“Holly,” cooed Betty Jane, “how many times have I told you never to trust a man who does not speak or wear cologne? It does not matter. He cannot make me do anything. I rule the Committee. I decide.”
“But Milton said—”
“Milton. Where is your precious Milton? On vacation.” She laughed. “Under a tree in France somewhere. I am the only one who cares, and you turn on me again and again and again.”
“Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything you ask.You can have anything. I’m sorry.”
“Holly,” screamed Ruffles, “what are you saying?”
“No,” I yelled at her. Then to Betty Jane, “I’m sorry. Please don’t do this. Please,” I begged.
“For one minute,” she said, “I considered it, but your fat friend changed my mind.”
“Ruffles, do something,” I pleaded. She shook her head.
“Too late,” said Betty Jane. She snapped her fingers. They were gone.
“No!” I screamed.
Oh, God. Oh, God. My breath came fast. I threw myself on Ruffles’s pillow. The pain of their departure tore me in half. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to run at the walls.Anything to get the pain away. I got up on my knees and slammed my shoulder against the wall. Ruffles’s bag of chips crumpled noisily beneath me like a collision of foil and flesh. I beat at my head with my fists.“No.” I didn’t want to see that. I hit harder against the wall, screaming, “No!” I punched the wall again, screaming “No,” until all the heat left my body and it started to shake uncontrollably.“No.” I hit my forehead against the wall in even-note syncopation.“Come back; please come back.”
“Holly.” I heard my name from a distance.
“Holly.”
I opened my eyes. Blood ran down my forehead.
“Holly, my God, I was about to call 911,” cried Sarah.
“Come back,” I kept repeating. Sarah’s face bounced with my chattering teeth.
She put her arms around me like a straitjacket.“Holly, you’re scaring me.” Then she took my hand and said, “Come here. You’re cold as ice.”
Sarah draped a blanket over my shoulders and held on again. “What happened?” she whispered.
The shaking in my body subsided and I said, “They’re gone, Sarah. Betty Jane has taken them.They’re gone.” I sat on the bed and pulled my thighs close to my chest, trying to stanch the bleeding darkness inside my body.
Sarah sat next to me and put her arm across my shoulders. She brushed back my hair and said, “But she’s done that before, Holly. She’ll come back. She always does.”
Sarah’s resigned acceptance sparked enough hope in me to prevent me from saying Ruffles had turned on me, and Betty Jane had never before left with the rest of the Committee. Anguish pulsed like a million tiny heartbeats behind my eyes. Sarah was right. She was always right. Betty Jane would come back. She’d come back with the Committee and everything would be fine. I just had to wait.
I just had to wait.
{ 12 }
I never knew when to stop trying, turn back, or at least go in another direction. I mean, why do something new when the familiar was so familiar you no longer noticed the bruises and you had scars on your scars? So, the morning after the Emmy awards show, when I awoke to the Committee’s empty house inside my head, I told myself what everyone does when faced with a hopeless situation and an awareness complete with bold letters and lights flashing, Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. I told myself, “This time will be different.”Then I twisted myself into the proverbial pretzel of hope and waited.
When the a.m. news shows replayed the video of me clocking myself with an Emmy statuette, calling it a clever comedy, skilled acting, I dug deeper into my conviction that all would be well and maintained the image of Betty Jane and the Committee returning to my open arms. I know Sarah wavered between flying home with me to make sure I held it together, and getting away from me and my missing multiple personalities and back to her male alphabet, Volvo, and sanity. The latter prevailed when I offered her an out in the form of a weak promise that I’d be fine. How hard could it be to deplane, grab my bags, and find the car waiting to deliver me safely to my apartment? Harder than I thought.
I don’t remember much of the flight except the effort it took to focus on trying not to run screaming from anyone who approached, brushed past, jostled, or otherwise invaded the invisible circle I’d drawn around myself. I always found comfort in flaky new-age theories, like “Draw a protective circle around you,” when I was in a crisis. But, just like religion, the theory when applied to reality generally turned out to be utter crap.
Halfway through the flight home, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find an orange BITES sticker next to my seat number, just like the one my vet posted on Cat Two’s file to warn others before approaching.
I arrived home Monday evening to a doorstep empty of the envelope with the work for the following day and a distressing voice mail. The video of me doing my version of a Saint Vitus’ dance and then knocking myself out on national television had exploded across every available media outlet. I knew Walter was going to require an act of contrition that would strain my ability to project patience for Betty Jane. I told myself I should start repenting by arriving at work early Tuesday morning. But the truth was, I wanted to arrive early because the studio was one of the few places where I felt a little bit safe, and, more important, I was banking on work to bring the bolting Betty Jane and the kidnapped Committee back to me and my open arms.
When I reached the recording room at eight forty-five in the morning, there were only two engineers at the console.“Where’s Mike?” The expected churlishness was unintended this time.
The engineers’ faces carried smirks instead of their usual beaten-down bearing, and small beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.
“Uh . . . he’s . . .”
“Are we recording today?” I said. “There wasn’t anything waiting for me when I got back last night.” Neither of them answered me. Inside I felt that creeping feeling that comes when you know you should know what’s going on, because it seems clear that everyone else knows. But you haven’t the first clue. Instead all you have is the anxiety gnawing at your insides. In the face of this, I did the only thing I could do.
I left the room.
I heard voices in the hallway. I stopped, stood out of sight, and listened.
“Walter, I don’t want to agree to this,” said Mike.
Shit. He’s here? I didn’t expect to don the hair shirt so soon.
“I don’t give a damn,” said Walter. “I’ve had it. And in Walt’s World that means something.”
“Let’s just put this behind us, Walt, move on,” said Mike sternly.Walter opened his mouth to speak. Mike held up his hand. “It’s my show.”
“You said that in May,” said Walter.“I went along with it then. Not now.”
“She’s been fine for the last several months.”
“Did you happen to catch the Emmys?” said Walter.
I turned and walked away from them.
Now what?
I went out to the back alley and lit a cigarette.
“Betty Jane, please,” I whispered. I knew Sarah said Betty Jane always returned, but now she’d been gone two hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty-two seconds longer than previous absences. “Can you please . . .” My voice trailed off. “Please . . .” I think Sarah was wrong this time.
What am I going to do?
I started to pace the empty alley.
What am I going to do?
My breath caught.
What am I going to do?
I looked skyward and yelled,“You made your point.You can come back now.” My voice cracked with panic.
“Miss Miller?” I turned and came face-to-face with one of the security guards. “You okay?” Great. Another breakdown by Holly Miller in Page Six tomorrow. Only this time, I really was talking to myself.
“I’m fine,” I said, “just having a bad day.” He
nodded and retreated back down the alley. I bit my thumb, hoping the physical pain would stave off the panic and anguish rising like a high tide in the back of my throat.
I slipped in the side door just as Mike turned the corner. “Let’s go,” he said tersely. Yeah, right, I thought.
When I entered the sound booth, none of the cast members even glanced up.Walter stood glowering behind Mike as he told us to pick up where we’d left off Friday, which meant Violet was up, and Betty Jane was still on strike and nowhere near with her picket sign and demands. The floor underneath my feet felt unsteady. She’s not coming back.They’re not coming back.
After my third try at Violet’s lines, Mike yelled, “cut!” through the talkback.Walter said something to him, glared at me from the other side of the glass; then he left. Mike motioned for me to come out.
When I stood in front of him he said, “Holly, that’s it, you’re through.”
“Sorry. I just need some rest. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
In response, Mike handed me an envelope. Inside it I found a notice that said in bold letters, Termination of Contract.
I glanced at the engineers.They both turned away, unable to look me in the eye. I scanned the cast in the booth.They had the same expressions you’d find on someone who had finally witnessed the going around, coming around.
I couldn’t breathe.
The eyes of all the people in front of me and behind the glass closed in on every inch of the empty expanse I’d become in two short days without the Committee. They kept staring. I didn’t move. With each passing second, their pitying gazes felt like the crushing pressure of a deep underwater dive.And right before the last barrier between me and myself shattered into thousands of fragments, I dropped the piece of paper I held in my hand and I turned around and ran.
I ran out of the recording room and out the front door of the studio. I kept running down Twenty-third Street. I didn’t know where I was running to; I only knew I needed to run to something. But what, I couldn’t at that moment say.
So I kept running.
I reached Fifth Avenue sweating and out of breath. Everything around me seemed unfamiliar and frightening. Where do I go? I turned right and picked up my pace again. People parted before me like the Red Sea. New Yorkers instinctively know when to step aside and let crazy pass.
When I reached Ninth Street, I slowed to a jog and turned left. Wheezing like an out-of-tune accordion, I ambled toward Fourth Avenue. Each footfall felt like God had gripped my Achilles’ tendons, flipped me upside down, and spanked me against the pavement. Every corner of my body ached. I took two more steps and then stopped at 95 East Ninth Street. I pressed my hands against the walls as I heaved the air in and out of my lungs.Then I pushed down on Milton’s buzzer. I heard it sound from the other side of the door. I waited. I pushed it again. I waited. I pushed it again. I waited. I was going for my fourth try when the door opened.
“I need to see Dr. Lawler,” I said. I tried to slip past the woman standing in the doorway.
“He’s on vacation. Back the middle of September, I believe.” She didn’t move.
That’s right. I had the only shrink in the world who took four-week vacations impeccably timed with Betty Jane’s bad behavior.
I dropped down on the steps and started to cry.The woman shut the door behind me.
One of those late-summer torrential downpours, which last from five to fifteen minutes, started when I stood up. People always expect the worst of this kind of rainfall to be short, so they congregate under whatever shelter they can find and wait out its passing in the company of strangers. I walked home instead of waiting, letting the force of the rain soak me all the way through my skin.And even then, what was pouring out of me felt far more powerful than what the sky had to offer. When I reached my building, my shoes were ruined. I didn’t care. I pressed all the buttons until someone buzzed me in. I’d decided to break down my door, but then I saw my bag sitting on the table in the entryway. They certainly were fast about returning that to me, I thought bitterly. At least I can get in.
I retrieved my keys and opened my front door. As I stripped off my sopping clothes in the foyer, I noticed the message light on my answering machine was blinking. I kicked the sodden mess aside and hit the play button.
“Holly, it’s Milton. I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell phone for the last half hour. My colleague said you were at my office.” I pulled my cell phone out of my bag.Three missed calls. “Please call me as soon as—”
The phone rang. I scanned the room. It rang again. There it was over on the desk. I walked over as it rang a third time. I picked it up. “Holly?” It was Milton.
“I think so,” I said, relieved.“I’m soaked. Let me call you back in two minutes.”
I put on my robe and opened my pack of cigarettes.When I noticed Cat One lurking over by the chair, ready to escape the instant I opened the window, a fresh round of sobs ensued. I can’t do this without Sarge.
I don’t know how long I sat on the floor crying, but it must have been long enough to worry Milton, because the phone next to me started ringing again.
The Emmy video had made it to France yesterday, and Milton said he’d planned to call me on my lunch hour, but then he heard about my collapse on the steps of his office and called immediately. He wanted the story badly enough to encourage me to smoke in my apartment without opening a window. I figured, what the hell, Betty Jane wasn’t here to stop me, and the fleeing felines had only themselves to blame for the secondhand smoke they were about to inhale.
Between my rambling and his questions, the whole saga start to finish took an hour and a half and a pack of cigarettes to impart. When I finished, Milton said, “Holly, why don’t we set up regular times to check in until I return?”
“Until you return? Aren’t you coming home now?” This was a serious crisis. I expected Milton to cut his vacation short and help me get Betty Jane to come back.
“I’ll be returning to the office in less than three weeks.”
All the anger I’d been holding inside turned into a tornado and Milton became its target. I had never hated anyone more in my life than I did him at that moment.“In less than three weeks,” I shrieked. “Thanks for nothing.”
“Holly, it is appropriate for you to be angry at me under the circumstances.”
“Fucking right it is.”
“You are feeling abandoned, and this is a natural reaction.”
“I’m not feeling abandoned; I am abandoned. First by Ruffles, then by Betty Jane, and now by you.”
“I am aware that you feel this way, Holly, which is why I would like to set up regular calls.We have a lot to discuss.”
“If you really cared, you’d come home for our regular meetings.”
“Holly, I do care. Normally, another doctor takes calls for my patients while I am away, but in your case, I want to speak to you myself, daily, even though I am on vacation.”
The mention of other patients stripped away any feeling of uniqueness and reminded me that I paid Milton, end of discussion.
“I pay you to care,” I snapped.
“In this case, you don’t,” said Milton.“I am doing this because I want to.”
“You are doing this to make sure I don’t go crazy and really ruin your vacation, not because you care.” I hated him more than I had a minute ago.
“I will call you each day at six my time, which is noon your time,” said Milton.
“You do that,” I said, “but don’t expect me to answer.”
I hung up the phone.
{ 13 }
Five days had passed since my call with Milton. The thought of going outside felt like stepping off a cliff, so it took me that long to muster up the strength to make one trip to the corner store. Once there, I bought enough cigarettes and cat food to lie torpid for several weeks.
I showered only twice in the five days and that was when Peter came over. The first time, all he noticed was the smoky rooms. We had sex a
nd he said he liked being able to smoke in the apartment instead of crawling out on the fire escape. Before he left, he showed me that my windows also opened from the top, so some air could come in without the cats going out.The second time he came over, he commented on how clingy I’d become, we had sex, and then he said he was really busy with the new term. I hadn’t seen Peter for a couple of days, and his phone was switched off a lot more than usual. Milton called every day at noon as promised. And I didn’t answer, as promised.
It took two more days to realize I really was on life support. All my commercial spots had been pulled, and this meant no more surprise checks would turn up regularly in my mailbox, which meant my rent and therapy would burn up the last of what I had in less than three months. I had two choices: Call Sarah or call Brenda.
Having something like destitution to focus on galvanized me. I called Brenda. I left her at least five messages. Per day. I hated being on the hard-up end of the stick, but I had no choice.When Brenda didn’t return my calls, I started to think that Walt’s World was galactic.After three days of messages, she left me a voice mail saying I had an audition for a commercial in Midtown, and I breathed a sigh of relief until I realized there was no magic portal to get me from my apartment to there. I’d have to venture out onto the streets of Manhattan, alone.
Somehow I managed to call a car service and it delivered me to the door of the building where the audition was taking place. I arrived to a waiting room full of people chatting merrily and made my way to the harried-looking woman sitting behind a desk.
“May I help you?” she said.
“I’m Holly Miller,” I said hesitantly. The Emmy video had received tens of thousands of hits on YouTube after someone posted a link to it on Fark.com with a pithy headline—“When Emmy awards attack . . . and they call it acting.” The chatter in the room transformed into hushed tones. I held up my head, feigned indifference, and waited for a response. I needed a job.
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