The Truths Behind the Life of Maeve Sun Lively

109

MY NAME IS MAEVE SUN Lively. I was forty-seven. I was an actress. I have shot more films than I can count or remember.

My husband is dead. I am now a widow.

I've stopped collecting and buying the newspapers and printed articles/magazines from here on. I'm sorry. It would have helped for you guys who are listening to this with historic things (though I wouldn't count on them for accuracy). It's just that...I've lost the energy. I don't know how much longer it'll be. But soon. Soon we'll be done here. I'm sorry that I've cut myself some slack.

(Deep Breath)

It's okay, we'll be done soon. I just need to finish after what happens when he—

I'm so tired. I don't want to think about what happens there. Can we not go there? Please?

(Laughs)

What am I saying? No one's here anymore. You guys don't even know yet. No one can answer me anymore. No one left will know the truth if I don't finish. I just need to...no, this should be okay.

(Sound of pills rattling in container, giggling in distance)

This should be okay. I'm almost finished. I can do this. Only a little longer.

Let's continue from when Klarise wakes up.

—————

The moment Klarise opened her eyes, it was like she already knew.

The doctor showed her (and Jackson and I who were with her almost every second) where the tumor had originally developed near the breasts. Then, with more gentleness to his voice, he showed her a picture of her head where there was a large tumor.

He said softly, but the words struck out into the room a little too clearly. The words cut clean.

No surgery can remove this. The cancer has spread too far.

It's too late.

It's quiet. I glanced at Klarise then, and her face was an unreadable mask. Her eyes were glassy red as she just stared at the x-ray image of the large tumor. She didn't move. Didn't budge.

"Klarise?"

She doesn't blink. Does't turn. She just sat there, unmoving and showing no indication of hearing me.

The doctor started talking again, and I felt myself feeling suddenly sick to my stomach. I stared at Klarise, tears in my eyes, but she didn't once look at me. It's like I'm not even here.

Away from everything—the lawsuit about the car crash, the press, Cameron's funeral planning—I closed myself in a bathroom stall. I took my shoes off and sat on the toilet.

I started crying. I don't know how long time passed until someone knocked on my stall.

Pathetically and not caring if a camera was about to be flashed in my face from a paparazzi, I opened it, still sobbing.

It's Anna. The nurse.

I looked up through tearful eyes, my arms wrapped around my knees.

"Hey," she said, coming over. Her kindness makes me feel worse about myself. I don't deserve it, and yet I feel so desperate enough I grab a hold of her hand.

"H-He's dead."

She nodded, sitting down on the floor beside me.

"He didn't deserve that." My voice shakes at the image of Cameron's body covered by an indifferent white sheet.