“I have to go to the studio first.”
“The recording studio?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ve been avoiding it,” she answered. “But I need to tell you something.” I folded my hands in my lap and tried to remain composed and calm. “I need someone there with me, and I wasn’t sure you’d come along if I told you first.”
I tried to think of some way to respond. There was a long pause before she spoke again.
“You might as well know the night you showed up, I had taken a shitload of pills. I was trying to kill myself,” she continued. “That would have been a great TMZ story, right?” She seemed as if she might fall apart. The image of her beaded purse on the bathroom floor flashed through my mind. I remembered fishing for lip gloss and finding all those bottles of pills.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
“It should have worked. I did some blow, too, but it made me throw up.”
I became keenly aware of Mocha in the front seat. The glass partition was closed, but couldn’t he be listening? How much did he know?
“Then you showed up out of nowhere,” she said. “I had the pills. I would have taken more, but you were there and you helped me. No one else would have.”
I felt bad for her, and at the same time I felt like a total liar.
“I know who you really are,” she said, and I froze, suspended, unable to breathe, waiting for what might come next. “You’re an angel. Someone somewhere wanted me to survive, and I know with you here now, I will.”
I let out an audible sigh, exhaling sharply despite my desire to be unobtrusive.
“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to take the focus off me. “Why did you feel you needed to do such a thing to yourself? You have everything,” I added quietly, “to live for.” Tabitha rolled her eyes, annoyed, like it was the dumbest thing to say.
“Because I hate every single thing about my life,” she said, her eyes tearing up, trying to hold it back. She turned and stared out the window again. “You probably can’t understand because you don’t live your life pretending to be someone you’re not.”
My brain felt like a piece of paper that someone had ripped in half. If anybody in this car was a phony, we all know who would get the prize. The contradictions were too great. Galileo licked the tears off Tabitha’s face.
“I feel like such a fake,” she said.
“Your fans don’t seem to feel that way,” I remarked. Including me, I wanted to add.
Tabitha shook her head and practically snorted in disgust. “I was counting on Mother to put a stop to this, but now I have to go back into the studio to record another album. They won’t let me stop, even though I told them I wouldn’t tour. I totally freaked out on stage last time.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
Tabitha made a sad laugh. “I wanted to go to veterinarian school and work in an animal shelter.” I worried she might burst into tears again. “I like animals.” No way.
I squeezed her hand. “So why didn’t you?”
“Are you kidding? They weren’t about to let me become an unglamorous vet in this family. They’d have to get Donna Karan to design my veterinarian scrubs.”
She was so grim that I wasn’t sure if she was kidding. “Tabitha Eden: celebrity veterinarian,” I said. Tabitha laughed. “Well, why can’t you do what you want now?”
“You’d be surprised what I can’t do. Too many people decide what I get to do. I feel awful. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always felt awful. I know one second I’m fine, smiling, and then I can barely say hello. Like I’m not even a person, and everyone in the room knows. One minute, I can see myself in the mirror, and the next, the mirror shatters and I’m gone, and there’s no way to get myself back. And I think, maybe everyone is that way, but I know they’re not. You’re the only one I know who doesn’t seem to be weirded out around me.”
I tried to think of what I could say, but we heard Mocha over the intercom. “Excuse me, Miss Eden, we’re here.”
Tabitha nodded and turned to face me.
“Lisbeth, you’re my angel. You appeared out of nowhere to rescue me. You have to help me.” Her eyes said everything—sadness, desperation, and the tiniest hope that I could change her life. Boy, did she have the wrong girl.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” I answered.
33
Max, Tabitha’s guitarist, stood outside the studio entrance smoking a cigarette, bored as usual.
“Are they pissed?” Tabitha asked, wiping away the last of her tears as we made our way inside.
“Why? Because you’ve kept them waiting two and a half hours? Nah, they have their toys to play with.”
As we entered together, Galileo leapt from Tabitha’s arms and ran ahead. The receptionist, bookish in black-rimmed glasses with multicolored tattoos on her arms and neck, introduced herself as Brit.
“Hello, Miss Eden, you’re in studio A today,” she said. “Can I get you a Pellegrino, cappuccino, lemonade, or…?”
“I’ll take a lemonade with tequila,” Tabitha answered without stopping as she pushed open the studio door. I guess when life gave Tabitha lemons, she couldn’t help grabbing the tequila and salt.
Upon entering studio A, we were met by a massive wall of sound—bright, bubbly pop with a driving shake-your-body bottom beat. I knew the patented Tabitha Eden signature sound, and it felt like entering a club. I wanted to dance, but the music stopped abruptly as Tabitha entered.
“The Princess of Pop has arrived!” said a guy, younger than me, as we walked in. He seemed like an intern but wasn’t acting like one. He had dark curly hair and the kind of beard a guy grows when he can’t grow one. He seemed to be a mix of Latino and Jewish. His warm welcome put me instantly at ease. Galileo barked at him.
“Hey Bennie, this is my friend Lisbeth,” Tabitha said. “Bennie and his partner, Dr. K, are the geniuses behind every hit song I’ve ever made. The best producers money can buy. Hard to believe for a twerp, right?”
“You’re too kind, Tabby,” Bennie said, mildly amused. “Nice to meet you, Lisbeth. Welcome to the madness.”
Brit entered with Tabitha’s drink and placed it on the table in front of her. She grabbed it and took a long draw.
“Kind of early for the tequila gargle?” Bennie chided.
“It’s for my voice,” she said and gave him a defensive scowl. “Don’t give me shit just because you’re too young to buy alcohol legally.” She noticed me watching and became a little self-conscious.
“You don’t want to let her drink alone, do you?” Bennie asked. “Hey, Brit, get my girlfriend Lisbeth a drink, too.”
“No thanks,” I said, grabbing a bottle of water off the bar for myself. “I’m good.”
“Cool, then come on. While Tabitha warms up, I’ll introduce you to da crew,” Bennie said, crossing his arms in a mock rapper’s pose. I couldn’t help laughing.
Designed like a small amphitheater, the studio had a massive soundboard in the middle with automated sliders, buttons, and blinking LEDs, and at the bottom was a big glass room for musicians and singers. As we descended the levels to the main area, I noticed the framed gold and platinum CDs on the wall, four of them Tabitha’s.
“This is where we make the hits,” Bennie chuckled. “Straight-up hits and nothing but hits.” He walked me right up to the enclosed glass room. Inside, there was a piano, guitars, and microphones. Three backup singers sat around music stands in the corner. There was a big black girl; a skinny white girl with lots of tats, angel bites, and other piercings; and a short Latina with her hair beaded and braided. They were laughing and singing, but we couldn’t hear them.
“Those girls inside the fishbowl are our secret weapon—the backup babes, especially Oleta; she’s our gospel diva,” Bennie said. “They make us all look good. They give us white folks soul.” Bennie tapped the window, and the three girls waved back. Oleta threw him a kiss.