredible cooking that I remember so vividly.
“Beef stew,” Sheri announces, seeing me sniff the air. “And all the damn fine sides you can imagine. You deserve a real welcome home.”
There’s a loud creak from the top of the stairs, and my heart triples in speed and nearly bursts straight out of my chest when I hear the words, “Is that my little Mila?”
The voice belongs to my grandfather.
Slowly, he descends into view and instantly my mouth lifts into a grin that mirrors his.
“Popeye!” I run up the staircase to meet him halfway, throwing myself into his outstretched arms. We wobble unevenly, but Popeye grasps the banister for support, one arm around my shoulders, pulling me in tight.
My grandfather smells like laundry detergent and bales of hay, enough to tickle my nose. I hug him tight, fearing I may end up crushing him, and pull back once I’m fully reminded of just how loving his embrace can be. Four years of video calls that Sheri helps set up aren’t enough – seeing Popeye in real life again after so long fills me with such overwhelming warmth that my eyes dampen with happy tears.
I take his hands in mine, noticing the slight tremor in them. They are rough and well-worn from a lifetime of hard work. His face is a bit thinner and more sunken than I remember, but it has been years since I’ve actually stood face to face with him – and of course he has aged. His full head of white hair is enviably silky in real life, though, and I see the flicker of my reflection in the glass eye that replaced the real one he lost back in the Vietnam War. When I was a little kid, I thought Grandpa was just like Popeye, the cartoon figure. The nickname stuck.
“Those computers don’t do you justice, little Mila,” Popeye says, beaming brightly as he gives my hands a careful squeeze. “You are becoming such a beautiful young lady. Fifteen now . . .”
I don’t want to tell him that he looks more fragile in real life than he does on our Skype calls, so I just laugh and squeeze his hands in return. “I’m sixteen, Popeye. You sent me a birthday card, remember?”
“Growing up too fast, I tell you!”
After Popeye and I get caught up, Sheri insists on giving me a guided tour of the sprawling farmhouse to refresh my memory. We stayed for a week that Thanksgiving four years ago, so although I don’t remember much about Fairview in general, I do remember this house. Sheri even sets me up in the same guest bedroom I stayed in last time, with the large bay window that overlooks the stables. I bring my luggage upstairs, freshen up after spending ten minutes figuring out how to operate the old-fashioned shower, then head back to the kitchen to sit down with Sheri and Popeye for lunch.
There’s so much food here for three people, dishes of home-cooked meat and all the sides you can imagine, and I don’t want any of it to go to waste, so I load up my plate and dive in. Also, I am starving. The nauseous swirling of regret meant I could barely eat the past few days.
“So, like, what exactly is there to do around here?” I ask just as I’m finishing up. I’ll lick every last speck of food off this plate if I have to, it’s that damn delicious. Back home, Mom has us on a strict protein-rich diet at the say-so of my father, and I am so tired of salmon and steamed asparagus.
“You can help me clean out the stables. The manure really doesn’t smell all that bad once you get used to it,” Sheri says, then upon noticing my blank stare, she laughs. “That was a joke, Mila. Though I will need you to help out around here.”
“I can help out with the laundry. And cleaning,” I offer. I push my plate away as a clear signal that I’m done eating, and then rest my elbows on the table. “But seriously. What is there to do for fun in Fairview? Because I don’t think the playgrounds I loved when I was four are going to cut it anymore. Is there a way for me to get to downtown Nashville?”
Popeye releases a throaty chuckle as he grabs his empty glass and stiffly gets to his feet. “The only way you are getting to Nashville is if you drive yourself there,” he says with a sympathetic pat on my shoulder and moves toward the faucet.
Sheri leans back in her chair with an air of resignation, clasping her hands together in her lap. “Actually, Mila . . There are some rules that are in place while you’re here.”
“Rules?”
“Rules defined by Mr. Ruben Fisher.”
“That shark,” Popeye grumbles under his breath, filling his glass at the sink. Sheri watches him fondly out of the corner of her eye. “Horrible, horrible man . . .”
“Oh, yeah. I know,” I say, relaxing. Ruben has already covered this with me when he drilled the same phrase into me for hours and hours. “Maintain a low profile and don’t draw attention to yourself or your father,” I quote with an eye roll.
“That’s not all,” Sheri says. She stares down at her interlocked hands in her lap, then glances back up at me with a perturbed look. “Ruben’s instructed me to keep you here on the ranch at all times.”
“What?” My stomach sinks. “I’m not allowed to go anywhere?”
A smile creeps onto Sheri’s face. “Who says we’re fully complying with Ruben’s instructions? You and I . . . We will have our own rules.”
“So,” I say hopefully, straightening my shoulders, “I can leave the ranch?”
“Yes, but promise me, Mila, that you will do your absolute best to stay out of any kind of trouble,” Sheri says, her tone serious with concern and her smile gone. “I need to know where you are, who you’re with and what you’re up to. As long as you keep me in the loop, you can have some freedom, and I’ll take care of Ruben. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes! I promise. No trouble.” I mock zipping my lips shut and blink innocently at her.
Popeye returns to the table with a fresh glass of water. A little spills as he steadily lowers himself back into his chair and asks, “Do you have any old friends here?”
“I left when I was six,” I gently remind him with a sigh. “So no, not really.”
“Then you go out and make new friends,” he says simply, as though it’s ever that easy. Maybe back when he was a kid, sure, but in the twenty-first century? Yeah . . . No.
Sheri nearly bounces straight out of her chair. “Oh! The Bennetts have kids. They own the ranch at the end of the road. Real nice folks.” She taps her index finger against her lips, looking up at the ceiling. “The daughter’s name is Savannah.”
“Savannah?” I repeat. The name Savannah rings a bell, stirring up a vague memory of childhood friendship, sitting together at those low desks in the first grade.
“She would be your age, I believe.”
“I think I remember her.” I close my eyes to focus deeply, but nothing more comes back to me.
“Well, there’s a start,” Sheri says brightly. She stands from the table, gathering up the dishes. “I can take you over there so that you can introduce yourself again after all this time.”
“Huh? Wait – no. What?” I stare at her in horror. What kind of insane idea is that? Introduce myself to a girl I haven’t seen in a decade? Who even does that?
Sheri dumps the dishes into the sink with a tremendous clatter, then rummages around in a cupboard and pulls out a random baking tray. “Perfect!” she announces, spinning back around to face me. “I borrowed this from Patsy last week. I was attempting a new recipe for peanut butter brownies – they were a disaster, for what it’s worth. But it would be oh-so-kind of you to bring it back to her for me. There, that’s a nice excuse.”
“It doesn’t . . . It doesn’t work like that,” I stammer. She really wants me to turn up on a stranger’s porch and hand them back a baking tray? This is not how the world works. “I can’t just knock on someone’s door and ask to be friends.”
“You can in Tennessee,” Sheri says firmly as she shoves the baking tray into my hands.
I glance at Popeye for backup, but he has a smug grin plastered across his face. They are so old-fashioned.
“Can’t I at least go tomorrow?”
Sheri isn’t giving me a choice. She gathers up the remaining dishes from the table, drops them into the sink, then grabs her car keys from the counter.
“No, because by tomorrow you’ll have a list of a thousand excuses, and in order to have freedom, you need to have friends,” she tells me. Then, “Dad, will you be all right while I take Mila along to the Bennetts’?” she asks Popeye.
“Go, go,” he says encouragingly, waving a hand to urge us out the door. Before we disappear, he reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. “Make some friends. We’ll bore you to death if you don’t.”
I can’t even laugh. Baking tray gripped tight, I rise out of my seat, heart thumping.