You wouldn’t understand. Not unless you’ve ever wrapped your arms so tightly around your neck and shoulders just to know what it feels like to be held. Then you realize you’re hugging yourself and it’s more lonely than before. No, you couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be a lone. Not until you’ve spent your days and nights in an hourglass. One among thousands, millions, gazillions of granules of sand. Confined yet endless: This is what we mean when we speak of eternity.
Every day I get soap in my eyes, and every day it stings. At least I know my face is there. And you’re still lost to me. You’ve really disappeared this time. Left me to wonder whether it was actually you in the first place, or if they might be right: I never had a chance. But if you weren’t you, then how can I be me?
I drink a sip of bleach from the plastic cup the guard slipped onto my breakfast tray. My stomach contracts in rapid buckles. I am going to vomit, but I keep it down. At first I scoured my skin with bleach until it burned, trying to erase myself. It never worked. Sipping again from the cup, I can maybe spit up everything I’ve kept inside so long. I take out a yellow legal pad and draw a few squiggly lines, but can’t concentrate long enough to hold the pen.
There is an interview with your mother in a thick magazine—another gift from my favorite guard, the bleach-carrier. I open the pages to a shock of perfume and find the story I’ve read and re-read. Your mother says she’s happy you were happy in the months before your death. You’d stopped drinking and were thrilled to be onstage again. In such a demanding role, too. What your mother doesn’t know and what I’ve never told a soul is that I smelled the suede flask next to you the day I found you in the stairwell. I knew the truth.
I run my forefinger along the pictures of you. In one you’re surrounded by a group of fans at a mall somewhere in America. So accessible, so late in the game. After the haircut, the broken arm, the NAACP benefit where you kept calling it the ASPCA and had to be escorted offstage. The next day you issued an apology, saying your new allergy medication had made you hallucinate. And we bought it, all of us who devoured every issue of Babbling ’Bout Brooke and believed you when you said you needed three different pills just so you could breathe. At night I held you in my arms and promised everything would be okay.
But your mother says she knew better. She wanted you to take a break from World. Only there you were a few months later on the set they’d created in New York, an action shot, the camera and director visible—who cares? That wasn’t the real you. Then you’re stepping out of a limo with John Strong, posing at a premiere like you had everything anybody ever wanted: fame, fortune, romance. And you liked your family. Turning the page, I find you sitting on a couch with your sister and that damn happy dog, your father in a chair next to you reading the paper and mother hovering behind him, and it’s this one that gets me. The everydayness of it. Like whoever took the shot only had to wait a couple of seconds for you to fall into place: a family.
It hurts so bad I have to cover you with my finger. And still they smile, the dog’s tongue like a piece of ham, and I know I can’t take you from them, even though you’re gone. It’s you I’ve robbed of everything.
Look at me. Listen closely.
I am what it looks like, feels like, this word alone.
STARLIGHT, STARBRIGHT
ON A CLEAR AND DEWY SATURDAY IN MAY, the Harrisons—Mildred, Tom, Cynthia, and Grampy Harry—climbed into Tom’s new Buick Regal and drove from Blue Bell to New York City. Brooke had invited them up for a dual celebration of Cynthia’s nineteenth birthday and the start of her rehearsals for the off-Broadway play The Roses. It was her riskiest career move to date, returning to the stage in a controversial new play, one that dealt frankly with early sexual abuse and would require a number of uncomfortable scenes, some nudity and profanity. This was her chance to prove she could really act, Brooke told Mildred, and if reviews were good, it could be her ticket out of daytime. Although Mildred worried that Brooke was setting herself up for yet another disappointment, she managed, as was her way, to sequester those feelings.
The troupe arrived in Manhattan at noon. Brooke met them in the lobby of the Hilton, where she’d booked a suite. There followed the requisite hugs and kisses, then Mildred watched as Brooke clasped her arm through Cynthia’s in a proprietary gesture and they giggled all the way to the elevators, as if only Brooke understood the inner workings of her larger younger sister. Compared to Brooke they were all large, Mildred thought, and they really weren’t big at all. Even Cynthia, who’d been overdoing it on the whole wheat bread and peanut butter—what else was a vegetarian to do at the university cafeteria?—was not overweight by anyone’s standards. She looked like a normal young person in her nondescript cotton clothing and basketball shoes, while the slight and bony Brooke looked alien, almost fossil-like. She wore a tight leather miniskirt that accentuated her protruding hipbones, checkerboard stockings, and tastefully doused her eyes with cobalt-blue shadow, but beneath the trendy clothes and makeup her body seemed barely past puberty. As soon as Mildred saw her, despite receiving the wide-eyed grin she’d been aching for, the one that said, “You are my mother, you gave me life, and for that, no matter how many friends, lovers, and fans pass through my world, you are still my number one,” despite even that, she wanted to cry out in bold tabloid fashion: The girl is evaporating!
Of course she did no such thing, afraid of upsetting Brooke upon their arrival, after her daughter had gone to so much trouble planning the weekend. So Mildred bit her lip and followed the family up to the seventeenth floor, where a two-bedroom suite awaited them. Cynthia, of course, would be staying with Brooke in the sublet the World producers had arranged for her. While they were not happy about adjusting their most popular story line to accommodate Brooke’s “little theatrical diversion,” they would do whatever it took to keep her happy. She was a huge audience draw. Yet Mildred wondered whether it was best for them to placate her. Sacrifice was often the wisest of teachers. If she’d had to choose between the play and securing her role on the soap, she might have learned to prioritize and maybe not push herself as hard.
Mildred dropped her jacket on one of the beds and walked into the shared living area, where Grampy Harry was ogling the selection in the mini bar.
“Have whatever you want,” Brooke said.
“I say, that’ll cost me an arm and a leg. I’ve heard about these outfits.”
“Don’t be silly, Grampy.” Brooke jumped up and kissed his cheek, laughing. “You’re not paying for anything. It’ll cost me an arm and a leg, but what the heck? I’ve got a couple of each.”
Grampy Harry took a Coke from the tiny refrigerator and pulled off the top, still looking a bit nervous. He’d never really understood just how successful his granddaughter had become. To him she was always the little girl who’d climbed in his lap to talk into the wooden spoon they pretended was a microphone, giving dramatic readings from his Popular Mechanics. He held up the soda can in a toasting gesture before taking a sip. It was a convivial moment, capped by a most convivial afternoon. They had lunch at the Carnegie Deli, Tom’s favorite restaurant, then strolled through Central Park, a slight breeze tickling their noses as their shoes squeaked across the damp grass. At four, Brooke took them to tea at the Pierre, quite a scene on Saturdays. The dining room was filled with dignitaries, financiers, a famous white-haired talk show host, and what Brooke called Eurotrash—decadent young Europeans with infinite time and resources at their disposal. She said they were revenge for all the rich Americans who flooded into Paris between the two big wars. Grampy Harry told them how eager he’d once been to serve his country, but when he was finally old enough join the U.S. Army in 1918, just as they were shipping off the war ended, and the boat returned to the States without ever touching ground in Europe. A career in civil service would thus be the extent of his public duty, a son who fought in Korea the closest he’d come to any war. Though they’d all heard the story a million times, the Harrison clan sighed with its
grand patriarch as they sipped china cups of Earl Gray tea and munched on dry scones and clotted cream. Tom joked that he always gained five pounds whenever he came to New York, while his wife silently charted her daughter’s stymied appetite.
Afterwards they had a few hours to rest and prepare for the celebratory dinner that evening. Brooke had made a reservation at a restaurant called Gotham, the sound of which seemed slightly ominous to Mildred. The Harrisons senior and grand patriarch hailed a taxi at the Hilton and arrived at the restaurant before the girls. They were shown to their table and promptly served champagne and black caviar, a delicacy Mildred never would have known herself to favor had it not been for Brooke. The restaurant was quiet and dimly lit. People dressed in evening wear; one man even wore a tuxedo. Mildred wished Tom had worn the tux they’d bought him when Brooke started inviting them to award shows, parties, and various charity events. It was a classic black suit and vest, with a white shirt—no ruffles, as they reminded Mildred too much of wedding musicians—and black bow tie. In it, Tom looked more like Robert Redford than usual, although wherever they went he always got the you-know-who-you-look-like routine from strangers, and it never failed to make him blush.
He didn’t say much, her husband, but he looked great in a tuxedo. And he was a pleasant companion, despite his occasional flare-ups, and who didn’t have those? Mildred reached her hand across the table and laid it on top of Tom’s. He smiled, clasping her fingers between his own, and they stared silently into each other’s eyes, satisfied for the moment with what their lives had amounted to.
“Ugh! Gag me with a Swiss army knife,” Cynthia said. She stood above them, a sneer crossing her lips.
“So this is what you’ve been up to without Cyn around?” Brooke winked. Tom let go of his wife, who quickly folded her hands in her lap. Cynthia and Brooke filtered into their seats and it was as if a tidal wave had washed over the table. The smell of perfume emanated from the two girls, as if they’d been accosted by vigilant sample sprayers in a department store, and their faces looked as if they’d ransacked a few makeup counters. More surprising, however, was Cynthia’s black cocktail dress that hugged her right shoulder, cutting diagonally down across her breasts to wrap beneath her left armpit. Mildred hadn’t seen her younger daughter out of pants since her graduation from high school, and even then it had been a shapeless floorlength skirt and sensible top, but there she was dressed like her sister, although she reminded Mildred more of a field hockey player stuffed into a tutu. “You like it?” Brooke said. “It’s Fiorucci. So are the shoes. Cyn, show them the shoes.”
Cynthia backed up her chair and raised her right foot in the air. It was covered with a plaid Mary Jane on boxy rubber souls that Mildred thought looked clownish and didn’t go with the dress, but when she mentioned that fact, Cynthia huffed, “That’s the point!” and Mildred once again felt rebuked as her daughters exchanged a conspiratorial wink.
The girls were quite talkative. Apparently a “scene” had occurred in the cab downtown. Like a rehearsed duet, they took turns telling the story of their driver who’d practically had a coronary when he hit a traffic jam on Broadway and wouldn’t stop pounding his fist against the dashboard, crying for God to clear the streets. He slammed the breaks on and off so often his tiny statue of Jesus looked pallid. When Brooke finally suggested he try cutting east, he exclaimed: “You are so selfish!” At that, Brooke and Cynthia jumped out of the cab without paying and walked to the restaurant, giggling and calling each other selfish the entire way. It was too beautiful to be in a cab anyway, Cynthia said, and Mildred wondered where the sentiment had come from. Never before had she heard her youngest daughter call anything beautiful, but she reminded herself she’d never seen her dressed like a misguided debutante either. There was so much she would never know about her children.
A man in vest and bow tie approached to take their dinner orders, and again Brooke reminded Grampy Harry he wasn’t paying and could have whatever he wanted. He chose the grilled salmon, the one entrée on the menu he said he recognized, and a lightly creamed portobello mushroom soup, though he confessed the word portobello sounded like a public urinal, and they all politely ignored him. Brooke was about to order when her jaw dropped. “Oh shit!” she said, then apologized for the obscenity before popping up from the table. Mildred watched her walk to the bar, where they seemed to be letting her use the telephone. After she returned and they completed their first course, Cynthia excused herself to visit the ladies room and Brooke explained that she’d left Cynthia’s birthday cake in the refrigerator, after she’d secured special permission from the restaurant to bring it, no small feat at a new establishment with one of the hottest pastry chefs in the city—“But they know what’s good for them,” Brooke winked, and Mildred startled at her words, the stroke of venom in her eyes and subtle rise of her back. This was the daughter she rarely saw, the one who thrived on her own publicity folder. It was not a pretty sight.
“Anyway, I caught Johnny, and he’s going to bring it down,” she said.
“John’s in New York?” Mildred asked. “Well, why didn’t you say something? We’d love to see him.”
“Oh, he had a drinks thing but, actually, it got cancelled, so there you have it. He’s on his way.” Nodding nervously, she threw her hands in the air and smiled, but there was no fooling Mildred. Brooke was obviously uncomfortable with the situation, and she hadn’t mentioned John in weeks. The waiter brought another bottle of champagne, refilling around the table, but when he got to Brooke, she crossed her palms over the glass, flashing an anxious smile. “I’m not drinking during rehearsals,” she said, and Mildred was pleased. Perhaps all of those drunk-driving classes were finally paying off, or maybe the play was more difficult than she’d imagined or she and John were experiencing some of the problems the tabloids chronicled or she’d simply had enough. But there was no time for a followup question as Cynthia had just returned, and their main courses were being served.
Mildred once again held her tongue when she saw that Brooke had ordered only a bowl of tomato bisque to follow her mixed-greens salad. Even Cynthia had indulged in an entire plate of grilled vegetables, some of which Mildred had never even heard of, let alone seen, with a strange assortment of purées. Brooke said she’d spoken to the chef about making sure there were vegetarian options for Cynthia on her birthday. It was sweet the way they took care of each other, and nobody could accuse them of not eating their vegetables! Besides, Mildred’s roast duck smelled too delectable not to warrant her full attention. She looked down at the sliced fowl doused with a rainbow of colorful peppers and orange peels, resting on a bed of some sort of grain, and before sticking her fork and knife into the meat, softly said, “I’m all yours.” A tiny snicker rose through her radiated cheeks. Alrighty, she thought, no more champagne, although it was difficult to stop with those waiters refilling her glass every few minutes, but at least everyone except Brooke received the same treatment and therefore, as far as she knew, they were all equally impaired and probably hadn’t heard her flirting with her food.
They ate fiercely and happily, chatting mostly about (rather than directly addressing) the food in rich adjectives and making mellifluous lip-smacking noises. They reminisced about the day’s events—they couldn’t have had nicer weather! In May, New York became the most wondrous city in the world, Brooke said. And so much closer to home than Los Angeles, they all agreed.
A waiter approached the table but stood off to the side as two busboys cleared their dinner plates, stepping up only after they’d finished to skim the table with his silver crumber. He handed out dessert menus, and just as they settled in to read them, a boisterous current overtook the restaurant and seemed to sweep all heads toward the front door, even the disaffected waiter proffering a sideways glance, as John Strong and two tall women with short dark hair entered the restaurant. Brooke grimaced, “Oh god, I can’t believe he brought them!”
They all stared as John Strong approached the table looking e
very bit the screen idol, his face illuminated by the twenty candles in the big chocolate cake, and a stunning girl on each side of him. “It’s the Gargolye twins,” Brooke whispered loud enough so they’d all hear. “Anna’s okay, but a bit weird, and Paulina … she’s another story entirely.”
“Which is which?” Cynthia asked, and was quickly informed that Anna had the rounder, sweeter face, although Mildred thought they both looked like the somber women she remembered from her parents’ union magazines in the fifties: dark hair and eyes, milky-white skin and prominent jaws, as if they’d been trained forward by years of sloganeering. Only these girls were much, much taller than she’d envisioned.
“Who are the Gargle twins?” Grampy Harry asked.
Brooke laughed. “Don’t call them that, Grampy. Paulina loves throwing things. They’re models, from somewhere in Eastern Europe.”
“Eurotrash!” Mildred exclaimed merrily.
“No, Mother,” Brooke rolled her eyes, but it was Cynthia who scoffed worse than when she’d seen Mildred and Tom holding hands earlier. As if Mildred were the most ridiculous creature she’d ever set eyes on. Why did Cynthia have such a problem with her? Or was it Mildred’s problem? Was she acting that badly? Nobody else seemed to notice. Perhaps the champagne was making her paranoid. She remembered then that she wasn’t supposed to drink so much. Easier adhering to this precept at home, of course.
“Mom, Eurotrash is like if you’re from Italy or France, the real Europe,” Brooke explained. “They’re from the Communist bloc. Anyway, they’ve been on the cover of practically every magazine. Now they’re trying to do movies, but I’ve seen their reel—”
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