Chapter 3

Dylan

A couple of weeks into the shoot I fall into a rhythm, just like Gemma predicted. I immerse myself in the character, in the scenes. Living and breathing the motivations, stepping out of it only to take an analysis of what I’m doing, how it’ll look on screen. As a director, Christopher is fantastic, and we spend hours off set talking through what will work and what won’t. Both of us driven into an artistic frenzy, lost in the creative high, spurred on by the idea that what we’re making is something special, unique, brilliant.

I’m not perfect – I never am. Sometimes I find myself alone, pacing up and down my trailer, thinking about having a drink and just running away from all the pressure and the expectations weighing on me and on this project. But I don’t. And when I can’t stop myself, Gemma’s right there with that look in her eyes, the one that says she knows I can do this and I better not fuck it up. So far, I haven’t.

Then there are times when I’m so imbued with the anger and madness of my character I carry it off camera, shouting at innocent crew members and breaking into a rage over nothing – even though everyone on set knows what’s happening. The energy I’m giving off is starting to rub off on them, and they don’t flinch when I talk to them in character, they even play along when I’m allowing myself to explode.

Every once in a while my anxiety overwhelms me again, crushing me under the gigantic pressure of the artistic goal I’ve set my sights on. Sometimes the brilliance of everything around me, Christopher, the crew, the script, shines too bright, and I have to shut my eyes and ball up when I begin to let the doubts creep in. When the energy carries me over a cliff, then abandons me, leaving me with nothing but empty space underneath me.

And that’s when Gemma saves me again, bringing me back to reality, kicking my ass or patting my shoulder as needed, and I realize just how fucking wonderful she is.

Gemma’s not only got her shit together, she’s got my shit together as well. While I buzz and bounce off the walls in some weird unreality, where the film and my life blur, Gemma’s making sure I get to set on time. Making sure that I know well in advance what I’ll be shooting. Running lines with me, letting me know when my co-stars or crew members have whispered praises about my performance. When I start losing my shit, start panicking and sweating, wondering if it’s not too late to pull out of the entire project and go back to my comfortable life doing whatever I want – there she is.

With every little bit of help and support she provides, I begin to realize just how much I’m capable of. And just how much I need her.

But even Gemma can’t help me today.

I’ve been waiting for this scene since I first read the script, worrying about it and thinking about how I’d manage. Until now – with Gemma’s help – I’ve managed to put it aside until the day came, but today’s the day, and now there’s nowhere left to run.

“Ok, Dylan, so it’s going to be exactly like the storyboard,” Christopher says, as I nod along, pretending that my head doesn’t feel like it’s trapped in a concrete block. “The camera’s fixed on the door, your brother’s body is in the foreground. You come in, you don’t know he’s dead, you say his name a couple of times as you approach, then when you rip off the covers – he’s bleeding from his wrists, not moving. It’s horrifying, it’s a real blow, you know what I mean?”

I nod. I know exactly what he means, and it turns my stomach. Christopher goes on.

“All this time searching, fighting, never losing hope— and when you find him here it’s too late, it’s your worst nightmare, it’s just…this. The body. Ok? Just give me what you’ve got. Shock, denial, tears, anger, confusion, just let it all loose. Feel free to wreck the place, crumple in a ball, whatever you think will work, ok? We’ll see what we get and work from there.”

I nod a couple more times and breathe deeply, hoping nobody notices how out of breath I seem.

“Ok,” Christopher says, taking his place behind the monitor. “Places everyone, on your marks. The light ok, Harry? Good. Let’s roll sound. And action!”

I stand behind the door where nobody can see me for a few seconds longer than I should, Gemma’s words echoing in my mind like a gospel prayer. ‘Let your instincts kick in, Dylan, come on.’

I push open the door and see the room, the actor lying there, dead still. Is he even breathing? He doesn’t need to really hold his breath. This feels too real. I’m dizzy.

“Cut,” Christopher says. He leans forward to get my attention. “I think it would work better if you just walk in straight away when you open the—”

“Yeah,” I say, before Christopher can speak. “I know. Just froze up a little. Let me take that again.”

“You got it. Let’s roll sound.” He pauses as the camera assistant yells, ‘Take two!’ and claps the slate in front of the camera, kicking my pulse into overdrive. I take a deep, steadying breath as Christopher calls out, “And…action.”

This is it.

I push open the door and walk forward.

“John? John? Hey. John? What you doing in bed, we gotta— Ah, shit. Ok let me go again.”

“No problem, Dylan. We’re still rolling…and action.”

I go back to my mark, silently count to three, push open the door and march straight to the bed, pulling aside the covers straight away. Maybe I can just get this scene over and done with. “John!”

“Cut! Dylan. That’s way too quick. You’ve just made it into the place your brother’s been hiding all this time, you’re thinking he’s asleep, you’re thinking he’s gonna be relieved to see you, to get out of there. But you’re not expecting this. You don’t know anything yet. You get a little nervous maybe when he doesn’t respond at first, but pull it back.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’m just finding the right level.”

“Ok. It’s very simple. Don’t load yourself up with it, ok? Roll sound. Action.”

I push open the door.

“John! Hey! John!”

Christopher jumps out of his chair. “Cut! Dylan. Why are you shouting?”

I freeze. “Shit. Sorry Chris. I’m just…just trying something.”

He pulls off his baseball cap and rubs his temples, nodding. “Ok. You’re thinking too much about what comes after. Let’s just get you walking over to the bed and pulling back the blanket. We’ll cut there, then push in and get your reaction in a separate shot, ok?”

I nod.

“Ok. Harry, is that light looking good? That’s not going to be a post-production headache, is it? Ok, I’ll take your word for it. Roll sound. And…action.”

I zone out for the next ten or so takes. Chris’s voice coming from some place over the hills, my head spinning every time I move. My eyes staring into the distance like they’re too heavy to move. I don’t know what anybody’s saying to me anymore, I just keep nodding and taking my place behind the door, hoping that if I do it enough times I’ll somehow get through this, somehow make it all go away. I’m not here, I’m somewhere in limbo, somewhere in the past, looking at Chris’s face and the scene around me, the cameras and the lights, as if they’re the memory.

“Ok, cut it. Let’s take a short break. Back here and ready to shoot in ten everyone,” Chris shouts, before leaping out of his chair and quickly moving towards me. He waves his hand in front of me.

“Hey, Dylan. What’s going on today, man? You didn’t take anything before the scene, did you?”

“No. No. I’m totally sober.”

He gazes into my eyes, searching for the evidence. Finally he nods, satisfied.

“It’s cool, ok? No big deal. You’re probably just a little stressed, a little overworked. It’s been a tough schedule. It’s a tough scene.”

“Yeah,” I agree, but the last thing I want right now is the director making excuses for me.

“Ok. Don’t worry about it. Go to your trailer, get out of the character a little, take your mind off the work, call a friend or something. Then we’ll come back and try again.”

He slaps me on the shoulder as I stumble off in the direction of my trailer, everything still spinning around me wildly. When I step inside I slam the door closed and crumple into a chair, my head stuck in a whirlwind, my heart thumping like an angry tribe.

“Dylan?” comes a voice from outside. It’s Gemma.

“Yeah.”

She steps inside, that tablet still attached to her hand, and smiles. It’s one hell of a smile, and focusing on it helps me push the maelstrom inside of me a tiny bit further away.

“How’s it going?” she asks, as she settles into a chair opposite.

“Good. Good.”

She presses her lips together and then speaks carefully. “I was watching you work. On the monitors.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Gemma eyes me, her gaze searching. “Is something bothering you?”

It takes a lot of effort to chuckle away her concern and reach for the mini-fridge to pull out a beer, but I do it anyway.

“No. I’m fine. I just have a splitting headache. I should try to get a little more sleep.”

“Well the beer probably won’t help.”

I pull it away from my lips and grin.

“You’re probably right,” I say, settling it down on the counter.

She smiles again, and I feel like I’m basking in the warm rays that come from her beautiful face. Absorbing a little of the calmness and order that she projects like an elegant work of art.

What can I do to help?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say, before turning to her and returning her gentle gaze. “It’s just…have you ever lost anyone? Close to you?”

“I’ve lost people, yeah. My mother.”

“Shit, I knew that. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry, Gemma.”

“You are not an idiot. It’s really ok,” she says kindly. “What did you want to know?”

I sigh. “How did you handle it? I mean…for research purposes. Just so that I can get some ideas for that scene.”

She looks up as she thinks about the question, and I realize I’m hanging on her answer like it’s the most important thing I’ll ever hear. Because I can’t go back to what I felt, what I went through. I need another way into this scene right now. Reliving my own pain, my own memories, is too hard. I’d be throwing myself back into that black hole with no bottom.

“Well…” she begins, “when I lost my mother it hit me pretty hard. I was only twelve. I couldn’t handle it, so I didn’t. I just went numb. Didn’t talk about it. Didn’t think about it. Changed the subject whenever it was brought up. Just…ignored it, as if maybe not acknowledging it would mean it wasn’t actually true.”

She’s looking at me like maybe I won’t understand, but the truth is, I empathize completely. Gemma’s been through the same thing as me. I nod. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Then, when I was about twenty, living away from home on my own, I was in a laundromat one night. Just doing laundry, you know. And as I was pulling my clothes out of the dryer, folding them up, I…totally lost it.”

Her voice hitches and I reach out and cover her hand with mine. I worry I’ve pushed Gemma too hard, but she smiles through the pain of her memory and keeps going.

“I started crying – harder than I’d ever cried before. My entire body shaking. I couldn’t control myself, it felt like my soul was just pouring out of me in tears and shakes. I didn’t even know why at first, but after a while I realized. They had this detergent in the laundromat, the same one my mother used to use. It just broke me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. It feels useless saying it, but I mean it. Gemma turns her searching gaze toward me. I don’t know what she’s trying to find in my eyes—maybe someone she can trust, a true friend, someone who won’t judge—but I don’t look away.

She goes on, “For months I was a complete mess, just thinking about her, missing her, feeling all that pain that I had refused to feel at the time. I thought I would hurt every day for the rest of my life. Until I realized I couldn’t live like that. So I drove out of state to visit her grave, and spoke to her finally.”

“Wow.” I grip her hand even tighter. Gemma’s strength, her determination, the fight in her that just won’t quit—I’m in awe of this woman.

Gemma nods, solemnly. “I mean, you never really get over that kind of thing, but if you don’t make the effort to live your life, really live it to the fullest, then it just gets worse.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, grabbing the beer again absent-mindedly, running my fingers around the lip of the bottle. I’ve spent all these years hiding behind parties and alcohol and women, like a child. Like a coward. Yet in just five minutes, Gemma’s made me realize that I’ve been living my life all wrong, hiding from reality instead of dealing with my damage.

Gemma stands up to leave.

“Anyway, I’ll give you a few minutes before you have to get back to set.”

I raise my bottle as she opens the trailer door.

“Hey Gemma,” I say, calling her back just before she steps through the door. “Thank you. For sharing that. You are…so brave.”

She shrugs and smiles again, a million rays of beauty washing over me once again.

“It probably helped me more than it did you, but whatever. You’re welcome.”

She leaves, closing the door behind her, and leaving a dimness in the trailer that I always seem to notice once she’s been here and gone.

It’s been five years. Five years and I’ve not cried once. Five years and I’ve not told anybody who didn’t already know about it. I’ve dodged and weaved, deflected and shielded, like a perpetual lion tamer, like a boxer who knows he’s weaker than his opponent. It’s tiring, running from your demons. There’s only so long you can delay the fight you know you’ll lose.

Maybe Gemma’s right. Maybe it’s time I opened Pandora’s box and faced the pain.

I hear the shouts of the crew getting back into position, and pour the beer out into the sink before leaving the trailer. I walk onto the sound stage and take my place behind the door.

“Where’s Dylan?” I hear Chris call. “Oh, already? Good to see you back. Ok let’s do this. Keep an eye on that light please. Marks, everyone. Roll sound. And…action.”

I open the door, and it feels easy now, walking into the room.

“John. John, are you awake? Hey. We gotta get out of here. They’re coming.”

I pull aside the covers and see his body. Cal’s body. Still and lifeless on the bathroom floor. Beyond the police cordon, the flashing red and blue lights. The sight spreads around me, devouring me, pressing the pain and the guilt and the shame into me with a million needles. Pulling my guts out, hammering me into the floor.

He’s dead. Gone. Forever.

And it’s all my fault.