The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 31

Moon

Arthur reluctantly answered the call from a private number. He couldn't afford to miss a call from a reporter or talk show host. His new career depended on the publicity. But the private number was not a talk show host or news outlet. It was Brixton Jones' mother.

"Mr. Dottweiler," she said, her voice astonishingly like Brixton's, her accent a feather drifting over every word in her speech. "I am terribly sorry to disturb you, but it's of the utmost importance. My daughter, as you know, has been hospitalized. I cannot thank you enough for bringing her back."

"I didn't bring her back."

"We really appreciate what you did."

"How is she?" he was hesitant to ask.

There was a pause. "She's not well. That's my reason for calling you. She's back on her medication, but she's become very despondent. All she wants is to see you."

"Really?" Arthur thought she would hate him now.

"Yes, and I'm afraid if she doesn't get to see you, she'll do something ... permanent."

Arthur understood. Had he not been there before himself? He thought of Brixton in the hospital, taking medication. He didn't even know her. "Mrs. Jones, I'm sorry, but I don't think I can do this. I don't even know your daughter," he paused, "like this."

An audible sigh came over the line. "I can understand your trepidation, but we are desperate. We love our daughter with all our hearts, and can't bear for her to be this way. If you saw her, saw the state she is in. Please. Just a quick visit. Anytime that's convenient for you. I know you're awfully busy with your conferences and interviews."

Arthur ran a hand over his head, wiping the sweat beads that had formed there. "Listen, Mrs. Jones. I would like to help you, you seem like a nice lady, but, I don't know what to tell you."

"Say you'll come."

Now it was Arthur's turn to sigh. "Can you tell me some more about your daughter? I just, I feel like I've been played, and--"

"—You have not been played," she said adamantly. "My daughter is sick. She has an illness, but she did nothing out of malice, I can assure you."

"Then why?" He stopped. He couldn't begin to articulate the thoughts and feelings twisting themselves up in his innards.

"I don't know how much anyone has said, but Brixton is a lovely girl. She's kind and generous and loving. But her mind doesn't work like the rest of us. She's nervous. She doesn't handle herself the way we do with other people. The doctors say she's depressed. I don't know why. She had a lovely upbringing. Her father and I run a very successful modeling agency, and she always had everything she wanted growing up. She had the finest schooling and nannies at her beckon call. Her boarding school in London was top notch.

"She was a beautiful girl, so naturally beautiful. When she was a child, she'd prance around the models, her feet swimming in adult heels. She'd stuff socks in the neck of her shirt, suck in her little fat tummy and say, 'Look at me, mummy. Now I'm a model, too.' She was darling.

"When she got older, she wanted to try her hand at modeling. She wasn't really model material, but she was lovely. We took some headshots, you know, for fun. But nobody took it seriously."

"Really?" Arthur asked. He thought of the photo the detective had given him. She was a beautiful girl. Stunning, actually. He couldn't imagine anybody not taking her seriously.

"As it turned out, she wasn't interested in modeling. She wanted to be a fashion designer. But after a semester at university, she dropped out. I don't think she had the mental capacity for it."