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Then I just lie there, cheek against the wet cement, water dripping into my eyes from my sodden hair, my chest heaving from the laps, from holding my breath, from my perpetual fatigue.
I lie there until my breath steadies. I lie there until my back is dry. And I am in no hurry to get up until there’s a poke in the middle of the back.
“Are you okay? Do you have low blood sugar or something?”
I recognize the voice. The little boy is back. I push off the ground to get on my feet, aware of the strange scene he’s just stumbled upon. Grabbing my towel I wrap it around my waist and sling my bag over the shoulder.
“I don’t have low blood sugar,” I reply, forgoing the response ofI’m okaybecause whether he’s eight or eighty, his eyes are knowing. He sees I’m off. He’s just trying to understandhowoff.
“Did you hit your head?” he tries again, desperate to make it make sense. I’m surehisfather has never slipped while getting out of a public pool then proceeded to lie there for thirty minutes, contemplating his worth.
From the other side of the pool, his father appears, this time in swim trunks. “Laps before work, am I right?” he shouts across the water, but his words ping pong off the empty walls, echoing a little.
I nod. “Right.” I look back at the boy. “I didn’t hit my head.” I force a smile. “Have a good swim.”
I head toward the locker room, somewhat anxious I’ll be followed and questioned by his father. Worried that this kid is too empathetic, that he’ll be worried and pass those concerns to his dad.
But I get through a scalding shower and dressing completely alone, and don’t see them again before I head out.
At Crave, I slip into my cozy office, arranging my schedule on the computer. Aug pops in to notify me of a last-minute set change, explaining the outdoor scenes we’d had scheduled later today were postponed due to the spitting weather. We rearrange shooting schedules often, as it’s always one swift wind away from raining here in San Francisco. The irritation clouding my mind isn’t from Aug or the reschedule. Days following nightmares are just like this.
I wish I could disappear.
Instead, I give Aug a polite smile and nod of acknowledgment and proceed to thumb through the daily printed scene schedule, readying myself for what's ahead.
The first shot is the new actress, Lucy Lovegood, in another solo scene. This time, she’s a Hollywood actress from the 1920s, and she’s performing for a directoroff-camera. She’s in the spotlight. It’s Jessica Rabbit without the overdone everything and I dig the vibe Aug is going for. He’s got a great vision.
I grab my waist harness and some ropes, in addition to a few more carabiners. I’ll be hanging one large light next, so after collecting the rest of my safety gear, I grab the light canister from our prop room and head to the set.
My focus pinches on the task at hand, riding a small lift up to the beams then hanging the wireless spotlight. I grab the walkie on my hip and call Lance, who is on set below.
“Position check,” I call, adjusting the angle with my level out, to get the perfect forty-five degrees. My hands begin to tremble around the bar, and though the light emits warmth, a cool shiver wraps my spine, my core full of insecurity and fatigue.
Fucking nightmares. Every fucking time I have a dream about her, about that night, I’m ruined the next day. Pair it with the usual inability to get back to sleep and I feel like complete shit. Impatience claws at me, but I make it a point to tame myself. To keep control. Always.
There was a time when I didn’t, and my inability to hold my tongue cost me everything. Or, what was left of everything.
Lance moves to the camera and paces to the marked spot on the floor. I radio down to him. “Thanks.” He waves me off, calling to Aug. “Roll in three.”
It takes me three minutes to collect my shit and move the lift, and right as I’m out of the way, the production team moves in. Alexa curves around me to blot at Lucy’s face, while Lance directs a new camera man on what shots to take and when.
“Hold,” Aug calls out, leaning back in his chair as Maxi scurries toward him. She cups a hand to his ear and when she’s done, neither of them look happy. Maxi wears concern while Aug’s features twist angrily.
Like a voyeur, I watch as he relays Maxi’s message to Lance. The two of them gaze out at an unknowing Lucy Lovegood, the latest procurement by Crave. They hold a private discussion with something clearly important in the balance. I follow their gaze, finding the blonde actress perched on a stool at her mark, a glittering red ball gown hugging her. Alexa finger combs the ends of Lucy’s hair, and my chest tightens when my eyes find Lucy’s subtle smile.
It’s wide and toothy, lifting the corners of her eyes with genuine happiness.
I’ve seen her a few times. And I’ve never seen her smile. Not like this.
My chest goes concave for a moment, crushing my lungs, stealing my breath.
The unbalance I felt on the lift returns, and my legs tingle with unease. The corners of my vision bleed into an ombre of darkness as my heart hammers, scalp tingling, sending an erratic pulse through my veins. I can’t look away. I swallow, and my ears thud.
It’s been years since anything has earned my attention. And I can’t remember a time when I’ve been this captivated, felt a roaring current of electricity moving through my body as if…no.
I finish duct taping the ground where a loose electrical cord rests, and make my way to the back of the room, letting my back fall to the wall.
I usually stand on the perimeter of the set, lying in wait for anything Aug or Lance may need.
