Get Ready for War (22 page)

 

I
was alone.

I was unhappy.

And I was hurting.

I still hadn't heard from Justice. And the more the moments passed, the sicker I became. Every inch of my body ached. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. No, I could think—only about Justice. He was consuming me. My every waking moment was cluttered with thoughts of him. Justice! Justice! Justice! I couldn't shake him.

I can't keep going through this craziness with him!
Over and over and over again, the pain was killing me. The emptiness was eating away at me. All I kept thinking was that he was with someone else, giving her all of his good loving; giving her every part of him that belonged to me. I didn't want to ever be the other woman, but I loved Justice so much that I was almost willing to share him. Almost willing to drop down to the number-two slot in his life, and play the position of part-time fool.

Almost...

Just until I was able to put things in motion with Rich.

I had to get my man back. By any means necessary. So I was willing to give him his space, as much as it was destroying me, and be his friend—anything to be in his life—so that he could finally see that I was the one.

The only one...

I stood in front of my all-glass curio cabinet in my sitting room, staring at the assortment of crystal butterflies I had collected over the years. As beautiful as these exquisite pieces were, I felt like smashing every last one of them. My life was a shattered mess, so why shouldn't they be?

I glanced at my favorite Swarovski butterfly sitting on my end table, and sighed. “Have I not prayed faithfully to you?” I whispered, picking the crystal object up. I stared at it. “Have I not been specific about what I wanted, hoped for? Then why have you forsaken me? What have I done that's so horrible for you to keep me living in this hell without my man? Please. I beg of you, butterfly gods, bring Justice back to me.”

I set it back down on the table, wiping a lone tear as it slid down my face.

After all of my praying and worshipping and wishing and talking to these butterflies, waiting for my dreams to come true and my wishes to be granted, I still didn't have one thing I wanted. I still didn't have Justice. I didn't have his heart, I didn't have his love. And I sure didn't have him in my bed, holding me in his arms as we made plans for our future. No, I had nothing but shards of emptiness that were cutting into me, gouging my heart and my spirit.

I was bleeding... to death! And Justice was nowhere around to save me.

“Good morning, my beautiful darling daughter,” my mother sang out, cutting into my one-woman pity party as she whisked into my suite carrying her scale, leather-bound logbook, and Spartacus pen for our morning mother-daughter ritual.

I glanced over my shoulder at her, feeling a pang of jealousy.

She was gorgeous. Everything was in place. Her hair, her face, her beautiful mahogany skin... all perfect! Too perfect! She was everything I was not. Everything I envied, and hated!

She whisked in and kissed me on the cheek. Her signature hyacinth-, orchard-, and amber-scented fragrance swirled around the room. “Come. Let's get you weighed and measured.”

I glanced at the crystal clock on the vanity and sighed: 5:30
A.M.
I untied my robe, then let it slide off my shoulders as I stepped up on the scale.

“Fantistico!” she exclaimed in Italian, grabbing me excitedly. You've lost four more pounds. We just need to lose ten more pounds . . .”

She rattled on about how proud she was of me as she wrapped her measuring tape around my waist, then hips, then breasts. I had lost two inches.

“Oh, my darling
Londra
! I can see it now. London, Paris, Rome. You will be the modeling sensation you were born to be in no time. It is your destiny, mi bella una . . .”

Beautiful one? Yeah, right. I didn't feel so beautiful. I swallowed. I was sick of everyone trying to control my life and tell me what was best for me. “But what if I don't want it to be? What if modeling isn't what I want for me?”

She tilted her head. “Then you
will
pretend that it is. You will smile for the cameras. Back straight, hips forward, one foot in front of the other, you will work the runway. You will own it. You will serve the fashion world—face, grace, and glamour. And you
will
love it, whether you want to or not. And will make your mother proud. Do you understand me?”

I clenched my lips together. There was no sense in arguing with her. I was in enough trouble with my parents. So I did what I did best, pasted on a tight smile and robotically said, “Yes, Mother. I understand.”

“Good. Now go get dressed, dear. Anderson will be here for you in an hour to take you to school.”

With that said, she kissed me on the cheek again, then gracefully waltzed out.

 

“London, you need to let that dude go,” Anderson said as he drove me to school. “That bum doesn't give a damn about you.”

That was easier said than done. A part of me wished like hell it were that simple to toss Justice into the trash can of my memory and be done with him. But it wasn't. Truth is, I couldn't let go. I was afraid to let go. Justice was all I knew. He was the one who had given me my first taste of love. He was my first. He was my true love. And there wasn't anything I wouldn't do to keep him.

I was a total wreck without him. And I knew it.

“Look, don't call him that. He's not a bum. No one understands him like I do. And besides, maybe I'm not ready to get over him. So just leave it be. Let me handle my love life. And I'll let you handle yours. Besides, even if I wanted to, I don't know how to do without him. And I don't think I wanna know.”

He took his eyes off the road, glancing over at me. “Then let me help you learn how to do without him.”

I eyed him. “And why would
you
want to do that—help me get over Justice?”

“Because I don't like how he treats you.”

I frowned. “What's it to you? How Justice treats me is none of your business.”

He shook his head, sighing. “Okay, London. You're right, it isn't. So, moving on. You want to go with me to this party my frat brothers are having Saturday night?”

I twisted my lips up. “Illll, gross! I know you're not trying to ask me out on a date.”

He chuckled. “Oh, right, right. You don't do dates, do you? I forgot. Just like you don't do talking about that kiss we had, either.”

I feigned ignorance. Yeah, I remembered it. How could I not? It was something I had been trying to block out of my head ever since it happened. That wasn't supposed to happen. Not with him. Anderson? Oh God, no way, no how!

“What kiss?”

“You can act like it didn't happen all you want. But you know, and I know, what happened that night. And it wasn't about the red carpet, or trying to look good for the press, or for our parents. It was you and me. And you enjoying my lips pressed against yours and my tongue twirling around yours, and my hands traveling up . . .”

The memory caused me to flush with embarrassment and guilt, and a tinge of... confusion. Anderson? Never!

I cut him off. “Trust me. It'll never happen again.”

He took his eyes off the road again, eyeing me. “I thought you didn't remember it. But, whatever. You're right. It definitely won't happen again. I don't do confusion. And I don't do nonsense. And I don't do rebounds. So, what's up? You want to go to this party with me, or what? You know it's the only way Mr. Phillips is letting you out of the house.”

I rolled my eyes, annoyed that he was right. I was still being held against my will.

“Don't worry. I won't let your hormones get in the way. I'll keep your lips off of me.”

I sucked my teeth. I couldn't help but feel my face flush. “Boy, shut up.”

“Shut me up. Matter of fact, give me another kiss.”

“Ugh. This is soooo not funny.”

“Uh, yes, it is. And what's even funnier is you liked it.”

“Boy, please. What
ever
!” I said as he pulled up to the front doors of the school. “You're delusional.”

“Yeah, right,” he said, chuckling. I eyed him as he got out of the car and came around to open the passenger-side door for me.
Justice would have never opened the door.
I quickly shook the thought as I slid out of the car. Anderson reached for my hand and helped me out. Then that fool had the audacity to kiss me on the cheek, and pat me on the behind. “Be a good girl today. No drama, no suspensions.” He laughed.

I sucked my teeth. I hated that I liked it. “Mmm hmm, it figures you'd wanna grab my booty. So typical. You're such a booty bandit. I almost forgot you were addicted to that part of the anatomy.”

I walked off, back straight, hips forward, one foot in front of the other, sashaying away as I felt the heat of Anderson's stare burning into me.

I
was
soooo
tired of faking the funk.

Tired of pretending that I wanted to be drug free when I didn't.

And no, I wasn't professing to be a junkie. And yeah, I knew I pledged allegiance to the “I'm a junkie” flag in front of my counselor and in group. But that was more like politicking.

Like I'd said a million times before: I was. Not. A. Junkie.

Hell, I'd been forced to dry up in here for weeks on end and I survived. If I was a junkie I would've died. What I was, was a disrespected star. Hollywood's sweetheart who'd gotten a bad rap simply because I liked to have a good time and kick my party up a notch.

Unfortunately, I was completely misunderstood and no one ever wanted to hear anything I had to say. Instead, everyone listened to Camille's hatin' rants and her self-righteous speeches about being the best mother she could be.

Gag me.

Camille was such a liar. If she wasn't, she wouldn't have just told my counselor, Mr. Mills, that I never tried to kill myself—knowing that I'd attempted suicide twice.

Once at twelve, courtesy of a gleaming BIC razor blade that I sliced across my left wrist. The second time at thirteen, when I dumped an entire bottle of naproxen down my throat and chased it with a stiff glass of bourbon. And if I had to sit here a minute longer and continue listening to Camille's bad acting, I'd be bolting out of here, searching for the nearest California cliff, and my third suicide attempt would be jumping off of it.

“Now tell me, Ms. Cummings,” Mr. Mills said, sitting upright in his olive-green leather chair, “is there any history of substance abuse in your family?”

Camille cleared her throat and swept the flying strands of her blond hair behind her ears—which were now beet red—and said, “Absolutely not.”

She continued, “My mother was very religious. And my father was a hard-working man. Neither of them believed in drugging or drinking, which is why outside of a glass of champagne and a little white wine here and there, I don't indulge.”

Mr. Mills scribbled Camille's bullshit in his notepad. He looked over at me, and for an unexpected moment our eyes locked and our gazes lingered. I wondered what he was thinking.

A few seconds too long into staring at my counselor, I thought about calling out Camille and her lies, but I didn't. Instead I dropped my head, crossed my legs, and picked at invisible dirt beneath my fingernails.

Mr. Mills refocused his attention on Camille. “Ms. Cummings, what about Heather's paternal family?”

I sat up at attention. Looked directly at Camille.

Camille paused. Swallowed. “What about them?”

“Do they have a history of drug abuse?”

Camille cleared her throat, reached in her purse and pulled out a cigarette.

“There's no smoking in here,” Mr. Mills said, interrupting her from flicking the silver lighter she held in her hand.

“Fine.” Camille sneered. “But I need a cigarette, so I'm thinking it's time for me to get out of here. I've told you enough. And I still don't understand what getting in my business has to do with Heather being addicted to drugs.”

“You didn't answer his question,” I snapped. Sucked my teeth and looked Camille dead in her eyes. “He asked you about my father's family.”

Camille looked at my counselor and said, “I don't know what she wants from me. I've tried everything. I've done everything! When she was five she wanted to be a beauty queen, so I put her in pageants—”

“Psst, please,” I spat. “I never told you I wanted to be a beauty queen! That was your idea—”

“It was not!”

“
It was!
And you know it. ‘Sit up straight, Heather. Hold your back straight, Heather. Shoulders squared. Smile for the camera. Wipe those tears. No one cares. Do you want to be nothing for the rest of your life, Heather?' ”

“That never happened!”

“It did and you know it! What five-year-old is up by four in the morning, made to walk from one end of the room to the next, practicing with tiaras, and capes, and high heels, and makeup—tons and tons of makeup—and those wigs. And let's not even talk about that isolated and stupid homeschooling!”

“I homeschooled you to spend time with you! You wanted to be a star and I made you one!”

“I never wanted to be a star! You made me a star because you had fallen off!”

“I most certainly did not! I gave up my career because I was your mother and I knew I had greatness on my hands. I was trying to groom you, you spoiled ingrate! You were destined for stardom. And I was determined as your mother to get you there by any means necessary. And if that meant getting you up at four in the morning, homeschooling you, and perfecting your posture, poise, and confidence, then so be it!”

“Yeah. And after all that I still didn't win even one pageant. Because, just like everything else you've ever done for me, Camille, it wasn't good enough! So you beat and berated me for nothing.”

“Don't put that off on me, misseee. You were a selfish, self-centered brat, who lost on purpose! If I said left, you said right. If I said sing, you said rap. You were always defiant. Unruly. Looking down your nose at me! You didn't even like my family!”

“Your family. You mean the Southern drunks who you just said didn't have a history of substance abuse? Well, maybe what he should have asked you about was alcohol abuse!”

“They didn't abuse that either!”

“Oh, puhlease! Let me tell you about your family, Norma Marie. They were a buncha racist, nasty trailer park—”

“Don't you dare—”

“Trash! Who treated me like I had leprosy!”

“My mother loved you!”

“Yeah, in secret. When Big Daddy wasn't around to remind her of how you ran off to Hollywood, slept with the Rainbow Coalition, and messed up his Anglican blood!”

“How dare you! My mother died apologizing for the way my father treated you! She was a good woman!”

“She was a drunk! Just like you!”

Camille jumped out of her seat and the counselor said forcefully, “Ms. Cummings, you need to have a seat! I've explained the rules. And you cannot be jumping out of your seat with aggression. Heather has a right to feel what she feels.”

“But she's lying!” Camille cried. “My mother was a good woman. My mother loved me and she loved Heather!”

“Lies!” I spat. “She pitied me. Wished that you had had a bisque baby instead of a brown one! I was never good enough for them and I've never been good enough for you!”

“You're just nasty! Ungrateful!”

“I wanna know who the HELL MY FATHER IS, CAMILLE!”

“Your father is a man who doesn't give a damn about you,” she said coldly, as she collected her purse and tucked it beneath her right arm.

“Ms. Cummings,” Mr. Mills said, “let's just calm down and talk this out.”

“I'm done.” Camille scowled.

“Just let her go. I don't care if I never see her again!” I did all I could to push back tears, but failed. I didn't know what pissed me off more; that I let Camille see me cry or that I couldn't get up and choke her.

Mr. Mills stared at me again. For a moment I thought he would hand me a tissue until I remembered that he swore crying was an expression of emotion that didn't need to be stopped or dammed up with Kleenex. That tears were better left alone.

I took the backs of my hands and wiped my eyes. I could tell by the way Mr. Mills looked at me that he wanted to comfort me and give me a hug and a kiss on the forehead like he had at the last individual session—when his hand slid down the small of my back, and I leaned into his chest and cried. For a moment I wished that he would embrace me now. His arms were the only place I'd ever felt safe... and wanted.

Camille cleared her throat.

For a moment I thought she'd disappeared.

Wishful thinking...

Mr. Mills turned back toward Camille and said, “Ms. Cummings, let's get back to why we are all here. Heather's treatment. Now, is there a reason why you refuse to share with Heather about her father? Let's talk about that.”

“There's nothing to talk about. He was married. I slept with him. I was supposed to have an abortion”—she glanced over at me—“and obviously I didn't! He didn't want her then—and his wife and their kids have not made him sensitive, moved him, or changed his mind about being interested in her now! End of discussion. Now let's get this straight, so you don't be fooled by those big button eyes or those boobs: she's not here because she doesn't know who her father is; she's here because she chose to use drugs!”

“I hate you!”

Camille chuckled. “You can hate me, Heather, because if you keep being disrespectful, the feeling will be mutual! Now I already told you the last time you had an attack, tore up my house, threatened to assault me, and tossed my bar over the balcony, to give up the fairy tale! And stop looking for love from a man who wants nothing to do with you. So you better get yourself together and understand that I pull the strings. And need I remind you that you are on probation until you are eighteen!”

“Ms. Cummings,” Mr. Mills interjected. “You seem a little hostile. But underneath the aggression I can tell that you care about your daughter.”

“Hostile! You don't know me or what I am. I am far from hostile. I'm just sick and tired that every time I turn around this girl is in a buncha mess!”

“Yeah, that's the only time you notice me.”

“Then you are sicker than I thought! So you have turned to being a crackhead looking for attention—”

“Well, it's better than being a drunk who doesn't get any attention! And yeah, I want attention. And instead of you being jealous of me—”

Camille slammed her clutch on the table. “Jealous! Why in the hell would I be jealous of you?! I am an Oscar-winning—”

“Flop. Do I need to remind you? A drunk! What was the last script you read? The last casting call you had? You're mad because I'm at the height of my career.”

Camille laughed and shook her head. “You are at the height of your career? Really? When's the last time you turned on your TV? You were fired, remember? Someone else has replaced you.

“You are no longer on top because you wanted to get high. Now don't blame me for your misery, Heather! You were in this business because of who I am. Not because of your talent. There are a million girls who can act and sing. And a million more who can do it better than you! So you better get yourself together while you have a chance!” She turned to Mr. Mills. “If you don't mind, I think I need a word alone with my daughter before I blow this place!”

Mr. Mills looked over at me. “How do you feel about that?”

I was a mix of embarrassed, confused, and mad as hell. This whole ordeal was for the birds. It was clearly not for me. I wished I could write Camille off as dead to me. But I needed her, because with me being on probation until I was eighteen, she was right; she pulled the strings. I shrugged and nodded.

“I'll be right outside if you need me.” Mr. Mills got up from his seat and closed the door behind him.

“Camille—”

“Don't Camille me, Heather! Got this man thinking I'm the worst mother ever! I should slap your face!” She flipped her hair behind her shoulders. “Lil ho in training, struggling to make it in Hollywood. You better get your practice up on how to get out of tough situations and how to stay on top, starting with your counselor! And don't you dare open your mouth to cut me off either! Because I saw the looks that both of you were giving each other. Now I don't know what's going on here, but it's something. And whatever it is, you better kick it over the edge and stop worrying about me and my drinking! I might be a drunk, but I have the recipe for your success! And the difference between me and you is that I didn't have to start off at the bottom sleeping with drug counselors. I did movie directors. Politicians. And music producers! Shakers and movers.

“Not Mr. Twelve Steps. Somebody trying to clean up junkies and their thieving ways. Being a crack whore was never on my list of things to do and it was never a role I played. But you, my dear—this seems to be where you need to start. If you want out of here, as bad as I know you do, then you need to sleep your way out of here and get your womanhood on! And if you can pull that trick then I'll know that you are ready to make your return to Hollywood and maybe then I'll help you take it to the next level!

“But as long as you are sitting up in here like you are carrying the world on your shoulders and have a million problems, then these people will never let you out! Now do you want your life back or not?!” She paused. “Answer me!”

I nodded.

She leaned into my face and said, “Then do what you need to do to get out of here!” She grabbed her clutch and stepped out the door.