Almost there.
Almost there.
Almost there.
I’ve been reciting that to myself all morning, but my body doesn’t seem to care or want to cooperate. I’ve thrown up three times between scenes, fortunately each time on a break. There’s an awful taste in my mouth, and no matter how much water I drink or how many mints I eat, it won’t go away.
A miasma fills my head, fogging my thoughts and clouding my concentration. I struggle to follow every word as it leaves Trey’s mouth when he delivers his lines. I know I’m next. I go to say the line . . . and nothing. There’s nothing there. My mind is a galactic void of nothingness. I open my mouth, hoping the words will tumble out on their own without me having to think about it, but there’s only silence while the entire cast and crew wait for me to find myself in this scene.
But I can’t.
Whatever holds my body, my mind hostage, overpowers my will. It stirs in my stomach and makes my head throb and spin.
“Cut!” Canon yells.
Trey touches my shoulder, concern etched on his movie-star-handsome face. “Neevah, you okay?”
I nod, though I’m sure by now it’s apparent I’m not. It’s not only the lines I’ve lost. It seems I can’t say anything. I open my mouth to try again, and another wave of nausea rises in my throat.
“Oh, God,” I mumble into my hand. I try to run, hoping to make it to the bathroom, but I can’t. I haven’t been able to eat much the last few days, but what is in my stomach is violently ejected out and all over Linh’s perfect costume.
I lean against a pole. Tears roll down my cheeks as people rush over to me. I’m a mess. Vomit all over the dress. My wig slips. The entire set is a Tilt-A-Whirl. The floor slides from beneath my feet. Trey catches me and yells for help.
And then the world goes dark.
“Her blood pressure is alarmingly high,” someone says.
I try to pry my eyes open, but it’s too bright and everything hurts. I can’t lift my head, can’t make my limbs work, can’t speak. I’m in some half-state of consciousness.
“Should we call nine-one-one?” someone asks.
“No hospital,” I manage to croak, fumbling to get the tight band off my arm. “I need to . . . to finish.”
“You will not finish,” Canon says. That harsh voice I would recognize anywhere.
Other bits of sensory information slowly filter in. The coolness of the ocean air drifts over my face. The waves roar in my ears, and I remember we were in one of the French Riviera scenes on the beach. Over the scent of salt is an awful, pungent smell. Linh’s precious costume she spent weeks sewing. I’ve ruined it.
“Change,” I mumble, forcing my eyes open. “I want to change clothes.”
Canon’s face is the first thing I see. I’m on one of the lounge chairs, and he’s on his knees beside me, his expression bent into a heavy frown. I reach up to touch his face.
“Beautiful,” I whisper, trying to smile. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving with the effort.
“Neevah, baby, listen to me,” he says. “Your blood pressure is really high. We have to get you to the hospital. You—”
“Please let me change clothes. I threw . . . I threw . . .”
I dissolve into tears because I’m so tired and every part of me aches and I can’t imagine walking, but so many people are standing around watching me in this vomit-covered dress. I just want to sleep.
“It doesn’t matter,” Canon says. “You can change when you get—”
“Please. I think I’m going to be sick again if you make me keep this on.”
His scowl deepens, but he stands and picks me up from the lounge chair.
“Canon, I don’t want to get it on you.” I’m even more embarrassed for him to hold me this close. To see me, to smell this, to be here when this is happening to me. He strides through the set, and I tuck my face into his shoulder, as much from exhaustion as not wanting to meet the curious eyes of the cast and crew. I would prefer to go to my cottage, but wardrobe is closer so he dips into the tent, sets me down gently on one of the tables and pulls a privacy divider between us and the door. He starts unbuttoning the dress, but his fingers are shaking. “Shit,” he curses under his breath, slowing down to pull the tiny buttons loose one by one.
The quiet is suffocating and I finally clear my throat to speak.
“Canon, I—”
“Don’t, Neevah.” He peels the dress away from my shoulders, lifts me so I can kick it off completely. “No, you cannot finish filming. Yes, you’re going to the hospital. And no, you will not come back to this set until the doctor clears you to.”
He meets my eyes, the muscle in his jaw clenched. You could easily mistake his fierce scowl and tight lips for anger, but I see it for what it really is. For once, he’s not opaque. I see right through him.
I see his fear.
All my protests die on my lips and I nod, my heart clenching with the knowledge that he’s as scared as I am. He grabs the T-shirt and shorts I discarded this morning, puts them on me. He peels off his sweatshirt, which I’m sure I’ve stained, revealing a T-shirt beneath. He picks me up again.
“I can walk,” I mumble, though it may not be true. I can barely keep my eyes open, much less make my legs work. “This is hella dramatic.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the comment, but walks me off set to the parking lot. My feet never touch the ground, and I go from his arms to the back seat of his car. Takira runs up, her face streaked with worry.
“Oh, my God, Neevah,” she says. “I just heard what happened. Are you okay?”
“No, she’s not okay,” Canon answers, climbing into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. “I’m taking her to the emergency room.”
“Can I come?” she asks.
“If you can get in right now. I’m not waiting.”
She climbs into the passenger seat and Canon doesn’t even wait for her to close the door or fasten her seat belt, but lurches out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles straining against the tight skin. Takira gasps and clutches the dashboard as he runs one light and then another. I can’t muster the energy or stir my voice to caution Canon he should slow down. Judging by the implacable lines of his profile, he wouldn’t listen anyway. I glance through the rearview window, down the road to the set and envision our replica of the French Riviera.
When will I be back?
Will I be back?
I want to commit the sight of the big equipment trucks and the cameras and wardrobe tent—every detail—to vivid memory, except I’m so tired I barely know my name, and despite my efforts, I fall right to sleep.
