by N. K. Smith
“I don’t know.” I avoid answering the question. I’m too tired to think so hard, and he’s the doctor. He should tell me. “Would you say it is?”
“Well,” he says, and then pauses to let out a deep breath. I sneak a peek up and find him studying me. “Since you’re having problems remembering your own timeline, I would say there’s significant impairment, but you know who you are and how you got here, correct?”
“Yeah, I know who I am.” I go back to staring down at my coffee cup. Even if I don’t want to remember who I am, I do. “I remember how I got to New York, but not everything else. I don’t really remember what happened to get me here to this place or some parts in between.”
“I would say with the drugs you’ve been taking, it’s not out of the ordinary to lose time or memory. Now let’s talk about where you’re going to do the rest of your twenty-eight days.”
My heart throbs hard against my ribcage as I whip my head up again. “What?”
He narrows his eyes and taps a finger against his lips. “What just made you so anxious? The thought of going someplace else or the thought of finishing up twenty-eight days? It is really just twenty-five more days in a facility with follow up care after.”
My mind is sluggish, and it seems like the doctor has asked too many questions. I don’t know which one to answer or if any of them need answers. My heart is still beating fast, but it’s not like I haven’t experienced palpitations before. “Where am I going to go?”
“I’m not sure, that’s what we’re going to discuss. You’re a person of some notoriety, so that will influence the decision. There are a few places here in New York, but as I understand it, you have lived most of your life in California. You probably have some kind of support network there, so I think it’s best we narrow down the selection to the west coast.”
Thoughts of California bring on thoughts of my career and that brings on thoughts of the Oscar, and the pressure to win and be the best. The room seems to grow smaller and my chest tighter as my heart continues to pound away.
But then I think of the good things in California, and a flash of Peter’s face seems to calm it all down. His image is followed by Liliana’s, but it’s the Lili who was my best friend; the awkward, uncoordinated girl who used to giggle with me in between takes. And after that, the memories of all the compliments ever given to me flood in, and all of a sudden, California seems like the best place in the world. It seems like home, and that word feels wonderful bouncing around my mind.
“California,” I say as I raise my eyes. “Yes. I want to go to rehab there.”
“Very well. There’s . . .” The doctor goes on speaking, but as I run out of coffee, I stop listening. While he continues talking, little bits and pieces of my stay in New York come back to me. It’s foggy and dim, but no amount of light or darkness can disguise the fact that I plunged into some kind of abyss.
I don’t know how or why I got to this place; I just know it’s the bottom of a vast sea of pain, and I don’t ever want to be there again.
Chapter 53
“It feels like a resort here,” I say as I smile up at the sun. Any apprehension about choosing this place faded as I felt the sun on my skin. Even before coming out to the pool, I was calmed by the rehab’s luxurious feel. Beautiful architecture, gorgeous furniture, high-end décor. It made me feel so . . . normal. Like I’d returned home in a way.
“Yeah, there are spa treatments to facilitate the body detox,” Natalie Diaz says, using air quotes to accentuate the words.
I watch her smoke a cigarette in the bright sun and shake my head. “I totally can’t believe you’re here, too.” I roll my head away from her adding, “It’s too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? Me being the lead in a movie you wrote and then us winding up in the same rehab at the same time?” We’d only met a few times, but I always thought Natalie was kind of like superwoman. Pretty, funny, sociable, smart, talented.
“Yeah, well after selling Demon Inside, I had so much money I didn’t know what to do with it. It’s ironic, right? Selling my screenplay titled Demon Inside, I allowed all of the demons inside of me to come out.”
Scratching at my scalp, I look up at the cloudless sky. “Do you remember it all? I can’t remember much of the past few months. At least, not all of it.”
“I remember the bad bits. You know, the slutty things I did when I was fucked up. The smack-induced freak-outs. Sticking needles all over my body to find the best place to bang.”
Like someone with an attention disorder, my mind shifts to another topic. “Do they let you use the Internet here?”
“On occasion. They take everyone’s cell phones, and—”
“I didn’t have one. I don’t know what happened to it.” Shit. She’s narrowing her eyes at me. I should probably stop interrupting and being so spastic. I tilt my head in a kind of apology. The annoyance on Natalie’s face fades.
“You can use the computers under supervision and only at certain times.”
“Who else is here? The doctor in New York said this was the sanctuary for the rich and famous.”
“Yeah, there’s tons of us assholes here. I mean, no one as huge as you, but still. Thomas Newton, you know the billionaire who started the INtellECT company? He’s here. Hopelessly addicted to sex, ecstasy, and ridiculously expensive alcohol. That chick from that reality show Truth City is here.”
“Is that the one with all those people who drink like crazy and get into fights?”
Natalie laughs. “Yeah, the social experiment show.” She uses air quotes again.
“Which chick?”
“The redhead. Cameron. And Bran fucking Williams. You know, from the band Over/Under. Chris Steele, the porn star, is here too. And Tuck Rolley.”
“Really? The sci-fi dude?” His name surprises me. We don’t move in the same circles in Hollywood, but I knew of him through Elsie. Tuck was one of her lesser clients. We only met once, but Elsie was complaining all the time about having to be his manager. When I’d ask why she even took other clients, she would say something vague about variety being the spice of life, but I don’t know what the honest truth of it is. All I know is that she spent most of her time with me and gave a little bit to a few other actors who weren’t really celebrities.
Maybe it means nothing that he’s here. Maybe it means everything. Perhaps it’s just a reminder of Elsie, who, for good or for bad, shaped me into the person sitting on this poolside lounge chair right now.
“Yeah. I guess the success of Aliens of the Alpines really got to him.” She laughs again, but I don’t. If he’s here in rehab, it doesn’t matter if he’s an A-lister or a B-lister, he’s the same as I am. “And Clover Anderson.”
“Jesus.” Clover was a world-famous supermodel. She’s only in her thirties, but she’s been pretty much discarded as too old for the game. “What’s she in here for?”
“Drugs and nearly puking herself into an early grave.”
“So you’re my buddy, so to speak?”
“Yep. I get to show you around, help you out, tell you what to do.”
I raise an eyebrow at her and she waves it off.
“Joking, of course. I don’t get to order you around.” Natalie pauses to chuckle. “Funny, huh? Never thought when you read my script, we’d be paired up in rehab years later.” She snubs her cigarette out and gives me a light punch on the shoulder. “You’ll figure the other pairs out, except for Bran. He’s not like us. He’s not here, like, in rehab, but he’s hangs out all the time, you know?”
I shake my head, so she continues. “He’s a peer model or something. He’s been clean for two years, but every so often he comes back inside to help the rest of us schlubs out. Or so he says.” Natalie turns her head to the Spanish style building and licks her lips. “And let me tell you, Brandon fucking Williams can counsel me any time, you know what I mean?”
The sexual innuendo sets something off within me. It’s not a good something, though, it’s more like a creepy ti
ckling sensation deep in my belly that crawls up into my chest. Bran Williams is hot, and I think every female in the world has had at least one errant sexual thought of appreciation or fantasy about him, but just thinking of someone that way makes me feel sick right now, so I get up off the chair. “I saw the TV in the rec room; I’m going to go watch it. I think it’s almost time for Locker’s Confidential.”
“God,” she says as she rolls her eyes. “Why do you want you want to watch that trash?”
“Because I think I might be on it today.”
I go in, without waiting for her to follow. Once inside, I see a few people, but no one’s watching television. I don’t even bother to figure out who is in the room with me; I just flip on the television and change the channel to Locker’s Confidential.
A reporter I’ve never seen before is on and talks about the latest scoop on some reality star’s soon-to-be-born baby. After fifteen minutes of fluff and gossip, I perk up when I see a publicity still from Keep in Mind.
“That’s right. Adra Willows has finally resurfaced. Her publicist has confirmed the Academy Award winning actress has checked herself into a San Clemente rehab facility. The spokesperson for Willows also verified Adra spent the last four months in New York City facing some pretty serious issues with drug addiction.
“So there’s the answer to some of the questions her hasty and mysterious departure from Hollywood has left us with, but a few still remain. How will this affect the talented actress? Will she be able to kick her addictions and rise to the top again, or will she be like so many other child stars and let fame and fortune defeat her? Only she has those answers, and we here at Locker’s Confidential assure you, as soon as she’s ready to speak out, we’ll bring you all the latest in the Adra Willow saga.”
The television screen goes dark, and I look around to see who did it. Hovering above the couch is Bran Williams. Despite being more than ten years older than me, he still contains the look of youth. He’s one of those guys that seem to exist outside of time. I remember being fifteen and watching one of his music videos and nearly drooling over his thick, tattooed neck, his thick, black nerd glasses, and his thick, strong chest and arms that stretched the black jersey fabric of his T-shirt.
He looks the same now, but my first reaction isn’t to drool over him. My first reaction is to back away. He’s big, like superhero big, and intimidating as hell.
When he drops the remote back onto the couch, he finally smiles. “I hate those shitty shows. They make mountains out of molehills and refuse to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Yeah,” I manage to choke out. “I just wanted to see what the buzz was on me.”
Bran rounds the sofa and sits down at the opposite end. “The buzz is nothing more than gossip. Are you glutton for punishment, or are you one of those chicks who dig that kind of attention?”
It rankles me that he even asks. I am not Lili, who loves media attention of any kind, and while I want to know what they’re saying about me, I don’t get off on all the press. “No.”
It comes out defensive and childish; so much so that he holds up his hands as if to placate me, before he chuckles. “Okay, tiger, but saying it like that makes me think it’s not the truth.”
Brandon Williams is, apparently, an asshole. “Well, it’s not.”
“No?” Bran leans in and raises an eyebrow. “Then why is it you’re checking the tabloid shows within the first few hours of entering rehab? Maybe you need a detox from all that Hollywood shit.”
“How would you know what I need?” My words come out, dull and bored. Just because this guy has two years under his belt, doesn’t mean he’s a sage motherfucker or an expert. I don’t have to listen to a word this fool says.
He chuckles again, but this time it’s full of self-confidence and pretentiousness. “We’re not unique, you know.”
I think about this for a moment and realize he’s right, but I don’t need to be called out like that. “I’m not upset that I’m not a special little snowflake. I’m okay with the fact that I’m just average, but what about you? Aren’t you from a band that flamed out eons ago?”
“Oh, I like you, newbie. I like you a lot, but just remember I said we’re, as we are; as in the both of us, all of us.” He draws a large, flat circle in the air with his index finger; I assume to indicate everyone in the building. “You think I didn’t check the papers, magazines, and TV for my name or face when I first got sober? I can’t even tell you how many shits I gave about what people were saying. Hell, I wanted them to see I was so bad I had to get my hardcore ass into rehab.”
“I’m not hardcore.”
“No shit, but you’ve got a taste for the Hollywood drama, and being a bad girl can bring more drama than most people can handle. Drama brings relevance, and being dramatic is easier than earning your place in the collective narrative.”
I look at this dude like he’s from another planet. “Who the fuck are you to be—”
“I’m Brandon Williams, and I fucking invented the shit you’re going through now. And when I say we’re not unique, I mean it. Even nobodies from Podunk, USA get clean for a few days and then let themselves fall back into their old traps.”
His intensity and presumption is starting to piss me off. It’s not like he’s angry; he’s just using his hardcore persona to try to scare me into believing he holds the secrets to the universe. “I’m not falling into—”
Again, he holds up a big hand to halt my words. “You’ve mistakenly thought you’re in rehab for drugs and alcohol only, but you need to flip your thoughts around and realize you’re in here to detox from all of the Hollywood junk that’s infected you.”
I fold my arms around my torso as I shift away from this confrontational asshole. “Infected me?”
“Yeah, like a fucking disease, and you’ve got it worse than other people since you grew up with it. You can’t see it as a disease just yet because it’s normal to you. It’s all you’ve ever known.”
I guess he’s going to be one of those wizened old has-beens saying crazy sage riddles, but I don’t have the time for that or the desire to figure them out. “What? What do I think is normal?”
He extends his finger, and pokes me in the shoulder. When he speaks next, the combative tone is gone. “I don’t know you, kid, but since I’ve known Hollywood starlets,” again with those damn air quotes like Natalie just used. “I’ll take a stab at it. This whole withering look you’ve got going seems to indicate you’re under the assumption that to be a good actress you have to have less than five percent body fat. That’s wrong, by the way, good actresses come in all shapes and sizes. But the disease makes you crave conformity, and while skinny women continue to be exalted as the epitome of feminine success, the disease makes you want it, even though you’re smarter than that.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Nope, but like I said, we’re not unique, so I know many people like you. You think the only way you’ll achieve any lasting success is by doing stuff you don’t really want to do, and because you don’t really want to do it, it’s easier to do it when you’re fucked up. That’s where the drugs and alcohol come in. You used them to medicate the disease, not to cure it, to numb it. It’s easier to continue being someone you’re not under the influence than it is to stand up and be authentically you and face the judgment of not just your peers, but in our cases, the whole world.”
“How can you possibly think that you know all of that?”
Now that I’m facing him again, I can see how the smile grows on his face. It’s not a happy one though. It holds a little bit of sadness, a little bit of sorrow, and a little bit of resignation, like he really has seen it all.
“Because I fight against all of that every day. I may not be a movie star, but there are similar expectations placed on musicians. I didn’t have to be skinny to be successful; I had to be hypersexual. I just had to give up my identity in order to sell more records. The more the tabloids saw how hard I partied with or witho
ut the band, the more people wanted to hear our music.”
I raise an eyebrow and place a purposeful smirk on my lips. “I thought all guys wanted to plant their seed in all the fertile soil they could find.”
Bran wags his finger at me and clucks his tongue. “Now think about that one. Think about those men in your life who didn’t try to exploit you. Think about the men in your life who don’t fit that bill. Sure, I had a young man’s appetite, but it became greatly exaggerated over the years. As you probably know, drugs like cocaine helped me become more sexual and they numbed my thinking long enough for me to achieve success according the expectations of the industry.”
“So you’re blaming the music industry for being a slut.”
“No. That choice was mine. I’m blaming the industry for projecting the image that all rock stars are sluts.”
I want to push him away. I want to punch the asshole, but, all I do is fold my hands in my lap. What he said is true. I wish it wasn’t, but it is. I thought I had a handle on my issues and my victim mentality, but I never really resolved to do anything different beyond make my own decisions, and all that ended up doing was showing me that even when people weren’t controlling me, I still chose the same stuff they would’ve chosen for me.
“You know, courage is being yourself every day when the world tells you to be someone else. That’s the statement that made me truly hardcore. When I realized I can still make music, still go on tours, still make fans scream my name all while being authentic, I became the rebel I wanted to be. Who knew that not conforming to the punk scene was the revolution?”
His frank words and call out stay with me throughout my first day, and I think they’ll be with me well beyond this stint in rehab. As I go through the day, I begin to recognize that while the chemicals have left my body, I have some work to do to get over the mental addiction. While I come to think the confrontation with Bran was necessary and ultimately meaningful, the aggression of the conversation triggers thoughts of getting high. I spend a half hour working on an elaborate plan to break out of this luxurious prison, buying some coke and floating off into the clouds.
