It Was Me All Along: A Memoir (22 page)

During our drives to the set from her posh Boston loft, she’d recline in the backseat of the van and offer me life advice in her syrupy thick Italian accent. “Do one theeng, Andrea,” she purred. “Peeeck one theeng and do eet well. Geeve eet eva-ry-theeng you are, eva-ry-theeng you have.” I sensed that she wanted the best for me in the same manner she might want for her daughter. Francesca loved her work, and was loved for her work. The night of Leo’s champagne party, she invited me into her apartment for wine. She scoffed at any notion of arriving on time. “We relaax here. Then, we go,” she informed me.
Fashionably late works for her
. I nodded at the thought.

There, in the wealthy expanse of apartment in Boston’s most affluent section, she sat with me on her couch, and we spent nearly an hour in what she coolly called “girrrl talk,” her voice rolling over the
r
’s like tires on gravel. I nearly died when she pointed to her side table, the one that held her Oscar. “Hold eet, peek eet up!” I did, marveling at its weight.

The moment we arrived at the event, I wished I’d had time to run home and change clothes By nine p.m., after working all day, my hair was wild in curls from the humidity, my black scoop-neck tee and white Bermuda shorts both seeming dowdy, given the swankiness of the outdoor party. Tables surrounded us, covered in starched white linen. Raw oysters sat neatly in rows on wide beds of ice. Dozens of champagne flutes stood on silver platters, glowing bright like candles in the dark.

As I silently cursed myself for looking a mess, I caught sight of him. Backwards baseball cap, white tee, with a hoodie tied loose and low around his hips, he leaned his head back in a laugh with a group of producers.
Leo, Leo, Leo
. In an outfit as casual as mine, he looked like a Calvin Klein ad.

Across the room, I noticed Mark Ruffalo talking to a circle of my friends, the PAs. The man was a ten-foot radius of charisma. All who stood near him seemed content and at ease. I felt a pull toward him, wanting to be closer to someone who exuded such positive energy. His face was kind, youthful from the innocence of his smile. His hair was a mess of black curls, not unlike my own.

I grabbed two champagne flutes from the table beside me and passed one to Francesca. “I go talk to Marteee.” She nodded toward Martin Scorsese, sitting with his wife at the table in the far corner. I brought the champagne to my mouth and watched her walk toward them, pure confidence in every last stride of her slim legs.
I think I’m dehydrated
, I thought to myself, glancing down at the nearly empty flute.
He sprang for the good stuff, I bet
.

The bubbles made me bold. I walked over to the PA circle surrounding Mark Ruffalo. Chatting with a friend, I couldn’t help but make eye contact with Mark. He smiled. I finished the sentence I’d begun, excused myself, and made my way three feet over to stand in front of Mark. I outstretched my hand to him, grinning. “I’ve been wanting to meet you!” On the last of these uncool words, I felt like crawling below the table to my left. Without skipping a beat, he returned a laugh and an enthusiastic hello. The genuine nature of his smile let me know that he wasn’t, in fact, mocking me. His sincerity disarmed me. I was wooed into a kind of comfort I never, ever expected to feel with a movie star. In seconds, our conversation struck up like a match sliding quickly across the rough edge of its
box. It was effortless—natural, even. For ten minutes we went back and forth, talking about life in New York versus LA, culture, film, what I should do with my career—the advice alone was valuable.

When we were finally interrupted, as someone pulled him away for a word, I smiled genuinely at him. He returned the same smile with, “Well, listen, it’s been great talking to you. See you tomorrow?”

And I may have been a touch overeager in saying yes. I surveyed the party once more and noticed Leo standing alone now.
Should I? Shouldn’t I?

Oh, what the hell
.

I set my empty champagne flute down and moved confidently toward him. Steps away, I realized the gravity of what was about to happen and wanted suddenly, desperately, to turn back.
I cannot waltz up to Leonardo DiCaprio out of nowhere. I cannot
. As I was about to turn on my heel, ready to call the whole plan off, our eyes met.

I wished for the power of invisibility, but when that proved a nonoption, I relented.
Just go
. I walked the remaining feet to meet him.

“Uh, hi! Hello! I’m, uh—I’m Andrea.”

His mouth widened in a closed-mouth grin. “Leo,” he spoke, nodding as if to say,
How do you do?

Marry me
.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I smiled sheepishly.

“You, too,” he said, still grinning politely.

“This is a great party you’ve thrown. Thanks for having us.” I stuttered no fewer than seven times per sentence.

“Yeah, it’s fun.” He surveyed the scene, obviously happy to see everyone enjoying themselves. “I’m just hoping that all the raw
oysters I had shipped in—I’m just hoping everyone eats them all.” He let out a small laugh.

I laughed, nodding. “Yeah, well, hey! I’ll do my best to eat the remainder.”

As we exchanged mundane pleasantries, my excited and champagne-addled brain made me think,
Are we flirting?
My insides clenched.

“Oh, and, um, do you think we could get a picture together?” And with that, I’d done it. Put myself out there. I’d become the fan.

He assessed my face, his look one part shy, one part flattered. “Sure.”

I scanned the people around us, looking for some unsuspecting individual to snap a picture with my phone. “Jeremy, can you take a picture of us?”

He took the phone from my hand and moved a good five feet away from us as we posed. Leo’s hand slid behind my back, wrapping securely around my waist and resting on my hip. Every muscle in my core tightened. I silently screamed before my breathing ceased. I moved my arm around his back, my hand landing high on his shoulder blade, and I leaned into him. If I could have frozen the moment in time, just stayed right there forever, I’d have done it without hesitation.

We smiled. I heard the faux-snap sound of my phone’s camera, and I tensed, knowing the moment was over. He released my hip and moved his hand across my back, stepping away. Before we could fully part, I heard, “Ooh, wait a sec! Let me snap a photo of you two!” I turned and saw the script supervisor, Martha. I grinned.

We reconnected, positioning ourselves the same way as before. I couldn’t contain a huge, toothy smile. Martha held up her camera, then lowered it slightly to look at us over the lens. “This’ll be on all
the entertainment shows tomorrow—just wait. ‘Hollywood’s new beautiful couple.’ ”

I died.

Can we make this happen?!
I begged internally. Part of me felt nervous that Leo would be uncomfortable with such a suggestion.
Us? A couple? Who?
Before I got to the end of my thought, he laughingly sang, “Duh na na na na na!”

I died again.

Still unbreathing, I asked myself,
Did Leo just sing the
Entertainment Tonight
jingle?

Martha offered a laugh. “I can call these things.” She raised the camera again and snapped the photo.

I couldn’t die again, but if I could have, I would have.

I had a hot flash. Three of them, unrelenting and burning, in a row. We pulled apart and smiled at each other. I’d just opened my mouth to continue our conversation, when I heard her Italian tongue trilling around my name. “Andrrrrrrea!”

I turned to see Francesca, now standing beside us. “Andrea, there you are! Come. We go.” She smiled sweetly, nodding to the car. Her hand rose to caress Leo’s face.

He smiled at her. They’d worked on movies together before. Marty, Dante, Francesca, Bob Guerra—they worked as a team as often as they could manage.

“We are tired. We go. Good night!” She tilted her head to the side as she gazed fondly at Leo.

He let out a sigh. “Good night, ladies,” he said quietly. Francesca had already begun walking toward the parking lot.

I gave in and smiled. “Have a good night.” I turned and followed her, hating every last step.

I barely remembered dropping Francesca at her apartment;
my body and mind were still zinging in euphoria. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and looked at the clock, noting that it was one a.m. I called her anyway.

“Andrea?” She sounded half asleep, her breathing like a gentle snore.

“Mumma, I talked to him.”

Her breath hitched. Instantly she perked up. She squealed. “Leo! Imagine that.”

“Yeah.” My lips spread so far in either direction, I wasn’t sure they’d stay contained on my face. I loved her for knowing how much it meant to me.

To her.

To us.

FROM THE WAY I APPEARED
, people might have assumed I was doing exceptionally well. I worked twelve-hour days five and sometimes six days per week on the movie set without complaint; I multitasked with dazzling proficiency; I was perky, upbeat, and presentable at all times, with hair and makeup perfectly done. The only person who could have known how truly exhausted I felt was me. And I could only blame myself for feeling so ragged. Although I’d worked hard to mend my disordered eating, now I had to face another truth: I was addicted to exercise.

One year earlier, at the end of senior year of college, after reaching my goal weight, I developed sciatica—a pinched nerve—on my left side. Moving my left leg in any direction, I felt a stabbing and burning sensation in my left buttock. It developed because I’d never properly rested once I started a strict workout routine. I’d run four miles, seven days a week, without ever letting myself take a day off. I felt tethered to the treadmill, terrified of gaining any weight
back. I had no frame of reference for the amount of rest a person needed when she’d just lost half of her starting body weight. The food—well, I was working on it. But the running, each of the miles I cursed jogging daily—I wasn’t so sure I could stop. It seemed such a crucial part of my success in losing weight. I’d always heard that of all the solo exercises one could do, running is the biggest calorie torcher. I was convinced that no other method of movement would provide such a burn. But the strain, the overuse of my poor, tired legs, triggered the sciatica, and I was forced to stop running for a month. One terrifying month. I struggled through sessions on the elliptical and the arc trainer; I tried to walk; I could barely sleep without aching nerve pain in my left side. I was an anxious wreck, thinking I would pack on any pounds lost.

When my body healed from the nerve pain, I returned to running. I kept it up for a full year, still motivated by the fear that quitting meant gaining weight.

I hated running. It was no longer fun. I no longer felt accomplished or rejuvenated or energized after I stepped off the treadmill. By then, I’d even begun to resent
The View
, my favorite TV program to pound out the miles to. I was drained. I thought for sure that the only way I would be thin, stay thin, was by keeping on keeping on. I started to fear my future.
How could I keep this up? How do I continue running so many miles, so consistently, each and every day, when I hate it so?
Running felt compulsive, dreadful, punishing, like an abusive relationship. I’d fall asleep at night dreading, dreading, dreading the next morning, when I’d have to run again.

Now, coupled with the growing hours on set, the running felt even more brutal. My body, my mind—both were exhausted. I sat
in my car one night, after a particularly long day, and I let my head fall to hit the steering wheel. The parking lot was empty. I was supposed to be heading to the gym; I hadn’t run yet that day.

“I can’t,” I whispered, with no one to talk to but the odometer.

My shoulders began to bounce up and down in the makings of a sob. The rumbling felt deep and guttural, a cry I wouldn’t be able to tame. Soon the tears came.

“I can’t,” I repeated.

I pulled the keys from the ignition.

“I can’t. I can’t.” I said it over and over until I actually believed it.

While talking myself into and out of the run, I suddenly had a startling thought:
I’d almost rather be fat
.

Surely I wouldn’t rather that. I didn’t prefer discomfort, a body less capable of moving me, and the way the world looked down at me when I was big. But perhaps I preferred the ease. The way I was punishing myself now, was it all worthwhile? Does looking good cost feeling good?

Am I even happy?

I did not lose 135 pounds only to find myself in an unhappy marriage to running. And if I did, I wanted a divorce.

I did not lose 135 pounds because my sanity mattered less than vanity.

I decided in that moment that I would try my best to let myself find the weight I was supposed to be. If not running every day, or not running ever again, meant that I would gain 5 pounds, then I would accept each one of them. If 10 pounds were in store for me, then so be it. Truly, I would let myself be.

I would live the way I wanted to live, without feeling a tremendous sense of dread each morning when I opened my eyes and
knew the treadmill was there, without feeling as if my being at a healthy weight for the first time in my whole life hinged on desperate exercise.