Chapter 30 #3
“I don't think I can show my face, Mom, after what happened.
It feels like I'm done here.” My voice cracked.
“And Eden — you know Eden, please tell me you've bothered to remember who she is — she's not speaking to me, and I had this awful secret affair with this other guy who slept with her, and I just — I just need you to listen to me. I need you to be my mom.”
“Jorie, are you drunk?”
“Yes, Mom. I'm drunk.”
“You sound very drunk.”
“I am.”
“You know alcohol is terrible for you,” she lectured, sounding more awake.
“It makes your face and eyes puffy. It dries out your skin!
Absolutely wrecks it. It's so damaging, Jorie. Have I taught you nothing? If you’re upset, why not just take the Valium I gave you?
You need to calm down. Please tell me you don't drink too much.”
I pulled my knees up to my chest. My head tipped forward.
What was the use? My parents would never change. We would never be able to talk.
Yet I stubbornly pushed on.
“Mom, I've been drinking since I was thirteen and I had that glass of red wine at that terrible dinner with Dad's client right after he pulled me out of theater.”
“What dinner?”
“There was a dinner. You remember that client's son? My first kiss? In the media room? He didn't just kiss me. That’s not all that happened.”
“You're not making sense.”
My stomach knotted up. I’d never told anyone about this encounter.
“A lot more than a kiss went on in there. I thought I was on board, but I didn't know I could say no. What do you call that? When you don't actually want to do it, but you're the one who, who initiates it? What do you call that, Mom?”
“Jorie, I don't understand what you're talking about.” She sounded genuinely confused. Fragile.
Maybe I should stop before I broke her, but I couldn’t. I wanted to shake her. I wanted her to be strong enough to help me bear this burden.
“Wake up!” I snapped. “Listen to me. Try to understand. This is real life, not some fantasy where men are always going to — to rescue and provide. It’s not our job to make them happy, no matter what.
It's okay to say no! It's necessary. You were wrong, Mom.
It's not something to say sparingly. You say it whenever you need to.
You should've said no to Dad so many times. You should have taught me it was okay.”
The silence stretched. My room felt bigger with my words filling it. Lighter. I could breathe more easily.
There was a sniffle. “Are you all right?” My mother’s voice was watery, like maybe she was crying. “Please tell me you’re all right.”
“I don't know how to answer that. I’m here.”
“Okay,” she said quietly. “You’re here.”
She blew her nose. When she spoke, her tone was resolute. “I want you to know that I'm leaving New York.”
“What?”
“I’m going back to Ohio.”
“Good. That's really good. I think that's the right choice for you.”
“Maybe you should leave Hawthorne, too.”
“Wait. But…”
“You said you're done there.” Her voice gathered strength and enthusiasm. “Go someplace else! Leave all that scandal behind. You're young and pretty. And smart. Talented. Your father always thought so.”
I sighed. “Did he?”
“You'll make it wherever you go. There will always be more men.”
“Not like Gavin,” I muttered.
“Go, Jorie. Start over in a new place. We can both do this. Forget your past. Reinvent yourself. And trust me, if you play your cards right, you can make a fortune on your face while you've still got it.”
“Mom, I don't want a career or a man, or a life based on my looks. That's not why I act. It's not why I do anything. I don't want that.”
“Well, what do you want, since you’re so sure of what you don’t want?”
I stood up, wincing, balancing one hand on my desk. Clutching my blanket to me, I squinted around the room at the plays on my bookshelf, the autographed show posters on my walls. My laptop.
“I want a voice.”
“A voice,” she repeated.
“I’m not leaving school. I'm not giving up. Not yet.”
“Then don’t,” she said, as if it were all settled.
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
Her tone softened. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Maybe.”
“That man…do you really love him?”
“Yes.” Certainty filled me. Now, when it was too late. But it would always have been too late or too early with Gavin, wouldn’t it? He didn’t see me as a real partner.
“Does he love you?”
I closed my eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice was surprisingly gentle, and I wanted to curl up in the mom-ness of it. “I have trouble believing that. He’s probably thinking about you right now.”
“Mom…” I shook my head, feeling a weird kind of affection.
“Don't take Valium tonight,” she said, suddenly brisk. “Not when you've been drinking. That was bad advice.”
My mother, admitting her advice was bad? This was progress.
“Don't worry. I won’t.”
“Take care of yourself, Jorie. Please get some rest.”
“You too, Mom.” I hesitated. “Love you.”
“I love you too, sweetie.”
I hung up. Notifications lit up my screen. Blearily, I peered at them. My father had texted me.
Jorie: there’s something you need to understand.
“Dad, please,” I muttered, but there were more messages, and I kept reading.
No matter what, I love you. I have always loved you. I will never stop loving you. I hope you know that.
I stared at the screen for a long time. Letting this admission wash over me. A tiny chink opened up in my armor, wondering if I could believe my father.
Finally, stumbling to my feet, I opened my door and faced the bottle of tequila in the hallway.
“You’re not my friend,” I accused.
Padding to the bathroom, I unscrewed the cap and poured the clear liquid down the sink.
Back in my room, I took off my cheetah coat, but left Gavin’s shirt on. It smelled like him, that sharp, piney scent. It was the only evidence of him in my bedroom. He had never come over to my apartment, and now, it looked like he never would.
He’d called me his muse — his inspiration. But he’d inspired me too, and even without him here, his presence filled my mind. He’d marked me indelibly, and I was forever changed for knowing him.
A sharp ache gripped my stomach. The tequila did nothing to dull it. If I thought about the pain, it would grow, and there was nothing I could do about Gavin. He wanted what he wanted, and apparently, that was women his own age.
So I focused on what I could do. I pushed up his sleeves, sat down at my desk, and pulled out my collaged notebook of ideas.
Setting it beside my laptop, I typed up everything I’d ever scribbled.
All the scraps and fragments, the scenes and song lyrics.
It was slow going, with drunk mistakes, but as the night passed, my head cleared.
I opened the file that held the pilot episode of Typecast. I added the second episode, then the third, and began working on the fourth. I retreated into a world where I had control over everything, a world where I could shape every character. A world where Eden and I were still friends.
I worked until my eyelids grew heavy. Gathering the last of my strength and courage, I wrote an email to Eden and attached all the work I’d done on Typecast.
Eden,
This is a show I wrote for us. I’ve been working on it for a long time, and I wanted you to know.
Don’t worry about being onstage together. Rachel fired me from Streetcar. She found me with Gavin after you left.
I should have told you about Corey. I was ashamed, and I wanted to protect you from the ugliness that people can create. I thought you wouldn’t want our friendship if you knew. I guess that backfired. I never wanted to hurt you. But I did. I’m sorry.
My head tipped forward onto the desk, weighed down by alcohol and fatigue. As the adrenaline left my body, darkness slid over my vision.