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We finished filming at two in the morning and by the time I got home, I was beyond tired. I slept fitfully, waking several times until I finally settled into a nightmare.
I was on set and the script had been changed, but nobody gave me a new copy. I struggled through the scene and wondered why everyone was frowning at me.
“Cut!” Preston called. “Kyla, that’s the wrong line.”
“No, it’s not,” I said, confused, as I re-read the script in my head. I could see it as clearly as if the printed copy was in front of me. I’d dragged a pink highlighter over the words and there was a blue sticky tag in the margin. “The line isI always knew you’d give up on yourself. But I never thought you’d give up on us.”
“You’re supposed to say —” Preston ended his sentence with a babble of syllables that didn’t sound like English. My brain ached as I tried to remember everything he’d recited, but I was lost.
“Action!”
I did my best, but when the new line came up, he cut me off again.
“Told you this would happen,” Brooke said smugly. She was dressed like an executive, wearing a pinstripe suit with glasses. Her red shellac nails matched her lipstick. “This is what happens when you cast a nobody.”
“A nobody who sleeps with everyone on set,” Dean added. He was dressed as his character, Tom, but his eyes were different. Hard. “Have you slept with the cameramen yet? You should. The gossip websites say you have.”
I backed away as faceless men crowded around me and woke up in a cold sweat. I picked up my phone: it was barely past four. Underneath the time was a notification from Dean:I did it! Brooke’s gone. Tonia said I’m ruining my career, but I don’t care anymore.
Relief flushed through me. Even though Preston said not to worry about the bad press, I couldn’t help it. What if my dad had seen that article?
I reached around for my prosthetic and, not finding it, climbed out of bed on my left foot and hopped down the hallway. The television was on and I could see its flickering light before I reached the living room, but the volume was so soft I could barely hear it.
“Dad?”
He’d nodded off on the couch but gave a start when he heard his name.
“Kyla.” He patted the space on the couch next to him, inviting me to sit. I hopped over and joined him. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Nope.”
The screen showed a slim woman wearing bike shorts and a leotard demonstrating how to use exercise equipment.
“Look how easy it is,” she cooed, as she pulled two handles that moved the sled-like base she was lying on. “I can feel the burn!”
“Me neither.” Dad ignored the woman and looked at me through pink-rimmed eyes. “I don’t think I’ve slept a full night since your mother passed away.”
I waited for him to say more. Dad almost never spoke about his own mental health or how mom’s death had affected him, although his wounds were obviously deep. It was nice to hear him opening up. But the moment passed when he sipped the half-full beer that was on the side table. “Bleugh.” He pulled a face. “Warm.”
“I’ll get you a cold one,” I offered. Dad watched me hop out of the living room, frowning at my stump. When I returned with a fresh bottle and an opener, he removed the seal with a hiss but didn’t drink the beer.
“I hate what that fucker did to you,” he said, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure who he was talking about.
“Preston?”
“That drunk driver.” Dad used his beer to gesture at my leg. “We did everything right. Neither of us ever drank so we could keep you safe and you know what? It didn’t make a difference.”
I already knew the story. Nobody had told me much at the time because I was so young and they wanted me to focus on recovering from the accident, but I’d pieced it together over the years from overheard conversations and news clippings that I’d found in a photo album.
It was dark and raining, one of those short days in the middle of winter. Mom had picked me up from my aunt’s house, where I’d been staying while she and dad had gone out in the city, and I was in the back seat.
The other driver was a twenty-one-year-old man who’d been out drinking with his friends. Someone had suggested he call a taxi, and he’d laughed, called his friend a pussy, and said he’d be fine. According to the statement he gave police, he’d beenfiddling with the stereo when he drove through the stop sign, trying to find a radio station that wasn’t playing the news.
I remembered none of this. Not the road, or the rain, or being T-boned at eighty miles an hour. All I remembered were those flashing red and blue lights, and then a man’s voice asking, “Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”.
Everything else was a blur. Including, unfortunately, my last memories of my mother.
I didn’t realize I was crying until I touched my cheeks and felt how wet they were.
