The Director's Cut

by Janice Thompson

  “Clearly you missed that class in seventh grade where they told us how babies are made. Otherwise you would know that you have nothing in the world to do with this.”

  “No, not that. I mean . . . oh, everything else.” The sting of tears caught me off guard. I refused to dab at my eyes for fear he would notice.

  Jason chuckled. “Tia, you’re a hoot. You know that?”

  “I am?”

  “You are. And I like seeing you like this.”

  “Like what?” As I looked his way, a lone tear trickled down my cheek.

  “Vulnerable.” He spoke the word and then quirked a brow.

  “Ah.” Well, I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  With his right fingertip, he gently wiped the tear from my cheek. “You’re cute when you’re vulnerable.” He gave me a little wink and my heart stirred.

  Okay, maybe I did like being vulnerable, if it meant Jason would look at me like that. And touch me like that. A delicious shiver ran through me.

  “You’ve got your guard down,” he whispered.

  I nodded, feeling a bit numb. Jason reached over and grabbed my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Good. Leave it there. I like you this way.”

  “O-okay.” I’d leave it there, all right. Couldn’t very well pick up my guard right now, anyway. Instead, I leaned back against the seat, closed my eyes, and wondered why I suddenly felt like laughing. All the cares of the day suddenly drifted away on the breeze. I was soaring along in a hot car with a very cool guy. And for the first time in nearly a year, I couldn’t care less about anything work-related. All that mattered now was this moment, this opportunity . . . and the two of us. Well, the two of us and the birth of a brand-new baby girl. In an ambulance. With her mother dressed as a rabbit.

  We arrived at Pink’s in short order and enjoyed both the food and the company. In fact, I couldn’t remember ever laughing or talking more. Brock and Erin were a blast to hang out with, but my focus—for the most part, anyway—was on Jason. His teasing and flirting continued as we made our way to the hospital. By the time we saw the baby for the first time, I had passed “vulnerable” and was pretty much an emotional wreck. Something about peering into that baby girl’s face melted me like sweet, creamy butter.

  Leaving the hospital was another story altogether. By nine o’clock, nearly every reporter in town had gotten wind of the news. The hallways were packed with reporters, some waving cameras madly at anyone who even looked like a doctor.

  “Can we get a statement?” a guy with a baseball cap asked as I rushed down the hallway, clinging to Jason’s arm.

  “Oh, I, um . . .” Now what?

  Jason put his hand up, and we kept moving toward the parking lot, where we were met by a FOX affiliate news truck pulling in.

  “Is it true that Kat Murphy gave birth in an ambulance, wearing a rabbit costume?” the reporter called out.

  With Jason’s help, I just kept moving, giving no response.

  Jason opened the passenger door to his BMW—a gentlemanly gesture—and I climbed in, happy to have survived the chaos.

  “You can’t blame them,” Jason said, once inside. “They’re excited about Jack and Angie having a baby.”

  “You mean Scott and Kat?”

  “Yeah. Them too.” He laughed. “See? I’m the cameraman for the show, and even I get things mixed up.”

  By the time we arrived back at the studio, I was half asleep. Jason gave me a hand getting out of the car, and we lingered for a moment in the darkness before saying good night. I wasn’t sure what to expect next. After all of the flirting and teasing, I thought he might very well try to kiss me.

  Would I let him?

  Instead, he ran his finger along my cheek as we stood close. Then the night watchman happened by, interrupting the moment. Figured.

  We said our goodbyes and I got into my car, my thoughts now tumbling madly. Had this crazy day really happened? Was it really just this afternoon that Kat had told me to make room in my life for love?

  I somehow made the drive home, though my exhaustion nearly got the better of me. When I walked in my house, I felt like singing and dancing all at once. Carlos and Humberto had finished the entryway. Finished. Finito. Painted. Trimmed. No beer cans on the stairway. Sheer perfection.

  Oh yes! This was a glorious day, one to be celebrated!

  Well, until I climbed the stairs and discovered they’d somehow disabled my plumbing. No way. I needed a bath—a long, hot bath. I reached for my cell phone, groaning when I saw the time. Ten o’clock. Too late to call Carlos. I’d have to go to bed dirty . . . and then what?

  I sent him a quick text, then somehow found the energy to change into my nightgown and slide under the covers. My eyes drifted shut. In that safe place, I replayed the movie of today’s events from beginning to end. Well, on fast-forward, anyway. About halfway through, when I got to the part where Jason reached for my hand, I paused the tape to run it in slow motion. No point in missing the good stuff.

  I hadn’t imagined it all, had I?

  Oh well. If I had, it’d been a whopper of a story. With grogginess easing me into slumber, I decided I’d just have to wait till tomorrow to see how it ended.

  Friday morning I awoke feeling anxious and unsettled. Yesterday’s events replayed in my mind, especially the part where Kat told me that I might have to help deliver the baby. Thank goodness I’d avoided that. I should send those paramedics a present. Something to show my gratitude.

  I remembered the feelings that had passed over me as Jason ran his finger across my cheek. A delicious shiver ran over me as I relived the moment.

  I rose and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, only to remember that the water was turned off. Ugh. Glancing down at my cell phone, I realized I’d missed a text from Humberto. Sorry about the water. Long story.

  Great.

  I made my way downstairs to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of water and groaned when I found a half-eaten plate of food inside my refrigerator and a sink full of dirty dishes. Did my brothers ever clean up after themselves? And what was the deal with all the beer cans? How many times did I have to tell Carlos I didn’t want him drinking in my house?

  I reached for a bottle of water, raced back upstairs, and brushed my teeth. A girl just hasn’t lived until she’s brushed her teeth with ice-cold water.

  Now for the tricky part. I poured about half the bottle of water into a washcloth and went to work on my face. Then I used the rest to give myself a sponge bath. Ick. Not exactly a hot shower, but it was better than nothing. Unfortunately, I could do nothing about my hair, so I swept it up in a ponytail. Folks at work would be stunned, no doubt, but what did it matter? After what they’d witnessed yesterday, a director in a ponytail would be small potatoes. Besides, Fridays were mostly crew and writers, anyway. Hardly anyone would see me like this. I dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple gray blouse.

  As I hit the 405, I waited for the phone to ring. Strangely, Mama didn’t call. Again. If I went to her house tonight for tamales—as I did every Friday night—I would likely find my father seated next to her on the sofa. I would smile and act like nothing was out of the ordinary, just like I always did when he came back home.

  Actually, nothing would be out of the ordinary. His comings and goings were as much a part of my life as anything else, I supposed.

  Instead of talking to Mama, I turned on the radio and caught the tail end of a great worship song. I began to have that familiar longing as the words washed over me. I experienced that same feeling on Sunday mornings when I stood in church, eyes closed, listening to the worship music. Strange how worship could transport you out of your everyday life and make you feel like you were getting a little taste of the next. Kind of like being in the studio, only this felt more real.

  This particular song kept me in a calm state of mind—until the guy in the car behind me laid on his horn and I realized I was driving too slow to please him. The worship ended and reality kicked in. The Hollywood version, anywa
y.

  I sighed, wishing that for once I could just enjoy my morning drive without the angst of L.A. traffic.

  The rest of the drive I was deep in thought about yesterday’s strange turn of events. If I’d been writing the script, I would have made sure Kat’s baby came not in an ambulance but during the actual delivery scene we’d been shooting. Wouldn’t that have been something? And as for the stuff with Jason afterward . . . I wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe I would have added a teeny-tiny kiss at the end. Maybe just one on the cheek. Or the tip of my nose. Or my hand.

  Was it getting hot in here? I reached over and turned on the AC. Crazy, running the air conditioning in April, but I couldn’t help it.

  When I arrived at the studio, I gave myself a quick glance in the rearview mirror and groaned. The ponytail was lopsided, and my makeup job left something to be desired. The dark circles under my eyes seemed to be saying, “Next time remember to use concealer, you goober!” Well, next time I would. Today I had work to do.

  Into the soundstage I went. I found the set empty except for a couple of janitors who worked alongside each other. I stood in the quiet, relishing the aloneness. Rarely was this room so peaceful. Without the hum of children’s voices, without the laughter of the older cast members, without the heat of the lights overhead, it was just a shell of a room, filled with unused cameras, gels, and fake set pieces. All glitz and glam when the cameras were rolling, but plain and empty otherwise.

  There would be no chatter of children today. I’d dismissed them for the day. In fact, I’d instructed the whole cast to take the day off. We’d gotten every take yesterday. Besides, after the trauma we’d been through, they needed a break. I, on the other hand, needed to meet with the writers, and the sooner, the better.

  Once I entered the hallway, I heard familiar laughter coming from the writers’ room. Nothing thrilled me more than hearing our writers laugh. If they thought the script was funny, the audience would too. There was no death sentence like a script that the writers couldn’t laugh at.

  I peeked inside their room to discover Benita sitting with them, heels up on the coffee table. She looked my way and grinned. “Hey, Tia.”

  “Beni?” Just one word, but it spoke volumes. “Aren’t you off today?”

  “Just came in to tidy up the makeup room. Got a little distracted.”

  Clearly.

  I soon noticed the object of her affections, at least for today. Bob sat next to her on the sofa, laptop in hand. “She’s been helping us with next week’s script,” he said. “Your sister’s a hoot, Tia. Really. You should hear the stuff she’s coming up with. It’s priceless.”

  Benita? Funny?

  “Okay, okay.” She rose and stretched, revealing her midsection. “I guess I’ve been funny enough for one day. I need to clean up the salon.”

  “Salon?”

  “That’s what she’s calling the makeup room now,” Athena explained. “I kind of like it. Gives the place a lot of class.”

  “That’s what we need around here,” Stephen said between bites of Greek pastries. “Class.”

  As Benita rose and gave Bob a wink, my stomach churned. I looked at Athena and Stephen. “You guys ready to meet with me? I’m dying to see the script.”

  “Oh, we, uh, well . . .” Athena glanced at my sister, and I knew in an instant what she would have said if she could. Benita had served as too much of a distraction, so they hadn’t gotten the script finished yet. Go figure. Well, I’d better get her out of here, at least for a while, so they could work.

  “Beni, you want to show me how things are going in the hair and makeup area? Things have been so busy this week I haven’t stopped by to see how you and Nora are getting along.”

  “Oh, we’re doing great.” Benita rose and took a few steps toward me. “She told me yesterday after seeing my work on Kat and the others that she feels sure you guys picked the right person.” My sister’s smile charmed me. “Made my day.”

  “Awesome. Well, let’s go have a look.”

  As I followed her down the hallway, she talked almost nonstop, giving me a fascinating dissertation about Scott Murphy’s thinning hair and Kat’s bad pores. Then she dove into a story about Brock Benson and what fun she’d had, holding him captive in his makeup chair yesterday before filming.

  Mental note: have a talk with Brock about my sister.

  She turned into the makeup room and I followed her inside, a little confused when I saw the new decor on the wall. Apparently she’d already added her touch.

  Benita flipped on the lights and the whole room came alive. I’d been in here a million times before, but usually to talk with one of our show’s stars before a taping. Seeing the room empty right now made me feel a little sad. Still, the new decor helped. Added some Hollywood pizazz.

  “You’ve done a nice job,” I said. “I see your touches all around.”

  “Thanks.” She pointed to one of the makeup chairs. “Have a seat in my chair, Tia.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We need to talk.” Her stern look let me know she wasn’t messing around.

  I eased my way into the chair like a schoolgirl in the principal’s office. “Talk about what?” I noticed the look of concern in Benita’s eyes, and my heart rate increased. “What’s happened? What has he done now?”

  “Who?”

  “Dad. What’s he done to break Mama’s heart this time?”

  “Oh, nothing that I know of. I want to talk to you about your eye shadow.” Without warning, she swiveled the chair so that I faced the mirror.

  “W-what? Are you kidding?” I stared at my reflection, realizing how bad I looked under these lights, particularly with the ponytail and rushed makeup job from earlier. Not that I could have done anything about it.

  “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to talk to you about this for weeks now, but I’ve been scared.” She whipped out a beauty apron and fastened it around my neck.

  I stared at her, trying to figure this out. “You’ve been scared to talk to me about eye shadow? Beni, are you on drugs or something?”

  “No, silly.” She pulled out a compact and smeared lipstick across her bottom lip. After smacking her lips together, she glanced my way and released a slow breath. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you could use a few lessons from the master.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She waved her lipstick my way. “I’ve been to cosmetology school. I could help you . . . you know . . . get a man.”

  “Get a man?” Okay, now my blood began to boil. “What is this, some sort of primitive ritual where you doll me up to suddenly become attractive to the very men who just yesterday didn’t know I existed?”

  “Well, yeah.” She giggled. “Isn’t that the idea?”

  “Definitely not. If they can’t see me for who I am right now, then they’re not worth it. Besides, I don’t really need that much work.” A pause followed as I thought it through. “Do I?”

  “Oh, don’t get so defensive, Tia. You’ve always been hypersensitive about your looks, but I’ve never understood why. You’re the prettiest one in the family.”

  I’d just started to stammer a thank-you when she added, “Without makeup, I mean. But once I get my face painted, where do the guys look—at you or me? I’m an artist, I tell you. My work should be hanging in the Louvre.”

  I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t interested in the kind of guys who’d been looking her way. I realized that at least one of them—Jason, to be precise—had spent quite a deal of time looking my way last night, and he hadn’t been put off by my lack of makeup skills.

  I turned again to face the mirror, noticing how sallow my skin looked. These lights didn’t lie. They exaggerated every flaw.

  Benita reached to take my face in her hands. “Tia, just let me work my magic. Then you’ll come into work on Monday and the guys on the set will flip at the new and improved you. Trust me.”

  I paused just long enough for her t
o get the idea I might be interested. She pounced, reaching for her makeup bag then signaling me to sit up straight. “It won’t take long, I promise. And besides, what do you have to do today? The filming went great yesterday.”

  “Yes, but I have to go upstairs to meet with the editors at some point, and the writers are counting on me to look over the script for next week, and—”

  “Tia.” She put her hand up. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re on my turf now. It’s time to stop acting like the boss and start trusting that someone else around here actually has a handle on what they’re doing too.”

  “But—”

  She turned the chair away from the mirror. “I don’t want you to see this until after I’ve worked my magic. I think you’re going to be surprised at the change in your appearance.”

  “No doubt.”

  Fifteen agonizing minutes later—after plucking stray eyebrow hairs, slathering me in concealer, highlighting my cheekbones, rippling on some brownish-purple eye shadow, and painting my lips—she turned me around to face the mirror.

  The gasp that followed had little to do with my sister. I hardly recognized myself. Gone were the bags under my eyes. Gone were the tiny blemishes on my right cheek. Gone were the sallow spots on my cheeks. In place of all those things—a work of art. Hang me on the wall with a strong hook and let the viewers have a field day!

  Heavens. If I’d known I would look this good, I would’ve asked for her help sooner.

  I suddenly felt like a new person. And while it had felt like a lot of makeup going on, somehow she’d made me look almost natural. Weird how she’d accomplished that.

  I leaned forward, noticing how the perfectly placed eye shadow brought out the deep brown of my eyes. And who knew my lashes were that long? Had she somehow glued on fake ones? I blinked extra hard to make sure. Nope. They were mine, in all their exquisite glory.

  “Hmm.” She crossed her arms at her chest and gave me a pensive look. “On the other hand, I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you to show up at the studio like this.”