Previously...

Brett ran into Heather's OB/GYN, who told him he needed to have a serious talk with his wife.  When he approached Heather, she denied anything was wrong with their baby.  Kelly ignored her mother's warnings about becoming personally involved with the Blackthornes.  A reflective James and Brooke signed their final divorce papers.  When Brooke made plans to attend the opening of Moonshadows with David, Roz voiced her disapproval.  Ethan voiced his concern over the financial situation Sunset Studios was in.  James asked Kenny to arrange a meeting with their lender, hoping to defer payments on his loan until after Angel Assassin 2 was released.  Alex made things difficult on set again, prompting James to plead with her to behave at the risk of further delaying the completion of the film.  Kelly visited Stormy on the set, and after an embarassing scene in front of the crew, James learned that they were seeing each other.  He and Leilani attempted to reason with their respective children, only succeeding in their further declarations of love for one another.  Ethan was incensed to learn Brooke was going on a date with David, despite Brooke's insistance that they were just friends.  Heather finally revealed to Brett that their unborn child may have developmental disabilities.  Miranda saw a photo of David and Brooke together at the hotel opening and became hurt, inspiring Eddie to believe there was more to Miranda than meets the eye.   While driving Heather to her appointment with her therapist, a distracted Benji got into a car accident, leaving Heather to wonder about the affects on her baby.  

Episode 78

"Don't Let Me Be the Last to Know"

Written by Michael Ross

An eerie glow tinted the sky.  It was mid-afternoon and light out--sunny, even--but the world seemed strangely discolored.  Brooke Taylor regarded the bizarre phenomenon as she walked along the Third Street Promenade with her mother, Roz, and young son, Michael.

“Mom, I don’t see why you love this place so much,” Brooke said, looking around disdainfully at the kiosks and chain shops that filled the tourist-trap area.

“It’s fun,” Roz exclaimed, stopping to try on a wide-brimmed sun hat at a kiosk.  She gave herself a once-over in a mirror, scowled, and then put the hat back where she had found it.  “Michael’s certainly enjoying himself.”

Brooke had to admit as much.  Michael toddled along with them, taking turns holding his mother’s and grandmother’s hands.  His other hand was busy with an oversized lollipop, one of those multicolored behemoths that Brooke worried might chip his teeth.  But the sight of her son bouncing along and grinning so widely was enough to pacify her concerns for the time being.

“Have you had enough yet?” Brooke asked, addressing the question both to her young son and her mother.  After Roz paused to examine some kid-sized Crocs for Michael, they made their way back to the car.  Brooke guided the vehicle onto the streets of Santa Monica.

“What do you think about going to Mr. Chow’s for dinner?” Roz asked, though it was more a forceful suggestion than a genuine solicitation of Brooke’s opinion.

“I think you’re enjoying L.A. a little too much,” Brooke said.  “Can’t we stay in for a night? I could cook.”

Laughter trilled from Roz’s throat.  “You?  Cook?”

“Mom.”  Brooke’s mouth drooped in a frown.  “That’s not very--”

Hooooooonk!  The sound of another vehicle’s horn being pressed interrupted Brooke.  She checked her rearview mirror and then her speedometer.  She was already going slightly over the speed limit.  What did this jerk want?

A moment later, the black Mercedes SL550 veered into the left lane of the two-lane road and roared past Brooke’s car.  It cut back in front of her carelessly, causing Brooke to slam on her brakes.

“People out here drive like maniacs!” Roz declared.  “That’s one thing Phoenix has in its favor.”

Brooke stared after the speeding car.  It grew smaller in the distance before hanging a right turn.  Seconds later, Brooke reached the same spot.  She and Roz noticed the same thing: the lunatic had pulled into a church!

Roz rolled down her window before Brooke could stop her.  “God’s gonna make sure you burn in Hell!” Roz yelled, though the driver had yet to emerge from the car.

“Mom! Close the window.”  Brooke held the steering wheel tightly and focused on the road.  She allowed herself one quick glance, and then another, at Michael in the rearview mirror.  Her body was still pumping adrenaline, and it made her limbs feel weak and hollow.  Michael, for his part, barely seemed to notice that anything had happened.

“They should arrest people who drive that way,” Brooke said in between deep breaths meant to slow her heartbeat.

Her cell phone rang, interrupting her.  She retrieved it from her purse and saw an unknown number on the caller ID display.

“Hello?”  She listened to the frantic voice on the other end.  “Is everything-- of course. I’ll be right there.”

She hung up and turned to Roz.  “Can you watch Michael for a few hours?  I need to go to the hospital.”

“Is something the matter?”

“That was Jordan Rydell.”  Brooke tried to ignore her mother’s suggestive eyebrow raise.  “Heather’s been in an accident.”

Brett Armstrong wondered if he would burst into flames the moment he set foot in the church.  He couldn’t even call himself a lapsed churchgoer; God had not been part of his life growing up, and he sure as hell hadn’t had time for religion since then.  But, in light of Heather’s revelation about the possibility of their child being handicapped, he felt strangely compelled to come to a place like this.

He was relieved to find the church empty.  He had hoped it would be that way, with it being the middle of a weekday.  He settled on a pew in the middle of the church, not too far back but not too close to the front, either.  Now that he was there, however, he had no idea what to do with himself.

“I know I’ve done some pretty terrible things,” he said aloud, fixing his eyes upon a cross with Jesus hanging on it.  His voice sounded bizarre--too small, too frightened--in the vast, open church.  He didn’t like to think of himself that way.

He decided to keep it internal.  God didn’t need you to speak out loud.  He could read your thoughts just fine.  Brett shuddered at the memories of many, many things that he would prefer God not have had access to.  None of that was going to help his case.

This isn’t about me, he thought, refocusing on the image of Jesus.  It’s about a baby that hasn’t ever done anything wrong.  I promise to do it right with this kid--not like I’ve done for myself.  But you’ve got to give him--or her, I don’t know, I’m happy with either one--a chance.

Though he had, in the past, scoffed at the mere possibility of God's existing, let alone intervening in people’s lives, Brett wanted nothing more at that moment than to have been completely wrong.  There had to be a God, one who would help this turn out the right way.

His cell phone buzzed to life in his pocket.  Brett pulled it out and checked the screen: Jordan Rydell, it said. This had to be the third time today.  Brett shut off the phone and put it away.  He was not in any kind of mood to listen to Heather’s father pleading her case or holding Brett’s past wrongdoings over his head, as if those were supposed to cancel out the enormity of Heather’s lie.

And it’s about Heather, his mind added, slipping back into prayer.  He was still angry at her, so angry that she lied for months about their child’s possible fate.  But she was a good woman.  Sometimes Brett couldn’t believe how much his life had changed simply as a result of being with her.  She’ll be a great mother.  She’s been through so much already.  You’ve got to let our kid be healthy.

He just wished she had told him sooner.  If he had known about the possibility, he might have been able to--he didn’t know, exactly, but there must have been something.

Brett’s body tightened reflexively at the sound of footsteps.  He turned to see two old women, probably in their 70s, walking down the center aisle.

“It looks like Halloween,” one of the women said in a reedy voice.

“They say you aren’t supposed to look directly at it,” said the other, “or it will burn your eyes.  Better be careful.”

Brett had heard about the impending eclipse on the radio.  It seemed fitting, in a terrible, depressing way, that on a day when he felt like such crap, the whole world was going to go black.

The women regarded Brett as they passed, and he tried his hardest to look like he belonged there.  They settled in a pew at the very front.  Brett tried to focus again on his prayers, or talking to God, or whatever he was doing.  He hadn’t done enough yet, that much he knew.

At Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Jordan Rydell tried with all his might not to throw his cell phone across the waiting area.  Three calls, three voicemails left, and still no answer from Brett. 

“I should have known he’d pull something like this,” Jordan muttered, half to himself and half toward his son, Benji, who sat in a chair against the wall. Following the accident, Benji had had his own wounds hastily bandaged.

“Maybe his phone’s off,” Benji offered.  To Jordan’s surprise, the teenager sounded timid as he glanced up uncertainly at his father. 

“I’m not only his father-in-law, I’m his boss!  He should always take my calls.”

Benji kept his head down and did not respond.  For this, Jordan was grateful.  It took every bit of willpower within him not to throttle his son.  First he had gotten himself arrested for accidentally shooting Blake Distefano… and now he had put his own sister and her unborn baby in danger with his careless driving.  Jordan wanted to ask where he had gone wrong with the boy, but he feared the answer to that question.

Dr. Mitchell entered the waiting area.  Jordan moved instantly toward her.  “How is Heather?  And the baby?”

“Heather is absolutely fine,” the doctor said.  “However--”

“There’s a problem with the baby?”  Jordan shot an angry look in Benji’s direction.

“Not exactly,” Dr. Mitchell said.  “The baby appears to be fine.  The only thing is… the accident seems to have sent Heather into premature labor.”

Benji jumped out of his seat, alarmed.  “Can’t you stop it?”

Dr. Mitchell shook her head.  “Not at this point.  This baby is coming today.”

“This is about as artful as a gorilla’s foot!”

Alex Reynolds stared with horror at her reflection.  This was all wrong.  She looked… old.

“The scene calls for your character to be waking up,” Mavis, the beleaguered makeup assistant on the set of Angel Assassin 2: Halo and Goodbye, insisted.

“You’ve made me look as though I’m headed to an early grave!  Don’t you agree, James?”

A few feet away, James Blackthorne sighed deeply with frustration.  Alex had once again called him to the set to examine the “atrocity,” as she had called it, of Mavis’s work.  For his part, James thought Mavis had done a perfectly acceptable job.  Alex was a stunning woman, but she was only going to look so young in minimalist makeup.

“Maybe we can try something different,” he said diplomatically.  “Perhaps the character fell asleep in her makeup from the previous night.”

A loud, contemptuous voice sounded from Alex’s throat.  She cast yet another accusatory look at Mavis.

“Why don’t you smear Vaseline all over the lens and be done with it?” Mavis blurted out.

James’s immediate reaction was to laugh, but he suppressed it well enough and maintained a more or less straight face.

Alex’s mouth hung open.  “Did you hear what she said, James?  Fire this unprofessional dingbat!”

“No need.”  Mavis grabbed her purse from the back of a chair.  “I quit.”

Before James could do much in the way of protesting, Mavis was gone.  Another day, another crewmember fallen victim to Alex’s diva routine.

“You have got to stop doing this,” James said to his ex-wife, as the slamming of the door echoed around them.  “Every little thing cannot become a crisis.”

“What she did to my face is a crisis!”

“We’re falling behind schedule.  The longer this movie takes to make, and the more resources it eats up--”

He was interrupted by the sharp ringing of a cell phone.  Alex retrieved her phone from the Nancy Gonzalez handbag resting beside her.

“Jordan,” she said as she answered the call.  “You’ll never believe what they’ve done to me--oh my God.  Yes, yes.  I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Jordan entered his daughter’s room in the maternity ward of Cedars-Sinai.  Heather was twenty-six and beautiful, but at that moment, she appeared to be in agony.

“Are you already having strong contractions?” Jordan asked.  He hadn’t realized it was happening so quickly.

Heather shook her head.  “They’re still not coming very often.  Have you gotten a hold of Brett yet?”

“No.”  Jordan took her hand.  “No matter where he is or what he’s up to, you know I’m here for you.”

Pulling her hand away, Heather looked appalled.  “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m simply supporting my daughter.”

“You’re saying you don’t think he’ll show up,” she said.  “He will, Daddy.  Brett has changed.  He’s a good man and if I hadn’t--”

“Hadn’t what?”

“Nothing.”  Heather sealed her lips.  “Will you please go outside and try to call him one more time?”

Jordan knew this was not the time to argue.  “If you need me, please send someone out for me.  I’d love nothing more than to be here for the birth of my grandchild.”

He returned to the waiting area just as Brooke arrived.  Benji sat in a chair at the far end of the room, text-messaging on his phone.

“How is she?” Brooke asked.  “Is the baby okay?”

“They think so.  They’re going to deliver today, though.”  Jordan took a seat, though he knew he would not be able to relax.  “Thank you for coming, Brooke.  It will mean a lot to Heather to know you’re here.”

Brooke settled into a chair.  She looked as though she wanted to say something but was restraining herself.

“Is something the matter?” Jordan asked.

“No, nothing,” Brooke said.  “As long as the doctors say the baby is okay.”

\

Several minutes later, Jordan and Brooke were engaged in conversation when Alex arrived, with James in tow.  Brooke’s eyes locked with James’s immediately.  In all her worry about Heather, it hadn’t crossed her mind that her ex-husband might also turn up here.

“How is she?  Is everything all right?” Alex wailed, clutching Jordan’s arm.  Brooke observed the performance with annoyance.  She had no doubt that Alex genuinely cared about her stepdaughter, but leave it to Alex Reynolds to use a potential tragedy as an opportunity to sharpen her melodrama chops.

“She’s fine,” Jordan said.  He regarded James.  “Thank you for being here.”

“I drove Alex from the studio,” James explained.  He neglected to mention that Alex had driven yet another skilled crewmember off a picture that was rapidly falling behind schedule and surging over-budget.  It was not the time.

As Alex settled in with Jordan, James moved awkwardly toward Brooke.  After a surprisingly non-hostile encounter when James brought Brooke the divorce papers to sign, he had been pleased that they had made such progress.  However, he still had no idea how to act around her.

“More diva drama on the set?” Brooke asked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial volume.

James grinned.  “You could say that.  How’d you guess?”

“It’s all over the gossip blogs.  Perez Hilton had an item about Alex just the other day.”

With a sigh, James resolved to figure out who was leaking information from the set.  Then an idea occurred to him.

“You mentioned that you were looking to go back to work,” he said to test the waters.

“Yes.  I think it’s what I need--not just financially, but for myself.” 

“I might be able to help, if you’re willing to hear me out.”  He paused, and when he saw no signs of protest or discomfort, went on: “We lost a makeup artist on Angel Assassin 2 today.  You did work on the first film, and if anyone can put up with Alex’s antics--”

“That’s a really kind offer,” Brooke interrupted.  “Thank you. But actually… Jordan just offered me a job, and I accepted.”

“Oh.”  James was certainly surprised by the news, and perhaps a bit upset that he wouldn’t be the one to swoop in and assist Brooke.  He reminded himself that that was no longer his place--not that he had done a particularly stellar job of it while they had been married, he was ashamed to admit.

“There was some freak injury on the set of Damage Control, something involving hot molten latex.  They need a new makeup artist right away,” she said.  “But thank you.  I appreciate it.”

He nodded graciously, and then a grin appeared on his face.  “Just be careful with that hot molten latex.”

They were interrupted by Jordan, shaking his cell phone in anger.  “I knew he would do this!”

“What’s the matter?” James asked.

“Brett.  Heather is so convinced that he’s turned his life around for her and this child.  But now she’s in the hospital and he’s nowhere to be found.”

James had plenty of experience having Brett Armstrong as a troublesome son-in-law who disappointed his daughter time and time again.  He wished he could be of more assistance.

“He’s probably out tooling around in that new Mercedes that he bought with our money,” Jordan muttered.  “I’m going to ask Heather if she’d like me to be in the delivery room with her for the birth.”

“Wait,” Brooke said.  “I think I might know where Brett is.

“She refuses to let me put on the scrubs and stay,” Jordan said when he returned to the waiting area a few minutes later.  “She’s holding onto this ridiculous hope that Armstrong will show up.”

Jordan was surprised when Benji spoke for the first time in close to an hour.

“Let me talk to her,” he said.

“Absolutely not.”  Jordan’s refusal was swift and intense.  “I don’t want you anywhere near her, not after what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Benji fired back.  “Accidents happen.”

“Yes, and they happen a lot more easily when you consider playing with that damned phone more important than watching out for your pregnant sister!  When is this going to end?”  He made a grab for the phone, but Benji pulled it away.

Benji hurriedly stuffed the phone into his pocket.  “When is what going to end?  You treating me like a second-class citizen?  You tell me.”

Jordan didn’t have the spare energy for this right now.  He certainly didn’t have the patience.  They had been having this same circular argument ever since Benji returned from boarding school.

“If you want respect, you need to earn it,” he said firmly.

“Fine.”  Benji folded his arms and puffed out his chest.  “Then let me talk to Heather.”

“Not right now,” Jordan said, but the denial was softer than previously.  “I don’t want her to get worked up over anything else.”

“Don’t say I didn’t try.  I know I screwed up, Dad.  I keep screwing up.  I don’t know why.  It’s like there’s something inside me, this thing that makes me want to punish myself--”

“For what?

“For… Mom leaving.”  Benji dropped his eyes to the ground.  “For not being a better son while I was away at school.  I get angry and it’s like I need to do something, anything, to let it out, but then it just makes everything worse, and…”

Jordan placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.  They had never had a particularly affectionate relationship, but the contact seemed necessary now--especially with his other child lying in a hospital bed, lucky to be alive and waiting to deliver a baby with no husband in sight.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Jordan said.  “I’m on-edge because of Heather.  I just--I need you to be more careful.  Think more about what you’re doing, and why.  I want to see you succeed, Benji, not become your own downfall.”

Lips pursed, Benji nodded.  “Thanks, Dad."

“I wonder if Brooke is going to have any luck finding Brett,” Jordan said.

“I hope so.  Listen, I’m going to run downstairs and grab a soda.  Want anything?”

“No, but thank you.”

Benji slipped out of the waiting area.  As soon as he was out of his father’s sight, a wicked grin played upon his mouth.  That had been too easy.  Sure, he felt bad about Heather--he hadn’t meant to get into an accident, and he hoped she and the baby would be fine.  But he sure as hell wasn’t going to take the blame for it, either.  Good thing he could rely on his father to crumble as soon as Benji turned on the guilt.

Besides, Benji had more interesting things to deal with.  He found the men’s room and locked himself in a stall.  Then he took out his phone, pulled up the porn he had been looking at minutes before, and unzipped his pants. 

Brooke had known that the car that cut her off earlier had looked familiar.  Of course.  She had seen it when visiting Heather at home.  Leave it to Brett Armstrong to drive around like a maniac while his wife was in the hospital as a result of a car accident.  How fitting.

The part that didn’t make sense was why Brett would be at a church. 

Brooke was relieved, upon arriving at the church, to see the black SL550 still parked out front.  She hurried inside and found two old ladies in a front pew--and Brett, sitting toward the center of the church, doing something that looked suspiciously like praying.  She approached him warily, wondering if this might be some kind of bizarre trick.

“Brett,” she whispered, sliding into the pew he was in.

Brett startled, and as soon as he spotted her, guilt flooded his face.  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s Heather.  She’s in labor.”

Immediately Brett lifted off the pew.  “So that’s why Jordan was calling me.  Is she--is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine.  She was in an accident, very minor, and both she and the baby are okay.”

He seemed to hesitate, hovering over the pew like he wasn’t sure whether or not he should go.  “How did you find me?”

“You nearly ran me off the road before,” Brooke said.  “Why are you--”

“I needed some time to think.”

“Well, there’s no more time for that.  You have a wife in labor.”  Brooke moved to lead the way out of the church, but Brett did not follow.  “Are you coming?”

“I don’t know.”

“Brett.  Your wife’s having a baby.  There’s no time for… whatever this is.”  Brooke’s suspicions were churning, but she didn’t want to let on too much, in case Brett didn’t know what she thought he knew.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he spat, in typical Brett fashion.

“Try me.”

He seemed surprised by her refusal to back down.  Brooke glanced toward the front of the church and saw the old ladies doing a poor job of being discreet in eavesdropping.

“The baby--it might have problems.  Developmental problems.”

“So Heather finally told you,” Brooke said.

“She told you before she told me?”

“She confided in me.”  Brooke tried to sound as apologetic as possible; she didn’t want to get Heather in any trouble.  “She needed someone to talk to.  She wanted you to know, but she didn’t want to worry you unless she knew for certain something was wrong.  After what happened with Miranda’s baby--”

“I’m her husband!  That’s my kid, too.  I deserve to know everything about it.”

“Then stop standing around, or you’re going to miss a pretty important part.”

He shook his head.  “Don’t you get it?  I’m not supposed to be there.  This is a way for--”  He gestured at Christ, hanging on the cross.  “--whoever or whatever to punish me.  I’m not supposed to do this.”

She never would have expected it, but Brooke genuinely felt for him.  Even after all of the deception and disappointment he had inflicted upon Miranda, he had truly been hurt by the loss of their child.  Maybe he did have it in him to change for Heather and this child.  Brooke was skeptical, but she wanted to believe it was possible.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.  “This isn’t about you.  It’s about that child, a child that is going to need you even more if he or she has disabilities.”

The old women were not even trying to conceal their interest now.  Brooke tried to ignore them, though Brett seemed highly conscious of their presence.

“You say you want to be a better man,” Brooke said.  “Now is the time to prove it.”

Brett was silent and still for a long moment, and then he pushed his way past her and out of the pew.  “You’d better not tell anyone where you found me,” he said over his shoulder.

“You’d better not run me off the road again,” Brooke said as they hurried out of the church.

“God bless you!” one of the women cried out.

“The Lord is watching over you!” called the other.  Brooke hoped, for the sake of Heather, Brett, and that baby, that it was true.

After calls from their father, Miranda and Stormy arrived to join the group in the waiting area at Cedars-Sinai.

“Is she close to delivering?” Miranda asked her mother.

Alex frowned.  “Jordan says the contractions are coming closer and closer, but we hope she won’t have the baby until Brett gets here.”

“He’s not here yet?”  Miranda was surprised by how disappointed in Brett she felt.  Her pregnancy and its sad end had been a strange conclusion to their relationship, but it had all made her want to believe that there was a better person somewhere inside him.  Maybe it would help her feel less foolish for ever having fallen in love with him.

“His phone was turned off,” Alex said.  “Brooke went to get him.”

“Brooke?”

“She seemed to have some idea where he might be.”

“Ugh.  Leave it to Brooke… God forbid she didn’t have everyone’s attention on her at all times.”

Alex remained silent on the rant, much to Miranda’s annoyance, and pulled out a compact.  She examined herself in it and then lowered it.  “Tell me what you think about this makeup, dear.  It’s awful work, isn’t it?  It ages me to an absurd degree.”

Miranda bit her tongue.  She thought her mother had, for once, shown up someplace without makeup, and she had been considering advising her never to do so again.

Brett left his car with the valet and raced to the maternity ward.  The elevators were taking a torturously long time, so he bounded up the stairs.  By the time he reached the waiting area, he was breathing hard and had a sheen of perspiration across his forehead.

"It’s about time,” Jordan said, standing at the sight of his son-in-law.  “Heather needs you.”