She Always Loved Natalie Wood

There was no way she was going to Catalina Island.

Of all places, it was most certainly the most obscene for her to go.

There were policies, rules and constructs that had she had long established about traveling that far anymore, anyway. Flying, within itself, was most certainly not an option, particularly without the use of something like Lorazepam.

She was supposed to be in recovery now. And besides, no doctor in their right mind would prescribe her a benzodiazepine.

And a last minute night flight? That sounded terrifying. She'd be exhausted by the time she got to him the next day.

Sailing also sounding ludicrous. There wasn't enough dramamine.

... But, "I really love him", she thought.

And now he had formally invited her. Of course he had to live in California.

She paced back and forth in her New York City apartment, as her blown-up black and white photo of Natalie Wood seemed to stare at her from behind.

She turned to it.

"So, what should I do?".

As she shifted toward the desk in her office, she immediately noticed the red font on the overdue utility bills.

The New York Times had canceled her for being involved with a man who was essentially accused of something heinous and she hadn't made a good film in about eight years.

She looked back up at the photo.

Her eyes seemed lifeless in comparison to Natalie Wood's.

Suddenly, a text from him:

"Hope to see you tomorrow".

She exhaled while verbalizing an exhausted "fuck".

As she approached her bedroom closet and opened it, she took out her suitcase. She immediately noticed the eclipsed safe that the suitcase had concealed.

"There's percoset in there, I had totally forgotten about them", she thought.

Later that night, three percosets deep, she sat in the airport reading a book about reincarnation.

"I really was her", she reminisced.

The recent Psychotherapist she had recently seen (#8) thought the entire notion of believing she had previously been a well received, A-list movie star in a past life was wildly narcissistic.

Of course, that perspective ended their relationship long-before Blue Cross Blue Shield even had a chance to Super-bill.

Her career had only been limited to B-films and television guest spots.

She looked over at the bar.

As she collected her bag a notification on her phone from Google:

"Top 50 Actresses who didn't age well at all".

She knew that she had programmed google to notify her of when her name appeared in a new article.

As she sat the bar, all the old instincts kicked in. She threw them back, one after another, until that feeling .. that relief feeling, overcame her.

From overhead she heard: "Now boarding Flight 4425 to LAX".

On the plane, she could barely breathe. The booze helped a little, but the panic ran down her spine like an electrical current. Take-off was over, but the mini-explosions within her nervous system were volcanic.

She suddenly woke up.

She was there. She had slept through the whole thing.

It was almost surprising, if perhaps not disappointing that the plane hadn't crashed during the cross-country flight.

The town-car driver was awfully quiet and sort of had an attitude problem as she headed toward Newport Beach.

She had grabbed a few shots at the airport before he picked her up, as now she was slurring.

"You do .. this drive a lot?".

He kind of eyed her from the rear-view mirror with a note of devaluation.

"Yes, mam".

You could see him thinking.

With a chin-nod ..

"Weren't you what's her name?".

She nodded as she looked out the window.

"Sums the whole thing up so well", she responded.

They had finally reached Newport Beach.

A bar here, a bar there. Smokey with wood paneling .. one after another.

A drink, a shot, a song by the Looking Glass or Seals & Croft.

As she exited the fifth bar of the night, she looked at the Uber app to see how far her driver was.

She had chose the hotel she did online because it gave Nantucket vibes, which, she felt would make her feel more at home.

She stumbled onto the dock as it was a misty evening and the wood was slippery.

"Midnight", she said to herself, as she looked at her phone. She could hear a car coming for her in the distance.

A pop-up notification from Uber on her iPhone.

"That must be him" she said out loud.

She eyed her suitcase, which seemed to watch her as it sat near the entrance of the bar.

Suddenly, a text message notification:

"Hi love. I have something that popped up and have to fly to San Francisco. Didn't hear back from you about the trip, hope to do it soon".

She nodded with a knowingness. "There it is", she thought to herself.

She was going to surprise him.

She looked in-front of her at an oversized-yacht which was parked in the marina.

The next morning, the KTLA news anchor was the first to report the exclusive:

"Actress Andrea Peters, famous for her coming-of-age role on "Tyler's Landing" has died at age 53. Newport Beach Police report that Miss Peters was found dead, floating near the Newport Beach pier, during the early hours of November 29th. Miss Peters was reportedly seen climbing onto a Yacht in an intoxicated state, prior to hitting her head and falling overboard. She had struggled with substance abuse for years, as well as a career that often waxed and waned. The local coroner does not suspect any form of foul-play".

She had never made it to Catalina Island, only Newport Beach instead.

It was the ultimate analogy for her career.

A pale imitation of an original idolization.

She chose the yacht she would do it from.

Had she actually, really been her, anyway?

Of course not.

She desperately needed an A-list idol and a tragic narrative to cling onto.

Her self-imposed destiny and over-attachment was prophetic, product-in-part of why her own, original light, was never able to shine with authenticity.

But she had never really been "OK".

And nobody found it in their soul to really take care of her heart.

So all she had was her idol.

And even in death, she emulated her.