“Can you speak up?!”
I was at a fancy, prestigious photo shoot, with a famous, acclaimed photographer, I sat in a director’s chair getting my hair and makeup done. I’d arrived at the most elaborate shoot I’d been to at the time. There was music pumping, flashes were tested in the periphery of my vision, a myriad of people, the hippest of the hip. It was like in the movies.
Already quiet and shy, I walked in and was introduced to the stylist. There was no fitting, because there was only a single option, and I had to wear it. A blue dress that was too tight and did not fully zip up the back squeezed the last morsel of confidence out of me, and then it happened, words narrowly made it out of my mouth. An indiscernible mumble.
The world-renowned photographer had pulled a matching chair up to introduce herself. The makeup artist paused so she could say hello, asking me the questions you ask when you first meet, but I couldn’t supply the answers. Something else took control, my body stiff, not responding. Her irritation with me grew visible, it began with a look that could be interpreted as confusion but promptly turned to malice.
“Do you even talk?” she snapped sharply.
As the sentence emerged, she raised her leg, a slight lean backward. She pulled her knee up and back toward her. With force, she kicked the side of my chair. The base of her boot striking the wooden frame. Hard. My heart skipped. It was all so quick. What the fuck just happened?
Stunned, I sank lower. As she walked off I did what I could to prevent tears from ruining the makeup. You can’t have runny eyeliner, for goodness’ sake. I can’t recall whether her kick elicited a reply from me. All I know is that they completed their polishing, made my hair sleek and wavy, and, with costume donned, I had my picture taken.
We pulled into my driveway. Now panic swept through me, but I couldn’t explain why, not even to myself. Looking back, I now know that even the thought of having to contradict his version of the truth sent me on a tailspin. Anxiety in the bones.
After unpacking groceries, I grabbed my cell phone, my wallet, and my sunglasses, saying I had to head to my therapy appointment, regretting that I had shared the appointment time with him. There was a masked tension, the exaggerated nice, actors in a play, the fireplace simply a prop, none of it real.
“It’s not for two hours.”
“I know, just so much traffic to get over the hill this time of day and I want to grab a coffee.”
Driving down Laurel toward Ventura Boulevard, my body shook. My right leg inadvertently jounced, a subtle rattling in my kneecap. Concentrating, I willed my foot to calm. Looking out the windshield, my focus blurry, red light, green light, a tiny bit of gas, I took a left onto Moorpark. Three shots of espresso on ice, topped with a splash of soy milk, rested in my Mini’s cup holder. Up to Ventura, I would take Coldwater Canyon to go from the Valley to my therapist’s old office in Beverly Hills on Wilshire Boulevard. I’d be early, I’d enjoy my coffee in the car.
My trembling getting worse, I turned on NPR, looking for a soothing voice to drown out my loud thoughts. Taking an occasional sip, the caffeine obviously not aiding my efforts to ease my angst. Sweating but cold, stomach churning, shit demanding out. Like a jump scare, but I stayed in the air. I tried to focus, eyes on the road.
Stopped now at a red, I went to change lanes to pull around the vehicle in front of me. A simple maneuver, one I’d done tons of times in LA traffic. I hit the car’s right rear light, smashing the front left of my car and thankfully doing far less harm to theirs. Following the black sedan into a parking lot off Ventura, I was nauseated with guilt. I’d never had an instance like this as a driver before. The woman was shaken, I apologized profusely.
“Were you texting or something?!” she inquired angrily, understandably so.
“No, I wasn’t, I don’t know why I did that. I’m so terribly sorry.”
We exchanged information, took photos. Insurance did their thing, unmistakably my fault, no doubt there.
I got back in the car, looked at the time. I phoned my therapist, shame showering me, utterly distraught.
“Ellen, these things happen, fender benders happen every day. I’ve done it.”
Her words satiated me, helping settle my stomach. Stabilizing, I’d still be able to make it for a decent chunk.
Sitting on my therapist’s couch, I was curled over, head in hands, aching with guilt. She worked to talk me down, but it wouldn’t penetrate, I could not let it in. Somehow, the conversation led to my father.
“Do you want to have your father come in with you while he’s here?”
I barely let her complete the sentence. A quiet snap.
“What? No.” It came out sharp, but with a soft laugh of disbelief. An unexpected reaction, the kind I store away for my work.
She asked why. I didn’t have an answer really, other than absolutely not.
The thought of confronting him, setting any boundary at all, made me feel like I was going to shit blood.
Having to deal with the car situation at least allowed for a proper distraction when I returned home. Phone calls, a drive to the dealership for repair. My dad is very much a car guy. My uncle is a mechanic, as well as two cousins. So he went into his zone, and I ceded control to him, which let me stay in mine.
As the day went on, I repeated different versions of sentences over and over in my head, building my strength, or stalling, I’m not sure. But I couldn’t do it. The words just couldn’t come out. Feelings locked shut, close, but always shoved back.
You blur the boundaries enough, you get lost in between. It was that moment I felt I would never hear what I yearned for, an understanding, or at least an explanation. Something. It would take me years to finally speak.
18
INTUITION
When I was twelve, I was sitting on the toilet and I knew. I had been reminded by my parents that day that this “acting thing” would not be my future.
“This won’t be forever, I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” they would say.
Understandably, our environment was far removed from filmmaking, Hollywood more a myth than a place. My parents did not doubt me in a mean way, but a realistic one, not wanting me to get ahead of myself or get too excited. It would be a fun experience now, but I needed to keep up my grades and play soccer. Acting wouldn’t be a career.
But I knew. The clarity of that moment is something I will never forget. I sat an inordinate amount of time on the loo, staring at nothing but everything. I split open, an inexplicable feeling. Of all actors, Julia Roberts popped up, which is a delightful coincidence, considering I did the revamp of Flatliners.
Someone probably said that to Julia Roberts, that it would never happen. Unrealistic, too hard, not possible. But it was and it is. I know it is going to happen, I can see it. I can feel it.
I never told anyone, it was my little secret. I sensed it deep within, and I never doubted from that point on that I would stick with it. Becoming accustomed to the rejection, I was not fazed by it. Some parts I will get and other actors are disappointed. Some parts I will not get and then it’s my turn to be disappointed. It doesn’t mean you aren’t upset, heartbroken even, it just means you roll with it. Perhaps I just got it out of my system early. Like a lot of things, you get used to it.
I would run lines with my best friend at the time. We had known each other since primary, but it was when we were paired together for a science fair project as preteens that we first spent time alone. Jack and I quickly became inseparable.
He would read scenes with me, ensuring that I had memorized everything I needed to. My family did not have a video camera, and he would go to a studio downtown with me to make self-tapes when the auditions were not in person. The casting directors would fax me scenes, called sides, that I would record on VHS and then mail back to them; eventually the tapes were replaced with CDs.