I’m Losing You by Bruce Wagner Page A

happened with that child was the fantasy of an actress preparing a role—or was it
real? Pause, while theactress took in the full import; answers it was “fantasy.”
Good. That’s what I thought. I’d like to know: did the drugs have anything to do with this active
fantasizing? Pause. Says yes, “Yes, they did.” Drugs.
Good
. Very
good. It’s good to be honest. Now, I want you to enter a drug treatment program—today. Do you understand, Oberon?
Somber nodding of the head, along with expiatory tears. Calliope would make it clear that when she got out of detox, they’d get to the bottom of this perverse,
imagined
act—the tough-love therapist wasn’t about to let her off the hook. They would face Big Star demons together. She would
help
Obie because that’s what Calliope
did
, that’s how she’d built her practice—helping and healing, not destroying clients’ lives. Or wreaking havoc on her own. If the Obie thing broke, the famed cottage (therapeutic oratory, refuge and sacrarium, Brentwood’s own confessional Taliesin of above-the-line tears, fears and renewal) would be the sudden locus of
Hard Copy
helicopters,
Vanity Fair
layouts and O.J.ish lookie-loos. No one should be subjected to that.
    Calliope reached for the phone, wondering why she’d ever faltered. She left a message for Obie that it was imperative she didn’t miss her next appointment.

    The carnival-themed Children with AIDS benefit was on the Twentieth Century–Fox backlot. Everyone wore baseball caps that said HERO —even the agents. Dustin and Goldie and Meryl manned the booths. Tom Hanks got dunked by Bob Zemeckis, Roseanne worked a Hula Hoop and Oliver Stone demonstrated a ring toss. There were lots of children and rich wives, paparazzi and studio heads and an army of people with the lean, mean walking-stick look of waning T cells. As Mitch and Calliope snaked through the crowd, the therapist rehearsed her attitude should she bump into Hassan. They’d only had one session since the Sony incident; he had been understanding, but she couldn’t control who the television star would tell. Somewhere down the line, more scandal awaited.
    They found themselves on line for a hot dog behind Oberon and Dr. Trott. A little girl stood on his shoes. He introduced her as Tiffany, and the child extended a hand for Calliope to shake. Calliope asked Obie if she’d gotten her message. Obie said she hadn’t. They were joined by Donny Ribkin and Ursula, Tiffany’s mother. Les made a joke about therapist gridlock, then Donny said seeingMitch and Calliope in public was like walking in on your parents while they were doing it. Phylliss Wolfe came over and said they almost had enough for a minyan. Ursula asked what a minyan was and Phylliss said it was “Yiddish for encounter group.”
    Only on the ride home did Calliope realize the mother and child she met were the players in Obie’s hellish home-movie, with Donny Ribkin as co-star. She shivered, recalling the hairless white arm and the girl’s tender grip, limp as a rag doll’s.

    The Dead Pet Detective had a job in Laurel Canyon; Fluffy was in the cellar, party-heartying with the larvae. It was strictly a BYOL scene—bring your own Lysol—and before you could say
yech
, the little wrigglers were doing the Top Ramen tango. After, he stopped at the Canyon Mart and impulsively bought flowers and sandalwood incense for Serena.
    There were police cars in the driveway. The front door was open and Simon stepped inside. Men in suits were questioning the new nurse, who was near hysteria. Seconds later, Donny Ribkin barreled from the kitchen.
    â€œThis is
insanity
! How could this fucking
happen
?” He locked eyes with Simon. “What are
you
doing here?”
    â€œI just stopped to give these to Serena.”
    â€œThank you, but you’re going to have to leave. I’m