by Priya Grey
“You know what I’m jealous of?” I tell her. “Their relationship. Jackson and Ashley were so passionate, so sexual, so visceral. I never thought a relationship like that could actually exist. I just thought it was something you saw in the movies.”
“It’s so hot and wicked!” Kristi proclaims. “I just love a good romance!”
“I don’t know if you could call this a romance,” I counter. “He’s not falling in love with me. He’s just reliving moments he had with his dead wife. It’s really creepy when I say it out loud,” I confess. I stop walking and turn to her with some trepidation. “Kristi, is what I’m doing wrong?”
Kristi looks at me for a long moment and finally shrugs her shoulders. “From an ethical and moral standpoint, I don’t know. You know me, I like to have a good time. I’d look at it this way, Rebecca: Jackson is providing your parents with the money they need to get back on their feet. And in exchange for that money, you get to have mind-blowing sex with a really hot guy. I would just enjoy the ride and not think about it too much.”
“He is really hot,” I confess. “And so passionate. And strong, but you can tell he has a tender side too…”
Kristi stops walking and shoots me a curious look. “Oh boy!” she jokes. “You’re falling for him! You’re falling in love with Jackson!”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say vehemently shaking my head. “All I’m saying is that he has a way about him… I feel really sexy and confident in his presence. I’ve never felt that before.”
“Taking on Ashley’s persona broke you out of your shell,” says Kristi, finishing my thought. “That’s why I like to act,” she adds. “By stepping into another person’s head, you learn more about yourself.”
“I guess you’re right,” I admit.
Kristi then places her hand on my shoulder and looks me squarely in the eyes. “And let’s not forget. By pretending to be Ashley, you’re getting in touch with your inner sex freak. I knew you had it in you.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
Suddenly, my phone buzzes.
“Is it him?” asks Kristi excited.
I nod. “He just emailed me our next memory.”
Kristi grabs the phone out of my hand and rushes toward a nearby park bench.
“Kristi! Give me back my phone!” I shout after her. I then join her on the bench. “That’s for my eyes only,” I remark as I attempt to get my phone back.
“Rebecca, I’m your acting coach,” she states in a mock serious tone. “I need to know the context of the scene you’re about to perform so I can give you proper instruction.”
I realize there’s no point in arguing with her. I lean over her shoulder as she scrolls through the new script on my phone. As we read the scene together, we both exchange a look of surprise.
“I thought this whole role-playing thing between you and Jackson was just about sex,” comments Kristi. “But it looks like it’s going to be about a lot more.”
As I continue reading the script, I realize Kristi’s right. My arrangement with Jackson is about to take me into uncharted emotional terrain.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jackson
“You look a lot happier than the last time I saw you,” says Michael.
I shrug my shoulders. I’m in another therapy session. A lot has happened since the last time I was here.
“Has anything changed since we last saw each other?” asks Michael, sitting back in his chair, his notepad propped on his lap.
A lot has changed, I tell myself. But I don’t want to give Michael any of the details. I shrug my shoulders again and simply reply, “I’m working again.”
“That’s great,” he responds with a wide grin. He quickly jots something down in his notepad. “Do you think the new medication I prescribed is helping you?”
I don’t want to tell him that I threw away the pills.
“I don’t know, maybe,” I lie.
Michael looks up from his notepad with a hint of suspicion. He can tell I’m holding something back.
“Jackson, is there anything else that might have helped you feel inspired to work again?”
I’m really not comfortable revealing my arrangement with Rebecca to him. But I realize I have to say something. After all, I started seeing Michael a few weeks after Ashley passed away. So, he knows firsthand how depressed I’ve been. He knows I’ve been unable to work for months. It’s a big deal that I’m painting again. Michael just wants to know if something might have triggered it. I have to tell him something.
“I met someone,” I finally admit after a long silence.
He slowly nods his head. He scribbles something on his notepad again. “It’s good that you’re connecting with other people,” he remarks in a serious tone. “You’ve been isolating yourself for far too long. Do you want to tell me anything about this person?”
“You mean, what she’s like? Her personality?” I ask.
“More or less,” he says with a slight grin.
I suddenly tense up. I’m feeling really uncomfortable now. I realize I can’t cut this conversation short like I did with Harry and not provide any details. After all, I just started this therapy session. It’s only been ten minutes. We have to talk about something while I’m here.
Michael senses my hesitation. “Jackson, what about this woman lifted your depression? What qualities does she possess that propelled you to finally break out of your cocoon and join the human race again?” He stares at me for a long time, both inquisitively and with compassion. I can tell that Michael is genuinely happy to see me in a better place. But I don’t think he’d be too thrilled to find out the circumstances behind my better mood.
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “She’s just cool.”
Michael laughs. “Come on, Jackson. You’re an artist. You have no problem communicating your emotions – unlike some of my other clients. We’ve been meeting every week for the past nine months. You’ve been suicidally depressed. And now, for the first time in nine months, I see you genuinely happy and in good spirits. This woman has had a profound impact on you. There must be something about her that resonates deeply with something inside you.”
He keeps staring at me, and I realize there’s no easy way out of this. I have to figure out what to tell him, so I can get him off my back.
I pick at the armrest of the chair and glance at the rug. “She’s actually a lot like Ashley,” I mumble.
There’s a long silence before Michael finally responds, “I see.” I hear him sigh as he scribbles more notes in his pad. “In what way is she like Ashley?” he prods.
I keep my eyes lowered to the floor, avoiding Michael’s gaze. I don’t answer his question. But Michael refuses to accept my silence.
“Jackson, in what way is this woman similar to Ashley?” he asks again. “Does she look like her? Does she act like her?” he ventures.
“Both,” I finally admit.
“I see.” Michael sighs once again and then leans back in his chair.
I finally look up and see the concerned look in his eyes.
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
Suddenly I become defensive. “I thought therapists weren’t supposed to offer their opinion?” I reply. “I thought I was just supposed to come here and talk, and you’re supposed to sit there quietly, nodding your head, and scribbling your stupid notes.”
“Maybe some therapists are like that,” Michael shrugs. “But you’re paying me a lot of money. More than my other clients. So, I think it’s appropriate to offer my opinion once in a while. Especially, when I think you might be placing yourself in real jeopardy. And now might be one of those times, Jackson.”
Now, it’s my turn to sigh. I look away and focus my attention back on the rug. I already know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say.
Michael inches forward in his chair and begins voicing his concerns. “This woman you have connected to, Jackson, you can’t compare her to Ashley if
you hope to have a meaningful relationship. I know Ashley meant a lot to you. I know she had a profound impact on your life, and work. But this new woman isn’t Ashley. You’re going to have to accept her on her own terms. You can’t view her through the lens of your deceased wife.”
He keeps talking, but I tune him out. I know Michael is probably right, but he doesn’t comprehend what’s happened to me. I feel alive for the first time in months. I’m finally inspired to paint again. That’s the most important thing. That’s why I was put on this earth – to create. For months, I’ve woken up every day feeling like I was dead. Feeling like life wasn’t worth living.
Now, for the first time in ages, I feel a rush of energy and excitement pouring through my veins. What I’m doing might be wrong by most standards – and most definitely from a psychiatric viewpoint – but it feels right to me.
“Jackson, are you even listening to me?”
I look up from the floor and see Michael staring at me intently.
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask.
Michael stares at me silently for a long time. He finally leans back in his chair, accepting defeat. “Fine,” he mutters with some annoyance. “What else do you want to talk about?”
I shrug. “Politics?”
“Really? Politics? Fine, Jackson. Let’s talk politics,” he replies, frustrated.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rebecca
I just wired my father the money Jackson sent me. He calls me immediately.
“How on earth did you get all this money?” he asks over the phone.
“Dad, don’t worry about that,” I tell him. “I’ll be sending you another $100,000 in a couple of weeks.”
“Another $100,000!” he shouts over the phone. “Rebecca Ann Wilson, how did you get your hands on $200,000?” he demands.
I can’t tell my dad the truth, because I know he wouldn’t approve. I rack my brain trying to come up with a believable lie. I can’t come up with anything, so I decide to dodge the question.
“Dad, don’t worry about that. Just take the money and use it to either rent a house for you and mom or to start rebuilding your old home. But listen, I gotta go, I’m running late for an appointment.”
My father sighs. “You’re going to have to tell me sooner or later, Rebecca, how you came into so much money,” he repeats.
I know he’s right. But I’d rather tell him the truth later and not right now.
“Will do, Dad, I promise. Send mom my love. I’ll call you later.”
I hang up on him and breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t know how I’ll gather the courage to tell them the truth, but I know I’ll have to one day. I’ve never been very good at lying to my parents, unlike Kristi. She almost makes it a habit of telling her parents one or two fibs whenever she talks to them. I’m not like that.
I cross the busy intersection and search for the address that Jackson sent me. Yesterday, he had a messenger drop off a set of keys at my apartment. They’re the keys to the painting studio where we acted out our first scene.
When I finally find the address, I discover that the lock to the front of the warehouse building is broken. I let myself in and nervously climb the stairs to the first landing. I use the keys to unlock the door to the apartment.
Unlike the other memories I have performed for Jackson, this one will be different. It will be much more dramatic.
As I step into the painting studio, I have flashbacks to my first experience here. I remember sitting on that chair next to the large window, naked, while Jackson painted the most incredible portrait of me. I recall watching him work, in awe, as inspiration rushed through his body. He looked like a man possessed – his paintbrush feverishly working the canvas as he tried to capture everything he saw and felt. That was my first time seeing an artist at work, and it was enthralling.
As I walk around the studio, I marvel at the paintings adorning the walls, and at the ones stacked in corners of the room. There are so many paintings, and they are all unique and beautiful in their own way. Jackson is truly a gifted man, in more ways than one.
As I admire his artwork, I slowly realize I better get prepared. According to my phone, Jackson will be arriving soon. When he gets here, he is supposed to find me upstairs, in the loft that serves as a bedroom. He expects to see me in a state of emotional distress.
As I climb the wooden staircase up to the loft, I rehearse my lines. In this scene, according to the script, Jackson and Ashley have been living together for over a year.
As I repeat my lines, I remember Kristi’s advice regarding this emotional scene. It’s more important to focus on Ashley’s feelings than anything else.
I take a seat on the bed as I look around the room. This will be another new experience for me. Unlike the other memories, this one will have a powerful undercurrent that will force me to explore some crazy emotions. But it will also be just as exciting as the others. Because in a few moments, when Jackson walks through that door and comes upstairs to the bedroom, we will engage in a dramatic and heartfelt connection.
I take a deep breath and continue to rehearse my lines, hoping that I can do justice to this memory.
Then I hear the door to the studio crack open. Jackson has arrived and the scene has begun.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jackson
I step into the studio and walk upstairs to the loft where our bedroom is located. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone, a distraught look on her face. She glances at me as I walk into the room. I notice tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned.
“Nothing,” she responds, shaking her head. “I was just reading a review of my performance last night.”
“And?” I’m excited to find out how her performance was received. After years of acting in off-off-Broadway shows, Ashley finally got cast in an important role for a highly respected theater company in the city.
“They said I suck,” she mutters. She tosses her phone in my direction; it plops near the edge of the bed. She then turns away from me and lies down, covering her face with one of the pillows.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I tell her as I take a seat on the bed and reach for her phone. I scroll through the review and my heart begins to sink. The critic is really tearing Ashley’s performance apart. I feel terrible for her.
“It’s just one review,” I say, trying to stay positive.
“The other ten are just as bad,” she mutters from underneath her pillow.
I breathe a heavy sigh. No one likes getting terrible reviews after working so hard on a project. And when you’re still trying to get a foot in the door, terrible reviews like this one can really deal a blow to your confidence. If I’m being honest, even when you’ve achieved some success – like I have – terrible reviews still hurt.
“So, they didn’t like you in this play. You’ll knock them dead with your next performance.” I try to boost her confidence.
She peers at me from underneath her pillow. “There’s not going to be a next performance,” she snaps. She then throws the pillow at me.
“You can’t quit over some bad reviews,” I implore.
“They’re not just bad reviews,” she shouts, tears streaming down her face. “They’re terrible reviews. Most of them say I don’t belong on stage. I never should have listened to you. This is all your fault,” she hisses at me.
I stare at her dumbfounded. “How is this my fault?”
“Because if you hadn’t pulled some strings, and asked your director-friend to cast me in this role, I would never be in this position. I knew deep down that I wasn’t ready for it. I knew in my gut I wasn’t right for the part. If you hadn’t asked your buddy for a favor, he probably wouldn’t have cast me in the first place.”
She storms out of the bedroom and heads downstairs.
I follow her.
“What kind of mind fuck is this?” I ask, joining her downstairs. “How can you be mad at me
for getting you a shot at a great role with a respectable theater company?”
She wipes her eyes then points her finger at me. “Because I didn’t belong on that stage. I wasn’t right for the part. And because of you, I got these terrible reviews and will probably never get cast in anything decent ever again.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious? All I did was call a friend of mine – who’s a great theater director – and scheduled an audition for you. That’s it. I didn’t force him to cast you. He gave you the role because he thought you were right for the part. All I did was help you get a break, just like I got a break starting out.”
An emotional thunderstorm erupts in her eyes. “So, you agree with the critics that I’m a terrible actress – that I don’t belong on stage.” She hangs her head and lowers her gaze. Sobbing.
“Whoa. Now, I really have no idea what’s going on here,” I say out loud. “Where did you get that from? I never said you’re a terrible actress. All I said was I called a friend of mine and got you an audition. I gave you a shot at a great role. That’s it.” I’m totally confused on how any of this is my fault.
She raises her head and looks at me. “You gave me a shot at a great role, Jackson, and I blew it,” she weeps. “I finally got my big break, and I blew the opportunity. I didn’t deliver. I bet when you were starting out, and you got your first gallery showing, you stepped up to the plate and delivered. You didn’t blow the opportunity of a lifetime – like I did.”
She begins to sob uncontrollably. I realize how gut wrenching and truly heartbreaking this moment is for her. She’s lost all confidence in herself. I hurry toward her and wrap her in my arms.
“What am I going to do with my life?” she cries. “If I’m not good at this, what’s going to happen to me? I just want to be good at something.”
She’s falling apart in my arms. When you bear your soul through your artwork and it’s met with indifference, or worse – scathing criticism – it can cut you like a knife.