Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (22 page)

Derrick had attempted to call me when he got back home, but I made myself unavailable. It was torture not answering any of his three calls. Once again we were done, finished, kaput. And as gutted as I was, I moved on.

Now, scrolling down my contact list, I dialed Shannen instead. Sometimes a girl is a girl’s best friend.

“Hello?” she asked on the first ring.

“Hey Shan, need your help.”

Soap Stars’ Marriage Hits the Skids!

SHOCKING BLIND ITEM
: It looks like a real-life soap opera super-couple is currently in the throes of a Blissless Wedded Mess. We can’t tell you which one, but a pair of married bubblers is this close to calling it quits, that is if they don’t end up killing each other first! To think only a few short years ago these two lovebirds were on the covers of Muscle & Fitness, Plumpers, and Soap Suds Digest—not to mention receiving the most hits on YouTube talking about how they balanced love and bubbles—and are now inculpating each other over rumored affairs with hot Latino leading men (her) and lack of employment opportunities (him). Oh well, what’s that they say, ’tis better to have loved a bubbler and lost than never to have loved at all?

The Diva

D
on’t worry, Calysta,” Shannen whispered into her phone. “On my way; I should be back in L.A. in a few hours.”

“I thought we agreed no cell phones,” Roger hypocritically snarled. Felicia’s last words from a recent call were still fresh in his mind: “Don’t worry, Roger, I’ll fix Shannen’s wagon. I’m going to write you into a front-burner
R&R
storyline if it’s the last thing I do.”

Stomping into the bathroom behind Shannen while stripping off his sweaty workout digs he heard, “Calysta, hold on a sec,” as she hit Mute.

“Roger, it’s Calysta; she’s been in a serious accident.”

“So?” he said, turning on the shower and stepping in.

“So she needs my help.”

“We’re not driving all the way back to L.A.!” he yelled. “Tell her to call
her
people.”

“Roger, she’s in the hospital!”

Roger and Shannen were at their vacation cabin in Big Bear, making use of it before the bank repossession, in yet another attempt on Shannen’s part to find a pulse in their quickly flatlining marriage. The couple had agreed when they bought the rustic hideaway on Big Bear Lake that it was a place to unplug, unwind, and have lots of sex. That meant zero distractions; no television, no laptops, and absolutely no cell phones. Time proved that was easier for Roger than for Shannen. She still had a J-O-B and needed to stay in touch with the world outside their Big Bear bubble for auditions and script and schedule changes.

“It’s going to be okay, Calysta, I’ll see you before you know it,” Shannen said with assurance. “And don’t worry about Dwayne, we’ll figure out a way to get Ivy back.”

As she hung up, Roger asked, “Who’s Dwayne?”

“Calysta’s ex,” she explained, heading to the bedroom closet to get her overnight bag. “Calysta was a little . . . impaired when she had her accident and now Dwayne is manipulating the situation to get custody of their daughter.”

Nonchalantly stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his soft waist, Roger said, “Sounds like a smart guy to me.”

“What?” Shannen dropped her bag and zipped back to the bathroom for toiletries. “Roger, it’s not like she’s some bad mother. She made a mistake. Calysta loves Ivy.”

“What, and you think the dad doesn’t love his kid too? See, that’s what’s wrong with
you
women
. You think just because you lie down and grunt out a kid, you get all the say. Sorry, doesn’t work that way. You know, most guys don’t even want ankle-biters, but you women always insist, naggin’ us, ‘I want a
baby,
my biological clock is
tickin
’,” he whined, “and all we want is sex, a good football game, and a cold beer.”

“Stop talking crazy. You don’t even know all the facts.”

“And you do? Sounds like you’re just taking your loopy friend’s word for it. You only like her anyway ’cause she defended you that one time Bonnie Blackburn jumped you in a fitting. I don’t blame this guy for doing what he has to do to protect his kid. I’ve heard stories about that chick from Felicia. She sounds like a piece of work.”

In all the years Shannen and Calysta had been friends, Calysta had socialized with played-out Roger only a few times. A graduate of the
theatre
, Roger believed Shannen’s soap opera
friends were beneath him, sadly ironic since he himself had been a bubbler until his low-rated half-hour soap
Obsessions
was mercifully canceled, and he hadn’t been on a Broadway stage since
Cats
opened. (Roger had played Carbucketty for six months before being fired for shooting a spread in
Playgirl
on the side, while the show went on to have an eighteen-year run.)

“Felicia hates Calysta, I’ve already told you why,” Shannen replied. “She’s not a good judge of my friend’s character, not by a long shot.”

“Oh and I guess you are?” Roger said mockingly. “What, did you get a degree in psych from the same place you got your Acting for Dummies certification?”

Shannen looked down, reminding herself,
Roger is feeling emasculated since he lost his job. Most men’s egos are intrinsically attached to their employment. When he speaks to you disrespectfully, try to exercise patience and let it roll off your back. It’s his bruised pride, not the man you fell in love with, a way to gain back power with dominance.

The words of Dr. Jordana Walker, the marriage counselor she had been seeing, on her own since Roger refused to go, came into Shannen’s mind in time to prevent her from striking back.

“I don’t have time for this, Roger, my friend needs me.” Shannen darted back to the bedroom to finish packing.

“Where do you think you’re going? You’re the one who insisted we come up here for the weekend when I could’ve been back in L.A. auditioning.” Roger’s agent had dumped him after his soap was canceled.
He was obsessively combing the Web and
Back Stage
magazine for open calls.

“We’ll come back next weekend. They’re talking about putting Calysta in rehab.”

“Good. She needs to dry out.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand why you can make time for everyone else’s needs except for your husband’s!”

“That isn’t true,” Shannen protested, throwing things into her Kate Spade luggage. “Look, I’m going to go home to support Calysta and then I’ll come right back, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay.” Roger ripped the bag out of her hand and threw it to the floor. “I bet if I was your hot little Puerto Rican leading man Javier you wouldn’t be leaving, would you?”

“Don’t start that again,” Shannen warned. “And he’s Mexican.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Roger confronted, as Shannen took a step back. “Bet you wouldn’t leave to rescue your bloodsucking girlfriend if Mr. Latin America was standing in front of you.”

Shannen was the consummate actress and played her role to the hilt, moving past her husband, calmly stating, “See, this is exactly what Felicia wants.”

“Felicia? What the hell does she have to do with any of this? Don’t blame
my
friend—”

“Your supposed friend only paired me with Javier to fuel your blind jealousy. She hoped we’d fight so you’d run to her for consolation. Why can’t you see that?”

“That’s a bunch of bull! Felicia’s one of my oldest and best friends. I’ve known her since college and trust her with my life.”

“Yeah and she’s been in love with you since day one.”

“Well at least someone is!”

“Okay, this is really getting us nowhere.” Shannen sighed. “I’d hoped we could work on our marriage this weekend, but obviously that can’t
happen with you behaving like an irrational child, so I think you should stay, keep the car, and I’ll call a service. Come back when you want,
if
you want!”

“Don’t walk away from me!” Roger growled, grabbing Shannen around the waist, roughly ripping her blouse as he spun her around.

“Stop it, Roger!” she cried, terrified eyes wide in disbelief as he threw her like a rag doll onto the bed, his full weight on top of her, ignoring her desperate pleas. “Roger, stop! You’re hurting me. Get off!”

“What? You only like your little
Mexican
screwing you now?”

Shannen gasped for air, smothered by Roger’s unwanted and forceful beer-breath kisses as he reached down to unfasten her jeans, giving her enough opportunity to dislodge a knee and aim squarely for his groin.

“I’ll kill you!” he threatened, doubled over moaning in pain as she sprang free, not wasting time, rushing to grab her bag.

“I swear, Roger, I don’t know who you are anymore. I hate you! We’re done!” she frantically screamed as she ran out the door.

Unhinged, Roger whispered, “We’re done when I say we’re done. And if I can’t have you
no one
will.”

T
hirteen hours, that’s how long I slept, well past noon the next day. Unbelievable! My skin was so ashy I looked like I’d been rolled in flour, and my hair was a matted hot mess. The good news was the fog was finally lifting.

Since leaving
The Rich and the Ruthless
I’d been going through the motions, a toothpaste commercial here, a talk-show pilot there, but if the truth be told, ever since Ruby Stargazer fell off that dang yacht, it’d been me, Calysta Jeffries, treading water.

Burying my head into a brick the hospital called a pillow, I wished a psycho male nurse would slip into my room and plug me into a morphine drip so I could forget my overwhelming problems.

“Ms. Jeffries, you have a visitor,” my nurse interrupted.

“Who is it?” I asked in a muffled voice, not bothering to look up.

If I had to see anyone I hoped it was Sly. We needed to talk about my daughter’s custody.

“That’ll be all, nurse.” I knew that voice anywhere and pulled the blanket farther over my head. I could hear my overconfident, all-purpose agent/manager’s expensive Italian shoes, which I no doubt paid for, clickety-clacking against the floor.

“Kitten,” he said. “You look like a million bucks.”

Ignoring his lie, I said, “Quit it, Weezi. You can’t even see me and why are you here?”

“I’m acting as a family representative and escorting you to your temporary home in Malibu, and if you’d come out from under that blanket I’d like to—”

“Why didn’t someone tell me I was leaving today for crissakes!” I interrupted, tearing the covers off my electricity-charged head.

“We tried. Couldn’t wake you up.”

“
Anyway
,” I continued. “Who the hell is that?”

“Kelly Lava, Tranquility Tudor’s celebrity sober coach and intake specialist. She’s the designated driver so to speak.”

“Are you friggin’ crazy, bringing a stranger into my space, invading my privacy? I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Ms. Lava. Where I lay is where I stay, besides my doctor didn’t say a doggone thing about me leaving St. John’s today, so there,” I announced, cutting my eyes at them both.

As if on cue, my physician, a Dr. Doug Ross lookalike, strode in to inform me, “Ms. Jeffries, you’ll be officially discharged within the hour and placed into the professional and capable care of Tranquility Tudor, a reputable rehabilitation center. Good luck,” he added before briskly walking out.

Didn’t want to go back to an empty house any-o-way. Didn’t have any pets, just one plant, but couldn’t bear the thought of letting it die, a Bleeding Heart. It grew in Grandma Jones’s backyard. I’d taken a pod
before leaving Greenwood years earlier, repeated the same ritual when I fled to L.A. Couldn’t ask my cleaning lady, Ifaka, to water it. I’d laid her off months ago, a luxury I could no longer afford.

“Fine, but I need to go home first to pack a few essentials: my detangler, my wide-tooth comb, my silk pillowcase, my do-rag, my Dax, my Crème de la Mer lotion, my tea tree toothpaste, my Massengill, my African Black soap, my Japanese loofah, my clay masque, stuff like that.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Ms. Jeffries,” the TT VIP staffer abruptly stated. “You heard the doctor. You’ve been court-ordered to commence treatment immediately once discharged from St. John’s. No detours. No exceptions.”

“It’s for the best, Calysta,” Weezi chimed in. “And don’t worry about your stuff. Shannen’s packin’ away. What a friend.”

“What are you talking about? She doesn’t have keys to my house.”

“She does now. I didn’t want the bad press to get out of hand in case
R&R
ever wanted to invite you back, so I killed two birds with one stone and paid
the brass
a little visit. Good thing too. That P.R. nerd Needleman was a nervous wreck. Saw that Shannen bouncin’ around while I was there—man, is she cute. She asked how you were and when I told her things were in the dumpster she didn’t hesitate to get on board and help out.”

“Weezi, where were you when you were sharing my life story with Shannen?”

“In the
R&R
office. Anyway I took the liberty of giving Dwayne Shannen’s number. Oh, and I had to go through your purse to get your keys so he could get the rest of Ivy’s things.”

My skin crawled. It was bad enough that Weezi had weaseled his way onto the set and rifled through my purse but Dwayne in my house?

“So c’mon, Calysta, let’s get you up and at ’em and make this the first day of your new sober life,” Weezi said, walking out.

“Yeah, be right there, Dr. Phil.”

With the help of a nurse and Ms. Lava, who looked like a butch ex-Marine, I got dressed.

As we all got on the elevator, looking like a motley crew, I worriedly asked Weezi, “Was there anyone else standing around?”

“Oh, yeah,” he remembered. “As soon as Shannen left this slinky chick came outta nowhere, a real cougar. Said she was looking for new representation.”

“Ohmagod, Weezi, what was her name?”