After the second party, I didn’t come home until the next day. I walked in, figuring I’d find them there, all panicked and calling the police, but I didn’t hear anything. So. Fine. It was the weekend; maybe they were sleeping in. I could just sneak into my room and go to bed, but the entire effort would have been wasted.
Instead I re-created a moment of stumbling in so I could find out where I’d have landed, and then gently face-planted between the foyer and the great room, making sure for my own sake to land my upper body on the rug.
I was there so long I actually did fall asleep, but when I woke up, nothing had happened and no one was around. I got up, investigated, and discovered I’d been alone in the house all along—they’d left a note in the kitchen saying they were going to the Farmers Market, and to enjoy my sleep-in.
They were either much denser than I thought, or they figured I was going through a phase that they should simply ignore.
Or they didn’t care.
Fast-forward to now. A Friday night. I am sitting at my 1940s mirrored deco vanity supposedly once owned by Ava Gardner (my mom is a sucker for these kinds of pieces—they make her feel more famous by association) using tequila as perfume.
I choke some of the burning stuff down my throat—do not ask me to eat the worm; what is wrong with people?—pour some on my shirt, and then rub my made-up eyes until they’re itchy and red. Finally I purposely neglect to brush my teeth and go to bed in my clothes.
It’s hard work, becoming a drunk. It’s exhausting.
But surely it will all be worth it, and I know I’ll have a chance to rest up once I get to Sunrise. And who knows, the whole thing might set off an unprecedented show of parental concern, affection, consternation, guilt-driven buying of designer shoes, et cetera.
At best I will soon be poolside in Malibu with beautiful Wade Miller pouring his heart out to me, while bouncing quarters off my butt cheeks, of course.
Morning comes and I feel disgusting and smelly enough to pull it off.
I tiptoe out of my room and down the hallway of my wing of the house, then peek around the corner. Elise is there in the kitchen, gazing out at the ocean and making coffee in the French press, which means Mom is still in bed.
Perfect.
I slip behind the kitchen, down the opposite hallway, and pause outside the bedroom door to think a bunch of sad thoughts and drum up some tears, but despite my belief in method acting, my genuine sadness about a lot of things, and inherited talent for melodrama, I’m nervous and they won’t come.
Fine. Try acting, as the saying goes. I take a deep breath and jam a thumb in each eye, which freaking hurts, and enter the room with a stifled sob.
“M-Mom?”
She moans.
“Mom. I—I need you.”
Her striking green eyes open, just a slit.
“It’s early, Lola. You know I don’t do ‘need’ until I’ve had my coffee.”
She doesn’t really do “need” at all, I’m starting to realize, but I refrain from pointing that out. She’s going to do it today.
“BUT I—I—I REALLY NEED YOU!” I wail, and throw myself onto the bed.
“Oh my! Uh…”
“PLEASE…I don’t want to go to Dad about this but I—I…”
She sits bolt upright. If she had any idea the state of things between Dad and me, she’d know I was bluffing, but I haven’t told her about our falling-out. I haven’t told anyone. Plus, she hates hearing anything about him, so she doesn’t ask.
“Lola, calm down. Please just calm down.”
I channel inconsolable, then topple myself onto her lap, making sure to breathe in her face on the way.
She flinches. “My God, Lola, you…you smell! And once again, you look disgusting.”
“I—I—I know,” I say, with a long moan.
“Okay, okay,” she says and pats feebly at my back.
“I’ve hit…I’ve hit rock bottom, Mom.”
“Rock bottom?”
“I can’t hide it anymore. I’ve been…I mean I have a…a…”
“Yes…?”
“I’ve been drinking,” I say, looking her full in the eyes. “I’m so ashamed but…I’ve been drinking and I think…I think I have a problem.”
(I have been drinking and I do have a problem. Just not a drinking problem.)
“A problem?” She lets out a great sigh. “Oh, Lola.”
“I’m s-so s-sorry. It’s…I can’t control it, I feel like I can’t control it. I’m so scared, Mom.”
“Shh, I’m sure it’s not so bad,” she says. “It’s not like you’re Lindsay Lohan.”
“Oh, but I could be! I just know I’m going to end up one of those stereotypical Hollywood kids who’re getting busted and photographed stumbling out of clubs without their underwear at three in the morning,” I say, and see her growing pale. “Mom, I don’t want to do that to you; I don’t want to do that to your career. I know it would reflect badly on you, but I can’t stop. I’ve tried and I can’t…” I say, and then throw myself back down on the bed and sob convulsively.
It’s an awesome performance, if I do say so myself.
Mom gets up, paces to her mirror and back, and shushes me a few times.
“We’ll have to get you some help,” she says. “Please calm down, Lola. We’ll get you some help. You can…see a counselor and perhaps join AA.”
I keep my face down to hide my frustrated expression, and wail, “Not AA!”
“You’ve asked for my help, and I’m going to help you. But you’ll have to do as I say.”
“I’ll try,” I say, ready to roll out the reverse psychology. “But please…whatever you do, don’t…don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
“Please don’t send me to rehab.”
Three days later, I’m on my way to Southern California’s hottest rehab facility for teenage addicts and delinquents.
I love it when I get my way.
Mom and Elise have been super sweet and very attentive while I stayed in bed faking my physical withdrawal. There have been cold cloths for my forehead, plates of fruit and buttered toast with the crusts cut off, gourmet caramel, hot chocolate with marshmallows—quite a pleasant change from the benign neglect I’m accustomed to.
Sydney called again once before I staged the intervention, so she knew I was trying to make it happen. She said Wade was looking better, but she didn’t seem to have been making any effort to get to know him, so she didn’t have any real details. Perhaps I should be grateful for that, actually. Anyway, she hasn’t called since then, so she has no idea I’ve finally succeeded. Possibly she’s too busy doing yoga and getting massages, and/or has given up on my coming.
All that lying around in bed gave me plenty of time to think about how to deal with Wade when I first see him, and also about what to pack. My stuff from Forever 21, et cetera, conveniently arrived yesterday, and it’s all perfect rehab-wear—casual, stylish, a little bohemian, and slightly subdued. Well, subdued for me. I’m calling the look “rehab chic.” After this, I might start a line of clothing—it’s a pretty good niche market and I don’t think anyone else is doing it.
I’ve also packed my never-used yoga mat and Lululemon ensembles, all my new bathing suits plus another bikini, the Fat-Ass Ray-Bans, the Miu Mius, lots of sunscreen, and dark chocolate. I’ve got Pink’s “Sober” and Eminem’s Recovery on my phone and I’ve memorized the alcoholic’s prayer. (“The courage to change the things I can.” I’m coming, Wade.)
So. Rehab.
As we get closer, I feel a teeny, tiny bit guilty and nervous about the whole thing.
But it’s been a lot of work getting this far, and it would be a shame to waste it, not to mention I’d rather eat mud than confess to Mom and Elise, not to mention they would never understand about Wade and my gut feeling that I am meant to do this.
Rehab it is. I am committed.
We arrive at the tall iron gates of the Spanish Colonial–style mansion and find an in
teresting surprise: paparazzi. Only two, but they are unmistakable with their camera equipment and in-your-face-ness.
Elise, riding shotgun, turns to look at my mother.
“Jules, darlin’…?”
“Mm?” Mom says as she pulls up next to the intercom.
“Who’s there?” asks a voice.
“Jules Carlyle with daughter, Lola,” Mom says in her lilting TV voice and then tucks a perfectly blown-out strand of strawberry-blond hair behind her ear and glances at the two guys who’ve walked up beside us to snap pictures through the open window. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was posing.
“We’ll buzz you in right now,” says the voice through the intercom.
I wait for her to tell them we have company, to ask them to send security to get rid of them, but all she does is roll up her window and drive through when the gates open, which means the vultures walk right in with us.
“Ah, Mom…?”
“Oh, Jules.” Elise is frowning. “You didn’t.”
She did—tip off the photographers herself, that is—I know she did. A bit sad from a mother-daughter perspective, not to mention a personal history perspective, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I fake my way into rehab; my mom calls the paps to document my arrival. Welcome to show business.
“Rehab costs money,” Mom says with a shrug. “And I make money being famous.”
“You make money being an actor,” Elise says.
“Same thing. I stay famous, I stay employed.”
“Excuse me,” I say from the backseat. “I’m a tad traumatized here already without having to worry about this moment being posted on TMZ.”
“Sorry, dear,” Mom says.
Oh man. Suddenly the trouble I could be in if I get caught is bigger and more public than I bargained for. Maybe I should have gotten addicted for real.
“You could have warned me at least,” I say. “I’d have prepared myself better, worn more makeup.”
“This is not about you,” Mom says.
“Uh, hello? I’m the one going to rehab.”
“Listen, Miss Alcoholic—your father isn’t exactly paying enough to keep us in the beach house or you in your three-hundred-dollar jeans. I’m the one.”
“Oh my God, Mom, please, not the beach-house-expensive-jeans speech. It’s not my fault people only send free stuff to you and Elise.”
“Nothing is free, Lola. Keep that in mind. And listen, I’ve been killed and brought back to life three times already. How many more lives do you think the network will give me? I’m old. I’m old and therefore I need publicity. Just be happy we’re interesting enough for them to send anyone. As it is, there are just two of them. I’m almost insulted.”
Mom is only thirty-five, actually, but it’s a cruel, precarious business she’s in, and she knows it. We all know it.
“Fine,” I say.
“Now,” she says, putting the car into park, “keep your mouth closed, try not to trip, and don’t start sweating or you’ll look shiny.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“And for heaven’s sake, take off those sunglasses.”
It’s steaming hot out, but I do my best not to sweat and at the same time to look the typical chastened celebu-spawn (entitled yet insecure, stylish yet lazy, glamorous, desperate, bored, damaged, possibly dumb but more likely underachieving) as we get out of the car. Elise pulls my two large suitcases out of the trunk and Mom stands in a protective pose, her arm over my shoulders and the “good” side of her face tilted perfectly so the photographers can get their shots and shout questions they know we won’t answer.
“Please, please,” she says, voice suddenly husky, “some privacy for our family during this difficult time.”
Click, snap, click…
I stand there, stomach churning with nerves, imagining the photo—Mom standing willowy and tragic, me next to her, not willowy, probably not tragic enough for her standards, but with the exact same coloring—pale skin, strawberry-blond hair, green eyes. I hate it. And I wonder what Dad will think when he sees this. Because he will see it.
Finally we start to move toward the large arched doorway at the front of the mansion. On the threshold, Mom pauses again. Bulbs are flashing, there are tears in her eyes, and from somewhere in her handbag, she whips out a soft, fuzzy thing and presses it into my arms.
I look down. Oh, please. It’s a pink teddy bear.
I never liked bears and I’m not into pink.
Not to mention, I am seventeen, not seven.
Imagine how this could mess me up if I really were an alcoholic.
Inside, the air is cool with a hint of lavender and I hear the tinkling of falling water. We are in a beautiful two-story circular foyer with marble floors and columns, double spiral staircases with wrought iron banisters, an inlaid Spanish tile fountain, and one of those giant circular iron chandeliers—the kind you might imagine Zorro (or Wade, or Wade as Zorro—he would be very cute in the cape and mask and even the mustache) swinging from in the middle of a dramatic rescue.
Cape or no cape, every cell in my body is aware I might see him at any moment, and I am filled with a mix of excitement and worry.
“Here,” I say to Mom, and hand the teddy bear back to her.
She takes it without comment and puts it back in her purse.
Suddenly a gorgeous man with coffee-colored skin and perfectly coiffed black hair appears in front of us, teeth blazing.
“Welcome. I am Dr. Valente Koch, program director for the Sunrise Center.”
The three of us say hello, and then Dr. Koch does a bunch of deep-voiced hand-kissing and looking fascinated while both my mom and Elise blush, giggle, and generally fall all over themselves, making me want to remind them that, hello? They are supposed to be lesbians.
The next thing I know, we’re following Dr. Koch down a hallway and into a large room.
“My study,” he says with a faux-humble wave.
The study is resplendent in gold and iron statuary and draped in silk. Behind an antique desk that looks like it doesn’t see much action in the way of real work is a gallery of framed photos, all of Koch with his arm slung over the shoulders of various celebrities.
Aha.
“Please, sit,” he says, and ushers us over to a brown leather swallower of a couch in front of a massive fireplace. “I would offer you ladies a drink, but under the circumstances…”
My mom actually laughs.
He slides onto a throne-like chair across from us, careful not to crease his pants.
“I wanted to reassure you that you are safe inside these walls, Miss Carlyle. And of course, I will be taking a particular interest in your case.”
“Why a particular interest?”
“We are known for our excellent program, of course. Our philosophy of healing the soul and body simultaneously through physical therapies and creative outlets is groundbreaking. However”—he gives me a knowing look—“we are also experts at treating a category of people who have…unique needs.”
Interesting. My needs are definitely unique, but probably not in the way he means.
“That’s very reassuring to me as a mother, Dr. Koch,” Mom says, launching into her daytime TV dramatics, voice trembling, eyes wide. “I’ve done my best for Lola, but this whole thing makes me feel like I’ve failed her in some way. I want to save her, but I can’t save her from herself.”
She certainly can’t.
“On the contrary,” says Koch. “You have saved her. You have brought her to me.”
Mom bows her head as if awaiting the Crown of Motherhood.
Dr. Koch looks ready to bestow it.
I close my eyes and think of Wade. Wade lost and tripping over his feet his first day on set, and then a few days later after I’d shown him the ropes, singing, dancing, and acting up a storm, slaying his first zombie, so talented, so cute it nearly killed me, and after the day wrapped, coming at me with eyes brimming and wrapping me in a massive hug. These memories are
familiar and worn, like a favorite T-shirt. But soon I’ll have new ones, and a deeper bond. Soon he’ll be right in front of me.
“Miss Carlyle?”
I snap to attention. “What was that?”
“I was explaining our philosophy and about the Level System.”
“Yes. Sorry.” Sydney mentioned the levels, actually. But all she said was, “Make sure you get a Level Three card.”
“Unlike many teen rehabilitation centers that are run like jails, you will have a sense of freedom here. We treat our patients with respect and use peer policing, which helps foster responsibility and social accountability. Yes, there are rules and a structure to each day, but within that structure you will have some choice, opportunities to increase your privileges, and overall, an experience of empowerment.”
“Empowerment.” I nod enthusiastically. “Sounds good.”
“Here is your level card.” Dr. Koch proffers a small plastic card that looks like a hotel key. “Since it’s your first week, you start at Level One, which means you may move freely within the building, but you need a Level Three patient or a staff member in order to go outside.”
I frown but take the key.
“Normally your access to the studios would also be restricted until next week when you reach Level Two, but I’ve modified your card. Coming from such a creative family, you surely need to express yourself artistically, and so you’ll have access immediately. The studios are equipped for music, performance, writing, visual arts, and so on.”
“Um…thanks. So this is a Level One card? Or a Level Two?”
Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance Page 3
