Page 63 of Falling Like Stars

“Good,” she says. “Can you see more clearly now?”

“Yes…”

“Can you see the word, guilt?”

“No.”

“But you know it’s still there.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, now I want you to tear that paper—that guilt—into shreds.”

I uncrumple the paper and tear the wrinkled sheet into little bits.

“Now, hold those scraps in the palm of your hand,” Dr. Baldwin says. “Is the paper still there?”

“Yes.”

“How does it feel?”

“Light,” I say, tentative hope rising in me.

Like it could blow away…?

Dr. Baldwin smiles. “Now, I want you to close your eyes, Rowan, and imagine you’re holding in your hand a delicate blue butterfly. It’s so light and fragile. Can you feel it?”

I nod. The little pieces of paper in my hand are like the butterfly’s faint weight in my palm.

Or a beautiful moth…

I nod, tears stinging. “I can feel it.”

“Good.” Dr. Baldwin’s voice is like smoked honey in the dark behind my eyes. “Now I want you to imagine that your guilt is like that butterfly. You don’t want to hold it so tight that your hands ache, and all you know is that pain. And you don’t want to stare so intently that that’s all you see, so that it takes up so much room the rest of your life is relegated to the edges. Instead, hold it as you would a butterfly. Gently. Lightly. So it can fly away. It might come back. It will come back. But when it does, let it land. Just let it be. Can you try that, Rowan?”

I open my eyes that are flooded with tears. “Yes,” I say, my voice a whisper. “I can try.”

I leave Dr. Baldwin’s office feeling that if it weren’t for gravity, I’d fly off the face of the earth. Christ, is that all it takes? One little tool and I’m awake when I’d been feeling half-drugged for the last fifteen years.

I can practically hear J.J. now: One therapy session does not mental health make. But I feel a million times better and I didn’t have to dive into the black pit of grief and guilt to get here. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe I don’t even need another session with Dr. B. At $450 an hour, I don’t know how many I can afford anyway.

Riding the wave of optimism, I fire up my laptop in my West Hollywood apartment and go to Mandy, the website that lists film and TV production jobs. It’s where I get most of my PA gigs, but this time, I peek at the art department listings.

At the top of the list is an upcoming film. A period piece set in the late 1800s. The Costume Lead is Laurent Moreau, which is odd since I vaguely remember him as a fashion designer. Not that it matters; I’d be at warehouse-level, not at the top. They need sewers to help costume the hundreds of extras the film will employ. It’s not creative, just grunt work, and I haven’t touched a sewing machine in nearly a decade. But it should be second nature. Like riding a bike.

My fingers hover over the “apply now” button. I can hear Jess again, telling me to not get ahead of myself. But hell, I’ve been behind myself for years. Putting my life on hold. The fact that I’m even considering this job without a side-helping of self-loathing is a win. I click the button.

But the universe is an asshole. The very next minute, I get a text from Josh’s mom.

Hi sweetheart! Haven’t heard from you in a while. I was wondering if you were free to come to the cemetery this Saturday? The weather is supposed to be lovely. Let me know! xoxo Carol

My buoyant hopes deflate, and my stomach drops. Here I am trying to move on, and Carol is stuck in a life without her son. It feels cowardly to leave her behind, but I don’t know how to help her. The only thing I know is that I can’t keep doing what I’ve been doing.

I turn the phone face down on my bed. A ding on my laptop alerts me that the Mandy listing has sent an auto-generated reply. An application. I suck in a shaky breath and start typing.

Part Two

Hollywood is loneliness beside the swimming pool. —Liv Ullmann

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