But now she worried. What if she fell asleep and then was so delirious that she walked outside and drowned? How could she sleep when doom was so nearby? This was so dangerous. She kept nodding off but then jumping back up to alert until she was a raw nerve ending, her eyes bugging out and her breath short and terrified.
She lay in the hotel bed, surrounded by every form of luxury. She went out onto Sunset Boulevard and found a marijuana dispensary. She bought two lozenges that the drug dealer there told her would mellow her out, and she spent the next three hours pacing in her room.
Finally, at close to midnight, she ate both of the lozenges, and sat by the pool until someone asked if she’d like a drink and she was too smart to mix alcohol and pot so instead she ordered a cheeseburger and a Cobb salad and three smoothies and a French onion soup. She ate the food methodically—it had been years since she was stoned—and when it was done she registered that her stomach felt close to bursting but her mouth needed more, but she felt overwhelmed by shame and so she went back to her room and lay on her back on the couch.
What was she doing here? By five that morning, she’d left for the airport.
“Leaving us already?” the concierge asked as she walked out the door. From the back of the car, Los Angeles looked foreboding and awful. The buildings seemed to breathe. The palm trees were there to trick her. She couldn’t live here. She could never even return to visit. She found a pen and paper in her purse and wrote herself a note: “DON’T MOVE TO LOS ANGELES.”
She couldn’t remember how she got on the plane, but there was a fucking baby in business class, which was crazy because business class is for businesswomen and businessmen, and babies don’t do business. She gave the mother a dirty look as she went to the bathroom, and then saw herself in the reflection and realized she looked like a witch. Into her reflection she made a lion face and growled.
She arrived back at home, back at the Golden. Her apartment was so big and empty and she felt like a ghost in it. She needed something to eat. She called the Chinese place. She was about to order her usual, her shrimp in lobster sauce, when she was struck by the memory of her roommate from when she was at Hunter with the eating disorder who could find a reason to eat pasta at any hour. When they ordered Chinese, the roommate would try her hardest to order steamed chicken and vegetables, but sometimes she would say, “I give up,” and she’d order beef lo mein. Rachel never would. She hadn’t given up. She would never give up. But the lo mein always smelled so good, and it seemed to fill the roommate with this extraordinary sense of well-being. “Ahhhh,” she would say as whatever seratonic hormone it was that made pasta a miracle food flooded her system.
So Rachel ordered lo mein because fuck it. Fuck everything. Fuck her body and fuck her soul. She was going to eat beef lo mein. Then she could get to sleep. The doorbell rang and she gave the deliveryman a tip and began to eat, sitting on a rug she’d bought recently, though its fibers poked through her underwear and she didn’t know why she’d bought it.
She spat the lo mein back into the carton. It was disgusting. Why would you eat spaghetti from a Chinese place? Maybe she was just tired. She put it in the fridge.
She felt like she should call the kids, but she was worried. How could she call the kids when she hadn’t slept? It seemed dangerous somehow. It had been a week. Or two weeks. Or maybe just four days, she didn’t know. She just knew she missed her kids and she couldn’t see them again until she had a few hours of sleep. She tied a pair of tights around her face. Maybe it was the darkness. There was never enough darkness. She’d bought the apartment because it had such good light and now all she wanted was darkness.
Fuck, she realized. It was Friday. It was Friday at three P.M. She had to get to SoulCycle in an hour. Things hadn’t worked out with Sam. She obviously couldn’t move to Los Angeles because check out this note in her purse that someone had written to her. She had to maintain her stature in the community. She had to be normal for an hour so that she could go back to losing her shit slowly and steadily, so that her friends would still be there when she returned.
She took out her exercise clothing and put it on and left, but she got to the SoulCycle and found that her bike wasn’t reserved and also it wasn’t four P.M. and somehow it was not Friday but Wednesday.
“Are you okay?” asked the front desk woman. Rachel looked at the other women, with their flatironed hair and their Botox and their fake tans. Why did they have to look this way? It was too much. There was too much being asked of all these women.
She walked out the door and went one avenue over where she found a Supercuts. She waited in line behind a family. Her problem, she realized, was her maintenance routine. It was eating her alive. She got into the chair and a Puerto Rican woman said, “You want a trim?” and Rachel said, “No, no. Something bigger. I want to look like Tilda Swinton.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s not a he. Do you have a phone? Search it.” She stared into the mirror in front of her at the woman sitting in the chair whose hair was touched every time Rachel’s stylist touched Rachel’s hair. Uncanny, she thought.
She walked out, feeling like she could finally breathe. A new haircut! Why had she been holding on to that haircut like it was her religion? Like it was important that she never change? She felt so light that she might float away. She stood on Second, trying to figure out what to do next. She saw a woman with a beach chair strapped to her back walking west. The park. She remembered suddenly the people in the park who slept in their sweatpants, the ones she and Toby used to make fun of. What if they knew something she didn’t? She went home and foraged through her belongings for a pair of sweatpants that she knew she didn’t own.
She left again and went to the Gap and when no one was looking, she stole a pair for old times’ sake. She didn’t even do it in the dressing room. She just took her leggings off in a corner and put them into her purse and then put the sweatpants on.
Sweatpants! Now these were something. She had always been so dismissive of sweatpants, but had she ever really allowed herself to try them? The way they formed warm hugs around your legs while you walked. The way their friction slowed you. All the leggings ever did was enable movement. Had anyone considered that this feeling—of moving through clay—was much preferred?
She moved to the park, luxuriating in her leg hugs. It was so hot, though. How long had it been this hot? Was it ever going to not be this hot again?
In the park, at least the heat had context. She lay down, right there on the grass. She put her arm across her eyes. What had been so crazy about this? This was wonderful. It was sunny and hot. This might work. She began to drift, down, down. She swore she almost got there. She was so close….
“Rachel. Fleishman.”
She removed her arm from her eyes to find Cyndi and Miriam, standing over her and laughing.
“We thought that was you,” Cyndi said.
“Someone missed Pilates,” Miriam said. She was holding a smoothie. Then, looking closely at her, “What happened to your hair?”
Cyndi laughed. “Did Roberto do that?”
Rachel propped herself up on her elbows. “I’m just.” She touched her hair. She didn’t know how to finish.
“You want to come to Soul? It’s Beyoncé vs. Rihanna.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll be there. Soon.”
Miriam and Cyndi looked at each other. “You okay, Rachel?” Miriam asked.
“Ha, yes, of course. I’m taking some me-time.”
Me-time they understood. They made some noise about being late and headed out of the park.
Rachel went home. She realized she needed something to eat. She called the Chinese place. She was about to order her usual, her shrimp in lobster sauce, when she was struck by the memory of her roommate from when she was at Hunter with the eating disorder who could find a reason to eat pasta at any hour. When they ordered Chines
e, the roommate would try her hardest to order steamed chicken and vegetables, but sometimes she would say, “I give up,” and she’d order beef lo mein. Rachel never would. She hadn’t given up. She would never give up. But the lo mein always smelled so good, and it seemed to fill the roommate with this extraordinary sense of well-being. “Ahhhh,” she would say as whatever seratonic hormone it was that made pasta a miracle food flooded her system.
So Rachel ordered lo mein because fuck it. Fuck everything. Fuck her body and fuck her soul. She was going to eat beef lo mein. Then she could get to sleep. The doorbell rang and she gave the deliveryman a tip and began to eat, sitting at her big Swedish dining table whose wood stained when moisture went near it.
She spat the lo mein back into the carton. It was disgusting. Why would you eat spaghetti from a Chinese place? Maybe she was just tired. She put it in the fridge and decided to lie down. But when she got to her bed the stakes felt too high. She knew if she couldn’t sleep there right then, she would never be able to sleep again.
Ten more days passed. She couldn’t account for them. She didn’t not remember them, exactly. It was more that they felt all like one day. If you stop to watch a Boy Meets World marathon in the middle of the afternoon when it’s light, and the next time you look outside, it’s still light, does that mean you missed the night? It had been twelve hours, but did you really just miss the night? Like that.
The morning I saw her, she stopped trying to sleep at four A.M. and took a walk. Before she knew it, she found herself way downtown, near Alejandra Lopez’s apartment. She looked up and there it was and she thought, Maybe I should visit. I’ve been out of pocket for a few days. Nothing like a personal touch.
Yes. Maybe that was the problem. She wasn’t accustomed to not working. Maybe if she worked a little, she could sleep. She approached the lobby but then realized she shouldn’t be stopping by casually without bringing something. She went to a bodega nearby and looked around. Nothing really spoke to the moment, so she got a turkey sandwich and a plastic gallon of water. Alejandra had once ordered a turkey sandwich over lunch, she remembered. A good agent remembered things like that. She went back to the apartment building. The doorman was busy so she walked by with a wave. She went up to the apartment and rang the bell.
Alejandra’s wife, Sofia, answered the door. Sofia was a WASP from the Upper West Side who had stopped working to take care of their three daughters. She took one look at Rachel.
“Alex,” she shouted to the next room. Then, to Rachel, “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” she said. Big smile. “I had a meeting here and it’s been a minute. And I haven’t seen the kids in forever.”
“It’s six in the morning.”
She hadn’t realized it. Alejandra came to the door in her pajamas. She was built like a coil, with a thick neck and thick ankles and a wide waist and the dreamiest eyes. She didn’t wear any makeup but it always looked like she had liquid liner on her upper lids. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Rachel. Wow, you cut your hair.”
Rachel held up the turkey sandwich. This didn’t seem so bad. What was the big deal? Reentry was going fine.
“I didn’t expect you,” Alejandra said.
“Is it ever a bad time to visit my favorite client?” She had never once visited a client at home, unannounced, before.
“I haven’t heard from you in weeks,” she said.
“Well, I try not to hover.”
“I think this is very aggressive of you.”
She was confused. “What do you mean? I know I should have called but I’ve been out of town and I lost my phone. I can come back later. Or never? We can just have lunch.”
Alejandra and Sofia looked at each other. Sofia shooed the children to the next room and Alejandra took Rachel to the couch and asked if she was okay.
“Of course I’m okay.”
“We’ve had a pretty bad week here,” Alejandra said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Alejandra searched her face. “Do you not know anything I’m talking about?”
Rachel searched her brain. She shouldn’t be here. She wasn’t prepared. She smiled.
“I’ve been out,” Rachel said. “I had a family emergency.”
Alejandra leaned back without taking her eyes off Rachel.
“I lost my movie. Do you not know this?” Alejandra’s screenwriting deal had fallen through that week, which of course Rachel had to know since she’d told Simone that Hal should handle it. Simone had punted her to Rhonda, but Rhonda had gotten into a pissing match with the production company and Alejandra had woken up to the news that her play was no longer being adapted to film. Again.
Rachel closed her eyes. “I can fix this.”
“You don’t have to.”
She opened her eyes. “Why?”
“Because you can’t.”
“Trust me, I’ve fixed worse.”
“No, you can’t. You’re not my agent anymore.”
Rachel blinked, but the blink felt once again like she was falling. “What? Alejandra.” The next question came out even as she knew the answer and couldn’t bear to hear it. “Who?”
But she didn’t need Alejandra to tell her.
“I went with Matt Klein. I just think Matt’s better equipped to help me. I’m grateful for everything you did. I would be nothing without you.”
“This doesn’t feel like gratitude, Alex.”
Alejandra looked at her with concern. “Can I call Simone?”
“Matt Klein is a snake.”
But there was nothing more to say. Rachel was better than this. She had to handle this like a professional. So that was that. She left.
Now it was official. There was no one for her. After twelve years she took a week off. Okay, it was two weeks, or three, but she unplugged. Isn’t that what Roxanne was always doing? “We’re going to [insert private island here] and we’re really going to unplug.” And she didn’t, of course. Instead she posted Instagram pictures of herself in her stupid fedora and her bikini with the abs that tried too hard. Rachel really did unplug. She’d murdered her phone in cold blood! And now look at her. She had finally let it all out. She’d screamed. She’d taken her foot off the gas for a minute. But it was not permitted. It was unacceptable. She was unacceptable.
She got in a cab. She looked at the time. It was eight A.M. on what she now surmised was a Sunday. She had an idea.
The rape survivor support group at Toby’s hospital had moved to the ground floor, which was just as well, because it allowed her to get in and out quickly, without having to wander around for Toby’s colleagues to gawk at. She was fifteen minutes late when she entered. The group stopped and welcomed her.
Someone had just finished talking. The leader of the group looked at Rachel.
“It seems like we have a new visitor,” she said.
“I’m Rachel,” she told the group.
“I’m Glynnis,” said the woman. “I’m a trainee. Our regular leader is on vacation.” That’s right, Rachel remembered. August. In August, you can’t get crazy because all there are in August are trainees. “Would you like to share?”
A Pavlovian instinct overtook her as she sat and she began to cry. It felt good. She hadn’t cried in forever, since she’d watched Sam leave at Kripalu, which was either five days ago or twelve weeks, she wasn’t sure.
Rachel had never spoken in the group way back when she attended after Hannah was born. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she never left room for healing because she didn’t participate enough. Maybe what Toby had said about her vis-à-vis parenting was true that whole time, that just showing up wasn’t enough. Participating was the only way to have real meaning. Yes. Yes.
This time, she was really going to do it, she decided. She began to talk. She told them about Hannah’s birth, and how
she used to come to this group all the time. She told them about her marriage. She told them about her business and about Sam Rothberg, and the screaming. She told them about Alejandra, though she didn’t use her name. She told them about Toby and her children. She told them about having nowhere to go and no one to love her—how she was fundamentally unacceptable. She talked and talked. She didn’t think anyone had ever let her talk that much before in her life.
When she finished, she was out of breath. She took a long inhale through her nose and no longer felt what her scream therapist had called hiccups. She was in trouble. She hadn’t seen her children in was it weeks? Days? She had lost her biggest client. But she was going to be fine.
Finally, Glynnis spoke. “This is a rape survivor group,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” Rachel said.
“Have you been raped?” Glynnis said.
This confounded Rachel. “Well, not technically, not the way—”
“This is a rape survivor group,” she said. “I’m afraid you have to leave.”
See? Unacceptable.
She hailed a cab and went to the Upper East Side. She arrived at Toby’s apartment; she pulled out her key but couldn’t bring herself to use it. She walked back to her building. She couldn’t even enter. She thought she might have a bagel and go to the Met and see what was going on there. Maybe the Impressionists would bore her to sleep. She was also thinking now that maybe she could bring herself to take a Tylenol PM, but it was early in the day and she should wait for night.
“I think you need some help,” I told her. “I think you should let me call Toby.”
“Toby doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“He does, I promise.”
“He can’t see me like this. He will take them away from me. That’s what he does: He takes away.”
Fleishman Is in Trouble Page 37