“Why not?”
“My dad.”
Somehow, she has come to blame him for everything that has happened with Orson. For who else had taught her denial as a survival skill? If she had not spent so long fearing the truth, there might be more to salvage. If her father had only acknowledged the reality of their childhood—that they were a family torn between separate dreams—she might have seen things differently. The unknown might not have terrified her so much. She doesn’t want to go back to silence.
“If I had been a betting woman when I met you,” Niamh says, “I’d have put this situation the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“Me being the star-fucker and you becoming the boring nester.”
“I’m not a star-fucker.”
“Well, I’m afraid in the technical sense you are.”
Another wave, her face stupid and hot. She pulls the blanket over her head and groans.
“Sorry, that’s not helping, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Come in my suitcase, you sad sack. Just until you figure things out.”
Anything else feels like resistance. And Viola has no more energy to resist. She has no energy for anything. Reading is impossible. Reasoning is impossible. The master’s will not be completed. Of this she is certain.
They go.
1996
Even though she helped Rip write the scene (they had sat down together, gone through every line, every shot like clockwork), Susan cannot remember her lines. She always remembers her lines. But these do not want to come, do not bear being said. Elvis stumbled over lyrics that he couldn’t bring himself to say. And she feels this: by saying the lines properly she will be saying goodbye to Margie. A part of her is not ready to let go.
She knows Margie like she knows her own bones—the invisible feel of them holding her up. She couldn’t reduce her to an adjective, but she knows what she would or wouldn’t say in any situation—God knows she’s had to ad-lib enough when someone else has forgotten their lines. She knows what Margie’s anger feels like, crystalline and animal, unlike her own muddled frustration. She knows how viciously she fights against fear, against perceived injury. She knows how Margie worships her own body, wields it like an expert. And here is Susan: chopping it to pieces.
Most of all, Susan knows Margie doesn’t want to die. So thank God they’ve done it in this way, where she can’t see it coming. It’s like putting down an animal.
The final scene wasn’t going to be cheap—Margie would be pleased about that, if she could have understood. They had to rent a special car just for filming the interior driving shots, operated by a stunt man who sits on the roof. Sitting behind the ineffective wheel is thrilling and terrifying. The stunt team have just filmed the barrel roll, gutted and cleaned the car, taking out all the gas and fluids. And now she is preparing herself to say goodbye.
“Quick and dramatic,” she said to Orson, her face in pain with smiling.
“She died as she lived.”
It’s so strange to be with all of these people off set, the cameras rolling, characters walking around in the jeopardy of the real world. They’ve closed the streets filming, but that doesn’t stop the blurring of it all.
“If I’m dead before it airs, can you make sure they show an In Memoriam?”
“Jesus, Susie.”
“I’m just being realistic.”
She tries to wink, but he’s not in a mood for joking. Which is annoying, because what she could really use right now is a good joke. He’s looking at her like he’s trying to say something important, like he’s trying to make every second count.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asks.
“Yeah, actually.”
Her stunt double is over flirting with Rip.Good for Rip.The girl is gorgeous. Marion comes by and fixes her makeup.
“I’m thinking blood here,” she says, pointing to the top of Susan’s head, looking at Orson like he has any idea where blood should be. He shrugs one shoulder, in his Orson way, not taking his eyes off her.
