Vive leaned in closer.
“Mom’s sick.” Lex’s mother, Birdie Easton, widow to heavy metal icon Eddie Easton who also found fame in ‘82 when she hit platinum with her own two chart toppers “Am I Wicked” and “Lucifer’s Mistress”, always carried on just a little sicker than the norm.
“Say what?”
“Mom diagnosed herself with Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a fatal skin condition.”
“What do you mean diagnosed herself?” Vive spoke as if they were slated for a feature in Debauchery magazine.
“Mom researched her symptoms online.” Lex pulled a few papers out of her gym tote. She gave them to Vive to inspect.
“WebDoctorMD and DiseasePedia are not credible.” Vive’s journalistic eye skimmed the papers. “And the symptoms state patients with the disease show a hideous rash triggered by infected facial tissue. If that were true Birdie’s face would blister.” She passed the documents over to Taddy who read on.
“I saw Birdie a week ago. She looked like her usual rock-star self,” Taddy muttered, convinced Birdie bathed in formaldehyde to maintain her youth. Lex’s mother might be a whack and frail but she was still gorgeous.
Taddy dropped the papers on the table. “This journal cites excessive cocaine use as a possible cause.” Birdie’s decade-long partying in the ‘80s with drugs proved enough to swing Taddy’s convictions from “no way in hell” to “not really” as she considered what she’d read. It couldn’t be possible. “Birdie is a bit of a hypochondriac.” And a full-blown loon. Taddy shook her head and sipped her Acai Extreme Energy smoothie. She struggled to demonstrate any sympathy. Her empathy-feeling days for the Eastons were long past. This had to be bullshit.
“Mom hasn’t been the same since Dad died.” Embarrassment washed Lex’s face.
“No kiddin’.”
“Birdie dove headfirst into the cra-cra pool, breaking her skull wide open eons prior to Eddie killing himself.” Vive snorted and rolled her eyes.
“I know, I know.” Lex’s eyebrows furrowed. “The unauthorized biography on Mom really did her in.”
“Ya think?”
The book, titled Banging Birdie, was penned as a Kitty Kelley-styled tell-all slammer. True to all faults, the 506 pages depicted the Birdie Easton scandals. A legend in her own right, Birdie had become infamous amongst the music community for sleeping with over one thousand men. Although Birdie swore she never kept count.
Music magazine deemed the glossy, hardcover New York Times number-one bestseller contentious and far-fetched. The book gave insights into Birdie’s mothering skills on Lex’s abusive childhood. The chapter titled “A Modern Rock-N-Roll Rapunzel” detailed weekends locked in the Park Avenue penthouse. Another chapter, “Big Apple’s Sweet Virgin”, narrated Birdie’s OCD over Lex maintaining her virginity.
Those who couldn’t do—taught. And Birdie couldn’t help but be promiscuous. She projected the reverse sexual appetite onto her daughter. Possibly in hopes Lex wouldn’t follow in her footsteps with endless cock cravings.
When Lex gained weight, Birdie starved her daughter. That chapter was titled “Alexandra the Great”. Reporters blew the book off as being off-the-charts crazy. Taddy recognized Banging Birdie as one hundred percent accurate.
“Mom’s obsessed with finding something fatally wrong.” Lex stirred her straw in her protein shake. “She wants to die.”
“This is another Birdie scam. If she wants to kick it, she can borrow my pistol from my ‘97 vintage Fendi Baguette anytime she likes.” Taddy remembered, in addition to Birdie being a manic drug addict and unfit parent, she thrived on kleptomania. “Maybe I should leave my gun out on the kitchen counter for her to steal.”
Lex’s green eyes filled with tears. She pulled out her cell phone and held a picture up. “I snapped a photo this morning of Mom’s skin. I emailed it to Dr. Fassenbender. We’re waiting to see what he thinks.”
No. Stunned, Taddy almost knocked her organic smoothie on the floor. Mrs. Tomato Face stared back at her. Birdie’s cheeks, nose and forehead suggested Freddy Krueger. “Holy shit.” She inhaled panic through her nose and covered her mouth. Birdie’s face was Hamburger Helper. “Lex, please don’t cry. We’re here for you…and Birdie too.” Suddenly Taddy felt horrible for the Fendi joke.
Vive tapped her Cartier. “Let’s walk over to Birdie’s before we go to Bradley Cooper’s premiere. It’s down in Soho. I’ll call us a car and they can pick us up at your mom’s.” She wasn’t convinced either. Vive apparently wanted to see the disease with her own eyes.
“Sorry, I’m not up for a party.” Lex crossed her arms. “Mom’s convinced she’s on her deathbed. She’s even managing her own funeral arrangements.”
“Get out of here.” Taddy had heard enough. She’d march over to Birdie’s house before the movie and see what’s what. Bradley Cooper could wait.
“Yup, a nice cemetery lot next to Dad at the Calvary Cemetery in Queens. Mom called Lita Ford and Joan Jett and asked if they’d give the eulogies.” Distraught, Lex put the papers back in her tote.
Sick to her stomach, Taddy threw her unfinished replacement meal shake in the trash.
“I’m going to your mother’s house to pay my respects,” Vive said in Lex’s direction then turned her head with a wink in Taddy’s. She was ready for a Birdie shakedown. No one could decipher malarkey better than a gossip columnist, and Vive was the best at her field.
* * * * *
Sure enough, later that night when Taddy arrived with Vive at Birdie’s condo, Helga the housekeeper greeted them with a cold shoulder and said, “Lady Easton is asleep. Lady Easton asks not to be disturbed under any circumstance. Lady Easton is sick.”
“Who the hell is Lady Easton?” Taddy asked.
“Birdie shall ring you tomorrow,” Helga responded and went to slam the door but Taddy stuck her foot out. The door swung wide open.
“Helga, we must see Birdie, now!” Taddy pushed her way in and headed for the bedroom. Vive walked behind her and slowed her pace when they came to Birdie’s bedroom. In unison, they poked their heads in to witness a sight worse than what Lex had captured with her camera.