Chapter 68 Lee
Lee
Lee’s depression did not abate. Even when she signed the paperwork to play Lady Caroline in Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know, even as the media went insane, and Charlotte began to pack her things, and Isabelle posted disturbing photos on Instagram.
Even as Lee fed Yassus every morning, and Val sent photos of fabulous rental apartments in Los Angeles, and every night Lee went outside and breathed in muggy Greek air, and Yassus lifted his big head and fixed her in his gaze.
She filled his bowl and he came to her, the only creature honest about his hunger.
Regan’s narrow street was quiet except for the evening sounds of Athens coming alive—plates clattering in kitchens, the hiss of meat hitting hot grills, voices calling from balcony to balcony. Ancient stones held the day’s heat. Yet even in this hidden corner of Plaka, darkness found Lee.
Flora cleaned. Every surface gleamed, but Flora continued to putter around with her sponge and cleaning spray, a deranged domestic servant.
“Have you ever seen The Jetsons?” said Lee, rubbing her tired eyes. “It’s an old cartoon. You’re reminding me of Rosie, their robot maid.”
“Is that a compliment, Auntie Lee?”
“No, honey. For the love of God, sit down.”
Flora paused, still holding Questo cleaning fluid. “I just…I want everything to be…”
“Flora, seriously. Stop.”
“I’m almost done.”
“No, you’re not!” Lee went into the kitchen and wrenched the bottle away. “You’ll never be done! I know because I did this and it didn’t work.”
“Did what?” Flora glared at Lee, her hands clenching and unclenching.
“I see myself in you, Flora,” said Lee. “I’ve been through this. Please listen to me.”
“Whatever,” said Flora, moving to the living room, fluffing pillows that didn’t need fluffing, straightening books that were already straight.
She picked up Grammy Charlotte’s reading glasses and polished them carefully before setting them back on the side table.
Flora didn’t speak, but her gestures cried out: Please, won’t anyone notice me?
Lee remembered trying to hold their family together after her father’s suicide.
The same performance of usefulness, the same exhausting show.
How could Lee warn Flora about a trap she was still inside?
Lee herself had flown across an ocean to be needed.
Watching Flora was like watching herself drown in slow motion.
Flora picked up Lee’s purse off the coffee table and handed it to Lee.
“Flora, sweetheart, please just stop.”
“You stop!” yelled Flora, whirling around. “No one is asking for your help or your opinions, Aunt Lee. Go back to Hollywood—Jesus!”
Lee inhaled.
She got it.
I told you, said Depression.
In a way, Lee was glad. There was nothing she could do to change Flora’s path: Some patterns were just too strong to break.