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Today is one of the first days since his passing, and since I put my career on pause, that makes me feel like there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I just have to figure out what, and maybe who, will be there when I finally reach it.
9
CASSANDRA
The view from my father’s measly back deck is one you’d pay millions for in Los Angeles.
After a few hours of sitting with his lawyer and going over the final steps to execute his will, I sip on a glass of white wine and watch as purples, pinks, and oranges paint the sky a brilliant canvas. The sunset drapes over the hills of Pennsylvania, rolling green, meeting the sky right where the sun burns a bright yellow circle.
Smooth, buttery chardonnay slides down my throat as I close my eyes and hum a tune in my head, one that has no real melody but makes me happy anyway. Out here in the wilderness with no one around, just me and a glass of wine in a crappy patio chair … it’s the happiest I’ve been in years.
The thing is, I left nothing behind in LA. Not a family, not a lover, not even a dog. Yes, I’m young at twenty-eight, but I feel ancient. Probably because I’ve been in such an adult world since I was eighteen, and even before then was forced to navigate an emotional world without much support.
As a kid, I was always called mature for my age. Which translates, when you think about it, to being able to handle everything independently even if you don’t want to. I was nurtured, non-verbally, to never ask for help because I probably wouldn’t receive it anyway. Much of my career has gone that way as well; I’ve had professional help on my side in terms of agents and lawyers, but I’ve always just figured everything out on my own.
At some point, it became too exhausting to continue that way. Sitting on this porch, my hair in a bun, face free of makeup, bugs chirping while I wrap my oversized gray sweater tighter around me, feels like a peaceful moment in a life of chaos.
This idea is starting to take shape, of what I’ll do after this house is sold and I have nothing else to use as an excuse not to go back to my acting career. Hope Crest, or a town like it, feels like the place I’m supposed to belong. I’ve thought of little else besides the theater and what Wilson proposed since I walked out of there. Maybe taking a job like that, helping with smaller-scale productions, living among a town of people I could call family … maybe that’s what is next. If I could find someone to spend it with, build a life with a person who truly loves me, even better.
I love acting, the craft of it, the storytelling, but I hate everything that goes into getting to that point. I hate everything after. I’m tired of being a character in my own life, walking red carpets, doing interviews, and modeling for brands. But I love the art of creating a role, of making people happy when they watch a story unfold.
It’s not like I need money. For that, I am incredibly grateful. I could spend the rest of my life working for little to nothing at the playhouse or somewhere similar and be very comfortable. And even better, I’d be happy.
The last time I stood on this deck, I’d seen Patrick Ashton racing around in the woods on his quad. It brought me way back to a time when I thought we might have had a chance. And even though I don’t want to meddle with him anymore, I can’t get that kiss out of my head. If I let it, it would be the kiss to end all other kisses.
The thoughts swim around in my head as I take my empty wineglass inside and head for the couch while pouring another.
After about an hour, nothing truly captures my attention, so I decide to call it an early night and head to my childhood bedroom. Four days ago, a crew arrived with the furniture I ordered and put it together. Even if this queen bed swallows more than half the room, it’s way better than the cardboard mattress twin bed I’d been sleeping on for nearly two weeks. I drove the thirty minutes to Horsham, where I splurged and bought luxurious sheets, pillows, and a comforter that feels like buttery clouds.
I could spend a few months in a rundown house. What I can’t do is sleep in a bed that doesn’t feel like a million bucks.
The bedroom is dark as I startle awake, the sound of breaking glass registering somewhere in the back of my head. A cold sweat breaks out under the sheets, and I stay completely still, hoping it’s an animal or something else that could explain the thump I just heard. Couldn’t be a footstep, couldn’t be a—
“This way,” I hear someone whisper, and dread floods my stomach.
My heart races to the point where I think I’m going to pass out because it’s pumping too much blood to my veins. My lungs seize up, and so do my legs, taking away the ability to flee. Where would I run? Could I make it far without them noticing? What’s the quickest escape route?
These are things that, unfortunately, I am accustomed to thinking about. In LA, I usually travel with security or some protection with me. My house is in a gated community with the most state-of-the-art security system known to man. I’ve been trained to use a gun but don’t keep one on me. I certainly don’t have one here.
Because I’ve been too comfortable. I thought that out here, nothing could touch me.
But, of course, that has been a naive notion.
Paralyzing fear steals over my entire body, making it impossible to even try to escape. My head screams at me to move as I hear someone shuffling close to my closed bedroom door, but I can’t. It’s like none of my limbs are capable of working.
“Think she has cash in here?”
“She’s famous, duh.”
They’re whispering, but not quietly, and part of me thinks they don’t care. While those voices sound male, I strain to make them out. They sound young.
The animals are usually outside, the lazy dog too deaf to hear them, and every other pet too unaware to care about noise in the house. Part of me wishes I brought the cats and dog in with me so that I wasn’t alone right now.
Finally getting some courage to move, I creep across the mattress, careful not to make any noise, and sit up to try to sink to the side of the bed closest to the wall. If they come in here, I’m defenseless.
“A purse, dude—I thought you said it was empty.” The whisper is more of a shouted hiss.
“Well, shit, should we have more fun?” The cackle unleashed sends a chill through my soul.
