South on Highland: A Novel

by Liana Maeby

  By this point, the cult project was in the process of falling apart—at least on my end—as I hadn’t turned a single hieroglyph of writing in to anyone. I wasn’t returning phone calls, and, although my specific whereabouts were unknown, it was generally assumed that I couldn’t be anywhere good. Harlan had arranged one last-ditch attempt to allow me to redeem myself and hang on to the project, an invitation to a Passover dinner at exec producer Jerry Weinbach’s Beverly Hills home. I was to charm the shit out of him, summon the sequined Leila Massey that once was, and beg for my supper.

  The day of the party announced itself with a clichéd harbinger of doom, a tiny dead sparrow dragged beneath our window by one of the Chateau’s resident cats. The creature had been young and dainty, with a small head and a long tail that made me imagine two feathered bridesmaids holding it up as the sparrow stepped slowly down a long aisle. An infantry of ants wasted no time attacking the corpse, and the sparrow was soon completely covered in a coat of shining black. I pulled the curtains closed and paced around the room. “What time are we supposed to be there?” I asked Johnny.

  “Before sundown,” he said. My least favorite time of day.

  I walked over to one of the room’s mirrors and took a long look at my face. Pale skin, undereye tote bags, hollowed-out cheeks Calvin Klein would have thrown a black-and-white fit over. I sucked in a huge gulp of air and exhaled it toward the mirror, nearly blowing my reflection away.

  “You okay?” Johnny asked.

  “I’m kind of nervous,” I said.

  Johnny paused for a long time before he nodded his head. “Me too.”

  It was the first time Johnny and I had acknowledged that our current situation might not resemble the perfect picture of health and happiness. But finally saying it out loud—merely hinting at the truth that I was not only petrified of leaving our hotel room and interacting with people but unsure if I was physically capable of doing it—didn’t make me feel any better.

  “Okay,” I said, my doe eyes inadvertently growing as round as they could get. “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Johnny hugged me to his chest and ran his fingers through my unwashed hair. Instead of opening up the lines of communication to formulate some kind of escape plan, or at least get the ball rolling in that direction, I chose to see Johnny’s display of affection and raise it. I lifted my chin up toward his face and felt my eyes narrow and darken. I spotted fear in Johnny’s irises, but I chose to ignore it. I bit Johnny’s bottom lip and didn’t let go. I knew he wouldn’t feel a thing unless I clenched down as hard as I could, so I let myself draw blood. I mashed my hips into his and pushed up against them.

  Johnny grabbed hold of my hair and gathered it into a ponytail, which he yanked upward and away from his bleeding lip, pulling my head just above comfort level until I gasped. Still holding on to my hair, Johnny peeled off the T-shirt and boy shorts I’d been wearing and threw them across the room. He dragged me toward the wall by my ponytail leash and shoved me up against its warm plaster. I slid down until I was kneeling on the floor and undid the button of Johnny’s pants with my teeth. He pulled off his jeans and tossed them aside, still holding my head by its hair. He grabbed both of my wrists with his other hand. Then he shoved my skull against the wall with his hips, and for a moment, I was able to forget that we were miserable.

  We should have showered before the party, but instead we shot up. My arms were track-marked, and my wrists were bright red from Johnny’s tight and unrelenting grip. I sprayed my hair with dry shampoo and stepped into a long-sleeved minidress that was sure to inflict heat-wave suffering on whatever parts of my body weren’t otherwise occupied by aches and pains and various oozings. Johnny and I dignified ourselves beyond our worth by brushing our teeth, and then we left for Beverly Hills.

  Harlan had absolutely no intention of fucking around with pleasantries; the moment Johnny and I walked through the door, he grabbed me in a death hold of an embrace and whispered in my ear, “Do. Not. Fuck this up.”

  “Good to see you too,” I responded, but my heart wasn’t in it. Harlan was right, of course. I had let him down, and his bank account too. Instead of giving me this last chance to fix the havoc I had wrought, he should be deleting my name and number from his files and moving on to the next Hollywood girl wonder. So, hit by a wave of gratitude, I decided that I was really going to try. I would get out there and kiss that producer’s ass for all it was worth, and then I’d ask for seconds.

  “I won’t fuck this up,” I said, making sure I was looking directly into Harlan’s eyes. He nodded, and I recalled that he hadn’t yet met Johnny, so I introduced the boys to one another, throwing in florid descriptions of each.

  “Harlan Brooks, past-life agent to Shakespeare himself, meet Johnny Isherwood—who is very handsome.”

  The men shook hands, and I felt the ground beneath my heels become a little firmer. I could do this. I would play this game for a night, and then I’d go home and figure out a strategy for the rest of the series. Suitably convinced that I could pass for human, Harlan escorted me over to Jerry Weinbach, the man of the hour. We walked past the dining room table, which was all set up for Passover—meaning little Haggadahs for everyone, and dishes of horseradish and gefilte fish. Jerry was reclining against an armchair in his living room, talking to a middle-aged woman who had the stink of studio exec all over her. When she saw me and Harlan coming, the woman excused herself to refresh her glass of red wine and check her e-mail on her phone.

  “Jerry,” Harlan said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is my prize-jewel client, Miss Leila Massey.”

  “You have a beautiful home,” I said, holding out my hand. He shook it firmly, and I leaned in closer. “Although it is a little Jewy.”

  A moment of silence followed, wherein I was forced to consider my fate. Had I blown it already? Had I managed to fuck this up? Fortunately, Jerry burst out with a sharp blade of laughter that shattered any ice that was predestined to form between us. He beckoned me into the chair next to him. “Let’s chat,” he said.

  Harlan slipped away, and I sat down beside Jerry, bare legs crossed and angled toward him. “You really do have a gorgeous home,” I said. “And I’ve always been a fan of Jewy.”

  “Are you a member of the tribe yourself?”

  “Half,” I said. “My mom’s side.”

  “Ah. And is she as beautiful as you?”

  “Much more so, but the Semite in her would never admit it.”

  Jerry laughed again, and I chuckled along with him. I let my hand touch his kneecap ever so gently and shifted my body the tiniest bit in his direction.

  “So, Leila,” Jerry said. “I hate to talk business on this of all days, but I am rather curious about that script. It seems you’re having a bit of trouble producing it.”

  I decided I wasn’t going to deny this most obvious fact and settled on another angle. “That’s true,” I said. “I mean, the storyline is so much denser than I think anyone realizes.”

  “So you have been working on it?”

  “Oh, absolutely. The truth is, I got caught up in my research far more than I ever thought I would. I spent most of the fall living out in the desert with an actual cult. Did you know about that?”

  “Tell me more.” Jerry sounded intrigued.

  “Johnny—Johnny Isherwood—came out with me to do character research. It was so intense out there that we felt like we needed to stay for a while. The leader’s this guy named Kennedy who is so completely our Marshall Viner fellow that it’s crazy. The trouble is figuring out how to capture his modern vibe without losing the authenticity of the real story. I have all the subtext. I just need to figure out how to make it complement the text.”

  Jerry nodded thoughtfully. If I didn’t know better, even I would believe the bullshit I was spewing. “But you do think you can figure it out?” Jerry asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I just don’t want to show anything until I’m sure
it’s perfect. That could screw the whole damn thing up, you know?”

  Jerry nodded like he understood perfectly, certainly no novice when he came to dealing with the quirks of the creative mind. “Okay,” he said finally, emitting a note of satisfaction.

  “Okay.” I smiled.

  “Can I get you a drink, my dear? There’s a bottle of red from before your grandparents were born.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  As Jerry walked toward the dining room, I realized that I was grinning—and felt pleased to realize those muscles still worked. I can do this, I thought. Jerry will give me a second chance, and I won’t screw it up. I’ll leave the hotel, and I’ll get clean. I’ll work harder than I ever have before. The whole movie is right there in my head, after all; it just needs some stuff moved out of the way before it can be seen.

  I was still wrapped in my shawl of happiness when we all gathered at the dining room table. A few token models had been invited to the seder, and they were trying their damnedest to appear the right kind of bored—not the anti-Semitic kind. I nudged Johnny and gestured in their direction. “Flirt with those girls,” I said.

  Johnny gave me a surprised look, but he obeyed when I told him to sit at their side of the table. I wanted everyone to see the power Johnny could have over people when he tried. I wanted them all to realize they’d be idiots to give up on us. Harlan was watching me, and I could tell he knew exactly what I was doing. He tossed me an approving nod and settled into a chair at my side.

  I ate my entire bowl of matzoh ball soup, even enjoying the idea that I was putting a nutrient or two into my body. I listened with enthusiasm as the Four Questions were read. But by the time the seder was over and dinner was being served, I had begun to feel antsy, the first sign that my body was ready for another dose. I fought it, telling myself there was no way I was going to shoot up here at Jerry Weinbach’s house. There was no way I was going to fuck this up, not after I had already come so goddamn far.

  My leg tapped through the rest of the meal as I served myself the smallest socially acceptable portion of every dish. When the plates had been cleared away and the coffee put up, my skin was covered in a layer of sweat that had managed to outmatch the generous air-conditioning. I still maintained my promise that I wouldn’t shoot up in the house, but I knew I’d need something to tide me over until I could get home. It was all in the interest of not fucking this up.

  While Mrs. Miriam Weinbach got the desserts ready, Jerry stood and cleared his throat. “Thank you all for joining me in sampling my wife’s unleavened cooking—and for not spitting any of it out.”

  Everyone in the room, save Miriam, laughed. Jerry continued. “The seder’s been sedered, and Elijah has come to drink from his glass of wine. But what Passover meal would be complete without a search for the afikomen?”

  The table cheered, gearing up to hunt like children for the hidden symbolic piece of matzoh. “High stakes, of course,” Jerry reminded us with a wink. “Hollywood style.”

  As the group dispersed, I glanced into my purse to see what pills I might have stashed away for a rainy day. There were a few Advil and what appeared to be a breath mint from another decade—nothing suitably narcotic for the likes of me. So I excused myself from the table with my best where’s-that-afikomen look of sleuthing on my face. My knees were wobbling furiously. I made them move at a controlled pace toward the stairs, but as soon as I had scaled those steps to the second floor, I ran for the master bathroom, praying no one would see me. I rushed inside, closed the door, and locked it behind me. The whole of me shook. It had been too much. I had spent too many hours out there in the land of normal people, and my body was revolting against what I had put it through.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered as I reached for the medicine cabinet, unsure who I was talking to besides myself. Everyone probably. My hand was unsteady, but I managed to get the cabinet door to swing open. Inside, I saw heaven, sweet narcotic heaven in all the colors of the rainbow. And then I saw black.

  PART THREE

  Well, Fuck

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sweat. Shit. Bleach. Urine. Windex. Disinfectant. Bactine. Mothballs. Latex. Vomit. Soup.

  I’d qualify those as full-on stenches, odors, stinks. And then there are the smells that are coming from inside my body itself: the charcoalish burn of fried synapses, the metallic tang of tainted blood, the festering ball of sickly snot that’s lodged somewhere inside my respiratory system, doomed to be ignored for other, more pressing bodily alarms.

  The bloody gash on my forehead is a joke. It plays court jester to a king who is the violent cramping in my stomach, subjugating itself to a queen who crawls back and forth across my skin. Then there’s Princess Nausea, unwilling to be ignored, and Prince Muscle Ache, whose sweet young bride is a ceaseless spasm that runs from neck to ankle. These royal symptoms laugh at the comic posturing of a bleeding head wound that dares seek attention as a worthy piece of the pain pie.

  This is the worst I’ve ever felt. It takes everything I’ve got to stop myself from kicking over the nurse who comes in to take my vitals, opening up her skin, and crawling inside her body in an attempt to escape my own. I hate my organs, hate my head, hate every pill and needle I’ve ever laid eyes on. I hate God and science and all other people, but mostly I hate Myrna.

  Myrna occupies the bed next to me. She’s droopy and bleached, and she appears to be middle-aged, which means she’s probably about thirty. Myrna seems to be suffering from the same smorgasbord of pain platters as me, but unlike the relative stoicism with which I’m digesting my ailments, Myrna is trying to get through it all by praying. She prays in English, in Spanish, in a rapid-fire hybrid between the two, all “Jesucristo, I’m sorry. Please help me, por favor.” Myrna is wailing and crying and pleading nonstop, and it’s driving me fucking crazy.

  When the nurse comes back with another adult diaper and a cup of water, I ask if there’s anything that can be done about Myrna. The nurse pulls the cloth partition between our beds closed, which does fuck-all to dull the noise and means that I have to watch Myrna’s series of writhing prostrations as if it were Japanese shadow theater. I want to yell at her to shut up, but I’m afraid of my own voice. I try smashing my pillow against my ears, but I have to remove it immediately because it feels like lead. Itchy, woolen lead. I’d like to fall asleep, but I know that the mere act of closing my eyes would bring down a torrent of pain and inner violence so intense it would feel like pure evil eating me alive. I want to command my body to spontaneously combust, but I don’t have the energy for magic, and so I’m forced to lie awake and listen to Myrna.

  “Jesucristo,” she moans. “Lo siento, mi amor. I am yours. Take me, take me, take me, and never bring me back.”

  Two hours later, I’m still watching the white paint stick to the wall. Myrna’s prayers have become more sporadic, like she’s decided to give Jesus some time off to go rig the outcome of a football game, leave the imprint of his face on a piece of burned sourdough, and make a rich person richer. I’m covered in a sticky sweat that chills me and makes me hotter at the same time. My legs won’t stop kicking involuntarily, and my throat feels ravaged as if by angry wolves. It dawns on me that I’m thirsty, and I manage to prop myself high enough up in bed that I can grab the cup of water my friend the ineffectual nurse brought on her last visit.

  I take a sip of water, and it soothes me for an instant. I take another sip and buy myself a moment of gratification. Another sip, another flash of relief. And so on, until it occurs to me that I’m going to be out of liquid soon if I don’t pace myself. So I start counting down from sixty. Sip, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven . . . I reach zero and drink again, let the act of putting something inside my body placate my nerves and soothe the brain waves that are yelling at me to consume, consume, consume. I count down from sixty once more, and again after that. I cheat and take a sip at fifteen. And then I’m out of water. The pain and anxiety inside my body doubles, and all I c
an think about is finding something else to drink.

  I press the button that pages the nurse and wait impatiently for her to arrive. I double-check the contents of my cup to make sure it’s empty. I tilt the waxed vessel back and break the surface tension of the last drop of water with my tongue, pulling it into my mouth. And then, impossibly, I check the cup again.

  It dawns on me that Myrna must have a cup of water as well. I look over at the shadowy figure on the other side of the curtain and see that it has become shrunken and listless. My first instinct is to offer Myrna money for her vaso de agua, but common sense butts in and I realize both that I don’t have my belongings with me and that buying eight ounces of water and a Dixie cup from my rehab roommate while both of us are in the midst of murderous withdrawal sickness would be absolutely and undeniably insane. I stare at the curtain, watch nothing happen for a minute, and conclude that my addled roomie must have managed to coax herself into slumber. I take a deep breath and drag my body up off the bed. My knees wobble comically, and the voice in my head sings, J-E-L-L-O. It’s half-alive!

  I slide open the curtain and see that Myrna’s eyes are shut tight. I catch a whiff of septic sweat. There, next to her bed, is an untouched cup of water. My heart starts to race as I work my tapioca legs over to the nightstand. I reach for the cup, but just as my shaky fingers wrap around the waxed paper and lift it to my fiending lips, Myrna lets out a moan like she’s rendezvoused with the devil inside her nightmare—and has learned he isn’t holding any dope. The yelp startles me and makes me spill the contents of the cup down the front of my dressing gown. Fuck. I slide against the wall and collapse, letting the freezing-cold water seep into my skin.

  When the nurse finally comes in, I’m still sitting on the floor next to Myrna’s bed, dripping water. My arms are wrapped around my knees, and I can barely bring myself to meet the uniformed woman’s eyes. Once I decide to get up, I have to brace my arms against the nightstand in order to stay stable. I push against something raised and firm. When I’m standing at last, I see that it’s a blue hardcover Bible—it appears Jesus and his symbolism couldn’t stay away from our room after all. “Miss Massey?” the nurse asks. “What’s going on in here?”