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She is going to give me another chance. “Marah,” I say softly, loving her so much it hurts. “I’m glad you’re back. ”
She shifts nervously from foot to foot. She looks, not scared, exactly, but uncomfortable.
I wish my head were clearer, that this damn headache would loosen its grip. I feel restless, a little impatient for her to speak.
“I need…” she begins.
I move toward her, a little off balance. I am embarrassed by my unsteadiness. Does she notice?
“What do you need, baby girl?” Did I say all of that, or only think it? I wish I hadn’t taken that second Xanax. Is she running away from Paxton? “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Pax and I need money. ”
I stop. “You came to me for money?”
“That’s how you can help me. ”
I press two fingers to my temple, trying to still the pain. My little fairy tale collapses around me. She doesn’t want me, isn’t here for my help. She wants money and then she will leave again. Money for Paxton, most likely. He has put her up to this. I’m sure of it. And what would Johnny say if he found out I gave her money and let her go again?
As gently as I can, I take hold of her wrist and push her sleeve up. Her forearm is pale and crisscrossed with a web of scars, some silvery and old, some new and red and sore-looking.
She pulls her hand away.
My heart breaks for her. I can see that she is hurting. It is what we have in common these days, but now we will come together again, be there for each other. I will never let her down again. I will be the godmother Kate wanted me to be. I will not let her or Johnny down again. “If you’re okay, why are you still hurting yourself?” I try to ask it gently, but I am really shaking. I feel headachy and nauseated. The blood is pounding in my ears. It’s like a panic attack is coming on, but why? “I want to help you, you know I do—”
“Are you going to give me money or not?”
“What’s it for?”
“None of your business. ”
The words hurt me as deeply as she obviously intended. “So you came to me for money. ” I look at this girl whom I barely recognize. “Look at me,” I say, wanting desperately to make her understand how dangerous her choices are. “I’ve screwed up my life, Marah. I don’t have any family; no husband and no kids. The one thing I did have—my career—I lost. Don’t end up like me. Alone. You have a family that loves you. Go home. Johnny will help you. ”
“I have Pax. ”
“Some men are worse than being alone, Marah. ”
“Like you would know. Will you help me or not?”
Even in my precarious state, I know I can’t do what she is asking. I want to, want it like air, but I can’t make it easy for her to run away again. I have made a lot of mistakes with this girl over the years, none worse than romanticizing Paxton and concealing their relationship from Johnny, but I have learned. “I’ll give you a place to live and set you up with Dr. Bloom, but I won’t make the same mistake again. I won’t go behind your dad’s back and give you money so you can live in some hovel with that weirdo who doesn’t care that you cut yourself. ”
After that, we say terrible things to each other, things I want to forget. This girl I love as much as my own life gives me a look that could shatter wood. Then she leaves, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
The day of the movie premiere sneaks up on me. How that could be, I don’t really know. All I know is that on the evening of September second, I am moving listlessly from room to room, doing nothing, pretending to work on my memoir, when my cell phone bleats out an appointment alert.
I look down at the entry. Movie. Eight P. M. Network brass. Then I look at the time.
It is 7:03.
I will go. I must go. This is my opportunity. I will not let fear or panic or desperation stop me. I will dress up, look good, and retake my place in the spotlight. This is America, after all, the land of second chances, especially for celebrities. Oh, perhaps I’ll have to do the Hugh Grant talk show walk of shame, apologize with a smile, come clean about my anxieties and my depression, but people will understand. Who doesn’t have anxieties, these days, in this economy? Who hasn’t lost a job they love?
I am a little panicked as I make my way back to my bedroom, but a Xanax will help, so I take two. I can’t worry about an anxiety attack tonight. I have to be perfect. And I can be. I am not the kind of woman who hides out beneath warm covers and behind locked doors.
I go into my closet, stepping over clothes I don’t remember buying, let alone wearing, and stand in front of my dresses. I am too overweight to make a fashion statement, so I pluck an old standby off the rack: a vintage black Valentino with an asymmetrical neckline and patterned black hose. It used to hang beautifully on me; now it fits me like a sausage casing, but it’s black and it’s the best I can do.
My hands are unsteady; I can’t do much with my hair beyond pulling it back into a sleek ponytail. Huge gold and black pearl earrings draw the attention away from my sallow face (I hope). I put on more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life and still I look tired. Old. Trying not to think about that, I slip into an expensive pair of bright pink patent leather pumps and grab an evening bag.
