Loved In Pieces (The Intentions Series)

by Carla J Hanna

  I lost it. I cried hysterically, shaking, sobbing, and heaving. My psycho mom did this to me. I absolutely hated her!

  I felt alone. Yeah, I had Manuel, but I didn’t believe in a fairy tale happily-ever-after. I was never one to live in the future. I saw best intentions as they were: decisions made with hope everything would turn out for the best. I lived in the now, and had accepted long ago that the future was uncertain. I didn’t believe in promises.

  Manuel had his arm around me. “We need to call her father. Can you please tell him what you told us?”

  “Yes,” the doctor agreed.

  “Hey Tom,” Manuel said with anger in his voice. “Can you get Celia on the phone, conference call if she’s not there. This is important.” He waited for a long minute. “Hi, Celia. You’re going to be talking with a doctor. Please write everything down. Get his name. This is serious and I need to take care of Marie now.”

  Manuel handed his phone to the doctor and then scooped me up and held me in his chair while he listened to the conversation.

  When the doctor hung up, he wrote his contact info and some notes on a piece of paper.

  “Here is all of my contact information. I’d like to run tests on you tomorrow. I’m going to set you up as CSY7@gmail.com.” He was typing on his computer. “Password?”

  I answered, “N10tions, capital N, number 10, lower case ‘t,’ ‘i,’’o,’ ‘n,’ ‘s’.” I don’t know why I chose that password. It just seemed to fit. I felt hollow. I had been taking chemo for four years. What the hell?!

  “There, you’re set up. I just emailed you all my contact information and the FBI contact. I also CC’d him and your dad.” He took the paper back from Manuel and wrote down my new email address and password.

  “I’m so very sorry. But have hope. We’ve been working on a cure for the cure for four years now and we are very close to solving the problem.”

  I couldn’t speak. I stood up, but I couldn’t walk well. I stumbled and hit the wall after we left the doctor’s office. My head spun while Manuel helped me walk to the car.

  ~ | ~ HOW DARE YOU?!

  Manuel was driving erratically. He tried to focus on the road but he struggled. I looked at him and saw that he was crying.

  “I hate my mom! Hate her!” I fumed. I called Michelle’s cell. No answer. I called it again. No answer. I looked through my contact list. I called the director. No answer. I called him again. No answer. I started shaking.

  “Shit. No one is answering!” I yelled to Manuel.

  He asked as calmly as he could possibly speak, “Who on crew is the farthest from the sound stage? He might have his phone on vibrate.”

  I called Michelle’s assistant. “No answer.”

  “Try texting,” he suggested.

  I texted Michelle. “X=chemo. So angry. Do NOT come home. Psycho!”

  I copied the text and pasted it into an email. I knew her assistant read her emails, but at the moment I didn’t care about following the rules. I pressed, “Send.”

  “It’s done. ‘Mommy Dearest’ knows…and so does her assistant,” I whimpered. “You and me finally together… I thought maybe we could just have a happily-ever-after. Serves me right to start believing in fairy tales.”

  “Oh, don’t say that. We will have a good life together. Don’t lose faith, Marie. Medicine is amazing now. You caught it in time, for sure. You’ll be okay.” Manuel held my hand. He changed his voice to sound confident. “I want to know everything about what you have. When we get back to your place, can I use your computer? And who’s this doctor that was in that quack’s office—Jacques Lambert? I want to look him up.”

  “Sure, yeah, I don’t need to look anything up.” I added, “I just want to sit in the hot tub. I hate her! I can’t believe she did this to me on purpose to give me some shitty career! What a bitch! And I thought she loved me? I feel… feel so played, trapped…made.”

  I was absolutely certain that the doctor told the truth. I knew my symptoms would match the hypo-pituitary-whatever failure he mentioned. The weirdness about the last four years, Michelle’s overreaction to me quitting, and her creepy guilt all finally fell into place. Yep, the evidence was beyond a reasonable doubt. I couldn’t talk anymore and was too mad to cry. Manuel held my hand and likewise said nothing.

  ~ | ~ OVERWHELMED

  Thank God Manuel was there for me. I vomited a couple of times, sick fom the shock that Michelle did this to me and from the realization that my life was incomplete.

  It was nighttime. We were both lying on my bed, facing each other on our sides, holding hands with our arms bent at the elbows. He softly stroked my hair. He knew I liked it off of my face and neck.

  “Manuel, thank you for being here for me. I feel kind of selfish, though. All these traumas in just a few months: media betrayal, Matthew, Byron, quitting my career, getting pissed about my birthday, learning that I’ve been on a chemo drug, Michelle deceiving me. I feel like I’m not being fair to you. It must suck being my boyfriend.”

  “No, no, no.” He shook his head and fought back tears. His eyes were wet. “I want to be here for you.” He put his hand on my cheek. “I have loved you my whole life and am finally your boyfriend. My dreams have come true. There’s not a possibility I’d leave you.”

  I sighed, relieved. Being with him was so comforting, so nice. For at least a week I noticed feelings of desire move through my body when I was with him. I felt warm and tingly. I was ready to make love.

  I moved closer to him, wiped his tears and kissed his lips. “I’ve missed you,” I whispered and put my hand under his shirt onto his chest.

  He gently pushed me away, back to where we were before. His eyes were on mine, searching for the right words to say. He shook his head and bit his trembling lips.

  Feeling rejected, I pleaded. “I can try again to be with you. I want you.”

  “No, Angel, not now.” He looked at me soulfully, sadly.

  I worried, “I don’t want you to reject me. Please?”

  I wept—worried that he didn’t want me. Speaking the words out loud that Michelle betrayed me so thoroughly devastated me.

  I didn’t understand how I avoided getting sick while I took a medicine designed to kill my cells. I should have been weak, with gray-toned skin and hair loss. Why would I have been healthy while on chemo? I wondered how sick I would become now that I was not. What consequential tumor was growing in my body?

  Not knowing if I might have a side effect from a drug developed to cure a cancer I never had, having ‘eternal youth’ for an unknown amount of time, made me want to hurry up and start living immediately. I was healthy at that moment. That was all I knew. I didn’t know the future. I wanted to make love, eat brownies, graduate from high school. LIVE. I worried about how long I had to live. Would I be able to get pregnant if I did live? Dr. Mark said I would start menstruating when I got off the x-nib. But he was a liar, a monster. Did he lie about me being able to have babies? What would life be like, always looking like a teenager? How full would my life be if I lived the rest of my life alone?

  Manuel interrupted my thoughts. He murmured, “Want you? Always.” He put his hands to his face and wiped his eyes. He held me. “What you’ve gone through is always in the back of my mind: you calling from the prick’s place; wanting to bust up his face when he felt no shame in the limo; the look on your face when you heard the porno on your birthday; seeing you in that movie, on the swing, in that rape scene; wanting the media to leave you alone; knowing that Matthew almost… And now knowing what your mom did to you. Making love is not right today, not now.”

  Manuel wrapped himself around me and spoke softly. “I printed the symptoms of hypopituitarism for you to read. The chemo made your sex hormones shut down. It was physically impossible for you to get turned on.” He sighed. “Good thing I ruined your birthday or you probably would have faked it to get me to leave you alone.”

  I laughed. I would have.

  “Now that you’ve been off x-
nib, you might find me more desirable because you finally can if you pituitary gland is releasing sex and growth hormones again.”

  “So my heart wasn’t a diamond. My pituitary gland was. Then why have I always felt so much love for you and not others?”

  Manuel grinned, “Because you love me the most. I win.”

  He moved me and looked into my eyes deeply, his sad eyes still wet. “I think I should call you Lia instead of Marie from now on.” Manuel kissed me softly. “I’ll love you forever, Lia. But I don’t want to go to hell for doing it with a beautiful angel.”

  He whispered a prayer, “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here. Ever this day, be at my side, to light and guard, to rule, and guide. Amen.”

  It was a sweet and special prayer. It united us. I understood. It was an overwhelming situation. I wiped tears away from my cheeks.

  I whispered, “Best friends, then, who kiss and hold hands; I like it. So you’re the guardian and I’m the angel. We make quite a team.”

  We both closed our eyes and let our tears fall, holding hands. I was emotionally spent.

  He cuddled closer to me and I rested my forehead on his chest. He asked, “Can I take you to church with me in the morning? I need to go.”

  “Okay.” I agreed, kissed his chest, and breathed in his relaxing pheromones.

  I made some decisions as I let my body relax into sleep. We’d go to church in the morning. I would be strong for the medical tests. I would continue my life as I have, keep my routines, finish my finals, graduate from high school. I’d call Grandma May to confirm my stay at her ranch this summer. I’d go to my house on Flathead Lake. I’d do “Muse III.” Every day I would tell the very few people I loved that they were special.

  I looked at Manuel one last time before closing my eyes. I’d ask him to marry me, for real. The worst that could be lurking would be a tiny tumor causing the hypopituitarism. The doctor would remove it and everything would be great. I’d never speak to Michelle again, but I could deal. I had my guardian and felt fine.

  ~ | ~ May ~ | ~

  Santa Monica in May was predictably gloomy and cold in the mornings, perfect running weather. The bougainvillea had dropped its pedals and the fragrance from the wisteria faded. But the canyon transformed itself from spring, revealing a new beauty. In the mornings, the fog hid the foliage. The sun usually burned off the gray haze by noon—revealing a canvas exploding with various hues of green and shades of brown from the lush trees and shrubs. Sunsets were phenomenal.

  Although I always tried to find positives about the gloom, I hated the wait for the sun.

  ~ | ~ THE ANTAGONIST

  It was dawn when I woke up. I was thirsty and my eyes ached. I tiptoed out of my room and got some Excedrin from the kitchen and a glass of water. I wanted to eat some nuts. I always ate some nuts to kick-start my metabolism—all these tricks in the industry to keep me from gaining any weight. But I wasn’t supposed to eat anything before my tests. I worried that the pain killer I took would mess up the tests.

  Instead of returning to bed, I sat on the couch and took in the view for a minute. The fog rolled over the trees in the canyon below as the hidden sun brightened the light blue sky. Then I decided to go downstairs and soaked in the hot tub on the terrace. I didn’t turn on the jets. They were too loud. I just wanted quiet. Knowing someone could see me if I got in naked, I slipped in the water in my sleep shirt. The shirt would dry but a picture of me naked on the internet would be permanent.

  I thought about what Michelle had taught me about the industry, about good and evil, greed and good intentions, sincerity and manipulation, beauty and ugliness. Antonyms, opposites—always being present at once, always intertwined, always yin and yang, dependent on each other for definition, for distinction, for existence. I reflected about how I knew that I must get into my backyard hot tub in clothes because somewhere out there, in the few homes fortunate enough to have ocean and canyon views, that someone just might see me, take a photo with their zoom lens ready, and make a quick thousand dollars selling their photo to a tabloid. Then the masses who loved my movies—the many individuals who stared at me when I walked by them, too embarrassed to say ‘hi,’ or the few who praised me and gushed over me and wanted to be my character’s best friend—gobbled up the publication showing my naked body or forwarded the online picture to all their friends. They wanted me to expose who I was intentionally in a film to enrich their lives, to entertain them, and then they were thrilled if I stumbled, messed up, exposed myself unintentionally. I was a girl playing a character conceived by producers, directors and writers, saying lines that were written by a team of writers, filmed with the clever vision of cameramen, directors, lighting and sound specialists, set designers, costume stylists and makeup artist, digital artists and so many more talented individuals, in a film that hundreds of people worked on. The audience loved the character; hated the actor. I hated eating the flies.

  Right and wrong—always in conflict. Sometimes it was clear what was right or what was wrong. Mostly it was muddled. Rules helped. But the context of an event influenced the perception of that event. Sometimes a monster was kind. Sometimes a good person did monstrous things. I was a good person, but to some I was a rich bitch slutty actress who they wanted to watch fall. I was a drunken sixteen-year-old. To many, I was a pathetic weakling who needed rehab. I had premarital sex. To some, I was a sinner. My mother was a virgin when she got married. She was the Hollywood good girl, the exception. My mother intentionally gave me a drug to keep me beautiful and give me the perfect Hollywood career. To me, she was a sinner.

  I got out of the hot tub when Manuel came outside. We cuddled next to each other and sat in silence, listening to the birds and to the murmur of the waves hitting the beach. Hearing the ocean seemed impossible from such a distance but it was also undeniable that the waves created the sound.

  After a while, I interrupted the silence. “Listen. Do you hear that consistent roaring, as if you were on the beach?”

  “Yeah, it’s quite peaceful. I was actually trying to figure out what it was,” he pondered.

  “It’s the ocean, the waves hitting the beach. It’s impossible that we can hear it from so far away, but that sound is so obviously the ocean. This terrace, the incredible view and peaceful sounds, have always seemed like such a contradiction here in Santa Monica. All I hear or see from your home are buildings, cars, and noise. Just a few minutes away—this. It doesn’t seem possible that I see a blanket of green and earthly colors from here—that I don’t see buildings—and that I can’t hear the cars on the PCH or the noise of people. But listen, look—just nature. And listen to what you can’t hear.”

  I was outside too long and needed to get out of my wet pajamas and damp blanket. I also needed to text Michelle. “I should see what time church is this morning.”

  Manuel answered, “Let’s go to the 9 am mass.” I was surprised he remembered the time church started.

  I kissed Manuel on the forehead as I left the chaise and smiled at him. He gave me that stunned look. I noticed, but wanted to get inside. “Enjoy the rolling fog. Relax.”

  He called after me, “Hey, Lia?” I turned around in the doorway to the mud room. He laughed, “Nice rack and great ass!”

  I changed out of my wet sleep shirt and wrapped a towel around me. Upstairs, I just dried off, drank some more water, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on a sundress. I was thinking of the right words to text to Michelle, picked up my phone, and saw that she had tried to call several times and left texts all saying she was sorry and didn’t intend to harm me.

  I texted back. “I’m pissed.”

  A wave of relief coupled with a profound sadness washed over me. I noticed again the conundrum. Opposites intertwining and creating a unique emotion that only made sense in that moment, in that context. I felt the emotion of the conflict between feeling pain and betrayal at the same time as feeling serenity and sympathy.

  My phone rang
, as I expected. Tears already swelled in my eyes. “Hey,” I managed to choke out.

  “I’m so….so…sorry.” She was crying so hard that she couldn’t get the words out.

  “I know, Michelle. But you lied to me, betrayed me, hurt me.”

  She was silent. She whispered, “I’m your mom. Please call me Mom.”

  I gulped and started crying. “No. You don’t deserve the title.”

  She sniffled and sighed. “I wish I could take it back. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was so desperate, so lost without Tom. I couldn’t quit acting when he wanted me to. But then when he left, I had to succeed.

  “My body was aging. Rex looked so good, but he didn’t have plastic surgery. Everyone was getting something done. He told me about the drug, that it was a plastic surgery alternative. He warned that it was not risk free, but no plastic surgery was risk free either. I didn’t want to get another liposuction, ever. Remember how I swelled and vomited for hours? That was so painful.

  “When I saw Rex’s doctor, he told me the drug would impede cell growth. I told him how your grandma died from breast cancer when I was young, that I had polycystic ovarian syndrome. He said it was conceivable that x-nib would reduce my potential to develop breast cancer. I saw it as pre-emptive treatment for breast cancer. He said the chemo would probably not reduce cyst development, since cysts were not tumors.” She paused for a moment, self-editing, remembering more that she didn’t want to share.

  “Honestly, I knew I would take it any way to keep looking young,” she admitted through another sob. I said nothing and waited for her to continue.

  “I took x-nib paired with that very expensive immunity supplement, exclusive to Dr. Mark, when we started the Left to Die project and felt great, actually. I didn’t get sick like I had expected I would from chemo. Rex said he didn’t get sick, either. It was a miracle. Like you, I had very painful periods my whole life but was completely cramp-free immediately. When I had my yearly gynecological check-up a few months later, the doctor saw no symptoms of polycystic ovarian syndrome. The mammogram showed no cysts in my breasts. Somehow the drug cured my condition. Cysts didn’t grow. You were in such pain on the set when you were menstruating and you were so physically matured already. I didn’t want you to be in pain. I told you that the drug was for treating your painful periods and that you had polycystic ovarian syndrome, but I don’t know if you have it, honestly.” She had stopped crying and was now easier to understand. I relaxed a bit in my bedroom chair.