Chapter 4 Lee
Lee
On the sunlight-yellow couch in Charlotte’s living room, Charlotte and Lee ate Triscuits and a wedge of cheddar for dinner while they watched Trafficked with Mariana van Zeller.
The night grew lavender outside the sliding glass doors, sprinklers misting the golf course with a hushing sound.
Above the fireplace, there was a portrait of Charlotte with her children.
They looked young, beautiful, and scared.
Lee texted her agent, Francine: any news?
Trying my best! Maybe do something on YouTube?
Do WHAT on YouTube?
When Francine did not respond, Lee said, “Mom, I’m going to go call my agent.”
“Ooooh, that’s exciting! Good luck, dear,” said Charlotte, nibbling a Triscuit.
Francine answered on the third ring. “Do what on YouTube?” Lee repeated.
“Honestly, I don’t know what,” said Francine. “It’s just an idea. People are TikToking all over town.”
“I am an actor, Francine,” said Lee. “Though I do love Trafficked with Mariana van Zeller. Could I do a show like Trafficked with Mariana van Zeller?”
“Mariana van Zeller is a trained journalist,” said Francine. “But maybe you could…I don’t know…go choose a bikini and TikTok about it? I’ve got to run. Talk soon. Ciao ciao!”
Reclining on her mother’s guest room bed, Lee contemplated the bulldog painting. Where had her mother picked up this awful picture? Who would devote hours of their life to creating such a monstrosity? Why bulldogs? Why a sailboat?
Lee did not need to turn her head to see the dark shadow, her constant companion. Depression quoted Francine: Go choose a bikini and TikTok about it.
Eight months ago, Lee had been a reality TV star.
She’d loved the attention, the money, and the sense that she’d found her purpose.
She bought Charlotte a new golf cart. She helped her sister, Regan, move all her children and crap to Athens after Regan took a Vision Board Workshop that convinced Regan her real life would only begin when she moved to Greece.
She invited her brother, Cord, to the American Reality Television Awards.
(He said no and she lost the Reality Queen Award to one of the sister wives.)
Life, for a while there, was sweet!
But, of course, darkness (Lee’s old friend) came to talk to her again.
When Lee noticed that her depression had returned—a black shadow—it was as if it had been there all along, and would always be there.
Depression had soaked beside Lee in the hot tub of her Hollywood Hills rental, enjoyed martinis at the Frolic Room, lay down on the kitchen floor right next to Lee when her agent, Francine, called to tell her that her reality show, One of You to Love Me, had been canceled.
After the call, Lee had stayed in her pajamas for ten days, then changed into the cheap cotton sweatsuit they gave her at the Stewart and Lynda Resnick Neuropsychiatric Hospital at UCLA.
At the hospital, Lee befriended a fellow depressive named Remington.
“Like the pistol I put in my mouth,” Remington said, when they were introduced.
“Didn’t pull the trigger, though.” Remington had memorized passages from the book Infinite Jest. Lee had to agree that the author of Infinite Jest, who had eventually succeeded in ending his life, knew what depression felt like.
For example: “These worst mornings with cold floors and hot windows and merciless light—the soul’s certainty that the day will have to be not traversed but sort of climbed, vertically, and then that going to sleep again at the end of it will be like falling, again, off something tall and sheer.
” Remington performed this passage as a soliloquy in the Community Room, then said, “Right?”
Lee and her cohorts nodded, stunned at being known.
Eventually, they found the right medications to somewhat stabilize Lee, though Depression did not disappear. It was quiet sometimes, but then would speak so loudly it seemed like fact.
Lee’s doctors had suggested she stay with “trusted family” when she left the hospital, so Lee went to her mom’s house to recover. Charlotte had a Zoom call with Lee’s medical team, and they advised Charlotte lock up Lee’s medications to avoid an overdose.
“Yoo-hoo!” Lee’s mom appeared in the doorway, a large goblet of wine in each hand. “I brought you a teensy splash,” she said. “And it’s time for your pills.”
“Thanks, Mom,” said Lee. “It’s also time for your pills.”
“But mine aren’t for my brain,” said Charlotte, meanly.
“Mom!” Lee felt the familiar surge of resentment.
“My brain is just fine,” noted Charlotte.
Lee almost laughed. Neither of their brains was fine. The difference was, Lee knew it. She also knew she was being unfair. Charlotte had her own ways of surviving. But right now, Lee didn’t have the energy to be generous.
Depression spoke clearly: The sleeping pills are in your mom’s medicine cabinet. You can take the whole bottle tonight, say goodbye, and be free.
Part of her—a small, stubborn part—knew that Depression was wrong. But despite her meds, that voice was fainter every day, and Depression’s instructions louder: Just get the pills. Then you have an option, the possibility of relief.
Lee battled Depression every hour, every minute, she was awake. Nobody knew how hard she fought—it was like holding a door shut against tremendous force. If she swallowed all her sleeping pills, the door would slam open and knock Lee flat. Then, at last, she could rest.
“Cheers, Lee Lee!” Mother and daughter clinked their goblets and reclined on the bed. The Savannah moon was beautiful outside the window. Lee could hear cicadas calling.