Mallory Price, Mother and Much More

A lot is running through your mind as you take in the unexpected sight of your mother, her lightly silvered ebony hair unpinned but still in her smart business attire. There's the fact that she's here unexpectedly and now she's staring at you getting hugs from two teenage elves, obviously. But beyond that, you're struck in this moment how little you've seen her since that fateful night she chugged down your enchanted cream and kicked all of this into high gear. It wasn't so long ago that you spent more time with her than anyone else in the world, but that was in a world milked out of existence and a seemingly very different mother. Few, if somehow given the opportunity, would find much in common between the beaten-up, world weary version of Mallory Price and this absolute goddess who strains her expensive blouse near to bursting. But you can't be fooled. She's still the exact same woman who loved you, and cared for you, and sacrificed for you every moment of her life. And now that she's standing right in front of you, all you can think about is how much you missed her.

Then her lips twitch in a little frown you recognize all too well, and all you can think about is that you'd better say something fast. "Um, Mom, this is Rhys and Donna! My friends I was telling you about? From out of town?"

Your mother blinks as the elves in question dislodge themselves from you, immediately adopting postures that seem perfectly calculated to butter up parental figures. "Ms Price! Omigosh, it's soo great to meet you!" With anyone else you'd figure this tone was disingenuous, but it's hard to figure Donna's ingratiating cheer is anything besides sincere. "I've got, like, so many questions I want to ask you?! And only some of them are about which celebrities are nice!"

Rhys frowns regretfully. "Donna, she must have just gotten in! She and Ash probably want some time together!"

Donna gasps. "Oh man you are totally right." She turns back to your bewildered mother with a pleading smile. "Tomorrow, maybe? Please?"

Your mother never had a chance. "Well, sure?"

The two elves dart inside at that, Donna's happy replay trailing after he as they disappear up the stairs. "Great thanks so much well goodnight thanks for letting us stay in your hoooooooouuu~se!"

You and mother mother stare after the siblings, half surprised they didn't leave Donna and Rhys shaped poofs of dust in their wake. Well, it appears that solves that particular issue for the moment? But you'd better strike while the iron is hot and the mother is disoriented. "Um, welcome home?"

You're not getting off that easily. "I've been calling you, Ashley."

Aww shit. It's never good when she calls you 'Ashley'. You turned off your phone yesterday afternoon and must have left it off; the damn thing keeps beeping out notifications that Beatrix has posted new videos. And yes, getting rid of that setting would be a better solution, and no, you are not going to do that. "Sorry, I had my phone off. Did you just get in?" She nods, and the whole situation suddenly strikes you as odd. "Why are you home so early? Aren't production meetings for your anthology already being set up or something?"

At that, your mother lets out a groan and shambles into the house, beckoning for you to follow as she aims herself at one of the armchairs in the parlor. She collapses with a particularly tired sigh, expertly corralling her wobbling chest with one hand as she sinks down into the comfortable seat. "No, not really. The project's stalled. Probably dead, actually."

"What?" You slip down onto the couch next to her, the dog already resting his head on her leg. "But why?!"

Your mother shrugs airly, though you don't mistake her bitter disappointment. "That's how the business goes. These things fall apart, Ash. Even when it looks like they won't. Even when you're sure that they won't." She frowns for a moment, silently scratching behind Pazuzu's ear. Then, she offers you a sad smile. "Yeah, I don't know. I really thought this was going to happen."

This entire world was shifted for the sole purpose of making your goddamn mom happy, and life has no fucking business making her look this down. "Why aren't you still out there fighting for it, then?"

That prompts a sour look from your mother. "My agent suggested that was the wrong play. She thinks I should be keeping my head down for a while. She has some...specific ideas on why the project is falling apart."

"Well, what does she think it is?"

Rising from her seat, your mother pats the side of your dog's neck before striding towards the fireplace in something of a pique. "It's nothing new. The same nonsense that's been following me around since I first dared do anything besides put on a tight shirt and get splattered with fake blood. Like that somehow precludes me from artistic value." She idly straightens one of the photos on the mantle. "Well I'm proud of the art I've made, and I'm proud of those tight shirts, too."

"I'm proud of you, too!" You march over to your mother's side, immediately throwing your arms around her with an indignant huff. "You've been in a Kubrick film! You were a Bond Girl! You're the only actor who's killed and been killed by every Universal Classic Monster!"

Your mother grins down at you, her mood beginning to life. "Most of those were unlicensed knock-offs. A lot of people got sued for those movies."

"Still counts!"

That manages to finally draw a laugh out her, thank God. She starts to set down the photo she'd been fiddling with, then seems to actually look at it for the first time. "Speaking of my infamous accomplishments. This was taken during Cannes, did you know that?"

She tilts the picture frame towards you, revealing a black and white photo of your mother, somewhere in her mid twenties and resplendent in an old school one piece swim suit and rattan sun hat. She's up to her ankles in the surf and caught mid laugh as the tall, thirty-ish man she has her arms wrapped around surprises her with a kiss on the cheek. Even in the previous version of reality you'd have immediately recognized the man's roguish good looks and signature single dimple, but now that he's your father it would be difficult indeed to mistake Asher Isaacs for anyone else. "No, I didn't."

Your mother smiles, affectionately running her thumb across the picture. "We'd actually met there the year before. I'd just finished finished directing my first feature-length piece, and I was over the moon when it was chosen as an official selection." She smirks, clearly bemused by this trip down memory lane. "I was a touch optimistic about my chances. Most of the people who didn't stage a walkout mid-showing only stuck around so they could boo."

"Philistines!"

"Thank you, Ash. May I continue?" You nod, and your mother accepts graciously. "Sufficed to say, I was fully prepared to just abandon all my things at the hotel and flee the country out of shame, but flights were booked until the next day. I had nothing else to do, so I wandered into a showing at random to just stew in the dark for a while. It ended up being the new Doc Dangerous; they always used to premiere those out of competition at the festival. But I didn't even notice until after it was over, and the crowd had left, and there was Asher asking me how I liked it."

"What'd you say?"

"I was still annoyed enough to tell him the truth, that the whole series was a shameless Indiana Jones rip off and that they'd worked in so many butt shots I was surprised he got top billing over his own ass." Your mother grins ruefully when you burst into laughter. "Oh, you think that's funny? He did too. Which, naturally, annoyed me even more, so I told him that he'd somehow gone from the most interesting young actor in Hollywood to the blandest action figure in the toy aisle. He agreed with that, too."

"Really?"

"What can I say, Ash; I'm a very attractive woman. People tend to agree with me." She settles down onto the couch, still holding the picture as you curl up beside her. "What they didn't tend to be was professional. Not back then, at least. He was. I'd never gone so long without someone making a pass at me. We just talked for hours, about our careers, and what we wanted from them, and what we wanted the world to see in us. He'd been at my showing, and said it was the most fearless piece of cinema he'd seen in years. That he was tired of just being the guy who threaded the loop of being more marketable than Ethan Hawke and more affordable than Tom Cruise. He wanted to know if I had a project in mind for next year, and if he could be a part of it."

She doesn't resist when you gently pull the picture frame from her hands, staring down at the image of your youthful parents. "So that would have been Old Bones, then?"

"Yep. He won the Award for Best Actor for that. I didn't win anything, but at least they weren't booing anymore." She shifts over, draping an arm around your shoulder as she carefully taps on her midsection in the photo. "You're in this picture, you know."

"Seriously?"

Your mother nods. "We were in the middle of filming Pact of the Unhallowed during Cannes that year. We'd started dating during Old Bones, and suddenly being part of the new It Couple was the perfect opportunity to trick the studios into dumping money into my passion projects. I wasn't far along, but we both knew I was pregnant when this was taken. Three months later, we were married. And six months after that, you were born." She squeezes you a little more tightly. "And six months after that, he was gone. Haven't been back to Cannes since. It was our place."

You fiercely return her hug. "Should I say something about people never being gone? Or can we just be sad for a little while?"

Your mother starts to reply, then abruptly stands up and takes the picture back. She marches it back to its place on the mantle, her earlier annoyance having returned in spades. "You know, in that last meeting one of the producers had the gall to ask me some very prying questions about your father's accident. I can't believe that rumor is coming back."

That doesn't sound good. "What rumor?"

"That I somehow caused it. That I'd married and then killed him in some sort of elaborate scheme." She snorts in ill-humor. "Not that it wasn't a delight to momentarily be a black widow instead of a bimbo. The whole claim was a ridiculous farce; even the awful parents he'd emancipated from as a teenager didn't try to push it, and they knew how to play nasty." Your mother can't hold back another sigh. "I guess the smear wasn't as dead as I thought. Apparently there's been some movement on social media about it, or something. People get mean when they're bored. So yeah, I guess I'm just going to take my agent's advice and lay low for a while." She reaches out, trailing her fingers down the image of her happy husband with a wistful smile. "Maybe it's not the fearless choice, but I'm too tired to do anything else right now."

You only faintly hear your mother say she's off to bed, the blood pounding in your ears drowning out most other sound. You pull out your phone and power it up in a cold fury, quickly thumbing over to your notifications. And yes, sure enough, there it is: a video posted by Queen Bea yesterday entitled 'Did Mallory Price Get Away With ****?'

When you bring Beatrix Étienne's world crashing down around her, you will give her just enough time to record an apology video for your mother. Then, and only then, will you give her the release of a lifetime spent as nothing more than a fleshy dairy tanker. Maybe you'll let that go up on her channel, too, demonetization be damned. No ad money could ever be sweeter than ****.