With the amount of time I spend alone – either in my trailer or walking at a barely visible distance from the huddle of trailers and sets, I think my co-stars have decided I’m one of those method actors who insists on remaining in character on and off-screen. I’ve caught insinuations that indicate as much, but I’ve no need to artificially immerse myself in the moody temperament of my current character.
I get him. Jesus Christ, do I get him.
And though I’m certainly drawing on my personal thoughts and emotions during filming to portray him (aka actual method acting) I’m not drawing on painful experiences from my past. All I have to do is conjure Dori, and the agony blazes through me, on cue.
BROOKE
It’s been six days since I’ve seen him.
Kathryn has been the voice of reason at every turn. ‘Don’t overwhelm him with things, Brooke,’ she says, when I want to buy him every Lego set I can find online. We choose a half-dozen, and put four of them away for later. It takes me almost an hour to narrow to a couple of plush animals – a teddy, of course, and a floppy-eared puppy (to compensate for the fact that Kathryn urges me not to buy him the real thing).
One wall of his room at Kathryn’s has been painted green – his favourite colour, according to Wendy. His room at my condo will include lots of green – I’ve hired a trompe l’oeil artist to paint a roadway with colourful cars and background scenery all the way around at eye level. The ceiling will be baby blue, with fluffy clouds scattered from one corner to the other. His closets will be painted with chalkboard paint, so he can draw all over them.
It appears that I can’t help but overdo.
I worry over this, too, but Kathryn laughs and shakes her head. ‘This is you, Brooke. Just try to pull back a little. Remember, what he needs is your love. That’s why poverty-stricken parents can still do a wonderful job of raising a child.’
What she doesn’t say: That’s why wealthy parents often fail at it. They substitute things for affection.
‘I’ll remember.’
One thing we agree on is half-filling his built-in bookcase with books – dozens of picture books – favourites from my childhood, and anything new that catches my eye. Their spines are multi-hued and inviting when we line them up on the shelves – a miniature library. Wendy says River likes to be read to before bed, and I wonder to myself if he’d like to be read to on the flat rock by the creek, in the middle of the day, for no reason.
I buy Matchbox cars and a track with a double loop in the middle that Reid assures me every boy ever born would like, and authentic-looking construction trucks that will look even more realistic with their working parts encrusted with dirt.
I choose a green toothbrush and three kinds of toothpaste. A nightlight shaped like a racing car that switches on and off. A pair of galoshes in John Deere green, even though the forecast calls for a cool, sunny day.
River’s caseworker is picking him up from Wendy’s after his afternoon nap, and bringing him here. Kris has been here several times during the home study, so she’s already familiar with the place. She and Kathryn hit it off immediately – lucky for me. It took Kris longer to warm to me, but that’s the upshot of being a woman and having a blunt personality.
Sometimes people just don’t like me. Go figure.
Glenn is planning a barbecue for dinner. He’s one of those guys with the manly black canvas apron boasting, Licensed to GRILL! and all the long-handled accessories you can shake a stick at. On the way home from work last night, he stocked up on supplies: sirloin patties and beef hot dogs, buns, pickles, sweet relish and shoestring potatoes.
Kathryn’s charged me with assembling a fruit salad to keep me occupied (read: I’m driving her up the wall with my anxious patrolling around the house). One minute I’m happy and ridiculously domestic, and the next I’m positive someone will call to tell me they’ve made a mistake. I never should have been considered to be River’s mother. It was a court error – haha, so sorry.
When the phone rings, my hands jerk reflexively from the task of chopping the heads off strawberries, and I feel the sharp sting of the blade cutting through layers of skin.
‘Ouchgoddammit! I mean – darn it!’ In a matter of seconds, my index finger develops a streaming red gash.
‘Maybe handing you a paring knife wasn’t the best decision …’ Kathryn observes, turning to grab first-aid supplies from the pantry while I cleanse the cut and press a paper towel to it to stop the bleeding.
Glenn snags the phone on the third ring. ‘Y’ello?’ His expression appears concerned, which makes my heart flip over – until he says, ‘And it’s only making that noise when you’re coming to a stop, but not when you’re idling? Uh-huh. Do the noise one more time for me.’
I’m an idiot. This call is on the landline, not my cell. And it’s obviously Kelley or Kylie with some sort of car trouble, rather than the State of Texas calling to stamp out my delusions of motherhood.
‘Let’s see that grisly wound.’ Kathryn takes my hand and examines the cut. Light green eyes sparkling, she says, ‘I think we’ll be able to save the finger. Let’s bandage that up and then give you something less disaster-prone to do while we wait.’
As though I’m six again, my stepmother seats me on the corner barstool, applies ointment to the gash and covers it with a neon-pink bandage.
‘Reid told me that you’re my role model, instead of Sharla,’ I say, and her worried gaze flashes to mine. ‘I must have known that, deep down, for years. But I never really acknowledged it. I always thought who I was – who I’d become – came down to blood, but that’s just not true. I don’t know who I’d be without you. Which seems pretty damned unfair, given the fact that my existence ruined your life.’