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Lasering in on the next few action items in my sequence of events, I march into her apartment, the layout a mirror image of my own. There’s a guest bathroom I’m going for. I press my ear against the wall.
Nothing.
I go into the guest bedroom.
Nothing.
Kitchen, living room – nothing.
Master bedroom – jackpot.
Men’s voices, muffled and indistinct. They’re in the bedroom.
Is Lindsay?
And then the voices change, coming closer.
Followed by the higher-pitched tone of a woman talking.
Emotion floods me, shoving all the adrenaline out through my pores, my body turning into air and dust. She’s alive.
Alive.
Relief fills me like a balm, a cure, an antidote.
I give myself exactly five seconds to feel it all.
And then I stuff it right back in my internal box of emotion.
Feelings cannot be in charge of me right now.
Lindsay will die if I let that happen.
I pull out my toolkit and get started. Step one is simple: establish visuals.
“What am I supposed to do, Drew?” Tiffany’s hovering over me, nervous. “Do I have lines? Is this improv?” She says the word improv like she’s worshipping something.
“Yes. One hundred percent improv,” I assure her. That’s probably the only non-lie that I’ve told her. “Your first job is to go to my apartment and slip this note under the door. If someone answers the door, you’re in character.”
“In character?”
“You can’t tell them I’m here, or that this is a reality television show.”
“Won’t they notice the cameras?”
“The cameras will all be hidden.” I realize I need to be more persuasive with her. “You do understand, don’t you?” I take on an authoritarian tone. “I need to make sure we have a professional on this show. You really are in the business, right?” I up my skepticism level to an almost comic level, hating that I have to do this. One ear is perked, listening for Lindsay’s voice. So far, everything’s gone quiet on the other side.
“Of course!” Tiffany gushes. “I’m a pro! I practically live on camera 24/7.” She plucks the piece of paper from my hand and shuffles off, reading as she walks. “Wait. This is a note telling them I’m having work done on my pipes.”
“Yes. Just a friendly note from one neighbor to another.”
“But everyone who lives in this complex knows that I would never leave a note, silly. That’s so rude. I would knock on the door and -- ”
“No!” Panic gets the better of me for a split second, enough to yell loud so that she jumps. “You need to stick to the script.”
“I thought there was no script.”
“We don’t have lines, but we have guidelines,” I emphasize. Get a fucking grip, I tell myself.
