by N. K. Smith
Chapter 34
Jude is gone. A few nights after he leaves, I’ve convinced myself that I’m partying with my friends, but really they’re a bunch of people I don’t know who like getting high for free. In the moment, it doesn’t matter, but deep down, I recognize this fact, and it drives me to consume more and more coke. In my mind, if I get just a little higher, the loneliness will fade, and I’ll become a real person with real friends and a real life.
I wish Elsie was here, just somewhere in the sea of people. Then I’d have someone who cared about me.
Or maybe just another person wanting to use me.
But I’m so high, I don’t care. I’m dancing and having fun.
I feel anonymous. Not a Hollywood brat. Not a star. Not someone who makes money by taking off her clothes. Just a person. One of many, all dancing to the same beat with synthetic energy coursing through us.
I want to stay like this forever.
Chapter 35
I wince at the pain in my nasal passage as I snort air. The coke is long gone, or maybe it’s not. All I know is that I’m curled into a ball on an uncomfortable chair, sniffing hard to figure out if I’m bleeding from my nose or not.
I swipe at my nose, and then look at my hand. Not bleeding but the soft tissues in my head are inflamed. I try to remember where I am and more importantly how I got here. Someone offered me another drug, not coke, and I took it. It was a pill.
I don’t remember partying last night.
I feel like I’ve run a marathon. My heart continues to thump. Whatever I did last night, it was too much. I’m sweaty, and as much as I want to get off this chair, I can’t make myself move.
As I attempt to stretch my legs, a cramp shoots up from my foot and my body contorts without my permission. I fall to the floor. My whimpers of pain sound like something coming from a wounded dog. All of my muscles twitch and seize, and my heart’s going crazy, like some madman is in my ribcage trying to kill it and its only recourse is to thrash within the boney enclosure to try to get out.
Now my lungs ache. I don’t remember smoking anything, but they hurt.
Jesus, this is bad. What the fuck did I get into?
I can feel my cell in my pocket, but I’m on my side, and it’s underneath me. With great effort, I roll over. It takes another full minute or so to be able to get my arm and hand to do what I want them to do. When my phone is in my hand, I unlock the screen and languidly thumb through the contacts.
“ ’Lo?” Peter answers after several rings.
“Peter?”
He inhales over the phone and probably rubs his eyes. Unlike before, when I’d called him from Vegas, he’s instantly awake and alert. “Adra? What’s wrong? You sound—”
“I think I took too many of my pills. The ones from the doctor.” I’m sure I’ve done too much blow and whatever the mystery drug was, plus, judging from the taste in my mouth, drank too much whiskey, and popped too many lorazepam. If I have to guess, I think the unknown pill was some kind of stimulant. Stimulant with depressants, brilliant. My heart and lungs hurt from overuse.
“Shit.”
“Peter, I—”
“Where are you?” His voice is frantic now.
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s my house. I—”
“Jesus. You’re not in Vegas again, are you?”
Before I can answer, a sharp pain tears through my chest and my overactive heart goes into warp speed. I must’ve made a sound because I can hear Peter’s breath quicken. “I’m calling 911.”
“No,” I say as I gasp. “No hospitals.”
“Fuck that, Adra. You’re fucking sick, and I’m not—”
“Fine. Hospital, but just you. No—” My muscles seize again.
“Tell me where you are. I’m almost to my car. Look on your GPS again, okay? If I can’t get to you in five minutes, I’m calling an ambulance.”
My eyes won’t open. “I’m tired; maybe I’ll just talk to you tomorrow.”
“What? I only understood half of that. Look at your GPS and don’t go to sleep, okay? You have to keep talking to me!” His shouting hurts my ears. All I can think about is the sound and volume of his words, not what his words mean. My dad used to yell every now and then when something pissed him off, and it was the same. I couldn’t focus on what his words meant, just how loud he was saying them.
“Do you think my dad misses me?”
“What? Your dad? Yeah, I think he misses you. I would.” Peter’s voice fades in and out as he speaks. “Adra, I need you to pull the phone away and check your GPS. Please do that for me, okay?”
“Do it for Peter,” I mumble to myself. I peel my eyes open, and pull the cell away from my ear. I fumble a bit, but finally navigate to my GPS. The phone drops back down on my head when I can no longer feel my arms. “It says I’m here.”
“Where is here? Adra. This is important, okay?”
“Okay.”
“What streets did you see? If you can’t tell me, you need to call 911.”
I manage to look at the screen again and mumble the street names into the phone, then drop it back down onto the side of my face. “I’m going to sleep now, Peter. Do you want to . . .”
I lose consciousness and stay in a soft dark place until vibrations wake me up. It feels like it takes ten minutes to open my eyes, but when I do, I see Peter’s face close. “I’ve got you.”
“Peter’s got me.” My heart thumps. I can feel his arms around me as we sway back and forth. My head rolls to the side, and I see his car, but I’m out again before he puts me in.
I exist in a dreamless state until I awaken inside a bright room. An IV is in my arm and a television plays on the wall in front of me.
“The official word from Adra’s camp is exhaustion. It’s been two days since her friend and fellow actor, Peter Truelove, brought her into Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Her publicist issued this statement early this morning: Adra has a reputation for being a hardworking actress, and unfortunately her hard work has taken its toll. Many questions have come up regarding Adra’s health over the last few months. I can assure you that apart from fatigue, Adra is in perfect health. She appreciates your concern and asks for your continued respect of her privacy while she recuperates.
“While her publicist makes references to the many questions surrounding Adra’s health, both physical and mental, she offers no explain beyond exhaustion. The whole world has noticed Adra’s withering body and strange behavior. Can they really be attributed to extreme fatigue? We’ve asked you, our followers on social networking sites, to weigh in, and here’s what you think.”
The television shuts off, alerting me that I’m not alone in this room. I smile when I turn my head to see Peter sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. He has an attractive five o’clock shadow, but his eyes look weary.
“I don’t know how much you pay your publicist, but you should probably give her a bonus.”
I nod. “I know.” I wince. It hurts to talk.
When I bring my hand up to my throat, Peter stands up and leans over me. “Yeah. You’re going to be sore for a little bit. The tube they stuck down there—”
I widen my eyes in surprise. “Tube?” I croak out.
“You could’ve died, Adra.” Peter’s face is stern, like he’s about to launch into a lecture, but when he puts his hand on the top of my head, he closes his eyes. I lift my hand and place it on his, then bring it away from my head. He twists so we’re palm to palm and opens his eyes. “Do you want to know how many drugs they listed in the toxicology report?”
I swallow hard and shake my head.
“I think you need to get some help. You told me you weren’t doing that stuff anymore and—”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. I feel like shit and he looks like shit, and I am sad that I have caused it all.
“It’s not enough.” Peter lets out a breath. “You could’ve died, Adra,” he says again.
“I know.”
“If I had
n’t brought you in, the police would’ve gotten involved and you would’ve woken up in rehab right now.”
“I don’t need rehab. I’m not addicted. I just lost track of—”
“Of how much cocaine you snorted or molly you popped?”
I let go of his hand and turn toward the window. It’s a slow process. There are a bunch of wires and tubes to contend with, not to mention how much every single muscle in my body aches. “Don’t act like you’ve never—”
“I’m not, because I have. I’ve partied before, Adra. I know what it’s like to roll, but I’ve never done blow, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have mixed coke with ecstasy and benzodiazepine. What the fuck were you thinking?” The volume of his voice at the end is high, and I wish I could cover my ears.
Even though my throat kills, I can’t let him think that I’m some lowlife junkie. “I’m not going to rehab just because I made a mistake. I promise I won’t do it anymore, not even the stuff my doctor gives me. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Peter rounds the bed, and I think he’s going to try to get me to look right into his eyes again, but he stands at the window and stares out. “Learning your lesson is cliché.” He turns around. “Know what else is cliché? Dying from an overdose in Hollywood. Don’t be that girl. Don’t die young and just be one of pictures they show at the Academy Awards, okay? Be the Hollywood star that dies at the age of a hundred and two, surrounded by people who love her. Be the—”
“Who loves me?” I find myself asking in my raspy voice. “It’s not like—”
“Get over it, Adra. Get over your goddamned self for once! You can’t see anything when you wallow in your self-imposed prison of pity. Lots of people love you. You have tons of fans. You’ve got a cadre of Hollywood producers, directors, and actors who back you, who want you. You’ve got friends who’ll do anything for you.”
I think about my friends. Are they the people I partied with the other night? Or are they people like Liliana who hasn’t called or wanted anything to do with me since she won that award?
“I mean, Jesus. How many times do I have to tell you, no, show you? I love you, Adra, and it really fucking sucks that you keep doing all of this shit and blaming it on no one loving you. Sometimes I think . . .”
Peter doesn’t finish, and I don’t want him to, so I stay silent. Peter loves me, but he doesn’t love me. After he turns back to the window and stands there for a while, I say, “You should probably get back to Shyla. She—”
“You don’t always have to fall back into this, you know?”
Something heavy settles inside my stomach. He’s calling my bullshit, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to handle this confrontation. “Fall back into what?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he slumps his shoulders, and when he speaks, it’s in a dull, monotone voice. “I’m not leaving until you’re released.” Peter turns to me with distant, sleepy eyes. “And before you even think about trying to push me away even more, I’m going to stay with you at your place for a few days.”
“But I thought you were filming.”
“I’m the lead. They’ll rearrange the schedule or fire me.”
I feel a bit claustrophobic, like fear and remorse is choking me. Peter’s willingness to lose a job he cares about strikes right into the heart of me. He can’t love me. He doesn’t love me. Maybe if I close my eyes, things will get clearer. Maybe if I just stop thinking about it, my unconscious mind will be able to figure out why it is that the thing I want the most, someone who sticks around, someone who loves me regardless of what I do or how I act, is also the very thing that frightens the hell out of me.
Chapter 36
Peter’s concerned attentiveness is both endearing and annoying. I hate it because I have to hold true to my word of not getting high, and there is no way to describe the sick feeling that washes over me for the first few days at home. On the other hand, I love how he barely leaves my side, fields all phone calls, and cooks for me.
“I still can’t get over how great of a cook you are.”
He smiles. “You have eaten my food before, Adra. And my mom’s a chef, remember? She told me after my first movie that if I wanted to do a second film, I had to promise her to learn some real life skills, she called them.”
“So being a chef is your fall back.”
“I guess.”
“But you won’t need it. You’re showing the world how great you are onscreen.” I clear my throat. “And off,” I add to myself.
He places the steaming plate of colorful food in front of me, and the aroma I’ve been drooling over intensifies. Exotic spices waft up, and I’m instantly transported somewhere in Asia. “Damn. I think you may need to think which one—acting or cooking—should be your fall back because, this,” I say as I point down with my fork, “is epic.”
He rolls his eyes as if I’m being silly, but I can see how genuine his smile is. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“I’ve smelled it, and I have a great imagination, so I already know it’s full of awesome yummies.”
Peter sits down in front of me and gives a modest shrug. “This is what living in Hong Kong for a couple of months did.”
I realize now that while his Hong Kong experience is old news, I haven’t heard much of it. It’s not that Peter is unwilling to share stories of his adventures, it’s that I’ve been preoccupied with other things. I’ve always been too consumed with myself to ask more than cursory questions. It’s amazing that he’s put up with me for so long.
“So . . .” I say, but then stop to take a bite. As soon as the sweet, salty, spicy goodness coats my tongue, I close my eyes and moan.
“That good? You’re great for the ego, Adra.” Peter laughs.
I think about that statement as I open my eyes and scoop more rice, tofu, and vegetables up with my fork. I am great for everyone’s ego. Back when they were around, my parents claimed responsibility for my talent; they convinced themselves it was their stellar parenting that drove my desire to be a star. When I was with Danny, I fed his ego by doing whatever he wanted and caving to the power of his big personality. It was the same with Elsie. Whatever she wanted, I did.
Liliana’s ego is stroked because she continues to best me. She gets the choice parts in the hottest movies, and she has the media and the movie-going public eating out of the palm of her hand. When she looks at me, she probably feels pity.
It’s obvious how I stroke Jude’s ego. In bed, I let him be dominant to the point that I lose myself. I give up control. Sure, I get off on it to a certain extent, and he’s a generous lover, but I can only imagine how powerful it makes him feel to do whatever he wants, and later to see the physical marks he leaves.
And Peter. My stomach churns at the thought of how I must make him feel. I’m needy, and he’s the big hero. Without him I’d be lost somewhere in Nevada. Without him, I probably wouldn’t have survived my short childhood, or the tumultuous period that came after. Without him, I’d be dead. How’s that for an ego boost?
“Adra?”
I look up from the food and let my fork drop to the plate with a loud clank. Peter is too handsome. His eyes are too kind; too deep. His lips are too perfect for the concerned frown he wears, and when he reaches out his hand to cover mine, his skin is flawless—just enough rough calluses to make my skin tingle in response, but not too many that make it uncomfortable to touch. The zinging white energy that pours through his flesh is too pure and clean. There is too much love vibrating out of him.
It’s too much for me.
He is beautiful, and I’m ugly. I pollute him.
I pull my hand back and put both of them in my lap, keeping my neck bent.
“Talk to me,” he says, his smooth, silky voice deep with worry.
“I can’t,” I say in a whisper.
“Why?” His voice is just as soft as mine.
“I don’t know.”
Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t hold them back. I need some blow. I feel
Peter staring at me, and I can’t breathe. The thought of him even thinking about me like this makes me want to get high. I need some blow. The weight of my craving turns my blood into lead. His wooden chair scrapes against the hardwood floors, and in two big steps, Peter is next to me.
I can see the lower part of his body, but then he kneels and I can see almost all of him through the corner of my eye. He places his hands on the outside of my thighs and shifts me toward him. With his hands resting on my hips, fingers curled around and gripping tight, my best friend contorts his body and looks up at me.
I try not to see his perfection. I try not to register how much I want to be like him, but Peter being so close to me just makes the tears come faster. He slides his hands up my arms, over my shoulders and collarbone, then up my neck to cup my face for just a moment. He brushes away my long hair.
I need to cut it. Chop it off. Quit being the little girl who loves her hair.
What a stupid thought to have at a moment like this.
I need to get a hold of myself. Now is not the time to lose control over my thoughts. I’m strong. I can handle this.
Right?
The sweat beading on my forehead gives me my answer. I’m not strong. I’m weak.
“Talk to me.” He brings his lips up to my ear. “What’s going on in there?”
At first, I shake my head, but then I sit up straight. My action removes his hand from my neck and forces him to straighten up as well. With one hand on the edge of the table and the other against his bicep, I push myself back. The chair scrapes against the floor, but somehow it sounds different, more hollow than the exact same sound his made only moments ago. I place a bare foot against his abdomen to keep him from leaning in again.
Peter narrows his eyes. I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell is going on, or trying to figure out who the hell I’ve become. His strong features twist in a curious question, and it makes him look weak. That is something I know he’s not, so I’ll do him a favor and help him figure it out. The sooner he does, the sooner I can call someone for some coke.