Ghosted

by J. M. Darhower

  “Why do you put up with that?”

  “Because he’s good at what he does,” I say. “And because I signed a contract agreeing to do whatever he tells me.”

  “How long is your contract for?”

  “It renews every year.”

  “How do you un-renew it?”

  “That’s not even a real word.”

  “Oh, just answer the question, asshole.”

  “I send a certified letter saying I’m not renewing.”

  He nods, setting the paper aside. “I’ll keep that in mind for when you start bitching to me that you haven’t slept in six months.”

  “You do that,” I say. “Thanks, Jack.”

  I leave, making the trek to the hotel a few blocks away, managing to avoid any crowds. Stepping into the lobby, a loud disruption catches my attention, coming from the bar. Serena sits there, surrounded by people, socializing. She has a drink in her hand, empty shot glasses on the bar in front of her, so there’s no question it’s alcohol.

  Tomorrow, on set, she’s going to be hell.

  I turn away, knowing talking to her is a lost cause, when a flash catches my eye across the lobby. A man is snapping photos, a man I recognize—the one from Hollywood Chronicles.

  “Hey!” I start toward him as he moves through the lobby to leave. “Hey, you! Hold up!”

  The guy doesn’t stop, going straight outside.

  I catch up to him on the sidewalk out front, trying to get his attention, but he isn’t paying attention. Seriously? The vultures circle me every damn day trying to get me to talk, but the one time I have something to say, the jackass runs?

  I fist his shirt and yank him to a stop before shoving him against the side of the building, pinning him there. He looks stunned, raising an eyebrow. “That’s assault.”

  “And what you’re doing is harassment.”

  “I’m just doing my job,” he says. “Not my problem you don’t like that my job includes taking pictures of you glaring at your drunk wife surrounded by men.”

  “I told you I didn’t have a wife.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not what your people tell me.”

  I start to say I don’t care what people tell him, before it strikes me how he worded that. “My people? Where are you getting your information?”

  “Sorry, buddy, but I’m taking that to the grave,” he says. “I swore my secrecy on the dotted line a long time ago. No going back on that. My sources are confidential.”

  He doesn’t realize it, but as he says that, he just confirmed what I’ve been suspecting for a while. No PR is bad PR. That's Cliff's motto. He invented Johnny Cunning that morning sitting in his office, a character I agreed to play, and I've been giving him the performance of a lifetime without even realizing every moment of my existence has been scripted.

  “How’s my little snowflake doing?”

  “The best!” Madison says, her excited voice rattling the speakerphone. I tried to FaceTime her, but she refused, saying I couldn’t see her costume until show time. “Are you on your way now to come home?”

  “Not yet, but soon,” I say, sitting in Jazz’s chair in the Hair & Makeup trailer, getting ready for the last day of filming. “I have to finish my work first.”

  “But you’ll be there?”

  “I promised, didn’t I?”

  “But promise again.”

  “I promise I’ll be there.”

  “Okay, Daddy!” she says. “Bye!”

  “Wait, Madison, don’t hang up! I want to—” CLICK “—talk to your mother.”

  Jazz laughs as I let out a sigh.

  She hung up on me.

  Opening my texts, I send a quick message to Kennedy. Madison hung up before I could tell you I love you, so this is me, telling you I love you.

  Does it really count as telling me if it’s being texted?

  I send her back the emoji of the little yellow guy shrugging.

  Well, in that case, I love you, too.

  I stare at my phone.

  I read that message over and over.

  My fucking heart is battering my ribcage as I text her back. Do you really mean that?

  Her response comes right away.

  The emoji of the yellow lady shrugging.

  I want to continue the conversation, but the mood is disrupted when the trailer door yanks open and Serena storms in with her scrambling assistant. Cliff is behind them, nobody looking happy this morning. Serena wasn’t around for pickup, and there was no answer in her room, so Cliff stayed behind at the hotel to find her.

  Serena drops down into a makeup chair nearby, big sunglasses shielding her eyes. The stench of alcohol clings to her, making my nose twitch.

  “I am so not in the mood for this,” she says. “I don’t see why we can’t delay it. It’s one day.”

  “They don't have one day,” Cliff says. “They delayed it already too much because of Johnny.”

  “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” she grumbles, swinging the chair to face me. “It’s always all about Johnny.”

  “Well, he is the star,” Jazz says.

  Serena scoffs, still looking at me. “Why don’t you go ask them to postpone it until tomorrow? I bet they’ll do it for you.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Figures,” Serena mutters as she takes her sunglasses off and turns to gaze in the mirror, leaning closer to examine herself. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin sweaty, sickly pale. “Nobody ever cares how I feel.”

  I know she’s taking a swipe at me with that, but I let it slide.

  I get up to leave when Jazz is finished with me, about to slip my phone away, when I catch a glimpse of the screen, seeing two new texts from Kennedy.

  (I mean it)

  (I love you)

  I want to stand here forever, absorbing those words. I want to bask in them, soak them up, but I don’t have time to dwell. After going through wardrobe, putting on the suit for possibly the last time, I head to my personal trailer to steal a few minutes alone, hearing muffled yelling coming from Hair & Makeup. Serena is flipping out about something, and Cliff’s trying to calm her down.

  Her assistant paces around outside, so frustrated she's crying.

  Once I’m in my trailer, I call Jack. It rings, and rings, and rings, and I’m about to give up when he finally answers. “Holy shit, man, it’s not even eight yet! What could you possibly need at this hour? Bacon?”

  “I need you to come to the set.”

  “Where’s the set?”

  “Jersey.”

  “New Jersey?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “But I don’t like New Jersey.”

  He’s whining.

  I give him the address and tell him to be here by noon before hanging up and setting my phone down on a table. I make my way out onto set at call time, but Serena is running late again.

  She puts us thirty minutes behind.

  It’s a long morning—take after take, screw up after screw up. I’m getting frustrated, while Serena’s close to having a breakdown. I think, as I watch her make a mess of it all, that this must’ve been what it was like to deal with me over the years.

  “Cut!” the AD yells, and half a dozen people groan when he adds, “Let’s take a ten minute break to clear our heads.”

  Right away, Serena stomps over to Cliff, the two of them having a heated exchange before he pulls her into her trailer. Jazz approaches me, making a motion, tapping her nostril like she’s snorting something.

  Jazz isn’t far off the mark, because Serena has a hell of a lot more pep when she resurfaces.

  “You're high,” I tell her. Not a question now, because I know.

  Instead of being angry, Serena grins, pressing her hand to my chest. “You want some?”

  “Are you crazy?” I grab her wrist and pull her hand away. “You just overdosed last month.”

  “Shut up,” she hisses, yanking from my grasp. “Nobody knows about that. Cliff promised—”

  “That
he’d keep it a secret? Maybe he will, but that's not the point. You need help, Ser. You need back in rehab.”

  She glares at me. "I told you I was fine. I can handle it.”

  “Need I remind you again that you overdosed?”

  “That has nothing to do with the damn coke,” she growls. “So, what, I swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills and took a nap. Get off my ass about it.”

  Whoa. What the fuck? “You did it on purpose?”

  “I was tired,” she says. “I'm over it. It'll never happen again.”

  We’re called for the scene before I can respond. A few more takes, that’s all we need, but I’m struggling to stay focused after what Serena told me, while she's bouncing off the goddamn walls. Over and over and over, we go through it, before we finally manage to get it finished.

  That’s a wrap.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone around me cheers. I try to go after Serena, to talk to her, but Cliff gets in my way, saying, “Congratulations.”

  I eye him warily as Serena escapes to her trailer. “Thanks.”

  “You don’t look happy,” he says. “Going to miss the suit?”

  I shrug. I think I actually might. I won’t miss the stress of trying to stay sober while surrounded by temptation, night after night, but I’m going to miss putting on the suit, miss playing the character that changed my life.

  “Just bittersweet,” I tell him.

  “I bet,” he says, smacking me on the back. “But there are plenty more opportunities in your future, Johnny. Since you can't make today’s four o’clock, the producer wants to see you in thirty minutes, so head over to wardrobe and meet us in your trailer.” He starts to walk away, but hesitates. “Oh, by the way, security told me earlier that some guy showed up, claiming to be your assistant.”

  “Already? What time is it?”

  “It’s almost one o’clock,” he says. “Are you telling me you actually hired someone?”

  My heart drops.

  I shove past Cliff, ignoring him as he calls for me, wanting his question answered. I head straight for security, spotting Jack standing along the side with a guard, looking somewhere between disturbed and amused.

  “Strangest shit I’ve ever witnessed in Jersey,” Jack says, looking me over. “And that’s saying something, because I once saw a chimpanzee roller skating, and that was weird as fuck.”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment, even though I know it isn’t one,” I say, grabbing his arm and making him follow me. It’s about a two-and-a-half hour drive to Bennett Landing, but I barely have two hours. “Please tell me you drove.”

  Before he can respond, I hear Cliff shouting as he follows. “Johnny! Where are you going?”

  “Oh, buddy.” Jack glances behind us at Cliff. “Am I your getaway driver?”

  “Something like that,” I say. “You ever play Grand Theft Auto?”

  “Every fucking day, man.”

  “Good,” I say, continuing to walk, despite Cliff attempting to catch up. “If you can get me where I need to be, there will be one hell of a reward in it for you.”

  His eyes light up as he pulls out a set of car keys. “Mission accepted.”

  There’s a crowd gathered around set. They figured out we’re here. They know we’re wrapping today. I scan the area, looking for a way around them.

  “Where’d you park?” I ask, hoping it’s anywhere but right across the street.

  “Right across the street,” he says.

  Fuck.

  I’m going to have to go through the crowd.

  “You sure you, uh, don’t want to change?” Jack asks, his eyes flickering to me, conflicted.

  “No time for that.”

  The crowd spots me, and they start going crazy, making Cliff yell louder to get my attention, but I don’t stop. I slip off of set, past the metal barricades and right into the street, as security tries to keep the crowd back, but it’s a losing game. So we run, and I follow Jack to an old station wagon, the tan paint faded.

  “This is what you drive?”

  “Not all of us grew up with trust funds,” he says, slapping his hand against the rusted hood. “This was my inheritance.”

  “Not judging,” I say, pausing beside it. “It’s just all very ‘70s suburban housewife.”

  “That sounds like judgment, asshole.”

  I open the passenger door to get in the car when Cliff catches up, slightly out of breath from running. “What are you doing, Johnny? You’re leaving?”

  “I told you I had somewhere to be.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he says, anger edging his voice. “You need to sort out your priorities.”

  “That’s a damn good idea,” I say. “Consider this my notice.”

  “Your notice?”

  “I’m taking a break,” I say. “From you. From this. From all of it.”

  “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “You think so?” I ask, looking him right in the face. “Because I think the mistake I made was trusting you.”

  I get in the car, slamming the door, leaving Cliff standing on the sidewalk, fuming.

  Jack starts the engine, cutting his eyes at me. “So, where to? The unemployment office?”

  “Home,” I say, “and I need to get there as soon as possible, because somebody is waiting for me, and I can't disappoint her.”

  The only clock in the small one-bedroom apartment glows blue from the old microwave on the kitchen counter. The numbers are fuzzy, and it often loses time, a few minutes every now and then, like it sometimes forgets to keep counting.

  It reads 6:07 PM when I leave. (Yes, me. This part of the story is all mine. There's no denying it.) I’m not sure what time it really is, but around twelve hours have passed since you spoke those bitter words. It took half a day for me to gather the courage to walk out, knowing once I did, I wouldn’t be back. I spent most of those hours staring at the door, waiting for it to open, for you to walk back in, for you to tell me you didn’t mean it.

  I tear a piece of paper from the back of my notebook and stare at the blank lines, lines that were meant to hold so much more of our story.

  Goodbye.

  That’s all I write. There are a million things I want to write, but I keep those words locked up tight. I leave the note on the kitchen counter, beside that microwave. I take only a few things, shoving some clothes and mementos in my backpack, before I go to the train station. I need time to think.

  Three days later, I arrive in New York, no longer the lovesick seventeen-year-old girl that ran away with a boy all those years ago. I’m a heartbroken twenty-one-year-old woman now, one that doesn’t know where to call home.

  The taxi drops me off along the curb in front of the two-story white house in Bennett Landing. I pay the driver every last penny in my pocket. I’m queasy, and exhausted, and I want to cry but the tears won’t fall.

  Snow is falling, though. The world outside feels icy cold. My jacket is thin, and I'm shivering. The sun was still shining back in California.

  As the taxi pulls away, the front door of the house opens. My father steps out onto the porch and stands there in silence. He’s not surprised. He knew I was coming.

  “Kennedy? Is that you?” My mother bursts out of the house and hugs me. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

  Her excitement makes me lightheaded. Haze coats my vision.

  She drags me into the house, straight past my father, who still says nothing, yet his eyes say enough. My mother wants to chat. I just want to stop feeling like I’m about to pass out. “Can I lay down somewhere?”

  “Of course, sweetheart,” she says. “You know where your room is.”

  My room is just how I left it, except the bed is freshly made. They expected me, and not just on some ‘you’ll come crawling back someday’ level. Someone warned them.

  I get under the covers, pulling them over my head, trying to find some warmth again. I don't want to think about who that 'someone' must be.

>   Another three days pass. I don’t move unless I have to. I’m sick, and I’m weak, and my mother keeps checking up on me, bringing bottles of water and forcing me to eat crackers and smoothing my hair and telling me it’ll be okay, doing all those things a mother does for her child. And I love her, and I know she does it because she loves me, but I want to scream at her, because how is it possible to love someone so unconditionally? How can she look at me and smile and be so happy that I’m here, that I exist, when she has every reason in the world to be angry for the trouble I’ve caused? All the sleepless nights she endured, all the stress and worry…

  “How far along are you?” she asks that third night when she finds me curled up on the bathroom floor. Her voice is gentle as she sits down beside me.

  I just look at her.

  She smiles softly. “A mother knows.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I open my mouth to say no, because talking is the last thing I want to do. But the denial dies on my lips and comes out as a sob, and once it starts, I can’t stop. She pulls me to her, and I lay my head in her lap as I cry. And words spill out of me along with the tears, all the struggling and fighting, the lies and the broken promises, the resentment that grew when he got swept up in the hurricane and left me behind to battle the storm.

  “He’s been calling here,” she says. “Drunk. Your father answered the first call. He wanted to know if we’d heard from you. Said he came home and you were gone, so he thought you might come here. And he kept calling back, but your father didn't answer again until tonight… when he told him if he knew what was good for him, he’d stop.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” she says. “I know what it feels like. Your dad’s the greatest man I know, but he was a terrible drunk. It changes people, and that doesn’t excuse anything, but it means there’s hope. They can get better, but you can’t change them. They have to want to change.”

  “He doesn’t want to.”

  “Maybe not,” she says. “Or maybe not yet. It took your dad a while. But no matter what he did, I knew I had to look out for myself… and for my kid. And I have no doubt you’ll do the same, because you’re my daughter.”