53. Will #3
While the crew reset for the afternoon, I took my position at Dad’s bedside.
“I know the painkillers knock you out and make it hard to focus,” I said, resisting the urge to wipe away the spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth.
“But you’re not having fun if you’re in pain, and we said this would be fun, right? ”
“I can’t. It’ll ruin me for the rest of the day.”
I nudged his water closer. “So what? Your character’s dead in the next scene.
Besides, you said you wanted to be freer, right?
What better way than this? And if you forget a line or lose your train of thought, who cares?
Bruce is not supposed to make sense to anyone but himself.
And you’ve done your homework. You know this guy inside and out.
Trust yourself. Trust us. We’ve got plenty of footage of you working through the pain.
Now let’s try something new. Come on, if nothing else, it’ll at least make a hilarious addition to the blooper reel, right? ”
Dad sucked in a pained breath. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” I said, setting my hand on his. “Think of it like jazz. I mean, you’re basically the Louis Armstrong of acting, aren’t you? You’ve got every blues scale at your fingertips. Now you just need to let the music out.”
He sighed in defeat, but not before getting the last word. “You know I hate that noodly stuff. I only listen to big-band jazz.”
Before he could pick apart my metaphor further, I waved the nurse over.
“Action.”
“Jimmy will be here in a minute,” I said. “Owen’s sitter was late again.”
My father smiled in a blissed-out, drug-induced euphoria. “Get me my gun. I’ll shoot that fuckin’ plane down myself, shoot it right out of the fuckin’ sky.”
I held my phone up so he could see the video. “Look at him go. Almost time to get him a real bike.”
Dad squinted. “Jimmy?”
“No, Dad, that’s Owen, your grandson.”
“They’re coming for you, Jimmy, but I’m gonna shoot ’em out of the fuckin’ sky.”
The door swung open, and Ryan stepped in. He yanked off his orange beanie and ran his hand over his stubbled scalp. “Not dead yet, I see.”
“He’s the one who took my fuckin’ sock.” Dad hurled his cup of Jell-O at Ryan, striking him square in the face.
Ryan didn’t break character, though. Just clutched his eye and screamed, “Son of a bitch.”
“Dad, knock it off.” I lunged to pin his arms down before he could throw anything else, but he was stronger than he looked. He reared up and head-butted me. Pain shot through my skull—real pain. Jesus fucking Christ!
“Give me back my sock!”
I didn’t know what happened next, in part because I’d suffered a concussion, but also because it was totally fucked.
Even later, when I watched it back on the monitor, I couldn’t believe it.
It was unhinged. Half of our lines were swallowed as Dad lost his shit, and yet, he never broke character, not once.
It was fucked-up and brilliant. And when he took his drink and began to silently aspirate, it came at the perfect moment, right as I was saying, “Fuck this shit. I’m not doin’ it.
I’m not puttin’ Owen through this. I’m not.
There’s no fuckin’ way. I’ll shoot myself in the head first.”
“Awesome. That’s just awesome,” Ryan screamed, loud enough to cover the fact that Dad wasn’t screaming. “Go be a martyr. Just make it look like an accident, okay? That way we can still collect the insurance money.”
My chest tightened. I wanted to apologize, to punch him, to hug him, to scream until I was hoarse. Instead, I unclenched my fists and let a single tear slide down my cheek.
“Shit,” Ryan said, pushing me aside. “He’s not breathing! He’s not breathing!” He ran over and tried to prop Dad up.
I was supposed to run for help—that was the cue for the medical team to rush in—but my feet wouldn’t move, and I just stood there.
“Get help!” Ryan screamed.
Still, I didn’t move. It was really happening.
Dad was dying, and no one could stop it, least of all me.
It didn’t matter whether I called for help, forgave him, or made him proud.
Even creating a masterpiece that moved the masses and won the hearts of the Academy wouldn’t stop his body from shutting down.
“What the fuck?” Ryan dropped Dad back onto the mattress and ran for help. “We need a doctor! He’s not breathing! He’s not breathing!”
I was shoved out of the way as the doctors rushed in. I tried to fight my way back, but Ryan grabbed me from behind and held me in place.
“Let me go!” I screamed. They were trying to steal my last moments with Dad, the fucking vultures. “Let me go!”
But Ryan didn’t let me go. He held me firmly, his arms like a straitjacket.
“Cut,” Michelle whispered, and the world went silent except for the buzz of the lights.
I didn’t know how much time passed, whether it was seconds or minutes. Later, they’d tell me I had a concussion. Ryan’s arms fell away, and someone else’s took their place. I was crying again, and someone was patting my back.
Through the sheen of tears, I realized it was my mother. She was hugging me and shushing me like a baby.