CLUB 26

 

Hollywood, CA – 1975

Bonnie strums her guitar as she attempts to follow the sheet music scattered across the glass coffee table, stopping to tune a string or two. The morning’s mind fog refuses to lift. Freckled cheeks framed by her long red hair give her the appearance of a teenager. She is in her mid-twenties, but feels sixty.

Bonnie would often joke, Of course I like to party – that’s what I do for a living, so I can hang out with cute guys, have a good time and stay up late. That demonstrates my devotion to the music. Yet she is painfully aware of how little sense that makes.

On this particular day, she is playing music written by Joni Mitchell. Bonnie admires Joni’s talent. She’s not only a prolific songwriter, poet, and photographer, but also a really good friend. Joni is able to communicate all she sees and hears through her art. Most of all, Bonnie idolizes her originality. Bonnie has always marveled at those who can express their thoughts and ideas through music. How do they do that? Every time Bonnie tries to create her own material, she hits a wall. Long ago, she figured that her talent - her way of being authentic – was the spin she would put on other people’s works. There's no shame in that, she tells herself.

Strumming chords on her guitar, she curses at the intro because she can't quite get the rhythm right. She tilts her head as she hears the percussion in her mind. Then, as if someone opened a door, she smiles and falls into the song.

They paved paradise

And put up a parking lot

With a pink hotel, a boutique

And a swinging hot spot

Bonnie stops and remembers the way Joni looked at her last night. She has seen that look many times before, the look of disappointment and frustration. It's the look people give her when they realize that she has betrayed herself once again.

The phone rings. Bonnie takes a sip of last night's brandy and places it near the phone.

“Hello?” She cradles the receiver so she can still strum but instead drops the phone onto her guitar with a loud acoustic BONG!

“Oh criminy!” Bonnie says, exasperated. “Hold on! I'll be right there!” She leans the guitar against the side of the couch. She takes a deep breath as she brushes a few strands of hair from her eyes.

“Hello?” she giggles, a bit flustered. “Thanks. You still there?”

“Hey Bonnie, it’s me.” It's her agent Ted.

Bonnie relaxes. “Yeah, hi, Ted. I was just about to call you. Do you have any gigs for me? I hear the Doobies are looking for someone to open for them at the Troubadour next month. Can you look into that?”

“What?” says Ted. “No, I had a folder of cover songs sent over to you yesterday. Have you had a chance to go through it?”

Bonnie stands, reaches for a yellow file folder lying on a nearby side table, and sits back down.

Ted continues, “You've put out four albums of fantastic cover songs since '71, and so far they haven't been very successful.”

“I know, Ted. You're brutal, dude. It's all about the money,” she sighs. “That's the way the world goes 'round.” Bonnie quickly shuffles through the papers in the folder.

“If we play ball with them, maybe they'll extend your contract. But I'll be honest with you Bonnie, Warner’s feels you need to go in a different direction.”

Bonnie rolls her eyes, followed by another long pause. “Which direction is that, Ted?” She knew what was coming.

“You know this isn't coming from me, but they think it's a good idea if you would just...you know...sex it up a bit. It's just a matter of wearing a little makeup, maybe showing a little cleavage or even wearing a dress...”

Bonnie throws the folder across the room.

“Bonnie?”

Immediately after Bonnie slams the receiver onto its cradle, the phone rings again. Startled, she returns it to her ear, “Ted?”

A young female voice, with a distinct British accent, floats from the phone.

“No, luv, it's Amy.”

Amy? Amy who? Bonnie stammers, “Uh...who...”

“If you’re looking for a place that can nurture your God-given talent, ducky, come down to the Club 26.”

Bonnie searches her mind unsuccessfully as to who this nice British woman might be.

“Yes, sweetie,” Amy continues. “You are definitely an untapped quantity. Bye, luv!”

As Bonnie holds the receiver, she hears a click, followed by a dial tone. She places the receiver back on its cradle, and then stares at it for a moment.

Bonnie had heard of the Club 26, but has never been there. All she knows is that it’s an old New York style restaurant and bar on Hollywood Boulevard that has been there forever.

She grabs the thick local Yellow Pages, licks her index finger, and leafs through to the restaurant section. Where is it? Okay, here it is... the Club26 ...6667 Hollywood Blvd. She writes the phone number on a nearby notepad, picks up the receiver, and dials.

A man's voice answers. “Club 26.”

“Hi there! My name is Bonnie Raitt, and I was just talking to someone named Amy, who said she was calling from your club. Is she still there?”

“You said Amy, right?”

“Yeah. I'm a musician, and she contacted me about perhaps playing there, but she forgot to give me the details about the date and time, so I...”

“Excuse me, but there’s no Amy here,” the man interjects.

Confused, Bonnie wonders if she remembered the brief conversation correctly.

“Miss?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake. Thank you though,” Bonnie apologizes, flustered. She gives the man her name and phone number in case he runs into the mysterious Amy.

She hangs up and tries to forget about the weirdness that had just happened.

Although Bonnie is starting to become frustrated with constantly trying to keep up in the male-dominated music business, she is mostly disappointed with herself at what she sees as her own inability to be creative. She constantly tries to shake off the feeling of being a fraud, that she is taking a free ride on the music of others. Time for another drink.

Later that evening, the man from the Club 26 calls back. “Miss Raitt? There's an envelope here with your name on it,” he reports, sounding a bit confused himself. “I'll leave it here at the bar. You can come in through the back any day after 11 am.”

“Uh, okay. Thank you.” She hangs up.

The next day, Bonnie navigates her way down Hollywood Boulevard, just east of Las Palmas Avenue. She parks her Volkswagen Beetle in the almost empty back parking lot. 

She approaches the heavy canopied back door, pulls it open, and steps across the well-worn black and gold doormat decorated with the Club 26 logo. As Bonnie enters, it takes a few seconds for her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Finding herself in a narrow hallway, she moves forward, passing two antique phone booths. She arrives at the entrance of a quintessential 1940s New York bar, with all red leather upholstery and dark mahogany walls.

A young, effeminate maître'd rushes to Bonnie.

“Are you Miss Raitt?”

“Uh...yeah.”

“Please follow me.” He gives her a fashion look-over and smiles. This is the kind of place where you could visualize a fast-talking gumshoe grabbing a dirty martini.

The maître'd shows Bonnie to a red leather barstool. On the bar in front of the stool is an envelope with the name “Bonnie Raitt” handwritten on the front. She sits on the stool and takes a deep breath. She desperately wants a shot...maybe several shots. She carefully extracts a note from the envelope.

Come to the scene! It's outta sight! We need good people.

We're in the private room behind the phones.

Amy's friend, Janis

Who the heck is Janis? Bonnie wonders. She remembers passing two vintage phone booths on her way into the bar. She retraces her steps back to the two booths. There is no entrance. She's getting frustrated now. Is this some kind of joke? Who do I know that would mess with me? This is ridiculous...

She suddenly hears a London-style double ring from one of the phones.

RING RING…RING RING

Apprehensively, Bonnie picks up the bell-shaped receiver, raises it to her ear, and in the first of many surreal moments, speaks into the phone’s mounted, funnel-shaped mouthpiece.

“Hello?”

“Darling, we’re waiting. Come, let's have a chat!” requested a familiar British accent, followed by a CLICK.

Puzzled, Bonnie hangs up. Between the two booths a wooden disk begins to pulsate with a bright, glowing green light. Bonnie takes a closer look, as the disk becomes brighter and brighter, appearing to separate from the rest of the connecting wall. She pushes on the disk, and with a thunderous rolling sound, the dark wooden wall becomes a set of double doors that open to a place of unknown origin. Bonnie isn’t sure whether to be terrified or not. Perhaps this is something all the Twenty-Six Club patrons knew about.

Bonnie enters the room as Procol Harum's “A Whiter Shade of Pale” surrounds her. 

As she walks through the hallway, on her left are the framed autographed faces of Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix, and Jim Morrison. On her right are Brian Jones, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, and Pete Ham.

Bonnie finds herself in a medieval-style lounge area as the double doors close behind her. A bit startled, she convinces herself that this is probably all just part of the club's mystique. As she walks forward, she hears the clacking of her heels on the marble floor. The room is dimly lit, the colors dark, rugged and mysterious. There are large pieces of wooden furniture, chunky and dark, with intricate carvings.

As Bonnie's vision becomes clearer, she notices the figures of two women seated in over-sized chairs. On the floor in front of them is an antique treasure chest serving as a coffee table. The women seem to be in a deep but playful conversation, laughing and drinking from big brass goblets.

“When I sang, I felt like you do when you're first in love,” shared one of the women. “It's that first point of connection. But it's gigantic, multiplied by the whole audience. I got chills. On stage, I made love to twenty-five thousand people, then I went home alone.”

Bonnie feels the blood drain from her body. It was Janis - Janis Joplin, the belle of the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test ball. She is messy and beautiful. Janis has always been Bonnie's avatar for her raw and daring side. Janis is wearing layers of bracelets and necklaces. Her layered outfit includes a tank top with a vest and two leather belts hugging a pair of purple and pink striped bell-bottoms. Janis' face beams beneath a crown of flowers.

Seated next to Janis is a woman with a dramatic, yet undefinable style. She has black hair sculpted into an exaggerated beehive, dark winged eyeliner, and a skin-tight satin and velvet dress. To complete the look, her arms were covered with tattoos.

“I wasn't a natural born performer, but I was a singer. I was quite shy, really. You know what it's like,” the woman reflects.

This must be Amy, Bonnie thinks, recognizing the British accent.

The woman continues. “I don't mean to be sentimental or sappy, but it was a little like being in love, as you say, when you can't eat, you're restless. It's like that. But the minute you get on stage and start singing, everything's okay.”

Janis responds, “Music is the only kind of love I can deal with.”

Bonnie is trying to figure out how any of this makes sense. Janis died five years ago. She remembers crying for a week after that. It was a tough year for rockers, losing Janis as well as Jimi, Tammi Terrell, and Alan “Blind Owl” Wilson.

Janis continues, “The last time a guy spoke to me about love, it was Jim Morrison. He kept following me around writing poems about me. It was all too much. I ended up hitting him over the head with a bottle of Southern Comfort!” They both lean back laughing, and Bonnie, caught up in the moment, joins in. The two women stop and turn to Bonnie - a frozen moment. Bonnie is awe-struck.

“Oh, ducky! You've made it!” squeals the beehive woman. “It's me, Amy. We talked on the phone, remember?” Bonnie nods in acknowledgment, wondering when she’s going to wake up.

Leon Russell's “A Song For You” 

is now playing.

Janis says to Amy, “Looks like she's havin' a come-to-Jesus moment, don't it?” She laughs.

Janis invites Bonnie to sit in the empty chair across from them.

“Thank you,” Bonnie says nervously. “I don't quite understand...What is this place?”

“Rock ‘n’ roll purgatory, sweetheart,” declares Amy.

Bonnie’s eyes widen as she asks, “You mean I'm...”

“Hell no, darlin'. You ain't dead. You barely even got started. You haven't sacrificed enough yet, though. Ain't that right, Amy?”

Amy hoists her goblet high in approval.

Janis' bracelets jingle as she also raises her hand in the air and a small glass tumbler spontaneously materializes. She hands it to Bonnie. “Bourbon, right?”

“What? Oh yeah...sometimes.” Bonnie accepts the offering and takes a sip. She shudders as the bourbon goes down.

Thoughtfully, Janis says, “I prefer to call this place a stopover to paradise. We poor souls only come when we're needed. For some reason, you're the only one who can figure out if you need us for something. But it's a good scene, baby, so don't trip.”

...I love you in a place where there's no space or time. I love you for life, you're a friend of mine...

Bonnie wonders if it's the bourbon, but she is now feeling comfortable. These wonderfully complicated ladies are looking warmly at her. Why do they even care? she wonders. “You know...” Bonnie relates, “I often feel my loved ones that have passed on. I feel them looking over my shoulder...so yeah, this is pretty profound.”

Amy smiles, “You're so beautiful, luv. May I ask your age?”

“I'm twenty-six,” answers Bonnie.

"We're twenty-seven...as always.” Amy proclaims, rolling her eyes.

Janis examines Bonnie. “Look at that long, foxy hair! You could be a pop star, child!” she cackles.

Bonnie laughs. “I'm not that beautiful. And I sure as hell don't want to be a pop star!”

Janis continues, “As far as all the stardom stuff, I promised myself when I left Texas to always to just do what I love and never bullshit myself.”

Amy chimes in, “Ducky, most people our age spend a lot of time thinking about what they will be doing for the next ten years. The time they spend thinking about their lives, I would spend drinking.” She laughs and holds her goblet high. “I'll have another Rickstasy, please.” She lowers the goblet to her lips and takes a sip. “Mmmmm...thank you.”

“Hey, what's in that stuff anyway?” asks Janis.

“Well...it's three parts vodka, one part Southern Comfort, one part banana liqueur, and one part Bailey's.”

“That's a lot of parts,” quips Bonnie. She is feeling really comfortable now.

“Way too fancy for me,” winces Janis. “I'll take just the Southern Comfort and I'll be a happy lady! In fact...” She reaches inside a carpetbagger shoulder bag and pulls out a bottle. “Eureka!” she shouts, delighted at the vision of her favorite amber libation.

The music changes again. The sound of a demented organ announces the start of 

“Strawberry Fields Forever”.

“I got into my first band because they were my friends and the scene was happening. It was all my scene and my people,” Janis recalls with obvious nostalgia. “In small towns like the one I came from, you're supposed to get married right out of high school, have a brood of children, and keep you mouth shut.”

“I wouldn't say I was a feminist, but I didn't like girls pretending to be stupid just to get along,” adds Amy.

Janis grimaces. “Yeah, I would've never quit music to become someone's old lady.”

Bonnie smiles and leans in. “You know what? We have a choice. We ain't no amoebas.” The three women share a quiet moment of solidarity.

Janis is on a roll. “I never wore cardboard eyelashes and a girdle and played Vegas, but I was always just Janis.” Her eyes open wider. “I just did it on a slightly different level!”

They laugh again.

Amy looks Bonnie up and down and declares, “You must have found religion, duck. Your voice and melodies are simply angelic.”

She heard me sing? She heard me play? Bonnie wondered.

Bonnie takes another sip of bourbon, “Religion is for people who are scared to go to hell. Spirituality is for people who have already been there.” The other women nod in agreement.

Bonnie continues, “I feel that I was somehow brought here to be inspired."

“Who you are is what you settle for, you know,” Janis interjects.

“Every bad situation is a blues song waiting to be written, darling,” says Amy.

Bonnie sits back in her chair. She is silent for a moment, and then sighs. “It's the fear. The reason I can't write songs. The fear is paralyzing. I worry it won't be good enough. I mostly fear the naked honesty of the process.”

“I get it, sister. I always wanted to write my own stuff,” Janis confesses. “I was always a victim of my inner self. There was a time when I wanted to feel and explore everything. But what I found scared me. But Bonnie, that's where to good stuff is, where great writing comes from. Unfortunately, by the time I figured that out, I died.”

Willie Nelson’s “Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground” flows gently through the room. They embrace the song with reverence.

“I tried to write a song once, but when all was said and done, it turned out to be another version of ‘Stormy Monday Blues’.” Bonnie shakes her head and grins.

Janis faces Bonnie and says, “Never be frightened of being vulnerable, sweetie. There's no point in saying anything but the truth.”

Bonnie sits back and closes her eyes. The music changes again.

...just look to your soul

and open your mind

Crystal Blue Persuasion...

When Bonnie opens her eyes, she sees two very dusty chairs in front of her.

There's a knock at the door. “Miss Raitt? Are you okay? Miss Raitt? What are you doing in the storage room?” asks the maître'd.

Bonnie's head is spinning as she arrives back at her apartment. Am I inspired? Do I feel touched by a divine power? Have I gone stark raving mad? She doesn't know, but something is different. Feeling a powerful urge to write, she picks up her guitar.

Come on girl, you can do this!

Twenty minutes later, Bonnie has produced ten crumpled sheets of lyrics on the floor.

An hour later, she is pouring her second shot of Jack Daniels.

An hour after that, she is strumming a galloping rhythm on her guitar.

By midnight, she is asleep on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

...Climb in the back with your head in the clouds

And you're gone...

Lifting her head, Bonnie realizes that her living room is filled with pot smoke. Oh crap! Did I set the place on fire? When the smoke begins to clear, she can't believe what she is seeing: John and Yoko, in bed wearing their famous white pajamas.

Bonnie: Oh my God! Am I losing my mind?

John: Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.

Bonnie: John...uh..and Yoko? You guys are having a bed-in in my living room?

John: Anything for a good cause.

Bonnie: Rumor has it that you gave up making music, is that true?

John: Bonnie, that's just about as true as the existence of “Shaved Fish”.

Bonnie: In the sixties, you wrote the truth of a generation.

John: The thing the sixties did was to show us the possibilities, and the responsibility we all had to pursue them. It wasn't an answer, it just gave us a glimpse of creative opportunities.

Bonnie: When I was growing up, I saw my father become a successful performer largely by staying in the lane that was provided for him. When I try to carve out my own lane, I get lost.

John: Most kids draw, write poetry, and create art. Some of us continue into our teens before someone says, “That's not good enough.” We're told that all our lives. “You don't have the talent.” or “It's not supposed to be done that way.” It happens to all of us. If somebody had told me all my life, “Yeah, you're a great artist!” I would’ve been a more secure person.

Bonnie: It just seems that the process of writing, really good writing, the kind people can really feel, is such a personal and solitary experience.

Yoko: Music and lyrics are both art forms in and of themselves. But when music is combined with a powerful, honest message that needs to be expressed, there are few things more incredible than that!

John: Bonnie, listen to me very carefully. There are two basic motivating forces in life: fear and love. When we're afraid, we withdraw from life. When we're in love, we become open to all life has to offer. All hope for a better world rests in being fearless and open enough to embrace others as well as ourselves.

Bonnie: I have to figure out what I can write that people can feel.

John: Our role in society - any artist or poet's role - is to try to explain or describe feelings we have in common. We don't tell people what to feel.

Bonnie: But I don't know when I will ever be able to achieve that.

John: There is no time but the present. Anything else is a waste of time.

Well we all shine on
Like the moon and the stars and the sun
Well we all shine on

The phone rings. Bonnie opens one eye. The phone rings again. “Hello?”

"Hi, Ted. What ya got?” Bonnie quickly stands, knocking the ashtray to the floor.

“Oh shit! You ain't shittin' me, are you, dude?"

"Okay, sure."

"You mean they want me to do those cover tunes?"

"Two of them?"

"Oh, just one."

"Sure. Well, no, of course it's good news, Ted."

"Okay. Thanks, Ted. See ya.”

Bonnie is booked to be the opening act for the Doobie Brothers at the Troubadour, something she has really wanted. Her feelings are equally divided between elation and terror. She lights a joint, inhales its smoky courage, and releases it with a sigh of decisiveness. She puts out the joint and picks up her guitar. Come on girl. Cover tunes are fine but I think I have may somethin' to talk about. She takes a deep breath.

A tarnished frame traces us from long ago...

It's gig night at the Troubadour, West Hollywood's biggest little club, which is packed to capacity. The Troubadour is hallowed ground for the L.A. music scene. When the sound man gives Bonnie the two-minute warning, she gently squeezes her guitar. She now realizes that her music - all music - is communication. She has a new awareness that no one else can communicate what only she has to say.

At this moment, Bonnie remembers Janis: “Never be frightened of being vulnerable, sweetie. There's no point in saying anything but the truth.”

After Bonnie is introduced, she takes center stage. She has been through this many times over the years, starting with sharing the theater stage with her father as a child. But tonight, she feels naked. She has decided not to try to touch people through other people's words and music, but instead through her own. Bonnie waits until the club is silent. She tosses the guitar strap over her shoulder and steps up to the microphone.

“Hello, Troubadour! My name is Bonnie Raitt, and I hope you all enjoy this.”

She starts to play the intro with her eyes closed. When she gets to the verse, the melody is shimmery, clean, and crisp.

A tarnished frame traces us from long ago

It was taken the night we saw that Vegas show

Beside it is a picture of a much younger me

With shining eyes beside a Christmas tree

She takes a breath.

I'm a prisoner in my skin, unseen, unheard within

But I try to be the me I'm supposed to be

I play the part so well, you could never even tell

That the woman lying next to you isn't me.

A smattering of murmurs ripples through the audience.

An old married couple walked down the road 

ahead of me

Their hands were joined together like a tangled tree

I would love to feel that kind of 

authentic connection

Instead, my yearning comes from every direction

A tear falls.

But now, I've been freed from within. I'm seen. 

I'm hear., I'm open.

I am no longer the me I'm told to be

I got lost and I fell. Now you can tell

The woman lying next to you is me

As the applause grows, Bonnie feels her heart lift.

One by one, and then in groups, the audience stands - clapping, whistling, and shouting. The Doobie Brothers are cheering from just offstage. From the back of the club, the spotlight envelopes her, as if it's God's official blessing. Bonnie takes her bows, waves, and leaves the stage.

As the Doobie Brothers start their set, Ted takes Bonnie aside. He looks irritated. “I thought we agreed you were going to do a cover tune.”

Bonnie was too happy to worry.

“I'm really pissed, Bonnie.” Ted breaks into a broad grin. “I'm upset that you've been keeping your talent hidden.” He holds up a stack of business cards. “Do you know what these are, Bonnie?”

Bonnie shrugs. “I dunno. People you owe money to?” she laughs.

“No. They're producers, record companies, and artists who really want to work with you.”

Bonnie is called up onto the stage to join the band on “Black Water”. The rest of the night is filled with compliments, hugs, and high fives. She is approached by old friends, old enemies, and strangers. Bonnie has received plenty of praise in her twenty-six years, but this is different. For the first time, she is being acknowledged not for the talent she brings to other people's words and music, but to her own. People are connecting to what her heart has to say.

As the club empties, Bonnie walks onto the stage to retrieve her guitar. Suddenly, the spotlight reappears. She shields her eyes and looks toward the seats in the very back of the club. There, she can barely make out the silhouettes of two women. The shape of a large beehive hairdo, surrounded by swirls of smoke, makes Bonnie smile.

“I knew you could do it, kid!” crows a familiar voice.

Bonnie picks up her guitar and walks off the stage...a songwriter.

Memory House

 

Atlanta, Georgia - 1977

Lulu was on her way to the house in which she grew up from the age of eleven. Since her father was killed by the neighborhood police and her mother had left when she was four, the authorities tracked down her father's mother Diane in their search for a suitable guardian.

Lulu remembered every inch of that house. As she tilted the airplane seat back, her mind wandered as she stared out the window at the clouds. Closing her eyes, she was able walk from room to room through her childhood house in her mind. To her, it was as if the house was a living, breathing embodiment of her history. Scattered throughout the house, the secrets of her youth could be found in the dark cellars, deep closets, and heavy oak drawers.

Lulu's grandmother Diane made sure that her physical needs were taken care of. She made sure that Lulu was well groomed, well fed, had clean clothes, and had a roof over her head. Lulu's memories of her grandmother were made three-dimensional by the details of her house: the sound of the creaky back stairs, the smell of mothballs in the linen closet, and the hum of crickets in the backyard on summer nights. Lulu remembered her grandmother listening to old records while she danced in the arms of an invisible beau, her nightly glass of sweet tea in hand. Diane belonged in her home like a doll in her dollhouse. Each article of clothing, piece of furniture, and accessory seemed perfectly suited to her style and personality.

Diane was not a traditional grandmother in any sense. She was tough and energetic, and the guts and nerve contained in her petite five-foot frame rivaled that of ten men. Lulu remembered being told about the time when her grandmother had been a beautiful hat-check girl at the Tenderloin, which was a black nightclub in San Francisco in the 1920s. Diane would smile as she told Lulu stories about the great jazz they would play and the handsome young men that would flirt with her. Unfortunately, when Prohibition arrived, the club was eventually closed for good.

The best times in Lulu's childhood occurred when she lived with her father. During that time, she let her imagination run free. In the winter, her father would put her on his shoulders to keep her feet out of the snow. In the summer, she would run as fast as she could through the tall cornfields, whisked away like the wind, dancing with the fireflies, as quiet magic turned the sun from gold to red. She recalled how it felt to laugh squeal with joy.

When Lulu landed in Atlanta, she checked into The Westin Peachtree Hotel. The bellboy put her two yellow suitcases on the shag carpet next to the double bed. Lulu put on a smile like a mask, as she tipped the bellboy five dollars and watched him leave. When the door closed, she dropped her purse to the floor and flopped onto the center of the bed. It was all so surreal as she lay within the oversized daisies of the pattern on the bedspread. She remained very still as she looked up at the ceiling. Lulu was filled with dread. She was going back to a place she hadn’t been in twenty years. Yet, as she lay on the bed, she knew that she was only seven short miles from Hapeville.

Lulu was always a complex, intricate being, but never truly recognized her own beauty, either externally or from within, despite an abundance of compliments on her looks and admiration and awards for her deeds. By any standard of physical beauty, she stood out as powerfully stunning. She had a dark coffee skin tone, intense bright eyes, and an athletic build. Although soft-spoken, Lulu communicated loudly and clearly through her deeds and fashion, always on the lookout for the unusual and the unique. Her clothes were often loud and flamboyant, giving sophistication to even the most cutting-edge trends, and displaying a sense of experimentation and fearlessness. Lulu didn't follow trends, she created them. Within this framework lived a woman who was intelligent, spiritual, and fiercely motivated. Yet, all of that didn't help her with healing.

In 1970, Lulu opened a small bookstore in downtown Los Angeles. She couldn’t believe her luck in getting this location. In just 200 square feet of space came big things. She started by selling books exclusively about black women's issues and then feminism more broadly. After a year, the little store became a haven for energized feminist community meetings, leading to protests and solidarity-building events.

In 1972, the Los Angeles Times published an article about the hub that Lulu had created, focusing on her ability to organize and motivate. When asked about the source of her inspiration, she declared, “That's easy. I was a little black girl that had nothing but dreams.”

Shortly thereafter, a local museum curator offered her an opportunity to create a much-needed wing for a major Los Angeles museum that would be based on black feminism. She was known for her ever-changing displays that continued to inspire activists, artists, and young black girls.

The avocado-colored phone on the nightstand rang abruptly.

“Hello?”

“Yes, ma'am, this is the hotel operator. Ya'll have a call from a Reginald Simmons. Should I put the call through?”

“Yes. Go ahead. Thank you.”

“Thanks, ma'am. Here ya go.” Click.

“Lulu?” came a familiar and welcome voice from the receiver.

“Hey Reggie! Thanks for doing this.” Lulu lay back down on the bed.

“Are you kidding me, man? Do you know how long I've been waiting to see you?”

Lulu heard herself giggle. “Tell me, Reggie. How long?”

“I don't know. Twenty years?”

Reggie was a few years younger than Lulu and lived next door. They had wonderful times playing as children, which allowed them to escape the hard times, if only for a little while. They didn't see each other very often, because Reggie and his mother later moved to Montgomery, Alabama. But when they got together, it felt like they had never been apart. When Reggie grew up, he fully embraced the Rastafarian lifestyle, complete with dreadlocks, bright colored clothing, a positive attitude, and lots of ganja. Lulu was happy for him. He had found his way to some measure of inner peace.

Lulu: “It's so nice to hear your voice, Reggie. I just got here.”

Reggie: “So, I'm picking you up tomorrow at about 11 am, right?”

She thought for a second.

Lulu: “Yes. That'll be fine.”

Reggie: “Oh, by the way Lulu, I need to warn you about your grandmother....”

She sat up.

Lulu: “Yeah, the hospital called me when she broke her ankle. That was a couple of months ago. She's been back home for a couple of weeks now, I think.”

Reggie: “That's right. As you know, I've moved back to Georgia. I live in Atlanta now. So, I've been checking in on your grandma.”

Lulu: “Yeah, I know. I haven't really thanked you properly for that. Let's do the town while I'm here.”

Reggie: “Oh...uh, sure, okay. Well, anyway, it's just that your grandmother probably isn't how you remember her. I mean...have you talked to her on the phone recently?”

Lulu: “Only a few times over the years, sorry to say. And it was always very brief.”

There was a pause.

Reggie: “Okay. 11 am. Get some rest and be out in front! See you then.”

Lulu hung up the phone and lay back down. She was now no longer feeling nostalgic, but instead fighting back unpleasant memories. 

She remembered when her grandmother would unleash her anger like flying shards of broken glass. “I'm sick of raising other people’s kids!” she would shriek. “You are spoiled and ungrateful. You’re a lazy girl. Do you have any idea what hard work you’re gonna need to do in this world?” This recollection shook Lulu. The furious look on her grandmother's face was etched in her brain. “Go to the back yard and bring me a switch!” In her mind, Lulu heard the whipping sound as if it had just happened. By the age of thirteen, Lulu had become or numb to this type of punishment, and she learned to keep out of her grandmother's way.


Lulu’s grandmother Diane never understood the need to provide anything else beyond food, clothing, shelter, and education. So, for Lulu to ask to go to a friend’s house or to a dance was taken as being ungrateful, since these things were considered frivolous. Diane would constantly remind Lulu how lucky she was because, as she put it, “What if I had just left you in foster care? Where do you think you’d be?” Lulu learned early on that she had to be fiercely independent. In a way, she was grateful to her grandmother for teaching her not to need.

Lulu and Reggie pulled up in front of Diane's house. The passage of time had changed things so much. Lulu's memories were static, like old photographs. Lulu sat for a full minute looking out the passenger window of Reggie's '67 Buick Skylark. She saw her grandmother sitting in the same chair in which she had always been sitting, yet she seemed like just any old lady. As they got out of the car, Lulu’s grandmother didn't seem to notice them. She was staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Reggie approached Diane. “How are you? You look beautiful!” Diane looked at Reggie's sandals. “I see why you’re out here”, Reggie continued. “It's a beautiful Georgia day! Look who I brought over!” He motioned for Lulu to join him. Her grandmother glanced at Lulu's purple pumps. “It's Lulu! Look, it’s Lulu!”

“Grandma?” Lulu kneeled. “How are you, Grandma?” Diane had fixed her gaze on Lulu’s pumps. She and Reggie looked at each other, wondering what to do next.

“I want those! Gimme those!” Diane shouted, causing Reggie and Lulu to jump.

“What?” squeaked Lulu. She began to panic.

Diane was once again focused on Lulu's purple pumps. “Those shoes! They're mine! Take them off! They're mine!”

Reggie elbowed Lulu, in an attempt to snap her out of her shock. He whispered, “Give her your shoes. You'll get them back later.” Lulu complied.

Diane snatched the shoes from Lulu and smiled. She looked at Lulu’s face for the first time in twenty years. “Thank you, little girl,” she said. “Next time, ask me first when you want to borrow them. Reginald, take me inside. My stories are coming on the radio.”

The neighbor, Mrs. Brown, opened the door for them. “Reggie, I've got to get back now. Y'all okay? “Oh hello. I'm Mrs. Brown, and I live next door. Good to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Brown. Thank you for watching my grandmother,” said Lulu.

“Aw, she's all right. Crazy as a road lizard but a good ol' girl. Hey Diane, you be nice to these folks!” With that, Mrs. Brown left the house.

Reggie helped Diane up from the porch chair and guided her toward the front door. She stopped and turned to see a heartbroken Lulu alone on the porch. Diane gave Lulu a big, broad smile.

“Reginald, where's your manners! Show your friend inside. And give her some ham hocks. She needs some meat on her bones.” Lulu felt like a stranger.

Reggie set Diane up in front of the television. She was thrilled as she watched Mannix. Reggie and Lulu went into the kitchen. Reggie whispered, “She loves Mannix. Actually, she loves his assistant Gail...”

“Reggie!” Lulu complained. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why didn't I tell you? The truth is, Lulu, I didn't tell you because I thought you wouldn't come if I did.”
Silence.

“I deserved that. I'm sorry,” Lulu admitted.

Reggie put his hand on Lulu's shoulder and went on to explain that Diane had gone through a change. He described it as if she wore different costumes of the mind, and that each costume was unique and from a different time in her life.

Reggie’s voice began to crack. “I’m painfully aware of your grandma’s constantly changing emotions and identity. Sometimes she’s scared of her own reflection in the bathroom mirror. It's heartbreaking.”

“Can she see a specialist for this? I’ll pay for it.”

Reggie smirked, “Yeah, and after that, let's take her to the spa up in Decatur. Come on girl! Where you been? Black folk don't get to see specialists 'round here.”

Lulu was baffled.

“When this first started, it was when she was in the hospital for her ankle,” Reggie explained. “They said she was experiencing dementia. Then she saw a doc that her neighbor recommended, and he said she will not only be forgetting things but all of us too.”

Lulu began to cry. Reggie held her until the tears stopped.

“There's my girl! Gail, you show that Mannix how it's done, baby!” Diane shouted at the television.

Reggie: “They say it won't happen all at once. But obviously she can't be alone. I can't take care of her because, ever since my divorce, I finally got a place where the court will let me have my kids over.”

Lulu: “I know Reggie, you've gone way above and beyond what anyone else would do.”

Reggie: “Lulu, you need to figure out what's gonna happen with your grandma.”

Reggie agreed to stay another week to help Lulu become familiar with this extremely bizarre situation. Lulu had given notice to the museum that she was going to take a couple of months off to take care of “family issues”.

After a couple of weeks, Diane still had still not recognized Lulu. The sadness Lulu carried with her about that was something she was starting to become accustomed to. That sadness just became part of her.

Lulu organized the house so that her grandmother could still maintain a sense of independence. She set herself up in a little room off the kitchen, so she would be able to monitor her grandmother’s activities. Lulu scattered items around the house, such as a drawing she had painted in kindergarten, a music box containing a dancing ballerina, and a Raggedy Ann doll, all in an effort to trigger her grandmother’s memories.

Lulu occasionally paid Mrs. Brown to sit with her grandmother while she ran errands. Lulu was quite aware that all this was not sustainable, because she knew that Diane would eventually be getting worse. Should I put her in a home here in Georgia? Should I bring her to California? Lulu was able to temporarily push these thoughts out of her mind.

When she was in the city shopping for things for the house, Lulu came up with what she thought was a brilliant idea: she would give her grandmother a makeover. She quickly found her way to the cosmetics counter of a nearby store, and bought some makeup, lotions, sprays, and hair styling tools, inspired by the thought of the joy it would bring to her grandmother. Lulu saw this as her way of restoring her grandmother’s youthful spirit.

When Lulu returned to the house, she knocked at the door for what seemed like fifteen minutes. Did the neighbor lady leave? Did something happen? Diane finally cracked the door open just enough to peer outside. She squinted at Lulu like a mole poking its head from its hole into the bright sunlight. Lulu entered, as her grandmother walked slowly back to the couch, stoop-shouldered, her head hanging sadly, mumbling softly to herself. Diane lowered her small frame onto the sofa. Her fragile body was meek and helpless, dwarfed by the portrait of her at twenty-two hanging on the wall behind her, mocking her. It was painted by a man who loved her, who left like the rest, because Diane didn't know how to give love in return.

In the painting, Diane was wearing a stunning emerald green dress. It was slightly off the shoulders, revealing her beautiful chocolate skin. She would wear it to the local juke joints when she was drinking and dancing with her friends.

Forty-five years later, Diane was sitting beneath her own portrait, her gray skin looking faded, blending into dull gray, lifeless hair, covered with a hair net and several dangling hair pins. Her pink terrycloth robe was showing bits of her breakfast from that morning.

“Grandma, where did Mrs. Brown go?” asked Lulu. It was obvious from her grandmother’s expression that she didn't understand the question. “Never mind, Grandma, I have a surprise for you. I'm going to pretty you up more than you already are.”

“I know you!” exclaimed Diane, loudly. Lulu didn't even hope anymore.

“You're the lady that sells fabric downtown, right? I need some gingham to make curtains,” Diane continued.

Lulu sighed. “Okay, Grandma, let me get at your hair.”

Lulu removed the hair pins from Diane's hair. Lulu asked if she would also like her fingernails and toenails polished. Her grandmother just stared at her feet, which were nestled inside two fuzzy pink slippers. Lulu stood behind her, picked up the hand mirror, and placed it in Diane's hand. When they both saw their reflections, Diane turned away, her eyes wild and frantic. Lulu gently removed Diane’s hair net and began combing out her hair. Lulu flashed back to when she was a child, watching her grandmother’s skilled hand, painstakingly put rollers into her blue-black hair. Every roller was planned, and every pin was in place. But now, her grandmother's hair represented the absence of color in her life.

Suddenly, Diane bolted forward, stood up, and raced to the Raggedy Ann doll that was sitting on the wooden rocking chair. She started rocking back and forth, making a cooing sound. Fearfully, Lulu turned to face her. Diane was cradling the doll with her eyes closed, smiling.

She opened her eyes, frowned, and looked at Lulu. "Mine!", she protested. "This is MY dolly!". She hid the doll under her robe.

"Okay, Grandma," said Lulu.

Diane slowly pulled the doll from her robe and began removing its clothes, while keeping a watchful eye on Lulu. Diane was like a five-year-old girl. Lulu smiled at the ironic childhood memory of wanting her grandmother to be her playmate.

"Do you like my dolly?" Diane asked.

"Yes. And you're such a great mommy too!" Lulu told her.

Diane giggled like a little imp. She took the comb from Lulu's hand and asked if she could comb her hair. She told Lulu that "just yesterday" her mother had taught her how to braid hair. Lulu was delighted to comply.

Diane combed out Lulu's hair as she had done millions of times before, but this time she sang little girl songs while doing so. Although she was dependent and at times felt powerless that afternoon, Diane taught Lulu a lesson that no other grandmother would have the tools to teach - a lesson that even transcended dementia. That afternoon, Lulu realized that she had a unique opportunity to connect with her grandmother in a way that didn’t require the normal boundaries that define one’s identity.

Although Lulu felt relieved each time her grandmother would “return”, she felt a bit selfish. At that point, Diane's face would fill with the anguish that came with awareness of her decline. Her overwhelming grief would come in waves. Diane experienced her memory losses one by one, each dissecting a factor of her being, forever irretrievable, fruitlessly clinging to echoes and shadows long left behind.

Lulu felt that if she could be unselfish long enough to stop mourning her grandmother, she would see that she was thinking too small. Her grandmother was no longer defined by the constraints of age, she thought. It's almost as if the powers that be struck a deal with her grandmother...Diane would only be allowed a given memory if she surrendered to it completely.

L U N C H

“Is that all you're having?” Leslie asked after Jessica ordered a dinner salad: no cheese, no croutons, no dressing and a Diet Coke. “I’m not really that hungry.” Jessica looked down at the napkin on her lap. “I had a huge breakfast.”
The waitress shifted her weight from one sandaled foot to the other, impatient. Leslie saw toenails painted purple, the polish faded and chipped. “Well, I guess I’m the only one who’s eating, so I'll try to eat enough for both of us.” The waitress did not crack a smile. “I'll have the Bacon Cheeseburger with the seasoned fries.”
“To drink?” The waitress stared at the fat on Leslie’s arms.
“A Diet Coke. I'm trying to watch my figure.” Leslie gave a self-deprecating laugh, felt her face grow warm.
The waitress nodded, tucked her pad into her apron and finally smiled. Leslie watched her stop at a booth near the kitchen to flirt with two college guys, streaks of blonde staining their light brown hair. She turned her attention back to Jessica. “So, I haven’t seen you in—what... two years, at least? What have you been doing with yourself?”
Besides not eating? Thought Leslie.
Leslie studied her friend. Jessica had taken the napkin from her lap and was now twisting a corner into shreds. Bits of white paper floated like ash onto the red table cloth. She appeared malnourished, diluted, empty. Her once plump face had retreated into her skull. The skin stretched tight against it. Her dark brown hair, so thick and unruly 10 months ago, seemed to have thinned right along with the rest of her. It hung limp and lifeless in a tight ponytail. Her sweatshirt engulfed her like a blanket and seemed out of place in the Arizona summer heat.
“Oh, not much, I guess.” Jessica gave a half-smile that failed to reach her eyes. Leslie noticed the dark circles underneath.
“You're lucky. You're going back to LA. Do you like it there? You must. You didn't come home for the holidays, and I guess you were too busy to answer my emails.” Leslie gave her friend a look. She couldn’t help it. A whole year and only two emails.
She and Jessica were best friends. They had grown up across the street from each other, did everything together: read the same books, liked the same music, and shared crushes on boys. Over the years, they'd eaten hundreds of meals with each other and traded tons of clothes—extra large—until now. Now, Leslie was fat, and Jessica was thin.
“Yeah, I guess.” Jessica had stopped playing with her napkin and was now examining a photo on the dessert plaque: two giant brownies piled high with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge, whipped cream and chocolate shavings.
“Yeah, I guess what? I guess - that you like LA? Or I guess - that you didn’t have time to answer my emails?” For Christ's sake. Jessica was still looking at the dessert menu. Leslie tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Do you want to split a dessert?”
“No, I was just looking,” Jessica set the dessert plaque back on the table. “I’m sorry I didn’t email you. Things were just… I don’t know… Different. No—difficult. They were difficult, with work and all. Overwhelming, actually."
“Well, you sure look good. What did you do? Stop eating?” The words came out sarcastic and cruel. Leslie tried to smooth the jealousy and resentment, and harsh wrinkles, out of her voice. “Aren't you boiling in that sweatshirt? I mean, flaunt it if you got it, right? I know I would.”
Jessica shrugged. “I get cold in the air conditioner. And who'd want to look at this, anyway?” She gestured to her body and stuck out her tongue.
“Please, tell me you're joking. Now, me, on the other hand,” Leslie held her hands away from her hips. Leslie felt uncomfortable. Isn’t this the type of thing they'd made fun of in high school?
The waitress returned with their drinks and told them their order would be out shortly. Jessica looked expectantly towards the kitchen. Leslie found herself staring in the same direction, waiting for her cheeseburger to arrive, so she could eat, make her excuses and leave the hollowed out stranger sitting across from her.
The waitress returned and put their food on the table. Leslie started to pour ketchup on her fries, when she noticed Jessica staring at her salad with a taut expression. “What’s wrong? They couldn’t have screwed up your order. You didn’t order anything.”

“I can’t eat this.” Jessica picked a small piece of shredded cheddar from her salad and held it up for Leslie to see. She looked as if she were on the verge of screaming or tears. Leslie couldn’t tell which.
“OK, so pick it out. That’s what they’re going to do, if you send it back. It’s no big deal, really.” Leslie rolled her eyes.
“No, I can’t eat this,” Jessica pushed the plate of salad away from her and watched Leslie take a bite of her cheeseburger.
“Christ, send it back, then. Eat something, for God's sake. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To eat.”
Jessica sunk down into the orange, vinyl chair. Her teeth clenched, and she crossed her arms and hugged her sides until she resembled someone in a straitjacket. She looked panicked, like she expected Leslie to jump across the table and force feed her the salad— cheese and all.

“Sorry. Look, we'll send it back. They'll make you a new salad, and everyone will be happy, OK?” Leslie patted her friend’s hand. “OK?”
Jessica’s eyes glistened. She dabbed at them with the remnant of her napkin and nodded like an obedient child. “All right. Thanks.” Uncrossing her arms, she sat up in the booth.
Leslie motioned for the waitress. “Look—there's a piece of cheese on this salad. Could we get another one?”
“But the cheese is off the salad now. It's on the plate.” The waitress put her hands on her hips and appeared annoyed.
"Yes, I know, but we," Leslie tilted her head towards Jessica, "need a new salad."
Jessica shrunk back down into the chair.
The waitress sighed and started to remove the salad. Jessica touched her arm and she stopped, clearly exasperated, as Jessica asked hesitantly, “Uhm…Would it be possible for you to leave that one here? I won't eat it. I just want to be sure you don’t bring me the same salad twice.”

I may be fat, but at least I'm not a nut case, Leslie thought.
“If that's what you want.” The waitress sighed, louder this time, and headed back to the kitchen. On her way, she stopped to say something to the two guys in the booth, which made them laugh and sneak glances at Leslie and Jessica's table while the waitress shook her head. Leslie took a bite of her cheeseburger and tried not to notice their amusement, stuffing her annoyance down into her gut. The meat was cooked just right, a little pink in the middle. She wiped her chin with her napkin. Jessica watched her intently.
“Do you want a bite?” Leslie asked.
“No. It just looks good.”
“It is good.” Leslie smacked her lips and dipped a fry in ketchup. “I'd offer you some, but it might make you fat.”
The waitress returned with the salad: lonely leaves of Romaine, naked and vulnerable on a white porcelain plate that clanked the table when she set it down. Jessica thanked her, but the waitress ignored her.
Leslie watched her friend methodically cut each leaf into shreds of green confetti, then carefully lift a speck to her mouth and chew it slowly. Leslie could tell that Jessica was counting as she chewed: 1,2,3,4 .....19, 20, swallow. Leslie’s anger grew. “Are you going to chew every bite twenty times? Because I really don't want to sit here all day.” I mean it's a little odd, don't you think?” She imitated her friend, “Oh, do you mind, I can't eat this. I already picked the cheese out, but I still need a brand new one. Oh—and, by the way, can you leave the salad here, because I want to make sure that you don't just bring me the old one. Because if you did, I probably couldn't tell the frigging difference!”
Jessica seemed to shrink deep inside herself. “Sorry. Look if you want the salad that I'm not eating...” Her voice quivered and then trailed off. Leslie threw her cheeseburger onto the plate. It landed in a pile of ketchup, which splattered onto the front of her blouse.
“You, actually think, this is about me wanting to eat more food? Christ, you would think that. Why should I be so surprised? You think that I want to eat your stupid salad!” Leslie's voice was rising. The guys sitting in the booth by the kitchen stared. She glared at them. “We've been best friends our whole lives. Then, you decide to move to LA. And you stop responding to my emails, stop returning my calls. You blow me off like I'm someone you hardly know, don't want to know! What—were you too busy learning not to eat to remember that I wanted to hear from you, to talk to you? And then, you don't even tell me you're back—my mom heard you were in town and told me." Leslie shook her head. "I don't know why the hell I asked you to lunch.”
Jessica stared at her salad. Leslie continued, “It's like your personality disappeared along with the rest of you.” She looked across the table—daring Jessica to say something, to do something. Jessica kept her eyes on her plate, her shoulders hunched, her jaw set, her face expressionless.
The waitress reappeared. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine.” Leslie said tightly. Jessica didn't look up. The waitress put their check on the table and left.
Leslie looked down at her cheeseburger. She had taken only a few bites, yet, there was barely half left. Christ, you really are a pig, she thought, disgusted. The waitress was now leaning against the booth where the guys Leslie had glared at just a moment ago were seated. All three of them were looking her way. Leslie felt like an irate mother loudly chastising a cowering child down an aisle in a crowded supermarket. She was embarrassed. Embarrassed to be the fat woman who downed a cheeseburger while her super skinny friend ate threads of lettuce off a salad plate. “You know what. Just forget it. Lunch is on me.” Leslie grabbed the check and slid out of the booth. “Enjoy your salad.”
The trio next to the kitchen watched Leslie walk to the register. She kept her eyes fixed on the red and black circles covering the carpet like intersecting hoola hoops. When she handed her check to the smiling woman behind the register, Leslie realized the waitress had charged her for both salads. Go figure, she thought, but paid anyway.
Outside the restaurant, she examined her reflection in the window. Her blonde hair was dull. Too thick. Her mother said it brought out her brown eyes, but all Leslie saw was a double chin. Her blouse—the nicest thing she owned—was too tight. The material strained at her armpits, and she felt it digging into her back whenever she moved. Her pants had wedged their way up her butt, again. She bought them thinking their black color would be slimming. Now she walked around with a permanent wedgie and a roll of fat peeking over an elastic waistband.
Leslie could see Jessica through the window. 

She was still hunched over her barren salad at the table. Leslie had hoped, even expected, to see Jessica upset: her head on the table or in her hands, tears moistening her face, dampening her eyes. But Jessica appeared relieved as the offending salad lay, untouched, across from her.

She was pretty, Leslie realized. Even with the thinning ponytail and baggy sweatshirt, she was still a striking figure—exotic, like a Russian ballet dancer. Leslie thought about going back into the restaurant to apologize, but shoved the impulse down, where it mingled uncomfortably with jealousy and shame, anger and resentment. Maybe she would call Jessica tomorrow. She felt her stomach gurgle. She wished she had the remaining half of her cheeseburger. She was still hungry.

Leslie stepped off the elevator and walked slowly down the corridor. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and citrus; the fluorescent light—harsh and artificial—bathed the corridor in grey. A young man in green hospital scrubs pushing a cart of covered meal trays walked in front of her.
She didn't like hospitals—but then, who did? Leslie bitterly recalled visiting her grandfather. Just one of a thousand other patients, he would stare up at the ceiling from a hospital bed in the final stages of his cancer, incoherent from the drugs they had given him for pain. She had hated those visits. Hated the parchment feel of her grandfather’s skin. The sourness of his breath. The oxygen tubes shoved up his nose. The disinfectant and air freshener that only partially succeeded in masking the smells of disease, old age and dying from her grandfather's room. Most of all, she hated herself for hating it. For her relief at his death—not because it ended his suffering, but because it ended those dreaded weekly visits.
The only bright spot, Leslie thought wryly, had been the vending machine down the hall from the nurse's station. As they finally made their way out of the hospital, her father would give her two quarters for her favorite candy bar. C9—Snickers. It stuck to the roof of her mouth. Made her teeth hurt. But it kept the visits bearable in her eight year-old mind. She wanted one now: wanted the familiar comfort sticking to the roof of her mouth.
Leslie was looking for room 406. The corridor veered off to the left, and she side-stepped a balding janitor in a gray jumpsuit who was hunched over a mop that he moved back and forth over the bone color tile. She passed a middle aged nurse wearing cutesy hospital scrubs—Snoopy and Woodstock somersaulting down the front—that were supposed to remind you of a happier place, a healthier place.

Leslie stood in the corridor for a moment, working up her courage, before continuing past the open door to Room 404. She could hear Oprah's familiar voice floating out to the hallway.
The door to room 406 was closed. A clear plastic pocket on the door, just below the number, held a pink slip of paper with the name, “Jessica Lentz”, printed in black ink. A menu had been taped to the outside of the door: protein—beef enchilada; starch—refried beans; vegetable—salad; dessert—pineapple upside down cake. The words 'High Calorie' were scrawled in pencil across the bottom. Leslie took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in.” The voice was quiet with hardness just beneath the surface.
Leslie opened the door and was met with the severe plainness of a hospital room: egg shell walls and bedding; an oversize chair with a table beside it. A wicker basket held an African violet, dying from lack of water and sun. The white curtains to the only window on the far wall were closed: a sliver of sunlight fell onto the floor, making it the most cheerful spot in the room. There was a small, flat screen TV, turned off and mounted onto the wall across from the bed, where Jessica sat upright, wearing a gown tied at the back, her legs covered by a white blanket, a tray table over her lap. 

A meal tray, still covered, sat upon the table along with a stack of Glamour magazines: a litany of airbrushed perfection on each page. Leslie could smell enchilada sauce. The sensor for a heart monitor was attached to Jessica's left index finger.

“You came. I didn't think you would.” Jessica's cheekbones protruded out to the point of being grotesque and a bit freakish compared to the last time Leslie had seen her through the plate glass window of the restaurant three months earlier. Deep hollows were sunk into the flesh below them. Her green eyes appeared dull and lackluster, with dark circles underneath. Her once thick hair, pulled back into an untidy ponytail, had thinned to the point of balding. Her arms were blanketed in soft, dark hair with wrists that stuck out like knobby knees. Jessica had become a skeleton: a set of elbows and shoulder blades, a collar bone, a chest cavity, a rib cage, a skull.
“You've lost weight.” It was all Leslie could think of to say.
“And you've gained weight.” Jessica gave a wry smile. Her dry lips cracked apart, revealing teeth, once white, now a transparent shade of grey.
Leslie shrugged. “I see you got your personality back.”

“Somewhat, or so they tell me. It was my shrink's idea, your visiting, that is. He said it would be beneficial for me to see some of my friends.” Jessica adjusted her blanket and looked hard at Leslie. “I told him I didn't have any.”
“Your mom called me. I assumed you were back in LA.” Leslie noticed she was still standing in the open doorway. She'd been so shocked by Jessica's wasted appearance that she had simply stopped there.
Jessica motioned to the chair by the window. “You can come in. I don't bite.” She laughed, as though she was letting Leslie in on some private joke.
Leslie crossed the room and sat down. The oversize chair was cold and uncomfortable. It went with the rest of the room. She noticed a white grid-chart taped to the right of Jessica's bed. It was divided into weeks, divided into days, and further divided into meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—and was sparsely decorated with a handful of gold stars. “What's that?” Leslie pointed to the chart.
“It's my, Good Girl! You Cleaned Your Plate! chart. I get a gold star every time I finish a meal.”
Leslie counted the stars. Five. Jessica had five stars. Five stars sprinkled here and there over a three week period.
“I'm supposed to get something if I get three stars in a day.”
“What do you get?”
“I don't know—I can't remember. It hasn't happened yet.”
“Oh.” Leslie continued looking at the chart. There was a star for breakfast on a Friday in the first week. A star for breakfast on a Tuesday and a Thursday in the second week. A star for breakfast on a Wednesday and a Friday in the third week. "Why only breakfast?"
“Lightest meal of the day.”
“Oh.” Leslie motioned to the plant on the table. “Your plant needs water.”
“Let it die. At least I'll have some company.” Leslie didn't say anything. “I didn't think you'd come.”

Leslie thought of her grandfather, felt ashamed. “I almost didn't.”
“I know. I almost didn't go to lunch with you that day.”
“Why did you?” Leslie remembered how badly it ended and felt bad.
“Why did you come here?” Jessica stopped playing with the blanket and looked at Leslie.
“I don't know. To show you I care.” It was a lame answer, Leslie thought. She should have cared back then. She should have cared three months ago.
“That's why I came to lunch.” Jessica uncovered her meal tray. She picked up a fork and played with her refried beans. “I don't judge you, you know. I never did.” She pointed the fork at Leslie. “You judge yourself.” Bits of bean and cheese stuck to the tines. “You judged me.”
“I'm sorry.” Leslie couldn't look Jessica in the eye.
“I know. Everybody's sorry—except me.” Jessica stabbed her fork into the center of her enchilada. It stayed there, sticking up like a flag of surrender.
The middle-aged nurse, with the Snoopy hospital scrubs, knocked on Jessica's partially open door and then bustled in without waiting for a response. Upon seeing Leslie, she smiled broadly. “Well, someone has finally got a visitor. How are you? I'm glad to see that this little thing doesn't have to sit here all day with nothing but some women's magazines to keep her company. My name's Janie. And now, Miss ‘I-don't-have-any-friends’, would you care to introduce me?”
“This is Leslie. We went to school together.” Jessica folded her arms and pursed her lips.
Leslie could see Nurse Janie wanted more in the way of an introduction, so she stood up and held out her hand. “I'm an old friend of Jessica's. Nice to meet you.”
Jessica shook her head and rolled her eyes. Nurse Janie ignored her. “It's a pleasure.” She shook Leslie's hand and then turned to face Jessica. “OK, Miss Jessica, are we eating or playing today? Don't make me call Doctor Martin on you. I really don't think those little twigs you call arms can take any more IV's. Do you?”
Leslie saw that the insides of Jessica's arms were bruised yellow and blue. She sat back down, feeling foolish.
“I'm working on another star, Nurse Janie, working on another star. But you have to be patient, because everybody knows that you can't rush perfection.” Jessica plucked her fork out of the enchilada and started to mash her refried beans some more. She made a criss cross pattern over them. Turning to Leslie, she asked “Remember when we used to make peanut butter cookies with your mom?”
Leslie nodded. When she and Jessica had gotten older, her mother no longer felt it necessary to supervise, and they made the cookies by themselves. Without Leslie’s mother there to dole each cookie out with an admonishment about widening waistlines, Leslie and Jessica would eat the whole batch.
“Humph. I'll be back in another hour, Miss Jessica. Don't make me call the doctor, you hear?” The nurse looked at Leslie. "Try to get her to eat."
Leslie nodded at the woman in the Snoopy scrubs and glanced over at Jessica, who was giving her the middle finger. The nurse didn't notice. Leslie tried to keep her face solemn. “I will.” Nurse Janie left, closing the door behind her with a soft thud, leaving the two of them alone with each other once more.
“Are you going to eat your enchilada?” Leslie asked.
“Of course not. Do you want it—Ooops, sorry. I forgot. Sensitive subject.”
Leslie ignored the dig. “How long will you be in here?”
“Till I get better or die—whichever comes first.” Jessica laughed dryly. “I'm not in here by choice, you know. I'm an involuntary patient. A danger to myself and no one else. My body is not my own. At least, not anymore.” She sighed. “I've lost all control of it. I've lost all control.”
“You know you're thin, don't you?”

“That's a stupid question.” Jessica stabbed her enchilada once more. “Of course I know I'm thin. Why the hell else would I be in here? The real question is, do I know for sure I won't get fat if I let myself eat? The answer to that question—MY DEAR FAT FRIEND—is a resounding NO. No, I don't know for sure. And the doctors—I have a shitload of doctors, here: specialists, therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, nutritionists, cardiologists—But I'm getting off topic. The doctors ask me, ‘Why are you so scared of gaining weight, Jessica?’ ‘What, exactly, does fat mean to you?’” Jessica pushed the tray table away from the bed. She kicked the blanket onto the floor and wrapped her skeletal arms around her knees, pulling them up to her chin and rocking back and forth with her eyes squeezed shut. She emitted a long, low groan from deep inside.
“Everything OK?” Nurse Janie peeked in.
“Yes. Fine. Go away. I'm just visiting with my friend.” Jessica opened her eyes again. “We're fine. Aren't we Leslie? We're just fine.”
The nurse looked at Leslie. Leslie nodded her head. “Everything's all right. Thanks.” Janie retreated back into the corridor, but this time, she left the door open.
Jessica tucked her knees farther under her chin. Her bones gave her body sharp angles. “You think you can control things. You think you have everything under control. You think you are in control. Then poof—” She made a disappearing motion with her hands. “Everything controls you. Until it doesn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is how much food you get to eat today. If you can just stick to the plan, then everything will be OK. But then you worry that you're eating too much. Maybe it's still too much. So you start to take it away. Piece by piece. Ounce by ounce. Calorie by calorie. Meal by meal. 'Til there's nothing left. And you can't go back, because you don't really know how the hell you got here in the first place. Am I making sense?”
Leslie stayed silent.
“When I was fat, I think I was happy. I don't remember not being happy. I remember laughing when I was with you. Then, you weren't there to hold my hand. And I'm in California losing weight, reinventing myself. And it was so easy. Losing weight is the easiest thing I've ever done. But from the way people treated me, you'd have thought I'd won the Pulitzer. Suddenly, I existed. I mattered. Guys who’d looked right through me at 140 pounds, started asking me out when I hit 110. And it just kept getting easier. It was so easy that I started getting scared I would disappear, again. That I would cease to exist. How can I ever let that happen? I mean—Christ! — even my own parents. They saw me at 110 on their only visit to LA, and it's the proudest I've ever seen them. They were so proud that their fat daughter had finally gotten thin.”
Jessica was crying, now. Tears streamed down her sallow face and into the hollows of her cheeks. She sniffled. Leslie looked for a box of tissue, found none, and tried to open what looked like the bathroom door to get some toilet paper. The door wouldn't open.
“It's locked. You have to get the nurse to open it.” Jessica grimaced and wiped her face with the sleeve of her hospital gown. “I kept flushing my food. In fact, I think I got three of my stars that way.” Leslie sat back down. Jessica exhaled slowly and looked at her. “You know, maybe I'm just trying to get even with all the bastards who didn't give a damn about me until I was thin—”
“That'll show 'em,” Leslie interrupted, sarcastic, but without cruelty.

Leslie checked her friend's reaction. Jessica was looking at her, the hint of a smile upon her lips which spread like water to the rest of her features in a ripple of animation, easing her skin and brightening her eyes, her rib cage and shoulder blades convulsing in waves. Jessica was laughing. A real laugh. And then, Leslie was laughing, too. It was a relief to know they still had the ability to laugh, together again.
“Well, that is music to my ears. Let me tell you.” Nurse Janie stood in the open doorway. She was smiling. She noticed the tray table shoved to the side of the bed where Jessica's meal lay—desecrated, cold and uneaten. The smile disappeared and she grew serious. She sighed audibly. Leslie stopped laughing. Jessica sat back in her hospital bed and hugged her shoulders. Janie continued, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, ladies, but it looks like I'm going to have to call Dr. Martin after all. Unfortunately, visiting hours are over.” The nurse gave Leslie a disappointed glance. Jessica's face hardened.
Leslie got up to leave and noticed the plant on the table, a Blue African violet, slowly dying as it waited patiently for water and sun. “Could I have some water for the plant?” she asked the nurse. “There's probably a cup in the bathroom, but it's locked.”

“My parents brought me that. I'm letting it die,” Jessica's arms were still crossed, her face defiant.
“I want to water it.” Leslie waited.
“Do what you want, but I'm not touching the thing once you leave.”
Nurse Janie had already unlocked the bathroom door and was holding a small plastic pitcher of water. Leslie took the pitcher and poured it over the plant. Its blue petals shimmered with moisture. She caressed a dark, green velvet leaf with her fingertips. Once water started to pool in the tray beneath, Leslie stopped pouring. The pitcher was almost empty. Taking the wicker basket off the table, she carefully placed it under the rectangular patch of sun on the floor by the window. “There.” Leslie stood up and smiled. “I think your plant is happier.”
Jessica smirked. “Are you trying to be subtle?”
Leslie shrugged her shoulders. “No.”
The nurse was looking at the two of them. “I'll make sure it gets sun and water.” She winked at Leslie.
Leslie went to hug Jessica goodbye and stopped. “I'll see you in a couple of days.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“To take care of your plant.” Leslie patted Jessica's shoulder and felt bone under skin. “Maybe we'll do lunch.”
Jessica smiled, ever so slightly. Leslie smiled back.
Leslie stepped off the elevator onto the ground floor. Sunshine flooded the lobby through the skylight. Off to her right, the crowded gift store displayed vases with various flower arrangements among cute stuffed animals. A vending machine stood next to the automatic double doors which led outside to the visitor's parking lot. She walked over to it.
Leslie saw the Snickers behind the glass, F-10, and remembered her anticipation as a young girl, sitting between her parents in the cramped hospital room waiting for the hour to end...for the two quarters...for the familiar glob of sweetness...for her grandfather's death. Then she thought of her friend, Jessica. Leslie turned away and slowly walked out the double doors into the sun.