by Cat Marnell
I was a wreck at the office.
“I killed a mouse in my new apartment last night!” Dawn and Cristina exchanged glances. We were supposed to be meeting about the next issue. “I brought them into my house from my storage unit!”
“Oh, no!” Jean exclaimed. “Again? I can’t believe it!”
“Me neither,” I sniffled.
“I’m so sorry, dude,” Cristina said. Dawn didn’t say anything.
* * *
I couldn’t go home, so I stayed at my sister’s for two nights. On Friday afternoon, we headed to 29 Seventh Avenue South together. I didn’t want to go into my room.
“I’m so scared,” I blathered the whole subway ride. “I’m so scared I’m so scared I’m so scared.”
My sister practically had to drag me off the elevator and through the living room at 29 Seventh Avenue South and into my bedroom. The instant I saw the murder scene—the YSL wedge, the bin, the jeans underneath—I was up on the bed, screeching like a gibbon. “I CAN’T! I CAN’T!”
Emily was afraid, too, but she went right over and lifted the bin, picked up the jeans, and shook them out . . .
“There’s nothing here!” she said.
“WHAT?!” I stopped monkey jumping.
“There’s nothing here,” my sister repeated.
I clambered off the bed and looked. There was no blood. No mouse. I should have been relieved—but instead, my knees buckled. What the fuck was going on?
“How can that be?” I said. “I killed it. I saw the blood spread.”
“I don’t think so,” Emily said.
“But I did,” I said. “I saw it. I saw the blood spread. I know I saw it.”
“Stop saying that,” my sister said.
“I saw the blood spread. I saw the blood spread,” I replied. “I SAW THE BLOOD SPREAD!”
“Caitlin!” My sister grabbed my shoulders. “Stop it!”
“I SAW THE BLOOD SPREAD!” I howled. “I SAW THE BLOOD SPREAD! I SAW THE BLOOD—”
“Knock knock!”
“AUUUGHH!” My sister and I both jumped a foot in the air.
“Sorry!” Becky stepped into the room. “Did I scare you?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Becky, this is my sister Emily.”
“I’m helping with the . . . the mice,” Emily explained.
“I was telling Cat it’s weird,” Becky replied. “Because we’ve never had mice before . . .” As they chatted, I skulked around looking for clues. Hmm. No little black pellets . . . No greasy trails around the perimeter either . . .
That’s when I saw the Benadryl box on the bed. I picked it up.
“How many of those did you take?” Emily said.
“Three?” But almost all of the pills were popped out of the little sheet. My sister rolled her eyes.
I crashed at Emily’s again and stayed up late on her MacBook, reading all about Benadryl. Diphenhydramine hallucinations are terrifying, vivid, and different than other “trips”—several websites claimed—because you aren’t aware that what you’re “seeing” isn’t real.
That made me feel better, but not much. The next day at work I used the beauty closet phone to book a psychiatrist appointment. I needed to be back on sleeping pills and benzos. Prescription-drug dependency sucked, but insomnia was even worse. Being clean just wasn’t worth it.
* * *
Then it was Halloween—a Friday. The city was nuts. I walked over to see Marco. He was waiting outside his apartment on Madison Street, wearing a black suit with a skinny black tie.
“I can’t do anything too crazy,” I said as I hugged him. “I have to go to my coworker’s wedding tomorrow.”
“Cool,” he said. “Look what I got!” He opened his palm and showed me a rock. It was bigger than Dawn’s engagement ring. Jeez!
We went to Chez Marco. My friend put on David Bowie’s Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) as he fixed up a stem.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I kept saying as we passed it. “My boss is going to be at that wedding tomorrow.”
“Jean Godfrey-June?”
“The one and only,” I said, exhaling the freebase smoke.
“I want to meet her,” Marco said. “Do you think she’d like me?”
“Nope,” I said.
“I still think you should bring me as your date,” Marco said.
“Not gonna happen.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t fit in at all!” I said.
“What do you mean?” Marco was indignant. “This is a Dior suit!”
“It’s very nice,” I said. “But no.”
At eleven in the morning, we split a pill of real ecstasy that Marco had in his pencil case.
“Let’s go look at art,” I said as it started to kick in.
We went to the New Museum on Bowery and walked through the Elizabeth Peyton paintings. They were okay. I liked the Sid Vicious portrait best. Afterward, we shuffled around in the gift shop. I pocketed a button that read: I ♥ TERROR.
“Dope,” Marco said, pinning it on my jacket when we got outside.
I nodded. I wasn’t talking so good.
I decided I wanted something new to wear to the wedding, so we went to Tokio 7, the secondhand designer resale boutique on East Seventh Street. I piled things at the register without trying them on: a gold and silver Missoni tube dress, a Joie brown rabbit fur jacket, a Dior button-down for Marco. The total was $379.99. I threw a pair of Tom Ford sunnies on top of it all: $479.99. The shop was . . . vibrating. I could barely hand over my credit card. The cashier took it from my hand.
“Shankssh.” Marco took the bag with one hand and my elbow with the other.
“Thanks,” he said to the clerk. Other customers were staring. “Let’s go.”
I lurched out of the store. It was sunny in the East Village.
“Idunrillyno what time thish wedding shhtartshhh,” I said. “I sshhink I should take a nap and ammyhoush.”
“I’m coming with you,” Marco said. He was still holding my elbow.
“Don’t do anyshhing crazy,” I said. I’d never let him up into the West Village place before. “My roommateshharrr home.”
No one was at the duplex. Marco and I rested on my bed. By the time it was dark outside, I sobered up considerably.
“I gotta get ready,” I said. “I gotta go.”
“Let me come with you,” Marco said. “Cat. Seriously.”
“But I RSVP’d as a single . . .” I shook my head.
“It’s a wedding!” Marco said. “It’s a party. Everyone is going to be there with a date!”
“I’ll text Dawn,” I said—and did. (In retrospect, I imagine this message was a bit . . . messy.)
An hour passed. I sent another message to my coworker. Still—no answer.
“I guess you can come.” I shrugged.
The New York City Fire Museum was just a few blocks from my apartment. Marco and I hustled down Varick. We were a little late. Then we hung a right on Spring Street. I spotted Dawn’s friend Leigh standing outside a building down the block. She was wearing a bridesmaid dress.
“That must be it,” I said, and picked up the pace. We had both sobered up; I was feeling pretty good and wearing my new glittery Missoni tunic over black tights. Marco looked dreamy in his black three-piece—
“I DON’T THINK SO!” Leigh was yelling in our direction. She was waving her arms around. “YOU’RE NOT COMING IN HERE.”
“Is she talking to you?” Marco said under his breath.
“No way,” I said.
Marco and I turned around.
There was no one behind us.
We were almost at the Fire Museum. Leigh was still hollering. Then she was charging—toward us!
“I DON’T THINK SO, CAT MARNELL!” Marco
and I stopped in our tracks. “GET AWAY!”
“Excuse me?” I said. I had met this chick before, but what?
“YOU’RE NOT COMING IN HERE,” Leigh yelled. I was very confused. What was happening? Was she talking to Marco?
“But . . . he’s wearing a Dior suit,” I said.
“GET OUT OF HERE!” Leigh’s face was bright red. “GET AWAY FROM HERE. YOU’RE NOT WELCOME.”
“What are you talking about?!” I said. Of course I was welcome. I knew everything about this wedding. I’d sat next to the bride for two years. “I texted Dawn—”
“I KNOW YOU DID!” She was screaming—right there on Spring Street! “I READ YOUR TEXT! YOU THINK THAT’S WHAT SHE WANTS TO DEAL WITH ON THE MOST SPECIAL DAY OF HER LIFE?”
“I—I—” I stammered.
“WHILE SHE’S GETTING READY FOR HER WEDDING?” Leigh raged on. “HOW DARE YOU!”
“I’m calling Dawn!” My hands were trembling as I fumbled in my purse and pulled out my BlackBerry.
“OH NO, YOU’RE NOT!” Leigh lunged for it. Like she was going to take it from me and smash it on the ground!
“What the fuck is your problem?” I cried out as I dodged her.
That really got her going.
“MY PROBLEM?” she roared. “YOU’RE THE ONE WITH THE FUCKING PROBLEM. YOU MAKE YOUR PROBLEM EVERYONE ELSE’S PROBLEM. I KNOW ALL ABOUT IT! I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU, CAT MARNELL. EVERYBODY GIVES YOU A PASS.” They did? “DAWN HAS TO PUT UP WITH IT, BUT GUESS WHAT? I DON’T. AND I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU! AND I’M NOT LETTING YOU RUIN THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF MY BEST FRIEND’S LIFE. NOW GO HOME.”
My jaw was on the sidewalk. Marco’s was, too.
What could I do? What could I say?
“Let’s go,” Marco murmured.
He grabbed my hand. We turned around and strode quickly back up Spring Street toward Varick. I was shaking.
“THAT’S RIGHT! GO ON NOW,” Leigh bellowed at our backs. “GO HOME, CAT MARNELL! AND DON’T COME BACK!”
I was in such shock that I couldn’t even talk. I felt like I’d just been Tased! What the hell had just happened?
“I thought you were close with your coworkers,” Marco finally said.
“I am.” I started to cry. “We’re all friends.” Weren’t we?
“Fuck those people, Cat.” Marco put his arm around me. “At least you have me. Come on. Let’s go do some drugs.”
“Okay,” I sniffled.
It was only a few minutes’ walk back to my apartment. Inside, I texted Jean and told her Dawn’s friend wouldn’t let me into the wedding.
What? Why? she wrote back.
I stared at my phone. Then I just never responded.
I was upset for a while, but my friend had me smiling soon enough.
“To think that all happened . . . because you wanted to bring me to a wedding,” Marco snickered.
“Right?” I giggled, passing him the glass stem.
“Shows how much that bitch knows,” he said. “I mean, this a Dior suit.”
Chapter Fourteen
ON MONDAY I WAS BACK at the office, but Dawn wasn’t. She was on her honeymoon. Jean, Cristina, and I had our usual morning meeting. I told them about the confrontation with Dawn’s “crazy friend,” but I kept it brief and vague.
“So weird,” Jean said. Then we moved on to brainstorming about the March issue.
I really needed to get back on track at work—which wouldn’t be that hard to do. After two years, I could assist JGJ in my sleep—or, for that matter, on no sleep. All I had to do was show up, which I always did. My boss wasn’t around half the time, but when she was, I put my best face forward. Simple enough.
But there was no saving face back at 29 Seventh Avenue South, where my mission to pass for “drug-free” and “normal” had gone over like the Challenger. I hadn’t seen Craig or his girlfriend again since the mice night. Then one evening I came home from work and there they were, sitting in the kitchen with Becky. I had to say something.
“I’m so sorry about that crazy morning,” I said. “Did I weird you out? I’m just so scared of mice.”
“Huh?” Craig said.
“Last week,” I said. “When I was out here on the sofa. I was all upset telling you guys about the mice in my room . . .”
Craig’s girlfriend was looking at me like I’d just spoken in tongues.
“I was in Chicago last week,” Craig said. “I just got back today.” He pointed at a suitcase by the stairs. “See?”
What?
“I wasn’t over here,” his girlfriend said. “Because Craig was out of town.”
“That was me you were talking to that morning, Cat,” Becky said gently. “Remember?”
I stared at her.
“Oh, right,” I shook my head and chuckled. “Sorry.”
If it wasn’t awkward living with these people before, it was now. I started looking for a new apartment.
Speaking of awkward. It was mid-November, and Dawn was due back from her honeymoon. I got to work first that day; I always did. Then Dawn arrived. We greeted each other. I fussed with the stuff on my desk, stacking makeup palettes, killing time. She took off her coat. Then I sort of cleared my throat—and just came out with it.
“Dawn?” I said. She turned. I looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sorry about what went down at your wedding. I didn’t mean to cause you any stress.”
“No worries, Marnell.” Cool as a cucumber. Dawn always was.
Exactly one week later, the entire editorial staff was summoned to an afternoon staff meeting. Do you remember the Condé Nast “bloodbath” I told you about? Every magazine was required to make staff cuts. Now it was Lucky’s turn to bring down the ax. Very Hunger Games. Kim was emotional as she named the people who were losing their jobs. I knew I was safe, but it turns out that my newly married coworker wasn’t. I looked around: Dawn wasn’t in the conference room. They’d already told her. Geez.
And just like that, I was promoted. I was a beauty editor at Condé Nast.
* * *
A girl named Simone took my place as Jean’s assistant. Back in August, a temp agency had sent her to sit in my cubicle and answer Jean’s phones while I was in rehab at Silver Hill. Everyone at Lucky had flipped for willowy, smart, chic Simone and her A.P.C. smock dresses. And now she was on staff.
I trained her like a Navy SEAL.
“If she goes to Dr. Brandt, it will always be on an afternoon, at the end of the day, and the traffic is terrible over there so you cannot let the driver leave . . . Sally Hansen is not a real person; that is something I learned the hard way . . .” Simone scribbled everything down. “She needs new appointment book pages for the New Year, but she likes to go to the Hermès store herself and buy those . . . Don’t put cellulite products in her office; she thinks they are fraudulent . . . If she’s not flying first class, she likes to sit by the bulkhead. You can call the airline twenty-four hours before the flight . . .”
With JGJ taken care of, I had more time than ever for my favorite extracurricular: doctor shopping! I’d started seeing Marco’s psychiatrist, Dr. X. On my first visit, I walked in with two hundred dollars cash and out with so many paper prescriptions that I could literally spread them and fucking fan myself. No wonder that kid was such a crackhead! I filled everything at the twenty-four-hour Walgreens in Union Square, where I’d been reading the same romance novel from the rack of paperbacks by the pharmacy counter for over a year. (It was about a woman who had attention deficit disorder—and was looking for love! Amazing, right? I swear on my life. No one ever bought it, or even messed with my bookmark, which—fun fact—was a Juicy Fruit wrapper.)
But you know what they say: mo’ prescriptions, mo’ problems. My dad had picked me up from rehab in September and driven me back to Manhattan just to give me a stern warning. Our conversation
had gone something like this:
“It’s time to cut the crap, Cait.”
“I know.”
“If you fail to remain sober, the rent checks stop. I’m out.”
“That’s . . . fine. I’m . . . that’s totally fine.”
“This is it. Or I’m out.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Or I’m out. This is it, or I’m out.”
“I hear you.”
“The crap stops now, Cait. Or I’m out.”
“I got it. I really do.” Omigod get me out of this car.
Was I crazy-spoiled and nauseatingly privileged? Duh. But I “hated my dad” (most ungrateful and entitled adult children do) back then, and I was only making twenty-six thousand a year at Lucky, and I wanted that rent money. So now I was pretending to be in recovery whenever I spoke with my parents. Whatever, I’d been lying to them all my life.
But lying to my big sister was another thing. I felt so guilty. Emily was proud of me for getting clean. We’d been spending a lot of time together lately, talking about our parents’ divorce. I didn’t care at all that they were splitting, but Emily was really upset. She’d been ultrasensitive to family stuff ever since Cross Creek Manor.
In mid-November, she asked me if I wanted to have Thanksgiving together in New York, just the two of us. I said yes.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “We don’t have to. Just tell me now.”
“I want to!” I was at work with the phone tucked under my chin, applying Givenchy Mister Light concealer to my magnificent under-eye circles. “I’ll be there!” She made a reservation at a restaurant in Soho called Zoe for six o’clock on Thanksgiving.
On the Tuesday before the holiday, Emily checked to make sure we were still on.
Yes! I wrote back. I was texting from Dr. X.’s waiting room on East Seventy-Second Street, flopped in a chair. I was wiped out. I stayed up all night opening Vyvanse capsules and pouring the fine powdered speed onto my tongue anyway—and went into Lucky for a half day on Wednesday on no sleep.
That evening, Marco texted me.
I found a heroin dealer! Oh, Lord. I’d already popped a few lay-me-downs, so I ignored him. Then I set my alarm and passed out on my bed.