The minute we walked into the party, he dropped my hand to become the man of the moment. Women draped themselves all over him, and he made no attempt to stop them. Feeling ignored, I found a seat at the bar alone, ordered a drink, and sat there watching him soak up the attention while I boiled. My mind began to race, and the voices returned. “Somebody put something in your drink. Check out the three chicks at the end of the bar,” the voice said.
I looked over at three gorgeous women who had draped themselves all over Juan, my date—no, my man. Then I looked at my drink. Of course, they’d poisoned me so they could have him all to themselves. Well, I’ll fix them, I reasoned. I’ll order another drink.
My head was pounding as I moved away from the bar with my drink to a little table in the middle of the room. Being the great actress that I thought I was, I sat there and began sobbing and crying. And with each emotion, I got louder and louder. People stopped talking to stare at me. The loud din of a packed bar suddenly became library quiet. At first Juan tried to comfort me, but as my frustration grew, he stepped back as if he didn’t know me. My heart, as well as my mind, snapped. Even in my state, I could see the scene I was making, but I felt detached from it. I was unable to do anything but watch, as if it were a movie starring me, the overly jealous woman who makes a complete ass of herself in a crowded room. In my head, I begged for an exit.
The voices gave me one. “Run.”
I jumped up from the table, dashed out the door, and stumbled onto Melrose Avenue. I staggered down the street, looking for my car. When I found it, I stumbled in, jammed the key into the ignition, jerked it into drive, stomped my foot onto the accelerator, and drove right onto a crowded sidewalk. People, tables, and chairs flew everywhere. I hit the brakes and quickly shifted back to park. Relieved to see that I hadn’t hurt anyone, I put my head down on the steering wheel. Suddenly, there were sirens and blinking lights. As I lifted my head, I saw a cop moving slowly toward my door with a pistol in his hand. In an instant, he snatched me out of the car, threw me up against the hood, and handcuffed me. Panting, I told him I needed to get to a hospital.
He and his partner took me to an emergency room where the nurses shot me up with Thorazine, and I passed out. When I woke up, the mania was gone, and they released me. But I’d left a lot of wreckage behind, not the least of which was my relationship with Juan. I wanted a chance to explain what was wrong with me. But first I needed to rest. So I let a few days pass before calling him to apologize. Finally, I got up the nerve.
“I’m a director,” he began. “People know me. I have to keep an image. I’m not even from this country. I have to be careful, and I can’t be seen with—”
“Someone who is crazy,” I said, finishing his sentence.
“We’re all a little crazy.” He chuckled, then begged off and hung up.
Luckily, being “a little crazy” helped me to avoid serious charges for my sidewalk adventure, but I was certain that my mania had ruined what could have been a wonderful relationship. I never told him about the wreckage I’d left behind on Melrose, and I thought he would never call me again.
And yet, two weeks later, he did.
He invited me to another party. This time, we ended up spending the night together without having sex. We talked throughout the night. I knew I couldn’t let myself fall in love with this guy; he was claimed already. I thought, He’ll go back to Spain, and I’ll never see him again. But we weren’t done yet.
“Sylvia, I must see you tonight,” said the Spanish accent. “I must.” It was a call I wasn’t expecting, but I was glad to hear it. It was another all-nighter at a mansion in the Hollywood Hills. This time Juan tried to be the doting date, getting me a glass of wine or checking on me as he mingled with industry folks. I wasn’t having fun. I really just wanted my man all to myself. My unhappiness must have showed.
“Have a few of these, and you’ll have a great time,” said a woman with a wink, holding a baggie full of magic mushrooms, once Juan stepped away. I had heard so much about “’shrooms,” but I had never tried them. I thought, Why not? A short time later I discovered why not. I heard the same woman that gave me the hallucinogenic yelling, “Hey! Hey! I need some help! This crazy bitch is going nuts.” Of course, the “crazy bitch” was me.
I had started to physically accost the woman. I grabbed, pushed, and cursed her. She had turned into an evil spirit. Some guys at the party tried to restrain me, but I got away by running faster than Usain Bolt out the front door and into pouring rain. I ran around with my arms outstretched to the heavens, trying to soak it all in while they were chasing me. But I was too quick for them as I sprinted back into the mansion and headed straight to the dining room. I knew they were after me, and I had to protect myself. That’s when I noticed the blue Wedgwood china nestled inside a very expensive, beautiful hutch.
To protect myself from the evil villagers, I grabbed plate after plate, smashing them on the teak hardwood floor. A couple of them tried to stop me, but like a feral cat I leaped onto the dining room table, grabbed a giant bowl of chocolate pudding, then started throwing gigantic handfuls of it onto the creamy white walls. It was as if I were Jackson Pollock (another manic-depressive) throwing paint onto a huge canvas. It was beautiful to me, but frightening to others. Juan finally tackled me and dragged me out of the party, kicking and screaming. He threw me into his BMW and sped down Sunset Boulevard, cursing in Spanish and smoking cigarettes furiously while I watched streetlamps and cars whir by.
“I can never see you again,” he managed in broken English, “never.” But he still took me to his hotel room, where I passed out. The next morning, as I came down from my mushroom high, we had a screaming match that led to a visit by hotel security. Juan covered for us, explaining that he was a director, and I was an actress rehearsing a role. When he dropped me off at my car without saying a word, I knew we were finished.
It was almost two months later, around Christmas, that he called again.
“I have to see you again. One more time, before I leave America,” he begged. “I have the most amazing gift for you.” I thought, Why not?
We met at the Travelodge. While he sat there rolling a big fat joint and talking on the phone, taking care of last-minute details before his return to Spain, I sat there watching him and thought, Sylvia, what are you doing? But I knew what I was doing, although I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was trying to fill the gap in my life that surpassed even loneliness. I thought this beautiful man would wipe away all the fears I had for myself and sweep me away to some imaginary place in my head. I so wanted him to love me.
“Promise me,” I said shakily, “that you will come back to America.” He smiled and said, “I just want to spend a beautiful evening with you.” His amazing gift to me was him, I realized. And I accepted the gift gladly. While the strains of Mariah Carey’s “I’ll Be There” barely escaped the borders of the tiny radio on the nightstand, we made love long into the night. I was his until the next morning, when I woke up to find him dressed and ready to leave America. He politely said, “Thank you,” as he closed the door. Feeling ashamed and down, I didn’t go home to see my family, my kids, or Riley for the holidays. Instead, I remained in Los Angeles and cared for my AIDS patients.
For weeks, I thought about Juan. My casting friend told me he and his fiancée were the proud parents of a beautiful baby girl. The news sickened me to my stomach. I began to feel nauseous, and thought that on top of everything, I was coming down with the flu. And then I remembered that Juan had summoned me to the Travelodge to give me a special gift that Christmas.
He delivered as promised. I was pregnant. Again.
The pregnancy made me realize I wanted