Chapter 2 #2
“You’re allowed to reply to your own messages,” he says. The best part is, he’s genuinely granting me the permission to do so.
“No, no. There is only one Cilla Cove now, and it’s you,” I assure him.
Erik goes back to his reading position, making no effort to disguise the fact that he’s reviewing my emails with Marlowe. “Is she your ex or something?” he asks.
This gets a genuine belly laugh out of me. “Not at all. Just someone I went to high school with.”
Erik says nothing.
“If she replies again, you can answer her,” I tell him. “Use all the kissy faces and red hearts you want. She’ll love it.”
—
Marlowe does not reply again. Teenage Marlowe never would’ve let me have the final word, and teenage Priscilla would’ve gone to the ends of the earth to try to get it anyway, so this should be a victory for the adult version of me who has very little time or effort to lend to the affairs of my high school drama department.
But Marlowe’s silence has started to feel like another one of her clever games she’s designed to make me feel small, and I can admit I find it frustrating that she’s still doing this kind of stuff. Aren’t we both so beyond this?
I stare out the open window across from my bed. It’s a lovely night in Los Angeles—seventy degrees at ten thirty p.m. in December. A gentle breeze blows my curtains toward me, punctuating the perfection.
It’s probably raining in Iowa. Or snowing. Maybe both, the streets covered in that dreaded sludge that seems designed solely to send cars spinning into guardrails.
I’m happy about a lot of things, but most of all, I’m happy I don’t live in Iowa anymore.
Hey Marlowe,
So sorry to bug again! I was wondering if you were planning to organize any kind of retirement party for Dallas? I’d love to participate and pay for any expenses. I’m sure we could get a lot of alumni together for this.
Also, please excuse me for not asking earlier, but how are you doing? I was glad to see you finally got some glasses.
Priscilla
I press send, then continue staring out my window the same way I used to do on bus rides as a kid, my eyes slipping in and out of focus so my mind could wander beyond my physical self.
This Golden Globes nomination was a surprise to everyone.
We campaigned for it, of course. Every single actor campaigns.
No one stumbles into a nomination, as much as they want you to believe that’s the case.
It was my team’s idea to push my work in the last season, since final seasons of beloved TV shows tend to do well in the awards arena.
But the fact that it actually happened is the part no one really expected. Least of all me.
I haven’t booked anything new since we wrapped the final season of Heartbeats last year, which has put me in a very undesirable position in this town.
I’m not working. I’m not “relevant,” as Erik so succinctly put it.
It’s been hard, but it’s also been familiar, because I find it much easier to accept constant silence than to be showered in unexpected acclaim.
Now that the nomination has happened, all these big-time directors are calling my agent, asking me to read for major projects.
Brands want to do partnerships with me. Other actors who’ve long since forgotten my number are sending me texts like we’ve never skipped a beat.
Nothing has ever moved the needle the way this nomination has, and I feel naked under the spotlight of possibility now shining on me.
Possibility is dangerous and slippery. One minute I’m spiraling, in my bed with the covers over my head, believing it’s all a lie and I’ll never work again, then waking up the next morning and convincing myself of the opposite, that everything great is about to crest over the horizon and I’ve finally reached the destination I’ve been clawing toward for nearly two decades.
Even though I’ve lived in Los Angeles since right after graduating high school, I’ve somehow gotten worse at adjusting to the whiplash.
It must be because I’m hitting my mid-thirties.
I don’t bounce back the way I used to. It’s always been the case that you can have the best day of your life here fresh on the heels of the biggest rejection you’ve ever faced, and then the following day, neither thing matters anymore.
It’s like living on a metaphorical fault line.
When the actual earthquakes hit, they feel like vindication, proof that even the ground in this town can’t handle the weight of all the constant instability.
I used to thrive on that unpredictability.
But the older I get, the less it appeals to me, and the more I believe I’m not the type of person who is meant to be taken this seriously as an actor anyway.
Being taken seriously is for ambitious young people like Erik or seasoned veterans who’ve always had that level of respect. I am neither.
My phone vibrates atop my chest.
Cilla,
You might be surprised to learn that Dallas doesn’t want a retirement party. I know I was. But he is very serious about it. I wouldn’t suggest secretly organizing one, unless you want him to despise you.
I do have glasses now, yes. I think I liked the world more when I didn’t know how many things a person could tell you through their facial expressions. It’s kind of a nightmare.
Congratulations on your nomination, by the way. Don’t think I said that earlier.
Marlowe
It’s been so long since I’ve seen her in person.
Sixteen years since we were in the same room together.
Whenever I’ve FaceTimed Dallas and he’s at the school, she’s been in the background, slinking out of frame, refusing to acknowledge my presence.
Even without words shared, we’ve remained linked, forever perched on either side of Dallas’s shoulder.
Yesterday was the first time we’ve looked directly at each other.
It made me more aware of myself, suddenly viewing my every decision through her eyes, hearing the aggressiveness in my laugh and the unintended bravado in my casual conversation.
I remembered exactly how much space I can take up when I want to.
I try to place that Marlowe in some sort of living environment. It’s two hours later in Iowa than it is here, making it well after midnight for her. She must be in her own bed, the glow of her phone screen illuminating her stern concentration, casting her in blue.
What kind of bed does Marlowe Jenkins have? Who does she share it with? Is that someone she would marry? Does she want that?
Is she waiting for me to reply?
Marlowe,
You’re right. I really thought he would want a production. He’s probably worried if too many alumni get together in one room, we’d all force him to finally tell us what the Memory Machine is actually for.
Maybe take the lenses out of your glasses every so often, so you don’t have to notice all the horrors?
And thank you for the congratulations. It’s a little surreal. I keep thinking this is like when they read the wrong Best Picture winner at the Oscars. Surely this nomination isn’t actually meant for me.
Priscilla
Her next reply comes in even faster than the last. It’s almost like we’re in the same room, whispering to each other in the dark.
I picture her shaggy hair. The clever quirk to her mouth as she thinks.
She probably sleeps in her old cast T-shirts, a stack of plays on her nightstand and all across her dresser.
The consummate thespian, through and through.
Cilla,
I still don’t know what the Memory Machine is for, and I see Dallas every day. The last time I asked, he said I never wanted to find out.
You know, I tried contact lenses once. I hated them so much that I took them out in the middle of a school day.
All of my afternoon classes had to watch a movie instead of doing my lesson plan, because I couldn’t see a thing.
I’m not sure how I used to live like that.
Then again, I did a lot of things as a teen I would never do again.
And you’ve been ready for this moment your entire life. You and I both know how much you did to get where you are.
Marlowe
Someone like Erik might think her last lines are an encouraging acknowledgment of the struggles I’ve faced to reach this point in my career.
I was, after all, just an eighteen-year-old girl from Iowa who moved all the way to California with nothing more than a few hundred dollars and a dream to her name.
But I know Marlowe.
This is not encouragement at all.
The beautiful thing is, it doesn’t have to bother me anymore. Every day of my life, strangers go out of their way to message me how terrible I am. Some of them even wish me dead on a regular basis. Marlowe Jenkins making a vague reference to our high school rivalry is child’s play in comparison.
I decide to write her one final email.
Marlowe,
Let me know if you ever find out about the Memory Machine.
Cilla
She doesn’t reply.