by Alex McElroy
“Kneel in front of the trough,” Dyson told them. “Let everything out.”
Chewed pork and potato salad plopped into the trough. They gagged. They sprayed. They wailed. Every few heaves, the men turned to me, desperate for comforting hands on their backs. I was their mother, their grandmother, wife, sister, daughter: every woman they’d ever passed in the street. Please, they would’ve said, had they been able to fit in a word. But they were stained red at the mouth and neck, as if they’d plunged their faces into the gut of a deer.
This scene is a favorite of movies and exposés. We’re often accused of slipping ipecac into the wine—which, yes, we did later on—but this was an unforeseeable accident. Dyson was right. The generator shut off. The men had food poisoning.
Dyson lectured them from the end of the trough: “Nausea is the first step of reflective enlightenment. What you’re feeling is decades of repressed emotions buried inside you. Everything you refused to let out is escaping. You’re vomiting up the buried emotions and feelings you’ve spent your lives running away from. You never confronted yourselves and the mistakes you made. You’ve never not been sick. Health? It terrifies you. Of course it terrifies you: because this is what it means to be healthy. It hurts to be healthy. And you can’t get well until you get worse. I encourage you to get worse. Embrace illness. Don’t hold anything back.
“When you think you’re finished, keep going,” he said. “There’s always more to get out. Use your fingers if you must. One finger. Two. Even three! Don’t be afraid. There is nothing to fear. You must empty everything out.”
Randy let out pained, undignified heaves from his spot at the end of the trough. He lifted his face to look at me. His forehead was speckled red and food stuck to the gel in his hair. He caught my eyes, begging me over.
I felt generous. “What is it?” I asked him.
“Heh,” he started to say. “Heh.” And finally: “Help… me.” The words shot out like an arm knifing through the closing doors of an elevator.
I palmed his head, directed it to the trough, and whispered, “We are.”
fourteen
IT IS NOT impossible that Dyson put ipecac in the wine. But that doesn’t make it likely.
fifteen
AFTER MY RESPONSE to Lucas Devry, a small cadre of my followers piled on in the comments, called him creepy and sexist, an incorrigible coward, a toad; nothing too terrible—surely not for the internet. They insisted I was right: the world should rid itself of monsters like him. I reported his account; the comment disappeared. And, for a few days, so did he, shamed out of my life after a single confrontation. What a pitiful chicken, I thought, happy to be done with him.
I was set to appear on Wake Up! America that week to promote ABANDON with Kandace Heather. In the lead-up to the discussion, I watched every clip I could find of her talking to guests—influencers and makeup artists and dermatologists and the children of forgotten celebrities—guests ranging in confidence from startled kitten to mercenary. The influencers promoted proprietary juices; the makeup artists hocked sponsored eyeliners and foundations; one dermatologist promoted a book that included “over one hundred references.”
I had nothing to sell, I complained to Cassandra, though to her I said, “We have nothing to sell,” because I still hadn’t told her she wouldn’t appear alongside me.
“Nonsense,” she said. “We have ourselves. And a self is worth far more than a product.”
The skin-care influencers who normally appeared on Wake Up! America told stories of personal triumph over unpleasant appearance. The problem, however, was that I never triumphed over my appearance. My skin never cratered or scarred—I’d had a few blemishes in high school, some eczema on my neck during a stressful semester at college—but no “uglier” self hidden in the pit of my past, no before pictures to shudder over or glance away from in horror. Instead, I had Dyson, brought to the edge of death by fat burners and topical creams: the nuclear options.
“What a beautiful, heartwarming story,” said Cassandra. We were stretched out on her couch—a green velvet mod—rehearsing my story for Wake Up! America. “Your best friend was in trouble so you created ABANDON.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “I introduced him to the pills and creams.”
“Don’t insult him by blaming yourself.” She gave my knee a don’t overthink it tap. “Your story is a beautiful journey of friendship and compassion. I feel honored to know someone as compassionate as you.” She stepped to the center of the room and cleared her throat so politely I barely heard her. The afternoon sun ignited the windows. Her hair glowed fierily.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s my turn,” she said.
“Your turn for what?” I was genuinely curious.
“To rehearse for my segment with Kandace,” she said. “It’s not always about you.”
“That’s not what I heard,” I said, in a voice like a smirk. I should’ve broken the news to her then, but I placed a hand on her shoulder, imitating Kandace: “Tell us, Cassandra. How can meditation keep you looking healthy and young?”
Cassandra lived in a Midtown two-bedroom overlooking the sculpture garden at MoMA. Every day that week, I showed up at her building after my lunch shift intent on telling her she wouldn’t appear in the segment, that if it were my decision she would get a full ten minutes, but every day she greeted me brimming with fresh suggestions for how we might make our stories more compelling, how we ought to enunciate, what to do with our hands when we weren’t speaking, and, of course, what to wear. She put so much energy into the segment it seemed possible, even likely, she might rocket herself onscreen through sheer will.
On the morning of the Wake Up! America segment, in the car to the studio, Cassandra’s confidence blunted my nerves. I assumed total faith in her charisma—they could never turn Cassandra Hanson away—pretending that I wasn’t leading her into a grand humiliation.
A brown-haired sparrow of a production assistant holding a clipboard met Cassandra and me in the lobby. “Which one of you is Sasha?” she asked.
I raised my hand like a child in class. There was a crumbling sensation at the back of my throat. The assistant led us inside. She addressed Cassandra at the studio doors. “Friends and family must wait in the green room.”
“I’m Cassandra Hanson,” she said.
“And you’re welcome to wait in the green room.”
“I’m neither friend nor family,” she said. “I’m Cassandra Hanson, a meditation guide, partners with Sasha, and I’m supposed to appear on the show.”
The woman looked at the clipboard. “Today’s show?”
“Sasha, say something.”
“She’s Cassandra Hanson,” I mumbled through the dust in my throat.
“Thank you for clearing that up,” said the woman ironically. “We should get going.”
Cassandra barely made herself up that morning, assuming they’d touch her up before taping. Her feelings had nowhere to hide. The self-assurance that normally brightened her features drained off her face as if someone were spraying her with a hose. I waited for her to lash out at me. I wanted her to shout at me—but that wasn’t her way.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you might get to come on with me.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “You never did and it’s fine: I forgive you.”
“It could’ve happened. There could’ve been time at the end and maybe they—”
“This is a wonderful opportunity for you. I want this for you.” She clasped my hands and leaned close, whispered the cruelest thing she could: “Your future is riding on this. You owe it to both of us. Don’t you dare mess up.” She kissed my cheeks and gave me a hug before leaving.
* * *
Two hours later, I stood in the center of a forest of cameras and an audience of women and attachable husbands. On a blue cocktail table beside me were cue cards featuring tips from my regimen. My face felt frosted after sitting in makeup. I wore an ou
tfit Kandace had selected: a knee-length wrap the color of pine and heels one size too big. “You don’t have to wear them for long,” I was told by the stylist when I asked to switch shoes. It hurt me to be here without Cassandra. The image of her drifting out of the lobby kept crashing into me as I practiced my story for Kandace.
“I’m Kandace Heather,” said Kandace Heather. She placed her hands in my palm like a gift. She was, in that moment, the tallest woman alive, sun-blindingly blond, with skin softer than the underside of a kitten. “Your program has done wonders for my daughter—I wish you could see how she used to look, the improvements she’s made.”
“I don’t like to think in befores and afters,” I said. “I help people become who they are.”
“It doesn’t make any sense to me—I’m told you don’t have anything to promote.”
“I care too much about my clients to promote misleading and dangerous products.”
“How do you eat?”
“There’s a subscription service. Still growing. And I host at a restaurant downtown.”
“Not after today.” She stepped away to talk with the audience.
The production assistant pinned a mic to my collar. “Have you done live TV before?”
“I hold live sessions online every week.”
“That’s an answer,” she said, shaking her head. “Just know that sometimes callers get emotional on Q and A. We’ll cut the line if you’re in trouble. There’s nothing to worry about.” She raised her hand and shouted, “Ten seconds!” Ten fingers became five became one.
Kandace and I stood on either side of the cocktail table. “Welcome back,” she said to the camera. “Well, move over, Korean Skincare and Goop. Today I’m here with Sasha Marcus, founder of The ABANDON Regimen, this spring’s hottest skin-care routine. And Sasha’s here today to tell us how to ABANDON yourself.” Kandace looked at me. “You have some tips for our viewers today.”
“That’s right,” I said, stilled by guilt over Cassandra.
“Would you like to go through them?”
If you watch the video of our conversation—a video that, very soon, would become the highest-watched clip on the Wake Up! America website, before they took it down—you can see the nerves burn out of my system as I awaken to the gravity of the moment. “Your entire career is riding on this,” I can be seen mumbling. “Don’t you dare mess up.”
“We’ll absolutely get to the advice, Kandace.” I led her to the cue cards as if it were my show. “But first I want to talk to your viewers about what called me to this work. I want to talk about a friend of mine, Dyson, my oldest friend, and the reason I started ABANDON.” I shared my story of friendship and sacrifice, a story in which I devoted myself to designing a program to help my best friend feel more confident in his appearance. At the end, I tried to plug the added benefits of Cassandra’s meditation program, as a kind of apology, but Kandace flipped over a cue card before I could name her.
“Step number one,” she said. “Discard the nuclear options: all ointments and astringents and medications meant to improve your skin. Sounds like a drastic step.”
“It sounds drastic, but trust—”
“Step two: commit to a life of healthy eating. And you have some guidelines for healthy eating, don’t you? You have a peculiar view of what healthy means.”
“It’s backed by more than two hundred—”
“Step three: relaxation.”
“I highly recommend listening to the guided meditations of—”
“We have Anna Mackenzie on the line from Arthur, Nebraska. What’s on your mind today, Anna?”
Anna Mackenzie wanted to know the safest BB cream to use daily.
“None,” I told her. “BB creams eliminate the natural oils on your skin. This causes your body to overproduce oils—as a way to compensate for the loss. So as soon as you stop using the cream, you’ll notice your face becomes extra greasy. That is not what we want.”
“Not at all,” said Kandace Heather.
The audience clapped respectfully. Anna Mackenzie thanked me. Kandace and I wished her a good day. The next caller wanted to know what foods to avoid.
“I don’t recommend avoiding foods. The trick is to abandon them.” I listed the seven foods to cut out of her diet: “Alcohol. Bread. Apples. Nuts. Dairy. Onions. Nitrates. It’s so easy to remember.” Thank you. Have a nice day. Good-bye.
After two more callers Kandace said, “We’re just about out of time.”
“There must be time for one more,” I said. I wasn’t ready to lose the audience’s attention and love. They applauded everything I said, laughed at my jokes, wept over the story of Dyson. Kandace wanted to end the segment out of envy. I was their savior, now. This must be how Cassandra felt in a crowd, doted upon and respected. This was how Claire Lance felt. How I deserved to feel. “I don’t want anyone on hold to miss out.”
The audience cheered in support. The production assistant shrugged, then made a rolling motion with her hand. Kandace tapped a finger to her ear. “It looks like we can do one more. How fun, we have a male caller. Do you have many male clients?”
“Not as many as I would like—because skin care isn’t a woman’s concern. It’s a human concern. My best friend is proof of this. I love all my male clients.”
“Well, we have Lucas Devry from Vicksburg, Michigan, on the line. Good morning, Lucas! What’s your question for Sasha?”
My face must have gone the color of bleach.
“Do you want me to die?” he asked. “You said it would be beautiful if I weren’t in the world so does that mean you want me to—”
“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today,” Kandace said. “I want to thank Sasha Marcus for sharing your skin-care routine with our viewers. Sasha, remind us again: Where can our viewers subscribe to The ABANDON Regimen?”
I stared at the camera.
“It’s been wonderful having you here, Sasha. After this break, we’ll be speaking with the star of the new movie Baby Man. You won’t want to miss it.”
The production assistant whisked me off set. Their callers were supposed to be screened, she told me. She had no idea how he had gotten through. They should have cut him off as soon as he started speaking—he was obviously deranged. I nodded along to her words.
Back at my apartment, I called out of work. My boss wouldn’t hear it. “We’re booked through the end of the month because of that segment. You’re an inspiration.”
“I’m a disgrace.”
“A TV star working at Gravee. My Gravee. I’m gonna print out a picture of you from the segment to hang in the window. We’re so lucky to have you!”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Check your accounts,” she said.
Over the course of the morning, my followers had surged from the low twenty thousands to the edge of a million. Blake tagged me in a photo of us on a picnic upstate. It was a lovely photo, a favorite of mine, a photo I loved too much to share (I always protected my favorites). Blake wrote: So proud of my baby for all the good she brings to the world. Muah! Love you, Sash! He’d never called me baby, before. I drank up his public affection. Love you, too, I texted him. He responded: I’ve had like 5k follows since I posted. Unreal! I was authentically happy to help him.
Publicists and managers sent cascades of emails. The future Cassandra described, with its vistas and leisure, materialized before me. I poured myself a glass of white wine—a deserved celebration, I thought, no matter how early in the day it was—and waded into that future, letting it cleanse me of my anxiety. My new followers found me sympathetic and dignified and worthy of admiration because of how I had responded to Lucas Devry on the show. That is, until 2:17 that afternoon, when I received a notification telling me that LucryDevas88375 had tagged me in a live video.
He sits at his kitchen table aiming his phone at his face. His skin has a margarine glow beneath irresponsibly bright lighting. He holds a pistol in his free hand. I still don
’t know what kind. I hope to never find out. “You said you wanted a beautiful world, Sasha. You said that my death would make the world more beautiful. Well, I want a beautiful world, too. I couldn’t want anything more.” His eyes never land on the camera directly, just above it, or to the side, though it’s unclear whether this is on purpose—he can’t stand to see himself—or if he didn’t know where to look. “This is your fault, Sasha. You made me do this. I’m doing this for you. For the beautiful world. Here it is, Sasha. Here is your beautiful world.”
* * *
An hour later, my boss suggested I take a week off. Blake deleted his post and every other photo of us together. He broke up with me over text. The next morning, Cassandra appeared on Wake Up! America. She was “blindsided” by the cruelty I had shown Lucas Devry in my comment (which appeared on the chyron beneath her). She wondered whether she had ever truly known me. She told the hosts I routinely cheated on my regimen, drank regularly when I went out, used charcoal masks at least three times a week. Gross exaggerations. She relayed her version of the Wake Up! America segment. “Sasha assured me I would speak alongside her. When I arrived, she acted like I didn’t exist. She claims to care deeply about her friends—but true friendship demands honesty. I’m not sure she’s capable of that.” Even more than demonizing me, the interview turned Cassandra into a spurned, relatable friend. At the end, she promoted her six-week meditation session focused on finding one’s authentic self on the path to honest relationships. “Space is limited,” she added. “If you’re interested, please enroll immediately.”
Her session sold out before her interview ended. All day, I hemorrhaged followers. The police questioned me but didn’t press charges—my comment hardly constituted bullying compared to the rest of the sludge on the internet. Exoneration only made things worse. Internet trolls deemed it a miscarriage of justice. They made Devry into a martyr for free speech. Killed for expressing himself, they claimed—without irony, it appeared.