37. Ozrik
Ozrik
Gale and I marched into the conference room hand in hand.
Dennis jumped to his feet. “Gale. Please sit. We’d like to chat about solutions and get your feedback on how you’d like to proceed.”
I glanced at Gale, unsure if he wanted me to speak on his behalf or if he planned to make an announcement on his own.
“Is there a solution?” he asked. “Can things be changed at this point?”
“Yes,” said Dennis. “Absolutely.”
“How? We have three weeks.” Charles’s comment was directed at Dennis, who lanced him with a nasty glare.
“Would you rather cancel the whole thing? Because I’m not letting this proceed unless Mr. Windrow and Mr. Devereaux give their approval.” Dennis eyed us. “And I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“I have contracts that give me permission to—”
“Those contracts are now void,” Dennis interrupted.
“Says who?”
“Says me. Effective immediately.” Dennis waved to the chairs we’d occupied earlier. “Please. Can we have a conversation?”
“No. I have something to ask Charles,” Gale said, speaking for the first time. He did not move to sit, nor did he release my hand, so I remained at his side, scanning the faces around the table.
“Go ahead, Gale,” Dennis said.
“Why five people?”
Charles shook his head and glanced at Dennis. “I don’t understand the question.”
“Yes, you do. Why five people? On day one, you said the cast of Stormz Rising needed to be five people. Not six, not four, but five. Why?”
“It’s the optimal number. I weighed many factors, and data suggests that audiences respond better when they can connect with certain types of characters. Too many and they get lost. Too few, and you risk them being unable to relate to someone. Five is the magic number.”
“And you tried to cast us like this show was some sort of freaking soap opera,” Noah said.
“If that’s the case,” Gale continued, “why agree to do an entire season with ten people?”
“You gave me no choice. You were there. It was a negotiation I wasn’t pleased with, but we compromised and made it work.”
“Would you say you adapted?”
Charles puzzled Gale, looking unsure where he was going with this line of questioning. “The competition spin gave it flavor. I think it worked well in the end.”
“So, ten people weren’t too many to juggle?”
“No. Oddly, my biggest issue was getting enough drama, but once we combined the groups, characters shone, and I had a lot more to work with.”
“Why do you need drama in a show about tornado chasing anyhow?” Lex asked.
Charles didn’t answer and addressed his next question to Gale. “I’m sorry. Where are you going with this? I thought we were discussing the issue with…” Charles motioned at mine and Gale’s joined hands. “This.”
“I wanted to get something straight first.” To Dennis, Gale asked, “Is there a stipulation on the number of cast members he’s allowed to have?”
“Nope. Not on my end. It was how Charles presented it in the proposal. That’s all.”
“Okay.” Gale stared into the middle distance for a long minute, as though going over notes inside his head, then he nodded once before addressing Charles. “You don’t need to edit your entire season. You can proceed with the show as is.”
Charles’s face split into a grin, and he was about to speak when Gale cut him off.
“On one stipulation.”
Charles clamped his teeth shut.
It was Dennis who inquired. “What’s that?”
Gale glanced down the length of the table at every person who had gone to bat for him. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Jazz before he faced Charles again, motioning to our joined teams.
“This is Stormz Rising. These people are your cast. All of them. No voting. No competition. When next spring arrives, and we’re ready to film season two, it will include each and every person here today, unless they no longer want to take part.
All of us or you don’t get to air my personal life to strangers, and you need to edit out whatever secret footage you’ve got of Ozrik and me. ”
“Yeah, but ten people—”
“Shut up, Charles. Take the fucking deal. You’re lucky this kid doesn’t sue you or ruin my company.”
Dr. Jacob was a middle-aged hippy with a lighthearted sense of humor and a questionable wardrobe, but I liked him. He was down to earth and didn’t beat around the bush. He said what he meant and meant what he said, and there had been enough bullshit over the years that I didn’t need more.
When Stella struggled to admit her fixation on my health, I filled in the blanks, glossing over nothing.
We chatted about her notebook of data, the invasive rituals I performed daily to satisfy her neurosis, and the way she tampered with my food or forced pills down my throat to make me sick.
The endless texts that led to phone calls to the authorities when I didn’t respond.
She cried, and I held her hand. Not once did she deny the truth.
When Dr. Jacob recommended inpatient care as a launching point, she expressed fear and resentment, adamant she didn’t need it.
We talked. We argued. We cried.
In the end, Stella agreed to a one-month inpatient trial in a mental health facility under Dr. Jacob’s care. She agreed to medication and bi-weekly therapy sessions. She acknowledged that what she was doing to me was wrong and dangerous.
In exchange for her cooperation, I agreed to visit regularly.
Maybe it would stick or maybe it wouldn’t, but at least she was trying something.
I helped her pack a bag and spent an hour with her after checking in and filling out the paperwork.
She knew Gale and I were going camping and understood she would be on her own for a week.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t inclined to race from the building, nor was I happy to be free from her oppressive care. I loved my mother. I wanted what was best for her. I wanted a real relationship, but until she got help, it would never happen.
“I’ll be back next week, Mom.”
“You won’t run off and leave me here?”
“No. I promise.”