Fix You

by Beck Anderson

  My interest is piqued. We haven’t had the discussion of the exes. My discussion is short, I guess, and involves basically just the one whopper of a former love, Peter. So I guess we’ve had that talk. But I haven’t asked him about his past loves. Because what? I need to know about the drop-dead gorgeous models and actresses he’s been with? I don’t know if I need more fuel for the freak-out fire.

  I flip the picture over. The frame’s nondescript, but there’s gold pen on the back.

  Emily Waylon.

  It’s not Andrew’s handwriting. I try not to freak out. This is someone important.

  Now, try not to judge me. I go to my laptop. Yes, I’m looking her up. Is it snoopy? Yes. Should I just ask him? Yes. Am I afraid to, especially since he’s been in such bad shape lately? Yes.

  I fire up my computer. I type in her name and his home state, Pennsylvania. There’s an obituary. I click on it.

  It makes me physically sick. She had recently graduated high school, a sophomore in college. Mid-year. It’s a beautiful death notice, and it most notably does not list a cause of death. I’ve read enough obituaries (hell, I’ve written one) to know that often a family leaves off that detail if the loved one took her own life.

  My hands tremble, but I go to IMDb and type in Andrew’s name. I’ve never actually looked at his bio on here. Now I’m looking for Emily’s name.

  There she is. It actually has quite a poignant paragraph, even quotes him from an early interview. She was a good friend in high school. I click on the interview citation and go straight to the magazine archives for the article.

  It’s long. It’s about his role in the remake of Camille, about where Andrew’s inspiration might have come from for such an emotional movie. There are very few direct quotes from him besides the one IMDb mined. Much of it seems to have come from “sources.” I wonder who would give up such a sensitive part of Andrew’s life to a national magazine. Someone who didn’t care for him too much.

  They dated, he and Emily, according to the article. They broke up when he moved to LA, and she went off to college. They remained in contact, remained good friends. When she was a sophomore, she sunk into a deep depression. She was planning to come out to LA to see him on her spring break that year. In February, he canceled on her, having just landed a role on a soap opera. He received word on his birthday, the first of April, that she’d been found in her dorm room, dead. She’d taken too many of her prescription sleeping pills. The death was ruled an accidental overdose. Andrew did not attend the funeral, and the article goes on to quote a “Hollywood insider” who relates that his agent had to haul him out of a hotel room to report for his first day of shooting on his first real acting job. He’d apparently been drinking heavily.

  I stare at the screen. His birthday is in two weeks. It all falls into place. Yes, the movie tour; yes, the constant work; yes, the illness; and maybe missing me and/or Todd. But Tucker left out one big thing: an anniversary that he probably doesn’t even know about. All of this makes sense to me now.

  What am I going to do with this newfound information? Not a thing. It was a breach of privacy. I shouldn’t know about it. I’ll take this information and use it to deepen my patience and understanding, but unless Andrew decides to confide in me, I know nothing of it, as far as he’s concerned. Everyone is allowed a few secrets. And the trouble is, no one seems to allow Andrew any secrets.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon feeling like the heel that I am. When Andrew finally wakes up, I tend to him. I try to give him as much tender care as he must have needed ten years ago, and I hope it’s enough to help him out of the quicksand he seems to be slipping into right now.

  35: Blue Midnight

  ANDREW STRUGGLES THROUGH another day of post-production work, and I clean his house top to bottom. Clearly something is wrong—I never clean. Jeremy contributes to the cause by sending over dinner. Once Andrew’s home, we eat a little, talk a little, drink tea, and Andrew collapses into bed, exhausted.

  I fall asleep in one of the other bedrooms, but only after I spend a good amount of time staring at the ceiling, clutched in panic. I worry about having left the boys to come down here. I worry they’re mad Tessa is running them to spring break camps instead of me. I worry about the Emily information. I worry about Andrew. I fidget with the fringe on the bedspread, and I’m pretty sure I’ve gnawed all of my fingernails down to the nub.

  I do actually sleep, because I wake up in blue moonlight. I sit up. It’s not a nightmare that’s woken me. It’s sound. I don’t know what it is at first. Then I listen, fully awake.

  It’s the piano.

  I slip softly down the stairs. Andrew sits at the piano. He plays softly, making little notes on a sheet of staff paper on the top of the piano every so often. There is a lit cigarette in an ashtray next to the sheet music.

  “Hey.” I announce myself.

  He startles. “Jesus. I didn’t know you were up.”

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” I touch his hand. The feel of his skin stirs something in me, but I keep my focus on his eyes, looking to read them for a clue.

  “No reason.” He looks away from me, busies himself stubbing out the cigarette.

  “Andrew.”

  “I’m so tired, but I lie down, and there are too many things.” He leans into me, draws me to him, and I feel his breath on my neck.

  “You can’t get better if you don’t rest. All those things? I was boring a hole through your ceiling earlier, worrying about them. Let me worry for you. You rest.”

  “A designated worrier.” He smiles, then frowns as a coughing fit comes on.

  I rub his back and wait for it to subside. “Come to bed.”

  “I want to, and what I really want to do is lie down and kiss every inch of you. I don’t think I have the energy, of course, but still.” He laughs a little. Then another thought must come to him, because his expression clouds over again.

  “Stop. Stop and rest.” I take his hand and lead him away from the piano. He follows me up the stairs, to his bedroom. He climbs into bed, and I sit on the edge.

  “When I’m better, we have a lot of lost time to make up for.” He traces my cheek down to my lip with his thumb, thinks for a moment, and lies back, arms over his head on the pillow. I think he’s about a second from sleep.

  “What were you writing?”

  His eyes suddenly fill with tears. “I promised someone a song once. I never got a chance to write it. I was thinking I might write it now.”

  Emily. That’s the someone. My heart might break for him. “I think you should. It’s never too late to keep a promise.”

  “I don’t know about that…” His voice trails off. He’s finally let go, and he’s asleep.

  I go back to my bed and cry myself to sleep.

  36: Castles in the Sand

  I KNOW THE PARTY in Malibu is a bad idea from the get go. But it’s been four days, Andrew seems to be feeling a little better, and I want to be supportive. Plus, I wonder if getting out might be a good distraction. He’s an adult, and if he says the house party is a good idea, I’ll trust he’s right. I want to trust him.

  “It’s mostly going to be networking.” Andrew’s talking while he drives. I’m riding shotgun in the black convertible. The spring weather is warm today, and his cough is sounding better. We have the top down. Maybe he’ll get a little color in the afternoon light.

  “This is the producer from Churchill’s Man?”

  “Yeah. He never wants to let it go. It’s been like six weeks since the premiere, but he’ll probably invite some writers to the house tonight too, in hopes that one of them’ll wheedle an interview out of me. More press for the movie.” This makes Andrew seem tired again.

  “But the other guy?”

  “Yeah. Greg Nero’ll also be there, and he’s shopping a movie around that I’m interested in. It’s about Northern Ireland in the eighties. I guess it was bad then.”

  I skip the part where I tell him I was alive and old enough
to remember how bad it was. But that movie is enough reason for us to go to this party. This party means his next job, potentially, and by all appearances, he needs to go back to work.

  I think again about Emily. In a normal relationship, I wouldn’t know about her. I’d just be confused about why he’s been falling apart, and really worried. Now, through the magic of the Internet, I’m still really worried, but I know where some of this might be coming from. I wonder if he’s intentionally skipped mentioning his birthday to me too.

  “You know, you’ve got a birthday coming up.” I think I can mention this safely.

  “Don’t remind me. April Fool’s, isn’t that rich?” His tone seems bitter.

  “What do you want to do for it?”

  “You mean, me and you?”

  Uh-oh. Are we not thinking in me-and-you terms? “What do you usually do for your birthday?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Out here, not much. Sometimes Todd’s around and we go out, or once we went to Mexico for the weekend. Usually my folks call, my sisters send me cards their kids have made, Jeremy sends me a gift basket full of stuff I hate, and that’s about it. To be honest, Kelly, there are a lot of reasons why my birthday always sucks. Some of them I should tell you about.”

  My heart jumps. “You know I’ll always listen.”

  “I want to tell you. Maybe not on the way to a party in Malibu, but…”

  “Well, we should do something for your birthday before I go back home. You’re almost thirty—maybe you’ll catch up to me soon. I’ve stopped aging, you know.” I’m trying desperately to put a smile on his face. “Maybe we can make it a good occasion again.”

  He doesn’t take the bait. “Yeah, we could do something.”

  I’m changing the subject. If that wasn’t the most lackluster response, I don’t know what is. “As soon as you start feeling tired tonight, we should leave. You’re finally feeling a little better. No reason to overdo it.”

  He nods absently, eyes still on the road. “Yeah.”

  When we get there, a valet takes the car, and we go around to the back of a beautiful beach house. It’s perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean. There’s a long, winding staircase that leads down to the shore. The whole house is open to the warm sea air, and candles float in the azure swimming pool.

  I’m relieved because this is nothing like the wild crowd I encountered at the premiere after-party some months ago. Apparently producers know more people who are around my age, because some of them are in attendance at this function. And the tone is mellow. I relax a little bit. Maybe this will be fine. I think I’ve been bracing for something ugly. Maybe there’s no need to worry this time.

  Andrew hands me a glass of wine, and I notice he has a beer in his hand. I speak before I even realize what I sound like. “Be careful. The cough syrup you took this morning packs a punch.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mom.” But he gives me a little side squeeze and a smile.

  Jeremy materializes next to me. I jump. I forgot to ask Andrew what our story is. I don’t know the protocol for tonight. Is a private party a safe place to conduct ourselves as boyfriend/girlfriend, or are we still stealth dating?

  “Kelly Reynolds. So fabulous to see you.” Jeremy gives me the kiss-on-each-cheek hello. What a snake. A charming snake, but still.

  He steps back, both of my hands in his. “You look radiant. How’s your visit been?” He apparently wants something.

  “It’s been fine. Thanks for asking.” I give him the up and down, since he just did it to me. He’s wearing a linen shirt and slacks, Italian loafers. Again, Jeremy’s general style says, “I’m playing it cool,” but behind that is a very careful decision to look relaxed and casual.

  “Andy, good to see you. You still look like shit, my friend.” Jeremy shakes his head.

  “Thanks.” Andrew gives him a nod.

  Jeremy turns to me. “Let me show you the house.”

  I look at Andrew. He shrugs. Oh well. I’ll have little to do at this party, and this’ll buy Andrew some time to visit with that producer he wanted to chat up about the role.

  Jeremy takes my hand and leads me in through the patio doors.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  “I’m fine. What’s up?” We walk through the huge living room to a stairway, which I can see leads to a large mezzanine area that overlooks the pool.

  “Let’s go on up here where we can hear ourselves think.”

  Once we’re up the stairs, he goes to the railing out on the deck above the pool. I stand next to him, rest my arms on the edge. We can see Andrew from here. He’s on the other side of the pool, close to the spa area and the overlook to the ocean. He’s out of earshot. Of course he is. Jeremy is calculating. He meant for us to be out of earshot.

  I look at Andrew. He looks tired. He’s too thin. His color is still not good. He stands, talking, but his shoulders slope forward. It’s barely perceptible, but still a sign of his general state of fatigue. I want to drag him out of here and back to bed.

  “He looks a little better.” Jeremy says this gently. I would even venture to say with a caring tone.

  “He shouldn’t be here. And not with a beer in his hand.”

  A couple comes up next to us. Jeremy’s clearly not comfortable with them as close as they are. He takes me by the elbow. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

  I feel like I’m in a spy movie. We retreat inside, and he pulls me over to a couch tucked into a corner of the second level.

  “Kelly, this is a bad time of year for him. Always.”

  Jeremy knows. He knows about Emily. “I know.”

  “He told you?” He sounds surprised.

  I feel ashamed. “No, I found out about it.”

  He thankfully doesn’t press the issue. “Well, this year it’s worse than usual. He’s been working really hard. Now he’s sick. And he doesn’t have a role to get ready for yet.”

  I wait to see if he’s going to reference the drinking.

  “Kelly, I was there the first time. I’m the one who dragged his ass out of the hotel room and to his first job. He came this close to never even getting a chance in this business because of it.” His index finger and thumb are perilously close to one another for emphasis. He considers for a moment, and then goes for it. “You seem like you’re good for him.”

  “I don’t know.” I don’t know where this is going, but with Jeremy, I can be sure it’s going somewhere.

  “Well, I do. He can’t drink the way he has been. It almost ruined him once. I can’t tell him. Maybe he’ll listen to you. I won’t have it affecting his career, and if he’s this sick, it’s going to.”

  “Being sick is human.”

  “Being sick because you haven’t been sleeping because you’ve been out tearing it up isn’t human, it’s juvenile. And not good for business.”

  “He’s a person, not just your business.”

  “Fuck, I know that. Of course I know that. I care about him. I want him to be well. Just talk to him, please. Remember, we’re on the same team.”

  Jeremy’s up off the couch and headed to find a new conversation before I can respond. Sharks have to keep swimming, I tell myself. They always have to be moving. After a few moments I see him down by the pool, and lo and behold, Franca Delaney materializes next to him. For a second I almost feel sorry for Jeremy, getting cornered by the human hyena. Almost.

  Now I fully intend to go find Andrew. I don’t think my plan involves the Jeremy-endorsed lecture, but I do want to check and see how he is.

  Instead, I’m intercepted again. This time it’s by Gerry, Andrew’s co-star in the sheriff movie. He’s a sweet man. He strikes up a conversation, and then takes it upon himself to introduce me around to a host of people he knows at the party. I do actually appreciate it, on the one hand. I should be giving Andrew the space he needs to do some business. On the other hand, if he’s not up to business, then I’m just giving him time to get into trouble.


  But for crying out loud, he’s a grown-up. And if he doesn’t have that self-control, I need to think about what that says about him and his drinking.

  Maybe it’s more accurate to say drinking problem.

  This interior monologue gnaws at my skull for most of the time I spend with Gerry. Finally, I notice the deepening blue of the sky above the ocean, and I find a way to excuse myself. I return to the pool terrace in search of Andrew.

  I can’t find him. I have no idea. I text him, but get no response. I go back inside and make several laps of the upstairs and down. Where is he? I start to shake a little.

  I hate this. It’s fundamentally clear that I have no trust in him. That’s no way to build a relationship, and that’s more my problem than his. We need to have a serious talk. I’ve been trying to leave him alone since he’s sick, but this can’t wait.

  As soon as I find him. I drift back out to the pool.

  Jeremy sees me and steps away from his conversation. “What’s up?”

  “I can’t find him.” I sound panicked. I am panicked.

  “He’s probably in the house. He was in there chatting up some producers earlier.”

  “No, I was just in there.”

  “Check the stairs. Maybe he’s down on the beach. I’ll make another swing through the house.” Jeremy looks at me, and I can see it in his eyes. He’s worried too.

  I walk to the far edge of the bluff to look out over the ocean.

  There’s a bonfire on the beach, some distance below the house at the bottom of the winding staircase I noticed earlier. I’ve checked everywhere else, so I start down the stairs.

  As I descend, I can hear the surf more clearly, but I can also hear voices. It sounds like two people. It sounds like Andrew and someone else. A female someone else.

  My teeth chatter. Yes, it’s a cool evening, but this is in response to the fight-or-flight surge coursing through my body. I long to be in full antelope mode and flee, but I force myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other all the way down the stairs.