The movie is just about to start when I look up to see Wade standing over me.
“Anyone sitting here?” he asks, pointing to the spot Adam vacated.
“Yes,” Adam says, just as I say, “No.”
“I’m asking her, not you, dude,” Wade says to Adam, then looks back at me. “Well?”
“Have a seat,” I say to Wade, then glare over my shoulder at Adam, who glares back.
Wade sits down beside me.
“When you made that big speech at AA, I thought we’d lost you, Carlyle.”
“Yeah, well, apparently I’m still here,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
“Hey, we all freak out sometimes. Don’t feel bad about it.”
“Let me guess, you think I’m in denial?”
“You tell me.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m—”
“You two know each other?” It’s Adam, and he’s actually physically poked his head in between us from behind.
I say, “No.”
Wade says, “Yes.”
Adam says, “I see.”
“I worked on a film with her dad.”
“Years ago,” I add, mention of Dad giving me a little hoof in the solar plexus. “I was in it, too.”
“Yeah, her dad got tired of her causing trouble on set and put her to work.”
“I didn’t actually cause any trouble, he was just afraid I might.”
“You? I can’t imagine why,” Adam says.
“I did once use Channing Tatum’s trailer to play hide-and-seek and kind of scared the crap out of him. But I was only, like, ten and Channing wasn’t mad. Not that mad.”
Wade chuckles and Adam snorts.
“Anyway,” I say with a hard look at Adam before turning back to Wade, “no, I don’t think I’m in denial. But it appears not to matter what I think.”
The overhead lights dim.
Wade opens his mouth to say something and Adam makes a shushing sound and moves in closer behind me.
“What’s the movie?” I whisper.
“Don’t know,” Wade whispers back, and Adam gives me a nudge from behind.
I turn, glare at him. “Am I not allowed to have a conversation?”
“Watch the movie,” he says.
The movie turns out to be Leaving Las Vegas, all about Nicolas Cage’s character drinking himself to death. Nice. Here I thought we were getting a chance to relax, maybe watching an action flick or something funny, but no. After being tortured all day long with therapy and group family therapy, not to mention the almost-conversation with my dad, now I have to watch one of the saddest movies of all time.
I sigh from the bottom of my soul and brace myself for the agony.
The only bright spot is Wade sitting next to me. I am hyperaware of him, but also of Adam, which is weird and makes me self-conscious. A few minutes in, Wade’s knee touches mine, and I hold myself very still so as not to lose the connection. It’s like every nerve ending in my body has gone to my knee, like my entire being is there, waiting breathless in that one circular inch of contact.
Then Adam gets up for a popcorn refill and Wade leans over to whisper in my ear.
“Carlyle…”
“Yes?”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When can we hang out?”
“We’re hanging out now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Okay, yeah I do. But I don’t know. Apparently I have a freaking bodyguard now because everyone thinks I’m ‘high risk’ for running away or something.”
“You are at high risk of my kissing you.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now.”
“That’s insane,” I say, but he’s leaning in closer and I’m not moving away. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. I will.” His hand slides up my arm and he’s inches away, but it’s not nearly dark enough and there are people all around us. “You chicken?”
“To get kissed? Hardly.”
Wade’s lips are milliseconds from mine and I’m about to let him do it, consequences be damned, when at the last second his mouth veers away and instead his voice is in my ear. “Next time, Carlyle. I promise.”
And behind us, Adam’s knees crack as he sits down with his fresh bag of very loud popcorn.
Later, Adam insists on walking—more like stomping—back to the dorms with me.
“What’s the matter with you?” I ask him finally, and he stops so abruptly I almost trip over him.
“Me? More like what’s the matter with you?”
“What?”
“Whatever you’re doing,” he says, bringing his angry face close to mine, “you have to stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“I’m not blind, Lola.”
“I never said you were. What is it you think I’m doing?”
“If I say it, then I have to do something about it.”
“Do something—what does that mean? What do you think you’re going to do?”
“Just don’t make me say it,” he growls.
“Okay.”
“And don’t be doing it.”
“I can assure you, I’m not doing—”
“Stop it; I’m not stupid. Just stay out of trouble.”
“All right, all right. You don’t have to be such a dick about it.”
“I’m a dick?”
“I’m not saying you—”
“Oh no, you know who’s a dick? That guy. That guy is a total dick. And I don’t want him anywhere near you.”
“Oh…so it was supposed to be a date,” I say. “And now you’re jealous.”
“Jesus, Lola, you never stop, do you?”
“Do you really want me to?”
For an answer, he swears and stomps off.
Chapter Twenty-One
The anti-denial campaign continues on Sunday.
Most people have visitors, but since I don’t, I get yet another bonus therapy session where, against my will, I begin to tell Dr. Owens my life story.
I am spared group, but there’s no letup in the intensity. Presumably because the barrage of verbal/emotional tactics failed to extract a re-confession from me yesterday, Adam and Dr. Koch are trying something different. My day is now “enriched” with hot yoga, a drumming class, one-on-one meditation, one-on-one Vision, and lots of bickering with Adam in between.
Lunch is a tad depressing, what with the truckloads of visitors and everybody all excited. I eat quickly, then push back from the table.
“Where are you going?” Adam says. “I’m not finished.”
“Not my problem.”
He bites back a swear word, leaves his half-eaten lunch, and follows me out of the dining hall, up the stairs, and to the door of the lounge where I once again present my card, then go to the phone and pace back and forth in front of it.
“You gonna use that phone or just stare at it?”
“Feel free to go back and finish your lunch.”
“I would love to,” he says, not moving.
“Could you go outside, then? Like you did yesterday?”
“No,” he says grumpily. “I don’t think I will.”
“Fine.” I shrug and then, in one swift movement, plop down into the corner of the couch, grab the receiver, and dial.
I wait, shivering with nerves.
And then a click and a computerized voice, “This number is no longer in service.”
I hit end. Try another number.
Reach a confused-sounding Hispanic man.
Hit end. Try the first number again, just in case.
Nope.
Classic. All that effort to get my courage up, all these months thinking I could, potentially, pick up the phone and reach him at any time. Like I had the power. And all that time I didn’t even have his number anymore.
Of course, there is one more number, and no one in showbiz takes the weekend off…
I press grim lips together and dial.
/> “Ben Carlyle’s office.”
Bingo.
“Jo-Ellen?”
“That’s me. Who’s calling?”
“It’s, um—”
“Oh, hold please.”
I hold. Breathe through my nostrils. Watch the clock and the lounge-room door and avoid looking at Adam. After a full three minutes, she comes back on.
“All right now, who’s calling?”
“It’s Lola.”
“Lola?”
“Carlyle.”
“Good Lord. Well, this is a surprise.”
“Um, yeah. How are you these days?”
We make uncomfortable small talk, followed by an awkward pause. There’s no way she doesn’t know my dad and I haven’t been speaking and there’s also no way I’m talking to her about it. It’s bad enough that I need to have this conversation in front of Adam.
“So, I seem to have the wrong number for Dad’s cell. Probably one of those things where I’ve got the numbers reversed, or, you know, just typed it in wrong…”
“Is that so?” she says.
She’s going to make me ask. Worse, she might not give it to me.
“So, could you…”
“You want me to tell him you called?”
“No. I mean, sure, but…could you just give me the correct number?”
A pause. She may have to be polite, but Jo-Ellen hates me. Or thinks I’m a ridiculous, spoiled brat, anyway. And possibly in the past I may have been a bit rude to her, which was shortsighted, considering.
“Please, Jo-Ellen? He won’t be able to call me back here and I don’t have my cell.”
“He’s working.”
“It’s important.”
“Listen,” she says, her tone warming up slightly. “I heard about…where you are. It explains a lot. And you’re doing a brave thing.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.”
“You have a pen?”
“No, but my memory’s good.”
I’m about to dial when Jade and Emmy come into the lounge. Emmy ignores me and Jade gives me her usual glare. I glance at Adam and then wait while they grab bottles of water from the fridge.
Finally they leave, and then before I can chicken out and with hands shaking, I dial.
“Ben Carlyle here.”
“Dad?”
A pause.
“Dad, it’s me.”
“Yep. No one else calls me Dad. Hello, Lola.”
“Uh, how are you?”
“I’m all right.”
“Me, too.”
“Pardon?”
“Me, too. I’m all right, too.”
“Of course. Sure. Good. That’s good, Lola.”
“I guess you’ve heard…”
“Yes, I heard. How’s it going?”
“Um, it’s interesting, I guess. But Dad, are you…are we…”
“Are we what?”
“Are we okay?”
“Sure, we’re okay. Sometimes people need to take some space.”
“I… Sure.” I swallow. “Space. Ha ha. Well, we definitely have that.”
“You didn’t say how you’re doing there.”
“Oh, I’m fine. It’s nice, I guess. Hey, you know who’s here? Wade Miller. From the zombie thing. Remember him?”
“Of course I remember him—he cost me a fortune on his first day. Never had an actor bleed a production so hard and fast as on that day. But he pulled it together.”
“Sometimes people just need a chance. Another chance, I mean.”
“Well, everyone loved him in the film. He’s a great kid. Hope he’s okay.”
I press my ear into the phone as we weather another awkward pause.
“That was a fun time, wasn’t it?” I say. And I know in this moment that I would go back to being twelve, take the braces and the short, skinny body and the gawkiness and all of it, just to go back. It wasn’t perfect by a long shot, but I’d give up almost anything to go back. Even Wade.
“It was.”
“It was the last…kind of the last good time before—” I stop. “Well, it was an easier time, anyway.”
“Is there something you want to talk about? Something you need to say?”
“Say? Oh. Well…yes. I mean…now that you mention it, I was kind of hoping…”
“Yes?”
That you would come see me, that you would come back into my life and be my dad again and forgive me…that you would love me again.
“That you could come and get me,” I say instead, though it wasn’t my plan.
Adam’s head snaps up.
“Please, Dad? I need to get out of here.”
“What?”
“Mom is in Tokyo and she’s not listening to me at all and I really am in the wrong place. I’m not supposed to be here. And the program is voluntary but they need a parent or guardian or they won’t release me so I thought—”
“That’s why you’re calling me?”
“Well…it’s not the only reason.”
“That’s why you’re calling me.”
“No. I mean, sort of.”
“Let me get this straight,” he says in a low, measured voice. “A year ago you throw a fit—”
“I did not—”
“You throw a fit and call me a bunch of names and tell me to…let me see if I can remember the exact wording…oh yes, tell me to get the hell out of your life.”
“I was upset.”
“To fuck off and get the hell out of your life.”
“Listen,” I say, feeling myself start to boil and suddenly not caring anymore if Adam’s listening. “I was sitting in Arrivals at LaGuardia for eight freaking hours.”
“You could easily have hopped in a limo, Lola.”
“You weren’t even in New York, Dad.”
“I said I was sorry, and I’m not going to rehash it. Regardless, I’m a busy man, and I won’t have my daughter telling me to fuck off. I told you if you were going to say things like that you’d better mean it, and you said you did mean it. And then three months later you show up drunk and whining at my gate, no apology and no evidence of any change in your attitude, and now you’re calling me because you need someone to spring you from rehab. Have I got it right?”
“I, no. I mean, I’m not…I’m really not an alcoholic, Dad.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I didn’t mean it, Dad. What I said. I didn’t mean it.”
“Well, what did you mean, exactly?”
“I…I…”
“You’re exactly where you need to be, Lola,” he says, and then hangs up.
Tears pool in my eyes as I stare at the disconnected phone.
“I meant try harder,” I whisper.
I said fuck off, but I meant try harder.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I grit my teeth and attempt some deep breaths, though the two actions kind of cancel each other out, and try to take the mass of pain, shrink it down to a manageable size, and swallow it.
And then, with it still there, burning in my belly and threatening to come back up, I stand up, smile brightly at Adam, and force myself to say, “What’s next? I can’t wait.”
“Hang on, hang on,” he says, coming forward with his best concerned face on. “What happened?”
“Not much.” I push past him and head out the door. “Good news for you, though; my dad’s not coming to get me.”
“None of that sounded like good news—for anyone. You keep telling me how close you and your dad are but—”
“You never fight with someone you’re close to?” I say, voice cracking slightly and avoiding his eyes.
“Of course I have.”
“See? No big. Now, come on, what’s next?” I grab the schedule out of his hands and look. “Massage. Really?”
“Give me that.” He takes it. “But yeah, really.”
“Awesome.”
“Lola, wait…talk to me.”
“Not happening.” I put up a hand and swallow convulsively.
“Seriously.”
“Fine. Maybe later.”
“Awesome. Take me to the spa, dahling.”
Admittedly, it takes me a while to relax into the massage.
In fact, it would be a stretch to say I relax at all.
And then to make things worse, the massage therapist, Rose, sticks her elbow into this spot near my shoulder blade and suddenly it feels like all my limbs are going to fly off.
I gasp and practically jump off the table.
“All right,” Rose says in a singsongy voice, “let’s check that out.”
“Right,” I say. “Sure. Check it out.”
I drop my head back down on the doughnut hole thingy and tell myself to chill. Meanwhile, Rose proceeds to dig right back into the same spot.
To my chagrin, I start to cry.
“Okay, so we’ve released something…” she murmurs.
“Un-release it, then. Put it back.”
“You don’t want that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You know, addicts store pain in the body. It can be a shock to—”
“No, no.” I sit up on my heels and pull the sheet around me. “It’s not stored pain, it’s pain pain. And I’m not an addict.” (This assertion is no doubt undermined by my being naked and crying over a massage…and being in rehab, of course.)
“Why don’t we talk through—”
“I don’t think so.” I slide off the table. My entire body is starting to shake and I’m hearing my dad’s voice and clearly about to lose my marbles in front of a complete stranger, which is just not happening. “I thought this was s-supposed to be relaxing.”
“Lola, please. Let me call your—”
“No!” I find my clothes, sweep them up into a ball in my arms, and edge toward the door. “Don’t call anyone, I’m f-fine. I just d-don’t like m-massage, that’s all.”
Rose backs up, gives a placating gesture with her arms.
I wrap the sheet tighter around me, find my shoes and slide my feet into them, push the door open, and rush through the empty waiting room and into the corridor where I turn left, run to the end, turn right, and hurl myself through another door and into the labyrinth courtyard where hopefully I can find two precious minutes of solitude so I can get my act together, because there’s no reason for me to be freaking out like this.
But of course, I’m not alone.
Talia is there, along with her two sisters and her mom. And I see Adam and a few other patients, all of them standing around chatting like it’s a perfectly normal day. Wade is there, too. Standing there flirting with two very pretty girls.
Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance Page 16
