by Zara Lisbon
“Oh no.” I put my hands flat on top of the cabinet, panicking just a little. “No, no, it’s okay, shhhhhhhh, it’s okay, I’m not … okay, Jesus, please stop, please stop.”
Trying to figure out where the sound was coming from, I found a keypad on the right side of the steel box.
“Oh, thank God,” I said. “Okay, let’s see. Let’s see.”
The passcode to open the cabinet had to be a six-digit number combination. The beeping wouldn’t stop until I got it right, so I had to work fast—what if the alarm was set up to alert my mom? Or worse, a home security company? They could show up at any minute. But I couldn’t afford to think about that.
I typed in my birthday: 02-02-01.
Wrong. I tried her birthday, but it didn’t work either. I knew it couldn’t possibly be my dad’s or Aunt Jillian’s, but I tried those just in case. Wrong and wrong. Who else could there be? Or maybe it wasn’t a birthday. I tried some other important dates—her wedding day, the day she moved to Los Angeles, the day they found the bungalow on Carroll Canal—but none of those were it either. The beeping got faster and faster; I was running out of time and my mind kept going back to birthdays. A sick feeling at the pit of my stomach was telling me the date I had to try next, but I couldn’t bring myself to type it in. If it turned out to be right, there’d be no turning back from the mouth of the rabbit hole.
“You have ten seconds remaining.” An outdated electronic voice spoke from the cabinet. “Countdown initiating. Ten, nine…”
“Fuck,” I swore. “Ten seconds until what?” I thought maybe I should just run, forget about the files. The home security team might show up but I’d be gone.
“Eight, seven, six…”
Okay, okay, I gave in. Okay.
I had to try it, I didn’t have a choice: 06-13-00.
Immediately, the countdown stopped. The beeping stopped. The cabinet drawer clicked open. June 13, the year 2000. It was Eva-Kate’s birthday.
What the fuck, Mom? My whole face felt heavy, like it could melt off into a puddle at my feet. What did it mean? Why did she … why would she …
I’d have to get to that later.
Inside the file cabinet was exactly what I’d hoped for: patient files arranged alphabetically. I flipped to the K section and pulled out Eva-Kate’s, then took the thick stack of papers and spread them out across the couch. Some were loose-leaf papers, others were entire notebooks. My mom had written volumes on Eva-Kate. The first notebook dated back to 2009, when Eva-Kate was only nine years old. I would have been eight that year, the year I met Rachel Ames. I couldn’t wrap my mind around this. The idea—that Eva-Kate Kelly had been coming to see my mom since I was eight years old, that she spent countless hours in my own backyard for eight or nine years while I was in the house less than twenty feet away, not having a clue—was disorienting and slippery. As I tried to make sense of it all, the facts slipped out of my reach like little fish.
“Okay, okay,” I said, taking a deep breath and opening the notebook to the first page. It read:
Evelyn Kathleen
March 1, 2009
— Nine years old, has been acting since the age of four, has starred in a successful sitcom since the age of seven. Understandably more stressed than the average nine-year-old.
— She’s the family breadwinner. Feels the pressure of her mom and sister (twin, identical) relying on her for money. Dad left before she was born. Says she “knows for a fact” that neither of her parents love her. Believes her mom actually hates her.
— Mom is an ex beauty queen who ran away from home at an early age. Debbie McKelvoy. Had dreams of becoming a movie star but stopped pursuing it when she gave birth to Eva-Kate and her sister, Liza-Jane. Classic situation of a stage mother driven by a hope—conscious or subconscious—to live vicariously through her children.
— EK says Debbie is verbally abusive to her, but not to LJ. Has been telling EK that she’s a “bad apple” for as long as she can remember. Tells her that she was “born with dead eyes” and that she has “has her father’s evil in her.” As a result of these beliefs, Debbie has refused to show affection of any kind for EK, reserving it all for LJ, who she believes to be the “good” child.
— “My mom’s one of those people who believes in good and evil.”
— Debbie insisted on taking EK to therapy to get rid of the “evil” that she “inherited” from her father. Puts EK alone in a taxi from Burbank to get here, which EK says she is completely comfortable with.
— No matter how much money EK makes for the family, her mom won’t stop persecuting her with punishments. When asked, EK refused to elaborate on said punishments.
— Wonders if her mom is projecting onto her or if she truly was born wicked.
— Used the word “projecting” in this context three different times. For a nine-year-old, her vocabulary is advanced, almost eerily so. An acutely precocious child.
Evelyn Kathleen
March 8, 2009
— EK showed up smelling like cigarettes.
— Very gloomy today. Stared off for most of the session.
— Dreamed her house crumbled around them, and then mom and LJ turned to stone and crumbled too. Recurring dream. Sometimes it’s mom and LJ, sometimes it’s her costars, sometimes her agent. Randy Kessler-Stevens. Mentioned that one time it was a man named Dr. Silver. Reminder: look up Randy and Dr. Silver.
— “I know it doesn’t sound that scary, but when it’s happening it’s like the worst feeling in the world.”
— Crumbling house represents…?
— EK having a hard time concentrating during lessons, which she takes on set. Feels that it’s not fair to expect her to work and go to school and be good at both.
— Envies LJ’s “real” life.
— “All she does is sit around reading books and everyone loves her.”
— When asked if she loves her sister, EK said, “We used to love each other, but not anymore.”
I scoured the first year of notes, searching for pertinent details, transfixed by every word. Here and there I found new insights into Eva-Kate’s subconscious, but it wasn’t enough. None of it added up to the explanation I was looking for. Notes from 2010 showed themes of rebellion and taking back power. Here I learned that Eva-Kate’s mom had been making her pay for her own therapy. It seemed with my mom’s help she decided she’d keep paying for therapy but not for the rest of Debbie’s and Liza’s expenses. My mom had suggested the possibility of Eva-Kate becoming an emancipated minor. She’d encouraged Eva-Kate to hire a lawyer, but Eva-Kate had rejected the idea, saying Debbie would kill her for it. This was the year she met her first friend, Ruby Jones. They’d met at a strange party their parents had dragged them to, where they’d been the only kids, and spent the evening outside behind a tree brainstorming a plan to run away from home.
By the time I’d finished that second year, the clock read 1:00 A.M. Almost three hours had passed since I’d started reading. I had a dozen missed calls from Eva-Kate and twice that many from my mom. I turned my phone off and threw it across the room. I hated them both.
In 2011, Rob entered the picture. Just a new costar, two years older, who irritated her by using incorrect grammar and making fun of her pink Converse high-tops. She knew his grammar was off because she’d started paying attention during class. Learning made her feel in control, like she held some amount of power over the people around her, who were “simpletons” and “imbeciles” and “cretins.”
In 2012, she spoke more and more about “realness” and feeling fake. My mom noted hickeys on her neck and increasingly nervous energy. She wore less clothing and more makeup, she got invited to parties in Hollywood and went to them just because her mom hated it. Then she started going to them for the drugs and a boy she obsessed over but wouldn’t name, and the things they’d do together that my mom wrote about in her notes using only euphemism
s. She was only twelve. One day during her session she broke down sobbing, saying that her mom was right, she was born without a soul. She said the tabloids and blogs all called her Barbie Girl and speculated about the realness of her breasts, which made her want to kill someone. Or herself.
I felt my eyelids getting heavy and checked the clock. Another two hours had passed. Princess Leia scratched at the door, but I knew I couldn’t let her out, she’d have to wait. I counted and realized I hadn’t slept since the first night at the Madonna Inn, but I had to keep reading. My mom would be home in the morning and I didn’t trust her to tell me the truth.
The notes from 2013 were just four or five pages paper-clipped together. I took the clip off and a page from the middle fell to the floor. I reached down to pick it up, and in the dreary, algae-green light I came face-to-face with my own name. Finally.
Evelyn Kathleen
May 5, 2013
— EK noticed the picture of Justine in the back of the office. Didn’t know I had a daughter and looked hurt to find out.
— Discussed transference, the redirection of childhood emotions onto a therapist. EK agreed that in this case, the feelings are abandonment and radical inferiority, but wasn’t reassured. Said she was fine, but appeared agitated for the rest of the session.
— Asked if I cared about my daughter more than I cared about her. Reminder: Must discuss next time.
Evelyn Kathleen
May 19, 2013
— EK asked about Justine again. Wanted to know about her personality and her interests. I reminded her that this time is for us to discuss her, not me or my family.
— Continued to speculate throughout session what sort of person Justine might be.
— Was determined to get a response and became frustrated when I wouldn’t give it to her.
— Eventually backed down when asked about boyfriend. Attention switched fully off Justine and onto boyfriend like a light switch had been flipped.
— For twenty minutes discussed constant competition between them.
— Thinks the fans like him a lot more than they like her ever since his album came out. Worries they’ll turn into “Justin and Britney,” meaning that he’ll break up with her and go on to be internationally glorified, while she’s labeled crazy and eventually discarded.
— Exploring the concept of “future tripping” seemingly had no effect.
— Dreamed the set of Jennie and Jenny was crumbling around her and she was alone. Then she turned to stone and crumbled too.
Evelyn Kathleen
January 4, 2014
— EK mentioned Justine for the first time since May of 2013.
— Proudly informed me that she’d found Justine’s Instagram and could tell that she was a really “down-to-earth girl” and “the perfect daughter.” “Wholesome.” We revisited the projection of perfection onto somebody, and that nobody actually is perfect.
— Acted as if she didn’t hear me.
— Said her boyfriend talks about “real, down-to-earth girls,” and that he’d probably love Justine. She thinks he’s secretly in love with LJ and that’s why.
— Fixating on the dichotomies of good/bad and real/fake and how they pertain to herself and LJ. Doesn’t seem to realize this was an arbitrary assignment by a mentally unwell mother, not the truth. Although I do worry about self-fulfilling prophecies. Thinks if she were real and good then she could be loved, but couldn’t describe what either word meant to her.
— Lingered on the photograph of Justine as she left. It shouldn’t have been out there in the first place. I moved it to the back part of the room where it belonged.
In a twilight daze, I flipped to the next page and saw that it was dated August of 2015, over a year after the previous notes. It occurred to me that this set of papers wasn’t clipped together based on chronological order, but instead by a unifying theme: me.
From there on out I scanned through, looking only for my name. This is what I found:
Evelyn Kathleen
August 22, 2015
— EK says she knows from Instagram that Justine is at Bellflower. Didn’t think J would have posted that sort of thing, but Eva-Kate showed me the image in question. Of a gate covered in ivy. When I asked what made her think she knew the name of the building, she explained how she’d used geo-tagging to determine the location and looked it up from there. A major point of concern.
— Reported that she’d done her research and learned that Bell flower is a “mental hospital.” Wanted to know what she’d done to get sent away, but accepted that I wouldn’t go into it with her.
— Renewed fixation with Justine has become alarming.
— “I’m sorry if I’m being inappropriate. I’m just curious. I wonder what happens to a real girl when she loses touch with reality.”
Evelyn Kathleen
December 12, 2015
— EK seemed sedated and dreamy, perhaps on pills.
— Bright blue tongue and teeth, which she attributed to candy.
— Made no effort to get rid of the blue.
— Asked if it was Justine she saw down the street walking a white fluffy dog. Quickly followed the question with another one: Had I ever mentioned her to Justine?
— Explained the importance of patient-client confidentiality, which seemed to please her.
— Asked how Justine was doing since she came home from Bell flower.
— Becoming harder and harder to divert the conversation away from Justine.
Evelyn Kathleen
April 30, 2018
— EK making incredible progress. High spirits throughout session.
— Hasn’t had nightmares in months.
— Shaking off rumors about boyfriend and LJ with impressive maturity.
— Hasn’t mentioned Justine in almost a year. Greatly reassuring.
— A weight seems to have been lifted ever since a judge granted her emancipation. Working with a realtor to find her own home, far away from her mom and LJ.
— Still agitated when talking about the friendship between boyfriend and LJ. Slips easily into a paranoid headspace.
— Very accepting of my upcoming trip. Looking forward to a month of independence, but adamant about starting back up upon my return.
— Did end up mentioning Justine, but only to ask if she was coming with me.
When I finished reading, a savage exhale escaped my mouth. I’d been holding my breath for God knows how long. She knew about my mom’s summer trip two months before I did. Did she know about the divorce before I did too?
I didn’t need to read any more, I just needed to get myself far away. The hair on my arms stood on end from knowing Eva-Kate was so nearby and that my mom would be home within hours. Where would I go? I couldn’t go to my dad, or Aunt Jillian, both of whom I’d avoided like the plague the last few weeks. I couldn’t go to Riley, who I’d ghosted and who’d accused me of sociopathy. I paced the room to help me think, chewing on the tips of my silvery-blue hair. And thank God for that color, because it reminded me of something I’d forgotten since the shock of hearing my mom’s voice on Eva-Kate’s answering machine: I had ten thousand dollars in my bank account.
I looked up the Ace Hotel in downtown Los Angeles and booked the most expensive room they had: a luxury loft for five hundred dollars a night. I figured I’d start with six nights and go from there. I wish I’d known then that I’d only be needing two.
CHAPTER 24
SO HELP ME GOD
I can swear that what I’m about to write is the solemn truth, whether you believe it or not.
Leaving home, I didn’t have enough time to get into my room and pack a bag—plus, Eva-Kate might have been able to see me through my window from across the canal—so I put my mom’s notes back as I had found them, clipped the leash in my purse onto Princess Le
ia, ordered an Uber, then stepped on my phone and smashed it to pieces. Then I was gone.
In the Ace Hotel lobby, they made it very clear to me that minors couldn’t check in without a guardian, so I took cash out from the ATM and handed them a grand in hundred-dollar bills. The night I’d met Eva-Kate, I hadn’t been DGAF. Now I was.
My room was on the eleventh floor and half the size of my whole house. I had a view of the entire city, which at nighttime was just a sea of glittery, pulsing light. How pretty it looked from such great heights. Come down now, they’ll say. I turned up the radio and opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the mini fridge. I considered taking a shower in the minimalistically posh bathroom, but when the king-sized bed caught my eye I wanted so badly to be in it. I made sure to take my meds before I forgot, then took Princess Leia and got under the blanket, which had that expensive combination of simultaneous weight and weightlessness. The clock on the bedside table was a retro-style flip clock in a sleek wooden case. It showed the day and date as well as the time. I stared at it, mesmerized by the quiet flutter of one moment slipping into the next, and in minutes, maybe even seconds, I was asleep.
* * *
I woke up to a thunderous banging against my door. For a moment I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there, but when I looked around in disoriented panic, heart racing, I saw it was my hotel room, and the clock by my bedside read: WEDNESDAY 8:13 A.M. That’s not possible, I thought, nobody can sleep through a whole day.
The door shook again, this time so hard I could see the brass chain bolt getting ready to pop open.
“LAPD, open up!”
Holy fuck, I whispered to myself. What the hell happened?
“One minute!” I called out, bombarded by thoughts of everything that could have gone wrong. “I’ll be right there!”
