by Liza Palmer
“What’s going down with Caroline?” I ask, once I finally catch up with him.
“Yeah, you know,” he says.
“How do you know about ‘you know’?” Gus continues on down the aisle. I follow, and find him at an endcap completely overrun with Rockets. This many raccoons in one place would be my mother’s worst nightmare. She says it’s their little hands. She “doesn’t trust them.”
“A guy I know dated Willa or, you know, tried to date Willa,” he says, his lip crooking as he tries to hide this guy’s less than honorable intentions.
“And?”
“Her and Max Walsh, right?” He turns around, three Rocket costumes in his hands. A little shake of his head and he whirls back around, puts two Rockets back, and flicks through the rest of the rack.
“Ugh,” I say, pulling my dinging phone out of my purse. A text from Ellen.
“Rachel Hatayama is in.” And then a thumbs-up emoji and a party hat emoji.
“That’s great. Get details to Caroline,” I text back. I scan the emojis, panicking about which one connotes gratitude for Ellen’s awesomeness, while keeping a safe distance from the Fat Me’s latest attempts at taking center stage and the insistent tapping of my own highlight reel—which is really more of a tragic black-and-white French movie where just the large pizza box is in color. As my finger hovers over the screen, I accidentally hit and send four poop emojis. “No!”
“Everything okay?” Gus asks, walking over with all three costumes draped over his arm.
“I just sent four poop emojis to my assistant for no discernible reason.”
“Oh, she thinks there’s a reason.”
“There should really be a three-second delay on texting,” I say, staring at the little text bubble that indicates Ellen is crafting her response.
“Has she written back?” Gus asks, making his way to the cash register.
“She’s still typing,” I say, riveted.
“That’s a long time,” Gus says, buying the costumes before I tell him he doesn’t have to.
Finally Ellen texts back the frog face emoji and the steaming teacup emoji. I show it to Gus and he barks out a laugh. “What? What does it mean??”
“Well, the origin of that particular combination is this tea ad with Kermit the Frog—”
“Wait, there’s an entire backstory for this? How deep does this shit go?”
“You’d be surprised. But, what it’s come to mean is that what you just typed is none of her business. She’s just sipping her tea. Get it?” Gus has never been more serious as he tries to explain this to me.
“That’s just great. That’s great,” I say.
“Aaaaand now I want some tea,” he says. “Can we drive through somewhere?”
“Yeah, fine. You know what, I’m just going to act like it never happened,” I say, dropping my phone into my purse.
“That’s what most people do with texts like that,” Gus says, laughing. I look over at him as we walk through the empty parking lot toward my car. His chin is high. His shoulders are back. He’s playfully twirling the big plastic bag full of costumes. His entire demeanor has changed in just the little bit of time we’ve spent in here, away from the stained shirts of Hall H and the drug-filled nights at the Marmont with his dipshit friends. This is the Gus Ford I signed. So I know what to say next.
“You’ve been in the monkey-house too long.”
“I’ve been in the what now?” Gus asks, waiting for me to unlock the doors. I beep my car unlocked and we both climb inside. He buckles his seatbelt without my prompting. I turn on the car and pull out of the parking lot.
“The monkey-house. You don’t smell the stench anymore, so it’s only by leaving it and walking back in that you can truly smell—”
“The shit,” Gus finishes. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes it on.
“Right. How bad it smells and what you’ve gotten used to.”
“So L.A. is the monkey-house,” Gus says, trying to find the nearest place to get tea on some app on his phone.
“The L.A. you’re trapped in right now is. I mean, I’m from here and know that this city can be more than just the movie industry. Home, for one,” I say.
“Turn left at the next light,” he says. I nod and put my blinker on. “So where do I go? Wait. This isn’t some kind of intervention, is it? You’re not driving me to some ridiculous rehab place for spoiled shitheads in Malibu, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Oh, okay.” His voice is wobbly as he guides me to make another left.
“I’m thinking more like going home,” I say. He looks over at me. “Your real home.”
“To Marin?”
“Your parents would love it,” I say.
“It’s right here on the—” I pull into a drive-through Starbucks. “Yep.” He slips his phone back into his jeans pocket.
“Take a road trip up the coast of California—”
“After the foster kid thing, right? I can still come to that?”
“Of course.” Gus and I are silent as we inch forward in the Starbucks drive-through line. I look over at him. His cheeks are flushed and I can see his jaw muscle pulsating as he tries to keep his composure. “This isn’t a punishment.” He won’t look at me. “Gus?”
“Feels like one. You’re essentially sending me to my room.” His voice is barely a whisper. I reach across the center console and take his hand. He grips mine so tightly. I feel his pain like a gut punch. I have no delusions that by sending Gus back home, all of his problems will be solved, but it’s a first step.
“I don’t want to get a phone call that you’ve OD’d.” He hangs his head, and once again, I see the tears stream down his cheeks. “It’s much worse than you’re letting on, right?”
He nods.
“You can’t go on like this,” I say.
“I know.” We inch forward in line and somehow pull it together long enough to order our teas.
“It’s okay not to be fine,” I say again. He looks over at me and just shakes his head, a smile curling across his face. “Still not going for it, huh?”
“You can’t even say it with a straight face,” he says, laughing and wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his flannel.
“I know,” I say. “What about, ‘It’s okay for you not to be fine, but not for me because I have to be perfect’?”
“Yeah, that feels more organic.”
“Feels more organic? God, you have got to get out of L.A. Like, now.” I push Gus’s money away and tell him to get my company card from my wallet.
“Maybe I’m like not the only one in the monkey-house like, you know?” Gus teases.
“Maybe not,” I say, laughing. But as I go through the motions of paying for our teas, the car begins to close in around me. The sounds of the busy Starbucks from the drive-through window muffle, as does Gus’s playful chiding. My eyesight starts to darken around the edges like I’m seeing the world through some kind of old-timey-vignette filter. I take a deep breath. Another one. My breath doesn’t catch. Even as I panic, I manage a smile at the girl as she hands me one piping-hot tea after the other. I think I say thank you and am pulling the car forward to find a parking space just as my throat closes. The last thing I remember is Gus’s hand on my back and him asking if I’m okay, if I’m okay …
PETTY
Drowning.
Breathe.
Water in my throat. Fuck. Pull. Up. Pull. Up. Breathe. Hands grabbing me. Someone’s calling my name. So far away. I’m right here. Please. Help me. I’m pulled under again. Breathe. Something is on my chest. Get it off. Off. Let me up. Let me up. Why can’t anyone hear me?
Black.
Floating.
Black.
What is that? Far away. I can’t make it out. Reach. It disappears. Reach. Wait!
Black.
There it is again. Hiding in a darkened corner of my mind. Stairs. Water. Reach. Almost. Almost. Shit, wait. No.
Black.
Urgent voices. It’s right around this corner. I know you’re there. I recognize you. I know you. Please. Let me … let me just see you. I turn the corner …
And then I’m ten years old and roller-skating down my old street, bent over and swinging my arms to and fro just like the Olympic speed skaters did. Hoping the streetlights don’t come on before I win my heat and can move on to the finals to face the Dutch front-runner. I can feel the wind on my face. The freedom. Every part of me is alive as I cross the finish line. I throw my hands up and in my best sports commentator voice say, “Morten has done it! What a race! Against all odds, Olivia Morten has won this one for America!” I wave to the invisible crowd and make the sound effect of an audience cheering as I take my victory lap. This is me. The Real Me. I am finally able to gulp a full breath, but as the memory fades I get pulled under again.
Black.
“Olivia? Honey?” The cold metal bar of the hospital bed. I jolt awake. The tubes and monitors trap me.
“Where am I? What … what’s happening?” I feel my own body like I’m in an unfamiliar dark room.
“Livvie, you had a panic attack. A pretty bad one.” I focus. Mom. That was a panic attack? It felt like I was dying. Mom bends over the hospital bed and takes my hand. I scan my surroundings and try to process the bustling emergency room that hazily comes into focus around me. Doctors and nurses speeding from bed to bed, patients in various states of pain and suffering, worried loved ones kept at a safe distance.
“We were getting a tea,” I say over the din. I can’t put the pieces together. Shit. “Where’s Gus?”
“Right here,” he says, walking over to our little corner with two bottles of water.
“Thank you, dear.” Mom takes one of the waters. “What a lovely boy.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Did I pass out in the parking lot? Did you see my underpants? Oh my god. How bad was it? If I peed myself or whatever, you need to never say a word, okay? Just don’t tell me. This is my nightmare.” I pull at the oxygen tubes in my nose. “Ugh. Is this necessary? What time is it?”
“It’s not even dinnertime,” Mom says.
“When can I go home?” I ask, trying to sit up. Gus finds the bed controller.
“Hold on, I’ve been dying to do this,” he says, pushing the button to get me to sit up straight. Ellen strides into the hospital room.
“Ellen, honey. Do you need a water? Gus can fetch you one if you’d like,” Mom says, perfectly comfortable bossing around a child millionaire.
“No, thank you, Ms. Morten,” Ellen says, rolling over a stool for my mother to sit on. My mother thanks her and sits.
“Call me Polly, please.” Ellen beams and settles in next to Gus.
“You seem to have adapted to the new surroundings well enough,” I say, as Mom takes a genteel sip of her water.
“Oh, hush,” Mom says with a wink.
“Does Adam know I’m here? We should probably tell him before I’m discharged. I imagine that will be happening soon. Where’s my cell?” I ask, trying to get comfortable. I take a long, slow, deep breath. It catches at the top and I finally feel like I’m on the other side of whatever this was.
“He does. They called for him immediately and I believe Ellen has your cell phone,” Mom says.
“Oh, good.” Ellen waggles my cell phone around and goes back to texting furiously on her own.
“Adam is talking to the ER doctor who admitted you. He’s trying to get you discharged as soon as possible.”
“Oh, good. I mean, it was just a panic attack. It’s silly I was admitted at all,” I say.
“You didn’t see it,” Gus says. This catches me off guard and I can only muster a self-conscious nod in agreement. There is a lull in the room. Ellen, Gus, and Mom exchange looks.
“What? What happened?” My mind steamrolls through every humiliating scenario that’s awoken me in the middle of the night with a flop sweat since I was a teenager. We’re all just one fainting spell away from public incontinence, is my takeaway from all this. Must be more vigilant. No more panic attacks. Not that I could have stopped it if I wanted to. “Do you guys want me to have another panic attack? Just tell me!”
Ellen turns her screen around to reveal the headline Gus Ford: Real Life Superhero! Underneath the headline is a grainy cell-phone picture someone has taken of Gus walking through the backlit emergency room doors, carrying me in his arms like some, well, to quote the headline, real-life superhero. Thankfully, my hair is fanned just enough to obscure my face. I scan the article quickly and can tell that Søren and Ellen have been hard at work making sure my identity stays hidden.
“Did you sell them that me staying anonymous played into the whole damsel-in-distress thing?” I ask.
“It didn’t take much convincing,” Ellen says.
“Good. Good, they’re mentioning his upcoming movie every time,” I say. I rearrange the oxygen tubes in my nose and pull Ellen and the laptop closer. “Can you put me up a little more?” I ask Gus. He presses the button and the bed moans upward. Mom just watches me. Drinking her water.
“Søren gave them a quote from Gus if they agreed to keep you anonymous and mention the upcoming movie,” Ellen says.
“This is great. Really great work,” I say, smiling up at Ellen. She looks over at my mom and then back at me, finally reciprocating a small smile herself. “And where is this?”
“Everywhere,” Ellen says, rattling through various gossip sites and news outlets. “It’s going viral.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I thought you’d had a heart attack or some kind of seizure. I did the first thing I could think of and drove you as fast as I could to the nearest emergency room,” Gus blurts.
“Did you think I’d be mad?” I ask.
“I mean, it’s very public,” Gus says, not looking at me. I take his hand. “I was so scared. I thought … I don’t know … I just wanted you to be okay.”
“Hey.” I playfully shake his hand back and forth. “You were perfect.” He snaps his eyes to meet mine for one brief second and then looks back down at the ground. “Thank you.” He finally looks me in the eye. I smile. “Thank you.” His face flushes. “But, now we need to get you out of here. Ellen?”
“I’m on it. The front of the hospital is crawling with paparazzi, but Adam has given us access to an exit where no one will be. There’s already a car waiting. He didn’t want to go until you woke up.” I smile at Gus again as Ellen gathers up her things. She hands Mom my cell phone.
“I’ll see you Friday,” I say to Gus. He nods.
“It was nice meeting you, sweetie,” Mom says to Gus. “Lovely seeing you again, Ellen.” They both smile and disappear into the maze of hospital hallways, leaving a scrum of paparazzi disappointed.
“That picture is actually just what we need,” I say, shifting in my hospital bed. “The goodwill from it will propel Gus through the next few months and he can get out of L.A. and back home, where he can recharge and find the foundation he’s been missing this last year.”
“Okay, kid. We’re done talking about work or Gus or whatever else. Are you going to tell me what really happened?” Mom rolls closer to me, her little legs barely able to touch the floor.
“Must have been the stress from all this Caroline stuff,” I say, adjusting my blanket.
“Don’t lie to your mother.”
Ugh. Fine. I try to remember. “The last thing I recall was talking about the monkey-house,” I say.
“The monkey-house?”
“It’s a long story, but I was telling Gus he had to get out of L.A. because he couldn’t see how bad his life had gotten. That he’d been in the monkey-house so long he couldn’t smell it anymore.”
“Ah.”
“I’d already been thinking about my twenties—which, as you know, were not that great—” Mom nods. “So when he made a joke that maybe he wasn’t the only one in a monkey-house, I don’t know, it just all went black and I have no idea why.”
&nb
sp; “So it was the idea that he wasn’t the only one in a monkey-house.”
“Yeah.”
“That you yourself were in a monkey-house of your own.”
“I guess.”
“And then you had the panic attack.”
“Apparently.” I can’t get comfortable. This fucking bed. And all these tubes. Can someone turn on a fan or open a window? Before I know it, a piercing beeping wails throughout the ER. Mom stands just as a nurse rushes over.
“Olivia? How are you feeling?” The nurse checks my blood pressure and does a full once-over.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I say, smiling at Mom. My mom smiles back … after a few seconds.
“Okay, try to breathe deeply for me. Can you do that?”
“Of course. Yeah, that’s…” I try to take a deep breath and it doesn’t catch. Oh, no. The panic is immediate. Again. “You’re almost there, Olivia. Let the oxygen do the work. Just give me a deep breath.” I focus on Mom and I wait for it to feel like I’m drowning again, then deeply inhale as much as I can. The cold oxygen in my nose feels good and my breath finally catches. The beeping subsides. I breathe again. And another.
“There you go. Good job,” the nurse says. Adam turns the corner and hurries over to me. Mom rolls her little stool back from the bed.
“Okay, okay. Gus and Ellen are safely away,” he says. I smile, taking another deep breath. “Liv?” he asks, brushing my hair back from my face. “You scared me.” His hand rests on the side of my face. His touch feels changed. This is the first I’ve seen Adam since my run-in with Nurse Brenda and the Uneaten Dinners. I must acknowledge that what happened with them might have something to do with whatever this panic attack was.
I try to calm myself. I don’t want that stupid beeping to continue acting as some kind of tattletale truth serum. Adam drops his hand from my face as I blather on about Caroline and stress and work and Gus and things that I now know are bullshit.
I can’t look at Mom. Her words bounce around my brain like a loose rubber ball wreaking havoc. Which monkey-house am I stuck inside? Is it Adam and his many women, or is it just that I don’t want anyone to know about Adam and his many women? Was it the realization that he took Nicola to the Post Ranch Inn? Was that what did this? That I now have actual proof that he is out-and-out lying to me, plus the added bonus that people are starting to know? Or does this go back to seeing Ben Dunn again? Is that what’s unsettled everything? I feel my shoulders creeping up. Okay. So, it’s seeing Ben again that started all of this? I shift in the bed. No. That’s not all of it. The Sweaty Marble Me rolls through my consciousness and my entire face flushes like I’ve been caught cheating. And all of a sudden, the look of respect and awestruck fear from that intern this morning melts away. The other shoe has finally dropped. After all these years, I’ve finally been found out. They know. I was once a big fat loser who all but shoved her perfect, successful husband into the arms of an untold number of women, and no matter how many weepy pep talks I gave myself, I’m not perfect or fine and you should take your admiration somewhere else, young lady.
