Good Girl : A Memoir (9781476748986) (27 page)

One day early that spring, he called me three times before I finished my day's deadlines, and I gathered the nerve to answer his fourth call. I knew enough about cocaine to understand the drug was behind his focus and intensity, but still, I was fluttery with excitement when I heard his deep, hypnotic voice on the line.

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, catching on quickly, even as I heard a loud crush of voices behind him. “What's all that noise?”

“I'm at a Lakers game at the Staples Center,” he said. “It's halftime and my friends are inside while I'm outside smoking a cigarette.”

We both laughed at the naughtiness of this. He got me off with his voice and went inside to watch the second half of the game. After that,
he called me several times a week, often several times a day. He'd call me after last call at his bar, or when he'd come in late from the studio, around six in the morning, in Boston, so often that I began sleeping with my cell phone on my chest, just above my breasts. We talked our way through elaborate fantasies, like one in which he played in Boston—as he would in six weeks—and he went backstage between songs, where I waited for him with an eight ball and got him off.

He wanted to know everything about my sexual history, and he was always just as transparent with me. Because he never got more romantic than a good-bye, “Ciao, bella,” I wasn't jealous of the other women he mentioned. I knew he didn't want a girlfriend and understood why. When we talked for hours, I knew there must be something in me that was clever and charming and sexy enough to interest him, and it made me feel a little more of those things in my daily life. He was eleven years older than I was, and he was giving me an education, exposing me to his sensual world, which thrilled me.

At that moment in my life, I was obsessed with figuring out what it was an artist “did”—reading Patti Smith's journals, in which she described her songwriting process, talking about the craft over glasses of Maker's Mark and soda with my writer friends Cathy and Erin.

So I was deeply curious about the ins and outs of Judah's daily life as it applied to his music. He had played me the early sketches of some songs when I'd been in LA, and I wanted to know how he was expanding these and other ideas into full songs, when and where he was going into the studio, and what else he was listening to and reading. Mostly we talked about sex, but even that was cerebral. One night, very late, in the midst of a passionate exchange, he asked me, “Do you like that we have this?”

“Yes,” I said. “I like your brain.”

“I like your brain, too,” he said, laughing.

I did like what we had, very much. As the date of his next Boston show approached, he began to plan our next assignation with great attention to detail. He wanted drugs, a lot of them, and it was up to
me to get them. He wanted me to be waiting for him in his hotel room. Wearing lingerie. We would do the drugs. We would fuck. He would go to the club and play his show. I would attend as his guest.

There was just one problem, which I was not about to volunteer: I had never bought drugs before, except a little pot and acid. But I had a friend who would help me.

As I counted the days until Judah's show, anticipating our reunion eagerly, Judah suddenly stopped calling. I allowed myself to call and e-mail him once. After that, I was cut off. I wasn't going to be the girl who got clingy or made a big fuss.

I was in my pajamas, at my desk, sluggish with a hangover, when my phone rang. It was Judah. We hadn't spoken in several weeks, by far the longest we'd gone without contact since LA, even when he'd been in Europe. After a few beats of awkward small talk, he said, “I'm sorry I disappeared.”

“Yeah, thanks, is everything okay?”

He told me a story about a personal loss that had prompted him to stop doing coke. I was moved for him, but I struggled to adjust to this new him, without the fantasy, and the air of debauched bliss. Even as I wanted all of that back, I was honored to be a friend he trusted enough to confide something private.

“I'll call you again before we hit Boston,” he said.

“Okay, be safe out there.”

When I hung up, I crumbled. There had been no flirtation in his tone, no sex at all. Even though, intellectually, I appreciated his friendship, emotionally, I felt abandoned. I knew it was a sign of great respect that he'd let me in on what was going on with him. Here was a man I'd admired since college, and now he was treating me like one of his closest personal friends. I valued this, especially as the girl who always wanted to make people feel better. But real intimacy was terrifying for me. And I could only handle it in rare cases: with Scott, who had the constancy to make me feel safe; with Anthony, who quickly minimized any real connection we formed by disappearing for long stretches of
time. Without Judah's consistent advances, it felt as if he was about to disappear. I desperately needed to talk to someone who'd get it.

That week, I was out with my dad on one of our by-now-­established father-daughter dates. As usual, we spent much of our time talking about film and writing and art, and I'd recently begun mentioning discussions I'd had with my “friend” Judah about the same. I'd just always left out the sex parts, not that my dad would have minded, but I had a natural instinct toward at least some boundaries, even if he didn't.

As my dad and I sat over lunch at an Indian restaurant in my neighborhood, I told him the whole story and confessed how hurt I was.

“Sarah, let him be,” he said.

“What?” I asked, surprised. Normally, my dad wanted whatever I wanted.

“He's dealing with something way beyond your experience,” he said. “You've never been an addict, have you?”

“No,” I said, as if that were some failing on my part.

“He needs more than you can give him right now. He needs friends who have gone through recovery and can support him.”

“But I really care about him.”

“Then be his friend and support him by letting him do whatever he needs to do to get through what he's going through right now. This isn't about you.”

It was just what I needed to hear. I wanted to be better than I was. I wanted to be able to meet Judah where he was. Full of unexpected wisdom, my dad's words helped me to at least get closer.

My dad had just received a letter from my younger sister, Asmara, much like the one I'd sent prompting our reunion. She was sixteen now, her English was quite good, and she was looking for answers about her dad, and maybe even a relationship with him. He was so pleased that he photocopied her letter and brought the duplicate to our next lunch.

I had mixed feelings as I read her elegant European cursive. Part of me wanted my dad all to myself, as I always had. Plus, she might get
to have a meaningful relationship with him at age sixteen, which was almost exactly the age I was when he'd totally disappeared on me. But I knew I couldn't let my jealousy cloud my judgment.

“You have an amazing opportunity here, Dad,” I said. “Imagine if you and I had patched things up when I was sixteen instead of waiting until now.”

“I know,” he said. “I thought the same thing.”

He had written her back to encourage their burgeoning relationship, and now he was eagerly awaiting her reply. When I saw how excited he was, almost like a lovesick teenager, the green uglies reared up again. I resolved to be happy for them, but it was a struggle.

O
n the afternoon of Judah's Boston show, just when my anxiety had reached its zenith, my phone rang. He was at his hotel, and although he wasn't feeling well, he'd wanted to check in with me. “Did you ask to get listed for the show?” he said.

“Yeah, is that a problem?”

“No, I was gonna put you on the list.”

“I figured you were busy,” I lied.

I waited for him to invite me to his hotel. I waited for him to ask me about the sheer pink baby doll nightie I had bought just for him. I waited for him to want me to be backstage before he went on. When none of this came, I tried to remember my father's words, tried to be neutral. I tried to be Judah's friend.

By the time I walked up to the club that night, I was feeling raw. But I also felt sexy and more grown-up than ever before. I'd dressed carefully, put on red lipstick. No matter what happened, I was a woman with a lover. He had called me that day. I'd made this life of adventure happen.

His tour bus hulked outside, like a big bug, its reflective eyes watching me. I wanted to knock, claim my right to him, but I knew
better. I went inside and found my friends to the left of the stage. The mood was tense and expectant, and rumors flew that Judah had overdosed and was calling the show. I checked my phone: nothing. The minutes dragged into an hour, and then an hour and a half. A new friend, Rebecca, who knew Judah's circle in LA, talked about what an asshole he was. A friend who worked at the club said he'd threatened one of his musicians during sound check. I used my selective hearing and focused on the fantasies Judah and I had woven.

Almost two hours later than the band's set time, the lights dimmed. People cheered and whooped. The band took the stage. A slinky beat unfolded like a low-rider strut; Judah stood at the mic, smoking as usual, his voice as sexy and sure as ever. He was all right. I was so relieved that I didn't think about anything else. It was impossible not to enjoy the show—he was a consummate showman, no matter what else.

Afterward, I walked outside to smoke and hopefully catch sight of Judah. As I turned back to the club, a tall, thin man, who looked familiar to me, approached.

“Are you Sarah?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I've got a message from Judah. He's very sorry, but he can't see you tonight.”

My face must have registered the blow.

“Do you want a hug?” he asked.

Stunned, I let myself be hugged. But I pulled myself away from him quickly, hating that I was allowing myself to be so overtly handled by Judah's entourage. I would not cry.

Later, blissfully drunk, I climbed into my bed, where I had talked with Judah so many nights. Listening to his voice mail greeting, I completely fell apart, crying into the phone: “That's no way to treat a person,” I said. “You should have called me.”

In the morning, he hadn't called. I didn't feel neutral anymore.

I
started waking up with a feeling of crushing dread every Sunday morning. My CD reviews were due that night at nine o'clock, and I was suddenly convinced I wouldn't be able to pull them off, even though I always did, and they were getting edited less and less. But this anxiety inspired me to see a therapist.

My dad completely supported the idea of therapy and had recently bought me a book by a therapist who ran with his patients, after I described something that had begun happening nearly every day on my run. When I had time to do a full loop through the Arboretum, which took about forty-five minutes, as I descended the final hill I had a recurring fantasy that I punched Scott in the face. In truth, I didn't want to hurt Scott—not after how much I had already hurt him ­emotionally—so the image made me feel guilty and bereft.

My dad excitedly ran through the book's explanation: “The brain has four states. Beta, Alpha, Theta, and Delta. Theta is like a meditation state. Well, when you've been running for forty-five minutes, your
brain goes into Theta, which means you're actually entering your subconscious. It's wonderful that you're able to create that for yourself. That's why I want to get a biofeedback machine at home, so I can read my brain waves and see how they change when I do my breathing with my snorkel.”

My dad was eager to explore his subconscious on his own terms and regarded therapy as a positive experience that everyone should undergo if they could afford it, pointing to one of his heroes, Woody Allen, as a model. He was slippery, though, about whether or not he needed therapy himself. He was down on Gamblers Anonymous—which he'd used to try to quit gambling, and failed—and the other AA incarnations, basically comparing them to brainwashing. But in my own moment of acute emotional stress, I was just trying to stay afloat and seeking anything that would work.

My therapist and I talked about my deadline anxiety, my money worries, my dad. It never occurred to me to mention the shooting because that was so long in the past, and I didn't mention either Anthony or Judah because I didn't want to be one of those girls who just talked about boys. At the end of a few sessions, he determined I wasn't clinically depressed. I was actually a bit let down. I knew something felt broken inside of me, and if I were simply depressed, then there would be a diagnosis and a cure, to which I could apply myself like a good A student. Instead, he focused on trying to get me to worry less and feel more self-confident based on genuine accomplishments. But that did nothing to stop me from feeling at the whim of the world.

I was at my computer working one day late that spring when Judah e-mailed me an apology and an olive branch of friendship. I was glad and felt respected. But I also felt disappointed. As with Anthony, if he wasn't coming on to me, I didn't know what he wanted from me. I wrote back, keeping my response light, all the while hoping for more of everything from him. But in the following weeks, there was no reply.

B
eth and I decided to rent our own apartment in the South End, closer to where she was bartending. One day not long after we'd signed the lease, my dad and I had lunch at the Thai restaurant we liked near Berklee College of Music. I was excited to show him the majestic brownstone that would be my home, and we walked down Mass Ave toward my new neighborhood. As we left the upscale avenues around Boylston Street and approached the more downtrodden area near the hospital, my dad grew quiet. He was such a constant and consummate talker that this was never a good sign. When we reached my apartment building he nodded politely, but that was about it.