The Truths Behind the Life of Maeve Sun Lively

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WHEN KLARISE LEFT, IT WAS like I already knew.

We were on our balcony, the evening a purple sky. I sat in a chair next to her, her wheelchair right beside me; watching over the sun as it set with ease. Her hand was in mine. I remember the warmness in them that was no more. Just cold.

I took in a sharp breath, tilting my head over at my lover to see her sleeping face. She left quietly, one of the most blessed ways.

Tears were inevitable. Though they were silent.

"I love you."

It was the first time she didn't say it back. I knew that she was far gone then. I wanted to chase after her, wherever she went. But she wouldn't want that, I thought.

I got down on my knees and held onto her for as long as I could before Anna and the other nurses had to force me off.

EVERYTHING CAME RUSHING BACK after the hours she had left.

What I meant by that was the grief and pain and guilt that had all been pushed back for her. Now, the purpose for having tucked them away in a cabinet was gone. Each by each, they roared into place savagely, taking residence in me violently, not caring for the world if they entered me brutally enough it would tear me apart.

The guilt of having stolen Isabella from her was the first pang. Klarise left not knowing the truth about her daughter. I, for that reason. It was because of me.

And then the goddamn car accident. Cameron's death. It weighed on me so much heavier. The heaviness it held, the stabs it took at me, gutting me out, skinning me alive.

I felt like I was drowning. No, it was worse than drowning. It was torture that was never-ending. I realized that this was my punishment. Held back for me to give as much back to Klarise before she had to go. Now that she left, theses were the trials held for my crimes.

I couldn't stand another sight of Molokai. Everywhere, I could see traces of her smiles and our good times together. They started to haunt me.

I don't remember much of anything about getting off the island. How I got back to New York and then going right back to Beijing, all that.

But suddenly we were at her funeral. She was buried in the same cemetery as Cameron. I requested that especially.

The life from before washed over me. Age only 47, they all wailed for her. And for me, despite the talk that would go flying for me being there, I went. Cameras, paparazzis, flashes. It was the life I had given myself. I hated and loved it.

In those camera lenses, my pain needed to be quickly hidden. I swallowed the evidence of my punishments and smiled and acted. Acting till the end.

They say that sometimes some memories can be so painful the brain's self-defense blurs and forgets it.

I think that's what happened. Because I can't remember memories of half a year, the months between Klarise's funeral and me going back into acting.

Work. I worked and was on every film set I could get myself on. My reputation was too old and wide that once I announced I was coming back into the business—after my "grieving" for my husband—the whole world sent red ribbons of invitations.

So I worked myself to sleep until all I could think of was being other people and better versions of Maeve that never existed. I forgot myself. Had the real me ever lived to breathe a single breath?

My memories blurred and were forgotten until the day Jackson came to me. Next to him, Juno Gallapher stood.

I was reading my script, my makeup and styled hair made me beautiful and young. I was in my late forties, but in the mirror, my suffering hidden, I was beautiful Maeve. Angel Maeve. The Maeve everyone adored. Yes, yes, the woman to be. Oh, what a sad widow! I wore the wooden ring as a necklace around my neck at all times.