Star Struck

by Meredith Michelle

  You have yet to sign on to your next project and notice the scripts you receive are dwindling. You find yourself with more free time than ever before, but feel sluggish and ineffective.

  One day there’s a knock at your door. It’s Buffy’s mom, Rose, thanking you for your many efforts on Buffy’s behalf. She looks years older than when you last saw her, new lines are etched into her face. She reaches out to take your hands and looks in to your eyes. She thanks you for all you have done to keep Buffy’s memory alive, but also begs you to let it rest. “It’s too painful,” she tells you, “seeing a new headline every day.”

  “Well, it’s hardly every day now,” you begin to protest. “I can barely get an interview anymore. It’s ridiculous. You and I both know they’re just trying to gloss it over.”

  She gives your hands a squeeze and looks up at you, her eyes pleading with yours, “Let it rest, honey. Let her rest. No matter what, we’ll always have her here.” She places a bone-thin hand lightly over your heart. “You know that, don’t you?”

  A fresh wellspring of emotion bubbles to the surface, and you burst into tears you didn’t know you had left. Buffy’s mother holds you as you cry, and though you feel you should be the one comforting her, you are immensely grateful for her embrace.

  The family holds a small memorial for Buffy, a celebration of her life, and you attend the intimate gathering feeling like the outsider you are. For a while you correspond with Buffy’s mom, but that too soon fades as you find less and less to say to one another. Oddly, she seems to be moving on, and you are somewhat resentful that you find yourself still so consumed with grief and longing for your friend.

  You find a new agent, focus on your career, and the work begins to pick up again. You suddenly find acting to be a wonderful escape and you dive into every role with a new sense of urgency. Being on set takes you away from your guilt and frustration and gives you a much-needed break from reality. Although you do nothing other than work, you love what you do and are rewarded handsomely for it. It’s only occasionally, after a particularly difficult day, that you stare at your shelf of glimmering awards and wonder whether they can ever take the place of the friendship you’ve lost. When those feelings surface, you find they are nothing that a full glass of red wine and a new script won’t cure.

  Occasionally, you hear some news about Jackson. At first you follow his trajectory rabidly and with a growing sense of disdain, but his star rises and falls equally swiftly. Now he gets just one or two supporting roles a year. You secretly savor the fact that he’s not aging well, while you look every bit as young as you always have.

  Of course it helps that your current fling, a successful Hollywood plastic surgeon, gives you a nip and tuck whenever you feel like a little tightening up is in order. Oren is a tall, beautiful man with a head of thick, curly black hair and he’s fifteen years your junior.

  You met during a consultation for Botox, which led to a passionate encounter right in his office, with you reclined in his examining chair and him fully dressed with his lab coat and fly unbuttoned as he groped at your breasts and thrust like a teenager, coming to an end much too soon. You visited him again the following week for your first injection of Botox, which miraculously smoothed your newly emerging crow’s feet, and a second injection of Oren, which miraculously soothed your neglected libido. This time, he hiked up your skirt, hastily moved your thong aside, and bent you over the examining table, reaching around to squeeze a breast in each hand as he worked.

  The next visit you decided to take charge. You wore an even shorter skirt with nothing underneath, and, sitting Oren down on the seat usually occupied by a waiting patient, you climbed onto his lap and unzipped his fly, wrapping your legs around the back of the chair to provide just the angle you need to find your climax as Oren thrust inside you. You found it thrilling that someone could walk in on you at any moment, and loved it that Oren wore his lab coat, its length just right to cover any evidence of your activities as he shook your hand, feigning professionalism, and guided you out of the office. You thoroughly enjoyed scheduling a follow-up, and the delicious anticipation of your next visit.

  Now, your relationship has progressed outside of Oren’s office, and the two of you find increasingly adventurous spots to fuel your newfound addiction to your illicit encounters—restrooms stalls in expensive restaurants, a walk-in closet at a dinner party hosted by one of Oren’s colleagues, even a chaise lounge on a fully visible hotel balcony. His creativity is contagious, although you have to admit your favorite trysts are still those during which he keeps his lab coat on, which proves even more fun when there’s nothing else under it.

  One day, you happen to be watching the news when a headline at the bottom the screen catches your eye. Its shocking simplicity knocks the breath from your lungs: JACKSON MICHAELS FOUND DEAD AT 39. You increase the volume and listen raptly as the reporter unfolds the sordid scene. Michaels was apparently staying in a seedy motel and found hanging from a cord in the closet, with another cord wrapped around his genitalia. “Was it some sort of sex game gone awry? Authorities have yet to give an official cause of death,” the doe-eyed anchor reports innocently.

  Sex game or suicide, you couldn’t care less. At last, you feel a welcome sense of closure. You sip your wine, lean back into the cushy pillows of your sofa, reach a hand out to stroke Oren’s thigh, and think, Karma’s a bitch, before turning off the television and turning all of your attention to the man ready and waiting beside you.

  THE END

  To take Anna on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.

  From page 112 . . .

  You know in your heart that you would never be able to forgive yourself if you left, that you have to continue your search for your friend. You commit yourself anew to finding Buffy. That same day, like an answer to at least one of your prayers, there’s a message from Colm. You play it over and over, savoring his melodic voice. “Anna,” he tells you, “I’ve done nothing but think of you since I boarded that plane. I cannot wait a minute longer to hear your voice. Please call me back as soon as you can.”

  You call him that night, after another day of dead-end searching. Just the sound of his voice does wonders. Holed up in your hotel room, you allow yourself an hour with him on the phone. Colm’s support is a salve to your injured soul. “I do believe you’re doing the right thing, staying to look for her,” he assures you. “You shouldn’t even be giving your work a thought now, Anna. It’ll be right there waiting for you when you’ve finished your work there.”

  You thank him through your tears and before hanging up you promise to call him with an update as soon as you can.

  It’s been three weeks since shooting wrapped and there’s still no sign of Buffy. You’ve scoured the island, taken photos of Buffy to every restaurant, bar, and island shop, even spent days combing beaches full of tourists in hopes that someone will recognize her.

  You pass a little island newsstand one morning and see your own face staring back at your below the headline, WE WEEKLY EXCLUSIVE! ANNA CHAMBLISS A NO-SHOW ON THE SET OF HER NEW ROMCOM! WAS SHE FIRED? WE GOES INSIDE THE RUMORS.

  You don’t bother to stop to read the rest. You are fully focused on finding your friend, and could not care less what the tabloids say.

  * * *

  Rose spends her days searching as well. She calls and visits local hospitals, medical facilities, even the coroner’s office, asking the dreadful question, “Has a Jane Doe has been brought in?” She turns up nothing.

  Day after grueling day passes, each more emotionally exhausting than the one before, and you become more and more certain the reason you find no clues on the island is that every clue you might have found left on the flight back to LA with Jackson.

  You share your thoughts with Colm one evening, and to your surprise, he doesn’t object. He seems to have suspected the same thing all along. However, he’s not quite as optimistic you’ll get anywhere accusing Jackson and has a better—if more pessimistic—sen
se about how the justice system works, especially when there are multiple jurisdictions involved.

  “Anna,” he tells you in a gentle lilt, “I know you’re frustrated. You’ve been a wonderful friend to her and ye continue to be. But until someone turns up some evidence . . .” His voice drops and he hesitantly adds, “or a body . . .”

  You can’t even bear that thought and you end the conversation quickly, more determined than ever to find some small scrap of evidence, anything at all.

  As the days pass, fewer and fewer people are willing to listen when you approach with Buffy’s photo. The glossy print of Buffy’s smiling face has become soft and rippled from being carried everywhere you go.

  Even tourists who recognize you begin quickly backing away when their request for an autograph turns into your request for them to help in your search for your missing friend. But how else can you let people know how urgent it is to keep searching? You know you can be a little passionate in your pleas, but you also know it only takes one lead.

  As the weeks turn to months you get fewer and fewer calls from your agent and fewer and fewer scripts sent to you. You hardly remember to eat and lie in bed for a few sleepless hours every night. The lack of your hair stylist, the dark circles under your eyes, and the jutting bones in your arms and chest make you look much older than your years.

  Your communication with Colm becomes briefer and less frequent, too. Although he calls you daily, sometimes you pick up, other times you don’t. Guilt kicks in every time you feel a pang of pleasure at the sound of his voice on your voice mail, but most times you can’t bring yourself to answer when he calls. You don’t want to give him the impression he might have a chance until you finally have some answers. Even though there’s a little sense of loss each time you send his call to voice mail, you push the feeling away, and distract yourself with the business of finding Buffy.

  You decide to give the island authorities one more shot. The local police station is housed in an inappropriately flamingo-pink stucco building. You practically have to force your way in to talk to the “chief.”

  He listens to you with a serious expression on his face, nodding mechanically as you once again review all of the details of Buffy’s disappearance and beg for his help.

  When you finish, he leans slowly forward, resting his forearms on his desk, looks you in the eyes, and asks you, in a slow island lilt, “Do you think we haven’t been looking? De you believe we don’ do our jobs?”

  You realize you’ve gone down the wrong path with this man and you instantly regret it.

  “We’ve been looking, Miss Anna Chambliss. We’ve been turnin’ over every rock and every stone on this island.” He pauses to let this sink in. “You think we want some tourist finding her? That we don’t.”

  He heaves a heavy sigh and lifts a cloth to wipe his shining brow. As he continues, his tone turns gentler.

  “We know you been looking too, Miss Anna. We know what’s going on in our island. But let me ask you this.” He reaches out a warm hand and grasps your bone-thin palm in a way that feels somehow fatherly. You meet his gaze and listen. “We been looking, you been looking, everybody been looking for months now. You think it’s possible there’s nothing to be found? Sometimes people go missing ’cause they don’ wanna be found.”

  You leave the station utterly disappointed. You know, you are certain, there’s something to be found. People don’t just disappear into thin air. But, in the dark hours of the night, when circling thoughts keep you from sleep, you can’t help but think that people do just disappear—maybe not into thin air, but into water, or under sand and dirt, or into worse places.

  Your call to the Los Angeles police is another cold slap in the face. Not only do they tell you they’re preparing to close the case, they also inform you that as far as they are concerned Jackson Michaels is no longer a person of interest. “Mr. Michaels has provided sufficient evidence to clear his name,” explains the officer, his tone formal and dismissive. “Unless you are the next of kin there’s no further information I can provide.” He cuts off your protest with a single sentence before ending the call. “Miss Chambliss, you may want to familiarize yourself with the expression, ‘No victim, no crime.’”

  Then, on a rare rainy island day, Rose asks that you visit her in the little hotel room she calls home.

  “Of course,” you tell her, hoping she’s found a sliver of evidence that will fuel your search.

  She sits you down on the tiny, wicker bench that serves as the only seating in the room and takes both of your hands in hers. “Anna, honey,” she begins, as her eyes begin to fill with tears.

  “What is it?” You feel the panic rising in your throat, sure that you’re about to hear the worst. But what she tells you is almost just as bad. She’s given up.

  “Anna, I will never, ever be able to thank you enough for everything you’ve sacrificed to be with me and to help me try to find her.” She pauses for a moment, apparently unable to even utter her daughter’s name. “You’ve done more than even a sister would. I think you’ve done more than I have.”

  “No,” you interrupt her, “I haven’t done nearly enough.”

  She raises her hand to stop you. “You’ve been a saint, Anna.” She sighs and grasps your hands more tightly in hers. “This isn’t an easy decision, and it’s one I’m still struggling with, but I have to go back to my life, Anna. I’m going to leave the island.”

  Unable to believe what you’re hearing, you begin to object. You need Rose here for so many reasons. As she speaks, you realize she’s been your support as much as you’ve been hers.

  Rose places her hand gently over yours, “I want to thank you, Anna, for everything you’ve done . . .” She trails off and a single tear tracks slowly down her cheek. “But Anna,” she says, her shimmering eyes, the same big, blue eyes she gave to her daughter, locked fiercely to yours, “I know in my heart she isn’t here anymore.” She swipes at her eyes then drops her hands into her lap, and you notice her nails are ragged, her skin almost transparently thin. “And I know in my soul she isn’t coming back.”

  Your heart swells with love and pity, but at the same time, the daughter, the little girl in you, simply can’t fathom how a mother could leave without knowing, without finding her child.

  So many words spring to your lips, some angry, some cold, some empathetic and strong, but you hold them inside and embrace Rose instead, wrapping yourself in her arms as you cry together.

  You pull the last tissue from the little box on the dresser and blot at your tears, willing them to stop. “When do you think you’ll leave?” you ask. You’re shocked by her answer.

  “My flight is tomorrow, Anna. I know it’s soon, but I also know that if I don’t do this now I might never go. And I have to go. It seems selfish, I know, but I have to, Anna. Please understand.”

  You take a breath and answer her with all the empathy you can muster. “I do understand. And I will stay here and keep looking. I’m not giving up, for her and for you.”

  Rose looks at you again, and you can see she has something more to tell you.

  “Anna, this last part is the hardest. I can’t live your life for you, but I do hope you’ll consider what I’m going to ask.” She draws herself up to address you. “I want you to come home with me.” She silences you with her words as you begin to object. “Anna, this is not good for you, either. Look at you: You’re bone-thin. You’ve completely stopped working. You’re giving your whole life over to this. You need to get your life back, honey.” She looks at her hands and continues, “You’re like a daughter to me, you know that—” She stops to clear her throat. “If you won’t do it for you, do it for me. Please get off of this godforsaken island and come home.”

  You say nothing as you consider the prospect of packing up your things, boarding an airplane, leaving Buffy behind . . . it sends a cold shiver down your spine.

  Rose immediately senses your reluctance. “Just think about it tonight. Please. You’re not
leaving her, Anna. She’ll always be with us.”

  Walking back to your room, you don’t bother with an umbrella despite the wind and rain. Somehow the soaking darkness seems fitting. You know you have a very long night ahead of you.

  You barely sleep that night, reexamining the search so far. As you rise and pull the heavy curtains, the glaring sun stings your eyes and you know your decision has been made. You tell Rose you have a few loose ends to tie up on the island but promise you’ll follow her back to California within the week. There are a few places you want to revisit and you have a few more questions for the police. Did they thoroughly question every member of the film crew? If so, what new answers might they have? And you just remembered the photographer who was on set for just a couple of days—maybe he’ll know something. It’s like a nagging itch you can’t quite scratch.

  On the careening taxi ride to the airport, you chat idly with Rose, avoiding the topic of Buffy. The cab driver plays toneless steel drum music, and Rose fills you in on the plans she has to reconnect with her little circle of friends when she returns home. You fight the surge of irritation you feel. You know she has every right to reclaim her life and Buffy is her daughter after all, but still. Looking through the dusty taxi windows, you’re warmed by the sight of locals throwing open their brightly colored shops and restaurants and greeting tourists with friendly smiles. The sun is just beginning to heat the air and the palms sway softly in the breeze. For a moment you feel more at home than you have any place else in your life. The thought of leaving the island brings on a clenching anxiety you pretend not to feel.

  The rusty taxi kicks up a cloud of sandy dust, and you wipe away a salty stream of sweat from your brow as you tip the driver and pull Rose’s little suitcase from the back seat. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust as you step from the bright-white sun into the shade of the open-air terminal. Head down, you walk briskly to the counter to deposit Rose’s suitcase and stand by her side while she checks in. Suddenly, you feel the solid weight of a hand on your shoulder. You spin around and stand blinking in surprise.