“You’ve known the girl less than a month. You worked for months for this role. It’s the role of a lifetime, son. Nail this, and you choose the roles, you choose your salary. The world is at your fingertips, if you nail this. Fuck it up, and…” A shrug.
I catch Jen giving Marty a hard, warning look. I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Marty, I…” I groan. “It’s just impossible.”
Jen has been exchanging text messages with someone, and finally puts the phone face down. “I have a solution. Maybe not a perfect one, but something.”
“Let’s hear it,” I say.
“I’ve been texting with one of the ADs—Francois. Jolene can be on set with you. You already have a trailer, so if she’s tired or whatever, she can hang there. She can watch the shoot, too. They’ll work with you on this.”
I nod. “That would be best. It’d probably tickle her pink, being on set, watchingSingin’ in the Rainget remade.”
“Front row seats for something that’s a shoo-in to be friggin’ iconic,” Marty says. “Not a bad deal.” He eyes me. “Can you handle it?”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask.
“No, not really. Not a good one.”
“Then let’s get filming.”
Jen picks her phone back up. “They’ll want to start ASAP, as long as you’ve got the choreo and the music down.”
“I’ll have to brush up. But I’ll have it.”
* * *
It’s a chaotic week.
Jolene is up and down most of the week, never quite back to what I know as normal before succumbing to another round of debilitating agony and exhaustion.
She insists, vehemently, that I practice choreography and go over my lines and my lyrics, insists on helping. We read lines, and she critiques my dancing and goes over the songs with me.
Then, I have to rehearse in person with Shania and Ryan. Jo is unable to get out of bed that day, and once again strong-arms me into going anyway. Promises she’ll be better soon.
Harder than the exertion of dancing is the mental exhaustion of putting on the show of being okay for my castmates.
* * *
Another week,and Jolene isn’t improving. Or, not much. She’s able to move around more than last week.
We’re still rehearsing. Filming starts next week.
I’m away from her more than I’m with her, and it’s at her insistence.
“I willnotbe the reasonSingin’ in the Raindoesn’t get made, and I willnotbe the reason you don’t perform your best.” She says this one morning, when I’m resisting leaving her. “You have to do this. Youhaveto do it for me. Please, Wes.”
So, I go.
I do my best to put her out of my mind and channel the music, focus on the words, the movements, the character. When I can’t get her out of my mind, I picture her being well. I imagine her springing up out of bed and dancing with me.
The cast and crew are excited—the energy on set is a constant vibrating hum. We all click. The scenes come out flawlessly. Lines get dropped and we laugh, and I laugh with them, and I hope I’m a good enough actor that no one sees how forced my laughter is.
I’m performing this for her.
It’s all for her.
* * *
Middle of the night.I got home late from filming—she was resting, finally, the deep sleep that I’ve come to equate with her feeling better.
