This morning, he snuck into my hospital room. At first, I didn’t recognize him, wearing glasses, dressed as an orderly, bent over, and pushing a cart piled with towels and linens. When the door shut behind him, he took a camera out from under his shirt and began shooting.

There was a time not long ago when I had photo approval in all my contracts. I controlled how I wanted my body seen. And while candid photos of me have graced many a tabloid cover, none compares to those that will soon be featured at the check stand of your local supermarket courtesy of Nurse Flo’s disposable camera and The Australian’s Nikon 90.

I hate them; the Australian and his brethren; who ply otherwise competent nurses with offers they can’t refuse.

And though I am certainly guilty of courting fame. The punishment far outweighs the crime.

SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

INT. SUNSET GOWER STUDIO

DAY

1990

Peter and I had been together for a year and our on-screen passion continued to boost the show’s ratings. Off-screen, the tabloids followed our romance as closely as if we were members of the royal family.

I couldn’t keep up with my fan mail, so I hired one of the extras to send out my 8x10s. Scotty was a bookish gay man with codependency issues; perfect qualifications to be my assistant. He loved reading my mail and responding to the fans. Special letters he set aside from the pile and marked to my attention.

I came into my dressing room one morning to find that Scotty had left out a pink envelope addressed to Jackie Goldstein. But the “stein” had been crossed out.

Dear Jackie, (The handwriting was shaky.) I don’t want to disturb you, I only want to tell you that you are the best thing on the goddamn show and even though I don’t believe personally in abortion, I don’t hold yours against you. (She was referring to my character, of course.) Would you be so kind as to send me a picture from the show and sign it to Marva?

All the best,

Your Nana

I sat on the couch and reread the letter several times. It took my breath away, and honestly, I was surprised that she was still alive. It had been fifteen years since I’d seen her, and she hadn’t seemed in particularly good health then. I picked up a pen and a piece of stationery and wrote “Dear Nana,” but then I stopped. What was there to say? She’d never tried to get in touch with me before. Not in fifteen years, not even after my mother left us. Never. She hadn’t asked me anything personal about my life. She wanted a signed picture. Of my character. There was nothing special about this letter. Not one goddamn thing. I put it back in the envelope and tossed it on the pile for Scotty.