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“OK,” he said, and then grabbed his jacket and slipped out.
The minute he was out the door, I locked myself inside and slumped down against the wall, the tears coming fast the moment no one could see them.
I had made my way three thousand miles from where I was born. I had found a way to be in the right place at the right time. I’d changed my name. Changed my hair. Changed my teeth and my body. I’d learned how to act. I’d made the right friends. I’d married into a famous family. Most of America knew my name.
And yet . . .
And yet.
I got up off the floor and wiped my eyes. I gathered myself.
I sat down at the vanity, three mirrors in front of me lined with lightbulbs. How silly is it that I thought that if I ever found myself in a movie star’s dressing room, that meant I’d have no troubles?
A few moments later, Gwendolyn knocked on the door to do my hair.
“One second!” I yelled out.
“Evelyn, we have to move quickly. You guys are already behind schedule.”
“Just one second!”
I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I couldn’t force the redness to go away. The question was whether I trusted Gwen. And I decided I did, I had to. I stood up and opened the door.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “You look a fright.”
“I know.”
She looked more closely at me and realized what she was seeing. “Did you fall?”
“Yes,” I said. “I did. I fell right over. Onto the counter. Jaw caught the worst of it.”
We both knew I was lying.
And to this day, I’m not sure whether Gwen asked me if I fell in order to spare me the need to lie or to encourage me to keep quiet.
I wasn’t the only woman being hit back then. A lot of women were negotiating the very same things I was at that moment. There was a social code for these things. The first rule being to shut up about it.
An hour later, I was being escorted to set. We were to film a scene just outside a mansion on the beach. Don was sitting in his chair, the four wooden legs digging into the sand, behind the director. He ran up to me.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” His voice was so chipper, so consoling, that for a moment I thought he had forgotten what happened.
“I’m fine. Let’s get on with it.”
We took our places. The sound guy mic’ed us. The grips made sure we were lit properly. I put everything out of my head.
“Hold on, hold on!” the director yelled. “Ronny, what’s going on with the boom . . .” Distracted by a conversation, he walked away from the camera.
Don covered his mic and then put his hand on my chest and covered mine.
“Evelyn, I’m so sorry,” he whispered into my ear.
I pulled back and looked at him, stunned. No one had ever apologized for hitting me before.
“I never should have laid a hand on you,” he said. His eyes were filling with tears. “I’m ashamed of myself. For doing anything at all to hurt you.” He looked so pained. “I will do anything for your forgiveness.”
Maybe the life I thought I had wasn’t so far away after all.
“Can you forgive me?” he asked.
