But when she shaved her head, she became interesting to me. It’s rare to see celebrities undercut their good looks, given that those looks are part of the package that makes them money. When Cort-land emerged from NYC’s Cathédrale restaurant, captured in those now-infamous photographs, half of her head shaved and middle finger raised, she essentially rejected a society that wanted to photograph her, look at her, control her. That wanted her to be beautiful, that wanted her to cater to them. It was rebellion, and for the first time, she had this art critic’s attention.
And now we get to behold her glorious public meltdown, which unfolded yesterday, caught on so many cameras, from so many angles, that you’d be forgiven for thinking Cortlandorchestrated the coverage herself. It is, in short, the most interesting performance the young singer has given to date.
If her head-shaving was a degradation of the flesh, her beach meltdown was a Grand Guignol performance—a sensational drama, tinged with horror, hard to look away from. Fighting against a rip current that wanted to pull her out to sea: What better metaphor could she have constructed for drowning in her label’s control, in the public’s mercurial favor, in her own infamously unstable emotions? For a woman whose sadness many have questioned, what better way to prove what real grief and substance abuse look like, stripped of their romanticizing? Cortland’s beach performance, while occasionally maudlin—particularly the clichéd rescue attempt by her former manager—nevertheless makes a strong statement: if you won’t remove me from public scrutiny, I will remove myself.
It will be interesting to see what happens next. Will Cortland end up ODing like Marilyn Monroe, Janis Joplin, or Amy Winehouse? Will she suffer an accidental death like Whitney Houston? Be subject to a conservatorship like Britney Spears? There is another option, of course: that she will rise from the ashes of a life she seems intent on torching, and emerge, phoenix-like, to take back control. This critic hopes, for the sake of continued art, that Cortland chooses the latter.
Chapter 54
Hannah
Sunday, November 10, 2024
I wake in a fluorescent-lit hospital room with a hollow pit in my stomach and my family and friends gathered around me. They’re staring mournfully down at me like they’re at a funerary viewing.
“What—happened?” My throat is shredded. It comes out as a croak.
My mom hands me a glass of water and I drink it greedily. My whole body aches.
My parents shoot each other a look I’m familiar with:How to tell her?“You had to have your stomach pumped,” my dad says gently. “The doctors say you need to rest.”
“Han.” Kenny speaks to me like I’m a child he doesn’t want to scare. “How much do you remember?”
That’s when it rushes back: Ginny, the beach, the rip current, and Theo.
Oh god—Theo.
I push myself up in the bed, but my mom stops me, pressing my shoulders back. “Shh, take it easy. Not too fast.”
“Where’s Theo?” I demand. “He pulled me out.”
“He’s okay,” Bowie assures me. “He’s already out of the hospital. They say he’s going to heal up just fine.”
Heal up?The cup of water, wet with condensation, slips from my hand and spills on the floor.
“I’m sorry.” I jerk down too fast, reaching for the spill. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey now.” My dad guides me back against the headboard. My head swims with dizziness. “It’s just water.”
“I’ve got it,” Ripper says, beelining for the door. “I’ll find a nurse for some rags.”
My gaze meets Kenny’s and Bowie’s. They’re looking at me with pity, and half of me hates it. The other half doesn’t understand why they’re not furious instead. And that goes double for my parents—the last I remember I was screaming at them, and now here they are, by my side.
“I’m sorry for everything,” I say quietly. “Not just the spill. I know the album is releasing next week and we’re supposed to be doing all this promo and it’s the finish line and I fucked it all up—”
“Hannah, stop,” Bowie says, in a stern voice I’ve never heard before. I’m so shocked that Bowie can be stern that I actually do shut up. “None of that matters compared to this.”
“What happened out there?” My mother’s voice is even. Like always, she’s the most no-nonsense person in the room. “How did you end up in the water?”
“I was looking for Ginny.” I’m too ashamed to look anyone in the eyes, so I focus on my hands in my lap, warm through my thin hospital gown. “I thought if I went to the last place she existed, I could talk to her again.”
“How much did you drink?” my mother asks. “The bottle you were holding when you kicked us out of your house—how much of it?” Her voice is clinical, but I wince all the same.
“Too much,” I whisper.
“Hannah, I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to answer truthfully. No matter how you think it’s going to make the rest of us feel.” For the first time, my mom’s voice cracks. “Did you go to Miramar Beach to end your life?”
“What?” My head jerks up. “Of course not.” And then I consider what I did, and the indignation drains out of me. “Though I can see why you might ask.”
