Sounds Like Crazy (39 page)

I removed my coat and bag from the closet and said, “Okay, then, call me if it turns out we need to do any pickups.” I put my hand on the front doorknob.

“Holly,” called Al from behind me. I turned. The open door rested against my shoulder. “If you ever need to do a demo tape, give me a call and I’ll take care of you.”

I smiled. “Thanks. I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be doing this work, though.”

“What do you mean?” he said with surprise.“You were great in there.A real professional. Completely different from when you were here before.”

“Well, thanks.” I stepped through the door.

“I can’t believe those lucky bastards have your voice on their phone system. They should use it for promotion or something.”

I smiled and waved at him. As I pulled the door shut, I called out, “It was nice to see you again,” and I meant it.

The company phoned me a day later and said they were really pleased with the work.The woman asked me if I was interested in doing a training video for them. When I agreed to do it, Betty Jane collapsed on the couch with an ice pack on her head.

C
yrano de Bergerac
, opening night. Preteen theater fresh on the heels of the phone system recording drove Betty Jane straight toVicodin and cocktails. Inside my head, she was passed out on the couch snoring, and I wanted to leave. Betty Jane was the only one who’d spoken to me since the Committee had returned two weeks ago. But I knew the rest of them could hear me, so I asked Sarge to keep Betty Jane away from her “medication” if she came out of her drug-and-alcohol-induced coma. He nodded in assent. I felt relieved and left for the theater.

About twenty minutes before the curtain went up, Pam and I peeked out at the audience. A packed house. Backstage, adrenaline ran high. Five minutes before curtain, I dispensed to my charges pep talks, last-minute advice, reminders, and then I finally said, “Oh, don’t listen to me; you’ll be fantastic. I know it.”

“Thanks, Holly.You’ve been fantastic too.”

My cheeks burned.“Okay.” I coughed.“Pam wants us all over here now.”

We gathered in the room off to the left of the stage.

“Everyone circle around and grab hands,” said Pam, clapping. I took the hands of the two kids I had worked with the most. “Here we go!” shouted Pam as she raised her arms and the arms of the kids on either side of her up toward the ceiling.

Everyone, including me, echoed back, “Here we go!” as we threw our arms up into the air without letting go of one another.

Then Pam cried, “Group hug. Group hug!”

Everyone moved forward until we were a mass of arms and legs.

“Careful with the costumes,” I fussed. “Mind your makeup.”

“What would we do without Holly!” said Pam, putting her arm around my waist.

“And break a leg!” I said, smiling.

We made it through the show with only a few minor mishaps, the worst being Cyrano’s nose falling off during a soliloquy. We corrected the problems on the next night. On the third and final night, I felt a sense of sad finality when the curtain came down, and I shed a couple of tears when the kids went out for their final bow.

We were all backstage, where we had set up for our cast party. Excitement filled the air. I met parents, siblings, grandparents, and friends. All the faces were a blur.

I was hovering at the snack table when Neil Rhode approached with a man in tow. “Holly, this is my dad,” said Neil.

“Very nice to meet you in person,” I said, “and your son was a pleasure to work with.”

“He didn’t talk your ears off?” said Mr. Rhode. Then he affectionately ruffled his son’s hair and said, “He certainly doesn’t shut up at home.”

“Dad,” groaned Neil.

“And you have been quite an influence on him.” He winked at me. I wanted to say Jesus hadn’t knocked down my door yet, but I remained silent and respectful of their beliefs. “All he talks about now is becoming a voice-over artist. He watches your show all the time, including reruns when he can find them.”

Hearing how much people liked the show left a bittersweet aftertaste in me.

Another parent who’d joined our group said, “Are you an actress?”

“No, I was a voice-over artist,” I said.

“Was?” Neil made a face at me. He turned to the parent who asked and said, “She
is
a voice-over artist. This is Holly Miller. Voice of Violet and Harriet on
The Neighborhood
. She won two Emmys.” That ought to do the trick. The replay of my last Emmy appearance was no doubt running through their minds now.

“Oh, yeah,” said both parents, nodding in unison.
Bingo.

“I love that show. I hate to say it,” but,” said Mr. Rhode. “It’s not as good as it used to be. But I guess that happens with all shows?” Maybe they hadn’t seen the replay? Or maybe they had and didn’t care. The latter thought felt odd, as if I had tried on clothes that belonged to someone I didn’t know but wanted to.

“It’s not as good ’cause Holly’s not doing the voices anymore,” said Neil.This statement finished washing away the earlier sourness. Until I saw all three making faces at one another to see if anyone had the nerve to ask me what had happened. It was going to be that or the inevitable request. I took what felt like an endless inhale.

“You must get asked this all the time” said Mr. Rhode hesitantly.

“But could you do the voices for us?”

My preference would have been to explain that I had been
fired for my Emmy award performance. I sighed. My hand strayed to the bowl on the snack table.

“She also likes Ruffles,” said the kid.

“I couldn’t tell by looking at you,” said Mr. Rhode.

“Thanks.” I brushed the salt off my hands.

They waited expectantly.

I closed my eyes. Sarge,Aiden, and the Silent One sat alert on the couch. Betty Jane was, thankfully, absent. Maybe she’d gone to bed.Aiden motioned for me to try it. Sarge gave me a thumbs-up. The Silent One bowed his head. I opened my eyes and thought about why Ruffles had disappeared after I had remembered Aiden’s death. My mind shifted to the mirror Sarah had given me for Christmas.Then my hands dropped and gripped my thighs. I could almost reach halfway around. Normal, same size as always. But I knew.

I smiled and felt a rush known to all actors.That heady feeling you get right before you go onstage for the biggest night of your life and you’re exhilarated instead of afraid, because you’ve spent a lifetime preparing.You know you’re going to bring the house down.

I picked up a large Ruffles. Bit into it. Opened my mouth and said, “The Spain in plain stays mainly in the rain.” My eyes filled with tears. My audience didn’t notice.

Neil yelled out,“Hey, everyone, Holly just did Harriet for us.”

The whole backstage quieted down. Blood rushed hot and cold through my veins.

“Do it again,” cried one of the other kids.

I closed my eyes once more, took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and then dropped into a monologue that lasted long enough for me to search every nook and cranny of Ruffles’s range. I hit the high notes, the low notes, and the in-between notes. I explored newfound territories. It was like coming home to your
favorite slippers after walking barefoot in the wilderness for months.When I was finished, I heard a roar of dizzying applause. And I heard the kids muttering, “I told you she could do it.”

“Holly, do Violet,” someone yelled out.

Betty Jane appeared in the Committee’s living room inside my head. Her hair was wild and her eyes blazed.
Oh, God.
Betty Jane was a nasty drunk. I expected Sarge to intervene, but she was too fast, and before he could react, she was on the couch with her hands wrapped around Aiden’s throat.

My jaw dropped. “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

“Holly?” I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Sarge grabbed Betty Jane by the upper arms and pulled hard. Her back bent into a curve but she wouldn’t let go. My hands clutched my own throat.

“Oh, my God,” I said.

Sarge pulled harder. Betty Jane released Aiden’s throat and Sarge shoved her to the floor, where she struggled.

“Are you okay?” asked Mr. Rhode.

“Oh,” I said distractedly. Then, focusing back on the people in the room before me, I said, “Yes, I’m fine. Just no Violet tonight.”

The kids groaned in unison.

“Sorry. Next time. I promise.” I bit absently into the Ruffles I was holding. Inside my head, the Silent One cleaned Aiden’s neck with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. Betty Jane had disappeared.

 

At the end of the night, as Pam and I were cleaning up, she turned to me and said, “Holly, what happened with your job?”

I waved my hand in front my face as if trying to shoo away the question. Pam maintained eye contact, waiting for my response.

“You want the truth, I suppose?”

But the truth was a paradox. It was subjective. It was private.
And at that moment, I knew that my private truth didn’t need to be on display for the world. My mother was right that some things were better left unsaid. I owed Pam something that resembled the truth, though.

“I lost myself, and now I am neither the whole nor the parts.” I paused.Then I held out my hands palms up to indicate that this was all I had to offer.

Pam thought about this for a moment and then she said, “That will be a good thing for you to explain to the kids next year. You need to work on it, of course, but when you get it down, I have no doubt that it will be inspiring and motivating for them.”

I looked at her with my eyes narrowed playfully and my mouth curled on one side. “Pam,” I said, shaking my head, “I am not planning—”

“Of course you are.”

I acquiesced. “Of course I am.”

 

Riding home on the subway, I held my bag close to my body. I told myself this was to make sure my bag did not get stolen. But the subway car was half-full and empty of dangerous-looking characters.The truth was, I did this hoping to fill the hollowness in my gut, because every gain always includes an equal measure of loss.

I
t’s been three weeks since the Christmas disaster—”

“Ouch!” I poked my eye with the mascara brush in my hand. After the play, Betty Jane had started to time her appearances to startle me.

“I thought you would have dumped that lout by now,” said Betty Jane.

“Thanks.” I wiped the black glob off the side of my nose. I knew she knew I was thinking I’d rather watch a movie than meet Peter for dinner.

“I never liked him anyway,” Betty Jane said inside my head.

What a laugh. Betty Jane’s turnabouts rivaled the best politicians’. She liked Peter well enough when he suited her purposes. And she disliked him after I started doing
The Neighborhood
but I wouldn’t trade up for someone better.

It was ironic that several months ago I would have given anything for a comment from Betty Jane. Now her remarks only annoyed me. Even though it had been a few weeks since they had returned, the Committee’s presence felt odd. I had become so
used to having my own mind that it was jolting to hear comments in my head again. Jolting and unwelcome.

“Well, it is none of your business anyway. Can’t you go shopping or something?” I replaced the mascara brush in the tube and twisted it closed.

“None of my business? Well!” Betty Jane said indignantly inside my head.

“You had better go away tonight. Or at the very least just be quiet!” I said.

Betty Jane left the Committee’s living room in a huff. I was late and couldn’t worry about what she might get herself up to later.

 

I met Peter at Orologio on Tenth and Avenue A. I loved the walls of clocks, and the Italian food was decent for the price. Peter offered to pick me up, but I said I had errands and would just meet him there. He was waiting out front.

“Hi.” I kissed his cheek. “Why are you waiting outside?”

“I just got here.”

“Oh.” I nodded awkwardly. “Shall we go in?”

Before we were even seated, Peter started gossiping about something at the university. All I heard was noise like Charlie Brown and his friends heard when adults talked to them. I nodded and said
wow
a couple of times, and this was enough of a response for Peter.

The waiter took our orders; then Peter said,“You’re so quiet tonight. Is there something you’re going to cream me for later?”

I laughed. “Nope. Nothing. Honestly.”

“After what happened at your mother’s, how can I trust you anymore when you say ‘honestly’?”

“I think we’re even on that front.”

The waiter arrived at our table with the bottle of wine. He took in the scene and proceeded to uncork it. He stood there holding the open bottle. I pointed at Peter’s glass. “Just pour it,” said Peter.

The void between us had grown into a chasm. I didn’t know how to cross it anymore. I didn’t know that I wanted to. But I didn’t realize Peter actually did want to cross it until he said, “I don’t know how to fix this, Holly, but can we at least try?”

I sipped my wine. How could we try? As much as I hated to admit it, my mother was right. Just like my parents’, our relationship was doomed the day we met because of baggage and projection. With Milton’s help, I had discovered why I chose Peter. He liked having a minimum-maintenance relationship that rarely required the FTD-like gestures that were standard for other couples. I figured Peter wouldn’t leave a relationship that provided him with regular sex, the freedom to do whatever he wanted without being questioned, and, of course, celebrity parties. The surprise came when he still wanted the relationship after my celebrity, and the fanfare, went by the wayside. Just goes to show that one shouldn’t knock the power of mystery. Turned out the quest to find the real me kept Peter a lot more interested than he was when he actually met the real me. He certainly didn’t recognize her when she appeared. But I couldn’t blame him; I was there too.