If She Knew Then

Hello, Curious Readers!

Never let it be said that I'm not willing to play in the creative sandbox.  In the past couple of years I've taken up a host of artistic hobbies in addition to writing, including painting, sculpting, bead-making, woodworking, and "extreme gardening"—meaning, I've personally unloaded, toted, arranged and stacked over 30,000 pounds of rocks!  My front and back yards are now rimmed in knee-high rock terraces and flower beds. 

My personal renaissance also includes a slew of experimental writing projects. I've written and illustrated two children's books, created my own line of cartoon postcards, and birthed an alter ego named Putrina Shiner, who rants and raves about the news of the day at a blog titled Liberal Redneck Babe. 

If She Knew Then

 

by

 Deborah Smith

 08/25/04 (FIRST DRAFT)

 Partial Script and Synopsis

FADE IN:

PHOTOGRAPHS OF AMANDA GORDON AT VARIOUS STAGES IN HER LIFE

1960’s, the cute Girl Scout with Southern Baptist minister father and housewife mom, 1970’s the wholesome southern belle college student holding awards, 1980’s the wholesome Atlanta bride with handsome young hubbie, 1990’s the wholesome Atlanta businesswoman holding advertising exec award, 2000’s the wholesome middle-aged country clubber with handsome middle-aged husband

 

AMANDA (OS)

Fifty is the new thirty, everyone says.

No one has to grow old and wrinkled and

saggy anymore, thanks to Viagra, Botox,

plastic surgery, and hormone supplements.

We’re all just . . .aging young things.

I thought so too, until I found out

that thirty is still thirty to men,

when it comes to women. 

 

EXT. MAGNOLIA COUNTRY CLUB SIGN

 

In a beautiful Atlanta neighborhood, the club’s event sign announces Amanda’s 50^th birthday party.

 

INT. COUNTRY CLUB

 

Distant sound of party music. We see a man's pants legs, the gorgeous naked legs of a woman, scrambling, clothes dropping, lower bodies bouncing off furniture.

 

TIFFANY

Oh, Bill, I've always loved you.

Your wisdom, your power, your rugged and mature

good looks.

 

BILL

Oh, Tiffany, you're so bright, so fresh.

(sound of bra unsnapping) Oh, my god,

so perky.

 

TIFFANY

Oh, Bill, oh, Bill

(moans, kissing sounds) 

 

INT. CLUB BALLROOM

 

Amanda, an attractive middle-aged woman, is smiling in front of her photos, cake, friends. Her husband, Bill, suddenly appears and steps up on the stage beside her, smoothing his hair, adjusting his tie, hugging her. Cut to glimpse of his secret blonde va-voom girlfriend, Tiffany, in audience, smoothing her dress.

 

AMANDA

(to crowd)

Thank you all so much for coming here to celebrate

my fiftieth birthday. Everyone keeps asking me how

it feels to be fifty years old. Let me tell you. I’ve been

married for twenty-five years to the most wonderful

husband in the world (turns to smile at Bill) and I have

the most wonderful friends, (cut to a grinning pair of

sassy, elegant, middle-aged women, MONIQUE SANDLER

and CHRISTINE GUEST) and a wonderful career in

advertising with my wonderful partner (cut to smiling,

flamboyant 30-something RICKY LAUDERDALE.

As we all know, fifty is the new thirty. I’ve never been

happier in my life.

 

MONIQUE

(Whispers to Christine)

Oh, right, fifty is the new thirty. And cubic

zirconia is the new diamond.

 

CHRISTINE

(rolls eyes, nods)

And Justin Timberlake is the new Sinatra.

 

Amanda smiles, beams, and kisses Bill, who smiles nervously and hugs her.

 

 

INT. EMPTY BALLROOM AFTER THE PARTY

 

Amanda, Monique, and Christine are happily sitting around a table while staff cleans up.

 

MONIQUE

Where's Bill?

 

AMANDA

Oh, he's paying the tab. What a man.

Sexy, smart, adores me, and he gave me

this party. And tonight, we’re off to Europe

for two dreamy weeks touring the south

of France.

 

A waiter brings her a note.

 

WAITER

Mrs. Gordon, uh, your husband asked me

to bring this to you.

 

She opens it and reads, stunned. Drops note, gets up, rushes out. Friends grab note, scan quickly.

 

MONIQUE

Oh, my god. He's left her for his assistant. 

 

CHRISTINE

Tiffany? The Britney Spears of corporate skankiness?

 

They rush after Amanda.

 

EXT. PARKING LOT

 

Amanda’s staring at an empty space, speechless.

 

MONIQUE

(to Christine)

He even took the Lexus. And the airline tickets.

The luggage. Her whole life.

 

CHRISTINE

The bastards always take the Lexus.

 

Amanda simply stands there, devastated. A bit of birthday glitter falls gently from her hair. 

 

INT. AMANDA’S ELEGANT HOME IN GATED COMMUNITY-DAY

 

Months have passed. Amanda is tearful, sloppy, gazing out window as sleek neighbor women in cute golf clothes stop their golf cart to whisper and look at her closed drapes.

AMANDA

I'm a divorced loser. Soon I'll be

living in a shack with little colored

bottles in the windows and plastic

seashell wind chimes on the porch.

And cats. I'll have lots of cats.

Otherwise, I'll be all alone. And

I'll be old. I won’t even shave my

legs. The cats will try to mate

with my ankles.

Door chime rings. It's Monique and Christine, carrying take-out sushi, a cheesecake, and a bag of martini ingredients.

MONIQUE

We're here to celebrate your divorce.

CHRISTINE

(aside)

Not celebrate, you idiot.

MONIQUE

(chagrined)

Divorce is the new, uh, commitment.

Amanda bursts into tears.

 

 INT. AMANDA’S HOME – NIGHT

 

Amanda is alone in the middle of the night. She wakes feverishly on her living room   couch. Stumbles to closet, digs out a pretty keepsake box. Paws through trinkets, photos of herself with her stern minister father and prim housewife mother, and finally pries up the box's fake bottom. She slides out a yellowed snapshot hidden there. It's a picture of her at only 21, in a hospital bed, looking tormented and tenderly holding a newborn baby. Amanda traces the baby's face with a fingertip.

AMANDA

(agonized)

I've made so many wrong choices.

Getting older is about recognizing

the choices you didn't make, but should have.

She sadly puts the photo back in hiding.

 

EXT. A PRETTY DOWNTOWN ATLANTA PARK – DAY

 
Amanda, Monique and Christine doggedly speed-walk. Amanda looks completely disinterested. 

 

MONIQUE

Walk faster! Oxyegenate those middle-aged

cells! tighten up those thong muscles! Keep that blood sugar down!

CHRISTINE

(pointing to a strip of shops in the distance)

Can we break for a latte? My blood needs sugar.

AMANDA

(slogging to a halt.)

I don't care what Dr. Sanje Guptha says

on CNN. Exercise is not an anti-depressant.

 I'm still depressed -- and my feet hurt.

This is ridiculous. Go on without me. I'll

sit on a bench over there and feed the

squirrels and learn to play checkers with

the other old people. Go on. Save yourselves.

MONIQUE

Stick a sock in it, Elvira, Queen Of Middle-Aged Despair.

(drags her by one arm.) Come on! I've

been divorced twice, and look at me!

CHRISTINE

Look at you? You only walk to meet men.

MONIQUE

So? A motivation is a motivation.

DIANE, a middle-aged friend, strides by confidently. Diane waves and smiles, looking great. Amanda, Monique and Christine stare after her.

MONIQUE

That bitch. She’s had more Botox.

CHRISTINE

No. It must be a face Lift. Or collagen. Or another laser peel.

 

MONIQUE

(snorts)

If she lasers off one more layer of skin she’ll hit an artery.

AMANDA

(wearily)

She's happy. Happy women of any age have a glow.

MONIQUE AND CHRISTINE

Oh, please!

MONIQUE

Let's grab her, hold her down, and pinch

her collagen-injected lips until she

tells us the name of her doctor. 

 

CHRISTINE

Yeah!

 

Dragging Amanda by one arm, they trot after Diane.


INT. SWANK COFFEE SHOP

DIANE

I'm telling you, it works. He gives

me these injections, and my skin

looks ten years younger, and I have

so much sexual... well, let's put it

this way, Demi Moore has nothing over me.

My daughter's tennis coach and I are

going to Cancun next week.

AMANDA

(sardonically whispered aside to friends)

Just what any grown woman wants--to

dance with a boy toy while downing

her weight in marguerita shooters

at a Mexican strip bar.

MONIQUE

Sounds good to me.

DIANE

His name is Doctor Ori Julius. Here,

I have one of his cards. He's a researcher

in cellular biology. He used to be at Emory

University.

CHRISTINE

Used to be?

DIANE

Oh, there was some to-do over ethics.

But he's a real doctor. A mad scientist type.

(laughs.) All I know is that he works miracles.

(She finishes her latte.) Well, I'm off to

have a full pubic wax.

(She leaves.)

AMANDA

I'm trying not to picture that.

CHRISTINE

Let's try this doctor.

AMANDA

I've never resorted to drugs –

MONIQUE

Hey, Mother Theresa, you’ve never been

fifty and divorced before, either. Look at

it this way: the inner you needs a new outer

you. Men don't look at older women and

see inner beauty. They see outer wrinkles.  

 

AMANDA

No! No. I refuse to play by the rules of

a youth-obsessed, media-driven society

that refuses to honor age and wisdom!

I revel in my maturity! In other cultures,

I’d be revered as a wise counselor and

teacher of sexual mysteries!

 

CHRISTINE

Uh, or else like those arctic tribes

they’d put you on a little iceberg and

let you float out to sea.

 

MONIQUE

(elbowing Christine)

You’re not helping.  

 

AMANDA

I intend to get on with my life

with dignity. My aging, lonely life

as an abandoned, ignored, marginalized,

dried-up old woman.

 

MONIQUE

(rolling her eyes) 

Get the iceberg ready.

 

INT. COMMERCIAL TELEVISION STUDIO

Splashy set of model shoot for commercial orchestrated by Amanda’s advertising company. Strutting young women in sexy lingerie, loud rap or hip hop music, a youthful male photographer snapping photos.

 

PHOTOGRAPHER

That’s it! You’re hot! You’re irresistible!

You’re young!

 

AMANDA

(standing in shadows with Ricky)

Ricky, why do we take these asinine

butt and boob accounts?

 

RICKY

Because we like driving a Porsche and skiing

in Aspen with our boyfriend every winter?

 

AMANDA

No, not you. Me. Why am I in a business that

sells youth to young people?

 

RICKY

Because young people spend lots of money on

lots of frivolous stuff, sweetie. And the ice to Eskimos

account was already taken. Bless your heart.

Aren’t you on Prozac, yet?    

 

INT. AMANDA’S ELEGANT OFFICE AT THE AD AGENCY

Monique and Christine burst in.

 

MONIQUE

Amanda, honey! Look! We dropped by

to show you. We found Diane’s doctor

yesterday. We had injections.

 

CHRISTINE

First time a little prick has made me so happy.

 

MONIQUE

Look, look at this.

(She hoists skirt, shows thigh.)

My stretch marks don't have stretch marks anymore.

 

CHRISTINE

(Pulling open her blouse to show cleavage)

And I can squeeze a lemon between these babies.

They’re firm.

 

AMANDA

Did you ask about any side effects?

 

MONIQUE

The side effects are that I get to wear a French-cut

maillot this summer without scaring small children.

 

CHRISTINE

You’re coming with us to get a shot! Now!

AMANDA

No, thanks. I'll just sit here and let my cellulite spread.

Maybe it'll take on a life of its own. The cellulite that

ate Tokyo. I'll be famous.

 

MONIQUE

Chicken.

 

CHRISTINE

Chicken with stretch marks and floppy tits.

A sudden whispering draws their attention. Sheepish staffers look up from a new issue of Atlanta Society, the ultimate Southern gossip magazine. Amanda groans. Her  ex-husband is featured along with his obviously pregnant girlfriend. Announcing their engagement. Monique and Christine take Amanda by the arm.

 

MONIQUE

Do you want a morning appointment

with Dr. Julius, or afternoon? 

 

AMANDA

Afternoon.

 
EXT. TACKY SUBURBAN STRIP MALL – DAY

 

The various shop signs read: Nails. Tans. Vitamins. Loans On Your Car While You Wait. And one office looks empty. As Amanda leaves her car and scans the setting, she mutters to herself.

 

AMANDA

All this for a few less wrinkles.

 

She halts before the dusty door of the apparently empty office, squinting. On it is taped a hand-scrawled card pasted to office door: Dr. Ori Julius, Vita Viva Inc. Look the way you feel. Cash only. Amanda stares at it.

 

AMANDA

I’m going to come out of this with a rash.

(Sighs and enters.)   

 

INT. LAB

 

Strange little Southern-fried doctor in lab coat and overalls, banging head on moon-pie-strewn desk in front of elaborate computer. On the computer screen is screensaver of latest supermodel alongside a monster truck. Posted on small sign nearby: “Daily Affirmations. There is no genius without madness, y’all. There is no genius without risk. I deserve the big bucks from a major pharmaceutical company. I deserve to date supermodels.”  

 

A buzzer rings. Dr. Julius punches a command on the keyboard. Supermodel screensaver vanishes, replaced by stats and pix of his newest patient, Amanda Gordon.  

 

DR. JULIUS

Another meal ticket for my research.

 

He clicks button on computer keyboard. Screen pops up reply: MIX FORMULA, APPROVED. He sighs and gets up. The computer whirs. Liquid percolates through various tubes. A distilled result drips into a vial. Right after Dr. Julius walks out the door to greet Amanda in his waiting room there’s a power blip. The computer screen goes black, then re-boots. Scale levels zoom upwards. WARNING. DOSAGE COMPROMISED. DISCARD DOSAGE. WARNING.

 

Dr. Julius, unaware, opens door to waiting room.  

 

DR. JULIUS

Mrs. Gordon, your injection will be ready in a few seconds.

 

AMANDA

It’s Ms., not Missus.

 

DR. JULIUS

Whatever. The shot’s good for two months.

Decreased cellulite, increased collagen,

improved skin tone. You’ll look ten years

younger. Twelve in low light. (Holds out his

hand.) That’ll be five hundred dollars.

 

Amanda places the cash on his palm but stares at him, then at a wall full of DNA art and a large photograph from a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

 

AMANDA

Pardon me, but if you’re a legitimate

scientist, why are you doing this?

 

DR. JULIUS

(sarcastic, deadpans.)

My research into genetic elements at the cellular level  

produced the most important breakthrough in the study of aging

in the history of modern medicine, leading to my development

of an injectable element that activates specific genes

which increase the rate of cellular regeneration to optimum

levels. Unfortunately, I recklessly tested the injection on a

thirty-four year old research assistant. She is now approximately

ten years old. At last word, her husband has entered her in

elementary school.   

 

 

AMANDA

(regards him with disgust.)

I’m sorry I asked. You could make up a better story.

 

DR. JULIUS

(rolling his eyes heavenward.)

They never believe me. (An egg timer sounds.)

Your injection is ready. Roll up one sleeve, please.

I’ll be right back.  

 

Muttering affirmations, he strides into the lab, snatches the  finished vial, and jams it into a syringe. He never notices the blinking alert on the computer screen.

 

INT. AMANDA’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

 

Amanda huddles on the living room couch, surrounded by scrapbooks. Keeps touching the Bandaid on her arm. She’s sweating, looking funny. A photo of her as a college student falls out of a scrapbook. She stares at it, then at the Bandaid. She grimly rips the Bandaid off.

 

AMANDA

Why did I waste my time on a five-hundred dollar injection?

There’s no magic solution. (Drinks wine, curls up miserably

on couch, pulls an afghan over her, shivers.) You can’t

turn back time. You can’t make it up to the people you lost.

(Her eyes close. Wraps a hand around the pendant on her neck.)

 

INT. AMANDA’S LIVING ROOM – NEXT MORNING

 

Sunlight streams through the windows. Close-up, Amanda’s bare feet, poking from under the afghan. Her feet flex. She’s awake. Close-up continues as her feet hit the floor, then we follow them sluggishly walking out of room and into a bathroom. Sound of running water in the sink. Suddenly, the feet jump. Startled.

Sound of shriek. Cut to Amanda’s face. She stares at her image in the bathroom mirror.

 

She’s a young woman again.     

 

EXT. BACK DOOR OF DOC JULIUS’S OFFICE, STRIP SHOPPING CENTER - DAY

 

Dr. Julius rushes out, looking disheveled, carrying an armload of files. Stuffs them into his car, which is already bulging with boxes, computers, and lab equipment. Amanda drives up, screeches to a halt, leaps out. She’s hidden behind sunglasses, a floppy hat, scarves, but he takes one look, recognizes her, gasps. She waves a long, pronged, barbecue fork.

 

AMANDA

Don’t make a move, or I’ll skewer you!

 

He shrieks and makes a break for the back door. She catches him, shoves him against a dumpster, and aims the barbecue fork at him.

 

DR. JULIUS

(terrified)

You have to admit, you couldn’t have moved quite this fast

yesterday. Your muscle strength and aerobic capacity

have obviously. . .

 

AMANDA

What did you do to me, you quack?

 

DR. JULIUS

It was an accident. I didn’t realize you’d been

given fifty times the regular dose until this morning,

when I reviewed yesterday’s files on my

computer.

 

AMANDA

Fifty times the regular dose? FIFTY TIMES

THE REGULAR DOSE!  What was in that

concoction?

 

DR. JULIUS

I tried to tell you yesterday! I’ve identified the genes

that make the body’s cells grow younger!

 

AMANDA

(Shouting and waving the barbecue fork in front

of his terrified eyes)

You expect me to believe what you told me yesterday?

That you really did turn one of your research assistants

 into a ten year old child! Do you think I’m

AS CRAZY AS YOU ARE?

 

DR. JULIUS

(gulping as he stares at the BBQ prong)

 No, I think you’re very nice, and lovely, and not

capable of turning into a homicidal maniac. Please!

 

AMANDA

YOU’RE the maniac! Why aren’t you in prison?

 

DR. JULIUS

A maniac? I’m a genius! Geniuses don’t do time!

The university stole my research and covered up

my little research faux pas! They’re going to

make a fortune off my formula unless I perfect

 the process first! The bastards!

 

AMANDA

Perfect the process! Perfect the process? No one in

their right mind would VOLUNTARILY let you

inject them with some unpredictable genetic-mumbo-jumbo

Fountain of Youth drug on the off chance it might

make them young again! 

           

DR. JULIUS

You’re kidding, right?

 

AMANDA

What’s going to happen to me? How do I explain this

to my friends and business colleagues? Is it permanent?

Will I get even younger? Will I wake tomorrow looking

like an embryo? Should I sleep in a giant test tube just

to be on the safe side?

 

DR. JULIUS

No, no, no. All my research on mice indicates that

you’ve probably plateaued. You’ve stabilized. You

won’t get any younger. But as for how long the effect

will last – I don’t know. Some times the mice stay

young. Sometimes they don’t. My former research

assistant is planning to enter sixth grade next year,

just to be on the safe side.

 

AMANDA

(utters groan of frustration.)

I look like my senior picture from college! What am

 I supposed to do about that?

 

DR. JULIUS

(nervously hopeful) 

Go to Cancun for spring break?

 

Amanda growls and raises the BBQ tool.

 

AMANDA

You’ve erased 25 years of my life! Give me one good

reason I shouldn’t turn you into a shish kabob.  

 

DR. JULIUS

Erased 25 years of your life? Get real. You’re still you.

You’ve got your memories. Inside that gorgeous

young body you’re still a suspicious, morose,

middle-aged—

(She raises the implement higher – he yelps, again.)

My god, most people would love to get the result you got.

Think of the opportunities!  

 

This registers. Her arm wavers. She lowers the weapon. He rushes past her, grabs his last box of files, shoves it into the car, and throws open the driver’s door.

 

DR. JULIUS

You’re young again! Does anything else really matter?

 

He hops in his car and screeches away.

 

She stands there numbly, then walks over to her car. She drops the barbecue fork on the pavement and stares at her reflection in the car window. Slowly she pulls off the floppy hat and big sunglasses, staring at her beautiful young self in the window reflection.

 

AMANDA

Young. NOW WHAT?

 

 

INT. AMANDA’S HOUSE

Monique and Christine stand, bewildered, in the living room. From somewhere outside the room comes Amanda’s voice.

 

AMANDA

Keep your eyes closed until I say so. You promised!

 

Monique and Christine trade frowns. Monique, exasperated, whispers to Christine.

 

MONIQUE

Hundred bucks and a spa facial says the injection

got rid of that little vertical wrinkle between her eyes.

 

CHRISTINE

The one that makes older men look thoughtful

but older women look like somebody whacked

‘em on the forehead with a steak knife?

 

MONIQUE

Yeah, that one. She hates that wrinkle. Hundred bucks

and a facial says the injection zapped it. Deal?

 

CHRISTINE

You’re on.

 

MONIQUE

(calls out merrily)

Comeon, sweetie, and show us what

Dr. Feelgood did for your complexion!

 

AMANDA

Your eyes are closed?

 

CHRISTINE

THEY’RE CLOSED, okay? Hurry up, or we’re gonna

take a nap standing up.

 

AMANDA

Cover your eyes with your hands, too.

 

MONIQUE

(fed up)

Get your freshened-up middle-aged saddlebag thighs in here right now!  

 

AMANDA

Okay, okay. Here I come. Cover your eyes.

 

The friends cover their eyes.

 

Amanda walks slowly into the room. She’s dressed in one of her business outfits, but now it hangs a little. She’s thinner, not to mention 25 years younger. She looks funny in the outfit. 

 

AMANDA

All right, you can look at me, now. Try to stay calm.

 

Monique and Christine drop their hands and open their eyes. Shrieking, screaming in elation but also fear, clutching each other, staggering, staring at her.

 

AMANDA

Calm down, I’m all right! I feel fine.

He gave me the wrong injection, that’s all.

An overdose. But the results may just be temporary,

and there don’t seem to be any other side effects --

 

MONIQUE

(Grabs her by the shoulders.)

I want that injection!

 

CHRISTINE

Me, too!

 

AMANDA

(Groans.)

He’s on the run. I confronted him. Threatened to, uh,

to . . . grill him. He’s disappeared.

 

MONIQUE

Don’t you dare hold out on us! Share!

 

CHRISTINE  

Tell us! Tell us where he is!

 

AMANDA

I don’t know! (staring at them in shock.)

I swear. I’m not hiding him in a closet

somewhere. Don’t look at me that way.

 

MONIQUE

Let us see ‘em!

 

AMANDA

What?

 

CHRISTINE

Your new young boobs! Your new young butt! Let us see!

 

MONIQUE

Show! Show!

 

AMANDA

No! Are you crazy?

 

They lunge at her. She runs from the room, with them in hot pursuit.

Sounds of yelling, then a door slams, then sound of fists pounding on it.

 

MONIQUE

Come outta there, you young bee-atch!

 

INT. AMANDA’S HOUSE -- LATER

 

Amanda sits in floor on one side of her locked bedroom door; Monique and Christine on other. All three look tired, embarrassed.

 

MONIQUE

(calls through door)

We’re sorry. Really. We’re just envious.

 

CHRISTINE

Sorry, yeah. Don’t you understand? We’d trade

with you in a second!

                       

AMANDA

I’m a freak.

 

MONIQUE

Yeah, but a YOUNG freak.

 

CHRISTINE

We love you anyway, tight butt and perky boobs, and all.

 

Amanda slowly unlocks and opens the door. Tearful group hug.

 

AMANDA

Look at me! What am I supposed to do now?

Show up at work looking like I had an instant

full-body makeover? There’s no way to explain this!

 

(She waves at her svelte self.)

 

CHRISTINE

Shouldn’t you at least try to enjoy it while

you can, in case you wake up tomorrow and

look old, again? (Monique elbows her and scowls.)

Uh, I mean, maturely beautiful, again? 

 

MONIQUE

Call Ricky. Tell him you’re taking a little

break. Going on a cruise or something.

You need some time off.

 

AMANDA

Then what?

 

CHRISTINE

Paarr-ty!

 

AMANDA

Party?

 

CHRISTINE

Shopping! Bar hopping! Wearing low-slung jeans

so your cleavage shows at the top!

 

AMANDA

What cleavage?

 

CHRISTINE

Your butt cleavage.

 

AMANDA

I was raised Southern Baptist!

Southern Baptists don’t show

their . . . their butt cleavage! I

think it’s a commandment!

Ye shalt not expose thy crack!

 

MONIQUE

Honey, you’re young! Your ass deserves to run free!

 

CHRISTINE

Free the buttocks! Free the buttocks!

 

AMANDA

Stop it! All right, all right, but I’m not going out

there alone!  (she gestures toward the world

outside her home.) You have to come with me!

 

MONIQUE

Well, as I always say, if we can't be young,

we can at least EXPLOIT the young. Come on,

you obnoxious young hottie. Give us old farts

a chance to live vicariously through you.

Let’s go shopping!

 

 

Montage of shopping scenes in Atlanta’s ritzy Buckhead district as Amanda slowly reacts with tenuous delight and acceptance of her new young look. 

 

INT. BOUTIQUE – DAY

 

SALES CLERK

Let me guess, (looking at Amanda but

smirking at Monique and Christine as

they prowl the selections.) Your mother

and your favorite aunt?

AMANDA

(distracted, staring at shortie t-shirt with

“Booty Hoochie” embroidered on it.)

 

No. My best friends.

 

CLERK

Get real. No shit?

 

AMANDA

When you’re my age, you won’t be so

quick to make assumptions.

 

Clerk stares at her.

 

AMANDA

(blinks)

I mean . . .

 

MONIQUE

(slides up, holding a slinky little dress.)

Try this on.

 

AMANDA

(gasps)

I haven’t worn anything like that since . . .

I’ve NEVER worn anything like that.

I was Atlanta Christian Businesswoman of the Year!

Does that thing come with a built-in bra?

 

CHRISTINE

Get real.

 

CLERK

Christian Businesswoman of the Year?

You’re a Jesus freak? Cool. We have a singles

group at my church. I can hook you up.

 

AMANDA

Jesus runs a dating service now?

 

MONIQUE

(to Christine, frowning at clerk)

Let me guess. She’s got the IQ of baby lettuce.

 

CLERK

(overhearing, whispers to Amanda)

They're just like my mother. Hot flashes and stuff.

Makes 'em moody. God, we'll never be like that, will we?

 
AMANDA

If I were you, I wouldn’t count on it.   

 

INT. -- SWANK ATLANTA HOTEL ROOM

 

Amanda and friends are kicked back, surrounded by shopping bags, drinking wine. On the room’s television, music videos show the latest semi-naked young diva, gyrating to a dance beat.

 

MONIQUE

(as if grilling a student)

Christina Aquilera

 

AMANDA

White.  Has pierced body parts.

 

CHRISTINE

Beyonce?

 

AMANDA

Black. Has pierced body parts.

 

MONIQUE

(makes sound like loser buzz on a game show)

Black, yes. Pierced no. Name some of her hit songs.

And name one designer she wears.   

 

AMANDA

(holding wine glass to her tired frown)

Why do I have to know this kindergarten trivia?

Ask me about Carly Simon. About Fleetwood Mac.

About Bruce Springsteen. Performers who are old

enough to vote.

 

CHRISTINE

You go into a bar quoting Fleetwood Mac

and you’re dead meat. You might as well sign up for a

John Travolta fan convention.

 

AMANDA

I don’t want to go to bars. I went to bars in college.

They smelled like my Uncle Alvin’s pig barn down

in Macon. And there’s nothing wrong with John

Travolta. He’s. . .he’s still  groovy.

 

MONIQUE

(to Christine)

We have to throw her to the sharks. Before she

says ‘groovy’ again.

 

CHRISTINE

(nodding)

See if she sinks or swims or sucks fin.

 

(They grab Amanda, haul her to her feet.)

 

CHRISTINE

Repeat after us: I’m young, I’m

carefree, I’ll never die.

 

AMANDA

I only look young, I’m confused, and I already bought

an insurance policy that covers retirement homes.

 

MONIQUE

Agggh.  

 

(They shove her.)

 

INT. TRENDY ATLANTA BAR - NIGHT

 

Christine and Monique usher Amanda into swank dance area filled with young singles and pulsing hip-hop music.

 

MONIQUE

My son says if you can’t get laid here,

you can’t get laid, period.  

 

CHRISTINE

I’ve had some luck.   

 

Monique gapes at her. Amanda gazes worriedly at the noisy, hip-hop-infused young crowd. She’s out of place. But at the same time, a rosy glow dots her cheeks as hot young guys turn to look. Christine whoops.

 

CHRISTINE

Check her out, dogs!

 

AMANDA

It’s the dress.

 

MONIQUE

It’s the twenty-five year old boobs.

Stick ‘em out, you Goodie Two-Shoes.

 

Amanda flails at her friends’ helpful hands.

 

AMANDA

You’re both going to Baptist hell.

 

CHRISTINE

We’ll be at the bar looking like Anne

Bancroft in The Graduate. You DO

know Anne was only a few years older

than Dustin Hoffman when they made

that movie. Hollywood!

 

Amanda takes a deep breath. Stares at the crowd of eager, interested young men.

 

AMANDA

I’m pretending they’re all John Travolta

in Saturday Night Fever.

 

Hot young guy approaches her. Amanda awkwardly stares as he performs a hip-hop dance move. She responds with a disco move. He blinks, then shrugs, and sweeps her onto the dance floor. Slowly, a huge smile creeps over Amanda’s face. She’s fallen for the magic of new youth.

 

INT. SHABBY-CHIC DOWNTOWN LOFT APARTMENT OF AN ANONYMOUS GUY

 

THE GUY

So, you want to get your freak on?

 

AMANDA

I wasn’t aware I’d taken my “freak” off.

(Looking around awkwardly)

Just call me Lindsay Wagner. I’m Wonder Woman.

 

THE GUY

Lindsay who?

 

AMANDA

Nevermind. You’re an accounts analyst

for a financial firm? That’s very impressive.

 

THE GUY

(kissing her, laughing, and pulling at her clothes)

Yeah, right. It pays for my passions.

 I snowboard on weekends in the winter.

 

AMANDA

(Kissing him back, but still immensely awkward)

You could break a leg.

 

THE GUY

(Laughing harder)

Who are you – my mother?

 

Amanda’s eyes widen. She cools, puts both hands on his chest, steps back.

 

AMANDA

Cheese out, dude.

 

THE GUY

Huh?

 

AMANDA

I mean, Chill out, dude. 

 

THE GUY

I thought you wanted to hook up.

 

AMANDA 

I thought I did, too. But I was never any

good at one night stands.

 

THE GUY

Who said anything about a whole night?

 

AMANDA

(appalled)

Have you got an appointment for

another freak-on later this evening?

 

THE GUY

I'm not interested in anything serious. I'm only

twenty-seven. I lived with my parents until last year.

 

AMANDA

Amazing. When I was your age I was. . . older.

Oh, nevermind.

 

THE GUY

What do you mean, when you were my age?

Geez, are you an older woman? What? Thirty?

 

AMANDA

Look, I guess I don’t know how to 'hook up.'

I don't even have a trailer hitch. No offense,

but I have to get home and hmmm, organize

my day planner. (She heads for the door.)

Why don’t you listen to some Carly Simon, okay?

And rent Saturday Night Fever on DVD.

 

THE GUY

Who’s Carl Simon?

 

Amanda sighs. Leaves his apartment.

 

 

INT. AMANDA’S LIVING ROOM – NEXT MORNING

 

She's fully dressed, asleep on the couch in her living room, a photograph in her hands. Christine and Monique let themselves in.

 

CHRISTINE

How'd it go?

 

AMANDA

I was too old for him. (Points to her head.) Up here.

 

MONIQUE

You were just supposed to have wild sex with him.

 

CHRISTINE

Not ask him to look at your brain.

 

AMANDA

I’ve been given a miracle. A second

chance. After last night I realize I can’t

waste it. Sit down. Please. I have something

 to tell you.

 

Friends, looking wary, sit beside her. Amanda slowly places old snapshot on the coffee table.

 

 

MONIQUE

(looking at the old picture)

Who’s this?

 

AMANDA

Me, and my . . . my daughter. I had

 her when I was eighteen. I gave her

 up for adoption.

 

(They stare at her.)

 

CHRISTINE

What daughter? You’ve always said

you couldn’t have children.

 

MONIQUE

You said you had cysts. Not a baby! Cysts!

 

AMANDA

I lied. I was ashamed of myself. I’m sorry.

 

MONIQUE

You’re telling us you have a daughter? Was it Bill’s?

 

AMANDA

No, of course not. I didn’t meet Bill until

a few years later. I was too ashamed to

 tell anyone, even him. He didn’t want

children. And I felt I didn’t . . . I didn’t

deserve to have more.

 

CHRISTINE

Oh, honey! You neurotic little goody-two-shoes martyr!

 

MONIQUE

How old is this daughter?

 

AMANDA

Thirty-one, on her last birthday. In June. She was born

about four in the afternoon. It was raining. The day lilies

were still in bloom outside the hospital window.

I remember it all. Every detail. The color of her hair,

the soft shine in her eyes, the way she smelled. I

only got to hold her for a few minutes. I wasn’t

supposed to see her, but a nurse felt sorry for me.

She made the photograph. But even if I didn’t

have a picture, I’d never forget.

 

CHRISTINE

Is that why you moved so far from your parents

and almost never visited them?

 

AMANDA

(Nodding.)

I never forgave them for pressuring me to give

her away. I never forgave myself, either.

 

MONIQUE

My god. Thirty-one years ago? That wasn’t

exactly the dark ages. Free love! Hippies!

Laugh In! You could have kept the baby.

 

CHRISTINE

(disgustedly)

Monique, will you pipe down? You weren’t raised

in the south. Back then in the mid-nineteen-seventies we

were still wearing girdles and smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

 

AMANDA

(sadly)

In my family, wearing bell bottoms was enough

to send a girl to hell. Getting pregnant without

 a husband was, well  . . . my mother said if I

 kept the baby the notoriety would kill her, both my

grandmothers, and at least four elderly great aunts.

My father said he’d lose his church. I was about

to leave for my freshman  year at the university.

I wanted to escape so badly. I wanted to go to college.

I couldn’t keep the baby and do that. So I caved in.

I gave her away. And I’ve spent the thirty-one

 years since then, wishing I hadn’t.

 

CHRISTINE

You could get in touch with her.

People do that kind of thing, now.

 

MONIQUE

Hooking up with the ol’ biological parental

units is practically a fashion trend.

 

AMANDA

I tried. After she turned eighteen I paid a

detective to track her down, and I sent word

to her adoptive parents that I’d like to meet her,

but only with their permission. Her . . . her

mother called me. We had a wonderful conversation.

The mother said she and her husband had told

my . . . their . . .daughter . . . the truth when she

was a child. That it would be up to my . . .

their . . . daughter to decide whether to meet me.

So I wrote my . . . their . . .daughter a letter.

Her parents gave it to her. My . . . their . . .

daughter politely wrote back to me. She

wrote that she had a mother she loved, already.

That she didn’t need a second mother.

She wished me the best. And that was the

end of that. I can’t say I blame her for not

wanting to meet the biological mother who

gave her away.

 

CHRISTINE

Honey, I’m so sorry.

 

MONIQUE

Children are ungrateful little crappers.

 

AMANDA

(wiping her eyes, then straightening with resolve.)

Now I have a chance to get to know her –

without her ever knowing it’s me. That’s what

this miracle is about. Not the chance to be young,

again – because what good is it to be young but still

have all these memories and regrets inside? The

regrets are what makes us old. No miracle drug,

and no plastic surgery, can take away the weight

of what we wish we’d done differently.

 

CHRISTINE

(rolling her eyes)

I have NO idea what you just said.

Look, my philosophy is basic: If you look

good in full sun without foundation and concealer,

you’re young. Honey, you’re a babe. A young babe.

Your daughter’s got a mommy and a daddy

she loves. Your job there is done. Go and

live your life. Every tanned, toned, wrinkle-free

inch of it, dammit.

 

AMANDA

Her adopted mother died last year.

                                   

Christine and Monique trade a look, then stare at Amanda.

 

MONIQUE

So what do you think you’re going to do?

Take her mother’s place? You’re not old enough

to play mommy, now.  

 

AMANDA

I just want to be her friend. I just want to

get to know her. Look, I was raised to

believe God works in mysterious ways.

I’ve been given a second chance. I’m

going to go make friends my daughter.

 

CHRISTINE

When I was a kid my aunt Sophie used to say,

God works in mysterious ways but

most people still can’t find their tuckus with both hands.  

 

MONIQUE

What if you wake up one morning and

you’re uh, yourself, again?

 

AMANDA

I’ll cross that wrinkle when I come to it.

 

 

EXT. HIGH SPRINGS, NORTH CAROLINA – DAY

 

Fancy roadside sign – nicely carved wood, very rustic and charming. Welcome to High Springs, North Carolina. Enjoy our fine shops! In the background is a lovely, affluent resort village framed by lush green Appalachian mountains. A pretty young woman, SUSAN PHILLIPS, hooks a new shop sign onto the collection beneath the welcome sign. Phoenix Art Gallery. She wistfully steps back, snaps a picture with a digital camera, then looks down sadly at the baby girl dozing in a wrap on her chest.

 

SUSAN

It’s a start, sweetie. I’ll make everything

up to you, I promise. We’ll be happy without

your worthless father. You’ll see. (Brightens a little.

Waggles the camera.) Let’s go show your grandpa

how great his woodworking project looks.

He could use some cheering up, too.

 

EXT. LARGE CHARMING HOUSE ON EDGE OF TOWN

A small sign by the mailbox says PAUL PHILLIPS, Architect. Office Around Back. We hear rumbling, squeaking machinery from a workshop garage. Suddenly a shout comes from within. Something bursts through a shop window. The missile lands in a flower bed. A big golden retriever runs up, begins to bark wildly at it. It’s a misshapen hunk of wood, sort of resembles a wooden bowl in progress. Shop doors burst open. A handsome, fifty-something man, PAUL PHILLIPS, steps out, searching for the lost project. Wood shavings sprinkle his graying hair. He’s dressed in work jeans, a plaid shirt, and a carpenter’s belt.

 

PAUL

Roscoe, boy, are you all right? You weren’t

in the line of fire, were you?

 

Roscoe the dog runs over to him, unhurt, wagging its tail. Paul ruffles the dog’s ears, then turns to scowl at an old wood-turning lathe at the center of the workshop.

 

PAUL

I should tell NASA about this thing.

They could use it to launch satellites.

 

Picking up a long chunk of wood, he advances on the still whirring antique with comic menace. The dog follows, barking ferociously at the metal monster.

 

PAUL

 

Back away from the electrical outlet, you

bowl-eating deathtrap.

 

With a swipe of the wood sword he knocks the electrical cord from the outlet. The machine goes still. Paul sighs, tosses the wood aside, then stands hands on hips, looking tired.

 

PAUL

Roscoe, when it comes to woodworking, I’m a

menace to the neighborhood. Don’t tell anybody.

 

His gaze goes to a dusty photograph of a pretty woman, his late wife. He looks sad.

 

PAUL

I promise you, honey, I’ll learn to make something that

isn’t just practical. Something smaller than an office

 building. Susan wants me to carve

some bowls she can sell in her gallery. She believes

 in my feminine artistic side, that’s what she calls it.

I don’t think I have a feminine artistic side.

My masculine side isn’t doing too well, either. I miss you,

lady. We both miss you.

 

Roscoe woofs and rushes outside to greet someone.

 

SUSAN (OS)

Dad, what’s going on, are you all right?

 

Paul walks outside.

 

PAUL

I’m fine. Just dodging wooden fastballs courtesy

of Godzilla the Lathe.

 

SUSAN

Oh, no, not another bowl through the window.

That’s the third window this month.

At the hardware store they said they’re

going to special-order a supply of windows

 just for you.

 

PAUL

Tell them I’m building a greenhouse.

Your mother always wanted a greenhouse.

 

SUSAN

(smiles sadly)

Dad, you need to do something you want to do.

That’s what Mom would want. You don’t have

to make girly bowls. Go design a warehouse

or something.        

 

Paul deflects the conversation by lifting the baby from her arms.

 

PAUL

What I want to do is take little Deena here inside

 to watch baseball. There’s a Braves game on this

afternoon. (Snuggles baby.) Come on, kid, let’s go

watch professionals throw stuff that doesn’t break

windows and dent the daisies.

 

SUSAN

Thanks, Dad. I’ll be at the gallery. Oh, here, look.

(She holds up the camera so he can study the

picture of his sign.) Great work. I have the

 best sign on the whole welcome-sign

display. I think I’ll go back over

and take a few more pictures.  

 

PAUL

(pulling glasses from his pocket, then squinting

at the picture on the tiny camera screen admiringly)

Now that, I can do. Straight edges, sharp angles,

nothing that whirls and flys off when I carve it.

Good, basic, practical woodworking. Like the Amish do.

I bet an Amish woodworker has to peddle his lathe really fast

to achieve maximum orbit for a bowl.   

 

SUSAN

(smiling)

You need to learn to whirl and fly, Dad.

 

PAUL

So do you.

 

SUSAN

(grimly, as she heads for her car)

Whirling and flying is how I ended up being a

single mom living at home with my dad, again.

 

EXT. AMANDA IN HER CAR

The car’s back seat is full of luggage. She’s pulled off on side of road to gaze at the High Springs welcome sign. She zeroes in on the Phoenix Art Gallery sign.

 

AMANDA

(very nervous and emotional)

Susan Phillips obviously has very good taste. She gets

her advertising genes from me. Her art gallery sign tells me

she’s neat, and methodical, and artistic,

and casually elegant but not in a pretentious way,

and . . .what am I doing here?

(Beating head on steering wheel.)

Am I insane? This is insane. I’m insane.

 I should leave her alone. Turn around, go home.

(she doesn’t notice the car pulling to a stop behind her.)

Except I can’t go home. I’m a woman without

a home. A woman without a generation. I was

a baby boomer. Now I’m a what? A Gen Xer? No,

I think Gen Xers are older than me. I’m in a

generation that doesn’t even have a name! I’m

not me, anymore. I’m an old soul in a new body.

I’m a bad lyric in a Captain and Tennille song.

No, a bad lyric in, in (she paws through a pile of

new CDs on the passenger seat) a bad lyric in an

Alanis Morrisette song. I don’t even know what

song I’m in!

 

Someone raps on her window. She jumps, then stares at the pretty young woman (Susan) smiling at her worriedly. For a long moment Amanda simply stares at her. Susan, a stranger, mouths through the closed window.

 

SUSAN

Hey, are you all right?

 

Dazed, Amanda fumbles with a window control. The glass slides down.

 

AMANDA

Pardon me?

 

SUSAN

Are you all right? You look upset. Are you lost?

 

AMANDA

(finally recovering enough) 

Lost. Yes. Lost in a strange new world.

 

SUSAN

(smiles sadly)

I know how you feel, but you’re here at

the welcome sign for the town with the

most golf courses and half-million dollar

lake cabins in North Carolina. How lost

could you be?

 

AMANDA

I mean, I’m here, yes. I was lost. Now I’m here.

Sorry. . .I’m having a bad generation.

I mean a bad day. Thank you for your concern.

 

SUSAN

I noticed your out- of-state license plate

when I pulled up behind you. you’re here in High Springs

to visit someone?

 

AMANDA

(still dazed.)

Yes. No. Yes. I mean

(takes a deep breath) I’m kind of starting over,

looking around for a job, browsing, and this

looks like such a charming, perfect little town,

like nothing bad could happen here, so. . .(deflates)

I’m lost, existentially.

 

SUSAN

(gently)

Well, I know how that is. I grew up here,

and I came back here this year because it’s the safest,

sweetest place in the world – that’s how it feels,

 at least. It’s lonely out in the great wide world, isn’t it?

 

AMANDA

(staring at her in dawning amazement.)

Yes. . .yes. Incredibly lonely. (Gets out of car.)

My name is. . . is (thinking frantically, as her

gaze falls on the scattered music CDs on her

car seat, which include the Morisette CD

but also a Greatest Hits of Carly Simon CD)

Alanis Simon. (She holds out a trembling hand.)

 

SUSAN

Hi, Alanis. (shakes her hand.) I’m Susan. Susan Phillips.

 

AMANDA

(gasps)

I knew it! It’s you!

 

SUSAN

I beg your pardon. Have we met?

 

AMANDA

I mean, that name suits you. I would have

guessed you had a name like that.

It’s so nice to meet you. So (tears up) nice.

 

SUSAN

You ARE having a bad day, aren’t you?

Don’t pass out. Here. (Opens the car door.)

Sit down, chill out, take a deep breath.

Look, let me take a couple of pictures

 I need to take, then you follow me

to my gallery, and I’ll give you a cup

of chamomile tea. Help you get your bearings.

 

AMANDA

(sinking into car but never taking her eyes

off Susan, her unsuspecting daughter.)

You like chamomile, too?

 

SUSAN

It’s my favorite.

 

AMANDA

Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t that great? This is fate.

 

SUSAN

Uh, sure. Just give me a second.

 

She walks over to the sign,  begins taking pictures. Amanda sits there watching emotionally.

 

AMANDA

(whispers to self)

She’s wonderful. My daughter is wonderful.

 

EXT. PRETTY SHOPS AND GALLERIES

 

The downtown of High Springs is charming and affluent, lined with handsomely restored old buildings, the mountains rising behind them. Custom jewelry, a cozy bookstore, a bird-watchers nature shop, and the Phoenix Art Gallery.

 

INT. PHOENIX ART GALLERY

Amanda clutches tea cup and eagerly scrutinizes a large landscape painting. Susan moves about the small gallery, dusting and straightening.

 

AMANDA

You painted this one?

 

SUSAN

Yep. I’m just a hack, but I thought

I deserved to inflict a couple of my own works

on the world – at least in my own gallery.

 

AMANDA

This landscape looks like Tuscany.

It reminds me of an exhibit I saw at the

High Museum in Atlanta, once. Yours is better.

I mean it. More personal. More intimate.

 

SUSAN

Thanks. I don’t deserve the comparison.

(somberly) My mother and I toured the south

of France one summer, while I was in art school.

Every time I paint one of the scenes I remember,

I think of her.

           

AMANDA

You and she must have been very close.

 

SUSAN

We were. Now, feel better after downing

some chamomile?

 

AMANDA

Yes, thanks.

 

SUSAN

Tell me about yourself.

You’re from Atlanta, I know that much.

 

AMANDA

(carefully)

Hmmm uh.

 

SUSAN

Running away from home?

 

AMANDA

You could say that.

 

SUSAN

Fresh out of college?

 

AMANDA

Oh, I’m a few years older than that.

 

SUSAN

You know something about art.

 

AMANDA

Well, I’m a bit of an artist. I wanted

to study art in college, but I majored

in marketing and advertising instead.

 

SUSAN

Why give up your dreams?

 

AMANDA

(awkward and fighting emotion as she looks

 at her unsuspecting daughter)

I, hmmm, got sidetracked. And my parents said

art was frivolous. They insisted I study something

they considered more serious and  respectable.

I was vulnerable to their ideas. Eager to please.

(Sighs.) Oh, god. I admit it: A good girl. 

 

SUSAN

Don’t take offense, Alanis, I was raised to respect

my parents, but yours sound pretty controlling.

 

AMANDA

It was a different time.

 

SUSAN

(laughing)

What? Six, seven years ago?

 

AMANDA

(awkward)

Seems longer than that.

 

SUSAN

Look, I don’t want to pry, but I’ve had

some hard times over the last few years,

so I kinda have an instinct about you. Let me

guess: are you trying to put a bad guy behind you?

 

AMANDA

You could say that.

 

SUSAN

(sits down on a bench nearby, picks up her

own cup of tea.)

Significant other? Live-in? Jerky boyfriend?

 

AMANDA

All of the above. My ex-husband.

He left me for someone else.

 

SUSAN

God, you’ve already been married and

divorced? Once you got away from your

parents, you moved fast. Oh, I’m sorry.

That’s pretty rude of me. I shouldn’t have —

                       

AMANDA

No, you’re right. I did marry too quickly after

I got away from my parents. I fell in love,

and I wanted to believe in fairytales, and I

was determined to be the least reckless person

on the planet. I wanted to be someone who never

did anything the least bit shameful or regretful,

ever. I know it’s hard for you to understand—

 

SUSAN

No, I understand totally.

 

AMANDA

You said you’ve had some hard times.

 

SUSAN

(laughs ruefully)

Nothing I didn’t bring on myself, being stupid.

I found my soul mate right after college. We were

artistes, you understand. I moved in with him –

despite my parents’ objections – and we did the

whole neo-hippie thing for the next five years.

Lived out of an RV, made our living at art shows

and doing corporate commissions – I’ve got a

 landscape in the lobby of a big office building

my Dad designed – traveled, made love and raced

 jet skis, smoked European cigarettes, took sushi classes.  

 

AMANDA

I don’t think you were neo-hippies. I think you

were hippie-Yuppies.

 

Susan stares at her. Amanda winces.

 

AMANDA

Now I’m the one who has to apologize.

I shouldn’t have said that.

 

SUSAN

(blinks. A revelation.)

No, you’re right! I never thought of it that

way, but you’re right. We were so pampered

and naïve. We only played at being starving artists

and free spirits. At least, I only played at it.

Until real life caught up with me.

She jumps up, gets a small, beautifully made scrapbook from behind her office desk. Returns to sit by Amanda.

(hoarsely)

About a year and a half ago, my mother died.

Cancer. It was quick, unexpected. (She opens

scrapbook to a picture of her as a child, with

her mother. Touches it lovingly.)

 

AMANDA

She looks like she loves you forever.

 

SUSAN

She and I had fought for years over my lifestyle,

over. . .him, you know. And then she died.

We said the right things, but I never got a chance

to really make it up to her. I broke her heart.

 

AMANDA

No, you didn’t. I promise you.

She was so glad to be your mother.

 

SUSAN

(stares at her)

You have . . .a lot of compassionate

intuition. I’d like to believe you’re right.

 

AMANDA

I, hmmm, I know a little about motherhood.

 

SUSAN

Oh, my god. Did you lose a baby? Miscarry?

 

AMANDA

Yes, I lost a baby. A little girl.

 

SUSAN

I’m so sorry. No wonder you’re trying to

put your old life behind you.

 

AMANDA

(sadly)

Old lives don’t get put behind. They’re still

inside you. You just have to grow a shell

around them, and haul them along with you,

even if they weigh you down. You carry them.

You turn into a . . . a turtle.

 

SUSAN

(smiling through tears)

A turtle? A hippie-Yuppie turtle or just a regular turtle?

 

AMANDA

Oh, I don’t know. A big-ass snapping swamp turtle.

(pauses, shocked.) I can’t believe I said big-ass.

I’ve been listening to some new music CD’s.

I’m not quite myself.

 

SUSAN

(laughing)

I like you, whoever you are.

 

AMANDA

(gazing at her emotionally, then trying to hide it)

Thank you. So. . .you came home to help care for

your mother, and after she died you decided to leave

your boyfriend, stay here, and open this gallery?

             

SUSAN

My dad was devastated. He needed me around

for awhile. And I needed him. It was good to

come home.

 

AMANDA

You’re living at your dad’s house?

 

SUSAN

Yes. Thirty years old and living with daddy.

I know that’s kind of pathetic--  

 

AMANDA

Not at all. Do you get along with him? Are you close?

 

SUSAN

(holds up entwined fingers and smiles)

Like this. Best pals. He dealt with the boyfriend

issue the way he deals with everything. Just tried

 to see all the different angles and keep the foundation

 solid. He’s an architect. Life comes with blueprints,

 he says, We just have to learn how to read them. Yeah, he’s way corny.

 

AMANDA

Not to me. He sounds wise.

 

SUSAN

(Smiling.)

But corny. (Looks at Amanda a moment in surprise.)

I haven’t been able to talk to anyone

about my parents the way I’m talking to you.  

 

AMANDA

That is the nicest thing you could say to me.

Thank you. Thank you so much. Talking to you

has been . . . I feel as if I’ve been waiting all

my life to talk to you. (Looks rattled and tearful.)

 

SUSAN

Calm down, breathe, okay breathe.

 It’s going to be okay. What are you planning

to do here in High Springs?

 

AMANDA

Look for a job. I have money. I don’t need a job

to pay my bills. I just thought I might find

something interesting to do.

 

SUSAN

Work for me.

 

AMANDA

Here? You mean it?

 

SUSAN

Of course. You love art, you’re interested

in it, and I’ve been thinking of hiring an  assistant.

I’d like to keep the gallery open longer hours every

day, but I need help to do it. I can’t pay much, but—

 

AMANDA

I accept, I accept! Thank you!

 

SUSAN

Where do you plan to stay?

 

AMANDA

 I don’t know, I was just going to get a room

at one of the inns for awhile—

 

SUSAN

 I have a better idea. We have a tiny guest

apartment over my Dad’s workshop.

You’re welcome to stay there, rent-free,

until you decide on something permanent.

 

AMANDA

You’d do that for me – a stranger?

 

SUSAN

I feel like I know you. Isn’t that weird?

Really, come on, it’s okay. Hey, just a few years

ago we could have been assigned to the same

dorm room at college. We’d have hit it off right away.

So this is just like inviting you to live in my dorm.

 

AMANDA

Only without the toga parties and Fleetwood Mac concerts.

 

SUSAN

The what?

 

AMANDA

I, uh, I mean—

 

SUSAN

Nevermind. (Smiling.) You’re retro. I get it. I love

 all that old stuff, too.

 

AMANDA

Hmmm, yes. Retro. (Sobbing.)

What I could have had. What I could have had.

 

SUSAN

Ssssh. Come on, Alanis, it’s going to be okay.

You’ve only been in town an hour but

you’ve already got a job and a place to stay.

And a new friend. Me. (Hugs her.) Come on,

where’s that turtle toughness?

 

AMANDA

 I think I have a crack in my shell.

                       

 END

 

 

SYNOPSIS – IF SHE KNEW THEN

 

“If I knew then what I know now . . .”

 

The song of regret. Amanda Gordon has memorized it. But now she has a chance to do what few people ever get to do: Combine “then” and “now.”

 

Posing as “Alanis,” a twenty-something with a sad, vague past, Amanda settles into life as her unsuspecting daughter’s pal and assistant at the art gallery. Amanda’s elation at her sudden rapport with her daughter, Susan, soon turns to poignant distress. She is secretly falling in love with her daughter’s smart, kind, handsome adoptive father, Paul, who backs away from his intense attraction to her. We see him confab with his middle-aged buddies – mostly divorced men making idiots of themselves chasing twenty-something girls. Though he’s definitely attracted to the strangely “mature” Amanda, Paul says he’d never be so stupid, plus he wouldn’t upset his daughter by dating a woman her age. 

Anyway, Amanda would never do anything to estrange herself from her daughter. Susan confides to Amanda that she loves her dad for not trying to replace her mother’s memory with a younger woman. 

 

 

So, ironically, Amanda is in love with her daughter’s adoptive father, a man who thinks she’s too young for him. Clueless, Susan mentions to Amanda that when her dad and mom first met, her dad dropped a pitcher of tea on his foot. He’s always said that was how he knew it was love at first sight. He dropped everything.

 

He doesn’t drop anything on his feet around Amanda.

 

Amanda and Susan quickly become close friends, with Susan instinctively relying on her odd new pal’s wise insights and savvy advice. But to Amanda’s misery, her daughter reveals poignant issues over single motherhood stemming from a deep resentment over being “abandoned” by her own birth mother (Amanda.) Amanda makes a guilt-ridden effort to subtly counsel her. Susan absorbs Amanda’s heartfelt advice but doesn’t change her opinion.

 

Other pitfalls bedevil Amanda as she battles GINA MARCHAND, a wealthy, ruthless, middle-aged hottie intent on marrying the vulnerable Paul and distancing him from his devoted daughter and baby granddaughter.

 

Paul and Amanda fight their unspoken attraction though Amanda openly vanquishes the mercenary GINA.  At the same time, Amanda teaches Susan a lesson about the hope, love, and forgiveness of motherhood. That trust in motherhood doesn’t have to be unconditional.

 

Paul and Amanda’s push-pull relationship finally explodes into an impulsive, sexy near-seduction. Paul backs away the last minute but not before Susan walks in on the scene.

 

Susan is hurt and furious with both her father and her new best friend. Paul is embarrassed. Amanda is disgusted with herself.

 

Amanda wakes the next morning to find that the miracle drug has worn off and she’s suddenly returned to her real age.

 

She slips out of town tearfully, vanishing as if she never existed, while leaving a poignant note for Paul and Susan. She doesn’t confess the bizarre truth about her identity, but she apologizes for the pain “Alanis” caused.

           

Paul and Susan have an emotional talk about what’s happened, about their unrealistic expectations of each other, about life. For the first time they understand that life really does go on and the mistakes each of us makes are just one part of it.

 

Amanda returns to her Atlanta home, where she hides in utter devastation. Her rambunctious girlfriends, Monique and Christine, suddenly show up at her door to demonstrate their own new lives – they’ve tracked down the eccentric scientist who gave Amanda the injection. They both look 25 years old.

 

“Get yourself another dose of immortality and get back in the game,” they urge Amanda, but she refuses. What good would it do to revisit the scene of the disaster? She’s betrayed her daughter’s trust – again – and lost a man she loves – again. “Age isn’t a year,” she tells her unconvinced friends. “It’s the amount of love we’ve earned. I’m bankrupt. And ancient.”

 

A few days later the inconsolable Amanda receives a letter in the mail. It’s from Susan.  “Recently I met a person wiser than her years,” Susan writes, “who taught me that hope and forgiveness are the best gifts a mother can give her child. I think they’re the best gifts a child can give her mother, too. If you’d like to meet me, I’d finally like to meet you, too.”

 

Amanda nervously drives back to the North Carolina town where her daughter and Paul live. This time she’s herself – the real, 50-ish, Amanda Gordon.

 

When she pulls up to Paul and Susan’s house, they’re on the porch with the baby.

 

Amanda slowly steps out of her car.

 

Just as slowly, Susan’s expression goes from worried to accepting to tearfully welcoming.

Paul, clearly hypnotized by the pretty woman who combines the best of his infatuation with sexy young “Alanis” with the dignity of a mature love interest, drops a pitcher of iced tea on his foot.

 

He’s fallen in love with Amanda at first sight.

 

And her with him, at second sight.

 

Amanda thinks to herself: I know now what I should have known then: Happiness isn’t about pretending to be young. It’s about the love we’ve earned, year by year. And I’ve earned a lifetime.