I remember some of the artists’ names: Kiki Smith, Joan Jonas, Blek la Rat, and a dozen more at least. There were also stacks and stacks of books. Mostly art books. She kept books in the oven and her art supplies in the fridge.
We went out with Cheba a couple of nights. He struck me as perfectly fine, he never seemed drunk or high, so I officially don’t believe what people say about him as her pusher—all I blamed him for was getting Addy started on those smokes. But I never saw him do one random thing; he never offered me drugs, nada.
At night, Addy never seemed particularly happy to be anywhere we went. She was always checking her phone. One time, I got nosy and searched her browser history, and I saw that all she did was cruise the Internet for Lincoln intel. Where he was, what he was up to. I didn’t tease her. It seemed way too painful.
When I was packing to leave on Sunday, she came into my room, and she sat on the floor and broke down.
“I’m spinning, Lulu,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m spinning and spinning. My brain is like a big echoing train station filled with announcements I can’t hear, and I’m trying to decide which trains I should board, but I can’t make any decisions because it’s too noisy.”
“You’re off it, aren’t you?” I said. “Just tell me. You need to pause, Addy. You need to step away. I’ll step with you. And you’ve got to let meds work for you. If the Z isn’t working, you need to find a new protocol. You need to call your doctors, or let me call them.”
But she just shrugged me off. Swore she was still on the Z, that it was still working. Waving off my words with her hand. “Let’s go away for the summer, too. Maybe down to the Keys. I loved it there so much.”
“Sure, yes, totally. As long as you call your doctors, and get yourself readjusted.” I meant it, too. If she needed me, I could trade a summer on Lake George for one down in Florida, no problem.
I stayed that afternoon. She was in no shape. I fixed her tea and toast. We watched Titanic, which was one of our favorite classics. We loved to share a box of Kleenex and hope that maybe this time it would turn out different for Jack and Rose. And I took an evening Amtrak. But I couldn’t get that picture of her out of my head, Addy huddled like a lost bird in the middle of this empty loft. And all of that noise in her head that was also charging at her from every wall.
The last thing I did was hug her.
“I promise, I will come back in three weeks. I promise I will go wherever you go this summer. You just have to hang on. Go see your shrink, get your Z levels right, don’t put yourself in harm’s way, and hang on.”
“Promise me again, Lulu,” she said.
So I promised again. I promised her a thousand times. “I’ll be back here before you know it.”
I was really planning to do it, too. One hundred percent. For days afterward, she’d call me on the phone, and make me promise all over again. But I never felt that she believed me.
Last photo of Lucy and Addison, taken in New York, courtesy of Gil Cheba.
MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: I went to live in Paris for a couple of months—my impeccable French and my lipstick collection are the only things about myself that I’d consider accomplishments. But I was back by June. I had an invitation to the Artful Awareness fashion show over at the High Line. It’s an annual fundraiser, and they’d asked Addison to model.
Now Addison was byoo-tee-ful, but she wasn’t what I’d ever call a natural model—if you see her in pictures, she never loses her Addison-ness. She stared much too intensely at people. Especially if they were holding a camera. But she was a presence, God knows. And when she kicked down the runway in this punk-rock, deconstructed safari jumpsuit and fabulous scrunchy desert boots, everyone screamed with delight. To the untrained eye, Addison Stone was still that same smart, bold, transgressive, sexy girl. Even if you didn’t know her by name, you’d probably heard a story. And you could feel that she was New York.
I was in the third row. She looked radiant, but afterward when I went backstage, the truth came out. Addison wasn’t the meatiest chickadee, but up close she looked, well … her bones were protruding, and she had this waxen sickliness in her skin. Maybe it took the fact that I hadn’t seen her in a while to know that I was seeing her clearest. Gil Cheba was backstage, too, hovering around her fame like a pesky bloodsucking mosquito. I had to wonder if they were together. I sincerely hoped not. But nobody’s ever had the real story on that, have they?
Addison was acting odd. She was putting on this stage-y voice. “Oh, Marie-Claire, how was Paris? I have missed you sooo much! We’re going out after the show, right? Gil’s spinning at Bembe. We’ll go in through the side door and get the best table in the back!”
“I’d love to.” But I was being fake as well. She wasn’t quite balanced. She seemed jumpy and her tone was strained. I assumed she was on all the wrong kinds of drugs. Cheba would have given her his last shot of heroin if she’d been inclined toward that vice.
GIL CHEBA: Nobody wants to accept his or her smack on the arse. Nobody wants to take his or her portion of blame for Addison’s spiral that summer. Now I might not have heard her signals, but it’s a travesty to call me her pusher or her dealer, as all these righteous people will be trying to convince you. Had Addison been partaking of one or two purely social drugs at one or two carefully cultivated parties—well, who could blame her? She’d had a rotten spring. And there’s no doctor who can tell you any antipsychotic medication offers a cure-all.
Zach Frat was still knives-out for Addison. Every day he’d try to find a new way to humiliate her. I know he got her dropped off the lists of the Met’s Costume Institute Gala and the Visiunaire party down at Miami Basel. And he’d tell anyone who’d listen about Addison’s continued unhealthy obsession with him. Outright lies about her ringing him up in the middle of the night and weeping and begging to get back together. That sort of nonsense.
Lincoln Reed was a wanker, too. He’d completely distanced himself from Addison. So I was never the enemy. I’ve heard tell all sorts of shit, that I was turning her onto meth or opium. Bollocks. I was a friend and a shoulder to cry on. Rumors can take the piss out, but they won’t define me. And in this instance, they simply aren’t even close to the truth.
LINCOLN REED: I’d stayed away from her, until I was ready. But I was always in reach—if she’d needed me, I’d have been there. We were both giving each other space. But she sent me a note about Front Street, so I went to check it out one afternoon, sometime in June. It was right after I got back from ten days in Brazil, where I’d ducked off to finish a project. I’d been slightly off the grid. I needed to paint and clear my head. I hadn’t even seen Addison since late April—I’d heard she was working hard and partying harder. I also heard Cheba was sticking to her like a cheap suit. Look, I’d heard a bunch of things. I wanted to see her for myself.