My phone is recharged and flashing when I get out. There’s a text from Emily answering what I sent her last night:
Me: er oksyrf * becer smf o ;rgy brfpre dpom tnr vorrle
Em: I assume, from your text, that drinking was involved. Hello? Something I can READ???
I text her back and she answers immediately.
Me: Sorry, tequila attack. The keypad kept moving around.
Em: You promised to tell all. Start telling!
Me: What i meant last night was we played i never, and i left before spin the bottle
Em: WHAT??? HOLY SHIT!!! Calling you.
“You guys seriously didn’t play I never and spin-the-bottle did you?”
“Yes and almost.”
“Somehow I’ve always pictured celebrity parties as more… sophisticated?”
I laugh. “Yeah, me too. I left when Quinton suggested spin-the-bottle or seven minutes in heaven.”
“Are you insane? There was a possibility of seven minutes in heaven with Quinton Beauvier, and you left early?”
“Em, you know how I feel about those games…”
“Yeah, I know. I just don’t see why I can’t body-double for you during times like this! It would be a grueling task, but I’d make the sacrifice for you.”
I recognize Graham’s one-knuckle thunk-thunk at the door.
“Um, I’m about to go to brunch, so I’ll call you later?”
“Sure. Don’t worry about me. All by myself in boring Sacramento. Alone. No life.”
“Emily, you know you’re always with me in spirit.”
“Bite me,” she says. “I wanna be with you in person playing spin-the-bottle with Reid and Quinton.”
“Now who’s whining?” I tease.
“Fine. But one of these days, I expect to reap the benefits of having a big star for a best friend.”
“Absolutely. You’ll be first in line.”
Chapter 14
REID
I wake up just before noon and call room service for coffee, then my voicemail to retrieve a message received early this morning from Dad. Like he didn’t know I’d still be asleep when he called.
I got charged with pot possession earlier this summer, and he’s avoided communicating with me directly since then. I was at a party, passing a couple of joints around with some people when John texted me this:
John: pass the joint to the girl next to you and walk to the back door NOW
While John may lack anything resembling judgment, he always knows what’s going down. So I obeyed. He pulled me into the alley where his girl du jour was waiting with her car, just as the police came in the front door. There were photos of me smoking, but it was dark, and they were too indistinct to be incontestably me, or weed, for that matter. With no physical evidence to prove that I was present or in possession, Dad’s firm claimed hearsay and the case was thrown out… which didn’t preclude Dad from going ballistic.
We pitched a fortune at my PR firm to ward off the tarnish to my image. The money came straight from my account, but for some reason, who paid for what wasn’t a viable argument. My straight-laced father has never stepped out of line in his life, and as he’s expressed stridently on multiple occasions, he can’t comprehend why I live my life the way I do.
I assumed his message would involve some account information I needed, or a contract I forgot to sign that he’s overnighting. So I don’t expect this: “Reid,” he sighs heavily, “I’m calling to let you know that your mother has decided to check into a rehab program.” He doesn’t say again but it hangs there, unsaid, nevertheless. “Exclusive facility, by the ocean, not too far from home. She’ll get good care. Ninety day program. She hopes to be back home for the holidays, possibly before you’re done filming.”
He goes silent for several seconds, and I’m not sure if that’s the end. Then he adds, “She’ll be able to take phone calls in a couple of weeks. I’ll let you know the number, in case you… have time to call her. Just don’t… say anything upsetting.” He has a lot of nerve saying that. I’m usually not the one who upsets her. “If you have any questions, call me. Otherwise… well. Call if you need anything.”
Awesome.
I should have seen her rock-bottom coming. Even though I was seldom around, she had a drink in her hand every time I was. With the exception of when I was really young, and for short, varying periods of time after any rehab experience, this is how I picture her: Mom, drink in hand. It’s her prop, part of her costume. Sometimes I wonder if her despondency stems from trying to be something she isn’t—someone constantly sober, without the ability to dull the knife-thrusts of reality. Maybe Mom-with-a-drink-in-her-hand is who she really is, and thinking that it’s immoral or makes her a bad person is what causes the crisis.
Or maybe I’m a classic enabler, as one of her therapists yelled in a fit of untherapist-like vocal exasperation.
Or maybe I look in the mirror every day and am scared as shit that I’ll see either of my parents looking back at me.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Thanks again for the coffee.” Graham and I are walking along 6th street. He’s shortened his stride to match mine, like he does when we run. “That was nice. Otherwise, I’d still be hiding under my pillows, feeling like I just ate a dirty t-shirt.”
He smiles. “A dirty t-shirt? That’s… disgustingly descriptive.”
“Disgustingly fitting, unfortunately.”