CHAPTER 35
REID
“It’s not true, is it?” Chelsea says, plopping down next to me at lunch as I go over the sides for afternoon shooting.
“Of course not.” I have no idea what she’s talking about.
She crunches through a salad of mostly raw veggies while I eat as many rol ed up slices of meat as I can stomach. The filming has become more cardiovascular, and my body is burning off muscle as fast as Olaf and I can put it back on. Chelsea doesn’t enlighten me about the true or untrue topic of her question, but she’s aware I’m curious as hel . She shoves another bite in her mouth and chomps away, grinning like mischief incarnate.
“Okay, fine, is what true?”
She finishes the bite and cocks an eyebrow at me.
“Haven’t checked the Internet lately, huh?” I steal a couple of carrots from her bowl. “I never check it, where I’m concerned. I’d have been convinced I was the devil by now if I did.”
She shrugs. “Or gay.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the newest rumor in Reid Alexanderland. Ostensibly, since arriving in Vancouver, you’ve been seen with no one interesting outside of Chad and me—unreservedly in love and married to each other, your friend Tadd, who’s gay, and his hot, unknown, probably gay friend. Also one of our bodyguards—who’s male and therefore fodder for the gay buzz.”
I almost choke on the swiped carrot and she slams my back with her palm while I fight to breathe. Final y, I manage, “Wel , that’s a first.”
“So, true or not true? For the record, I don’t care either way. Although I do have a brother who would drop everything and bounce up here on a pogo stick to be your love slave—”
“Hold it right there, Cupid. Not true.” My phone rings and of course, it’s Tadd. I would bet a new Porsche he has seen the Internet and is laughing his ass off. “Awesome,” I grumble, heaving a sigh and pressing talk. “Thaddeus.”
“Hel o, lover,” he says.
“You wish.”
“That’s for me to know, and you to never quite be sure of.”
I laugh, covering my face with one hand. “What does Rob think?”
“Oh he’s for it.”
“For what, exactly? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” I know better than to word-spar with Tadd.
“Aw, come on,” he says. “What good is the press if not for dishing up a serving of innuendo sprinkled with a few unsubstantiated lies?”
I sigh. “Wel , as long as Rob isn’t upset about getting roped into the Hol ywood rumor mil .”
“Nah, this was something we discussed before taking our relationship public. I’m just not as wel -known as you, plus I’m brazenly out of the closet, so it doesn’t stir up much interest. You on the other hand—if the rumor was true, there’d be suicide watches and black arm bands in one camp, and rejoicing in the street in the other.”
“Stooooop,” I say.
“So. Have you been practicing?” he asks, switching subjects. Tadd plays the guitar, and when I brought up the crazy notion of trying to learn, he insisted I buy the instrument while he was here.
“Yes, Dad.”
Learning to play the guitar is just one of the new things I’m trying out while I search for ways to fil my free time with activities that don’t include my usual pursuits. At first, this was both more and less daunting than I’d assumed. I could dream up plenty of things to try, as it turns out. Motivating myself to actual y do them was another matter. There are hours ful of nothing but video games and eating crap Olaf would kil me for eating.
When Tadd and Rob were in town, we spent one night checking out local clubs. I didn’t want to impose my no-drinking constraint on anyone else. Having never exactly practiced resisting peer pressure (hel , I’m usual y conducting the peer pressure), I joined the two of them in a few too many shots of Canadian whiskey and a round of karaoke (Tadd and I killed doing a medley of Ke$ha and the Stones).
The entire next day I was renewing my vows of sobriety, especial y when Olaf caught sight of my impaired gaze. I knew I was in for it when he narrowed his eyes and al of the sizeable muscles in his upper body seemed to expand with displeasure at once. “One hundred push-ups,” he barked, pointing to the floor. That was only the beginning.
When it comes to morning-after consequences, spending the evening with the guitar is exponential y less dangerous. I’ve also tried meditation—an unqualified fail because I can’t clear my mind worth shit, and reading—
slightly better, same reason. One of the bodyguards hikes, so we’ve been exploring trails through New Brighton Park.
The leaves are turning every possible shade of gold and red, and the weather is cooler but stil amazing.
No matter what I do, though, I can’t break the habit of talking to Dori in my head. I think about cal ing her, asking how her classes are going and coaxing satirical observations out of her—the type she’s reluctant to voice for fear of sounding il -mannered. I imagine sitting with her at one of the hole-in-the-wal cafés I’ve discovered here, tel ing her about al the on-set insanity.
I remember kissing her. The kiss in the closet that made her run. The kiss in front of her house that didn’t. I could have gone on kissing her for much longer that last time, because nothing in her response showed wariness. The trouble was my response. If our mouths had been joined for another minute, I’d have dragged her right back into that car.
Clearing Dorcas Cantrel from my mind is not proving to be a simple task.
***
“Reid, I’ve listened to your voicemail three times. Am I fol owing this correctly—you want to donate money to some missionary organization in South America?” I’m confusing the hel out of my father—an unexpected bonus. “Yeah, that’s correct.”
“Should I be worried about a cult, brainwashing, Hari Krishnas?”
“Yeah, Dad, there are tons of Hari Krishnas in Ecuador.” Before he retorts and we end up in a battle of wits (where the loser is pretty much always me), I add, “I heard about it from a girl at Habitat. If she’s involved, it’s legit. I thought it would be a good use of my charity budget.”
“Oh-kay.” He draws the word out, derisive as usual. I turn the receiver up and away from my mouth for a moment and force myself to breathe and not react. “I’m not used to you guiding your charitable contributions, not to mention those recently purchased cars—which, I remind you, are not tax-deductible since they went directly to the recipients and you insisted on anonymity.”
I’m silent for a moment. “We’ve already discussed my reasons for that decision, Dad, so I’m waiting for your point.”
“Hmph,” he says. “How much do you want to donate to this… mission organization?”
I tel him, and there’s no reply. “Dad?”
The sound of air hissing through his teeth is unmistakable. “I think I need to meet the girl who’s inspired al of this uncharacteristic— giving.” Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t introduce Dori to my father if he begged. “I haven’t seen her since she went to Quito, actual y. She should be at Berkeley now.”
“She’s a student at Berkeley?” He sounds impressed. I tamp down the jealousy. “What’s she studying?”
“Social work.”
“What? She’s wasting an education at Berkeley to study social work?”
I bristle, but recognize that it’s more than just my father and his typical disdain for any career path that doesn’t make a shit-ton of money. Not that mine seems to impress him. “Dori is exactly the sort of person who should do that kind of thing,” I say. I’m annoyed with myself for having had the same opinion of her chosen career path that he does.
Honestly, it stil shocks me that someone with a voice like she has could purposeful y pursue anything but using it.
“Oh?” he says, with an extra helping of disdain. “And why is that?”
“Because she wholeheartedly gives a shit, Dad.”
*** *** ***
Dori
Once the specialists were in agreement that there was nothing further they could do, I knew my parents would accept the truth. Equal y inspiring and disconcerting to witness, my parents had maintained their faith in my sister’s eventual recovery against al evidence to the contrary. I prepared myself to catch the emotional fal out from my mother, who for al of her medical competence and practicality had staunchly refused to concede defeat.
After our final consultation with Deb’s medical team, the three of us are silent on the way to her tiny apartment. The damage my sister suffered in her fal appears irrefutably permanent. Damaged areas of her brain aren’t expected to recover, though it’s possible that at some point she might begin reacting to a stimulus like a familiar voice. “By react,” one of the doctors clarified, “we mean minute physical responses like a change in breathing pattern, or some smal movement of say, eyelids or digits. We don’t foresee her ever regaining the ability to communicate through speech, however.”
Once back at the apartment, my parents slide into adjacent chairs at the tiny kitchen table, shel -shocked. I reheat a pan of lasagna provided by one of the nurses who’d worked with Deb. Final y, Mom clears her throat. “I’l start cal ing people tomorrow to get recommendations for a suitable long-term care facility close to home.” I’m relieved to hear the return of her natural pragmatism. She glances around the cozy living room. “We’l need to rent a truck to move her things, and a storage facility in LA. Hopeful y, someday soon, she’l need her things again.” I pause in slicing the Italian loaf on the cutting board, turning my face away. I want to scream in frustration. Deb wil never live independently again. Nothing said by any of the doctors could have encouraged this belief, or even a hope of it. Years ago, I might have been wil ing to join the delusion, but I don’t believe in miracles—not for Deb, not for anyone. Maybe I haven’t in a long time, and I’m just now aware of it.
Deb’s apartment has to be sublet, utilities turned off, creditors notified. These details fal to Dad while I distribute her patio ful of plants to neighbors and hospital staff after convincing Mom that they would bring comfort to the people Deb cared for, that it would be impractical to take them with us. As I deliver containers of geraniums and fuchsias and hanging baskets of bougainvil ea, I’m greeted with hugs and tears. I meet with Bradford last, in his smal private office. I bring him an English ivy, the least demanding plant of Deb’s col ection, and a box of belongings he left in her apartment. I’d discovered his razor and toothbrush in her medicine cabinet, and a drawer containing a pair of his jeans along with socks, boxers and t-shirts.
“I packed up these things our first night at Deb’s,” I say, placing the box on his desk. He stares at it, unmoving. “I’d hoped that when we went back home to LA, I’d just be whispering to my sister where she could find your toothbrush and extra boxers.” My voice breaks, but I keep talking. “If there’s anything missing, let me know and I’l find it and send it to you. Mom plans to put her stuff in storage…”
“Thank you, Dori.” He lays his hands atop the box lid but makes no move to open it. “I always wanted a little sister, did she tel you that?” His eyes are ful of tears. “I don’t have any siblings, so I was jealous when she’d talk about you.” He takes a shuddering breath as tears stream down my face. “Your sister changed my life. She changed how I look at the world, how I practice medicine. She changed who I am. And I know I can’t… can’t begin to compare how I feel, losing her like this, with how you feel—”
I walk around the desk and put my arms around the man who would have been my brother. “Yes, you can. She loved you, and you loved her. That’s no different than how she felt about me, or how I felt about her.”
A tremor goes through his chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry we couldn’t bring her back to herself, heal her.” His grief and anger can’t be separated. “This happened in a hospital. We’re doctors. This is why I went into medicine—
to cure and rebuild people, to make them better. And I can’t even fix the woman I…” He stops, unable to speak, and I hold him tighter.
“I don’t blame you, and Deb wouldn’t blame you. If you knew her, then you know she wouldn’t. She’d want you to go be that bril iant doctor she knew you were, to help people and live your life and be happy—”
“How? ”
I swal ow, glad he can’t see my face. “I don’t know.”
***
The tabloid shows and websites have been going insane trying to figure out who Reid’s latest hookup is. Whoever it is, he's being more undercover about it than he’s ever been. Which is probably the reason for one of the theories that was floating around—that he’s gay.
I may not know much, but I know enough to know that’s not true.
There’s also a day of speculation that he’s reuniting with the girl from his last movie, Emma Pierce, when a photo surfaces of the two of them at the Vancouver Film Festival.
The photo is dark, but clear enough that they’re both identifiable. She leans towards him with a smile as he speaks into her ear. Media speculation goes crazy, and dozens of photos from a year ago resurface—the two of them holding hands, kissing, stil s from the movie where the two of them look al kinds of beautiful together.
The next day, an opposing tabloid publishes the same film festival photo—except this one isn’t cropped. In the new photo, Graham Douglas, Emma’s boyfriend, is sitting on the opposite side of her, his left arm across the back of her chair, his right hand holding her right hand on his thigh.
He’s listening to whatever Reid is saying as wel , and smiling. So obviously, the Emma theory is out.
The guy who sold the cropped photo is blacklisted, the tabloid site that original y ran the cropped photo is discredited, and I just spent 24 hours hating Emma Pierce for no reason.
Throughout al of this, Aimee and Kayla are cal ing and texting, trying to find out if I have the scoop on Reid: Kayla: Is reid gay???!?
Me: Not that I know of. Are they back to that again?
Me: Not that I know of. Are they back to that again?
Kayla: Photos posted of him with that guy tadd who played charlie in school pride and some other hot guy singing karaoke in vancouver…
Me: Old news i think. Not something i am worried about right now.
Kayla: Aww. :( I know everything is crappy right now with what happened to your sister. Aimee and me are going out saturday, wanna come?
Me: Yes
Kayla: REALLY?!??!?! OMG, stay over in our dorm??
Me: Ok. Sure.
I’m wil ing to do anything to become someone else for a few hours. Someone who isn’t invisible to everyone who used to love her. Someone who isn’t the girl who’s misplaced her faith.
They pick me up Saturday, chattering like they’re one person, per usual.
“Did you bring the ID?” Kayla asks before taking off.
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think I look anything like her, though…”
Aimee inspects Deb’s Indiana driver’s license. “Oh, this is doable. We can total y do this. I already have some stuff picked out for you to wear. We wear the same shoe size, right? When we get done with you, you wil look so much like her. Just wait.”
“Okay.” I stuff the ID in my bag and lean my head back, trying to subdue the butterflies that are mosh-pitting in my stomach. I’m so tired of feeling everything. Since we al came back to LA, I’ve been overwhelmed. I’m furious with my parents who continue to act as though my sister wil wake up. Their own sleeping beauty, with the canned fairy tale ending.
I’ve become so good at repressing the desire to scream that I can’t even cry. When I think about Deb, I’m dry-eyed and staring, just like her. I am the opposite of thick-skinned.
I am no-skinned. I am raw, as though there is nothing between me and everything insisting that I feel. I don’t want to feel anymore. I want to be numb.
Deb was so careful, always. When I began high school, she took me aside and made me promise to never drink and drive, and never get in the car with a friend who’d been drinking. She told me about alcohol poisoning and dehydration, already the doctor-to-be. “Mom and Dad aren’t always realistic about this kind of stuff. I know you’re a good kid, but good kids are exactly the ones who end up making the dumbest decisions because they don’t plan. If you’re going to drink—or have sex, you have to plan.
Capiche?”
I promised to come back for a recap if I ever needed it.
Here I was, needing it, but now, Aimee and Kayla are the closest thing I have to advisors, but they’re more like high-strung tour guides.
My sister slipped on an invisible spot on a slick hospital floor. The doctors explained that she’d hit her head in the exact location with the exact amount of force that could cause the sort of damage she’d sustained. Caution and cause the sort of damage she’d sustained. Caution and risk aversion had done nothing for Deb. No such thing as fate. No such thing as miracles, either, or my sister would have earned one and fal en on her butt—embarrassed, but stil herself.
Tonight I want to stand on the side of a cliff and look down, dare the wind to gust and knock me off. Everyone thinks that fal ing to your death is the worst thing that can happen. But that’s a lie. The worst thing is to be alive for no reason.