“Call me at midnight when I’m off my shift,” I’d tell her.
But by midnight, she’d have left me six more voice mails. She’d be deep in Bridge Kiss, or out with Cheba. She’d phone me at four in the morning. She’d started to talk about Ida, and how Ida had inspired her energy for Bloody Sophie. Which prompted me to call Dr. Tuttnauer and Dr. Jones, who were also worried because she’d been phoning them, too, and leaving long messages, even though she’d make excuses not to see Dr. Jones in person, or even to touch in for a real therapy call.
It was hard to explain it all to Marcus. It was bizarre to him that I spent my time talking with my best friend’s psychiatric doctors. I saw his point. I didn’t want to be consumed by Addison, I wanted to hang out with my guy, and I wanted to earn money, and I wanted to have my summer visit with Dad, and I wanted Addison to not take up the lion’s share of my life. I wanted too much, maybe.
GIL CHEBA: She rang me up very late one night that July. She was always calling me that month. She’d caught a dreadful case of telephonitis. Anyway, it was some god-awful time of the night. She was fixated on the idea that a woman was following her. I was barely awake, but I struggled into some clothes, into a cab, over the bridge to Brooklyn, where I found Addison wired and cowering in the corner of her flat. She’d obviously been at work for hours and hours. The whole place smelled like trapped air and stale pizza.
“She just left two minutes ago! She ran down the hall, and now she’s up on the fire escape. She’s got a knife! Please find her, Gil.”
“Jesus, a knife? What the hell, Addison! Who is she? Does she live in the building? We need the cops!”
“No, not yet. Please take care of her—before she kills me!”
Fool that I was, I searched the entire building, floor by floor, my heart jackhamering. It took me well over an hour—I wanted to ring up the cops, but Addison wouldn’t have it.
So then I wondered if perhaps Addison was in some sort of trouble with this woman? Or was there any woman at all? Maybe Addison had been given a bad batch of something? I’ve seen countless people freak out from some illegal potpourri, but I couldn’t figure out which cocktail had Addison in its grip. I s’pose it makes a kind of gallows-humor sense that Addison was acting the way that she was because she was off her drugs.
I didn’t learn until months later that Addison had often rung doorbells and made other people in the complex look for this madwoman, Ida, who had been dead for over a hundred years. I’d been up searching for the phantom of Addison’s imagination.
What I will never forget is how Addison’s eyes were so fearful. That was why the existence of this person had never crossed my mind. She had to be as real as Addison’s fear.
Bloody Sophie by Addison Stone, courtesy of Carine Fratepietro.
XI.
ALL THE CHILDREN ARE INSANE.
From: Addison Stone <[email protected]
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Date: Jul 28 at 4:58 AM
Subject: delete after reading
To: Lucy Lim <[email protected]
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I got your voice mails returning my calls. But I’m writing back bc I feel like I’ve been way too obsessed with the phone.
So I dropped it.
In the trash.
It’s still there.
I put the blame on the heat—it was past 100 yesterday. Same today.
Yes yes yes yahtzee, you win.
Because I did go off the Z. I did. But I really think, Lulu, that I’d like to take a whirl at life without some kind of artificial feel-good in my bloodstream.
I promise it’s been the right-healthy-smart decision for me.
But you are sweet to care.
I’m not hurting the way you think I am.
It feels like a normal. Right kind of pain. Breakup pain. I’ve got both feet and my head in the game.
Which is good.
I really want to finish Bridge Kiss. My kiss-off to love.
My bridge between where I’ve been and where I’m going.
Carine saw pictures, and she thinks this is the best work I’ve ever done.
So that’s something.
In an hour, Marie-Claire is dragging me to a party.
I haven’t been out in a while.
Maybe it’s not a bad thing. I should go. I’m sorry for my last 18,000 messages of last week.
Sometimes your voice is all that anchors me to this planet.
x!o! and another x!o! for your mysterious Marcus.
MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: There was a terrible heat wave the week of the Fourth, and I decamped to the Hamptons, imploring Addison to join me. She’d been my date for a benefit at the Frick, and Cheba had given her some Valium. I knew it wasn’t the real Addison. Valium was a poor Band-Aid, but it got her calm, and I wanted to remind her of the big world out here that was just ready to welcome her with open arms.
The Bridge Kiss project had truly destabilized her. To the point where the Lutz brothers and I had been emailing a tiny little bit about the possibility of staging an intervention. We just weren’t sure what we were intervening in. But we knew she needed help. More help than she was getting.
So I called Carine, and I told her she ought to throw Addison a command-performance party at Briarcliff sometime that very next week before she left for Capri. I remembered that Addison’s birthday was vaguely summertime.
Carine said yes to hostessing a big bash up at Briarcliff. Under one condition. “You have to bring Addison personally. I can’t throw this party and have her not show, if she’s my guest of honor.”
I said, “Absolutely no problem!” Inwardly, I must admit, I was quaking.
How could I guarantee-deliver Addison?
As it turned out, Addison was receptive to it. Especially when I said I’d come with a team to transform her Cinderella-style. I took a stretch limo over to Front Street that afternoon the next week, with my whole team piled inside—my hair colorist and fashion stylist and my other personal stylists.
“Don’t come over till my workday is done,” Addison told me.
Well, it certainly wasn’t so that she could clean the place up! Good Lord, it looked like a bomb had gone off. Even worse than when she’d destroyed Lincoln’s loft on Elizabeth last spring. The music was blaring those horrible old organ-wheezing hippie songs, Jim Morrison. Ick, that music always reminded me of weekend dances at Choate.
“You’re covered in paint,” I squeaked at her. “How are you going to scrape it all off your body in time for the party?”
“Oh, it’ll be fine,” she said. So nonchalant. She seemed a bit spaced out that afternoon, but peaceful and happy. I took it as a good sign. Still, even after two scrub-down showers, flecks of gold metallic and purplish paint were sticking to her skin.