through the throng of people like Moses parting the Red Sea, saying “Out of the way, out of the way” in a raised but bored voice like she’s done this millions of times before, which is because she has.
I lift the complimentary blanket I stole from the plane over my head and for a split second wonder if I should frame it around my face like a nun, but them decide that may be a little over-the-top. Instead, I drape it over my shoulders and my arms outstretched in front of me, looking like a child’s impersonation of a ghost on Halloween. Shielding myself from the camera flashes, I look down and follow Sydney’s steps as I scuttle behind her blindly.
After a few hundred steps, the paparazzi still swarming on either side of me, the drone of questions being shouted at me so loudly I can’t differentiate one from the other, I feel the mild Tennessee weather momentarily surround me, realizing that we’re finally outside, before I hear the click and swoosh of a car door opening. Suddenly, I feel Sydney’s hand on my elbow as she leads me into the private car like a blind person.
I flop myself on the plush leather backseat.
“Woo! I haven’t seen a crowd as big as that one since the day I quit my show.”
“That was madness back there,” Sydney remarks, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She exhales and lets her head fall back, closing her eyes briefly. “I still don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. I’m exhausted.”
I, on the other hand, feel nothing but exhilaration. After hearing the thunk of our bags being loaded into the back by an airport worker and the trunk being slammed shut, we’re off. It isn’t until the private car passes through the airport exit and merges onto a highway that I finally remember to turn my cell phone back on since I had it off during the flight. It lights up every few milliseconds, pulsing like a strobe light. Ding, ding, ding. Every bell and whistle on my phone goes off, sounding like I’m playing slots and just hit the jackpot. Hundreds of email, Twitter and text-message alerts chirp and beep. I open Twitter and scroll through all the Tweets mentioning me, my thumb cramping after a few minutes of nonstop scrolling. There are thousands of them.
Stay strong, Talia! You can do it! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
We love you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
So proud of you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
And just like that, I’m trending worldwide. Jackpot indeed.
I open my inbox and there are at least twenty news articles from major publications and networks forwarded from Dottie’s account. Beloved Child Star Enters Rehab; Talia Tries to Get Her Life Back on Track; Talia Truman Repents for Boy-Crazy Lifestyle, Gets Help in Nashville. One of them is accompanied by a picture of me from my children’s television show days—my hair is in two braids so long they fall on either side of my rib cage—juxtaposed with a photo shoot I did last year for an alternative magazine that barely anybody saw. In that photo, I’m in slim-cut leather pants and a lacy purple bra, my pointer finger drawn up to my pouty lips as if I was a sexy librarian telling the reader to be quiet. Shhhh.
Will Talia Truman Kick Her Sexy Habit? one rag mag asks with urgency, as if the answer to that question would cure cancer.
I shake my head slowly back and forth, whistling low. “Dottie, you crazy son of a bitch. We did it,” I whisper to myself.
“What is it?” Sydney asks and I show her my phone.
“See? What did I tell you?” she laughs, shaking her head.
I’m in a daze for the rest of the trip, in awe that the plan showed results so quickly. I scroll through my email once again, finding nothing about the Zombie Prom franchise. I sigh.
A text from Dottie pops up on my screen.
You land yet?
Yes, I write back. The crowd of paps was enormous.
Good. I’ll let the rehab know to expect you in twenty minutes or so.
Wish me luck! I write back with seven smiley-face emoticons, knowing Dottie will pick up on my sarcasm.
DFIU, Talia. Just promise me that one thing. Please make an effort to ensure this whole thing goes smoothly. This place has a zero-tolerance policy for any breach of the rules. One strike and you’re out.
I make an annoyed noise at the phone and Sydney asks what’s the matter. I flash her my phone.
“DFIU?” she asks.
“Don’t eff it up.” I can’t count how many times Dottie’s ever texted me that. I turn to Sydney. “Trust me,” I say, “the sooner the investors come back, the sooner I get to go back to Los Angeles and hopefully start filming. I will not eff this up.”
Got it, I text Dottie back.
I watch as the cityscape rolls by through the private car’s blacked-out windows and though I miss being able to see the ocean, it’s kind of pretty, actually. The sun has started to set. There’s a lot more green out here than I expected for a city and the air smells cleaner, sweeter somehow. Nashville itself is pretty small and soon enough the restaurants, storefronts and apartments start to give way to the more residential outskirts. It seems like every house we pass has a sprawling, pristinely kept yard. All of the neighborhoods have a charming and homey feel, not to mention much more character than the immaculate carbon-copy mansions on either side of the palm-tree-lined streets of my neighborhood. Though I’m hundreds of miles away from where I call home, I’m surprised by how quickly I feel pretty comfortable here. I roll down my window and take a deep breath of the air that is certainly not the smog of LA.
We turn off a main road and, after passing a well-manicured hedge, roll up to a large white gate. Our driver leans out the window to press a white keycard to a panel. The doors slide open and the white Colonial house I saw in the brochure comes into view.
When we stop in the round driveway, Sydney says, “And this is where I say goodbye.”
After giving me a hug she hands me a piece of paper folded in half. “I’ll be staying in a hotel just ten minutes away. Call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you in fourteen days.”
I give her a mock salute. “See you then, Captain Organized.”
I get out of the car and realize the driver has already left all my bags in a neat pile on the porch. I turn back and watch the car drive away. I’m all alone at rehab. This is real.
I turn around and face the house, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin. It’s gotten fairly dark out—I’m not even sure what time it is—and there’s a faint sound of crickets chirping coming from the bushes and flowers at the bottom of the steps. I feel the cool spring breeze on my face and I take in a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with,” I say to myself.
I walk up the steps of the white wraparound porch and open the door at the top. Inside, the foyer looks like it’s been decorated by a very cheerful grandmother. The hardwood floors are immaculate and large potted plants sit on either side of a light blue antique-looking desk. There are framed cross-stitch patterns with sayings like One Day at a Time and It Gets Better! surrounded by candy-colored flowers hanging on the walls. There’s an ornate carpeted staircase right in the middle of the entrance hall and a vintage-looking upholstered settee at the bottom of it.
