Cultivating Daughters

Maybe I ve finally gotten myself together, Mia thought, as she tapped her professionally manicured fingernails against the walnut steering wheel of her black Jaguar XK8 convertible to the beat of the music. She stretched her long legs and tossed her raven colored locks from her shoulders. Big brown eyes set against olive skin finished off her appearance. Finally, she had ended her two year extramarital affair with Robert Morris, costar in her latest full-length feature film. No more affairs, she vowed silently. I m too old to continue acting like a foolish ingenue.

That s exactly what she had been when she came to New York City twenty-four years ago to attend the New York College of the Performing Arts. Four years later, college diploma in hand, she began doing commercials, then a respectable role on a soap opera for two seasons before landing her first decent part in a major motion picture directed by none other than DeNiro himself. DiNero s father, a little old Italian man with a penchant for painting and afternoon soap operas, had spotted her on Central Hospital , churning out daily performances as nurse Rita Donnelly. DiNero had offered her an audition merely to please his father. It was pay dirt for Mia, as this part led to one film offer after the next. The rest is history, Mia mused, smiling.

Her agent, Stanley Goldberg, strongly suggested one makeover after the next early on in her career. She eagerly agreed to collagen lip injections, silicone breast implants, and finally, liposuction to the thighs and buttocks.

"Perfect," Stanley remarked, giving her a thumbs up in his office after the liposuction procedure. "You're picture perfect! No one in New York or LA can turn you down now!"

No, my problem has been turning THEM down, Mia thought, screwing up her face. But no more, she stiffened. She had a thriving career, a huge four bedroom apartment overlooking Central Park, a house at the Jersey shore, a doting stockbroker husband, Philip, her partner of nearly three years and..... well, no children. Oooh, that no-baby hole in her life! The last miscarriage was the worst. Carrying a pregnancy into the fifth month and hiding it professionally hadn t been easy, but Philip suggested it would be best. All she needed was the press to get ahold of this latest personal disappointment. Those dirtmongers were always champing at the bit for any crumb. How she hated them all.

Traffic on the Jersey Parkway was heavy even for a Friday night in April. She readjusted herself in the seat and reached down to punch in number two on the CD dial.

She never had the chance to hear Tony Bennett croon the opening line of I Left my heart in San Francisco . Neither she nor the sleeping driver of the piggyback trailor saw each other s face before impact. No Parkway traveler within a twenty mile radius would make it home on time for dinner tonight.