Chapter 4 Florence
Pretty soon I get carsick from the winding roads, followed by a bumpy ferry ride, followed by even more winding roads.
The streets here are narrow and crowded with trees, their bare branches touching overhead.
I don’t know how many turns we’ve made since we got off the ferry.
I think about Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail of crumbs in the forest so they could find their way home.
I lean my head against the cool glass window.
Half the houses we pass are fancy mansions behind gates and long driveways, the other half clapboard ranches in various degrees of disrepair, so that one yard after another starts looking like a mismatched set of teeth: one large, one small, one jagged and cracked.
Gentrification, my kid would say, smart like that.
“You’re not supposed to take my phone,” I say to the driver finally. That’s what Callie said. It’s not that kind of place.
“Don’t worry,” the driver assures me. “You can discuss everything with your care manager.”
Care manager? Not therapist, or doctor, or counselor? The word manager makes it sound like this is some kind of business deal.
I check the time on the Range Rover’s console; it’s just after 9:00 a.m. The driver makes a sharp right turn, and I gasp because I think we’re about to run headlong into a wrought iron gate, but it swings open at the last second.
Motion sensors, I guess, or maybe there’s some hidden person controlling who gets in and out.
The driveway is so long that it seems to go on forever, surrounded by bare hedges that look less like topiaries than twisted chains.
I try to roll down my window, but apparently the driver controls it, not me.
The car bounces as the road shifts from asphalt to gravel.
In the murky morning light, I make out a series of square-shaped buildings with sharp edges, the sort of modern architecture you’d expect in Malibu.
The driver stops in front of one of the glass boxes.
A bright white dusting of snow frames the building so perfectly it’s like someone swept it into place with a broom.
(Maybe someone did.) I have to wait for the driver to let me out—like the windows, the doors are set with a child lock, trapping me in the back seat.
If the car caught fire, would the driver remember to release the locks before jumping out?
There’s a reason those locks were designed for parents—only a parent would stop to free their child before saving themselves.
A woman walks out the front door and down a set of broad, shallow steps to the driveway.
She’s wearing black wide-leg pants and a crisp white blouse; the only nod to the fact that it’s wintertime is a camel-colored scarf wrapped around her neck.
Her ice-blond hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail with a few pieces pulled out artfully around her pale white face, and she wants you to believe she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, but I can tell that she’s got on foundation and blush.
She isn’t wearing any rings, no necklace.
Tiny little diamond studs in her ears. I don’t have to wonder whether they’re real.
“Good morning, Florence.” She says my name like we’re old friends. “I’m Dr. Evelyn—”
“Hi, Evelyn,” I say, cutting her off. I’m not about to call her Dr. So-and-So when she came out and called me Florence without asking. She pronounced it like Eeevelyn, and I’m tempted to say Ehvelyn just to annoy her.
She looks momentarily flustered but recovers smoothly, extending her hand for me to shake.
“Welcome to Rush’s Recovery.” She says it like I’m an honored guest, which—at these prices—I ought to be.
Callie promised I could afford it. This particular center is for particularly rich people, but really all of these places are for people with some degree of privilege—most aren’t covered by insurance or, even if they are, not completely.
Why do you think you hear so many stories about celebrities in rehab?
We’re among the lucky few who can afford to go back over and over again.
“I’ll be your care manager while you’re here with us. Let me show you around your cottage.” She gestures to the building behind her without breaking eye contact. I’m not sure she’s blinked once since I arrived. Even robots are programmed to blink so that they’ll look human.
“Cottage?” I echo. There’s nothing cottagey about it.
For starters, it’s huge, as big as the sort of house I would’ve called a mansion as a kid.
(Before I found out what real mansions were.) Cottages are made of wood and stone with thatched roofs—at least the ones in the movies are.
This whole building is a window, with exposed iron beams holding it together, framed by towering pine trees.
The trees give the impression of being hidden while the gleaming glass walls make the place seem fragile and exposed.
Over the years, I’ve learned that rich people like to give their expensive belongings playful names, like calling the 2,000-square-foot guest house in their backyard their “shed,” or calling their $150,000 vintage Bronco their “knock-around car,” as though being poor is a charming affectation.
“That entire building is for me?” I ask.
“We respect your privacy here,” Eeevelyn says, and I almost laugh. It’s been years since anyone’s respected my privacy, least of all at places like this, where I’m expected to share my deepest, darkest secrets and fears.
“But not to worry, Florence.” She says my name again, as if to remind me of it. “I’ll be available to you at any hour for the duration of your time here.”
Time here is rehab-speak for treatment, but the only treatment I need is a quiet place where the paparazzi can’t find me.
I wonder if Eeevelyn has heard Joni Jewell’s latest hit, the one everyone knows is about me though she never says my name; it’s oh so very wink wink, hush hush.
The tune might be in Evelyn’s head right now.
It’s nothing if not catchy; I have to give Joni credit for that.
Billboard said it was full of sonic surprises.
Joni Jewell. God, I hate that girl’s name.
And it’s her real name, too, I checked. I can still hear her nonthreatening little girl voice telling some interviewer that her parents named her after Joni Mitchell because they always knew she was going to be a songwriter.
Her parents didn’t give her a name they thought would look good on college applications and résumés, determined for her to end up as a banker or a lawyer, the sort of secure job that comes with a pension plan and a 401 (k).
The whole family moved to LA when she was fifteen, driving in their van cross-country like the fucking Partridge family.
No one ever called Joni Jewell shrill. Natural blond (unlike Evelyn; I can tell from years of dyeing my own hair, there’s gray underneath her perfect highlights), skinny as a rail, perfect little double-A chest that doesn’t need a bra, not one hair out of place, brown eyes so big and round she looks like a cartoon character.
She couldn’t put a foot wrong if she tried.
So I walked all over her.
I reach for my notebook, but realize I left it in the car.
My hands itch. I shiver, watching the steam of my hot breath hit the cold air.
It was sixty degrees when I left LA last night, but I wore a fur coat on the plane.
I bought it after our second album went gold.
My kid hates this coat, animal cruelty and all that.
I run back to the car and grab my notebook from the back seat, scribbling the lyrics fast, like if I have to hold them in much longer, I’ll be sick.
I walked all over her.
Even as I write it, I know I’ll never turn it into a song, because it’s a lie. If anyone’s getting stomped on, it’s me.
Callie said it all might have blown over if I hadn’t threatened her. (Joni, not Callie. I never threaten Callie except threatening to fire her— an empty threat since we both know I can’t. No one else will have me now.)
Drop off the grid until the Joni Jewell mess blows over, she said. Wait a week or two, and some other starlet will offend someone, and no one will even remember what “Get Her Back” is about.
“Let me show you inside.” Evelyn leads the way up the stairs and into the cottage.
The back wall is made of the same floor-to-ceiling windows, with ocean views as far as the eye can see.
I know I’m supposed to ooh and aahh, but the sea looks gray and angry, waves tossing in the wind.
What’s the point of a house with glass walls, so easy to see into, so easy to break?
I swallow a sigh. Joni Jewell is currently on a twenty-city tour across America, and every night, her finale is “Get Her Back.” There are videos of her performances all over the internet like the algorithms themselves are promoting her.
Her record label is paying for security detail to keep her safe from me.
It’s an easy story for the press to sell, tale as old as time and all that. The wrinkled crone and the good little girl. I’m the wicked witch to her Dorothy, the evil queen to her Snow White, the aging starlet to her ingenue.
Even when I was Joni’s age, I was never what anyone called sweet.