Page 92 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“I was six years old the first time he hit her, only a year after they pushed me into acting. We were struggling since I hadn’t booked a lot of roles and I needed a haircut for an audition. She couldn’t afford taking me anywhere, and my father refused to give her money, so she tried cutting it herself. Man, she fucked it up. I ended up losing the role, but not because of the horrible haircut. I lost the role because I was nervous throughout the whole audition. I flubbed lines, or forgot them altogether, thinking about what would happen when my father saw the uneven hairline along my forehead. I mean, he’d yell at my mother for literally breathing the wrong way so what would he do about this?

“Before we returned home, my agent called to say I didn’t get the role. My father had answered. He was so angry, and the moment we walked in the door, he took one look at me and that was it. He blamed my mother and cursed her out, screaming at the top of his lungs before backhanding her so hard, she hit her head on the wall and blacked out. I rushed over to try to wake her up. It took at least a minute. My father didn’t even check on her. He retreated to the living room, drowning himself in a bottle of vodka. He didn’t care if she lived or died by his hand.”

Lana leans up on her elbow, holding her head with her palm. She's listening and not an ounce of judgment shows on that angelic face of hers.

“That wasn’t the last time he hit her. Anytime he drank, he’d find something to get mad about. She never called police though. She’d always patch herself up and sleep off the injuries. She went to the hospital once, but they asked her too many questions, it spooked her. She made up some lame excuse that the hospitals bought because they were too busy to care or too overworked to pay attention to the signs.

“This went on until I turned ten. My father died a couple weeks later. My mom was the one to find him. He was passed out in his favorite chair, and she sat down to watch television. She thought he was taking a nap, which he did often in that chair. After he didn’t wake up to demand she fetch him a drink, she realized that something was wrong.

“I couldn’t understand why she was so devastated over his death. He was an abusive fuck. I don’t know, I guess she loved him despite everything. In the six years following my father’s death, my mother slowly lost her sanity. She blamed herself. She would always say if she didn’t make him mad, if she didn’t push him to drink, he’d still be alive. She blamed me a few times too.

“I endured six years of this. Her blaming me, blaming herself, her passing out on depression meds, sleeping for weeks at a time without checking in on me. It was a different kind of mental abuse because I was neglected by the one parent I loved.

“I worked as much as legally possible, so I wasn’t around to see her gradually killing herself. She was in denial, and I was just a kid. I had no idea what to do. She refused to get help.”

Sounds familiar. Is this how Jensen felt?

I push the thought away.

“I began the emancipation process on my sixteenth birthday when I had enough money saved and roles booked. The moment I had full legal control over my finances and my estate, I sent my mother away to a mental institute. A nice fucking one, where she’s still living.”

“Do you ever see her?” Lana asks.

I wince. “Not as often as I should. I try to visit around the holidays, on her birthday or on my birthday . . .”

“Your birthday is in September, right?”

I feign shock and hurt. “You don’t know? I know your birthday.”

“Oh yeah?”

“April twenty fourth. You turned forty shortly before I arrived.”

“I don’t remember telling you that.”

“I Googled you.”

Her eyes widen.

“What? You get to Google me, but I can’t Google you?”

“Stop saying Google. You make it sound dirty.”

I chuckle and kiss her forehead. “What’s dirty is you not remembering my birthday. Also, you saw my I.D. that first night.”

“Oh, you think you made that good of an impression?”

“Yes.”

She slaps at my chest.

“September thirtieth,” I answer.

“Oh right.”

“I thought you didn’t remember?”

“I just knew it was in September. Believe it or not, I didn’t memorize everything about your life.”

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