No Ordinary Life (15 page)

33

T
he day after we got the flowers, John Lennon was on the corner when we pulled from the parking garage in our new car. It took a minute for him to realize it was us, and when he did, his face lit up and he waved.

Molly didn't look at him, and neither did I. We passed with our eyes glued to the road, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight that my fingers hurt. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see him frowning, his shoulders folded forward as he watched us continue on, clearly confused over what had changed.

Good job, Bug
, I said.

I don't undewrstand why I can't wave at him.

Because he's a stranger and we don't know if he's dangerous.

I caught her sad expression in the mirror, and it broke my heart. Immediately suspecting the worst of people instead of the best is a hard lesson to learn.

Today is Friday, the last day of our third full week of working. Three weeks doesn't sound that long, but the time has passed like dog years, the schedule so relentless and tedious that it feels like we've been working for months.

Today the shoot is on location so we can film the final climactic moment of the first episode, a scene in which Molly and Miles are pulled from the burning wreckage of a car that was just T-boned by an ambulance. The site for the shoot is an industrial neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, the storefronts dressed up to look like a bustling street with a restaurant and stores on one side and a hospital on the other.

We park in a vacant lot with dozens of other cars, several trailers, and a food truck, and Molly and I step from the car to the smell of sizzling bacon. One of the most rewarding perks of working on the show is the constant access to food. Between the craft service stations, the cafes and restaurants on the lot, and the on-location food trucks, Molly and I are never hungry.

As we walk past the set, my eyes slide to Chris. He sits in a director's chair staring at his laptop and looks like he's been here for hours, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a shadow of beard darkening his chin.

His flirtation has not progressed beyond the occasional wink, compliment, and smile, and though my pulse quickens when I see him, the truth is, when I think about it, I'm not certain how I feel about him. Like at this moment, though I'm excited he is here, I also know to steer clear. Coiled like a cheetah, tension pulses off him like he's ready to pounce and tear someone's throat out. That's the thing about Chris, he's a Jekyll and Hyde kind of character, one minute jokey and fun, the next, unrelenting and harsh. The result is greatness. Because of Chris Cantor,
The Foster Band
is the number one show on television, his energy creating a magnificent propulsion that keeps the show in orbit, but that same magnificent force also threatens instant annihilation to anyone who messes up.

We grab a quick breakfast from the food truck, get Molly's hair and makeup done, then return to the car to wait until we are called, the windows down so we can hear what is happening.

I watch as Chris marches toward two extras. “You.” He points to one in a business suit. “You cross and go into the building, then the ambulance comes barreling around the corner.”

The extra nods enthusiastically, excited to be chosen from the dozens who mill around the hospital entrance. Pulling his shoulders back, he saunters across the street with great noble strides, and Chris rolls his eyes. Beth rushes over to talk to the guy, and I watch his posture deflate as Beth reduces him back to mere mortalness, telling him to just walk across the street like a normal businessman, one who no one will notice or remember.

I sympathize. Every day I watch as the extras and guest stars overplay their roles, turning in a performance worthy of Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
when their part is to play a bicycle courier dropping off a package or a man in a suit crossing the street.

A fire truck pulls into the lot, and I tense. It's here to put out the flames after the crash. Molly and Miles won't be in the car when the ambulance smashes into it, but they will be placed in the wreckage after and a controlled fire will be lit to make it look like the car and ambulance are on fire, and although I've been assured by a dozen people that Molly will be safe, I'm still not entirely comfortable with it.

The car being used for the crash is a late model Camry, and I can't help but think what a waste it is to destroy such a nice car, not to mention the ambulance. But I've learned that waste and cost is rarely a consideration. Cars, furniture, clothes, electronics, whatever is needed to get the shot is sacrificed without a second thought.

Molly sits beside me watching a movie on the iPad I bought a week ago. There's so much idle time that she needed something to keep her occupied. I need something as well but have yet to figure out what that something is. Maybe I should take up knitting or read all the classics, something productive. So far all I've done is fritter away my time. Several times a day I check in with my mom, and once a week I call Tom's therapist. I make shopping lists for groceries and sometimes I pay bills. But mostly I watch the slow plodding of the show, and when nothing is happening there, I waste time on my new iPhone Googling the cast, fascinated by the stories the reporters make up and the few facts they occasionally get right.

Today, one of the more popular gossip sites reports that Helen is pregnant with Jeremy's child, which is preposterous on so many levels I can't believe it made it to print. Not only is Helen forty-eight, but she's had a well-documented hysterectomy. And Jeremy isn't going to be procreating anytime soon with anyone from the XX chromosome pool. Gorgeous as he is, and despite his publicist doing a fabulous job spreading rumors about him dating the girl from
Mainland
, Jeremy's ship doesn't sail straight.

Another site suggests that Gabby is Jules's illegitimate daughter, that her mother was Jules's housekeeper and lover, and that he turned them out when he discovered she was pregnant. There's always a lot of speculation about Gabby, mostly about her weight and her suspected drug use.

They also love to talk about Kira's weight, that she is too skinny and might have an eating disorder. They've got it wrong about Kira. Kira is obsessed with her weight, but she's too smart and too driven to deal with it in a way that would be counterproductive to her career. Her rocking hot body is achieved the old-fashioned way, through a strict diet monitored by a personal nutritionist and prepared by a personal chef, combined with a brutal body maintenance routine managed by a private trainer, a private yogi, and a personal masseuse.

They might have it right about Gabby. The other day I heard her talking to Caleb about rolling with “Molly,” so I eavesdropped thinking she was talking about my Molly, when in fact she was talking about the drug called Molly.

“Let's do this,” Chris bellows, interrupting my perusal of an article about Caleb dating his mother's boyfriend's daughter, bookmarking it so I can return to it later.

34

T
he crash was spectacular. The ambulance barreled into the Camry, sending it hurtling onto the sidewalk, where it careened on its side toward a store dressed to look like a diner. For a heart-stopping second it looked like it was going to smash right through the window and into the extras sitting at the tables, but it skidded to a stop a foot from the glass.

That was two hours ago.

Bored and done reading the latest gossip on the members of the cast, I decide to Google Molly's name to see if there's any buzz about her joining the show. 282,000 hits! The first listing is for the YouTube video, the second is a Wikipedia listing, the third is for the Gap, and the fourth is for a video I'm unfamiliar with. Its title is
Molly Martin Dances Like You've Never Seen Her Before
.

I click on the listing and stare horrified when a video pops up showing Molly's face superimposed on a naked white woman dancing with a black man. The man strums a guitar and belts out “Go, Molly, Go” to the tune of “Johnny B. Goode.” I close down the window, my jaw quivering with rage and disgust.

“Molly, on set,” Chris says, interrupting my revulsion, and as I stumble from the car, I decide never to Google Molly's name again.

“Ready?” Beth asks.

Molly looks unsure. I'm unsure as well. No matter how many times I've been assured Molly will be safe, it goes against every fiber of my being to let my daughter go anywhere near the tangled, burnt wreckage of metal and glass that lies smoldering on the sidewalk.

I kneel down to her height and take hold of her arms. “Bug, you okay with this?”

“It's just pwretend,” she says bravely. “Chwris says it's going to be a piece of cake.”

I stop myself from telling her that she shouldn't trust everything a man says, especially when he wants something from you.

“Okay, baby. I'll be right here.” I peck her on the nose, and Beth leads her away.

I turn to look at Chris for reassurance, but he is across the street talking…no…arguing with Griff. I can't hear what they're saying, but Chris's shoulders are jacked up high and Griff's expression is fierce. The two seem to get along well most of the time, but at the moment, Griff looks like he wants to tear Chris's head off, and Chris looks like he's challenging him to do just that. Chris gestures with his hands to emphasize his point, and Griff glowers at him, his head shaking back and forth.

I move closer, curious if the argument involves Molly, but before I get near enough to hear what they're saying, Chris whirls and roars, “Places.”

“He's drunk,” Griff hisses.

Chris ignores him.

“Who's drunk?” I say when I reach Griff.

Griff squints down at me, the pulse in his neck throbbing. “Who do you think?”

Jules.
Jules is always drunk.

Jules is supposed to pull Molly and Miles from the car before the ambulance explodes.

“Clear the set,” Chris says, causing me to move from the pavement to the sidewalk to stand beside Griff.

Across the street, in front of the hospital, Jules and Helen stand near the exit. In the wrecked car, Molly and Miles are strapped into the backseat, and the woman who plays the social worker is in the driver's seat. The extras are in their places, and the set has fallen silent.

Griff still looks at me, his eyes fierce, challenging me to do something.

My eyes bulge, and my mouth almost opens.

“Action.”

Flash—the ambulance lights up, flames flicking from its engine, black smoke billowing from the smashed hood. Molly cries out, screaming for help.

Mr. Foster runs toward the crash, and Mrs. Foster yells, “Frank, stop. There's oxygen in the ambulance. It might explode.”

He doesn't listen. A red-blooded American hero, a veteran who has survived two wars, he charges forward. The car is on its side, its smashed windshield facing us. Through it, I see the social worker kicking at the glass to free herself. The window gives, and she drags herself through, the toxic smoke engulfing her as she staggers out, blood dripping down her face.

She takes two steps then her face transforms from pain to panic, and she cranes her head back toward Molly and Miles.

“I've got them,” Mr. Foster yells. “Go.”

An extra dressed as an orderly runs forward and leads the social worker toward the hospital.

Through the smoke, I see Miles tugging at his seat belt while Molly continues to cry.

Mr. Foster clumsily scrambles onto the car and wrenches open the door. Griff was right—he's drunk, more drunk than usual. He reaches in and grabs hold of Miles, who has managed to free himself.

Awkwardly he pulls Miles out, nearly falling off the car in the process and causing Miles's legs to flail. Molly yelps, a genuine howl of pain, different from her pretend ones. Miles must have kicked her. I step forward, but Griff grabs hold of my arm, stopping me.

Miles falls to the ground, and Mrs. Foster runs forward to pull him to safety.

“Molly,” Miles cries, resisting her efforts.

At the same time, Mr. Foster struggles to free Molly from her car seat while Molly continues to sob. The clip releases, and I watch in horror as she tumbles from the seat to the ground, a four-foot drop.

“Cut,” I scream with Molly's shriek. “Cut, cut, cut.”

I try to wrench free from Griff's hold, but he only strengthens his grip.

Jules climbs inside the car. He's not supposed to do that. The script said he was supposed to release Molly, pull her out, and carry her to safety.
This is wrong. It's all wrong.

Awkwardly, he pushes Molly up through the door. Tears stream down her face, but she manages to scramble out, her body shaking.

“I've got you,” Helen says, reaching up and lifting her down.

Cradling Molly against her chest, she runs the opposite direction of where she was supposed to run, away from the hospital and straight toward me.

Miles runs beside her, and Jules stumbles behind them. When they're ten feet away, the ambulance explodes. Helen shelters Molly from the blast as best she can, shielding her head with her own and covering Molly's ear with her hand, though there's no real danger, the blast entirely contained to within a few feet of the car.

Griff releases my arm, and Helen hands Molly to me, genuine concern in her eyes.

“Paramedic, now,” Griff barks, and it's only then that I realize Molly is actually hurt.

Blood covers her shirt and stains her face. I crumble to the sidewalk to scan for the injury. Four inches above her wrist is an inch-long gash.

“It's okay, baby. You're okay. You're going to be okay.”

Molly clings to me, blood dripping down her arm. Griff pulls off his flannel shirt and wraps it around the wound.

“Hang in there, kid,” he says.

“I fewll,” she says through her tears.

“I'm sorry,” Jules says, appearing beside us.

Griff whirls on him. “Get your drunken ass out of here.”

Jules simpers away, his head hung like a beaten dog.

“She okay?” Chris asks, walking up and crouching beside me.

A paramedic pushes past before I can answer. He peels off Griff's shirt to examine the wound. Molly isn't crying now, only whimpering, her nostrils flaring with her broken inhales of breath. I press her face against me so she won't see the blood.

“She needs stitches,” the paramedic says. “Do you want me to call for an ambulance?”

“No,” Griff and Chris say together, panic flashing in both men's eyes.

Chris looks at the man and says sharply, “This doesn't get out. You hear me? Leak a word of this and I'll have your hide.”

The man nods as he wraps gauze around the wound.

Helen speaks up. “I can take them,” she says.

I didn't realize she was still beside us. Her blouse is smeared with blood, her eyes glassy with emotion.

“Thanks, Helen. I appreciate that,” Chris says.

I lift Molly, and Griff drapes his shirt over her. I shove it back at him. “No thank you,” I say harshly. He should have let me go to Molly when I tried. Him, of all people, with his condescending judgment when
I
don't speak up, but when the time came for
his
job to be compromised, all he cared about was getting his precious shot.

“Give me your keys,” he says, the vein in his neck pulsing. “I'll have one of the crew bring your car to the hospital.”

I fish my keys from my pocket then, carrying Molly, follow Helen to her Mercedes.

Helen doesn't talk as she drives, her focus intent on the road as we race well past the speed limit to the hospital a few miles away.

The car skids to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance, and Helen runs around the car, opens the door, and takes Molly from my arms so I can get out.

When she hands her back, she stutters, “I would go in with you…if you want me to…if you need me to, I will. It's just…I'm not sure it's the best idea.” Her eyes skit around like we've entered enemy territory and there might be snipers. Which I realize is exactly her predicament. She's Helen Harlow, and there might be snipers. Who knows what headlines they would make up about this?
Helen Harlow and Lesbian Lover Rush Love Child to Hospital after Domestic Dispute.

“It's okay,” I say. “I've got it from here. Thanks for the ride.”

She hesitates then says, “Griff was doing you a favor. If he had let you interrupt the scene, they would have made her do it again. Maybe not today but at some point. Once it started, he knew it was better to finish it. If you want to blame someone, blame Chris or look in the mirror, but don't blame Griff. He was trying to help.”