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His watchful eye intensifies as we saunter toward the hotel. “Not to be nosy or anything, but what do you do?”
A snort sails from me before I have a chance to stifle it. “Since when have you cared about what you ask or say?”
“Fair.” His long fingers graze my thigh while we walk side by side, and my stomach swoops at the slight contact. Did he do it on purpose?
Clearly oblivious to what he’s doing to me, he continues his questioning. “So? What do you do?”
“Do?” I grimace at how much I sound like a parrot. I understand, but I’m stalling, embarrassed to talk about my nonexistent career.
“Yeah, as in a job. What do you do for a living?”
And there it is. My biggest frustration and sadly, I’ve got many.
“Um, I don’t do anything.” I flinch at the blunt truth and feel the need to soften it. “I graduated from the University of Toronto with an art history degree.”
“Did you want to be a curator or an art dealer? Or something like that?”
“I wasn’t sure, only that I loved art. I suppose growing up around artists, mostly actors but also set and costume designers, some musicians and painters, I was always interested in creating things.”
“Cool.” He nods, encouraging me to go on. I can’t tell if he’s really interested or just being polite.
“I don’t love all this.” My hands circle the space around me as I struggle to find the words.
“What do you mean?” He stops to face me on the sidewalk, only steps from the hotel.
“My life. The spotlight. I didn’t ask for this, and I don’t enjoy the film industry. I don’t want to be an actress. I don’t particularly care for the movie premieres, film festivals, and all of that. I love the art of storytelling and enjoy a good movie but don’t want to be part of the machine.”
Voice patient and calm, Tom’s earnest tone pinches at my heart. “What do you want?”
He always comes back to that—me and what I want—and this throws me every time. I’m not used to someone outside of Fallon asking me what my hopes and needs are. It’s an unsettling thing and also exhilarating. To think that someone else believes I matter. He cares what I think, what I want.
He gently elbows me, waiting for my response.
“I thought I found a way to turn it around. To make something of this life that I’m stuck with.” My arms rise and fall at my sides, only emphasizing the futility of my silly musings.
“And?”
“It wasn’t planned, but when it happened, things clicked, you know. It felt so right.” My hands clasp in front of my chest, and I breathe in deeply, desperately clinging to that feeling.
The rightness of it all. Complete in a strange kind of way.
How it felt to be useful, to make a difference, even if only for one person, one moment. It’s kind of what I get out of my posts to my secret social media account.
I enter the hotel, Tom close at my side, and I’m unsure if I can tell him. Besides my therapist, Everly, and my parents, I’ve never shared this with anyone. Even Fallon only knows a part of it. I’ve never fully told her why it means so much to me though she knows me well enough to figure it out, I’m sure.
“My mother…she suffers from depression and other things.” Why can’t I tell him about her addiction?
Dr. Hemming and I have explored if it’s shame or responsibility that trips me up every time. I suspect it’s the latter. I can’t deny there were times that I enabled her behavior. But like my doctor always reminds me, I was a child. There isn’t much I could have done.
We step into the elevator, and I wedge myself into a corner. Instinctually, my arms wrap around my middle. Once the doors close and we’re truly alone, I swallow thickly before continuing.
“Before the whole plane thing that happened in LA, I’d never had a panic attack, but I do suffer from anxiety, and I suppose, for a while, I was depressed. None of this I realized until I got help from a therapist. All before what happened with the plane.”
He nods, body leaning against the elevator wall, and just his presence, calm and open, gives me the courage I need to tell him. To trust him.
“About a year ago, I was at a mental health fundraiser at CAMH. You know, the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health in Toronto. It was one of those public obligations. I don’t remember why I had to go but anyway, that’s where I met Everly Simard.”
I pause, wondering if he’ll make a connection to the name. Everly’s sister was an actress and famous in her own right.
