A Life More Complete

---Chapter 8---

My alarm goes off at 5:15 and Ben and I both rise with the intent to run. I will run this morning regardless of whether Ben joins me or not. My body needs it. Ben and I run with Roxy following at our feet. We never speak while we run and it has always been a comfortable silence. With Ben it’s easy. Everything’s easy.

Ben is sitting on the bed when I emerge from the shower. His hair is wet and his eyes are fixed on the TV. He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks, eyes transfixed on the glowing box in front of him.

“Have you seen this? Holy shit. What a mess.”

“I don’t need to. I lived it.” It’s like a bad dream replaying over and over in my head. Each time I try to speak nothing comes out. “It’s seared into my brain.”

“What happened? She seemed fine the other day.” I look over at the screen and images of Trini flash as captions grace each picture. It’s her life up until this moment. Pictures of her as a baby, a toddler, on the set of her show, dancing on stage, all of them titled with “What Went Wrong?” and the answer is—everything. It went wrong from the beginning. No mother to speak of, an overbearing, unemployed father, thrust into the spotlight and forced to work without any regard for her health or safety. She’s on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She can’t leave her house without being recognized, she’s asked to pose for pictures and yet all the while scrutinized for doing something a normal teenager would do. Not saying what happened was normal by any means, but she can’t even go to party and have a drink with friends like most nineteen years olds without it being captured on camera, plastered in magazines, and discussed on message boards. When does she regain her privacy and the right to normalcy? The answer: probably never. The interview begins to play and I look away.

“Can you turn this off?” I ask quietly.

“Sorry, yeah, I don’t know why I’m still watching it,” Ben says apologetically, but continues to stare at the television. “You going to work today?”

“Yes. I have a bunch of other stuff I’ve got to get done. Since Trini’s under lockdown I might actually get some work done. I have to fly to New York tomorrow morning to moderate a book signing and interview for an author I signed a few months back. I think my flight leaves at 4:30 in the morning. I’ll be back early on Thursday, though.” Ben rises from the bed and begins to walk toward me, leaving the television blaring and making it nearly impossible to focus on anything else until his eyes meet mine.

“Okay, sounds good.” Ben is fully dressed and looks like an ad for men’s body wash or cologne or something that would put a blue-collar, stunningly beautiful man on display to sell their product. The jeans he wears always hang from his hips so low that the band of his boxer briefs peek out in a way that always makes me crave him. His flat, toned stomach exposed any time he raises his arms, while his t-shirt, old and worn bears the logo “Torres Landscaping and Pools” on the left side. He wears the same tan work boots every day and the same uniform that every one of his employees wears. You would never know he’s someone’s boss, that he owns the company. He works with the same amount of effort that all his employees show, but he doesn’t need to. The company runs itself at this point, but he goes in every day without fail and comes home each night exhausted but satisfied. For a minute, I’ve forgotten the awfulness of my situation, but it shakes me back into the now.

“It’s like crack. You can’t stop,” I say as I comb my hair.

“What?” Ben responds, confused.

“Trini. You can’t stop watching it. You and everybody else. The thought of seeking pleasure or enjoyment from someone’s misfortunes makes me sick. It disgusts me that the public longs for it, yet this shit,” I motion toward the TV, “is what keeps me employed.”

I too, can’t take my eyes off it, but for the opposite reason. This is news? A poor girl’s rise to fame and her subsequent fall keeps all eyes drawn to it in a way that is unhealthy and unrealistic. Yet this whole fame obsession has become reality.

This is my life. Somehow, somewhere I took one small misstep and ended up here. A part of something I despise with everything in me and as someone with a journalism degree, I see it as travesty, but I do nothing to change it.

“I’m sorry, Krissy. I wasn’t thinking.” He reaches for me pulling me into his chest; he kisses my hair and holds me a few seconds longer. “I have to go. I’m sorry. I know you care about her. I feel like an ass for getting sucked in.”

“It’s okay. It is what is. They wouldn’t keep running the story if no one was watching, right? I’m sorry I got upset with you.” I lean back and kiss him good-bye.

I pull into the parking garage of my office without even a vague remembrance of driving from my house. I make my way to my desk with the same effort I gave to driving and pretty much the rest of my morning goes along following the same pattern. Around noon Melinda sends me an email asking if I want to meet her and Bob for lunch.

I walk to the small deli around the corner from my office. The air is cool for February and I breathe in a slow breath in an attempt to regulate my muddled mind. I can’t stop thinking about Trini, the interview and what I could have done differently. It replays over and over, a never-ending loop in my brain. Melinda and Bob are sitting at a table near the window and they smile as I walk up.

“Shit show, right? Who called that?” Bob says with a smug grin on his face.

“I know. Can we talk about something else?”

“How’s Ben?” Melinda asks sweetly.

“He’s good. We’re good.” I say this knowing that we’re not good; things are strained. I’m working too much, I’m gone too often, late and absent. I won’t tell them the truth because I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. I’m screwing up and I know it. “Not much else to report. Sorry nothing interesting.”

“Well, Bob met someone. He’s been holding out on us.” She glares at him and my mouth falls open.

“Seriously? When? I’m gonna be so pissed at you if this has been going on for a while. How could you keep anything from us?”

“It’s been a few months now. Three, maybe? His name is Jon. He’s in advertising and for some reason he likes me. I think it’s my amazing good looks and stunning personality,” he deadpans. “While you were off falling in love with Ben and Melinda was off doing whatever it is that she does, I was actually alone and able to meet someone. You two can be a real relationship killer.” I laugh, but Melinda looks genuinely insulted.

“Now I’m all alone and you two just seem to think it’s okay to make fun of me. You guys are the only ones I want to spend my Saturday nights with.”

“Mel, that’s sad,” Bob says making an over exaggerated sad face. She cocks her head to the side and flips him off.

“Nothing like you two to take my mind off of all this bullshit,” I laugh.

We eat and Bob fills us in on his new boyfriend, Melinda and I hanging on his every word because as far as Bob goes he rarely finds anyone worthy of his company. I feel normal creeping back in and I relish it. I didn’t realize it until now that I missed Melinda and Bob and the comfort of being with them. They’re the only friends I have that understand the obsessive nature of our job.

“What are you up to this week?” I direct the question at both of them as we finish our lunch.

“I’m free all week. Just the usual office stuff and a magazine release party on Friday, “ Melinda says casually.

“I gotta head down to Mesa for those spring training interviews. How did I end up with all the minor league baseball players? They’re punks,” Bob replies with annoyance in his tone.

“That’s true. You did get them all. Nothing worse than mediocre athletes who think they’re great. I have to be in New York tomorrow for that author we signed. She’s doing a book signing and interviews. Should be a blast. Flight leaves at 4:30 in the morning.”

“Oh, good luck with that. Hopefully she doesn’t tell the world she’s pregnant,” Bob says sarcastically and I scowl at him. “Too soon, huh?”

“Yeah,” I scoff.

We all head back to the office and at the end of the day I make it a point to kiss both Melinda and Bob good-bye. I know there is no way I can ever live without them.

My night drags as I wait for Ben to get off work. He texts me around seven to say he won’t make it over tonight, but he’ll be waiting for me when I get home on Thursday. My heart sinks just a little. I climb into bed and turn on the TV. As I mindlessly flip through the channels I come across a cable news channel that is re-airing the interview with Trini and dissecting it clip by clip. Like all of America, I can’t look away. I want to change the channel, yet I don’t. Each statement crueler than the next and it is only when I hear, “And is that her publicist?” that I finally change the channel. I can take what they say about Trini with more compassion, but it becomes too personal when the discussion is actually about me.

The next morning I board my plane for New York and arrive on time. I willfully do my job as publicist and moderator for the client. I go through the motions, fake, contrived and over the top, but it is what is expected. I sleep in my plush high-end hotel room paid for by Ellie Regan P.R. and board my plane back to California early the next morning. It’s as planned, nothing exciting or scandalous, just the basics.

I turn my phone on as the plane lands and it begins to ding and light up the moment my hand leaves the button. It’s only seven in the morning and I’m already bombarded. Doesn’t anyone sleep? I scroll through my emails and there it is in my inbox, the message I’ve been dreading, but the one I hoped would never come. Trini checked herself out of rehab after less than seventy-two hours. I click the link Melinda sent and thumb through the pictures posted on a gossip column website. The first is of Trini getting her mother’s name tattooed on her ribs with a revolver pointing at it, next a shot of her getting her nipples pierced and then leaving the place with a white shirt and no bra and last but not least, her partying with a group of kids, her own age I might add, in Reseda where she is photographed numerous times taking hits off a bong. I run my hands over my face pushing them up into my hair.

“Hey lady? You gonna get up?” asks the guy sitting next to me on the plane.

“Um, yeah, sorry,” I mumble. I grab my bag from the overhead compartment and walk though the airport in a fog. I’m recognized as I make my way to my car. Inundated by cameras and flash bulbs, questions are being spouted at me as I walk. Obviously, all of them regarding Trini and I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure I can do this anymore. My first thought is to quit. Quit it all, my job, Trini, the public, but I realize that is unrealistic. I’m tired of damage control, tired of questions and interviews, plane rides and gossip blogs. There is no point in going home and is there really any point in going in to the office. The damage is done, so I head to Trini’s house.

My phone vibrates against my leg and the caller ID says, Callahan and Rhodes. I roll my eyes and answer firmly, “Kristin Mullins.”

“Ms. Mullins, this is Jacob Foster, Katrina Walters’s attorney. I’ve been trying to reach her for several hours with no avail,” he says nervously, yet trying to sound intimidating.

“Yes. Is there something you need, Jacob?”

“Um, yes. Her pre-trial date has been set for a week from Friday. Um, she’ll need to be there.”

“Okay. I’ll pass the information along to her. I’ll be meeting with her shortly. I’m sorry you’ve been unable to reach her, as you know she is going through a difficult time right now.”

“I understand. Um, Ms. Mullins?”

“Yes, Jacob?”

“I’m an entertainment lawyer, not a criminal defense attorney. I’m starting to think I’m in over my head. I can assist her in pleading guilty to the charges that have been filed against her, but I won’t be of much, um, assistance should she, um, continue to find herself in these types of situations.” His voice peaks at points, turns high and returns to its normal octave. I don’t know if I make him uncomfortable or if this is his usual demeanor.

“I can’t speak for Trini, but I surely hope this is the last of her problems. I will also understand if you are unable to continue your legal counsel. You wouldn’t be the first to leave.”

“I will try my best. Um, when I took this job from Ronald, I thought it would be an easy way to get my feet wet. You know, read contracts, trademarks and if I was lucky a possible litigation. Um, I never expected to end up here. Now I know why Ronald quit and the job was, um given to me.”

“Thank you, Jacob. If you have any trouble reaching Trini, please feel free to contact me.”

“Thank you, Ms. Mullins. Have a nice day.”

I hang up with Jacob as I pull into Trini’s driveway, punching the code into the key pad, the wrought iron gate swings open and I meander up the brick paved driveway. Trini’s house is a custom built Tuscan showcase in the West Hills. It’s the house that Trini Knows Best built. No expense was spared with its infinity pool overlooking the canyon, island kitchen with Viking range and marble counters, impeccably decorated, every detail mulled over by interior designers and architects until it looked like it was air lifted from Italy and randomly dropped on two acres in the middle of California. It’s an oasis to the unknowing eye, but to all who have walked on its lush green grasses, swam in its crystal blue waters or slept on its high percale Egyptian cotton sheets know it to be a prison. You’d think anyone would enjoy the solitude of a quiet home, but day after day of overwhelming silence can wear on a person, even make them a little crazy.

I use my key to let myself in and before I even cross the threshold, Lupe comes hustling toward me in a huff. Lupe is Trini’s housekeeper. She’s Columbian with a heavy accent and broken English. She’s outlasted every single one of the people in Trini’s hire because she does as she’s told. To say Trini liked her would be stretching it, tolerated is more like it. But for some reason, Lupe never gets sick of Trini’s bullshit and she placates her the way no one else will. I can tell by the look on her face she’s been given explicit orders to follow; in addition to that she knows I’ll never abide by those orders and it makes her nervous. Yet she gives her best attempt.

“Miss Kristin. How are you?” She hugs me briefly and begins to wring her hands.

“I’m fine, Lupe. Is Trini home?” I know she is, I ask anyway, delaying the inevitable, also giving Lupe time to adjust to me being here unannounced.

“Oh that good,” she says nodding her head. “Miss Katrina says no bother her today.”

“I’ll let her know you said that when I wake her up,” I say smiling as I move past Lupe and take the stairs two at a time. Lupe retreats to whatever she was doing before my arrival mumbling under her breath.

I fling open the door to Trini’s bedroom and it bangs loudly off the wall behind it. Pressing my hand to the light switch, the room glows brightly from the overhead, decorative chandelier. Trini doesn’t even flinch. I peel the covers back and the smell is overpowering. She reeks of cigarettes and bong water mixed with booze and vomit. Her pillowcase is smeared with the remains of last night’s eye makeup as her mouth hangs open and her matted and ratty hair is splayed out over her face. I want to scream at her, school her on decorum and then walk away for good. But I won’t because I’m a sucker, a slave to my job and maybe just a good person. I lean down and shake her slightly as I whisper her name.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, her voice hoarse.

“Lupe tried to stop me.”

“At least she tried. Can you go now? I want to go back to sleep.”

“No. I’m not leaving. What is going on? Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to. My therapist was already here. She told me if talking about my issues is too difficult I should revisit them later. I’m taking her advice. Now get out.” She rolls over and pulls the covers over her head.

“Did you ever think that I’m here because I care about you? Maybe that’s why Lupe and I are the last ones still around? Now get your ass out of bed.”

“F*ck off.”

“You can be angry with me. I can take it.”

“It’s not you.” Her voice softens just a bit. “You’re just here. The only one who will stand here and take it.” She breathes in deeply. “I’m angry.”

“I know you’re angry and I know it’s not me you’re angry at. That’s why I’ll be here, so you have an outlet, someone to direct that anger at. I love you. You can say what you want to me and I’ll forgive you. I’ll keep coming back and it’s not because you pay me. Don’t even use that excuse.”

“Whatever.”

“If you want to scream at me, fine. If you want to cry, that’s fine, too. But you won’t push me away; you won’t alienate me the way you did everyone else.”

“You’re all I’ve got,” she says and it nearly kills me.

“I know what it’s like to be alone and sometimes it really sucks.” I sit down next to her and kiss her head. She smiles softly and I realize maybe she isn’t a lost cause.

Watching Trini curled up in her bed, belligerent and abusive one minute and crying and apologetic the next brings back a flood of memories I thought had long since been lost. The remembrance of my father is small, yet impacting. He lived his life in a perpetual drug riddled coma, abusive, cruel and unpredictable. I feared him with everything I had and although my memory of him is fuzzy at best, he still haunts my dreams. The eight years that I lived with my father were frightening and traumatizing. I witnessed drug deals, the use of cocaine on a daily basis and my mother in a continuous state of apology. Death looked me in the eyes regularly and it was disgusting. The number of near fatal overdoses was more than I could count. And each time I cried hysterically as he was hauled off in an ambulance. I wished him dead on so many occasions, yet when faced with actuality of it I felt guilty, that maybe I was the one who willed it to happen.

Seeing Trini’s instability only accentuates my memories and I can’t help but wonder if she will eventually end up in a similar situation. Am I becoming a victim just as my mother was so many years ago? When did it slip from recreational drug use to becoming a full-blown addict? I thought of Maizey, my baby sister. Why am I here with Trini when Maizey struggles just as badly? Shouldn’t I be sitting next to her, letting her abuse me? But I walked away when I should have loved her unconditionally.

Trini’s pre-trial hearing is postponed due to a continuance. Dragged out even longer for the media to speculate on why, spinning more elaborate lies, taking it to levels I never thought I’d see. Her mother comes out of the woodwork during this time, selling everything she has on Trini, true or not, to any magazine that will run the story. There was speculation that she was compensated generously, somewhere in the high six figures, which I’m sure was true. The media couldn’t get enough and the public was eating it up. Trini has become a recluse, hiding in her palatial home, crying in bed as she downs Ativan and Valium like candy with expensive wine straight from the bottle. She’s more of a mess now than I’d ever seen her. All of this did little to quell the voices that screamed from inside her head. She fluctuates between manic and depressed like a roller coaster ride. It isn’t just the media coverage of her meltdown that spurs her instability, people camp outside her house protesting her abortion making it nearly impossible to leave. There are painted signs saying things like “Abortion is Murder” and “Trini Walters kills unborn children”. Someone even went so far as to hang a baby doll covered in red paint at the gated entrance to her home.

In the time between her pre-trial continuance and the actual trial she is arrested for driving on a suspended license. She played dumb and claimed she had no idea her license was suspended because she hadn’t actually had her trial yet. She is smarter than that. A week later she is arrested again, this time for felony cocaine possession. Jacob Foster quits. He told her to hire a criminal defense lawyer because she was going to need all the help she could get.

In a matter of two weeks Trini has somehow managed to single-handedly ruin her own life and is slowly bringing me down with her.

The next I day, I f*ck up big time and unfortunately for me it’s happened too many times. When I walk in the door it hits me. I forgot. It’s after ten and when I see Ben sitting at my kitchen table, his arms folded across his chest, I know he’s pissed.

“Sorry,” I say as soon as our eyes meet.

“No you’re not. Didn’t you check your phone? We were supposed to have dinner with my brother. He’s only in town for two days.”

“I didn’t check my phone. Obviously.” I apologize again, but it’s just for show. I’m on autopilot now.

“What good is it if you don’t check it? Where have you been?” As he speaks, I can tell he’s struggling to keep his tone even, which only adds to my annoyance. I want to scream at him to stop holding back. I want him to yell at me, but he won’t.

“I don’t like having to report to you. I was busy at work. I lost track of time.” I’m aloof and my response causes his jaw to tense.

“Report to me? That’s what you think this is?” I can hear the strain in his voice as he pulls his hand through his hair. “We’re far more f*cked up than I ever thought. I’m walking away before I say something I’ll regret.”

“Whatever, Ben.” I reply sounding far more annoyed than necessary. I hate this argument. The regularity of it is growing old. This is why I didn’t want to start this thing with Ben. I don’t like being responsible for making him angry, yet I don’t change the things I do.

Ben brushes past me without making eye contact. His breathing is labored and when he slams the door behind him, I jump a little. I knew this would happen the second I saw him; I’m trouble. I lost myself in a boy once and it won’t happen again. So, I do what I do best and avoid confrontation. I don’t follow him, anxious and feeling guilty, I step into the shower and cry. I won’t change and I don’t know why.