In the Nick of Time (6 page)

She took a seat in front of the small, shiny brown desk and leaned back in the dark gray, pleather chair before reinforcing her scarf, tying it meticulously back over her barely there black tresses.

“Okay, Taryn. Give it to me straight.” The woman leaned forward, giving a more prominent view of her large, velvety breasts.

They look so soft…

She ogled them for a moment or two, then cast her attention back into the lady’s eyes.

“I woke up not feeling well this morning.” Taryn toyed with her fingers, running them along one another as if massaging in essential oils.

“And you couldn’t say that in front of the others because of what?”

“Because I get tired of complaining.”

“But you
don’t
complain, Taryn. You go through things and never tell anyone, remember? That’s been one of your issues.” The woman fell back into her seat, taking her two fluffy friends with her.

Goodbye so soon?

“It isn’t an issue. Well, okay.” She smiled, surely showing all of her teeth as she wiggled a bit in her seat. “Let me rephrase that. I’m aware of what you are talking about.” Her shoulders slumped slightly as she tossed a partial concession the lady’s way. “But with people like Oliver sitting there, goading, I just didn’t feel compelled.” She shrugged. “I am so damn sick of him.” She looked away from the woman’s glaring emerald eyes and tossed her sights towards her own swinging beige sandals. Her toes were painted bright yellow. At least
something
was sunny.

“You have to ignore Oliver, Taryn,” Frieda stated listlessly, as if it were written on some big wall for all to see, listed as law. “I will deal with him privately, just as I do all of you for issues such as this. Regardless, you can’t let him or anyone else influence or derail your treatment. We offer open expression here.” The woman’s hands hung loosely over the chair arms. Taryn’s barely there brows burrowed as she stared at the lady’s unsightly cuticles. “So I’m not in the business of policing everyone but I
do
demand all of us respect one another, and that was lost today.”

When was the last time she cut those?! They look like a skin silhouette of the damn city skyline! Frieda…your cuticles, baby… damn…

“I don’t give a shit about Oliver and his opinion.” She sucked in air, took it to the head, slow and long like an old fashioned leisurely Sunday stroll, and exhaled just as unhurriedly. “I think you’ve misunderstood me or maybe I didn’t make myself clear. That’s highly possible, wouldn’t be the first time. No, that’s not it.” She shook her head as she searched for the right words, daring herself to not be sarcastic, come clean. “I just don’t want him knowing anything else about me is all. He’s so goddamn negative and such a drain on everyone. Someone needs to put him in his place. I don’t even feel that I, or anyone else for that matter, should be in treatment with him.” She pointed to her chest. “He is a predator.”

“You were too at one time…”

“I know what you’re driving at, but…it wasn’t children…no comparison.”

“Where are you getting these assumptions from, Taryn? Neither he nor I or anyone else has asserted your accusations regarding Oliver.”

“I can just see it…I can just feel it. Can’t explain it.” She shrugged. “It’s just something about him.”

Frieda opened her mouth for a rebuttal, then clamped it shut, as if second-guessing herself. The lady clasped her hands together and sat a bit taller.

“I see you have on your spring fashion in the dead of winter.” The lady offered a coy smile, causing Taryn to lightly laugh. She lifted the floral shirt at the belled wrist, picking at the delicate fabric as she observed it for the umpteenth time.

“Yeah, it makes me feel good. I know it’s like twenty degrees outside, but—”

“No explanation needed.” She waved her off. “You look pretty.”

“…Thank you.”

“But you don’t
feel
pretty, right?”

“Mmmm,” she shrugged. “I feel alright I suppose. I guess since I don’t get paid for my looks anymore, I am less concerned about the complete package, so to speak.” She leaned slightly forward, twirled her ankle around and around in slow, deliberate circles. “No more eating only raw vegetables weeks before a shoot. No more body wraps, caffeine shots and all of that.” She waved her hand lazily, paired it with a forced smile…trying to convince herself she hated everything about
the life
, but she failed miserably.

“I’m more worried about what is lying against my skin, versus anything else.” And that was true… “Oh, and the fact that I woke up feeling all sorts of aches and pains. As I told you, I don’t feel well today, Frieda.”

Those words, though simple by definition alone, weren’t simple for Taryn to admit at all.

I thought I was past that…

“And how does that make you feel, Taryn?”

She sniffed, twirled her ankle a bit faster, flexed her toes, and stared a moment or two out the window.

…Looks like it’s going to rain today.

“It makes me feel incompetent and incapable. I’m tired of being tired.”

“Ahhh,” the woman tossed her head back ever so slightly. “I wish you would have told me sooner. Well, here is something that may make you feel better.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re a big hit here. I know you don’t notice it, but I have. You really do have a knack for putting things together—clothing, that is. The ladies have gushed over your ability to pull thrift store outfits together for their job interviews and make them look as if they’d spent hundreds of dollars.” The woman smiled sincerely, no doubt attempting to pump up her wounded ego.

Taryn nodded, not wishing to make a big ado about nothing.

“The fashion end of it, the fabrics, the materials…” the lady went on, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she appeared to be remembering certain outfits worn here and there. “You’re good, have a great eye, Taryn.”

“Yeah? You really think so? Let me stop trying to act surprised. Yeah, I think you’re right. I do have a great eye for this sort of thing.”

They both laughed lightly.

“You know, in all seriousness, when I was a teenager I wanted to be a fashion designer, Frieda. But then I got ‘discovered.’” She put her hands in quotes, scratched her scalp through the silken material once more, and looked off into the distance. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful.”

“I didn’t think that; never said that, either.”

“Good, ’cause that’s not it. It’s just that that was never my personality, you know? The superficiality and unrealistic nature of it all is astounding. Do you know I
hated
most of the people I worked with? I truly did.”

Frieda cocked her head to the side then rested her chin on folded hands, seemingly intrigued by the confession.

“I wanted to drop kick a hundred of ’em in the back of their damn heads! Just snooty, arrogant, and talking about this designer said this, they were going to be in this show, and whoever wasn’t in
that
show was no damn good. The shit got real old, real fast. I didn’t waste any time telling some of them about themselves. Just wear the damn outfit and shut the hell up.”

She didn’t miss the slight smirk budding across Frieda’s face, but the woman snatched it away, tucked it just so out of sight.

“I don’t believe all models are superficial, Taryn. Some? Well, sure. That industry concentrates almost solely on a person’s physical appearance. It comes with the territory. Now…” She cleared her throat. “I’ve had other models in this treatment facility since I’ve been here. You’re not the first and you sure won’t be the last. Some were posturing, insincere, surface level… I’ll give you that. That created another hurdle unfortunately. Others, such as yourself, were down to earth and well rounded. They were good listeners, able to take constructive criticism, and wanted to heal from the inside out. We have to be careful about categorizing people, however. Even if we are a member of that group.”

“It’s
not
a characterization; it’s a fact.”

How in the fuck is she going to try and tell me about a job she never did?! School me like she is some damn authority? I was the one on the front lines, not her. Let me break this shit down to her. My turn to teach, Frieda…

“Facts are facts; there is no way around them. Just like it’s a fact that black people have more melanin in our skin—we’re darker. It’s a fact that some of us, no matter how beautiful we’re told we are, tend to be insecure as hell, too. Why do we run from these truths, huh? Because they are politically incorrect?” She shrugged. “The down to earth and well-rounded models you describe are not as common. They are like pink unicorns.”

“Oh, come on, Taryn!” Frieda smiled.

“No, I’m serious. The industry poisons people, Frieda. It takes us by the throat.” She reached for her neck with both hands, demonstrating the point. “And it forces our mouths open and feeds us horse shit sprinkled with sweet, golden flakes of make-believe…makes us think we didn’t just eat a bunch of manure. It’s
all
bull! The whole damn thing stinks!” She released herself and waved her arm across the room, bringing her argument home. “As I sat in that hospital, month after damn month, my already slim weight dropping to nothing and my hair falling out in clumps, the
real
pain hadn’t even arrived yet but I just didn’t know it! I didn’t have much, but I had time to reflect over
all
of it.

“It’s hard to stay humble and real when you have people throwing money at you, your face and body are plastered in all the major fashion magazines from around the world, and celebrity men with fat bank accounts and big status are sending their agents to contact you for a date. That was my life, Frieda.” She pointed at her chest. “That was just an average day in the life of Taryn Jones. No one who was trying to get close to me cared about who I
really
was.”

“Tell me more about that, Taryn… about how no one seemed concerned about who you were on the inside.” The lady sat back in her seat.

“These guys don’t give a shit about your personality—these singers, rappers, actors that were vying for my attention. No.” She shook her head, paired it with a heartbroken smile. “The things you like to do, the stuff you’re into, they couldn’t give a half a shit about. No, they just wanted to be seen with me, wear me like a damn scarf, an accessory, and fuck me, too.”

Taryn knew she sounded jaded; a discarded lover thrown to the starving, urban dwelling wolves, but her truth was her truth, and she and it would never part. She’d been discovered at the age of fifteen at the Grand Central Terminal in Manhattan while putting around with her best friend during a rainy afternoon of boredom and people watching. Little did she know a scout was there, doing his own share of people watching as well…

“That bastard I was dating right when I got diagnosed saw my stock drop so he did what many men in his position would do—he bailed. I was no longer eye candy, not with my clean as a whistle head, lack of eyebrows, and hollow jaws. Not only that, I refuse to get reconstructive surgery.” She shrugged. “I’d already been through too much, and…I wrestle with this…but Frieda, I want to for just
once
in my life to be loved for
me
, you know?” Her voice trailed. “Not for my appearance alone, not for what a man thinks he can get from me. I want…” she said, her voice breaking, “I want for a man to look at me, see the scars, the emotional and physical ones, and be like, ‘so fucking what?!’” She smiled sadly. “So…I’m keeping my body just as it is…”

The silence weighed heavily with unspoken words. Frieda’s face registered a mixture of surprise and admiration.

“Anyway, with all of that, with me no longer looking glamorous,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “I was no longer someone to be chased and pasted on all of the gossip rags. According to the son of a bitch, I was no longer worthy of being touted around on the red carpet, showing off the piece of ass he’d snatched off a Parisian runway. You
know
who I’m talking about, that runt dick mothafucker! I don’t have to say his goddamn name.” The woman remained stone faced, but damn it, she recognized that Frieda knew.
Everyone
knew. The shit was plastered on all the gossip rags. Her life was no longer protected by any shield of secrecy; she’d become an unwilling, open book.

“Okay. Let’s switch gears for just a quick moment, okay? I don’t want to disengage however unless you’re ready, but I want you to focus more, if you don’t mind, on what we can do at this present moment…right here, right now. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine.” She exhaled an irritated breath and crossed her arms, still a bit ramped up.

Let’s see.” Frieda clicked on her laptop computer. Her eyes roamed from side to side as she appeared to be reading something on the screen. “You’ve been in treatment before… but this is the longest stint. You’ve got two months and one week under your belt this time around. You have several months left, three to be exact. What would you like to accomplish in that timeframe, Taryn?”

She swallowed and tapped her fingers against her scalp, as if patting down a non-existent wayward sprout of hair. It soothed her nerves, relaxed her.

“I want to make it work this time.” She slumped back into the seat, her legs sprawled open in an unladylike fashion. “I don’t want to take Demerol anymore. For the first time Frieda, I honestly don’t want it.” She clicked her tongue against her inner cheek, barely believing the words herself. But, they were true…so very true. “I can’t afford to have a habit, and I don’t
want
to have a habit. Time is ticking by, slipping away, and what will I have to show for it? An overdose?! Is that how Taryn is going out?” She shook her head, a slight smirk on her face to cover the pain within. “No, I’m not, Frieda…” She looked down into her lap, toying with her fingernails. “I am tired of being a slave to that shit.

“I can’t believe I’m even here again.” She rocked in her position, slightly ashamed of what had transpired. “I just couldn’t deal with it before, not sure why… It’s just a damn pain pill, ya know? One little white capsule. Doesn’t matter the size of the enemy, now does it?” She laughed mirthlessly. “In the end, the smallest become the most powerful, and the biggest and strongest become the weakest…and then they are eaten…eaten by their addictions until there is nothing left.”