Chapter Two, Part 3
If you haven't read all that comes before this, please don't start here; please read:
Prologue
Chapter One, part 1
Chapter One, part 2
Chapter Two, part 1
Chapter Two, Part 2
I must have fallen asleep watching TV, but the remains of my late-night snack had been cleared away at some point. I’d dreamt, because I could still feel the odd remnants of emotions unattached to real life, but I couldn’t recall a single one. I yawned and stretched, trying to decide whether or not to get out of the warm, soft cocoon of my bed. I knew that regardless of if I got up or not, sooner or later Adrian would appear, his warm soothing voice filling out my day for me, offering me my options and his opinion for any decisions which popped up along the way.
The next several days slid by in a contented haze. I often felt that I was on some sort of luxury vacation. Someone took care of every need and want I had, sometimes even before I realized I wanted it. I had time to think and write and play my music. I didn’t need to decide anything or ask for anything. I loved every minute.
Then I got a little restless. I was lonely and a little bored, even. Almost a week had gone by and I hadn’t done anything with friends. Because I didn’t have any friends. I had managers and assistants and a staff, but no one to confide in. I read a few journals that I’d started, but I hadn’t kept to one for more than a few weeks. One I’d apparently started while in rehab. I didn’t remember being in rehab, but I clearly had been. I wrote about how much I missed the pills and the blissful fog they created around me. “It protects me from the pain, of Michael and Karen and all the others who’ve deserted me.”
Instead of the fog, I remembered the safety I felt coming home after rehab. I recalled climbing out of the limo, clean but scared, and seeing Adrian come out of the front door to greet me. He’d been hired shortly before I’d gone into treatment, and I barely recognized him. But when he saw me, he looked so happy to see me and I’d almost cried with relief. Someone cared.
Before I went into rehab, I’d bought the house but not yet moved in. Adrian had somehow managed to get all of my things moved in and arranged. He’d decorated the rest of the house and hired a staff. I remembered how easily I’d slipped into his care, allowing him to make more and more of my choices for me, managing the disasters big and small. He’d never let me down, never said impossible, just taken care of it. The more he’d taken care of, the more I’d let him take care of until he basically just ran my life, and I got to enjoy it.
The journal from rehab indicated that I’d been feeling lonely, that receiving my first Grammy had been a huge let down, because I’d brought it home to an empty house, and my father had already gone to bed when I’d called. He’d groggily said something like “that’s great honey, but it’s 3 a.m. here and I have to work tomorrow.”
The thing I’d wanted most my whole life, a not a soul to share it with. I’d seen the pills still in my medicine cabinet from when I’d had dental surgery, and I’d taken one, then another and finally felt the pain ease. From there, I’d just started taking them more and more. After a long night at the studio recording my next album, and I felt too tired even to sleep. When I worried the next album wouldn’t sell. When I thought about Michael, or Karen. When I missed my dad or felt cheated out of a mom. Before I’d known it, I was addicted.
Soon I had three double-platinum albums, a huge pile of money, my face on every magazine I could think of, and no reason to live. I’d downed a whole bottle and chased it with tequila, which I don’t even like. The tequila had been the last lonely thing resting in the “Congratulations” basket from I-couldn’t-even-remember-who. I’d woken up in the hospital, Victor by my side (worried about his investment, I think now). He’d found a new house for me to buy, he’d hired a personal assistant to take the stress off of me, and he’d arranged for rehab. I’d nodded numbly; I didn’t care who sent me where or why. I’d been so disappointed to wake up.
Now I’d been clean a few years. Had another album and tour, and managed to keep away from pills of any kind and use alcohol in moderation. But I was still just as lonely. The friends I’d made in rehab slowly drifted off. Too scared to make new friends and too stubborn and hurt to call old ones, I found myself with everything I’d ever wanted, except loved ones.
Suddenly, the aching loneliness grew too large to bear. Desperate for human interaction, I almost ran to the kitchen. The Kitchen Lady stood at a counter, kneading dough with a practiced hand, a faraway look on her face. I cleared my throat, somehow suddenly shy. She spun around, and immediately her face turned professional.
“Good afternoon, miss, can I get you something?” Her polite query almost scared me off – but the emptiness creeping up behind me pushed me to overcome my fear of looking foolish. I didn’t realize how out of practice at talking to “real” people I’d become.
“I, uh, no. I just wondered – uh. Well, this is going to sound stupid, but I just wondered what your name is.” It took all my willpower to keep from digging my toe into the floor like a kindergartner while a blush crept unbidden up my neck.
“I’m Sasha, miss.” She smiled at me in a kind way, and for just a moment, I thought we’d connected.
“Call me, Lynn, please.” Sasha looked slightly perplexed; I continued, “Nettie’s just the stage name – my friends call – called – me Lynn.”
“Oh. Okay, Lynn. Is there anything I can get you?” Her smile never faltered, but I didn’t know where to go from there. I didn’t want her to make me something – that seemed like a step away from friendship. In my head, I pictured us in a few months, sharing a cup of tea at the cozy little table I don’t think I’d ever noticed before. Laughing, maybe even at an inside joke, talking about important things. But only if I said the right thing now.
“Uh, no, I uh. So, whatcha doing? Making bread?” Dork! I accused myself, Why not just command her to be my friend and declare myself the Queen of the Mayfair?
“Yup, I’m making that honey wheat bread you’ve asked for before. Should be done by dinner time.” Returning to her kneading, she threw a glance over her shoulder.
“Oh. Great.” A silence began between us and grew, almost pushing me out the door. When it got too big, I couldn’t stop myself. I called “Well, bye then!” as I fled, back to the safety of my music room, where my friend the guitar would talk to me for hours.
The next several days, I tried to make friends with the gardener, with Robert the trainer, with some poor soul who had the bad luck to be delivering groceries to my house. Each person was unfailingly polite, but it never went further than careful small talk. Deep down I knew, you can’t be friends with someone who you can fire. But I also couldn’t figure out somewhere to go where to go to find friends who weren’t employees or wouldn’t care about my fame.
I tried to bring the matter up with Adrian, since he seemed to be the one who solved all my other problems. During one of our daily discussions of my schedule, he asked, “So, anything else?” Stupidly, I blurted out that I wanted to make some friends. I must have turned seven shades of red; I could feel my ears burning, but I could only hope he’d be the one with the solution.
“Friends?” Adrian looked as mystified as if I’d asked him where I could find some authentic aliens, “What do you mean, ‘make some friends’? You have tons of friends.” I couldn’t bear to explain the whole thing to him, how none of the people in my life were friends.
“I just mean, uh, you know, someone to watch a movie with or, uh, go hiking with?” Hiking?? When have I ever even wanted to go hiking? Adrian must have been thinking the same thing because he barely controlled the incredulous look on his face. It flashed by before becoming his standard placating smile.
“You want someone to go out with?” I nodded. “I’ll call around a few agents, I am sure there are plenty of guys who need a little publicity boost and would be glad to take you out a few times. No sweat, honey, I’ll set it up for this weekend.” My spirits had just started to climb when his solution hit and they plummeted to the floor. I almost burst into tears and can’t say how I managed not to. Even Adrian doesn’t get it. I’d never felt so utterly alone.
That night I sat on the edge of my bed, with my luxuries waiting all around me. Nothing seemed fun or interesting; I wanted to do something, but couldn’t think of what. And I knew. I knew that this life-path had a bigger downside than I could have imagined. Everything you want is nothing when you have no one to share it with.. I considered adopting a child, weren’t single celebrity women always doing that? Then I’d have someone to love! But I also knew, even as I thought about it, that I couldn’t have a child just to heal my loneliness. It wouldn’t be fair – and what about when I went on tour? Maybe a dog? But I knew that wouldn’t be enough. Might assuage it for the short-term, but even the best dog is a bad conversationalist.
I walked into the bathroom, looked in the medicine cabinet, even though I knew there was nothing in it. Catching my own eye in the mirror, I steeled my nerves and declared, “Hey, Death? I want out. So, uh, I guess go ahead and kill me or whatever.”
Back in my room I dug around my closets and dressers until I found what I knew would be somewhere – a small, secret stash of pills. I downed them all and lay down on the bed, feeling my consciousness drift away.
A light hit my eye, bright enough to wake me and prevent me seeing anything else. Blocking the offending glow, I was surprised to discover myself in the same bedroom, same bed, wearing the same pajamas. I felt fantastic, the way you do when you wake up after a really good sleep. But I thought I’d die! I shrugged, if I’m not dead, I guess I might as well get up and have some breakfast. I wondered if I’d done it wrong. After breakfast, I’d try talking to the mirror again.
Robert arrived before I’d finished eating, though, and I rushed to my room and changed into work out clothes forgetting about making my second death wish. Actually, I thought as I got up to speed on my treadmill, I should wait until I get to perform somewhere. One really huge farewell concert, even though I won’t say it’s a farewell. I grinned to myself even as I huffed along on the increasing incline, picturing my final, fantastic performance, the one that would make me legend when I died too young.
A wave of nausea hit me and I stepped off the treadmill instinctively, but before I could tell Robert that I felt sick, an explosion of pain hit behind my left eye and the room tilted sharply. I didn’t realize I was falling until I hit the ground; I couldn’t think at all with the pain. Unconsciousness crept up me and I welcomed the relief.
Prologue
Chapter One, part 1
Chapter One, part 2
Chapter Two, part 1
Chapter Two, Part 2
I must have fallen asleep watching TV, but the remains of my late-night snack had been cleared away at some point. I’d dreamt, because I could still feel the odd remnants of emotions unattached to real life, but I couldn’t recall a single one. I yawned and stretched, trying to decide whether or not to get out of the warm, soft cocoon of my bed. I knew that regardless of if I got up or not, sooner or later Adrian would appear, his warm soothing voice filling out my day for me, offering me my options and his opinion for any decisions which popped up along the way.
The next several days slid by in a contented haze. I often felt that I was on some sort of luxury vacation. Someone took care of every need and want I had, sometimes even before I realized I wanted it. I had time to think and write and play my music. I didn’t need to decide anything or ask for anything. I loved every minute.
Then I got a little restless. I was lonely and a little bored, even. Almost a week had gone by and I hadn’t done anything with friends. Because I didn’t have any friends. I had managers and assistants and a staff, but no one to confide in. I read a few journals that I’d started, but I hadn’t kept to one for more than a few weeks. One I’d apparently started while in rehab. I didn’t remember being in rehab, but I clearly had been. I wrote about how much I missed the pills and the blissful fog they created around me. “It protects me from the pain, of Michael and Karen and all the others who’ve deserted me.”
Instead of the fog, I remembered the safety I felt coming home after rehab. I recalled climbing out of the limo, clean but scared, and seeing Adrian come out of the front door to greet me. He’d been hired shortly before I’d gone into treatment, and I barely recognized him. But when he saw me, he looked so happy to see me and I’d almost cried with relief. Someone cared.
Before I went into rehab, I’d bought the house but not yet moved in. Adrian had somehow managed to get all of my things moved in and arranged. He’d decorated the rest of the house and hired a staff. I remembered how easily I’d slipped into his care, allowing him to make more and more of my choices for me, managing the disasters big and small. He’d never let me down, never said impossible, just taken care of it. The more he’d taken care of, the more I’d let him take care of until he basically just ran my life, and I got to enjoy it.
The journal from rehab indicated that I’d been feeling lonely, that receiving my first Grammy had been a huge let down, because I’d brought it home to an empty house, and my father had already gone to bed when I’d called. He’d groggily said something like “that’s great honey, but it’s 3 a.m. here and I have to work tomorrow.”
The thing I’d wanted most my whole life, a not a soul to share it with. I’d seen the pills still in my medicine cabinet from when I’d had dental surgery, and I’d taken one, then another and finally felt the pain ease. From there, I’d just started taking them more and more. After a long night at the studio recording my next album, and I felt too tired even to sleep. When I worried the next album wouldn’t sell. When I thought about Michael, or Karen. When I missed my dad or felt cheated out of a mom. Before I’d known it, I was addicted.
Soon I had three double-platinum albums, a huge pile of money, my face on every magazine I could think of, and no reason to live. I’d downed a whole bottle and chased it with tequila, which I don’t even like. The tequila had been the last lonely thing resting in the “Congratulations” basket from I-couldn’t-even-remember-who. I’d woken up in the hospital, Victor by my side (worried about his investment, I think now). He’d found a new house for me to buy, he’d hired a personal assistant to take the stress off of me, and he’d arranged for rehab. I’d nodded numbly; I didn’t care who sent me where or why. I’d been so disappointed to wake up.
Now I’d been clean a few years. Had another album and tour, and managed to keep away from pills of any kind and use alcohol in moderation. But I was still just as lonely. The friends I’d made in rehab slowly drifted off. Too scared to make new friends and too stubborn and hurt to call old ones, I found myself with everything I’d ever wanted, except loved ones.
Suddenly, the aching loneliness grew too large to bear. Desperate for human interaction, I almost ran to the kitchen. The Kitchen Lady stood at a counter, kneading dough with a practiced hand, a faraway look on her face. I cleared my throat, somehow suddenly shy. She spun around, and immediately her face turned professional.
“Good afternoon, miss, can I get you something?” Her polite query almost scared me off – but the emptiness creeping up behind me pushed me to overcome my fear of looking foolish. I didn’t realize how out of practice at talking to “real” people I’d become.
“I, uh, no. I just wondered – uh. Well, this is going to sound stupid, but I just wondered what your name is.” It took all my willpower to keep from digging my toe into the floor like a kindergartner while a blush crept unbidden up my neck.
“I’m Sasha, miss.” She smiled at me in a kind way, and for just a moment, I thought we’d connected.
“Call me, Lynn, please.” Sasha looked slightly perplexed; I continued, “Nettie’s just the stage name – my friends call – called – me Lynn.”
“Oh. Okay, Lynn. Is there anything I can get you?” Her smile never faltered, but I didn’t know where to go from there. I didn’t want her to make me something – that seemed like a step away from friendship. In my head, I pictured us in a few months, sharing a cup of tea at the cozy little table I don’t think I’d ever noticed before. Laughing, maybe even at an inside joke, talking about important things. But only if I said the right thing now.
“Uh, no, I uh. So, whatcha doing? Making bread?” Dork! I accused myself, Why not just command her to be my friend and declare myself the Queen of the Mayfair?
“Yup, I’m making that honey wheat bread you’ve asked for before. Should be done by dinner time.” Returning to her kneading, she threw a glance over her shoulder.
“Oh. Great.” A silence began between us and grew, almost pushing me out the door. When it got too big, I couldn’t stop myself. I called “Well, bye then!” as I fled, back to the safety of my music room, where my friend the guitar would talk to me for hours.
The next several days, I tried to make friends with the gardener, with Robert the trainer, with some poor soul who had the bad luck to be delivering groceries to my house. Each person was unfailingly polite, but it never went further than careful small talk. Deep down I knew, you can’t be friends with someone who you can fire. But I also couldn’t figure out somewhere to go where to go to find friends who weren’t employees or wouldn’t care about my fame.
I tried to bring the matter up with Adrian, since he seemed to be the one who solved all my other problems. During one of our daily discussions of my schedule, he asked, “So, anything else?” Stupidly, I blurted out that I wanted to make some friends. I must have turned seven shades of red; I could feel my ears burning, but I could only hope he’d be the one with the solution.
“Friends?” Adrian looked as mystified as if I’d asked him where I could find some authentic aliens, “What do you mean, ‘make some friends’? You have tons of friends.” I couldn’t bear to explain the whole thing to him, how none of the people in my life were friends.
“I just mean, uh, you know, someone to watch a movie with or, uh, go hiking with?” Hiking?? When have I ever even wanted to go hiking? Adrian must have been thinking the same thing because he barely controlled the incredulous look on his face. It flashed by before becoming his standard placating smile.
“You want someone to go out with?” I nodded. “I’ll call around a few agents, I am sure there are plenty of guys who need a little publicity boost and would be glad to take you out a few times. No sweat, honey, I’ll set it up for this weekend.” My spirits had just started to climb when his solution hit and they plummeted to the floor. I almost burst into tears and can’t say how I managed not to. Even Adrian doesn’t get it. I’d never felt so utterly alone.
That night I sat on the edge of my bed, with my luxuries waiting all around me. Nothing seemed fun or interesting; I wanted to do something, but couldn’t think of what. And I knew. I knew that this life-path had a bigger downside than I could have imagined. Everything you want is nothing when you have no one to share it with.. I considered adopting a child, weren’t single celebrity women always doing that? Then I’d have someone to love! But I also knew, even as I thought about it, that I couldn’t have a child just to heal my loneliness. It wouldn’t be fair – and what about when I went on tour? Maybe a dog? But I knew that wouldn’t be enough. Might assuage it for the short-term, but even the best dog is a bad conversationalist.
I walked into the bathroom, looked in the medicine cabinet, even though I knew there was nothing in it. Catching my own eye in the mirror, I steeled my nerves and declared, “Hey, Death? I want out. So, uh, I guess go ahead and kill me or whatever.”
Back in my room I dug around my closets and dressers until I found what I knew would be somewhere – a small, secret stash of pills. I downed them all and lay down on the bed, feeling my consciousness drift away.
A light hit my eye, bright enough to wake me and prevent me seeing anything else. Blocking the offending glow, I was surprised to discover myself in the same bedroom, same bed, wearing the same pajamas. I felt fantastic, the way you do when you wake up after a really good sleep. But I thought I’d die! I shrugged, if I’m not dead, I guess I might as well get up and have some breakfast. I wondered if I’d done it wrong. After breakfast, I’d try talking to the mirror again.
Robert arrived before I’d finished eating, though, and I rushed to my room and changed into work out clothes forgetting about making my second death wish. Actually, I thought as I got up to speed on my treadmill, I should wait until I get to perform somewhere. One really huge farewell concert, even though I won’t say it’s a farewell. I grinned to myself even as I huffed along on the increasing incline, picturing my final, fantastic performance, the one that would make me legend when I died too young.
A wave of nausea hit me and I stepped off the treadmill instinctively, but before I could tell Robert that I felt sick, an explosion of pain hit behind my left eye and the room tilted sharply. I didn’t realize I was falling until I hit the ground; I couldn’t think at all with the pain. Unconsciousness crept up me and I welcomed the relief.
posted by Jami | 12:04 PM
2 Comments:
I love that she can keep dying!
Poor Lynn.
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