Queen of the Dream
Drinking and drugging and the deep dark anxiety of waiting-for-Tim-again were trapping Rochelle in a bell jar from which she observed that others appeared terribly distorted, unkind and unfair. But those watching her, looking in, were increasingly troubled by the sad twisted shape of what they saw. Rochelle was heavy and bloated; her expressions had the look of a mask, something hard placed upon her face to hide the truth of her pain. She was trapped in the distortions of an obsessive love, and by the substances she used to sustain the illusion that it was working. It was destroying her.
It wasn’t Connie who convinced her she had to change things, saying, “Because I care about you, I have to make some observations. When Tim moved in with you, I thought, he’s a little young, but fine, he turns her on and it’s her life. But when Annie called me that night and I came over and found you strung out on your bedroom floor wearing Tim’s clothes, then I didn’t think well that’s okay, I thought, she’s in trouble, it’s time to help her.” No, it was not Connie who penetrated Rochelle’s mind at first. Nor was it Serena when she said, “Your kundalini is blocked, you aren’t focusing, your channels aren’t flowing anymore.” It hadn’t mattered to Rochelle for some time whether or not she had access to her lifeforce. Nor was it Parker, who kept a distance and eyed her with quizzical concern. Even Annie tried, saying, “Honey, you’re getting fat again.” Not even that fazed Rochelle. What got through to her, finally, was a smell.
It was CoCo by Chanel; she would have known it anywhere. And the last place she had ever wanted to smell it was on Tim’s undershirt.
Then the other signs appeared: unexpected absences, a sudden interest in auditioning for parts when he hadn’t even tried since moving in with her; and phone calls with no one on the other line when Rochelle answered. It was obvious he had another woman, but still, she searched frantically for hard facts. Three months after the smells began, clues surfaced in his credit card bills: hotel rooms, jewelry, clothes, all the cliché other-woman charges. She was appalled, angered, consumed with jealousy. She hated him, yet refused to consider letting him go. It didn’t occur to her that he had been destroying her for three years, or that she had used him to destroy herself. All she saw was her man deserting her in stages.
Finally she asked him: “Who is it?”
“Darling?”
He sat on the chair by a window in their bedroom, unlacing his black sneakers. She stood by the bed with her hands planted on her hips.
“With whom have you been sleeping?”
His fingers froze for an instant before continuing to pull at his laces.
“No one,” he said, “just you.”
“The Plaza, the Waldorf, Bulgari, the River Cafe. How dare you spend my money on some bimbo!” Her face was hot, burning. She wanted him to deny it, to serve up some delicious explanation, something sugared and spiced enough to hide the ugly scent she had picked up. She wanted him back, wanted him to convince her he’d stay. She felt that without him she would die.
His blond head, face still so young, sunk between his shoulders as they shrugged meekly. “Her name’s Lorraine. She has a place downtown. I’m moving in with her.”
Laughter burst from Rochelle like a shout.
“I got rid of him,” she told Annie. “He was no good for me, I had to let him go.” Even though it was a lie, it was a beginning. Annie listened and nodded.
Now everyone moved in on Rochelle like a squad team for mental health: Connie, Serena, Mort, Annie, Leo, Norman, even Parker. She let them all care for her in their own individual ways: Connie, by involving her in Nar-Anon, a twelve-step support group for addictive people; Serena, by upping the ante on her spiritual quest; Mort, by feeding her homemade cakes; Annie, by encouraging her to diet; Leo, by listening to her repetitive tales of love and loss; Norman, by letting him visit her with memories of the family and the past (as if to remind her that, no matter what, she had one — a family and a past); and Parker, by saying “I love you, Mommy” even when she didn’t tell him first.
After months of forced sobriety, spirituality and family times, Rochelle decided it was time for a comeback. She would retake her success, rejuvenate it, create a new beginning for the second half of her life. And she would do it with her memoirs. A bestselling tell-it-like-it-is by Rocky Love would give her a tremendous boost. Offers would come to her. She would be back on track. But she hadn’t worked on her memoirs for a long time, as long as she had been sidetracked by Tim and cocaine and wine. She had to find the pages Betsy had typed, so went to the office to look.
She had never gotten around to firing Betsy; the girl had left on her own months ago. The office was now a wreck, piled with unopened mail, old pink message slips for calls never returned. In her search, she discovered that instead of filing, Betsy had simply dumped papers into an empty drawer. It was worse than Rochelle had imagined; she would have to hire someone soon.
Finally, she found the paperclipped pages of her memoirs under an old newspaper on top of the credenza. Dust clung around the edges. She blew off as much as she could, sat down in the chair, and began to read.
And what she read shocked her. She had written these pages of her life in a state of inspiration — and they were awful. She had poured herself out, but had failed to tell a story.
She would have to begin again; there was no other way.