I have to make a choice, but first I have to remember. I know instinctively that it
will hurt.
“Will you stay with me?”
Forever, if I could
.
It is time, at last, to face why my body is here, broken and hooked up to machines
in this white, white room.
“Okay, then,” I say, gathering my courage. “It starts with Marah. How long ago did
she come to visit me? A week? Ten days? I don’t know. It’s late August of 2010, well
after my mother’s so-called intervention, and honestly, time is not my friend. I have
been …
trying to write my memoir, but it isn’t working. A headache seems to be my constant
companion.
How long has it been since I left my condo? I am ashamed to admit that I can’t do
it anymore. I can’t open the door. When I even touch the doorknob, panic washes over
me and I start to tremble and shake and hyperventilate. I hate this weakness in me,
am ashamed by it, but I can’t make myself overcome it. For the first time in my life,
my will is gone. Without it, I have nothing.
Each morning, I make a vow to myself: I will stop taking Xanax and I will leave my
home and venture out into the world. I will look for Marah. Or a job. Or a life. I
imagine different scenarios in which I go to Bainbridge Island and beg Johnny for
forgiveness and receive it.
Today is no different. I wake late in the day and realize instantly that I must have
taken too many sleeping pills. I feel terrible. My mouth is tar-pit-sticky and it
tastes like I forgot to brush my teeth last night. I roll over in bed, see my bedside
clock. I smack my lips together and rub my eyes, which feel gritty and bloodshot.
No doubt I cried in my sleep. And again, I have slept the day away.
I get up and try to focus. In my bathroom, I find a mountain of clothes on the floor.
Yeah. Yesterday I tried to go out. I thought it was the outfit stopping me. Makeup
lies scattered across the counter.
This is really getting out of control.
Today
I will change my life.
I start with a shower. The hot water pounds down on me, but instead of washing away
my lethargy, it somehow makes me feel worse. In the steamy enclosure, I relive too
much: Johnny’s anger, Kate’s death, Marah’s running away.
The next thing I know, the water is cold. I blink slowly, wondering what the hell
has happened to me. Freezing now, shaking, I get out of the shower and dry off.
Eat
.
Yes.
That will help.
I dress slowly, in sweats I find on the floor of my bedroom. I am shaky and headachy.
Eating will help. And one Xanax.
Only one.
I walk through my dark condo, turning on lights as I go, ignoring the mail scattered
on my coffee table. As I am pouring a cup of coffee, my cell phone rings. I answer
it quickly. “Yes?”
“Tully? It’s George. I’ve gotten you a ticket to a screening of
The American,
with George Clooney. I’ll e-mail you the details. It’s a charitable event at a theater
in downtown Seattle. The network guys will be there. This is your chance to wow them.
September second. Eight
P.M.
Don’t be late, and look good.”
“Thanks, George,” I say, smiling for the first time in days.
I feel hope stir inside of me. I need this so much. I’m cried out, as dry as sawdust.
I can’t live this way anymore.
Then it hits me: I have to leave my condo and go out in public. I start to panic,
try to tamp it down.
No.
I can do this. I can. I take another Xanax (I will quit tomorrow) as I head back to
my closet to pick out some clothes for the event.
I will need …
What? Why am I standing here in my closet?
Oh. A hair appointment.
“Tully?”
Am I imagining Marah’s voice? I turn so quickly I stumble, bang into the door of my
closet. I am unsteady on my feet as I make my way through the condo, toward a voice
I don’t really believe is even there.
But she is there, in my living room, standing in front of the wall of windows. She
is dressed in black, with her hair short and spiked and pink; she has silver charms
hanging from her eyebrow. She looks dangerously thin; her cheekbones are like knife
blades above her pale, hollow cheeks.
She is going to give me another chance. “Marah,” I say softly, loving her so much
it hurts. “I’m glad you’re back.”
She shifts nervously from foot to foot. She looks, not scared, exactly, but uncomfortable.
I wish my head were clearer, that this damn headache would loosen its grip. I feel
restless, a little impatient for her to speak.
“I need…” she begins.
I move toward her, a little off balance. I am embarrassed by my unsteadiness. Does
she notice?
“What do you need, baby girl?” Did I say all of that, or only think it? I wish I hadn’t
taken that second Xanax. Is she running away from Paxton? “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Pax and I need money.”
I stop. “You came to me for money?”
“That’s how you can help me.”
I press two fingers to my temple, trying to still the pain. My little fairy tale collapses
around me. She doesn’t want
me,
isn’t here for my help. She wants money and then she will leave again. Money for
Paxton, most likely. He has put her up to this. I’m sure of it. And what would Johnny
say if he found out I gave her money and let her go again?
As gently as I can, I take hold of her wrist and push her sleeve up. Her forearm is
pale and crisscrossed with a web of scars, some silvery and old, some new and red
and sore-looking.
She pulls her hand away.
My heart breaks for her. I can see that she is hurting. It is what we have in common
these days, but now we will come together again, be there for each other. I will never
let her down again. I will be the godmother Kate wanted me to be. I will not let her
or Johnny down again. “If you’re okay, why are you still hurting yourself?” I try
to ask it gently, but I am really shaking. I feel headachy and nauseated. The blood
is pounding in my ears. It’s like a panic attack is coming on, but why? “I want to
help you, you know I do—”
“Are you going to give me money or not?”
“What’s it for?”
“None of your business.”
The words hurt me as deeply as she obviously intended. “So you came to me for money.”
I look at this girl whom I barely recognize. “Look at me,” I say, wanting desperately
to make her understand how dangerous her choices are. “I’ve screwed up my life, Marah.
I don’t have any family; no husband and no kids. The one thing I did have—my career—I
lost. Don’t end up like me. Alone. You have a family that loves you. Go home. Johnny
will help you.”
“I have Pax.”
“Some men are worse than being alone, Marah.”
“Like you would know. Will you help me or not?”
Even in my precarious state, I know I can’t do what she is asking. I want to, want
it like air, but I can’t make it easy for her to run away again. I have made a lot
of mistakes with this girl over the years, none worse than romanticizing Paxton and
concealing their relationship from Johnny, but I have learned. “I’ll give you a place
to live and set you up with Dr. Bloom, but I won’t make the same mistake again. I
won’t go behind your dad’s back and give you money so you can live in some hovel with
that weirdo who doesn’t care that you cut yourself.”
After that, we say terrible things to each other, things I want to forget. This girl
I love as much as my own life gives me a look that could shatter wood. Then she leaves,
slamming the door behind her.
* * *
The day of the movie premiere sneaks up on me. How that could be, I don’t really know.
All I know is that on the evening of September second, I am moving listlessly from
room to room, doing nothing, pretending to work on my memoir, when my cell phone bleats
out an appointment alert.
I look down at the entry.
Movie. Eight
P.M.
Network brass
. Then I look at the time.
It is 7:03.
I will go. I
must
go. This is my opportunity. I will not let fear or panic or desperation stop me.
I will dress up, look good, and retake my place in the spotlight. This is America,
after all, the land of second chances, especially for celebrities. Oh, perhaps I’ll
have to do the Hugh Grant talk show walk of shame, apologize with a smile, come clean
about my anxieties and my depression, but people will understand. Who doesn’t have
anxieties, these days, in this economy? Who hasn’t lost a job they love?
I am a little panicked as I make my way back to my bedroom, but a Xanax will help,
so I take two. I can’t worry about an anxiety attack tonight. I have to be perfect.
And I can be. I am not the kind of woman who hides out beneath warm covers and behind
locked doors.
I go into my closet, stepping over clothes I don’t remember buying, let alone wearing,
and stand in front of my dresses. I am too overweight to make a fashion statement,
so I pluck an old standby off the rack: a vintage black Valentino with an asymmetrical
neckline and patterned black hose. It used to hang beautifully on me; now it fits
me like a sausage casing, but it’s black and it’s the best I can do.
My hands are unsteady; I can’t do much with my hair beyond pulling it back into a
sleek ponytail. Huge gold and black pearl earrings draw the attention away from my
sallow face (I hope). I put on more makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life and still
I look tired. Old. Trying not to think about that, I slip into an expensive pair of
bright pink patent leather pumps and grab an evening bag.
I am reaching for my doorknob when panic hits, but I grit my teeth and push through
it. I open the door, step out into the hallway.
By the time I reach the lobby, I am hyperventilating, but I refuse to rush back to
the safety of my condo.
The doorman hails the Town Car and I collapse in the backseat.
Youcandothisyoucandothis
.
I close my eyes and survive this panic one second at a time, but when the car pulls
up in front of the theater, I feel light-headed enough to pass out.
“You getting out, lady?”
Yes. Of course.
I climb out. It feels as if I am wading through mud as I approach the red carpet.
The klieg lights burn my eyes, make me blink.
It is raining, I notice. When did that start?
Eerie red light cascades down from the marquee, flashing in puddles of rainwater on
the street. Beyond the roped-off area, a giant, jostling crowd of onlookers is waiting
for a celebrity to arrive.
My hands are shaking now; my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. I tilt my chin
and force myself to walk the red carpet. A few flashbulbs go off—then they see it
is me and the photographers turn away.
Inside the theater, I have the debilitating thought that I am the oldest woman here.
I worry about having a hot flash, turning red suddenly and sweating. I should look
for the network executives, but I can’t. Instead, I make my way into the theater and
collapse into one of the velvet seats.
The house light dims, the movie begins. All around me people are breathing, moving
quietly, their seats creaking.
I try to stay calm and pay attention, but I can’t do it. Anxiety is a living, breathing
entity inside of me. I need to get out of here, just for a second.
I find a sign for the restroom and follow it. The bathroom is so bright it scalds
my eyes. Ignoring the mirror, I stumble into a stall and sink down onto the closed
seat, kicking the door shut. I slump back, trying to calm down, and close my eyes.
Relax, Tully. Relax.
The next thing I know, I am waking up. How long have I been here, passed out in a
toilet stall in a movie theater?
Pushing out of the stall so hard the door cracks against the next stall, I lurch out
into a line of women. They stare at me, their mouths open. The movie must be over.
Downstairs, I see the way people look at me. They step out of my way, as if I am rigged
with dynamite or carrying a contagious disease. My DUI mug shot is what they are seeing
when they look at me. And suddenly I know: I can’t do it. I can’t meet the network
brass and plead my case and get my job back. It’s too late. I have lost my chance.
The realization is a pit of quicksand that pulls me under. I elbow my way through
the crowd, muttering apologies I don’t mean, until I can breathe again. I end up in
a quiet alleyway in the pouring rain.
* * *
Sometime later, a man tries to pick me up in a bar. I almost let him. I see him looking
at me, smiling, saying something that makes me ache with longing—not for him, of course,
for my lost life, but he is there and the life is gone. I hear myself begging—begging—him
to kiss me and I cry when he does because it feels so good and not nearly good enough.
After the bar closes, I walk home (or take a cab or get a ride—who knows?—at least
I arrive home). My condo is dark when I get there. No lights are on. I turn them all
on as I stumble past, ricocheting off the walls and tables as I go.
I am so ashamed I could cry, but what is the point? I slump onto my sofa and close
my eyes.
When I open my eyes again, I see the pile of mail on my coffee table. Bleary-eyed,
I stare at the remnants of my former life. I am about to look away when a picture
catches my attention.
My
picture.
I lean forward and push the stack of envelopes and catalogs aside; there, beneath
the bills and junk mail, is a
Star
magazine with my mug shot in the upper left corner. Beneath it is a single, terrible
word.
Addict.
I pick up the magazine and open it to the article. It’s not the cover story, just
a little tidbit on the side.
The words blur before my eyes, dance and jump, but I tackle them one by one.
THE REAL STORY BEHIND THE RUMORS
Aging isn’t easy for any woman in the public eye, but it may be proving especially
difficult for Tully Hart, the ex-star of the once-phenom talk show
The Girlfriend Hour.
Ms. Hart’s goddaughter, Marah Ryan, contacted
Star
exclusively. Ms. Ryan, 20, confirms that the fifty-year-old Hart has been struggling
lately with demons that she’s had all her life. In recent months, she has “gained
an alarming amount of weight” and been abusing drugs and alcohol, according to Ms.
Ryan.