CHAPTER ONE

Ivy’s Diary

JANUARY 11, 1998

I’m living a borrowed life on borrowed time.

It took me a while to realize this. Years of denial and blind compliance. By the time it finally dawned on me that my life wasn’t really my own, the bitter truth of their mantra really sunk in.

You are replaceable.

Yesterday we wrapped filming on the three hundredth episode of In the Dollhouse. Camera crews and press agents from various media outlets swarmed to capture the milestone, along with representatives from the Guinness World Records, who brought framed certificates that officially declared In the Dollhouse as the longest-running prime time TV drama. They surprised us by announcing another world record: after nearly sixteen years on air, Tabitha Noelle as played by me, Ivy Gordon, was now the longest-running character on prime-time television. The cast and crew cheered as I was handed a second certificate.

A giant cake was brought on set, and a TV wheeled out to play a montage of celebrities and fans raving about the show and about me. All these people who adore me, who think they know me, who even want to be me.

Nobody should want to be me.

As I stared at the cake, 300 emblazoned in red icing, a thought popped into my head:

I’ve been living in the Dollhouse for more than half my life. Pouring my heart and soul into stories that were written for me, yet I’ve never truly reflected on my own.

For a long time, I’ve been too afraid to share my story.

I can’t afford to be afraid anymore.

I’m thirty-four but I feel like I’m a hundred.

I’m so tired. Always so tired. They don’t warn you about how you’ll never get enough rest, always pulled in different directions. You’d think the more successful you get, the more powerful you’ll become, the more autonomy you’ll earn, but it’s not true. You get so used to somebody else advising you and calling the shots, your inner compass gets warped; you put all your trust in others and forget how to trust yourself. As you become more recognized, you become a reflection of something bigger than yourself, and as your image grows more important, so do all your decisions. It gets so you can no longer make them on your own. The more eyes you have on you, the more crucial it is for you to say the right things, look and behave the right way.

If only I wasn’t so taken in by them. You will have everything, they say, but when you do, you feel like you have nothing.

Whoever ends up reading this, above all else, I ask that you believe me.

I’m putting my life on the line telling you what I’m about to tell you. If that sounds like an exaggeration, let me share a little story to illustrate my point.

Before I discovered how many bigger, darker, scarier things the world contains, my greatest fear was flying. Since I was a little girl, despite the countless times I was shuttled between coasts for auditions and tapings, every time I set foot on an airplane, terror wrapped around me like a boa constrictor. I’d calm down long enough to let myself be buckled into my seat, but the second the plane began to taxi, I’d start to wail. The other passengers would throw dirty looks at my mother and me, mistaking my hysteria for an unruly child’s tantrum.

After enough disapproving glares, I learned vocalizing my emotions was something to be ashamed of, no matter how much distress I was in. It’s a lesson I’m still trying to unlearn.

My phobia didn’t get any better with age. No matter how many hours I spent in the sky, I was gripped by fear until the wheels touched down on the ground, even in first class after I booked more jobs, even in Dahlen’s private jets after I became a top earner and “precious cargo.” People tried to comfort me with statistics, as if logic could magically flip my brain’s panic switch. Nothing short of alcohol or medication curbed my irrational sense of doom, but I usually avoided drinking or taking the prescribed pills—in the event that the plane did go down and there was any chance of survival, I wanted to keep my wits about me.

So, I white-knuckled it, certain that every bit of turbulence would send us plummeting, or that engine failure was looming, or a bolt of lightning would strike us down at any moment.

You probably know about the 1988 bus accident in which I almost died. And I’ll get into that, of course I will. But very few people know I almost died the previous year, not on a bus but on an airplane.

It was early September, and I was on a Dahlen private jet, returning from Rome after doing a European press tour for the movie Colorbound, the only non-Dahlen project I was allowed to work on. For most questions, my responses were riffs on statements my publicist had prepared for me and were far from controversial. I praised the film’s writer and director, heaped compliments on the cast and crew. But a couple of times, when asked about the contract negotiations around renewing In the Dollhouse for several more seasons, I’d expressed ambivalence toward continuing to play Tabitha Noelle. Nothing controversial, I just added a throwaway line that happened to reflect my genuine feelings, about how refreshing it had been to take on a new character in Colorbound, and how after six years, I wasn’t sure whether I could still make a meaningful contribution on the show.

Anyway, I was exhausted from the press tour—four countries in six days, answering the same questions over and over, feeling like I had to smile the entire time, because if I let one unpleasant expression slip, that’s the photo they’d use. It’s not like I got to visit the Eiffel Tower or the Trevi Fountain; I spent most of the time in hotel conference rooms and suites set up for reporters. It was a privilege to be on that junket, sure, but a privilege that drained every ounce of energy from me. My costars on In the Dollhouse (or ITD, as we all called it), the closest thing I had to friends, would be sympathetic about that when I returned. Except for the ones who might be jealous because they weren’t allowed to shoot any outside projects. Probably I’d just keep my mouth shut about my exhaustion, just as I’ve grown accustomed to keeping my mouth shut about most things that distress me. I save those negative emotions for when I’m reading lines to a camera.

It was too bad my fear of flying kept me from sleeping on planes, because as soon as we landed in New York, I would have to return to the compound to begin ITD rehearsals. Fortunately, going over the show’s latest script helped distract me somewhat from my obsessive worry that the giant metal bird I was encased in would drop like a stone and sink to the bottom of the ocean.

Several hours into the flight, the plane dipped abruptly. The downward lurch felt like being in an elevator whose cables had snapped. The other passengers on the flight—a group of middle-aged men in suits I assumed were Dahlen lawyers or finance guys—seemed unfazed, and the flight attendants assured us it was only a little turbulence, so I did my best to suppress my apprehension. By that point in my life, it had become one of my strongest skills.

Suddenly a piercing alarm echoed through the cabin and oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling. Bile burned my throat.

“Sorry folks, we’ve experienced a drop in cabin pressure. Just to be on the safe side, keep your seat belts buckled and go ahead and put on those oxygen masks. Crew, please strap in and do likewise.”

The businessmen glanced at each other, shrugged, and put on their oxygen masks. I did the same, wondering how they could be so nonchalant, my hands shaking so badly, it took a few tries to adjust the straps of my mask.

I asked what was wrong with the plane, looking around for one of the flight attendants, who I imagined were donning parachutes, about to abandon the aircraft altogether. This couldn’t just be turbulence. Were we going down? We were going down, weren’t we? I pressed my lips together, teeth sinking into them from the inside until I tasted blood.

Nobody answered me and the plane continued to judder in the sky for what seemed like hours but must’ve only been a minute or two.

Then things got even scarier.

A high-pitched beep bellowed through the cabin, like a sadistic alarm clock through a megaphone. The overhead lights began to flicker, and the floor’s emergency strip lights blinked on.

Too petrified to speak, I tried to catch the eye of one of the businessmen.

But they all stared off into space, not speaking to each other, still looking disturbingly calm.

Finally, the pilot came over the loudspeaker. “We’re going to be making an emergency landing in the Azores. Nothing to worry about, folks, just need to get a few things checked out before we continue on to New York.”

An emergency landing was nothing to worry about?

I screwed my eyes shut and tightened my grip on the armrests until my nails punctured the leather.

The alarm kept shrieking and my brain kept repeating three words in time with its piercing rhythm: we’re going down, we’re going down, we’re going down, we’re going down.

It’s impossible to say how much time passed before the wheels jolted against the tarmac and the plane shuddered to a stop.

I opened my eyes and pulled up my window shade but could only see the silhouette of dark hills and a smattering of lights in the distance.

The men in suits removed their oxygen masks and unbuckled their seat belts while I remained too stunned to move. Before I could make any sense of what was happening, the group of them formed a circle around me. To this day, I can’t remember what they looked like.

I shrank down in my seat.

One of the men yanked off my oxygen mask. They took turns speaking.

“You look like a scared little girl.”

“You thought it was the real thing, didn’t you?”

“Next time it can be.”

“Next time it might be.”

“This is how easy it is to get rid of you.”

“Nobody would even miss you.”

“We have your replacement lined up.”

“Do you want to be replaced?”

I shook my head no, tears streaming down my face.

“We don’t want to replace you, either.”

“But we will, if we have to.”

“Be a good girl and watch what you say to the press.”

“Be a good girl and sign that new contract.”

“Or next time you think the plane is going down, it’ll be the real thing.”

“Are we clear?”

I nodded my head, tasting salt in the corners of my mouth. The seat of my jeans was cold, wet with urine. My teeth chattered.

A stack of papers was put in front of me and I was handed a pen.

Once I signed the contract, one by one, they patted me on the head like I was an obedient dog and disembarked the plane.

A minute later the pilot announced we would be continuing our flight to New York.

I was the only passenger left.

That’s what they did to me when I made vague noises about wanting to leave the Dollhouse.

Imagine what they’d do to me for telling you what it’s really like to be one of their dolls.

CHAPTER TWO

MARCH 1998

The sun is rising as our taxi crosses the bridge from Brooklyn into Manhattan, and the skyscrapers’ dark silhouettes look as if they’ve been cut out of paper and set against an amber and indigo ombre background. The city skyline only ever looks this breathtaking on film, and I can’t help but hope it’s a sign of good things to come.

“Don’t be nervous, Ramona,” Grace says to me.

“I’m not nervous. You’re nervous.” I steady my jittering knee.

“You’re right, I’m totally freaking out.” Grace clutches at my hand. “Is this really happening?”

“Yes, it’s happening and breaking my fingers won’t make it any more real.” I gently extricate myself and crack open a window to let out the cloying Royal Pine air freshener permeating the inside of the car. The driver has four little trees dangling from his rearview mirror, which is four too many.

“I’ve never done live TV before. What if I freeze? What if I fuck it up?” Her eyes go cartoonishly wide. “What if I say ‘fuck’ on air?”

I force myself to take slow even breaths—I’ve never done live TV before either. “You and your sailor mouth will be fine,” I reassure her. “You were great in the preinterview with that assistant producer, and I’m sure you’ll be great today. Plus, I don’t know what you’re doing to your face, but your skin looks luminous.” An extra compliment is the fastest way to calm an uneasy Grace.

“You think so?” She pats her cheekbones with her fingertips. “I feel like it looks waxy today.”

You know those women who are gorgeous but don’t believe it, no matter how many times you tell them? Grace is like that. Has been since we were kids. Despite her flawless olive complexion and dark voluminous hair that would make a Disney princess jealous, I still had to bolster Grace’s self-esteem regularly. I didn’t mind. My uncles / de facto fathers, Reed and Alonso, lavished me with positive reinforcement, so instead of focusing on my blemishes and frizzy yellow hair that would make a scarecrow jealous, I grew up appreciating my dark teal eyes, the strong V of my eyebrows, and the fullness of my mouth. By some miracle, I made it through my gawky teenage years and into my early twenties with a healthy self-esteem. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Grace, whose series of foster homes left her reserved and distrustful, which was sometimes misconstrued for snobbery. For the dozen years we’ve been friends, I’ve tried to show people they have the wrong idea about her, and that she has the wrong idea about herself.

Grace begins to gnaw at a cuticle, and I give her wrist a gentle swat. “Look how pretty the city looks,” I say to distract her.

Rays of sun glint off glass and steel, the buildings blindingly beautiful, doubly so as they’re mirrored in the river.

Copyright © 2025 by Margarita Montimore