Chapter 20 Lee
Lee
On Monday morning, Lee’s phone trilled at six a.m. She had not used her alarm in years and jerked awake, befuddled.
While filming, she’d had a crew living with her and waking her with breakfast in bed.
(This was part of the shtick—Lee, such a diva she needed breakfast on a tray!
Though honestly, she did enjoy breakfast on a tray.) While unemployed, she’d slept past noon.
And during her Savannah sojourn, Lee had roused herself around ten or eleven, padded downstairs, and poured coffee Charlotte had made into an M.A.
Hadley mug, then situated herself at the counter next to her mother as they paged through The New York Times.
(And ignored the wall phone, ringing away.)
Lee groaned and stretched. The sun was rising outside the window of her sister’s apartment, but Lee’s brain felt as if she’d been hit in the head by a two-by-four.
“Auntie Lee?”
Flora approached with instant coffee. Her resemblance to her mother was so shocking that Lee felt dizzy, as if she were in one of those episodes of a TV show where a wavy screen indicates traveling back in time.
She realized then, in the depths of her jet lag, that Regan had been raised to take care of her family, had gotten herself into some codependent peril, and now her own daughter was making coffee and holding it out sweetly, desperate for affection.
Family trauma, thought Lee. It’s a bear.
“Thanks, Flora. I can make my own coffee, though.”
“Oh!” cried Flora. “I’m sorry! It’s all we have, the instant. I can run to the coffee shop down the street….”
“No, honey, I just meant you don’t have to worry about me.”
Flora blinked, perplexed. She’d expected praise for being a martyr, thought Lee.
“Go get ready for school,” said Lee.
“I am ready,” said Flora. She wore a pleated skirt with a blue blazer, knee-high socks, and Mary Janes.
She looked like an orphan girl from a fifties movie.
Lee opened her mouth to ask Flora to go wake her sister, but then realized this was how kids got “parentified.” (Lee loved Instagram reels, and many of hers featured a psychologist who dressed up as a parentified child and spoke in an unsettling voice about childhood conditioning and fucked-up core memories. Lee could relate.)
She dragged herself from her sister’s bed and made her way to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, grabbed yoga pants and a top from her luggage, then slipped on shoes. Slurping the instant coffee, she rapped her knuckles on the girls’ open bedroom door and called, “Wake up, buttercup!”
Isabelle opened one eye. Lee stood at the end of her bed with her arms folded over her chest. “Time to rise and shine!”
“No,” groaned Isabelle, rolling away.
Lee took her long nails and dug them into the soft flesh of Isabelle’s exposed shoulder.
“Ow!” Isabelle screamed, showily. “Oh my God! You scratched me!”
“It was just a poke,” said Lee. “Get up. Now.”
“Yikes,” said Isabelle. But she got up.
It took a half hour to reach the manicured campus of the American School of Athens.
“We can get out here,” Isabelle growled at the gated entrance, but Lee didn’t slow, waved at the guard, and entered the drop-off line.
Isabelle scrunched into herself and Flora seemed pleased.
When they reached the front, Lee said, “Have a good day, girls. When should I be here for pickup?”
“You don’t need to—” Isabelle began.
Flora chirped, “Four!”
“Four. I’ll be here.”
They climbed out of the rental car that Val (blessed Val) had arranged to be delivered to Regan’s apartment. “I’m going straight to the police now, girls. Please know I’m doing everything I can,” said Lee. They nodded somberly, perhaps relieved to be told to focus on themselves for a change.
As Lee pulled forward, she was startled by a loud knocking on the passenger window. A teacher motioned for Lee to pull over. Had she already been recognized, even in sunglasses and a rental Hyundai? Lee moved her car out of the line.
“Sorry to bother,” said the teacher, when Lee slid her window down.
“It’s OK.”
“Are you…is Isabelle…?”
“She’s my niece.”
“Oh,” said the woman, who wore the same getup as the girls, the drab, orphan-girl uniform even worse on a middle-aged woman. “I was hoping to speak to their mother.”
“I’m her sister. Regan is…she’s out of town. I’m watching the girls. How can I help?”
“Well, I just wanted you to know…”
The teacher was clearly nervous. Lee felt for her—it must have been difficult to be an administrator at a school for rich kids. “Please go on,” said Lee, removing her sunglasses to make eye contact.
The teacher blurted out, “Isabelle has been spending time with a young woman who doesn’t go to the ASA.”
“Yes?”
“This young woman lives nearby. She’s been caught selling drugs to the ASA girls and sometimes…becomes romantically involved.”
“I see.”
“Yes, well, it seems that Isabelle might be this young woman’s…newest…friend. And Anastasia Boosalis is problematic. She’s very wealthy and…problematic.”
“Thank you for telling me,” said Lee. “I’ll make sure my sister knows about this.”
The woman flushed. “Anastasia is an heiress,” she said. “To the Boosalis fortune? She’s been expelled from several schools in the city. I believe she has a personal tutor now.”
The name sounded familiar to Lee from society magazines and social media. “Thanks again,” she said.
“I’ve heard tell of ketamine, opioids, and they crush up their Adderall pills and snort them!”
“Oh dear,” murmured Lee.
“House parties in these giant mansions…and on their island homes!” The teacher seemed titillated…
and maybe a bit envious. “Some of them have ski chalets in Switzerland,” she continued, “and Park Avenue apartments. I’m sure there’s cocaine and extremely expensive wine.
” The teacher stopped speaking and pursed her lips, perhaps imagining sipping a glass of cabernet in Gstaad.
“Again, thank you,” said Lee, waving and rejoining the car pool lane.
Truly, Isabelle’s teen antics were no worse than Lee’s had been.
But on the other hand, Lee had grown up to be a batty actress with no family of her own…
not even a pet! And alcohol problems ran in the family for sure.
Lee thought about her brother, Cord, with a pang of sadness.
To distract herself, Lee punched “Police” into her car GPS and hit the button for “Hellenic Police Ελληνικ? Αστυνομ?α.” It was seventeen minutes away, back toward downtown.
As Lee drove, her mind filled with questions: Was Regan’s neighborhood called “downtown”? Would the cops speak English? Where could Regan be? What should Lee do about this drug-dealing heiress girlfriend of Isabelle’s? And where could she get a strong coffee?
By the time Lee reached Hellenic Police Headquarters at 4 P. Kanellopoulou Street, the adrenaline that had powered her journey from Savannah to Athens was gone. She actually wished for a bit of anxiety, even mania, to give her the energy to push forward and find her sister.
Depression robbed Lee of agency, and her meds did the same.
She drove around and around the imposing police station, peering through her sunglasses, trying to find a parking garage.
Finally, Lee spotted a likely structure, the words σtaθmo? aytokinhtωn in neon above an entrance that led, as it turned out, into an underground space with extremely tight, spiral ramps.
Lee parked, exited on street level, and walked toward the police station, its reflective windows glinting in the bright sunlight.
It was a marvel to walk down a city street unrecognized, something Lee had not been able to do anywhere in Los Angeles since the debut of One of You to Love Me.
Every time Lee set foot in public, she was photographed…
if not by professionals, then by the coffee barista, grocery employee, or random pedestrian she happened to interact with.
It was weird being constantly documented like a rare bird.
Everyone asked her for selfies, and she tried to oblige.
Lee had laughed in recognition when she read an interview with Bill Murray, during which he said, “Now what I do for a living is, I take cellphone photographs. I’m not an actor. I am a donkey that is photographed by people who don’t know what to do with their cellphone camera.”
Lee reached the police station, an imposing, brutalist structure.
It was bright inside, with marble floors and beige walls adorned with framed photos of policemen.
(Lee paused: nope, no women.) At the front desk, a young man sat in front of a digital display that cycled through public announcements, crime statistics, and news updates.
The building was air-conditioned and smelled of cleaning products.
“My sister is missing,” Lee told the young man, and he nodded and said something in Greek.
When Lee shook her head, he led her down a hallway and into a small room with two chairs and a metal table.
An older man entered the room, nodding to the first, and closing the door behind him. “Good morning, I am Astynómos—sorry, Investigator—Markos Papadoulos,” he said. “I work with Missing Persons Division. You can call me Markos.”
“Lee Perkins,” said Lee.
Markos wore cotton pants and a pale blue shirt that was a bit wrinkled.
His belt was brown and didn’t match his black leather shoes.
He used pomade in his thick hair, and his skin looked as if it would tan easily if he went in the sun, but he hadn’t gone in the sun, so his complexion was ashy.
He was in his late forties, maybe—around Lee’s age.
His nose was slightly aquiline, with a prominent bridge and downward slope that reminded Lee of the marble statues she’d seen during her trip to Rome.
A bright memory flashed in Lee’s mind: whirling around Rome on a golf cart tour with her family.
How painfully cheesy—and incredibly fun—that had been!
“I called in a missing persons report yesterday,” said Lee, forcing her mind back to the present.
“For my sister, Regan Willingham. She’s been living here…
in Athens.” Lee (who always watched and evaluated herself, an actor’s burden) heard her own incredulity as she said “Athens.” She quickly added, “I didn’t mean to make that sound as if it was a bad idea for her to move to Athens, I’m sorry. ”
“No problem,” said Markos. “Please proceed.”
His English seemed good; that was a plus.
“She left town last week and was supposed to return yesterday. Her phone’s location app is disabled, and no one can reach her.
There’s no one matching her description in nearby hospitals, mental health facilities, or jails.
” Lee handed Markos the report Val had sent.
“I see.”
“This is highly unusual.” Lee spoke as if she were back on Law & Order SVU, where she’d had her first two speaking parts. “My sister is devoted to her girls. She’d never stay away and not be in touch.”
“Do you mind if I start with the basics?”
“Of course. I mean, no. No, I don’t mind.” Lee arranged her facial features to read Amiable but deeply concerned. Easy to work with and responsible…NOT mentally ill.
“Please give me her full name, age, and physical description—her weight, height, hair and eye color.” Lee complied, and Markos asked, “Any distinguishing features?”
“A birthmark on her right thigh,” said Lee.
“And she was last seen…?”
“She left home last Tuesday, saying she was going to Santorini for an artistic workshop. But my teenaged niece is a computer whiz…and she can’t find any workshops on Santorini, or any hotel reservations in my sister’s name.
Her car isn’t in her driveway. In Plaka. And her phone and computer are gone.”
“Do you know what your sister was wearing?”
Lee texted the girls. Isabelle sent a shrug emoji, but Flora wrote back, Mom was wearing a black T-shirt and her pink lululemon leggings. Gold sandals from Target in US. Diamond earrings, no watch.
“Do you have a recent photo? Any known threats or health issues?”
Lee texted the girls again and asked if Regan had friends to interview or if there was anyone who might have an issue with her.
She has NO FRIENDS, wrote Isabelle.
Flora sent a photo of Regan, sitting next to Flora in a nail salon. Both mother and daughter were grinning, holding up blue nail polish. Flora wrote, On my birthday!
Lee scrutinized the image. “She looks thin.”
“Can you tell me what her daily habits are? Any routines?”
Lee sighed. “Listen, I feel like I should bring the girls in. I just got here, to Athens.”
Markos nodded. “Can you write down her social media profiles and her phone number?”
Lee complied.
“She’s a single mother?” said Markos. “Full custody?” Lee nodded. “Can you provide the ex-husband’s phone number?” Lee nodded again.
“Since your sister is an adult with no health conditions, her case is classified as low risk. We’ll send out an Alert Hellas, and then touch base about what’s next. We can involve media—”
“No,” said Lee. “Please, can we wait for any…media?”
Markos scrutinized her. “Why would you…?” he said. He narrowed his eyes and paused. Then he asked, “Are you a celebrity?”
“Of sorts,” said Lee.
Markos nodded but didn’t pry for more details, which Lee appreciated. They made arrangements for Markos to speak to the girls at a café in Plaka after school. Markos stood.
“If you think media attention would help find my sister…” Lee started.
Markos put his shoulders back. “Of course it would help,” he said.
Lee wanted to say she would do the press conference, she did. But she just couldn’t handle the flashing lights, the makeup, the transformation back into Lee Perkins, shining star. Not yet.